OUR LITTLF ARIA,Y 
A 
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OUR
LITTLE HARRY,
AND
OTHER POEMS AND STORIES.
f
BY T. S. ARTHII U R.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY CROOMF_
PHILADELPHIA:
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMBO & CO.
1853. 
Go!iccUt'c
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1852, by
LIPPINCOTT, GRAMIBO & CO.
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District of
Pennsylvania.
STEREOTYPED BY L       N   & CO.
PHILADELP 
CONTENTS.
OUR LITTLE  IARRY................................................
TIE COLD-WATER B......................................
WILLY AND THE                 GIRL.............................
SPEAK KINDLY........................................................
GENEROSITY............................................................
TWO  GENEROUS, LOVING CHILDREN.....................
KEEPER'S RELATIONS.............................................
RABBITS...................................................................
THlE GOOD ARE BEAUTIFUL...................................
THE WORD OF GOD.................................................
THE WEATIIFR PROPIHETS......................................
TIHE PET FAWN.......................................................
SATURDAY IN WINTER............................................
THE  SPECKED APPLE..............................................
INVOCATION TO SPRING........................................
INFANTS AND CHILDREN IN HEAVEN..................
PAGE
7
11
25
30
3j2
34
37
40
41
46
48
55
65
68
76
78 
CONTENTS.
*           ~~~~~~P-GE
CALLING HIS SHEEP BY NAME............................. 81
EVENING PRAYER................................................... 84
A STORY FOR WILLY............................................... 86
THE BEAUTY OF GOODNESS................................... 89
TO A CHILD WITH A DOVE..................................... 92
GOD IS EVERYWHERE............................................. 95
OUR LITTLE SON..................................................... 99
HARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.................................... 102
THE MINER........................................................... 116
I1OW TO BE HAPPY............................. 118
THE OLD MAN AT THE CO   E-DO............... 126
THE LITTLE BOY WHO HD LEARNED HIS LES  SON........................................................................ 130
LITTLE CHILDREN................................................... 132
THE LITTLE WORD "NO"..................................... 135
A VALENTINE.......................................................... 151
.6 
OUR LITTLE HARRY.
UR sweet, wee brother, Itarry,
Say, have you seen him yet?
tie has a pair of bright blue eyes,
The darling lit      t!
And lips as soft and rosy red
As flowver-buds in the spring,
And( voice as sweet as voice of bird
On upward-bounding wing.
Say, lrave you seen the dear, sweet b
With his wavy, flaxen hair,
Anid eyes as full of innocence
As eyes of angels are?
Ile w-as twnelve moutllis old last MIoid
But still lie d)cs not wall,
Atd( only sayfys a word or two,
Though hard hlie tries to talk.
A2
,.IE 
OUR LITTLE HARRY.
But, I'm sure he'll walk right early, now:
For he stands up by a chair,
And steps out bravely, if Mamma
To take his hand is there;
And I'm sure he'll talk, too, very soon,
For he knows, now, all we say,
And calls Papa, so very plain,
Whein Papa is away.
Ile's a very cunning little rogue  Last evelling, while at tea,
Nurse broLlght him in, and set him down
In a high chair, closoey me.
Ile lauth', aii( co
lie laugh'd, and crow'd, and clapped his hands,
And tried, just like the rest,
To eat his bread and (drink his tea  And tried his very best,
But his tea went on the tablecloth,
And Ihis saucer on the  floor,
Andcl his spoon gla nei d past (dear Papa's head,
An(l struck against the (Toor;
While hiis little landls flev up a,nd down
Like the swift wings of a bird,
And he laLgh'd andtl croc'd in suchl a way
s you have never heard.
A.
8 
OUR LITTLE HARRY.
I laugh'd till I could cat no more,
And little Will was wild,
To see the merry mischief shown
By such a tiny child.
Nurse took him out right quickly,
And I guess we'll take good care
How MAr. Harry we invite
Again our meals to share.
But he is not always such a rogue,
Hle is not always wild,
But looks, and acts, sometimes, as if
He were an angel-chil(ld.
Oh! I wish that you could see him,
On the morning of each day,
When Papa read(s the Bible,
And then kneels down to pray,
As Mamma gets upon her knees,
And we kneel round her chair.
Our dear pet-one drops softly down
To join with us ill prayer.
IeI cannot say, Our Father,"
Though very hard he tries,
And lifts, with such a gentle grace,
Hlis heavenly little eyes.
9 
OUR LITTLE HIIARRY.
Our darling little HIarry!
He's loved the best of all,From Miother's calm and thoughtful eyes
I've seen a tear-drop fall,
As, sleeping sweetly on her breast,
The dear, dear child would lie,
And she has look'dcl long, in his face,  I know the reason why:
I've heard her say to dclear Papa  I- This babe's so sweet and pure:
So all unlike an earthl-born child,
lie will not live, I'm sure."
But Papa always smiles, and says,
,, That's just the reason why,
Of all the dear ones given to us,
Our Harry should not die."
Papa is right-sweet Harry!
He's just the one to stay:
His purity and innocence
Will evil keep away.
If James gets cross, or little Will,
And Anna fretful growBring Harry in the midst, and smiles
On all their faces glow.
I0 
THIE COLD-WATER BOY.
BOY named Frank, who had heard a
great deal said about the evil of intemnperance, was passing the door of a tavern kept by a man who drew  a good deal
of custom by his agreeable manners and
the pleasant way he had of talking to every
one.  Frankl was -whlistling a lively tune as
he   went by, and the landlord, who happened to be standing in the door, said to him
in a joking, playful way  "Good mnorning, mny fine fellow!  Won't
you step ill, and get soi-nethinig to drink?"
Now, Frank had some ftin in him as well
as the landlord, wlhom we will call IIartley.
And he replied in an offl-hia       d kind of a
way
11 
TIIE COLD-WATER BOY.
"I don't care if I do."
And he straightened himself up, and
walked, with an erect air, as if lie were ai
man, into the bar-room.
Well, sir! What will you take?" said
thile landlord, who was always ready to be
pleased with any thing a little out of the
common order.  "A brandy punchl, mint
julep, sherry cobbler, or a hot lwhisky
punch?  All capital drinks!"
There were two or three old tipling customers in the bar-room, idling their time
away instead of being at their work. Ilere
was a little novelty for themn  and they
gathered around the new-comer, pleased as
could be at the prospect of something, to
break in upon the dullness of the hour. If
one of them even thought of the dangerous
course the lad was apparently entering, it
did not occur to his mind, at the same time,
that it was his duty to warn him of his
folly.  All felt like having some sport out
of the boy.
,-) 
TIIE COLD-WATER BOY.
"Try a sherry cobbler," said one, speakug, up quickly.'"Its first-rate."
"No, no, said another.  "Notliing like
hot whisky punch.  Try that."
And one pulled him one way and one
another, while  the  landlord  said, with
mock gravity-he was enjoying the scene
wonderfully  " Come-come, sirs!  Let the gentleman
choose for himself.   I reckon he knows
what's what, as well as any of you.  Now
sir," addressing Frank, "which will you
take?"
Frank had not been in the least confused
by all the hubbub his appearance hald created; and, as soon as he could get a chance
to order what he wanted, said, with the utmost coolness  "I'll take a glass of Adam's ale, if you
please, landlord."
It was a little curious to see how the
laugh  began gradually to change to the
"other side of the mouth," the moment
Frank said this.
1 C) 
THE COLD-WATER BOY.
"011! Adam's ale," returned the land
lord, doing his best to keep up the little
farce he was acting.   "Yes-very good
drink, that-only a little too weak." And
he poured Frank out a glass of pure, sparkling water, which the lad drank off with
the air of one who enjoyed it.
" how does it taste?" inquired one of the
tipplers, thinking still to throw the laugh
off upon Frank.
"Try a little, won't you?" said the boy,
with a serious face. "I'm sure you'll like
the taste. It makes you feel good all over,
and hasn't a particle of headache or fever
in it."
"ILideed! So you're a young teetotaller,"
remarked Hartley.
"I'm a cold water boy," said Frank as
he stepped back from the bar. "And, in
return for your compliment this morning,
invite you to join our army. We'll make
you captain."
Frank did not say this pertly, nor impu dently, as most boys would have done, but
14 
THiE COLD-WATER BOY.
with such a grave good-humour thlat it was
impossible for any one to be offended. Thle
landlord was taken entirely by  surprise,
and before he could recover himself and
renew the attack, Frank bade him a goodnorning, and retired.
A day or two after, while Frank was
passing Hiartley's tavern again, the landlord happened to be at the door.  Ile had
been a good deal amiused by thle lad's off'hand manner of treating his playful invitation to drink; and, althoug,ll sensible that
he had obtained rather the worst in his encounter with the cold-water boy, felt very
mnuch inclined to have another passage of
wit with him.
"Good morning,! Good morning!" said
Alr. Hartley.   "HIow are you, my little
cold-water friend?"
"Right well, I thank you," replied Frank,
in his cheerful, good-lumoured way.
"Won't yout walk in?" said the landlord.
"No, I thank you," replied Frank.
X.-B
1.5 
THE COLD-WATEE BOY.
"We've got some first-rate Adam's ale.
Won't you have a glass?"
"No, I believe not! I'd rather take it at
the pump."
"From the old iron ladle?"
"Yes. That doesn't taste nor smell of
brandy."
"As my glass did!"
"Your glass smelt rather strong, land.
lord," said Frank, shru,gging his shoulders
and making a wry face; and the taste of
the brandy completely spoiled the water."
"Did it, indeed! I'm sorry.  But come
in-come in! I want to talk with you.
You're an odd sort of a little fellow. We'll
have a glass wvashed so clean that you'll
neither taste nor smell brandy."
"I don't thiink you can," replied Frank,
smiling  Ias he  stepped in.  "Hot water
will hardly scald out the taste of the vile
stuff."
"Vile stuff! Why do you call brandy
vile stuff?"
'a Because it makes wise people fools, and
16 
THE COLD-WATER BOY.
strong men as weak as babies.  Wasn't it
brandy gin, or some of this vile stuff, as I
call it, with another name, that made Mr.
Perkins strike his wife and kill her?  You
know that he is now in prison, and had
like to have been hung?"
"He was drunk."
"Water didn't make him drunk.  I go
to the pump and take ladle after ladle of
the clear, cold water; but I never was
drunk in mly life."
"Nor do people who drink brandy get
drunk, unless they take too much."
"But whly do they drink it at all?" asked Fralnk, growing serious.
"Because they are dry."
"Water would answer a better purpose,
and they mighlt drink a gallon of it without getting drunk.  And tlheni, you know,
it is so much cheaper."
"Oh yes.  But if everybody drank water only, we landlords would starve."
Frank only shlru,gged his shoulders.
17 
THE COLD-WATER BOY.
"Well, my young cold-water man, what
do you say to that?"
"Why," replied Frank with a smile.
"that it would be much better for a few
landlords to starve, or get into some more
useful calling, than for a hundred thousand
people to die every year firom drunkenness.
And I am sure, if you will think about it,
you will agree with me."
I "Who says a hundred thousand people
die drunkards every year?"
"Oh! I've always heard that."
"I don't believe it."
" Well.  Say fifty thousand;  or even
twenty thousand.  Isn't that number awful to think of."
Although Frank was very ready in all
his remarks, yet they were made with the
utmost kindness of manner.  There was
nothing about either his words or the way
in which he said them, that could in the
least provoke the landlord's temper.  And,
therefore, the mind of the latter did not become confused by passion.  After a pause
18 
TIE COLD-WATER BOY.
of a few moments, he said, speaking half to
himself  "Its not as bad as that, surely."
"Oh yes, sir, a great deal worse," spoke
up Frank, earnestly; "for death in itself is
a small matter compared with the dreadful
sufferings in the drunkard's family, and the
loss of his soul in the end."
The landlord's face became serious; for
the cold-water boy had given his thoughts
a new direction. While he stood musing,
Frank said  "Come down to the hall to-night, and
you'll hear all about it."
" To the Temperance Hall?"
"Yes, sir."
"' Ho! Wouldn't the folks stare!"
" Suppose they did?  Would that do any
harm?"
"Oh no! I don't care for that."
' Just say you'll come, won't you? Say
it for my sake.  I know that if you really
saw that you were doing evil in the world,
X —2            B 2
19 
THE COLD-WATER BOY.
you wouldn't sell another drop of brandy.
Won't you come?"
"Oh yes, I'll come, if its just to please
you. It can do no harm."
And Hartley was as good as his word.
The result, however, was rather more than
he had expected.  He had never read a
temperance document, and was therefore
ignorant, to a very great extent, of the true
facts in regard to the great moral devastation that was sweeping over the land.  It
so happened, that a lecturer was exhibiting
the appalling consequences of intemperance,
and he read, from a pamphlet in his hand,
statement after statement, from mene in all
positions, bearing upon the evils of drunkenness.  IHaving done this, he went on
to show, in the clearest manner, the responsibility of those engagedl in tile liquor-traffic.
Thie goodnatured landlord, whlo had never
permitted himself to reflect upon the consequences atteindaint upon his callingT was
forced to thlink now, and lie thloughlt until
his knees trembled.
20 
THiE COLD-WATER BOY.
The cold-water boy was there, and his
eyes were  scarcely a moment  at a time
off of the landlord. With pleasure did
he observe the effect produced. But how
gladly did all his pulses bound, when, after
the lecturer sat down, Mr. Hartley deliberately arose to his feet, and while the most
perfect stillness reigned around him, said, in
a slow, distinct, and serious voice  "I have sold liquor for twenty years;
and if all that I have heard to-night be
true, I have been the means of doing more
evil than the repentance of a thousand lifetimes can atone for.  But my eyes are now
open; and seeing the dreadful consequences
that follow this traffic, I do here solemnly
pledge myself to pour all the liquid poison
in my bar-roon and cellar into the street,
at sunrise to-morrow morning."
Mr. Hartley sat down amid shouts of joy,
True to his word, the landlord did as he
had said; and you may be certain that
Frank, the cold-water boy, was stirring by
21 
THE COLD-WATER BOY.
sunrise to see the first good work of his
convert to temperance.
Mr. Hartley now keeps a temperance
boarding-house, and he and Frank, as you
may suppose, see each other often, and are
on the best terms imaginable.
Boys as well as men can do a great deal
of good, if they only go the right way about
it.
22 
I \ 
WILLIE AND THE BEGGAR GIRL.
I
mIa
(10)
Page 25.
:t. 
WILLY AND THE BEGGAR-GIRL.
AN  apple, dear mother?"
Cried Willy, one day,
Coming in, with his cheeks
Glowing bright, from his play.
I want a nice apple,
A large one and red."
"For whom do you wish it?"
His kind mother said.
c You know, a big apple
I gave you at noon;
And now for another,
My boy, it's too soon."
,There's a poor little girl
At the door, mother dear,"
Said Will, while within
Hiis mild eye shone a tear.
25 
26      WILLY AND THE BEGGAR-GIRL.
"She says, since last evening
She's eaten no bread;
Her feet are all naked,
And bare is her head.
Unlike me, she's no mother
To love her, I'm sure,
Or she'd not look so hungry,
And ragged, and poor.
,,Let me give her an apple;
She wants one, I know;
A nice, large, red apple   Oh! do not say no."
First a kiss to the lips
Of her generous boy,
Mamma gave with a feeling
Of exquisite joy
For goodness, whene'er
In a child it is seen,
Gives joy to the heart
Of a mother, I weenAnd then led him out, where,
Still stood by the door
A poor little beggar-girl,
Ragged all o'er. 
WILLY AND TIIE BEGGAR-GIRL.
"Please ma'm, I am hungry,"
The little thing said,
" Oh! will you not give me
A small piece of bread?"
"Yes, child, you shall have it;
But who sends you out
From dwelling to dwelling
To wander about?"
A pair of mild eyes
To the lady were raised;
"My mother's been sick
For a great many days:
So sick, she don't know me."
Sobs stifled the rest,
While heaved with young sorrow
That innocent breast.
Just then, from the store-room  W"here wee Willy ran,
As his mother to question
The poor child beganCame forth the sweet boy,
With a large loaf of bread,
Iheld tight in his tiny hands
High o'er his head.
27 
WILLY AND TIIE BEGG-AR-GIRL.
"Here's bread and a plenty!
Eat little girl, eat!"
He cried, as he laid
The great loaf at her feet.
The mother smiled gently,
Then quick through the door
Drew the sad little stranger,
So hungry and poor.
With words kindly spoken
She gave her nice food,
And clothed her with garments
All clean, warm, and good.
This done, she was leading
Her out, when she heard
Will coming down-stairs
Like a fluttering bird.
A newly-bought Leghorn,
With green bow and band,
And an old, worn-out beaver,
He held in his hand.
"Here! give her my new hat,"
He cried-,, I can wear
MIy black one all summer:
Its good-you won't care
28 
WILLY AND THE BEGGAR-GIRL.
"Say! will you, dear mother?"
First out through the door,
She passed the girl kindly;
Then quick from the floor
Caught up the dear child   Kissed and kissed him again,
While her glad tears fell freely
O'er his sweet face like rain.
29
X. —O 
SPEAK KINDLY.
PEAK kindly to your brother, Henry;
kind words are as easily said as harsh
ones. See! there are tears in little Charley's
eyes. It is but a moment since, that his
happy laughl filled the whole room. Are
you not sorry, my boy, that a single word,
roughly spoken by you, should have chased
the sunshine from that sweet little face?
I am sure you are. Go and kiss him, and
speak to him kindly and gently, and tell
him you are sorry for what you said.
There-now his tears are all gone, and his
dear little arms are around your neck.
Never speak harshly to him again, Henry;
30 
SPEAK KINDLY.
nor, indeed, to any one.  Kind words are
easily said, and they do good to all, while
angry words hurt as badly as blows; and,
sometimes, a great deal worse.
Words hurt as bad as blows? Oh yes;
and, as I have just said, a great deal more.
Why, I have seen a little boy, who scarcely
ever minded a fall, even though his flesh
was sometimes bruised or wounded, weep
as if his heart would break at an unkind
word. Speak kindly to each other, then,
my children.
31 
GENEROSITY.
,, HAS your brother a peach, William"?
asked a mother of one of her chil.
dren, whom she found sitting by himself,
eating a large, ripe peach.  William looked(
ulp, and said   No, ma'am, I believe not."'
"Where did you get the one you have?''
"Aunt MIary went by the window just
now, and handed it to me."
And  you sat down  to eat it alone.
WTas that generous, or selfish?  John loves
a peachl just as well as you do."
"But Aunt Mfary gave it to ~."
"Your aunt was kind and generous t(
you; but you were not so to your brother
32) 
GENEROSITY.
John, or you would have shared your peachl
with him, and been much happier, in doing so, than in eating it all yourself."
"I will,o and give him a part of it, i-,ther.  It was selfish in me, and I am sorty
for it. Jolhin, John! conme and get half,oi
this nice peacll."
John came running in, anld William gave
himi him half of his peach.  Both of the
children enjoyeedl the fruit, and William was
niuclh happier than if he had eaten it alon-e.
o 2
,) ti
0j 
TWO GENEROUS, LOVING
CHILDREN.
E met withl  a story, in reading the
othler day, whlich pleased us very
mnuch.  A  father gave his little daughter,
LAydia, a large, ripe peach for herself, and
a smaller one for hler little brother, who
was playing in the yard.   Lydia  went
ocut to give her brother the peachl; when
shle came in, hler fitthier said to her  "'Did you give your brother the peachl  I
sent him?"
Lydia blushed, turned away, and did not
answer.
"Did you give your brothler thle peach I
sent him?" asked'the father again, a little
miiore sharply.
34
I 
TWO GENEROUS, LOVING CIIILDREN.    o$5
"No, father," said she, "I did not give
him that."
"What did you do with it?" he asked.
"I ate it," said Lydia.
"What! Did you not give your brother
any?" asked the father.
"Yes, I did, father," she said, "I gave
him mine.
"Why did you not give him the one I
told you to give?" asked the father rather
sternly.
Because, father," said Lydia, "I thought
hle would like mine better."
"But you ought not to disobey your far
ther,' said he.
"I did not mean to be disobedient, fai
ther," said she; and her bosom began to
heave and her chin to quiver.
"But you were, my daughter," said he.
"I thought you would not be displeased
with me," said Lydia, "if I did give bro
thier the larger peach;" and the tears began to roll down her cheeks.
" But I wanted you to have the larger," 
li    TWO GENEROUS, LOVING CIIILDREN.
satid the father; "You are older and larger
than he is."
"I want to give the best things to brotilier," said the noble girl.
"Why?" asked the father, scarcely able
to contain himself.
Because," answered the generous sister,
I love him so; I always feel best when
he gets the best things."
"You are right, my precious daughter,"
said the father, as he fondly embraced her
in his arms.' You are right, and you may
be certain your father can never be displeased with you for wishing to give up the
best of every thing to your affectionate little brother. He is a dear boy, and I am
glad you love him so. Do you think lihe
loves you as well as you do him?"
",Yes, father," said the little girl, "I
fink hlie'oes; for vlwhen I offered him the
larger peac  hlie would  not take it, and
w;mtc'd me to keep it; and it was a good
while before I could get him to take it." 
KEEPER'S RELATIONS.
N honest Mastiff, brave and strong,
Was walking quietly along,
When, near a w-ood, a fox he spied,
A gaunt, gray, hungry wolf beside.
,, low glad we are to see you here!"
The fox cried, with a cunning leer.
,, The Wolf and I, just as you came,
Friend Keeper, mentioned you by name."
,,Me?   What of me?" the dog he said,
And raised suspiciously his head.
"We are relations," Fox replied.
" Long years ago, in forests wide,
Beasts dwelt in closest harmony:
Cousins the wolves and dogs; and we
Were cousins too, but not so near.
Our families, as must appear,
If you will but a moment think,
Are kindred by a common link.
. —                                37 
KEEPER'S RELATIONJS.
The wolf and I a likeness bear,
And you our features plainly wear:
The difference comes from change of place
And habits, in the self-same race.
We to the northward pass'd, where cold
Stinted our growth, as I've been told;
While you forsook the forests wvide,
With man in cities to abide.
Now, this being so, why not be friends?
Our mutual interest thither tends."
All this, and more, the wolf declared
Hlimself to prove was well prepared.
Deceived, the dog invited both
To visit him; they, nothing loth,
At dusk that very evening came:
Ah! Keeper, he was mnuchl to blame.
They shared his supper: call'd him kind;
Yet laugh'd aside-he was so blind!
Soon as the darkness gather'd round,
Fox said he mrust be homeward bound;
Late hours were bad. The dog said,,"Stay
A little longer." But away
Both Wolf and Reynard quickly went,
Scarce pausing for a compliment.
38
I 
KEEPER'S PELATIONS.
Next morning, scarcely had the sun
Hiss journey o'er the heavens begun,
When two half-eaten lambs w-ere found,
With blood and feathers strewn around.
The truth on Keeper quickly flash'd,
Andl angrily his teeth he gnash'd.
He waited till the day was o'er,
When his relations came once more.
Wolf look'd demure as any saint,
And Fox as free from sinful taint.
Both call'd hiim, Cousin"-ah! so kind;
But keeper was no longer blind.
",Villains, away!" he growling cried;
And then his jaws hlie open'd wide;
And two great rows of teeth were seen,
Like sharp and shining spikes between.
Confused, the wretches turn'd away,
They saw'twas dangerous there to stay;
But keeper followv'd, growling low,
Till past the fold hlie saw them go;
Till past the hen-roost many a rood,
The lying, thieving villains stood.
$9 
RABBITS.
';ISN'T this a rabbit, father?" asked
William, holding up an animal that
hlad been brought in from market.   "John
says it's a hare."
"And John is right, my son; that is the
American hare," replied his father.
"But I am sure I heard you call it a rab)it. Everybody calls these animals rabbits."
"True, William. And yet, really, they
are hares. The rabbit, though externally
and internally very much like a hare, is
yet a distinct species, and superior to the
!are in point of sagacity.  It burrows in
the ground, and thus hides itself and its
40 
R AB B ITS.
youIng from its enemies, while the hare
forms its residence on the surface of the
earth, and remains constantly exposed to
its enemiies.  Hlares are found in nearly
every part of the earth, butt rabbits were orig,ilnally confined almost entirely to Europe.
fronom whlence thley have been taken to othler
counltries. Look at a picture of tame rab})its, aid then tlook at the animal you hlold
ill -Our haind, and you will see that tlhey
are different.'
Oh yes, I can see that very plainly-.
13ut if our rabbits, as.,v.e cal.l themi, are only
lares, -lwhy are they iiot called' by thteir
right iname?"
"   first mistake in naming the animal
has made the term rabbit. so universal
that miost people believe it to b)e correct,
and it is now almost impossible to chlange
it into the righlt one."
'll call tlem  1h-ires  after thlis,  said
Wiiiam.
"People wvould hardly know what you
imeant."
X.-D
41
.I
.,
1, 
RAB B ITS.
"But they are hares, and ought to be
called so."
"When you speak to others, you wish
them to understand the meaning of your
words,"  said William's  fathler,  "do  you
not?"
"Oh yes."
" If you say hare, you will not be understood, for the American hare is lknown as
the rabbit.  The usages of a country to a
great extent determine for us what we shlould
call certain things, or how we should act in
certain cases, where no principle of ri,ghlt or
wrong is concerned. It is better always
to be correct in every thing, but where the
usage of a whole country is slightly incorrect, as in this instance, it better    that
lads like yourself sh1ould abidcy it, instead
of attempting to introduce a reform, the result of which would be to effect no change
of the custoil, and lay you open to the unpleasant ridicule of many."
"13But you have said tlhat we never shlould
be afraid of ridicule, falther."
4 "-? 
RABBITS.
"'Nor should we.  And yet, there  are
few who can bear it without feeling very
unpleasant. It is always best not to pro
voke it lightly, for those who laugh at us
are not in a state to receive good impressions from whlat we may say or do."
"I never thought of that."
'But it is a fact, Willian; and, thlerefore: while we should not be afraid of being
lau,ghled at, we slhould not, for a light cause,
call down upon us the ridicule of others'"
43
.t 
TIIE GOOD ARE BEAUTIFUL.
I-I! what an ugly little creature," said
a person turning away fromn a very
homely child, with a look of dis,ust upon
her face.
' She  will  be  beautiful  in  heaven,
ina'ami," replied a plainly dressed woman,
who overheard the remarlk.
"Will she, indeed!" returned the individual who spoke so lightly of the homely
child.  "I should like to know how  you
can tell that."
In the othler life," returned the woman,
the good are all beautiful, and the evil detorrmed and ugly.  No matter how fair a
face a person may have had in this life, it
44 
TIlE GOOD ARE BEAUTIFUL.
will, in the next world, be changed into
beauty or ugliness, according as he has been
good or evil."
" HIow do you know this??" in.  ired the
first speaker.
"Any onlle who opens his eyes may see
and know that this will be true," was replied. "Is lnot thle most beautiful face
renldered disagreeable w-hlen anly bad passion
is felt adi exhliited?  Andcl does not tlhe
homeliest  face become  pleasant  to look
uponl wlhen goodl affections are ini thle lheart?
In the othoer life, we shiall all appear as we
really are; anId, of course, evil passions wvill
defornu the face, anld good affections miake
it beautiful.   Anid she will be beautiful in
lheaven, for shie is a good little girl, hlomely
as her face nowv is."
D 2
45 
THE WORD OF GOD.
"ItENRY, what book is that you have
in your hands?"
"It is the Bible, mother."
"Oh no, it cannot be, surely."
Why, yes it is-see!"
"-And my little boy to treat so roughly
the book containing God's Holy Word!'
Jlenry's face grew serious.
Oh, I forgot," said he, and went and
laid the good book carefully away.
"Try and not forget again, my son.  If
you treat this book so lightly now, you
may, when you become a man, as lightly
esteem- its holy truths; and then you could
46 
TIIE WORD  OF GOD.
never live in heaven with the angels. No
one goes to heaven who despises the Word
of God, which is, in every jot and tittle,
holy."
Henry listened with a serious countenance to his mother, and never afterward
treated with lightness either the words of
the Holy Book, or the Book itself.  Let all
children who read this, remember what
Jienry's mother said.
47 
THE WEATHER PROPHETS.
I.
" T will rain," said old Gaspar, as upward his
eye
lie turn'd, and gaz'd long at the threatening
skyJ It will rain, for since morning an east wind has
blown,
And swift through the damp air the light scud
has flown.
I know by this sign what the weather will be
On to-morrow: so, Edward, take counsel of me,
And let not the reapers put sickle in grain,
For sure as the day comes,'twill rain-it will
rain!"
48
AP 
THE WEATIIER PROPIIETS.
II.
,I know it will rain," said the sober old wife;
, This sign I have noticed throughout my whole
lifeWvhen the leaf of the maple turns white in the
breeze,
And the elm and the willow grow pale'mid the
trees,
Few hours pass away ere the clouds, sweeping
high,
Pour forth their bright treasures of rain from
the sky.
Last night a wide circle was cast round the moon,
Sure sign of wet weathler-'twill visit us soon."
III.
Thus spoke the old couple; and Ned, lazy wight,
Believed-for he wish'd to-the prophecy right;
And          away to the town for a rare frolic sped,
With thanks for the dark clouds that hung over           head;
While Gaspar still gazed at the thick-mantled
sky,
Till he saw the rain falling-though with fancy's
eec
49
rl 
50         TIlE WEATHER PROPHETS.
And his dame at the window still linger'd, to see
The leaves turning white on the old maple-tree.
IV.
Sure enough, on the morrow down pour'd the
free rain,
While rush'd the east wind through the goldclen           topp'd grain.
Old Gaspar was right, and his weather-wise wife
Her sign had read truly once more in her life.
,,I knew it-I knewv it!" said hlie, looking wise.
,,I knew it," said she, turning up her gray eyes.
And, I knew it!", I knew it!" throughout the
dark day,
Old Gaspar and dame, self-complacent, would say.
Thus could they foretell, from the face of the sky,
From the turn of a leaf, from the wind passing
by,
If in sunshine the morning would smile on the
earth,
Or clouds, bending sadly, weep over its birth.
But the signs of the timnes they could never
discern,
Although in light written wherever we turn.
v.
f 
TIE EATIIE WEATHER PROPHETS.
In the old-fashion'd way they were plodding life's
round,
Believing no better one ever was found.
VI.
In books, Gaspar saw but a cunning device
For wasting both money and timne; and the price
Of a newspaper ever had scrupled to pay,
For he call'd it the throwing of so much away.
HIis taxes he settled with grumbling; but most
At his school-tax hlie grumbled, for that was all
lostHe had paid for Ned's figures t' the hard Rlule
of Three,
And that had'most ruin'd the lad, he could see.
VII.
Years and years pass'd along, and old Gaspar
4   ~        ~ ~grew older,
And his wveather-wise dame felt the winters grow
colder;
WVhile Ned farmn'd the land in the old fashion'd
Vway,
Content with a ton, to the acre, of hay;
Content if the old, worn-out ten-acre field,
Ten bushels of corn to the acre would yield;
51 
52         TIlE WEAT11ER PROPHETS.
And content, when a rainy day came, to ride
down
And have a good time, as of old, in the town.
VIII.
To the last, though life-weary, and feeble, and
bent,
Old Gaspar, the weather-signs noted intent;
But he saw not a sign of dark days drawing nigh,
Though the tokens were many and plain to the
eye:
Farm wasted, stock dwindled, house tottering to
fall,
And Ned a worse wreck, and more wasted than
allFor rainy days spent in the town, only led
Into drinking, and evils much worse, lazy Ned.
IX.
From the sky, from the tree, from the wind they
could tell,
WVhether sunshine or tempest were coming, right
well;
But forgot, amid all-very strange, but yet trueThat on rainy days Ned must have something to
do.
I 
THE WEATHER PROPHETS.
Books, papers, and pamphlets, Ned found not at
home,
So, to kill time, on stormy days, forth he must
roam;
And, as that old fellow, whom Satan we name,
And load at all times with all manner of blame,
x.
For idle ones ever has work ready plann'd,
Ned enter'd his service-a right willing hand.
Such service is paid, but, like apples whicieh grow
By that sea whose dark waves over lost cities flow,
At first the bright wages seemed gold in the clasp,
But turn'd in a moment to dross in his grasp.
And on these poor wages, Ned toil'd, strange to
say!
For the cheating old rascal full many a day.
XI.
At last the old farmer and dame sank to restNot calmly,'mid sunshine, on Nature's soft
breast;
For storms, unforeseen, swept across their dark
skies,
And tears dimm'd the light of their weary old
eyes.
X.-4            E
53
t. 
54          THE WEATHER  PROPHIETS.
Mid strangers, in sadness, life's waves ebb'dcl
awayMid strangers, unwept, in their death-sleep they
layAnd strangers stood, tearless, above the green
sod,
While the preacher committed their spirits to
God
XIT.
Where was Ned?  From the home he had wasted,
estrang'd!
In the service of evil most grievously changed!
He wept not, he thought not, he cared not for
those
Whose hearts he had smitten with bitterest woes.
For him they had read not the weather-signs
wellStorms came that their wisdom had fail'd to
to foretell:
This truth, when too late, e'en by them was de          scriedAnd they mourn'd o'er their error; and, mourn          ing it, died. 
THE PET FAWN.
HERE  wvas once a dear child named
Ada, who was of so sweet a temper
that she only knew how to love: and the
consequence was that everybody and every
thing that could know her, loved the sweet
little girl in return.  I do not believe that
a servant in her father's ftamily ever spoke
unlkinidly to Ada, she was so good.  There
are but. few of mny young readers, I amn
afraicd, that can say so of tihemselves. Cook
scolds, the chamblermaid is so) cross, aind
nurse is out of temper, whenever y:ou come
near thlem.  Yes, you klnow.1 tlI-,t; ihut,
miy youlg frie ds, I a,m a2i,d  it i  3, all I your
own flault.;Now:, examine  closely your
55 
TIlE PET FAWN.
own feelings and conduct,, and see if you do
not mnake this trouble for yourselves. Do
you always speak kindly to those around
y,ou; anld do you always try to give them
as little trouble as possible?
As for Ada, everybody loved her, and
the reason, as I hlave already stated, was
plain; she didn't know- any feeling toward
othlers except that of love.  Even the dumb
animals would come to her side when she
appeared.  The cat would rub against her,
and purr as she sat in her little chair; and,
whllen  she w-ent out to play among the
flowers, wAould run after her just as you
have seen a favourite dog run after his
master.  She never passed Lion, the w-atchdog, that lie didn't wa,g hlis great tail, or
turin his head to look after h1er; and if she
stopped and spoke to, or put her hand upon
hinm, his old linmbs would quiver with delight,  anld his face would actually lau,gh
like a lhuman face.  And whly was this?
It was because love prompted Ada to kind
acts toward every thing.   Love beamed
56
F 
THIE PET FAWN.
from her innocent countenance, and gave a
music to her voice that all ears, even those
of dumb animals, were glad to hear. Yes,
every thing loved Ada, because she was
good.
Tile father of gentle, loving Ada, was a
rich En,glish lord-a certain class of wealthy
and distinguished men in England, as most
young, readers know, are called lords-and
he had a great estate some miles from London, in which were many animals, among
them hlerds of deer. When Ada was three
or four years old, her father went to live
on this estate. Around the fine old mansion into which they removed, were stately
trees, green lawns, and beautiful gardens;
and a short distance away, and concealed
from view by a thick grove, was the park
where roamed the graceful deer.
Under the shade of those old trees, upon
the smooth-shlaven lawnl or amid the sweet
flowers in the garden, Ada spent many
hours every day, one of the happiest of beings alive.
E2
57
.1 
THE PET FAWN.
One morning-it was a few weeks after
Ada had come to live in this flair and beautiful place-she strayed off a short distance
from the house, being lured away by the
bright wild-flowers that grew thickly all
around, and with which she was filling her
apron.  At last, when her tiny apron would
not hold a blossom more without pushing
off some other flower, Ada looked up from
the ground, and discovered that she was
out of sight of her  house, and among
trees which stood so thick together, that
the sky could scarcely be seen overhead,
nor the light beyond, when she endeavoured to look between the leafy branches. But
Ady did not feel afraid, for she knew no
cause for fear.  She loved every thing, and
she felt that every thing loved hler. There
was not any room in her heart for fear.
Still, Ada felt too much alone, and she
turned a,-d sought to find iher way out of
the woods and get back again.  While yet
nio,g, the trees, she heard a noise of feet
approaching, and turning, she saw an ani
58
I
F' 
THE PET FAWN.
mal that was unlike any she had seen before. It came up close to her, and neither
of them felt afraid. It was a fawn, only a
few months old. The fawn looked into
Ada's face with its dark, bright eyes, and
when she spoke to it, and laid her hand
upon its head, the young creature pressed
lovingly against the child.
When Ada found her way out of the
woods and came again upon the green lawn,
the young deer was close by her side.  As
soon as Lion saw the fawn, he gave a loud
bark, and came dashing toward the timid
creature. But Ada put her arm around its
neck and said  "Don't be afraid.  Lion won't hurt you.
Lion is a good dog."
And Lion seemed to understand the act
of Ada, for he stopped short before he
reached them wagged his tail, and looked
curiously at the new companion which Ada
had found. First he walked round and
round, as if the whole matter was not clear
to him.  ile had chased deer in his time,
59 
THiE PET FAWN.
and did not seem to understand why he
was not to sink his great teeth into the
tender flank of the gentle creature that had
followed hIis young mistress from the woods.
But he soon appeared to get light on this
difficult subject; for he came up to be patted
by Ada, and did not even growl at the fawn,
nor show any disposition to hurt it.
The fawn would not stay in tihe park
after this. Ada's father had it taken back
once or twice, but before the day was gone,
it managed to escape, and came to see its
newly found friend. After this it was pernuitted to remain; and every day little Ada
fed it with her own hand. When others
of the family approached, the timid creature
would start away; but when Ada appeared,
it came with confidence to her side.
Ada had a brother two years older than
she was. He was different from his sister
in not having her innocent mind and loving, heart.  Sometimes he indulged in a
cruel disposition, and often he was ill-tempered.  When  William saw the fawn he
60
L 
THE PET FAWN.
was delighted, and tried to make friends
with the gentle animal. But the fawn was
afraid of him, and, when he tried to come
near, would run away, or come up to Ada.
Then, if William put his hand on it to ca
ress it, the fawn would shrink closer to Ada,
and tremble. William did not like it because
the fiawn would not be friends with him,
and wondered whly it should be afraid of
him, and not of Ada. He did not think
that it was because Ada was so good, while
he let evil tempers in his heart.
"But how could the fawn know this?"
ask my young readers. "The fawn could
not see what was in William's heart."
No; for if it could have done so, it would
have been wiser than a human being.  But
all good affections, let it be remembered, as
well as all evil affections, represent themselves in the face and picture themselves
in the eyes; and there is, besides, a sphere
of what is good or evil about every one, according to the hleart's affection-just as the
sphere of a rose is around the flower in
61
L 
62             TIIE PET FAWN.
its odour, showing its quality.  Animals, as
well as human beings, can read, by a kind
of instinct, the good or evil of any one in
his face, and perceive, by a mysterious sense,
the sphere of good or evil that surrounds
him.
You do not clearly understand this, my
young reader; nevertheless, it is so. If you
are good, others will know it at a glance, and
feel it when you come near themn.  And the
same will be the case if your hIlearts are evil.
Ada's pet fawn stayed with her many
months, and nothing hitrmed it.  The horns
began to push forth, like little knobs from
its head; and afterward it grew up to be a
stately deer, and was sent back to the
park.  Ada often went to see her fvoutrite, which now had a pair of beautiful
branching antlers.  It always knew her,
and would come up to her side and lick
lier hand when she held it forth.
Such power has love over even a brute
animal! 
6 ." 
~
_    ~
SATURDAY INWINE R.
(AT0) A                                Pag WINER
Page 62.
(10) 
SATURDAY IN WINTER.
UR  tasks are all done, come away! come
awvay!
For a right merry time-for a Saturday play.
See! the bright sun is shining right bravely on
high;
Make haste, or he'll soon be half over the sky.
Come! first with our sleds down the glassy hill          side,
And then on our skates o'er the river we glide.
Nowv Harry! sit firm on your sled-here we go!
Swift-swift as an arrow let fly fi'om the bow!
I-urrah! downward rushing, how gayly we speed,
Like an Arab away on his fleet-going steed.
Hurrah! bravely done! down the icy hillside,
Swift-swift as an arrow, again let us glide.
65
I
.E~  
SATURDAY IN WINTER.
And now for the river! hiow smooth and now
bright,
Like a mirror it sleeps in the flashing sunlight.
Be sure, brother Harry, to strap your skates well,
Last time, you remember, how heavy you fell.
Now away! swift away! why Harry! not down?
Are you hurt? You must take better care of your
crown.
Up, up, good brother! now steady! start fair!
Away we go! swift through the keen frosty air.
Down again! Bless me Harry! your skates can't
be right,Just wait till I see-no-but now they are tight!
Here we go again! merry as school-boys can be,
From books, pens, and pencils, and black-board
set free.
Tired, at last, of our sport, home to dinner we
run,
And find that two hours ago dinner was done.
But our meat and potatoes we relish quite well,
Though cold, and the reason we scarcely need
tell:
Five hours spent in scudding and skating, I ween,
Would give to such lads as we, appetites keen.
66
6L 
SATURDAY IN wVINTER.
At last the dim twilight succeeds to the day!
Our week's work is ended, and ended our play.
'Tis Saturday night, and we know, with the morn
Another dear Sabbath of rest will be born.
O'er-wearied, we sink into slumber profound,
Assured that God's angels are watching around.
X-Fi
67
!r — 
THE SPECKED APPLE.
R. ARDEN had two daughters, Jane
and Martha, one twelve years old,
and the other thirteens at the time the incident we are about to relate occurred. A
little girl named Mary, about the age of
Martlha, also made one of the family of
Mr. Arden   She was the orphan child of
a friend, and had been received by Mr.
Arden, while quite young, and treated
with all the kindness that marked his de
portment toward his own children.
Mr. Arden was a man who understood
very well that all the unhappiness existing
in the world had its origin in selfishness;
and that the true way to attain happiness
68
p
1:
LZ-t 
THE SPECKED APPLE.
was to seek the good of others. Hie oftenii
explained this to his children, and taught
them that in preferring one another in little as well as great things, they would experience more real delight, than in selfishly
looking to their own  gratification.   But
this he found a very difficult lesson for
young minds to learn. Especially hard did
it seem for Jane and Martha to prefer Maryin any thing to themselves. They loved
her, because she was a gentle, sweet-tempered girl, and, therefore, they could not
help loving her. But they loved themselves
better.
One day, late in the winter, at a time
when fruit was scarce, Mr. Arden, on coining home from his office, brought with him
three large mellow  pippins.  They  were
intended  for Jane,  Martha,  and  Mary.
While at tea, IMr. Arden mientioned the
fact that hie hlad three large apples ill his
coat-pocklet for the girls.
"01-i! give me nine," said Jane eagerly.
"Give me mine, papa," said Martha.
69
L.,7 
THE SPECKED APPLE.
But Mary said nothing, although she
looked pleased.
"After tea, you shall have them," replied
Mr. Arden. "But let me tell you, that
there is something about these three apples
that will test, to some extent, your characters."
"iHow can that be, papa?" asked Jane.
"We shall see," replied Mr. Arden, smil
ng."No doubt they will test our love of ap
ples," said Martha, who was a merry little
girl.
"Not the least doubt of that in tlhe
world," said her father.  "But take care.
Martha, that in receiving your apple, you
do not lose your appetite for eating it."
"I shall, if it is very sour, or has a poor
flavour."
"That you wvill not find to le the case.
They are as fine apples as I have seen for
a long time."
"What  a mystery papa makes about
70 
TIlE SPECKED APPLE.
these apples" said Jane. "I am really
impatient to see them."
"You shall both see and taste them, dear,
after tea. But don't forget that there is
something about these apples that is going
to try your characters."
After they had risen from the tea-table,
and the tea things had been cleared away,
Mir. Arden brought out his three apples
and laid themn upon a plate. They were,
indeed, tempting to look upon.   They were
nearly equal in size, but one was less beautiful in shape than the others, and had become " specked," or slig,htly decayed, on one
side of the stem. This defect though small,
was quite apparent.
" They are very beautiful," said the mother, taking the plate in her hand, and examining the fruit.  "I think father has
neglected me."
"Oh! you shll have half of mine," said
MAlary quickly.
And papa shall han,e half ovine," said
Martha.
71
t',
X.-65
F 2 
THE SPECKED APPLE.
"And who, then, shall I give half of
mine to?" asked Jane. "Oh! I know, I
will divide the half of mine between papa
and mamma."
"By which means we shall get the largest share," said Mr. Arden.   "So, mother,
wve shall not only fare as well, but better
than the rest."
And that will be all fair, for you ought
to have the largest portion always," spolke
up Mary, -whliile her eyes expressed the
warm affection that was in her heart for
her kind benefactors, whlo had been to her
all that her own father and mother could
possibly have been.
" NTow, Jane,' said Mr. Arden, reaching
toward her the plate whlich contained the
fiuit, "take your apple, dear."
Jaine, without pausing a moment  took
an apple from the plate.
"'tiere,'Martha," and Mr. Arden presenlted the plate to his youngest daughter, who
took, witli a smiling lip and sparkliing eye,
72
Li 
THE SPECKED APPLE.
the large golden apple that her kind father
had brought her.
"They have left the specked apple fobr
you, Mary," said Mr. Arden in a slightly
disappointed tone.   "But,  never  mind,
dear, the ripest and richest fruit is soonest
to decay. I have no doubt but that the
superior flavour of your apple will more
than make up for its slight defect."
The two sisters, who perceived in a moment, from their father's remarks, and the
tone in which he spoke, that they had act
ed selfishly in choosing the best apples for
themselves, and that he had noticed it, immediately offered to change with Mary;
but she said, with a pleasant smile   "Oh! no, no.  I amt perfectly satisfied,
I should have taken this one, if I had been
offered the first choice."
As she said this, she took a knife from
the table, remarking, as she did so, that
half of it belonged to Mrs. Arden.
While she yet spoke, she pressed the knife
into the apple, but something hard, toward
73 
THE SPECKED APPLE.
the centre, prevented the blade from going
thllrough. A slight pressure broke the apple into halves, and revealed, brightly
glistening in the centre, a large and elegant diamond-ring!
"Why, papa!" exclaimed Jane, who understood in an instant what this meant.
"Jane, we are justly punished for our
selfishness in taking the best apples and leaving Mary the worst," said Martha, the tears
starting to her eyes, even while she made
this acknowledgment.   "These apples, as
father said, have indeed tried our characters. But let me look at your beautiful
ring, Mary."'
Marthla took the ring, and, while examining, it, perceived that there was an inscription on the inside.  She read it aloud"To the least selfist."
"It is yours by right, Mary," said Jane,
with a generous acknowledgment of what
was daily seen by all to be true, "for you
are the least selfish hlere."
74
L-  
THE SPECKED APPLE.
Mary said nothing; but her eyes were
fulll of tears.
'Mly children,"' said Mr. Arden, "this is
a little miatter, but it has shown you somethiing of yourselves.  I am rejoiced to find
that Jane and Martha bear their disappointrnent in such a generous spirit, for it
tells me that the lesson has done them
good."
75
L.. 
INVOCATION TO SPRING
I.
O  longer tarry, gentle Spring!
1 I   Come, on thy bright and balmy wing!
O'er earth thy rosy fetters fling,
With merry smile!
Come forth!-thy blooming children bring,
And stay awhile!
II.
Come! wake the mockbird's stirring song,
The lark's rich carol, clear and strong,
The robin's chirp the trees among        The wren's sweet lay;
Bid all thy choir, a joyful throng!
Here with us stay.
76
t 
INVOCATION TO SPRING.
III.
Call out thy lovely offspring roundLet daisies deck the teeming groundThe hawthorn hedge-row's bloom be found,
The fragrant rose;
Just smile! andl lilacs will abound         The buds unclose.
IV.
I saw a tender flower look forth,
And smile, from out the fruitful earth,
When fiercely came old blustering North,
Withi biting blastThe blossom wither'd in its birth         Its bloom was past!
V.
Then tarry not, O gentle Spring!
Come, on thy bright and balmy wing!
O'er earth thy rosy fetters fling,
With merry smile!
Come forth!-tthy blooming children bring,
And stay awhile.
77 
INFANTS AND CHILDREN IN
HEAVEN.
ATllER, will sister sane, who died
' and went to heaven, ahvays be a
little girl? or will she grow up and become
big woman, 3ust as she would have done,
if the Lord hadn't taken her away from the
earth?"
"She will grow up and become a woman,
my dear."
left her body here."
"Not her real body, Mary.   You know
I have told you, that our spiritual bodies
are our real bodies."
'"And do they grow just as our natural
bodies do?"
78
.  L 
INFANTS AND CHILDREN IN HEAVEN.  79
Certainly, my  daughter.   They grow
here, and whly should they not grow in
heaven, where their food is so much better
and more nourishing."
" Food!  What kind of food, father?"
"Spiritual food."
" What is spiritual food?"
"Any thing that satisfies the desires of
the mind. The mind must have nourishment, as well as the body, or it cannot
grow.  Knowledge is the food of the mind.
You are always desirous of knowing something. Your mind hungers after knowledge
of some kind or other, and is unsatisfied until
it gets food. By this it gains strength, and
grows graduallly, until, by the time the natural body attains its maturity, the mind is
also miatured.  Its knowledge, if of the right
kind, becomes wisdom, and the man is a
man spiritually, as well as naturally.  In
hleaven, whlere there are no natural bodies,
every thing being spiritual, the real, or
spiritual bodies appear before the eyes as
our natural bodies appear before our eyes
X.
1.. 
80  INFANTS AND CHILDREN IN HEAVEN.
here. And as the little children, who are
in heaven, increase in knowledge and wisdom, they must appear to grow, and really
do grow, until they reach the full stature
of angels."
0
L —
I 
CALLING HIS SHEEP BY NAME.
GENTLEMAN lately travelling in
Greece, passed a flock of sheep in
his morning walk, and asked the shepherd
if it was usual in the Eastern countries to
give names to slheep.  He replied that it
was, and that the sheep obeyed the shepherd when he called them by their names.
The gentleman asked the shepherd to call
out one of his sheep, and when he didl so,
it immediately left its pasture and companions and ran up to the shepherd with signs
of pleasure, and such ready obedience as he
had never before seen in any animal.
Our little readers may have been taught
that, in the Bible, natural images are used
81
t 
82  CALLING HIS SHEEP BY NAME.
as the means of conveying spiritual instruction; that, in fact, all natural things are
formed from spiritual things, and  correspond to them in every particular. They
will remember what is said in the tenth
chapter of John, about the good Shepherd:
"The sheep hear his voice: and he calleth
his owtn sheep by name, and leadeth them
out. And when he putteth forth his own
sheep, he goetli before then,  and the shep
follow him, for thtey 7onow his voice.  And a
stranger will they not follow, but will flee
from him: for they know not the voice of a
strain,ger."   The  Lord  says-" I amin tihe
good Shepherd, and know my sheep, and
am known of mine."
Thie gentleman of whom wve were just
speaking, also inquired of the shepherd
whether the sheep would come if a stranger
called them by name; but he said they
wvould not, but would flee at the voice of a
stranger.  He said that many of his sheep
were still wild, for they had not yet learned their names, but that by teaching thenm,
L 
CALLING HIS SHEEP BY NAME.
they would all learn them; the others,
which knew their names, he called tame
shleep.
Remember, dear, little children, that the
Lord is your good shepherd, and knows all
of your names.  You hear his voice and
come at his call, when you do good; but
you wander from his fold and do not hear
his voice, when you do what is wrong.
All of you have been taught what it is to
do right, and all of you know what it is to
do wrolng.  We hope that none of you are
wild sheep, but all know the voice of your
good Shepherd, and come when he calls
you.
02
83 
EVENING PRAYER.
EAVENLY  Father! through the day
Have we wander'd from thy way?
Have our thoughts to error turn'd?
Has within us evil burn'd?
Heavenly Father! oh, remove
Evil thoughts and evil love!
Give us truth our minds to fill;
Give us strength to do thy will.
Often we are led astray
From the true and righteous way;
But, we humbly pray to thee,
From the tempter keep us free.
84
7
L 
THE EVENING PRAYER.
Heavenly Father! while we sleep,
Angel watchers round us keep:
When the morning breaks, may we
Better, wiser children be.
85
I; 
A STORY FOR WILLY.
ILLY  was  a very little boy, only
about three years old.   But he
knew that it was right for him to do what
his father and his mother told him to do
and wrong for him to disobey them.
One morning, when mother, brother
Thomas, and little sister Margaret had
come in to hear father read, Willy began
to talk and make a noise.
"Willy, you must sit very still, while I
read," said father.
Willy promised that he would sit very
still. But as soon as father began to read,
Willy began to talk and make a noise with
his chair.
86 
A STORY FOR WILLY.
Mother tried to make him be still.  But
Willy was a naughty boy and would not
mind. He went on talking and pushing
his chair about, and making a great deal
of noise all the while father was reading.
Fathlier was very sorry that his little boy
was not good, and it made him feel very
badly. After he was done reading, he took
himin up-stairs and locked him up in a room
all by himself, and would not let himn have
any breakfast until all the rest were done.
Then he went up and unlocked the door
and let his little boy come out. Willy said
he was sorry that he had made a noise, and
promised that he would never be naughty
any more. And then he kissed his father,
and hugged him around the neck tightly,
and promised over and over that he would
be good next time.
I wonder if he will be good? I wonder
if he will sit very still when father reads
again in the morning, and if he will kneel
down  when fithler and mnother kneel down,
and  be very quiet and good, and, when fa        x.-6
87
I 
A STORY FOR WILLY.
ther says, "Our Father,"-say it over after
him very softly.
I hope he will. For his father and mother will love him very much, and what is
more, the Good Man will love him very
much, and take care of him.
88 
THE BEAUTY OF GOODNESS.
"'MOTHER," said a little boy, "I think
every good person ought to be beautiful."
"Why so, my son?"
"I cannot explain," said the child hesitating, "but I know what I think."
"You think, perhaps, that the features
ought always to correspond to the spirit."
"Yes, mother."
"Well, though you are not old enough
to understand all that might be said on this
subject, yet there are some things you may
be able to see clearly. Have you never
known good persons, who have nothing of
what is called beauty, yet whose faces are
89
I 
90       TIHE BEAUTY OF GOODNESS.
always pleasant to you, because you love
them for their goodness?"
"Yes-grandmother's. She is very old,
and not very handsome, but she looks always very pleasant to me."
"Do you think you would love her any
better, or like to see her more, if she were
beautiful?"
"I never think about that-I am always
glad enough to see her."
"Well, then, you find that goodness
makes the features pleasant-pleasanter,
perhaps, than beauty would make them.
It is goodness that makes the spirit beautiful, and it is with your spirit you love it.
There are some flowers, whose colours and
shape are not beautiful, yet their perfume
is so delightful that they are general favourites."
"Oh  yes," exclaimed the child, "the
sweet-scented shrub is one of them."
"And there are some also,  continued
the mother, "the smell of which is so disagreeable that we avoid them."
11 
THE BEAUTY OF GOODNESS.
"Oh yes, I know several; and some too,
that are poisonous."
"Well, then, you see that beauty-mere
outward beauty-is of no account; it is,
for itself alone, neither to be coveted or
loved. The sweet fragrance of the homely
shrub you spoke of, corresponds to that influence of goodness which draws our love
toward those who have no outward beauty.
Such persons will appear in heaven in all
the beauty of goodness.  And it is there,
my dear little boy, that your idea will be
realized; there all that is good is of the
most perfect beauty."
I
X.-H
91 
TO A CHILD WITH A DOVE.
EAR    child!  May dove-like innocence
Fold its light wings to restAs now the bird thou lovest well,
Upon thy gentle breast,
Fold its light wings, and in thy heart
Build for itself a nest.
Oh, beautiful is innocence!
In all its forms we see
A grace that charms, a loveliness,
A heavenly purity,Come, gentle Eden-wanderer!
Oh, come and dwell with me!
92 
j 
~~\\;ijij\ ~~\j
' ~~    ~~
ffi  j     __
THE IDOVE,.
(10)
Page 92. 
GOD IS EVERYWHERE.
"COME, Edith, and look at the ship sail      ing out of the bay," said Charles to
his sister. "See how gracefully she floats
upon the water.  She is going far away,
thousands of miles, and will not be back
for many months."
Perhaps she will never come back,"
said Edith, as she came to the window, and
stood, with her brother, looking at the noble
vessel just sailing out upon the broad, pathless, stormy ocean.  "I would not be in
her for the world!"
"Why not, Edith?" asked Charles.
"Oh! I am sure I should be drowned,"
replied the little girl.
95
I 
GOD IS EVERYWIHERE.
"You would be just as safe as you are
here," said Charles. "You know, father
tells us that we are as safe in one place as
in another, for the Lord, who takes care of
us, is everywhere."
"But think how many people are drowned at sea, Charles."
"And think how many people are killed
on the land," replied Charles. "Don't you
remember the anecdote father told us one
day  about a sailor?  There was  a great
storm and the ship was in much danger.
Many of the passengers were terribly frightened, but this sailor was as calm as if the
sun were shining above, and the sea undisturbed below.'Are you not afraid?' said
one of the passengers.'No,' replied the
sailor,'why should I be afraid?''We may
all be drowned,' said the passenger.'All
of us have once to die,' calmly returned the
sailor. The passenger was surprised to see
the man's composure.'Have you followed
the sea long?' he asked.'Ever since I was
96
LL 
GOD IS EVERYWHERE.
a boy; and my father followed it before
me.''Indeed! And where did your father die?''Hle was drowned at sea,' replied the sailor.'And your grandfather,
where did he die?''He was also drowned
at sea,' said the sailor.'Father and grandfather drowned at sea!' exclaimed the passenger in astonishment,'and you not afraid
to go to sea?''No! God is everywhere,'
said the sailor reverently.'And now,' he
added, after pausing a moment,'may I ask
you where your father died?''In his bed,'
replied the passenger.'And where did his
father die?''In his bed,' was again answered.'Are you not, then, afraid to go
to bed,' said the sailor,'if your father and
grandfather both died there?"'
' Oh yes! I remember it very well, now,"
said Edithl. "I know that the Lord takes
care of us always, wherever we  may  be.
I know that he is everywhere present."
"And he will take as good care of the
people in that ship as he does of those who
H 2
97
t. 
98          GOD IS EVERYWHERE.
are on the lands" replied Charles. "Father
says that we should always go where our
duties call us, whether it be upon land or
upon sea, for the Lord can and will protect
us as much in one place as in another."
ED
L 
OUR LITTLE SON.
ITHIN our quiet nest at home
We have a little son;
Five smiling years have pass'd away
Since his young life begun.
Five smiling years! Brief, happy time.
So fleet have moved the hoursSo light our steps-we've only seem'd
To tread among the flowers.
When day deciines, and evening shades
Come stealing soft and slow;
And star-rays in the dusky sky
But dimly come and go;
From care and thought and business free,
I homeward turn my feetOh! how the absence is repaid
When that dear boy I meet.
99
I', 
OUR LITTLE SON.
I do not know that other eyes
Would linger o'er his face;
Or find on brow, or cheek, or lip
A single winning grace;
And yet it would be strange, I own,
If other eyes could see
No beauty in his countenance,
So beautiful to me.
To us his face is loveliness  There sweet expressions blend;
There thoughts look upward; and on these
Affectioni's smiles attend.
A picture in our hearts he lives,
Bound by love's golden frame;
And love has given the precious boy
A fitly chosen name.
Oh! could we keep our darling one
As innocent as now;
As free from lines of care and pain
His smoothly polish'd brow,As free from evil every throb
His joyous pulses fling;
And free each thoLughlt that upward soars
On mind's expaunding wing!
100
1. 
OUR LITTLE SON.0
O Thou who lovest every one  Whose face their angels seeThe children Thou hast given to us,
Hold, hold them near to Thee!
If ever, in their future years,
Their feet aside should stray,
Oh! lead them gently back again,
And keep them in Thy way.
101
t 
HARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
"LOOK here, my lad," said Mr. Gercheni,
landlord of the Golden Tankard,
speaking to a boy some twelve or thirteen
years of age, who was passing his door.
The boy stopped.
"A'n't you the son of William Lee, who
died last fall?"
"Yes, sir, I am," replied the lad.
"Is this Harry Lee?" said Gerchem in a
kind voice, moving a step or two toward
the boy, and putting his hand on his head.
"Yes, sir."
"iHow is your mother, Harry?" inquired
the landlord, with much apparent interest.
"She's sick," replied the boy.
102 
IARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
"Ah! I'm sorry to hear that. How
long has she been sick?"
"Ever since winter.  She had to go out
a washing, and she took a bad cold. She's
been sick ever since.
"Are you very poor?" asked the landlord. The boy did not answer, but looked
down at his patched and faded garments.
The question needed no oral reply.
"How old are you, Harry?"
"'Most thirteen."
"It's time you was doing something,
then, Harry.   A boy of your ag,e might
earn a dollar or two a week, and that would
help your mother very much."
"If I could only get something to do!"
"You can."
"I'm afraid not.  I've been going about
to the stores and shops for a whole week,
trying to get a place.  But nobody wants
me, unless I'll work for nothing."
"Humphl! They are all temperance folks,
I suppose. But you needn't look any farther. I want just such a lad as you, and
103
11 
IIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
was thinking about you as you came along
I knew your father very well.  He was a
faithful, industrious mnan; always true to
his employer's interest; and I'm sure his
son will be the same. I'll give you a dollar and a half a week; and, after a while,
if we agree right well, will make it something better."
The lad's face brightened suddenly, and
he said  "When shall I come?"
"To-morrow morning. Come in for a
minute, and I'll tell you what I want you
to do."
Harry followed the landlord into his barroom.
"You see, my son," said Gerchem, in a
very kind way, "that I'm all alone here.
The young man I had has become a goodfor-nothing sot, and to-day I kicked him
out of the house to get rid of him. I've
determined, as I'm always myself about, to
have only a good, smart lad with me in the
bar, and I'm sure you're just the one that
104 
IIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
will please me. You can wash the glasses,
and sweep out the bar, and keep every
thing in order just as well as any one. And
I'll soon teach you to draw a cork or mix
a glass of liquor as handily as I can do it
myself. And now run home and tell your
mother of your good luck. Spruce yourself up in the morning, so as to look as nice
as you can, and come round early."
Harry promised to do so, and then left
the bar-room, where he had frequently
been before with his father, who had died
a drunkard. The poor lad remembered,
with painful distinctness, the sad degradation of his parent. Nightly would he come
home from this very drinking-house, stupid
with liquor, after having spent with Gerchem more than half the money received
for his day's labour.  He had heard his
mother say, and well could he comprehend
the meaning of her words, that drinking
cursed the body and the soul.
Harry felt elated as he stepped quickly
from the bar-room of the Golden Tankard,
X.-7            I
105
r 
HARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
at the prospect of work by which he could
earn something to assist his mother, who,
though so sick as scarcely to be able to
keep about, had to toil early and late in
order to get food, raiment, and a home for
her little family of three children, of whom
Harry was the oldest. But he had only
walked a little way when his feet began to
linger, and, at last, he stood still and looked
very sober. As soon as time had been
given him to think, a most unconquerable
reluctance to going into a bar-room took
possession of his mind. Drinking had brutalized the mind of his father and destroyed
his body. He felt that it was a great evil.
He also remembered too well the scenes
he had witnessed in the room he had just
left, when he would go there, late at night,
to lead home his drunken parent.
I don't want to be a tavern-boy," at
length fell half-aloud from his lips, as an
expression of painful reluctance and disappointinent passed over his face.
"But I can get nothing else to do, and I
106 
IIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
must work and ea,rn something for my mother," he said, in answer to his own words.
The more the lad thought about and debated this matter in his own mind, the
more unhappy did he become. For every
reason urged in favour of going, as promised, into Gerchem's bar-room, one as
strong in opposition would present itself.
"It is wrong to make drunkards of people," he at last said, in a resolute voice,"and I cannot go there."
"But mother! I must help her, and I
can get nothing else to do," was quickly
and sadly responded to this resolution.
Poor lad! He was sorely tried in spirit.
He felt that it would be wrong for him to
go into a bar-room and sell liquor; and yet,
the thin, pale face of his mother was before
him, and she seemed reaching toward him
her feeble hands and asking him to hold
them up.
"Oh! that I could get honest work to
do!" said Harry, as he moved on slowly
107
i 
HUARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
toward his home, almost wringing his
hands together as he spoke.
Mrs. Lee, when her son came home, was
in bed. Her head was aching so dreadfully that she could'not sit up. Harry
went and stood by her, and looked into her
face until the tears ran down his cheeks,
and then hlie went away to weep by himself.  When he had grown calmer, he asked his mother if he should get little Emma
and John their suppers of bread and milk.
Mlrs. Lee said   "Yes, my son, thlat's a good boy."
Tile words were so tenderly spoken that
they brought the tears again into the eyes
ofthe kind-hearted, thoughtful lad.
Harry then got Emmna and John their
suppers; and, as soon as it was dark, undressed them, and laid himself down in the
bed beside them until both were fast asleep.
"Now mother," said he, "sha'n't I boil
the kettle and make you a cup of tea? I
can do it; and it will mlake you feel so
much better."
108
L:  
HIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
"There is no test," returned the mother.
"I used the last yesterday." And Mrs.
Lee sighed.
Harry sat and thought for some minutes,
and then went and hung the kettle on, and
kindled a fire beneath it.  After doing this,
he left the room, went to the house of a neighbour and asked her if she wouldn't give his
mother a little tea, as she was sick and the
was tea all out.  The neighbour was a kind
woman, andl not only supplied the tea, but
stepped in herself and made it for Mrs. Lee;
who, after she had drank it, and eaten a littie, found herself better.
HIarry said nothing to his mother about
Gerchem's offer; but he lay awvake nearly
all night, thinking it over, and trying to
search out some reason that would justify
his acceptance. Morning found him still
undecided, fully, what to do. IHis mother
remnained so poorly that she could merely
go about) but was not able to work as usual
htarry saw this, and felt more than ever
y ~ ~~~~~~~ 2
I2
109
L.; 
lIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
the necessity that required him to do something to earn a little money.
As soon as he had eaten his breakfast,
he said to his mother  "I'm going out again to look for a place.
There must be some one who wants a boy
that is willing to work."
And away he started.  He had promised
to go around to Gerchem's early, and he
took the direction of the Golden Tankard.
On the way he saw a man standing at a
shop-door. Hle hesitated a moment, and
then stopping before him said  "Don't you want a boy, sir?"
"No, I don't," replied the man gruffly.
Hiarry shrank away, and continued on
down the street.
"Oh dear!" he said, pausing suddenly,
and speaking in a distressed voices "I
can't go to that place. Indeed, I can't!"
The image of his degraded and besotted
father was before the boy's mind. It had
arisen every time his thoughts turned to
110 
HIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
ward the bar-room of Gerchem; and seemed to warn him not to enter the place.
"I've promised, and I must go," he remarked to himself, moving on again; "if
it's only to tell him that I can't be his
shop-boy."
Thus undecided, Harry approached the
Golden Tankard. Gerchem had been expecting him for half an hour, and was at
the door when he came up.
"You're late, Harry," said the landlord,
a little seriously; "but as it is the first
time, I suppose it don't matter much.
Hiowever, I shall want you here earlier.
So, come in now, and I'll show you what I
want done.'.'
Iarry'~:mind being still undecided, this
was a moment of great trial. The liquorseller turned to go in, but the lad did not
follow him.
"Come," said the liquor-seller, turning
partly around, and seeing that the boy did
not move.
"I —I-I"-  stammered the boy.
ill
I 
HARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
"What's the matter?" said Gerchem,
coming back.
"I-I-I'm afraid-I'm not-I don't
know what to do, sir."
"What do you mean?" The landlord
frowned.
"I'm afraid it won't be right," said Harry.
"What won't be right? ha!"
"For me to go into your bar-room."
"Indeed! And, pray, why not?"
Harry felt frightened; for the tavernkeeper showed that he was getting angry.
"Liquor makes people drunk; and I'm
sure it must be wrong to sell it," said
Harry, uttering the first thought that came
into his mind.
"You  little scoundrel! what do you
mean?" exclaimed Gerchlem, thrown off
of his guard by such unexpected language.
Harry started back, as the landlord advanced toward him, and turning, ran away
as fast as his feet would carry him. After
having gone about half a block, he checked
his speed, and walked on slowly, with his
112 
HARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
eyes upon the pavement, and his heart
beating so strongly that he could hear the
pulsation in his ears.
"Oh! if I could only get a place," he
sighed.
Just then, a man, who had observed the
little scene which had passed between him
and the tavern-keeper, although he did not
comprehend its meaning, came up and said,
as he was about passing  "What's the matter with you and Gerchem, my lad?"
Nothing,"  replied  Harry, "only he
wanted mne to go into his bar, and I told
him I was afraid it wasn't right to sell
liquor."
'Ah!" said the man with surprise at
finding such conscientiousness in a lad.
"And what made  you think it wasn't
right?'"
"Because it makes people drunk."
"A very good reason. What did he
offer to pay you?"
"A dollar and a half a week."
113
I 
HIARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
';Do you want a place?"
"Oh yes, sir! Very much.  My mother is
poor, and so sick she can hardly work at
all."
"CHow old are you?"
"'Most thirteen."
"I think you'll suit me very well," said
the mnan. "I want a good boy; and, if
you are willing, will give you a trial. I'm
a hatter, and was about advertising for a
smart lad to go on errands.  If we agree, I
will give you the same that the tavernkeeper offered, and raise you to a much
better business."
Hlarry was so affected by this offer, coming, as it did, just as his heart was sinking
into despondency, that his voice choked
whenl he attempted to reply.
When he went home, and related the
struggle through whlich he had passed and
told of the good situation that had been
offered him so unexpectedly, his mother
could not help weepi,ng.
"You were right," said she, "my son, to
,f
114 
HARRY LEE'S TEMPTATION.
refuse going to that dreadful place.  No
thing but evil could have befallen you there;
and all your work would have been evil,
and not good to others.  If we cannot do
good in the world, we must not do harm.
You were severely tempted mny son; but
see the result. At the very moment when,
by resisting temptation, you appeared to
have suffered loss, your reward came.
There is a good Providence over us all, and
it will surely be well with us in the end if
we turn from evil, no matter how strongly
it may allure us."
Harry went to the hatter's, and proved to
be an industrious, obedient boy. Hie has
since grown up, and is now a master workman, doing a good business; and the highest pleasure he has, is that which he derives from the fact that he is able to mnake
peaceful the declining years of his mother,
for whom he cared so early.
Gerchem died years ago; and of that
fearful disease known as the drunkard's
madness.
115 
THE MIIER.
OWN where the daylight never comes
Toileth the miner on;
He sees not the gplden morning break  Hle sees not the setting sun.
Dimly his lamp in the dark vault burns,
And he sits on the mine's hard floor,
Toiling, toiling, toiling on;
Toiling for precious ore!
The air is wet; for the dew and rain,
Drank by the thirsty ground,
Ihave won their way to his dark retreat,
And are trickling all around     116
I,,  
THE MINER.
And sickly vapours are near his lips;
And close to his wire-net lamp,
Unseen, as an evil spirit comes,
Up stealeth the dread fire-damp!
But the miner works on, though death is by,
And fears not the monster grim;
For the wiry gauze, round his steady light,
Makes a safety-lamp for him.
Rough and rude, and of little worth,
Seems the ore that the miner brings
From the hidden places where lie conceal'd
Earth's rare and precious things;
But, tried awhile in the glowing fire,
It is rough and rude no more;
Art moulds the iron, and forms the gold,
And fashions the silver ore,
And useful, rare, and beautiful things
'Neath the hand of skill arise:
Oh! a thousand, thousand human wants
The miner's toil supplies!
X.-K
t.
117
I 
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
"aOH, I am so tired! I wish I had some       thing to do!" said Jane Thompson
to her mother, one day.
"Then why don't you read?" asked her
mother.  "You have books."
" I'm tired of reading, and I'm tired of
every tihing."
"You are a very unhappy girl, Jane,"
said her mother.
"If I am, I can't help it," replied Jane.
But I am sure you could help it, if you
would try, my daughter."
"How can I help it, mother? I am sure
I should like very much to know."
"By trying to be useful to others, my
daughter."
118 
11OW TO BE HAPPY.
"So you have said before. But I can't
see any thing so very pleasant in working
for others. Nobody thinks of being useful
to me."
"That is a very selfish thought, Jane,"
her mother replied in a serious tone, " and
the feeling that prompted that thought is
the cause of all your unhappiness. You
must cease to think only of yourself, and
have some kind of regard for others, or you
will never be happy."
Jane did not understand her mother, and
therefore could see no force in what she
said. And her mother perceived this, and
so said no more then upon the subject. 
About an hour afterward she came into
the room, whlere Jane sat idle and moping,
and said —'
"Come, Jane, I want you to walk out
with me."
I don't care much about going, mother,"
Jane replied.  "And, if you are willing,
would rather stay at home."
"But I wish you to go with me, Jane;
119
L: 
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
so come, dress yourself as quickly as you
can, for you know it never takes me long
to get ready."
Jane  reluctantly obeyed,  and,  when
dressed, went out with her mother. She
felt listless and unhappy, for her mind was
not employed upon any subject of interest.
After walking for some ten or fifteen
minutes, her mother stopped at a low frame
building, and knocked at the door.
"What  are you going in there for?"
Jane asked in surprise.
"I want to see a poor, sick woman, who
lives here," said her mother, in a quiet
tone.
"Oh I wish I had' stayed at home!"
But before Jane could say any more, the
knock was answered by a little girl about
ten years old, whose uncombed head, soiled
clothes and skin, showed that she needed
the care of a mother's willing heart and
ready hand.
The little girl conducted them into a
back room, in' which were a few scanty
120 
HOW  TO BE IHAPPY.
pieces of furniture, and a bed, upon whilch
was propped up with pillows a sick woman
engaged in sewing. Hler face was pale and
thin, and her eyes, bright and glistening
were sunk far into her head.  The work
dropped from her hand as her unexpected
visitors entered, and then she looked up earnestly into the face of the elder of the two.
You do not seem able to work, ma'am,"
said Jiane's mother, advancing to the bedside, and taking the small, thin hand that
was offered her.
"I am not very able, ma'am," she replied
in a feeble tone. "But I have to do something."
"Is there no one to provide any thing
for you, in your feeble state?" asked her
visitor.
'-No one, ma'am," was the simple, and,
to Jane's mother, affecting response.
"Anrid how many hours through the day
do you have to sit up in bed and sew?"
"All day, when  I can, ma'am.  And
sometimes a good many hours at night.
X.-8           r  2
121 
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
But I wouldn't care so much for that, if I
was able to go about the room a little, and
attend more to my child, who is, indeed,
sadly neglected." And the tears came into
the mother's eyes, as she cast a look of tenderness upon her little girl.
Jane saw that look, and noted the sad
expression of the poor woman's voice, and
both touched her heart.
"Cannot we do something for them?"
she whispered.
"We must try, was the low response.
"I heard of your being ill this morning,"
Jane's mother said, "and have come over
to see if I can do any thing for you. You
must be relieved from your constant labour,
for it is too much for your feeble frame.
As soon as I return home, I will send you
over as much food as you and your little
girl will require for several days, and my
daughlter here will be willing, I think, to
come in to see you now and then, and give
youL such little assistance as you may require.  Will you not, Jane?"
1.22 
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
"Oh yes, mother.  I will come most
cheerfully." And the tone of her voice,
and expression of her face showed that she
was in earnest.
The poor woman could not find words to
speak out her true feelings, but she looked
her gratitude.
After Jane and her mother had left this
miserable tenement, the former said  "0 mother, it makes my heart ache to
think of that poor woman and her child!
How can she possibly get bread to eat, by
the work of her own hands, and she almost
dying?"
The sympathy thus expressed pleased
her mother very much, and she encouraged
the good impression. After she had returned home, she prepared a number of articles
of food, such as she thought were required,
and also a few delicacies that she knew
would be grateful to the sick woman.
These she despatched by a servant. About
half an hour after, Jane, with a small bun dle in her hand, went out alone, and turn
123
E1 
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
ed her steps toward the cheerless hovel she
had but a short tilme before visited.   In
this bundle was a chalnge of clothing for the
invalid, which Jane assisted her to put on.
And then she made up her bed for her,
and beat up the pillows, and fixed her as
comfortably as possible.
Then she took the little girl, and washed her, and combed her hlair, and put on a
clean frock that her mother told her she
would find in a closet.  After this she arranged every thling in the room in order,
and swept up the floor. And still further,
went to work and got a nice cup of tea for
the sick woman.
It would have done the heart of any one
good to have seen how full of delilght and
gratitude was the countenance of the sick
woman~ Jane had never felt so happy in
her life.
When she came home, her mother remarked her light step and cheerful air.
"You have at last learned how to be
happy, Jane," said she. "The secret lies
124 
HOW TO BE HAPPY.
in our endeavouring to be useful to others.
All our unhappiness springs from some in
dulgence of selfishness, and all our true
feelings of happiness from that benevolence
which prompts us to regard others."
Jane saw and felt the force of her mother's remark, and never forgot it. The
sick woman, in whom she had become interested, afforded ample scope for the exercise of her newly awakened feelings of benevolence, and thus they gained strength
and grew into principles of action. May
every one who reads this little story find
the true secret of happiness!
/
125 
THIE OLD MAN AT THE
COTTAGE-DOOR.
OME, faint old man! and sit awhile
Beside our cottage-door;
A  cup of water from the spring,
A loaf to bless the poor,
We give with cheerful hearts, for God
Hath given us of his store.
Too feeble thou for daily toil,
Too weak to earn thy breadFor the weight of many, many years
Lies heavy on thy headA wanderer, Want thy weary feet
Ilath to our cottage led.
Come, rest awhile.'Twill not be long,
Ere thy faint head shall know
126  
IE OLD MAN AT THE COTTAGE DOOR.
Page 126.
"'?;
.-!f- i
ii.
"iI~
(10) 
THE OLD MIAN AT TIIE COTTAGE-DOOR. 129
A deeper, calmer, better rest,
Than cometh here below;
When God, who loveth every one,
Shall call thee hence to go.
Heaven bless thee in thy wanderings!
Wherever they may be,
And make the ears of every one
Attentive to thy plea:
A double blessing will be theirs,
Who kindly turn to thee. 
THE LITTLE BOY WHO HAD
LEARNED HIS LESSON.
"y LOU seem quite happy, my son," said
a father to his little boy, who came
in from the garden singing merrily. "What
have you been doing?"
I've been playing in the garden ever
since I got my lesson, papa."
"Then you've got your  lesson for to
morrow?  Do you know it well?"
"Oh yes, I know every word."
"Do you always know your lessons?"
asked the father.
"Not always; but I'm going to try and
get them well after this."
"Ah, indeed!  I'm glad to hear that,
130 
THE BOY WHO LEARNED IIIS LESSON. 181
Charlie.  How long since you made  this
good resolution?"
" Ever since yesterday. I didn't see any
use in studying, until mother told us that
if we didn't learn all we could, we would
not be able, wihen wve grew up to be mnen, to
do as much good to others as wve might
have done; for we all had to do good to
others, and that, if we didn't do it, we
would never go to heaven and become
aingels."
Charlie's father felt very glad to hear his
little boy say this.  lie lifted him up and
kissed him, and said  " If you alwvays try and get your lessons
well, that you may learn how to do good to
others, you will surely become  an angel
wvhen you go out of this world.  The angels are employed only in doing good, and
all who love to do good on this earth become angels in heaven when they die."
X.-L 
LITTLE CHILDREN.
W4   lHEN the Lord of life and glory
Came, from sin to set us free,
He smiled on the weak ones, saying   Little children, come to me.
In his arms Ile kindly took them,
And upon each infant head
Laid His holy hands, and blessings  Hieavenly blessings-on them shed.
44 Suffer ye the little children,"
Hie to his disciples said,
," Thus to come: of such my Kingdom
In the heavens and earth is made.
132 
LITTLE CHILDREN.
; All who follow me must humbly,
Even as a little child,
Bear my light and easy burden,
Meekly own my precepts mild."
Little children, still the Saviour
Wooes you to his kind embrace;
Still he says,, Come, little children,
Come and see my smiling face.
"c Banish every bad affection,
Evil thoughts keep far away,
And mny angels, sent from heaven,
Near you all the while shall stay.
4" They behold my face and glory,
They the love I bear you know,
And, upon their work of mercy,
Fill'd wvith heavenly gladness, go."
Then be joyful, little children  Even in sorrow, joyful beAugel-guards are all around you,
Moved by heavenly sympathy.
1300
10
I 
LITTLE CHIIILDREN.
E'en though, urged by wicked spirits,
Cruel men your bodies tear,
Yield not up to thoughts of evil:
Seek, then, seek the Lord in prayer.
Very near he'll then be to you,
And he'll wipe your tears away:
Little children, when forsaken,
And in trouble, learn to pray.
L
134 
THE LITTLE WORD "NO."
T HERE is a word, my son, a very lit      tie word, in the English language,
the right use of whichl it is all-important
that you should learn," said Mr. Howland
to his son Thomas, who was about leaving
the paternal roof for a residence in a neighbouring cityv, never again, perchance, to
make one of the little circle that had so
long gathered in the family homestead.
"And what word is that father?" asked
Thomas.
"It is the little word No, my son."
"Anid why does so -much importance attach to that word, father?"
" Perhaps I canl make you understand the
L 2           135 
THIE LITTLE WORD  NO."
reason much better if I relate an incident
that occurred when I was a boy.  I remember it as distinctly as if it had taken
place but yesterday, although thirty years
have since passed.  There was a neighbour of my father's who was very fond of
gunning and fishing,.  On several occasions,
I had accompanied him, and had enjoyed
myself very much. One day, my father
said to me  "'William, I do not wish you to go into
the woods or on the water again with ilr.
Jones.'
"' Why not, father?' I asked, for I had
become so fond of going, with him, that to
be denied the pleasure was a real priva
tion.
"'I have good reasons for not wishling
you to go, Willianm,' mny father replied,'but
do not wvant to give them now.  I hope it
is all-sufficient for you, that your  fathler
desires you not to accompany 5Air. Jones
again.
"'I could not understand why my fia
136 
THIE LITTLE WORD  " NO." 
ther laid upon me this prohibition; anld, as
I desired very much to go, I did not feel
satisfied in my obedience.   On  the next
day, as I was walking along tlhe road, I met
Mr. Jonles, withl his fishing-rod on his shloulder and his basket in his haud.
'Ah, William! you are the very one
that I wished to see,' said Mr. Jones smilimg.'I am going out this morninig, and
want comlpany.   We shall have a beautifil day.'
"' But my fathler told me yesterday,' I
replied,'thlat he did not wish mie to go out
,with you.'
' And why not, pray?' asked Mr. Jones.
' I amn sure that I do not know,' said I;
'but, iiideed, I should  like to go very
m uch.'
'01Oh, never mind; come along,' said he.
Yor fathler will never know it.'
''Yes, but I amn afraid that he will,' I
replied, thikini,g more of my  father's dis pleasure tlhan of the evil of disobedience.
"'There is no danger at all of that.
137 
THIE LITTLE WORD " NO."
We will be home again long before dinnertime.'
I hesitated, and he urged; and finally,
I moved the way that he was going, and
had proceeded a few hundred yards, when
I stopped and said' I don't like to go, Mr. Jones.'
'Nonsense, William! There is no harm
in fishing, I am sure. I have often been
out with your father, myself.'
"Much as I felt inclined to go, still I
hesitated; for I could not fully make up
my mind to disobey my father.  At lengthl
hlie said  "'I can't wait here for you, William.
Come along, or go back.  Say yes, or no.'
"This was the decisive moment.  I was
to make up my mind, and fix my determnination in one way or the other. I was to
say yes or No.
"'Come, I can't stay here all day,' Mr.
Jones remarked rather harshly, seeing that
I hesitated.  At the samre moment, the image of my father rose distinctly before my
1 to, 8 
TIlE LITTLE WORD " NO." 
mihid, and I saw his eye fixed steadily and
reprovingly upon ime.  With one desperate
resolution, I uttered the word   "'No!' and tlhen turning,, ran away as
fast as my feet would carry nme.  I cannot
tell you how much relieved I felt when I
was far beyond the reach of temptation.
"On the next miorninig, when I came
down to breakfiast, I was startled and surprised to learn that Mlr. Jones had been
urowned on the day before.  Instead of returningi in a few hours, as he had stated to
me that he would, lie remained out all day.
A sudden stormi arose; his boat was capsized, and lie drowned.  I shluddered when
I heard this sad and fatal accident related.
That little wvord -o had, in all probability,
saved my iile.
"' I will now tell you, William,' my father said, turning to me,'why I did not
wish you  to  go  with  Mr.  Jones.   Of
late he had taken to drinking; and I had
learned, within a few days, that whenever
he went out on a fishiing or gunning excur      X.-9
139 
TIlE LITTLE WORD "NO."
sion, he took his bottle of spirits with him,
and usually returned a good deal intoxicated. I could not trust you with such a man.
I did not think it necessary to state this to
you, for I was sure that I had only to express my wish that you would not accompany him, to insure your implicit obedience.'
"I felt keenly rebuked at this; and resolved never again to permit  even  the
thought of disobedience to find a place in
mny mind.  From that time I have felt the
value of the word xo, and have generally,
ever since, been able to use it on all right
occasions.  It has saved me from many
troubles.  Often and often ill life have I
been urged to do things that my judgment
told me were wrong: on such occasions, I
always remember my first temptation, and
resolutely said  4,'No!'
"And  now, my  son," continued  Mr.
Howland, "do you understand the importalnce of the word ATo?"
140 
TIlE LITTLE WOPrD  XNO."
"I think I do, father," replied Thomas.
But is there not danger of my using it too
often, and thus becoming selfish i  all a   my
feelings, and, consequently, unwilling to render benefits to-others?"
Certainly there is, Thomas.   The right
use of this word is to resist         To refiLse to do a good action is wrong.
'If any one asks me, then, to do him a
favouLr, or kIindness, I should not, onl any
account, say no."
"That will depend, Thomas, in  what
manner you are to render him  a kindness.
If you can do so without really injuring,
yourself or others, then it is a duty which
you owe to all men, to be kind, and render
favours."
" But the difficulty, I feel, will be for me
to discriminate.  When I am  urged to do
something by one whom I esteem, my regard for him, or my desire to render him
an obligation, will be so strong, as to obscure my judg,menit."
"A  consciousness of this weakness  in
141 
THE LITTLE WORD " NO."
your character, Thomas, should put you
upon your guard."
"That is very true, father.   But I cannot help fearing for myself.  Still, I shall
never for,et what you have said, and will
try my best to act finom a conviction of
right."
"Do so, my son. And ever remember,
that a wrong action is always followed by
pain of mrind, and very frequently by evil
consequences.  If you would avoid these,
ever act from a consciousness that you are
doing riglt, without regard to others.  If
another asks you, from a selfish desire to
benefit or gratify himself; to do what your
judgment tells you is w-rong, surely you
should have no hesitation in refusing."
The precept of his father, enforced wheni
they were about parting, and at a time
when his affection for that father was active and intense, lingered in the mind of
Thomas  Howland.  He saw and felt its
force, and resolved to act in obedience to
it, if ever tempted to do wrong.
142 
THIE LITTLE WORD "NO."
On leaviing the paternal roof, he went to
a neighbouring town, and entered the store
of a merchant, where were several young
men nearly of his own age, that is, between
eighteen and twenty.  With one of these
named Boyd, lie soon formed an intimaate
acquaintance.  But, unfortunately, the me
ral character of this youngl  man was far
from being pure, or his principles from resting upon the firm basis of truth and honor.
His growing, influence over Thomas Hovwland  was apparent in inducing him to stlay
away    fro        m church on the Sabbath-day, and
pass t      he time that had heretofore been speit
i    n a    plac e  of worship, in roaming about tlhe
wharves  of t he city, or in excursions into
the country. This influence was slightly
resisted; but       Thomas felt aslhamned or reluctant        to u se the word "t\To" on wh-at
seemed         to all the young men around himn a
a          matter of so little importance.  Still, his
o wn        heart condemned him, for he felt that
i    t    woul d pai n  his father and mother exceedingly if they knew that he neglected to at                     X.-MI
143 
TIIE LITTLE WORD JNO.
tend church at least once on the Sabbathday-and he was, besides, self convicted of
wrong in what seemed to him a violation
of the precept, Remiember the Sabbath-day,
&c., as he had been taught to regard that
precept. But once having given way, he
felt almost powerless to resist the influence
that now bore upon him.
The next violation of what seemed to him
a ri,ghit course for a young man to pursue,
was in sufferiing himself to be persuaded to
visit frequently the theatre; althoug,lh his
father had expressly desired that he would
avoid a place where lurked for the young
and inexperienced so many dangers.  He
was next easily persuaded to visit a, fa,vour
itce eating-house, in whlichl  many  hours
were spent during the evenings of each
week, withl Boyd and others, in eatillg
drinking, and smnoking.  Sometimes dominos and back-gammon were introduced, and
at lengthl were played for a slight stake.
To participate in this Thomas refused, on
the plea that he did not know enough of
144 
THE LITTLE WORD "CNO."
the games to risk any thing.  lie had not
the moral courage to declare that he considered it wrong to gamble.
All these departures from what he had
been taught by his father to consider a right
course, were attended by much uneasiness
and pain of mind.  But he had yielded to
the tempter, and he could not now find the
power within him to resist his influence
successfully.
It happened, about six months after his
introduction to such an entirely new course
of life, that he was invited one evening by
his companion Boyd, to call on a friend
with him. He had, on that day, received
from his father forty dollars, with which to
buy himself a new suit of clothes, and a fewv
other necesstry articles. Ile went, of course,
and was introduced to a very affable, gentlemn nly youing man, in his room, at one
of thie hotels.  In a few minutes, wine and
cig,ars wAere ordered, and thle three spent an
hour or,s3 in drinking,i smIoking, and chlit
145 
THIIE LITTLE WORD " NO."
chat of no very elevating or refined character.
"Come, let us have a game of cards," the
firiend at last remarked, during a pause in
the conversation; at the same time going
to his trunk and producing a pack of cards.
"No objection," responded Boyd.
"You'll take a hand, of course?" the new
friend said, looking at Thomas Howland.
But Thomas said that he knew nothlin,
of cards.
"Oh, that's no matter! You can learn in
two minutes," responded the friend of Boyd
Young Howland felt reluctant, but he
could not resist the influence that was
around him, and so he consented to finger
tihe cards with the rest.  As they gathered
around the table, a half-dollar was  laid
down by eachl of the young men, who looked toward Thomas as they did so.
"I camnot play for money,"  said he,
colouring; for lhe felt really aslhamned to acknow-ledg,e his scruples.
146 
THE LITTLE WORD " NO."
"And why not?" asked the friend of
Boyd, looking him steadily in the face.
Because I think it wrong," stammered
out Howland, colouring still more deeply.
Nonsense! Isn't your money your own?
And pray what harm is there in your doing
with your own as you please?" urged the
tempter.
"But I do not know enough of the game
to risk my money."
"You don't think we would take advantage of your ignorance?" said Boyd.  "The
stake is only to give interest to the game.
I would not give a copper for a game of
cards without a stake.  Come, put down
your half-dollar, and we'll promise to pay
you back all you lose, if you wish it, until
you acquire some skill."
But Thomas felt reluctant and hesitated.
Nevertheless, he was debating the matter
in his mind seriously, and every moment
that reluctance was growing weaker.
"Will you play?" asked Boyd in a decided tone, breaking in upon this debate.
M2
147 
THE LITTLE WORD "NO."
"I had rather not" Thomas replied, attempting to smile, so as to conciliate his
false friends.
"You are afraid of your money," said
Boyd in a half-sneering tone.
"It is not that, Boyd."
"Then what is it, pray?"
"I am afraid that it is not right."
This was answered by a loud laugh from
his two friends, which touched Thomas a
good deal, and made him feel more ashamed
)f the scruples that held him back from entering into the temptation.
"Come, down with your stake, Hlowland!" said Boyd, after he had finished his
laugh.
The hand of Thomas was in his pocket,
and his fingers hlad grasped the silver coin,
yet still he hesitated.
"Will you play or not?" the friend of
Boyd now said, with something of impatience in his tone.  "Say yes or no?"
For a moment the mind of Thomas became confused-then the perception came
148
iX 
THE LITTLE WORD " NO." 
upon him, as clear as a sunbeam, that it
was wrong to gamble. He remembered,
too, vividly his fathller's parting injunction.
"~No!" said he, firmly and decidedly.
Both of his conmpanions looked disap
pointed and angry.
"What did you bring him here, for?" he
heard Boyd's companion say to him in an
under tone, while a frown darkened upon
his brow.
The reply did not reach his ear, but lie
felt that his company was no longer pleasant; and rising, he bade them a formal
good-evening, and hurriedly retired. That
little word no had saved him. The scheme
was, to win from himn his fortv dollars, and
then involve him in "' debts of honour," as
they are falsely called, which would compel him to draw upon his father for more
money, or abstract it from his employer, a
system which had been pursued by Boyd,
and which was discovered only a v-eek sub sequent, vlwhen the ycuung man wias discliharged
in disgrace.  It then came out, that he had
149 
THE LITTLE WORD " NO."
been for months in secret association with
a gambler, and that the two shared together
their spoils and speculations.
This incident aroused Thomas Howland
to a distinct consciousness of the danger
that lurked in his path, as a young man in
a large city. He felt, as he had not felt
while simply listening to his father's precept, the value of the word No; and resolved
that, hereafter, he would utter that little
word, and that, too, decidedly, whenever
urged to do what his judgment did not approve.
"I will be free!" said he, pacing  his
chamber backward and forward.   "I will
be free, hereafter! No one shall persuade
me or drive me to do what I feel to be
wrong.,
That resolution was his safeguard ever
after. When tempted, and he was tempted frequently, his "No" decided the matter
at once.  There was a power in it that was
all-sufficient in resisting evil.
150
f,I
I
I 
A VALENTINE.
Y  carrier-dove) dear Alice!
I send this day to you,
With silken cords and words of love,
And heart as warm as true.
I would not trust the butterfly,
These tokens, love, to bring,
Lest some sweet flow'r should tempt the wight
To fold his gauzy wing.
Ah! never trust the butterfly,
Though on the summer air
IIe moves with such a gentle grace  He's fickle as he's fair.
Some pure young blossom now he wooes
With many a tender word,
And now the heartless eloquence
Another flower has heard.
151 
A VALENTINE.
But in the constant dove confide,
So gentle, loving, true;
Not'mid the gay, bright garden's bloom
Comes this sweet friend to you.
Not in the bower, where clustering hang
The treasures of the vine,
But where the golden beams of day
Mid quiet groves decline.
Dear Alice! let the emblems
That now to you I send,
Their lessons on your thoughts impress,
And with your feelings blend.
Be true and constant, like the dove,
And let love's fetters bind
Your heart in generous sympathy
To all of human kind.
THE END.
STEREOTYPED BY L. JOHNSON & CO.
p HILAD ELPILIA.
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