+
MLA

REGENTS
TH
UNIVERSITY
AT
THE LIBRARY
OF
OLD TIMES,
WITH
OTHER FAMILIAR SKETCHES,
IN
PROSE AND VERSE:
For Young People.
BY M. H. AND H. H.
Helen Hunt Jackson
LOWELL:
PUBLISHED BY DANIEL BIXBY.
1846.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1845, by
DANIEL BIXBY,
In the District Court of the United States, for the District of Massachusetts.
Boston:
Printed by S. N. Dickinson & Co.,
52 Washington St.
APR 6
49
81712
oo
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
Preface,
Old Times,
Twilight Sports,
John and the Canary Bird,
The Sled Race,·
A Dialogue,
• •
The Sub-Marine Diver,
•
• • •
•
•
•
•
•
4
7
.9.
19
23
41
45
.57
Spring Sports; or, the Story of William, the Passionate Boy, ..61
Imitation,⚫
The Baby,
A New kind of Meteorological Table, for Family Use,
Vacation Time,
Petition of The Rabbits,
1250349
75
•
79
•
►
......83
.91
.95
6
CONTENTS.
Original Anecdote,
• •
Order and Disorder,·
The Broken Doll,.
The Conservatory,
The Contribution Box,
.101
•
.105
.109
•
114
•
•
117

PREFACE.
THE following pages were written for the entertainment of the
children round our own fireside, and without a view to publication.
Finding them well received at home, and knowing that what in-
terests one set of children, is pretty sure to interest another, we
are induced to present them to the public in this form, hoping that
they will be kindly received by our young friends, and answer the
end for which they were written, the promotion of right feelings
in the heart, and a corresponding propriety in the outward
conduct.
M. H.
OLD TIMES,
AND
OTHER FAMILIAR SKETCHES.
OLD TIMES,
'On Fashion! little flippant thing,
What in fashion dost thou bring,
That the gentle folks should make
Such a fuss for fashion's sake!
Why large buckles? why the small?
Why no buckles now at all?
If the matter right I take
A la mode for fashion's sake.'
'WILL the times we live in,' said Mary to her
aunt, ‘ever be old times, like those you tell us
2
护
​10
OLD TIMES.
about, when people dressed so oddly, and had
such stiff manners?'
'Yes, Mary,' replied her aunt, if you live long
enough, what is the fashion now, will appear as
strange to the next generation as the costume of
past times does to you.
Whether the manners of
the young people of the present day will be
handed down as a model, I cannot pretend to
say.'
'Should you want us, aunt, to be as prim as
they were in those days? You say your grand-
mother never allowed you a seat with a back, but
made you sit upright on a round stool, courtesy
when you entered a room, and told you
"that
little girls should be seen and not heard in the
presence of company." I guess the girls now
would'nt like such rules.'
'I guess so too, Mary. We have so many ac-
commodations, in modern days, for lolling about,
that it would be difficult for them to keep such
rules. Sofas with round corners courting repose,
OLD TIME
11
lolling-chairs in the drawing-room, soft cushions
to drop down upon, and lounges of every des-
cription, were not so plenty in those days. We
often see one of the primitive looking old fash-
ioned chairs, with its rich carving, (and some
indeed that once held a very humble station in
the household,) placed in strange contrast with
the motley furniture of the present day, looking
as much out of place as one of our grandmothers
would in a modern party. They, good ladies,
were as straight as their chairs, and could they in
reality enter our parlors, would be for setting
them in order, and putting things in their proper
places.'
'Can you remember your grandmother, dear
aunt?' said Mary.
(
Yes, Mary, very well. I can see her now, as
she used to sit in her straight-backed chair, her
elbow resting on a mahogany stand, which shone
like a mirror. Her thumb and finger just touch-
ing her cheek in a most dignified and thoughtful.
12
OLD TIMES.
attitude. She was a true specimen of what was
called the old school. No one approached her
but with respect, and young people put on their
best manners in her presence. She wore, com-
monly, an olive-colored damask dress, with
sleeves to the elbow; a snow-white muslin neck-
kerchief inside the bodice waist, a close mob cap
with a ruffle scarcely fulled at all, but of the most
delicate texture; shoes cut in a point on the
instep, and kid mittens rounded over the hands,
and she never changed this style of dress to the
day of her death.'
'Do you remember her street dress, aunt?'
asked Mary.
'She wore, in her latter years, a black satin
cardinal with a large head, which came over a
little, close bonnet of the same material, the lace
trimming of which shaded the face.'
'I can't believe,' said Mary, 'that the bonnets
now worn will ever look so queer and odd-
shaped as the one you have preserved, and have
OLD TIMES.
13
so often exhibited as a curiosity, does to us, with
its front so deep that the face is seen in perspec-
tive, and its towering crown shooting up like a
light-house, just as we see them caricatured in
Punch.'
It is indeed a strange-looking thing in our
eyes, Mary. But that bonnet is comparatively of
modern date, and was actually worn not a great
many years ago. I wish I had the whole dress
that kept it company. Indeed I know nothing
that would be more curious than a museum of
fashions, consisting of a specimen of each cos-
tume as they succeeded each other, assuming
every shape that folly e'er invented, or taste de-
vised.'
'Don't stop, aunt; do tell me some more that
you remember, I do so like to hear about old
times,' said Mary.
'My memory, Mary, does'nt carry me quite
back to the time of high-heeled shoes, hooped
petticoats, and craped cushions, though some
14
OLD TIMES.
specimens even of these, as worn by my grand-
mother, are still preserved among our precious
family relics the more precious for their an-
tiquity. But I do remember, at a later period,
going out to tea one afternoon, and finding the
circle of young friends I expected to meet, so dis-
guised that I could hardly recognize them.
'Mrs. Wentworth, our kind entertainer, a lady
of great taste in matters of dress, had opened her
trunks for the amusement of the young people.
They contained the choicest articles of her ward-
robe, in a state of perfect preservation, as success-
ively worn by her from her tenth to her sixtieth
year. She, good lady, had never been blest with
children, and consequently her garments had
escaped the "cutting up" and the "cutting
down," that they would otherwise have suffered.
The parlor, as I entered, looked as if Fashion
was holding her court there.
A young lady with
a sweet face and dignified manners, well repre-
sented the queen. She was placed on a seat
OLD TIMES.
15
slightly elevated, dressed in a peach-bloom silk,
with a train, trimmed with a ruffle of the same
material over a white satin petticoat, the low neck
and short sleeves of the dress displaying her
youthful charms to advantage, and on her head
she wore a net-work of white bugles. Next her
sat a pale beauty in a light blue lutestring, so
straight and scant that she looked like a strip
of blue sky; beside her were placed two nymphs
in white muslins wrought in the most graceful
pattern, with sleeves just covering the top of the
shoulders, and waists so straight and short that
it seemed a mystery how they ever squeezed
themselves into such narrow dimensions. And
oh, how like deformity they looked! It seemed
as if their whole bodies must be suffering the
torture of a Chinese foot. Farther on shone
one in a silver muslin, with corresponding orna-
ments, and, as if to set her off to the best ad-
vantage, one was placed near her in a white
dimity, crimped so close, and so scant in the
16
OLD TIMES.
skirt, that you might have supposed they had in
sport sewed her up in a bag.
A little Miss came next, representing a more
youthful period. And how would the girls of
the present day have laughed at her odd appear-
ance! With a dress open in front, low in the
neck, the waist a few inches in length, the back
narrow and plaited down in box plaits, sleeves
to the elbow, and about enough silk in the whole
dress to make a modern waist and sleeves. I
have given you but a specimen of the group, and
as I looked upon it I felt I was quite inappro-
priately attired for such company; and knowing
I could rival them in splendor as well as an-
tiquity, by resorting to my mother's treasures, I
slipped slyly out, and returning home, arrayed
myself in the costume of the Revolutionary
period. I first drew from its quiet resting place a
brocade dress, as rich as a flower-garden, and in
its ample dimensions, as well as rich coloring,
quite putting to shame the scanty robes of the
OLD TIMES.
17
▸
succeeding periods; and I think I may venture to
say no productions of the loom have since rivaled
it in fabrick, indeed it was stiff enough to
stand alone, which I confess I could scarcely do
myself in my high-heeled shoes, spanned with
paste buckles. Our ancestors must have had the
balancing skill of a rope dancer to have walked
on them. My train swept like the tail of a pea-
cock, and the open dress displayed a yellow satin
petticoat, beautifully quilted. I tied on a brilliant
pair of ear-rings, whose weight my ears could
not otherwise sustain, and ornaments of paste
glittered like diamonds among my hair. My
elbows were adorned with ruffle cuffs, and a
leather mount fan-an indispensable article in
those days-completed my equipment.
Concealing my rich attire under the ample
folds of a cloak, and taking my high-heeled shoes
in my hand, I again made my way to join the
company. When I made my appearance among
them they were quite astonished at the transform-
18
OLD TIMES.
my attire!
ation. The queen, feeling that she was rivalled,
proposed to abdicate the throne in my favor, and
become one of my maids of honor, and I was
surrounded by admirers, alas! it was only for
We made ourselves quite merry
with this innocent masquerading; and, had we
then understood acting charades, and performing
tableaux, we should have been at no loss for cos-
tumes.'

TWILIGHT SPORTS.
THE lamps are lit, the supper done, ·
And now may little Willy come,
And have his twilight run.
I hear him tripping, I declare,
This moment up the kitchen stair,
He knows the hour for fun.
I hear his little gentle tap,
'Walk in, good sir; don't stop to rap,
You are no stranger here.
Here's sister Mary, Frank, and James,
Ready to join your twilight games;
Walk in, you need not fear.'
'Come, we will have our twilight dance,
And then we'd like to see you prance,
And make-believe a horse;
I've got the reins and little whip,
Thinking you'd like to take a trip,
And then the ball we'll toss.'
20
TWILIGHT SPORTS.
Now see him dancing up and down,
With both hands holding out his gown,
Just as the ladies do;
'Now down the middle, up again,
Join hands and form the lady's chain,
I'll sing a tune for you.'
Ah, Willy's breaking off, I see,
And running up to aunt Mary,
And begging her to rise.
He cannot speak, but aunty knows
That Willy wants to 'wash the clothes,'
His favorite exercise.
Now see them reeling to and fro
With hands well clasped, and toe to toe,
'That is the way to wash them.'
And now they turn and wheel about,
'That is the way to wring them out,'
How do you like the fashion?
And now, as little Will can't talk
The boys have taught him how to walk
In mimickry and fun;
Now like a lame boy he will go,
Then hop along on heel and toe,
And then skip off and run.
TWILIGHT SPORTS.
21
But pen and ink would fail me quite,
Should I endeavor here to write,
The tricks and mischief too,
Which such a little boy as Will,
Who never sits a moment still,
Can have the skill to do.
He takes my spools of cotton thread,
And like a horse by bridle led
They jump and run about;
Until I hear him calling 'cluck!'
And then I run and catch them up,
With 'what are you about?'
His answering eyes then seem to say
'Why mother, it is only play,
I'm running up and down;'
He then takes father's beaver hat
And makes a whirligig of that,
Or sits upon the crown.
One night, as Willy went to bed,
He chanced to turn his little head
And look upon the wall;
When, what a thrilling note of joy!
He sees another little boy
With legs, and arms, and all.
22
TWILIGHT SPORTS.
Oh, how he dances up with glee!
Exclaiming oh 'I see, I see.'
And playing at 'bo-peep.'
Now running here, now running there,
Now hiding down behind the chair,
He thinks no more of sleep.
He comes and pulls the boys to see
His unexpected company;
They run his joy to share;
But some one steps before the light,
His friend has vanished from his sight,
Or faded into air.
He searches round in sad dismay;
He's lost his playmate and his play;
'But, Willy, never mind;
You come again to-morrow night,
And with the help of the lamp light,
The little boy you'll find.'
'He's going now to bed, you see,
Where all good children ought to be,
So, little Will, good night.
Go now, and lay your little head
Down on your pretty cradle bed,
And sleep till morning light.'
JOHN AND THE CANARY BIRD.
A STORY FOR A LITTLE BOY.
ONE fine summer morning Mrs. Hartwell sent
her little son John on an errand to her friend
Mrs. Reed. John was five years old, and it was
almost the first time he had been trusted so far
from home alone; so his mother told him his
message over and over again, charged him to
keep at the side of the road, and be careful not to
lift the cover of the basket, for she knew he had a
disagreeable trick of meddling. She watched
him from the window till he was out of sight,
and was pleased to see how well he obeyed her
directions; indeed, he grasped the basket so tight
that his little hand really ached, and repeated the
message to himself all the way lest he should for-
get it. The children all liked an errand to Mrs.
24
ITTLE JOHN AND
Reed, she was so pleasant a lady and had such a
fine garden. She came to the door to meet John,
and taking him kindly by the hand, led him in,
saying,
My dear Johnny, did mother trust you to
come so far all alone?'
'Yes ma'am,' said John, and my mother
sends you her love, and this basket of peaches
from her garden, and hopes you are well.'
Mrs. Reed was pleased to hear him do his
message so well, and patting him on the head,
bade him take a walk in the garden, while she
emptied the basket.
(
'You will find,' said she, Anna's canary bird
in a pretty cage, hanging on a tree ncar the sum-
mer house.'
John skipped off through rows of pinks and
marigolds to find the bird. He soon espied it,
for its clear musical voice could be heard all
over the garden. John mounted some steps that
stood near, to take a view of the inside of the
THE CANARY BIRD.
25
cage, which was very curiously made, and was
greatly entertained to see Canary first pick the
seed from the glass at the side of the cage, then
peck at a lump of loaf sugar between the wires,
then mount his perch and nip a seed from the
chick-weed, fresh and green, which Anna had
dressed his cage with, and then plunge into the
water, flutter his wings, mount his perch, and
sing a merry tune.
John watched these movements till he longed
to know how his food could be got in, for he
could see no opening to the cage.
'Surely,' said
he to himself, there must be a door somewhere.'
So he twirled round the cage till he felt a little
twisted wire, which he thought must be the han-
dle. The bird fluttered round, as if frightened;
but John thought to himself there can be no
harm in opening the door just a little, to look in
one moment. So thumb and finger went to work,
and the door flew open. Whilst John was ex-
ploring with eager eye the inside of the cage,
3
26
LITTLE JOIN AND
Canary slipped out, and making the best use of
his wings, flew away-away, out of sight among
the trees. John was frightened enough when he
saw the mischief he had done, and quickly clos-
ing the door of the empty cage, returned to the
house. Did he immediately tell Mrs. Reed the
mischief he had done, and ask her to forgive
him? No; he had not moral courage to do this,
but he looked round eagerly for his hat, and was
in a great hurry to be off, and acted as children
are apt to do when they have guilty feelings.
Mrs. Reed could not persuade him to sit with her
a moment, to eat some of her nice plumbs and a
piece of cake, so she tied on his straw hat, say-
ing,
'I suppose your mother told you to be back
quick; you are a good little boy, and tell your
mother you did your message sweetly.'
To be praised by Mrs. Reed made John feel
worse, for he had a tender conscience, and this
told him that he did not deserve to be called a
THE CANARY BIRD.
27
good boy after the mischief he had done. Though
he loved his mother very much, he felt glad, when
he returned, to find she was not at home, for he
did not like to meet her eye; and all day he
thought he heard the Canary close to him. Then
he began to think what Anna would say, when
she found that her bird she loved so much was
gone.
Oh,' said he to himself, 'how I wish I had
done as mother says I always should do, told
Mrs. Reed all about it, and asked her forgiveness;
but it is too late now, and what shall I do?'
At twelve o'clock Anna Reed took home some
of her little school-fellows to see her bird in his
pretty new cage. She flew to the spot, and there
indeed hung the cage, but no voice came from it
to welcome her; she mounted the steps to see
what could be the reason, and beheld the empty
cage.
'My dear bird is gone!' exclaimed she; and
forgetting her little companions and every thing
↑
28
LITTLE JOHN AND
but her loss, she flew to the house to find her
mother. Her mother tried in vain to comfort
her.
'Perhaps it is not so, my love,' said she,
'Bobby may have been only playing you a trick,
and is hid under the chick-weed, or on the upper
perch, let us go together and look.'
'Oh, I know, mother, he is not there, as well as
can be,' said Anna, sobbing, 'there is no use in
going.'
When they reached the cage all was still; no
pleasant note came to them from among the
boughs, and Anna couldn't be consoled.
6
'How can this be?' said her mother. It is not
long since I heard the bird; no cat could reach
the cage, no feathers are scattered round, the door
of the cage is closely shut, I am entirely at a
loss to account for the absence of the bird.'
'It must have been stolen by some wicked,
naughty boy,' said Anna.
'No one could enter the garden without my
THE CANARY BIRD.
29
seeing them,' said her mother, 'besides, a thief
would have been likely to have taken the cage,
too, for that is as valuable as the bird. Come, let
us go to the house and see what can be done
about it.'
Mrs. Reed did all that a kind mother could to
console Anna, and thinking the bird might yet be
in the neighborhood, she proposed to her to
bring the cage from the garden and place it in
the window, where it usually stood, and per-
haps,' said she, 'when he gets tired of flying
about, he may be glad to return,' — for never had
birdie a pleasanter home or a kinder mistress.
'I do not give him up for lost, Anna,' con-
tinued she, (taking the cage.) 'Run to the gar-
den, child, and get some fresh chick-weed, and
let us make his house look as inviting as possi-
ble, and see if he won't come back.'
6
'I wish I could feel as you do about it,
mother,' said Anna, for it seems to me I shall
never see my dear bird again.'
30
LITTLE JOHN AND
Having hung the cage in the window, and
placed a stool near, Mrs. Reed bade Anna dry
her tears, and sit quietly there, and watch for the
bird; and if she saw him flying toward the cage,
or heard him tap, tap, at the window, to come
softly to her that she might take him prisoner.
Anna sat as still as a cat watching a mouse; she
scarcely breathed, lest any sound should frighten
away the bird. She had n't sat long, when she
heard a flutter against the window, and forgetting,
in her great joy, her mother's caution, she sprung
up and called out, Mother! mother! my bird!
my bird!'
At the sound of her voice away flew
Canary, and Anna had to sit a long time before
he appeared again. At last she heard the sound of
peck, peck, against the wires of the cage, and she
crept softly to her mother to announce the joyful
news. Mrs. Reed easily secured him, for he was
accustomed to feed from her hand, and when
Anna saw him again on his perch, her heart was
filled with joy, and she thought she never loved
THE CANARY BIRD.
31
him so well as now.
'Tell me, you little truant,'
said she, 'how you got away. Chirp to me
about what you have seen, and tell me if you are
not glad to get home?' He gave no reply, but
by a clear full note, which swelled his little throat
almost to bursting.
Let us now leave Anna to enjoy her restored
friend, and see what was passing in the mean
time with little John, the author of her trouble.
He struggled all day with conscience, that kind
friend God has placed within our bosoms to
chide us when we do wrong, and approve when
we do right. But when night came, and he was
about to kneel at his mother's knee, to offer up
his evening prayer, he could conceal his fault no
longer, but bursting into tears, he hid his face in
his mother's lap.
'What is the matter, my dear boy,' said his
mother, ‘are you unwell?'
'No, mother,' sobbed John, I am not sick,
but,-but-something troubles me,-something
•
32
LITTLE JOHN AND
I ought to tell you.
mother?'
Will you forgive me,
'Let me know your fault, my dear boy. If
you have done wrong, and feel sorry, you know
your mother is always ready to forgive.'
Thus encouraged, John told his mother the
exact truth, and how sorry he had been that he
did n't tell Mrs. Reed all about it at the time.
'John,' said his mother, 'I feel grieved and
mortified at your conduct, and hope it will teach
you a lesson you will never forget. You have
done right to confess your fault to me, and I for-
give you on condition that you find out some
way to repay Anna for the loss of her bird.
When this is done and you have made a hearty
resolution to correct this fault of meddling, I shall
believe your repentance sincere, and will restore
you to my favor and love."
John looked thoughtful a moment, and then
said,
'You recollect, mother, the money my uncle
THE CANARY BIRD.
33
gave me last New-year's Day. I have it yet; and
you know, too, old Thomas, who sells Canaries
at the corner of West street. I will buy one of
his birds with my own money, and carry to
Anna, and ask her to put it in her cage, and love
it as well as the one I let fly away; and if she,
and you, and Mrs. Reed, will all forgive me, I
shall be happy again.'
His mother consented to this plan, and after he
had said his prayers, and the evening hymn con-
taining this verse
Forgive me, Lord, by thy dear Son,
The ills that I this day have done,
That with the world, myself, and Thee,
I, ere I sleep, at peace may be.
he went to bed with a light, cheerful heart. He
was awake at early dawn, for his mind was busy
with his intended purchase; and being furnished
with his money and a basket, he set out to buy
poor Thomas's Canary.
'What brings you so early, young master?'
34
LITTLE JOHN AND
said Thomas, have you come to hear my birds
sing their morning song?'
'I have come to buy one of your best singers,
Thomas,' replied Johnny, showing his money
and basket.
'Bless me! have you? and a fine one you
shall have, and poor Thomas will be right glad
of the money. Choose for yourself, my young
lad.'
John selected one whose feathers he thought
looked exactly like Anna's lost one; it was bright
yellow on the breast, and the wings tipped with
brown.
Ah! that is a fine bird,' said Thomas, 'and a
first-rate singer, my little fellow, and a cheap
bird too, for three dollars.'
John asked Thomas to put it carefully in the
pretty open-work basket, and tie the cover down
tight, that the bird might not escape.
'There is no danger of his getting out, if you
do not lift the cover, my good lad,' said Thomas.
THE CANARY BIRD.
35
There was no danger of John's doing that, for
it was the same basket in which he had carried
the peaches to Mrs. Reed, and he could not look
upon it without thinking what had happened
there. He brought the bird to his mother, with
sparkling eyes, to ask what he must next do.
'You must now take it yourself to Anna, tell
her the whole story, ask her forgiveness, and beg
her to accept this Canary in place of her lost fa-
vorite.'
Must I go alone?' said he imploringly;
'must I mother? I do'nt know what to say; do
let somebody go with me, do?'
(
No, my son, you must go alone. It is very
easy to tell the exact truth about it, just what you
feel in your heart. You hav n't got to make up a
story.'
Finding his mother resolute, John set off alone.
His heart went flutter, flutter, just like the bird in
the basket, and when he came in sight of the
house, which always looked pleasant before, his
36
LITTLE JOHN AND
6
strength all seemed to go away, and he thought
he should let the basket drop. He was on the
point of turning back to tell his mother how
dreadfully he felt. But where's the use, she
will only send me right back again,' thought
Johnny, 'so I may as well go on.' Anna hap-
pened to be on the piazza when he came in sight,
and sprang to meet him.
'Why, here is my dear little Johnny again,
with his pretty basket! What have you got
now? (giving him a kiss) some more nice
peaches, I dare say.'
'No, no,' said John, 'a bird-your bird.'
'My bird-oh you little rogue, don't cheat me
so, you can't make me believe peaches are
birds.'
'It is no cheat,' said John, 'it is a real live bird,
for you to put in your cage for the one I let fly,
if you will forgive me and accept it.'
He then told Anna all about his opening the
door of the cage and letting out the bird, and
THE CANARY BIRD.
37
how sorry he had felt ever since. When he had
got through he could keep back his tears no lon-
ger, and throwing himself on Anna's neck, he
sobbed out, 'tell me, will you forgive me, and
take my bird?'
Anna soothed him in the kindest manner, and
then related to him her part of the story. How
they had set the cage for the bird, and her joy at
his return,
and how she and her mother had
wished again and again they could know how
he got out, adding, 'we never thought you were
the little puss that opened the door. And now,'
said she 'my dear Johnny, I not only forgive
you, but I wish you to keep the bird you intend-
ed for me, and ask your good mother to have a
cage made for him. I give you back the bird
with the hope that it will help to cure you of this
fault. And whenever you look at it, let it remind
you That you should never meddle with what
doesn't belong to you, and that it is always best
honestly to confess a fault as soon as it is com-
mitted,
38
LITTLE JOHN AND
John thanked her again and again for her
kindness, and went home with a much lighter
heart than he came; and you will be pleased to
hear he overcame his fault, and became an
honest and truthful boy.
Our young readers may think we have made a
great deal of a little fault. But be assured, dear
children, that little faults, if not early corrected,
will grow and spread like weeds in a flower gar-
den, till every thing that is fair and good in your
hearts will be rooted out. One ugly trick or bad
habit will hide many good qualities in a natu-
rally pleasing child. It may be a spirit of con-
tradiction, beginning with the words 'I say it is!'
and I say it is n't;' kindling a feeling of anger
in the heart. It may be a habit of teasing a
younger brother or sister; it may be a trick of
meddling like John's; and I might swell my list
with many more troublesome and disagreeable
faults, which, if not corrected when they first
appear, will grow with your growth and make
THE CANARY BIRD.
39
you unpleasant in the family circle, cause you to
be avoided by your young friends, bring grief to
your parents' hearts, and make you unhappy
yourselves. While a cheerful disposition, a truth
loving heart, and kind, pleasant manners, will
make you beloved by all, and your heart as
blithe as a sweet Canary in his cage.

THE boys have got up their sleds in good style this Winter, and have shown
some fancy in the names. We requested one of the boys to furnish us with
a list of those belonging to his acquaintance, and have woven them into
some verses, which we shall call
THE SLED RACE.'
t
THE SLED RACE.
The snow had descended on valley and hill,
But nobody heard it, it came down so still.
Thus nature was silently spreading a treat
To surprise all the boys when they waked from their sleep.
Says Franky, (whose ear caught the sleigh-bell's first sound,)
'Come, wake Jamie, wake,—there is snow on the ground.
Just look at the window and top of the house,
It has stolen upon us as still as a mouse.'
The sleds, newly painted, were ready to go,
But laid moored in their harbors all waiting for snow.
The Go-ahead Steamer came first on the coast,
And of outstripping all others was making a boast.
Jemmy Dayton, who happened this vaunting to hear,
On the back of his Wild Turk set off like a deer.
The Roe Buck and Antelope followed at speed,
But the Go-ahead Steamer still kept up the lead.
There's a boy riding full speed on the back
Of a fierce-looking Tiger all striped with black;
4
42
SLED RACE..
THE
But outstrip, in speed, Charlie Wilson! who can ?
For he rides on a Centaur, half horse and half man.
Now look out for breakers and mind how you ride,
Don't you see that huge Avalanche on the hill side?
The Snow-bird has folded his wings, as you see,
And the Red-breast is seeking a sheltering trce.
'Take care, master Frank, you can't keep on the track,
I see you have mounted a wild Eagle's back;
But he'll bear you away from all danger and harm,
So hold on, my boy, there's no cause for alarm."'
But who are these riding the Moon and the Sun?
'Tis Georgic and Henry, with eyes full of fun;
They rise and they set, and I'm certain they shine,
For I never saw sleds that were painted so fine.
Aha! ha! David Crocket and Lightfoot are here;
I suppose they are chasing the Roebuck and Deer,
And Diana's pursuing the Antelope there,
While old Hercules frowns with a look of despair.
Just then the Red Rover came up like the wind,
And left Antelope, Reindeer and Roebuck behind.
The Lion has shaken the snow from his mane,
And see how he darts over hill-side and plain.
The North-star is guiding with his steady ray
The gentle and sweet Lady of th' Lake on her way.
There's a boy who has struck out a path of his own
Without any attendant, and travels alone;
THE SLED RACE.
43
Only see how he dashes and wheels through the snow,
Why, he rides on the back of a Comet, you know!
The Hornet comes whizzing along at full speed,
'But stop, my good fellow, you can't get the lead;
Don't you see that Old Hickory's taken the field,
And who ever knew that bold veteran to yield?
Even Hero and Victor must give up the chase,
And the Go-ahead Steamer stop short in his race.

DIALOGUE
BETWEEN A BOY, WHO WANTED TO BE A SAILOR,
AND HIS BROTHER, WHO PROPOSED
FARMER.
BEING A
SCENE The Parlor.
Enter JOHN, dressed in Sailor's clothes, singing –
C
Cease, rude Boreas! blustering railer!
List, ye landsmen all to me,
Messmates hear a brother sailor
Tell the dangers of the sea.'
FRANK. Ah, John! you may well say the
dangers of the sea, and it sounds merrily enough
in a song, but I rather think the real storms and
the real breakers would soon break your cour-
age.
46
DIALOGUE.
JOHN. Now Frank, are you so foolish as to
think that all the phantoms, real and imaginary,
that you and the rest of the family conjure up,
can frighten the sailor out of me? You cannot
kill the sailor on land, my boy, and I doubt if the
sea itself can do it, unless I should meet with
more disasters than usually fall to the lot of Jack
Tar; at any rate, there is nothing like trying.
6
FRANK. I tell you what, John, it is very pretty
entertainment, sitting here by a warm fire, with
a good house over your head, to talk over the
adventures of all the Robinson Crusoes you read
about, and with Two Years before the Mast' in
your hand, visit in imagination the coast of Cali-
fornia, and envy your hero his perils and his toils;
but it is quite another thing, I'm thinking, to be
tossing about in a storm, with the waves opening
their greedy jaws to devour you, vessel and all, if
you should chance to capsize. Give me, I say,
a snug berth at home, with kind friends around
me, and terra firma under my feet!
DIALOGUE.
47
JOHN. And may it be your happy fate, and
the fate of all such chicken-hearted youths, as
prefer their mother's apron-strings to handling a
cable, and moving round in a half bushel to see-
ing the world and the wonders of the 'vasty
deep,' which a sea voyage discloses.
મ
FRANK. But do you think nothing of the
anxiety your friends would suffer in your ab-
sence? I should hate to have my mother
troubled on my account.
JOHN. A considerate youth, truly! Did you
never hear, my dear boy, of that loving wife,
who, during a severe storm, in which she imag-
ined her husband exposed to the winds in their
wild and fearful play, could n't find it in her sym-
pathetic heart to enjoy the repose of her warm
bed, while he was exposed to such peril? So she
caused herself to be suspended in a large kettle
from the limb of a tree near her chamber win-
dow, and in her vessel of brass safely rode out
the storm; feeling, no doubt, that she had per-
48
DIALOGUE.
formed an act of heroism her husband would
applaud, and that she should be immortalized
among sailors. Soon the Captain returned and
was told the incident of the kettle. • Where were
you on that fearful night?' asked his loving wife.
'Never merrier in my life, dearest; safe on land,
with a company of good fellows round me, play-
ing a game of whist, and wishing you were my
partner, while at the very time, my dearest queen
of hearts, you were dancing about in your brass
kettle to the tune of "Hush-a-by baby, on the tree
top," shouted he, to the no small mortification of
his wife. And this is often the amount, Franky,
of what friends suffer on the sailor's account. It
is swinging in the brass kettle.
FRANK. But you don't pretend to say, John,
that there is not more danger on the sea than on
the land?
JOHN. Yes, I do pretend to say that, if a fair
estimate could be made, it would be found that
the loss of life by disasters on land are quite in
DIALOGUE.
49
proportion to those on the sea. Think of the
multitudes that are killed, or maimed, on rail-
roads, by stages, and every kind of land convey-
ance, and I am inclined to believe, if the deep
could give up its dead, the number would be
rather in favor of the land. Besides, the idea of
sinking into the bosom of the ocean, and finding
your bed in its coral caves, with mermaids to
sing your requiem, is certainly more agreeable
than to be dissected by a railroad car, and your
limbs strewed round to the gaze of unconcerned
spectators, and then served up by the greedy
newspaper editors, under the head of Most
awful catastrophe!'
FRANK. How silly it is to talk of mermaids,
and such fabulous creatures! If you never have
any maids but mermaids to sing your requiem,
you will have but little music, I'm thinking.
JOHN. Then you object to the fabulous, do
you? Why Franky, you know so little of the
wonders of the deep and the adventures of a sea
50
DIALOGUE.
life, that you would class half a sailor has to tell
under the head of fabulous. Let me make one
voyage round the Cape, and I will tell you things
that will make the hair on your honest, incredu-
lous head, to stand erect like quills upon the back
of the fretful porcupine, and your eyes start in
one direction, and that straight out of their
sockets! Now you have such a horror of a sea-
faring life, pray tell me what honest and safe
craft you intend to follow?
FRANK. I am not quite old enough to make a
choice; but I certainly should prefer ploughing
the land to ploughing the ocean, and I should
expect its furrows would yield a richer harvest to
my toil.
JOHN. Very well, sir, we will compare notes
when harvest time comes, and see which can
turn out the most gold; though it is n't for the
gold I care. I want the experience, and I want
to see more of the world than is comprised
DIALOGUE.
51
within the geographical limits of Massachusetts,
or indeed the United States, either.
FRANK. I'll tell you, John, what comes up
before my mind when I imagine you a sailor.
A picture like this- A swaggering fellow, with
a tarpaulin on one side of his head, a cigar in his
mouth, wide duffil trousers, striped shirt-the
collar loosely confined with a black silk neck-ker-
chief tied in a sailor's knot; a short blue jacket,
from the sleeves of which are displayed a pair of
hands as hard as a deal board, and the color of
mahogany;' and, if you adopted all that belongs
to a sailor, I fear I might hear from your mouth
language that I would not offend 'ears polite' by
rehearsing.
JOHN. Frank, this is too utterly ridiculous to
talk about! Do you think, by following the life
of a sailor, I must adopt all his offensive peculiar-
ities? That I must smoke, and drink, and use
profane language? Must swagger in my gait,
and be such a regular 'old salt,' as you have de-
52
DIALOGUE.
scribed? If I thought so, I would never enlist
under Old Neptune's trident. No, my boy!
your brother John has no idea of disgracing him-
self, but hopes to square his yards so as to steer
clear of those bad habits that have proved the
shoals and quicksands of a sailor's life.
FRANK. I hope you will. You must take
Father Taylor's chart, and steer by that, and sail
under temperance colors, and then you will be
safe enough.
JOHN. I wish you distinctly to understand,
Frank, that it is to qualify myself to be an intelli-
gent commander of a ship; that I mean to take
my station before the mast, and take every step
upward, till I gain a practical knowledge of navi-
gation. You talk, sometimes, of being a farmer.
Do you think if you should work on a farm,
plough, hoe, dig, plant and reap, and mow, in
order to gain a practical knowledge of husbandry,
that you must necessarily become a rustic in
your habits and manners, whistle in company,
}
DIALOGUE.
53
and haw! woagh! and gee! when you drive a
chaise?
FRANK. Oh no, John, I mean to be such a
farmer as Mr. Parker, a gentleman farmer;
have my flower garden, and green-house, and
raise the prettiest pigs in all the country round.
I think more, after all, of your coming home the
first voyage, than I do of your being captain.
How much you will have to tell after we go to
bed nights. You won't then say 'Frank it is
your turn to talk to-night,' but you will be spin-
ning your 'long yarns,' till I am landed on 'nod-
dle's island.' What will you bring me home, tied
up in your 'nate Barcelona?' hey?
JOHN. I hav'nt made up my mind whether it
shall be a parrot or a monkey, one or the other
will suit your domestic taste. You could teach
the parrot to say, instead of 'Pretty Poll, what
o'clock?' Will you take any bread to-day?"
and carry it round with you on the baker's cart.
FRANK. Oh Johnny, when you become a
54
DIALOGUE.
sailor I shall have found some better amusement
than riding with the bakers, though I'm disposed
to think you will long for some of the good
things their boxes contain, when you are dulling
the keen edge of appetite on a hard biscuit, fla-
vored with a junk of salt beef; and, while stand-
ing watch, how will you long for a seat near the
parlor register! I suppose you mean to get a
suit water-proofed at the Middlesex Mills, to
stand watch in when the weather's stormy and
a life-preserver, in case of shipwreck.
JOHN. Now this is too hard upon a fellow.
You know I do n't mind being wet, for I never
take an umbrella; and, as to the rest of the things
you enumerate, they may all seem privations to
you, because a sea life is not to your taste, but
imagination presents the other side of the picture
to me.
FRANK. Pray, tell me some of its advantages,
John, for I can see nothing but hardships and
privation in a sailor's life.
DIALOGUE.
55
JOHN. Oh there is something glorious in it.
To feel yourself on the mighty, boundless deep;
to behold the glories of the night revealed to the
midnight pacer on the vessel's deck; then the
sweet rest of the hammock swung by the
breeze, rocking you to a repose like the slumber
of infancy; the sea appetite giving to the sailor's
fare a relish that the pampered appetite of the
landsmen might well envy; the sublimities of
the storm, when the waves run mountain high;
then the delightful calm that succeeds this stirring
commotion, when the ship sets upon the waters
'like a thing of life;' the first sight of land, and
all the endless variety of change and incident that
the life of a mariner presents, these form the
attraction to me, and experience will prove how
much of it is romance.
THE SUB-MARINE DIVER.
6
WE witnessed, some time since, Capt. Tay-
lor's Grand Sub-marine Descent,' not into the
ocean, but into a cistern placed in the City Hall,
in order to illustrate to his audience the manner in
which he can descend to the ocean's depths, and
recover lost property from wrecks. The diver is
clad, previous to his immersion, in an armor
constructed of copper and India rubber, so as to
exclude every particle of water and air, panes
of glass are inserted round the cistern for the
benefit of spectators, while he is supplied with
light by means of a sub-marine lantern, which he
carries in his hand, and with air by a pump,
which is kept in vigorous operation above. It is
certainly a most ingenious contrivance, and may
prove very useful in the recovery of property. A
5
58
THE SUB-MARINE DIVER.
disaster which befel his artificial ocean, we give
you below in rhyme.
I will give you, dear children, that is if I can,
A description of Taylor's most wonderful plan
For exploring the depths of the ocean, to spy
Where the long-hoarded treasures of Old Neptune lie.
Like Leviathan, clad in an armor of mail,
He fears not the jaws of the shark or the whale;
And all the small fry that in ocean's depths play,
Why they swim for their lives to get out of his way.
So he walks under water with lantern in hand,
As fearless of danger as we do on land,
In a full suit of copper from doublet to hose,
He's a water-repeller wherever he goes.
Now to get up an ocean upon a small scale,
Large enough for a diver, though not for a whale,
A cistern was made, with small windows of glass,
Through which you could see Mr. Sub-marine pass
To and fro with his lantern, all bright in his hand,
Though far under water, as you understand.
The cistern was placed in the hall of our city,
And I'm sure its sad fate will awaken your pity.
Its tenant, the Sub-marine diver, — had fled,
To find more airy lodgings to shelter his head,
THE SUB-MARINE DIVER.
59
For who would be willing to take up his quarter,
For even one night, in a bed of cold water?
When the Sub-marine diver took leave for the night
Of his snug little ocean, all boxed in so tight,
Not a ripple moved over its untroubled breast,
But it lay like an infant just cradled to rest.
Thus it was until midnight had spread out its pall
Of silence and darkness o'er city and hall;
When the spirit of freedom, which moves like the wind,
Came in, and beholding his favorite confined
In an iron-bound castle,no gateway, or moat,
Affording the prisoner a chance to get out.
'You are children of freedom,' the spirit then cried,
'Born to flow in the river, or move in the tide!
I have seen you careering o'er valley and hill,
In the bright sparkling fountain and sweet flowing rill.
Burst the bars of your prison! be free once again,
And retrace your wild course over hill-side and plain.'
So soon as the word of command was thus given,
The indignant waters burst forth from their prison,
And not knowing the safest and best way to go,
They thought it most prudent to dive down below.
So they made a swift passage through cranny and crack,
And not even Taylor could conjure them back.
There will be no more diving performed in that quarter,
For the cistern is left high and dry above water.
SPRING SPORTS.
SPRING! beautiful Spring has come with her
buds and blossoms.
The maple, close to the parlor window has put
on its tufts of red blossoms at every twig. The
horse-chestnut buds are shining, just ready to
burst and display their green fan-like leaves.
The grass is shooting up its spires all along by
the fences, and in sheltered sunny places, bring-
ing the compliments of the season, by which we
are to understand that all the family of Green
will soon be with us, and that their near relatives,
the flowers, will follow in their train a numer-
ous tribe, but they will all be welcome. The
boys have been making ready for their arrival, by
removing from the front yard all the dead leaves
and rubbish that obstruct their passage, and mak-
62
SPORTS.
SPRING
ing a bonfire in honor of spring. It was pleasant
to see them so actively employed, with rake,
shovel, and wheelbarrow, and I stood some time
at the window, cheering them on.
While they were at work, a stout little Irish boy
came up to peep at them through the fence, but
not content to be a looker-on, he began to scrape
away the dirt on the side-walk, with his foot, as
if unable to resist the impulse of his Hibernian
nature. Seeing him so desirous to lend his aid,
I furnished him with the kitchen shovel, and he
went most manfully to work. It was really an
entertainment to see him, with his feet extended,
his cap pushed back, and his hands grasping the
shovel, exerting every muscle to contribute as
much as the rest to the load in the wheelbarrow.
I could see in this young hero of the kitchen
shovel the future workman on our canals and
rail-roads.
The changes of the season are not surer than
the changes in boys' sports. The March winds
set all the kites in motion; marbles have now
SPRING SPORTS.
63
•
taken their place; every dry spot is marked out
for the game of leap-frog, and balls are in great
demand. I wish you success with your sports,
boys, so long as they are innocent, and you keep
your tempers, and are just to one another. All
work and no play makes Charles a dull boy.' It
is always sad to see boys quarreling and disput-
ing at their games, and sometimes lifting their
hand against a playmate, perhaps a brother.
They may have often been told that it is wrong
to give way to angry passions, and they may
have seen the dreadful consequences to which it
sometimes leads, but yet not a day passes with-
out some slight exhibition of it, either in word, or
look, or gesture. I often wish at such a moment
that I could place a mirror before them, that they
might see their features in all their deformity,
though I could by this means exhibit but a small
part of the evil; the features will resume their
accustomed expression after the fit of passion is
over, but the traces left on the heart are more
64
SPRING SPORTS.
enduring, and the influence of their example on
others, may do an evil they can never repair. I
will tell you a story of a passionate boy whom I
once knew.
When I was a little girl, about ten years old, or
thereabout, I was in the habit of spending all the
time I could spare from my lessons, and most of
my half holidays, with a little girl in the neighbor-
hood, who was confined to the house by a most
distressing disease in her hip. She was lame,
and only left her bed when lifted from it with
great care, and placed in an easy chair. But
though her body was so disabled, her mind was
bright, her disposition pleasant, and she was very
ingenious and industrious. After her pillows
were all arranged with the greatest care, she
would have her basket of silk and her paint-box
brought to her, and many were the pretty articles
produced by her ingenious fingers. But it was
not of Lucy I was to speak, though I could tell
you a great deal about her during this long sick-
SPRING SPORTS.
65
ness, that would be interesting, but my story is
about her brother, a lad of about ten years old,
passionate and undutiful, and often unkind to his
sister, though she was so amiable and helpless,
and needed so much tenderness and indulgence.
Indeed he was quite a terror to the family; his
fits of passion were sometimes so violent that his
school-fellows shunned his company, for he was
always sure to get them into some difficulty.
One Saturday afternoon I was sitting reading
to his sick sister, when he rushed into the room,
in a great passion, with a pretty little basket in
his hand, exclaiming, I will have this basket! I
will carry it with me!'
'Where are you going, William?' said Lucy,
in her kindest tone; and what do you mean to
do with the basket?'
'I'm going a fishing, and I will have this bas-
ket to put the fish in!'
'Do not think of taking it, I beg of you,' said
Lucy, 'for it does n't belong to you or me; it is
66
SPRING SPORTS.
one cousin Jane sent me some peaches in. Do
give it to me, brother, do?'
'No, Lucy, I am determined to have this bas-
ket, say what you will. Every one in the house
is against me; even Sally, in the kitchen, has
said I sha'n't have it, but it's no concern of hers,
and have it I will, so you need n't say anything
more about it,' and he flourished it over his head,
in triumph.
'Stop, William! stop!' said Lucy, 'don't be
so passionate; you will be sorry for it to-morrow.'
'I sorry!no such thing. I never was sorry
in my life, and never mean to be, so stop preach-
ing,' and away he ran to the wharf, where he
had agreed to meet some boys as idle and
vicious as himself.
The scene was too much for poor Lucy, and
as soon as he was gone she burst into tears.
'Oh,' said she, 'if my dear mother was alive, I
should n't suffer so much from William's ill tem-
per. She could always control him, but father is
SPRING SPORTS.
67
so much from home that he does n't know how
ill he behaves; besides he is so indulgent to him
that he does n't punish him when he deserves it.
Oh dear, what will become of him?'
I tried to soothe Lucy, and, to divert her mind
from her unkind brother, began reading again;
but it was some time before she became inter-
ested in the book; her thoughts were evidently
following him. I was just in the middle of a
story when Sally came into the room with
Lucy's tea on a little waiter, and said to me,
'Miss Nancy, your mother has sent for you.' I
kissed Lucy, promising to come again the next
day, and ran home as fast as possible, that I
might not keep my mother waiting. Just as I
reached the gate, which opened upon a flight of
stone steps, I heard a great bustle on the outside,
which made me step back. In a moment it was
opened by a man in heavy boots and sailor's
dress. Behind him were two more dressed in the
same manner, and in their arms lay the pale and
68
SPRING SPORTS.
lifeless body of poor William. • Was he really
dead?' you will impatiently ask. No, but sense-
less and exhausted, as persons always are after
remaining long in the water. His father, who
was a physician, was soon summoned, and with
a trembling hand and anxious heart used every
means to restore animation, and not without suc-
cess. When I saw him open his eyes, I ran to
Lucy's chamber to comfort her. I found her in
great distress; she had forgotten all his unkind-
ness to her, and felt only a sister's tenderness and
love. Presently her father came in, and we saw
by his countenance that William was restored to
life.
'Dear Lucy,' said he, in his kindest tone, ‘do
n't distress yourself so, child; William is safe
in bed, and will be well again, I trust, to-morrow.
If you get so agitated you will be a great deal
sicker yourself.'
'Oh, father, you did n't see William before he
went. I am thinking of that now, and I feel so
SPRING SPORTS.
69
grateful to God for preserving him, and giving
him time to repent of his sins, that I can't help
crying.'
(
'How is this, Lucy; how is this?' said her
father, with much surprise; William has n't been
treating you unkindly, I hope. He told me, as
soon as he was able to speak, that the accident
which brought him so near death, was occasioned
by his effort to save a little basket which fell from
his hand into the water; and I think he said it
was all for Lucy's sake. He seemed troubled
when he spoke of it, and I thought looked hum-
ble when I commended his regard for your feel-
ings.'
'Oh, that little basket; that was indeed the
cause of all the trouble. I don't wish to make
you think ill of him, father, but he so often de-
ceives you, that I think I ought to tell you how
passionate and self-willed he is. He does n't
mind anything I say, but calls me "little Miss
Good-child," and tells me I need n't preach to
70
SPRING SPORTS. -
}
him, for he is his own master when you are
away.' She then related what had occurred
before he left home, at which his father was both
surprised and grieved.
6
It shall not be so again, Lucy, I assure you.
I will see to it.' And being called away the next
moment to see a sick patient, this too indulgent
parent neglected to inflict any punishment on his
son for this offence.
'I wish I could see William,' said Lucy, after
her father had gone; 'for I think he is so softened
he would listen to me now, and I might make
him feel sorry for his faults, and promise to do
better for the future; but I cannot go to him.
You can, though, dear Nancy, and I wish you
would carry him this hymn, and ask him to learn
it for my sake.'
'Next to the God who reigns above,
I'll give my parents all my love;
I owe them thanks for favors done,
But I have hardly rendered one.
SPRING
71
SPORTS.
My brother's welfare, too, shall be
As precious as my own to me,
And sisters shall not fail to share
My warm affection and my care.
If others wrong me and condemn,
I'll never do the same to them;
I'll not be angry nor complain,
For Jesus answered not again.
My rising passion shall not last,
I'll bear no malice for the past;
I'll pardon them, and pray to heaven
That I may likewise be forgiven.
If words or actions, light and vain,
Have given to others needless pain;
I'll ask them, ere the set of sun,
To pardon what my hands have done.
My tongue shall whisper peace around,
My hands in holy works abound;
My looks serene and free from art,
Shall show the mildness of my heart,
72
SPORTS.
SPRING
For looks and trifling deeds declare
The feelings that we shelter there,
And every one hath power to do
Some act to bless and injure too.
The cup of water, kindly given,
Is treasured in the book of heaven;
The well-used talent, tho' but one,
May gain the happy word-"well done!"'
William had fallen into a quiet sleep, and I
laid the hymn on his pillow. When I returned
to my own happy home, I related to my mother
what had detained me so long after I received
her summons to tea. She readily excused me,
and promised, after I was in bed, to see Lucy
and William, and try to perform a mother's part
toward them.
You will hope, for Lucy's sake, that William
corrected his temper and grew up a good man.
I am sorry to tell you this was not the case.
The indulgence of his temper, and the desire to
SPRING SPORTS.
73
have his own way, led him from one fault to
another, until he got beyond the control of his
too indulgent father, who at last most unwillingly
consented to his going to sea, and the last I
heard of him, he was a profane, wicked sailor.
His father died before he returned from his first
voyage, and his sister was placed under the care
of relatives in a distant part of the country. She
has recovered her health, but is obliged to work
for her own support. Her brother, who ought to
contribute to her comfort and subsistence, is only
a trial to her. When he returns from his peril-
ous voyages, no kind friend stands ready on the
shore to greet him with a welcome home; but he
associates with companions as reckless as him-
self, and will probably never be reclaimed. He
has lost, by his misconduct, respectability, friends,
and a good conscience, and without these, what
can he enjoy in this world? Let my young
readers remember the words of the wise man,
that they may avoid his sad fate.
6
74
SPRING SPORTS.
6
My son, keep thy father's commandment, and
forsake not the law of thy mother. Bind them
continually upon thy heart, and tie them about
thy neck. When thou goest, it shall lead thee;
when thou sleepest it shall keep thee; and when
thou wakest, it shall talk with thee. For the
commandment is a lamp, and the law is light,
and reproofs of instruction are the way of life.'
Prov. 6: 20-23.
IMITATION.
COUNT RUMFORD, who you know was an
American, though he had a title, established a
school at Munich, where he admitted both old
and young, and taught them useful trades. So
important did he regard industrious habits, that
he requested parents to bring their children before
they were old enough to work, and had benches
prepared in the work-shops, where these little
children could see all that was doing, and actu-
ally paid them for sitting idle; but for all this
they were not long contented to remain mere
spectators, but soon earnestly requested to be
employed, and, from seeing others industrious,
learned to be so themselves. We wish the chil-
dren in every family would be like the children
in the Munich school, and when they see their
76
IMITATION.
mothers and other persons employed, and often,
very often, in their service, learn to do cheerfully
what falls to their share, and be thankful that
their small services can be of any use to others.
Count Rumford understood how strong is the
power of imitation, which in many cases is
almost irresistible. Of this there are many
amusing illustrations.
We are told of a man who was employed, in
Edinborough, to carry tiles, or slates, which he
did by placing them on the top of his head.
This man could never avoid imitating whatever
he saw another person do, and when ascending
a ladder, if he saw a gentleman in the street
bowing to a lady, he would immediately imitate
the action, though at the risk of letting the load
fall from his head. A case similar to this came
under my own observation.
A man, named Daniel Felton, used to afford
the boys, and those who had nothing better to do,
infinite amusement by his imitative propensitics.
IMITATION.
77
He never could resist doing what he saw another
do, but would put the most disagreeable things
in his mouth, if impelled to do so by any by-
stander.
People often assign no better reason for doing
a thing, than 'because others do it,' and little
children will frequently ask to do the most fool-
ish and unreasonable things, because 'John, or
William, or Lucy, have done so;' just like the
flock of sheep, once passing through a narrow
street, in which one solitary individual was pur-
suing his way. The man chanced to take the
middle of the street, and the fleccy monarch of
the flock, not secing fit to go either side of the
man, jumped over his head, whereupon the whole
flock followed his example, till every sheep had
passed over the head of the poor traveller.

THE BABY.
WHEN little baby lies,
So quiet, on my knee,
Ah, who would ever think
A great rude boy he'd be?
At marbles, top, and ball,
The foremost in the play,
And yet how very soon
Will creep along the day,
When he will drive the hoop,
And mount the mimic cart,
And imitate the man,
With all of childhood's art.
His pretty little frock
Displaying neck and arms,
Like rose and lily fair,
In all their native charms.
80
· THE BABY.
How soon 't will be exchanged
For jacket, neat and trim,
And little trowsers, too,
Encasing every limb.
The pretty little foot
Just peeping into view,
With tiny little toes
That never felt a shoe,—
The dimpled little hand,
With fingers fat and fair,
A head where you can read
The smallest 'bump' that's there,
The silent, pleasant smile,
That tells of peace within
His pure and placid breast,
Untainted yet by sin,-
All these will pass away,
Just like the morning dew,
Which shines upon the rose awhile,
And brightens every hue.
THE BABY.
81
You've seen the opening bud
Exposed to sun and shower,
Expand its folded leaves,
'Till it becomes a flower;
Just so the baby grows;
Just so its charms unfold;
And, as we watch our living plant,
We wish he'd ne'er grow old.
But time bears him along
Upon his moving breast;
And, though he travels fast,
He never stops to rest.
His first stage takes the babe
To childhood's rosy bowers,
Here he disports awhile
'Midst Nature's gayest flowers.
He next toils up th' ascent
Which leads to man's estate,
And, as he travels on,
He bears an added weight,—
82
THE BABY.
Ah, 't is the weight of years!
It presses hard and strong;
It makes the limbs move slow,
And bends the manly form.
And our sweet little babe
He must grow old at last;
You'll look in vain for baby here
When a few years are past.
He'll tread the same rough path;
Meet perils by the way;
He'll share the sunshine and the shower;
The bright and cloudy day.
But if he travels on
With heaven-directed eye,
He'll reach a cloudless clime at last,
A home beyond the sky.
A NEW KIND OF
METEOROLOGICAL TABLE,
FOR FAMILY USE.
It is a practice with some persons, who are
curious about such things, to note all the changes
in the weather, and make a daily record of them.
This they call a Metcorological Table, and by
consulting this record they can tell how many
storms we have had for the year, how many
cloudy days, the prevailing winds, &c. This is
all very well for them; but, as our domestic hap-
piness does not depend much upon what is pass-
ing without doors, and greatly upon the state of
the atmosphere within, I think we had better turn
our attention from the face of the skies to the
human faces about us, and set up a Meteorologi-
cal table, showing the changes that take place in
the features, which indicate, as truly as a dial-
84
METEOROLOGICAL TABLE,
plate, what is going on within. It shall run
thus:
First day, morning. No clouds to be seen, air
soft; promise of a bright day. Noon-Rather
breezy; chance if, by school-time, we do n't have
a slight shower of tears; squally over head; soon
sunshine again; a beautiful rainbow, occasioned
by a smiling face shining upon the tears.
Second day. Contrary winds all day. Thun-
der shower at noon, sunset clear, promise of a
pleasant day to-morrow, and so on.
•
It will be extremely difficult to note all the
changes that take place in the domestic atmos-
phere, they are so rapid and unexpected; but we
can record the prevailing aspect, and look care-
fully to the disturbing causes, note on whose
brow is to be discerned the presages of a coming
storm, so that it may be checked in time. When
the natural sun rises and goes into a cloud, we
are safe in predicting an unpleasant day, and
make our calculations accordingly. So, when a
FOR FAMILY USE.
85
child rises in the morning with the glow of health
on the cheek, refreshed by sleep, and begins to
fret, and contradict, and disputc, - these are the
clouds that indicate contrary winds and coming
showers, and blast the promise of domestic en-
joyment the cloud at first 'no bigger than a
man's hand,' spreads and enlarges till the whole
sky is made dark by it, and the serenity of the
family disturbed. Happiness, too, is reflective,
like the light of heaven, and the bright, cheerful
face of one child will cast its sunlight upon.
another, till the whole family circle is made as
bright as a May morning.
I will illustrate this by a domestic scene.
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
டு
GRUMBLE
CHEERFUL
GOODNATURE.
SCENE- The Parlor. TIME-Before Breakfast.
Enter GRUmble.
GRUMBLE. Mercy on us! no fire; I wish I
86
METEOROLOGICAL TABLE,
had laid in bed. How horrible cold it is! (push-
ing away the fender to make way for a girl with
a pan of coals). Make haste, I say, and put the
fender up again, I want it to put my feet on.
Whew, whew, what a plaguy smoke you make!
Stop your puffing!
Enter CHEERFUL, leading in his sister GOODNA-
TURE.
CHEERFUL (goes to the window). Oh, what a
beautiful morning! How bright every thing
looks, with the frost and snow, and the icicles;
how they shine! I declare, here are some sweet
little snow birds, hopping about the yard; look,
Grumble, look!
GRUMBLE. More fools they, I say, to leave
their warm nests to go padding about on the
⇒
snow.
GOODNATURE. I love the little birds; I re-
member the verses about the snow-birds, in my
picture book, (repeating them).
FOR FAMILY USE.
87
Come, sweet little snow-birds, and pick up the snow,
That in plenty has fallen to-day,
Before the south wind begins gently to blow,
And melt all your treasures away.
Come, muster a flock, and descend to the ground;
Pray, little birds, do n't be affrighted,
We'll be still as we can while you scramble around,
And gaze through the window delighted.
Enter FATHER.
FATHER. Come, who will shovel us a path
this morning?
CHEERFUL.
shovel?
I will, father. Where is the
GRUMBLE. There, I knew he would be for
getting the shovel, and leave me the broom!
Now, sir, you may just take the broom yourself,
and leave me the shovel, or I'll not budge an
inch, that's poz! and you may do the whole
yourself.
CHEERFUL. Well, take the shovel, Grumble,
88
METEOROLOGICAL TABLE,
I had rather have the broom, it is not so heavy;
and you may have my mittens, too.
GRUMBLE, (a little mortified). Well, we will
take turns with the shovel, and as for your mit-
tens, there is no great merit in giving up what
you cannot wear yourself; I heard you say they
were too large for you.
[Grumble throws down a book, with which he
has been beguiling the time till breakfast, and,
with a dreadful yawn, rises from his seat. Good-
nature brings him his shoes from the entry.]
GRUMBLE. Confound it! my shoes are all fro-
zen stiff! I wonder why that plaguy shoemaker
do n't bring home my boots, when he said he
would. I never yet knew a shoemaker tell the
truth. When I go for them again, I'll give him
a piece of my mind. I'll fix him.
CHEERFUL. Fix him! So I would, Grumble,
to his bench, with a piece of his own wax, and
tell him not to get up till he has made use of his
awl, and worked to the last, and then I may
தி
FOR FAMILY USE.
89
chance to get my boots before Christmas. Ha,
ha, ha!
GRUMBLE (looks from the window with a dis-
satisfied air). I knew it would snow this holi-
day, just because I wanted to go skating. I'll
be bound Frog-pond is completely covered, and
will remain so a month. It is too bad!
CHEERFUL. So it is, Grumble. How I pity
the poor frogs, to be shut up in prison so long.
May be, though, one of the boys may break
through, and make a skylight for the little frogs,
so that they can see what is going on over their
heads.
W
GRUMBLE. Do talk about frogs, Mr. Silliness,
when so many boys are disappointed! That is
always the way you try to torment me, and
make me angry! Come, get the shovel to make
the paths, if you are going to to-day, and hand
me the mittens as you go along.
Exit the boys.
7
VACATION-TIME.
'Now what shall I do, my dear mother, to-day?
I'm tired of reading, and tired of play;
I have finished the shirt for dear father, at school,
And brought home my needle, and thimble, and spool;
For to-day our vacation begins, and, dear me!
I do wish that some person would ask me to tea;
'Tis a shame to stay moping at home, for I know
All the girls but poor me have got somewhere to go.
I would get out my tea set, and play, making tea;
But then there is no one to drink it, but me;
And so it will be all the vacation through,
Oh dear! how I wish I had something to do!'
Her mother turned round, with a look of surprise,
And saw the tears starting in Caroline's eyes.
'Why Cary, my dear, I am sorry to see
That you cannot be happy without company.
You have books, you have work, and of playthings a store;
And can you, dear Cary, ask anything more?
You began a nice book-mark, this morning, now see
If you cannot complete it before time for tea?'
92
VACATION TIME.
'Don't ask me to work in vacation, dear me!
Every girl in the school would be laughing at me.
Susan Tyler, and Julia, and all the girls say
That vacation was given us only for play.
I have no one to play with, dear mother, but you,
And nothing, I mean, nothing pleasant, to do.
S
I should like to have finished that book-mark for aunt,
But there's no use in trying, for I know I can't!'
""I can't" never finished a thing it began,
So instead of "I can't," say "I will, if I can,"
And, for company, call up good humor, my dear,
In her train you will see merry faces appear;
Your work will seem light, and, before set of sun,
I shall hear you say "Mother, my book-mark is done."
To play all the time you will certainly find
A wearisome thing both to body and mind;
Give a part of each day to your work, play, and books ;
These will banish complaining and such dismal looks;
You will make yourself happy, and dear mother, too,
And I sha'n't hear you saying, "I've nothing to do.""
'You are right, my dear mother, I know you are right!'
In a moment she vanished away from her sight;
But returned in an hour, all smiling with glee,
'My book-mark is finished, oh see, mother! see!
VACATION TIME.
93
Now don't it look handsome, and even, and nice;
I'm glad that I followed your kindly advice.
The hour seemed a moment, so swiftly it flew,
And now I am happy, dear mother, and you.'
Thus the sun rose in clouds, but it set clear and bright,
For good-humor was Cary's companion that night,
And did not forsake her the vacation through,
But helped her to find something pleasant to do;
And, to all little girls, I would freely commend
Good-humor, a pleasant companion and friend.

PETITION OF THE RABBITS.
'I would not enter on my list of friends,
Though graced with polished manners and fine sense,
Yet wanting sensibility, the man
Who heedlessly sets foot upon a worm.'
EVERY School-boy and girl has read these lines
of Cowper, yet how few pay any heed to the
beautiful sentiment they contain.
I sometimes think that boys are naturally cruel,
and take pleasure in inflicting pain on the animal
and insect race. Then, again, I am more chari-
table, and hope it is because they do not con
sider the consequences, but let their love of fun
overcome their better feelings; in either case,
however, it is equally inexcusable, unmanly, and

mean.
The pen
and pencil have both been employed
96
PETITION OF
to draw a picture of what cruelty to animals may
lead.
Hogarth, has a set of pictures called 'The Dif-
ferent Stages of Cruelty,' in which he represents a
boy beginning his course of wickedness by wan-
tonly pulling the wings from a fly, and ending
his career on the gallows as a murderer of his
fellow-man. It is by such slow degrees that a
man reaches the commission of such acts of wick-
edness as become punishable by the laws of his
country the law written on our consciences,
says 'Do unto others as you would have others
do to you.' Obey this, and you will never be cruel
to torture even an insect.
The neglect of animals under our care is one
species of cruelty. Boys, for instance, take rabbits,
confine them in pens, thus making them entirely
dependent on them for food; and, after they get
tired of the care of them, will forget for days to
feed their helpless family. I knew a boy who
would often go to school of a winter's morning
THE RABBITS.
97
without providing his rabbits a particle of food,
unless reminded by some member of the family
of their starving condition. His mother had long
noticed it with regret; and, one day, on his return
from school, he found the following appeal on
the table.
'There has been a great deal of discussion of
late, in the great assembly of the nation, about
the "right of petition." Whether the subject is set at
rest or not we have n't been informed; for, though
we are a long-eared race, our imprisoned situa-
tion, and our residence for the most part below
ground, prevents our hearing all that is going on
in the great world of politics; but, in a council of
rabbits, held in our Burrow, it was resolved that,
in order to have our wants supplied, we must pe-
tition; for how else could they be known and at-
tended to? Accordingly, Jonathan Old Buck was
unanimously chosen to draft a petition, setting
forth our grievances; and we humbly hope, for the
credit of humanity, that it will neither be laid on
98
PETITION OF
the table, indefinitely postponed, nor finally re-
jected.
"PETITION.
"Kind masters: We, the inhabitants of Bur-
row No. 1, being driven by the severity of the
weather to retreat to our subterranean dwelling,
begin to fear that, being out of sight, we shall be
out of mind, and humbly pray, that while you are
enjoying the bounties a kind Providence has
spread around you, that you will remember the
claims of those who are dependent upon you for
a supply of their daily wants.
"We are not endowed with instinct, like the Ant
and Bee, that enables them in summer to lay in
a supply for winter's use; neither have we skill,
like the Beaver, to construct our own dwelling;
but are compelled to inhabit just such abodes as
you see fit to allot us, with only such an addition
to our comfort as a hole in the earth affords.
THE RABBITS.
99
"The snow has cut off entirely our slender re-
sources. Not a spire of grass, or a green bud
gladdens our eye, or regales our palate. Perhaps
our Creator had a wise design in this, to teach
children that even they have duties to perform,
and are bound to impart to those animals depen-
dent upon them a share of the good things they
enjoy. Pray remember, then, while eating an ap-
ple, how grateful the paring is to the palate of
a rabbit, and watch that no cabbage leaf is thrown
carelessly away. How often do I rush from
the burrow when I hear your tread, hoping you
have brought some dainty morsel to regale my
young and numerous family; and, when I return
disappointed, it would grieve your young hearts to
see poor little Frisky and Bunney return to the
corner to gnaw again the edge of a board, to
keep from starvation. *
"I do not mean to complain of you, my dear
young master, for you have heretofore provided
us with the necessaries of life, and by now and
100 PETITION OF THE RABBITS.
then nibbling a little snow, and allowancing the
young ones, we have kept ourselves in pretty
good flesh; but I would simply suggest, that the
spring will find us in good condition, our fur
looking glossy, our eyes bright, and our ears erect,
if we are well kept; and, whether destined for the
market, to be purchased by the boy who will give
the highest price for us, or it may be to serve your
own palate (one or other of these fates we cannot
but anticipate,) it will be for your interest, as well
as our comfort, to be mindful of our wants.
"Remember that frozen dough is rather cold,
even to the stomach of a rabbit, and that any little
rarity is as grateful to us as to a hungry school-boy ;
and in gratitude for past favors, your petitioners,
as in duty bound, will ever pray.
"JONATHAN OLD BUCK,
"In behalf of the Inhabitants of Burrow No. 1."
ORIGINAL ANECDOTE.
IN the time of the Revolutionary war, many
of the most respectable families on the sea board,
were compelled, by the threatening approach of
the enemy on their coast, to abandon their com-
fortable homes, and take up their residence in the
country, sharing such accommodations as they
could obtain. Sometimes a panic would be sent
through a whole community, at dead of night, by
the sound of an alarm-gun echoing along the
shore, announcing that 'the enemy had landed.'
The next morning, whether the report proved true
or false, might be seen vehicles of various de-
scriptions, bearing off valuables of every trans-
portable kind, with their owners mounted on the
top, and Cæsar, or Pompey, jogging on behind.
The town of Andover received many of these
*
102
ANECDOTE.
fugitives,.and some families remained there till
the close of the war.
The quiet of this, then secluded, retreat, was
occasionally invaded by the passage of troops to
the frontier, who would stop at some private
house for a breakfast, putting all the coffee-pots
in the neighborhood in requisition, and causing
a partial famine by their all-devouring appetites.
Then the wounded soldier would be thrown on
their humanity, and many a delicate girl has
watched by the couch of the dying soldier, with
most patriotic benevolence, feeling that she was
rendering her country a service by the act; for at
that time every one did what they could. Every
thing connected with the army had a strange in-
terest in those patriotic days, and even the pas-
sage of a wagon with supplies was enough to
collect a crowd of spectators, anxious to know its
destination, and to ascertain if it contained am-
munition or food.
It chanced, one Sunday, that a team, heavily
ANECDOTE.
103
laden with supplies of the latter description,
passed the house in which a family of respecta-
bility, from the town of M-, had taken up
their temporary abode. It was during the time
of divine service, when the able-bodied part of
the community were all at meeting; the travel-
ling was heavy from the spring rains, and the
roads much worn by the broad wheels of the
wagons.
A driver of one of these army wagons was
urging, unsuccessfully, his weary animals up a
hill, and had looked in vain for any one to render
him the needed assistance, when a delicate
young lady, who had been anxiously watch his
movements from her window, stepped forward
and offered her services.

6
Why, what can you do?' said the driver,
eyeing her from head to foot, in some astonish-
ment, 'I want somebody who can put his shoul-
der to the wheel.'
'I can haw, wo, and gee,' said she, taking at
104
ANECDOTE.
the same time his whip, 'while you place some-
thing behind the wheel, to prevent its running
back.'
The man accepted the offer, and by her spir-
ited exertions, succeeded in getting the wagon up
the hill. When they had reached the top, the man
seemed unable to express his gratitude for such
unexpected assistance, and taking from his pocket
his leather purse, offered her a silver dollar, which,
in those days, was a great rarity, as a compensa-
tion for the aid she had afforded him. This she
did not accept, but told him he was welcome to
her services, and wishing him a safe journey,
disappeared like a fairy from his sight. I have
heard her relate this circumstance in her old age,
with the same feeling that a Revolutionary pat-
triot 'shoulders his crutch, and tells how fields.
were won,' and the recollection of it would call
up so many associations, that she would talk for
hours about those times of privation and trial.
ORDER AND DISORDER.
How much time and trouble might be saved
by putting every thing in its proper place! John
H. is a careful boy. When he comes from
school, he hangs up his cap on the hat-tree, and
never comes into the parlor with his tippet and
mittens on, but puts them where he can be sure
of finding them when wanted again. His skates
are hung up and kept bright, his sled is put
under cover, and not exposed to the pelting of
the pitiless storm. His books are brought from
school in a satchel, and taken out as they are
wanted for study; they show no pencil marks, or
dog's ears, but a nice book-mark is seen between
the leaves, bearing the motto 'Labor conquers
all things.'
When asked to perform a trifling office, or do
8
106
ORDER AND DISORDER.
an errand, he does it promptly and cheerfully,
and makes himself a great favorite in the family
circle. I need n't say such a boy gets his lessons
well, and is No. 1 in deportment at school; for it
always happens that a boy who is faithful to his
duties at home, is one who stands high in the
opinion of his teachers at school.
What a contrast to this picture is Edmund
L- The house resounds with the inquiry,
'Where is my cap, my tippet, my mittens?'
which are sure to be found anywhere but in the
right place. Where is his sled? Frozen into
the mud in the back yard, where it was carelessly
thrown after it was last used, and is sadly de-
faced, it will probably thaw out in the spring.
His skates, where are they? Reposing behind
the wood-box in the entry, richly enamelled with
rust. Open his books, you need n't trouble
yourself to do that, they are open already, for
both covers are off, and the blank pages present a
motley array of grinning faces, caricatures of the
ORDER AND DISORDER.
107
master, and other odd shapes, exploits in draw-
ing, performed when the master's eye happened
to be otherwise engaged than in watching him.
He is often kept after school, as a punishment for
a dirty desk, and the name of 'Edmund Care-
less' is often to be seen in large characters on
the black-board.
He is dilatory about everything, and 'bye and
bye,' is always the best time with him, except
when he needs any kind office himself, and then
he is very impatient of delay.
I hold up a mirror. Does any boy see a fea-
ture of his own character there? If there be a
boy, whose reflected image corresponds to Ed-
mund Careless, let him not turn away in anger,
but rather set about making himself such a char-
acter as he would like to have held up to view.
You are forming habits now, in early life, that
will affect your characters when you get to be
men; and a boy, who is careless and disorderly,
will grow up to be a slovenly man.
THE BROKEN DOLL.
MARY had a little doll,
Her aunty bought her at the Fair;
She laid it on the floor one day,
And Ann, not knowing it was there,
Came in, with quick and heavy tread,
And stepped upon poor dolly's head.
'Oh, look, dear aunt,' cries Mary, then,
'Pray, can't you mend her up again?
Do join the pieces all together—
I wish she had been made of leather,
Like my old doll, then Ann might tread
Upon her arms, or neck, or head,
And she would be as good as ever;
But this new doll is spoiled forever!
Oli, her poor head is broken so
It never can be cured, I know.'
AUNT. 'I cannot say that I am sorry
To hear this story of your dolly,
For it may teach you never morc
To leave her lying on the floor.
110
THE BROKEN DOLL.
Did you expect that she would say,
"Now Ann, do step the other way;
And pray, be careful not to tread
Upon my precious little head.”
You say that when you put her there,
You set her in her casy chair,
While you were playing "making tea”
With little Susan Emery.
That's some excuse for you, I own;
But, Mary, you have careless grown
About your dolls, and playthings too,
And grandmother oft says to you,
(C
Mary must more attentive be
To her dear, helpless, family;
She lets them be quite out of sight,
From rising morn till closing night;
They 're neither washed, nor combed, nor dressed,
Though of all dolls the very best."
Suppose your mother took no care
Of little brother Willy, there,
But cold and hungry let him lie,
Why, very soon poor Will would die.
Your dolls can neither feel nor move,
But they were given you to love,
And to take care of every day,
And care of them should be your play.'
THE BROKEN DOLL.
111
Mary looked thoughtful for a while,
But pretty soon I saw a smile
Come creeping round her mouth and eyes,
And 'Oh forgive me, aunt,' she cries,
'And I will promise never more
To leave them lying on the floor.
My largest doll I'll safely keep,
And sing the little ones to sleep,
Before I go to bed at night,
And see that they are tucked up tight;
And in the morning they shall be
My best and constant company.'

THE CONSERVATORY.
THOSE Who have not already visited this beau-
tiful ornament of the City of Boston, I am afraid
may never have an opportunity, for the building,
though still standing, has been so injured by fire,
as to render it unfit for use; and money, as yet,
has not been raised to repair it. But we sincerely
hope some lover of floral beauty may be found
willing to give the sum required, and that we
may yet see the Conservatory restored to its for-
mer beauty, and looking as gay in birds and
flowers, as we have described it below.
I visited the Conservatory in January, when
the ground was covered with snow, and it looked
even more beautiful in winter than summer, from
the striking contrast it presented to the very
snowy appearance without. I will try to give
114
THE CONSERVATORY.
you a description of it. The building is circular,
with a top like a dome, made entirely of win-
dows, like a green-house, which in truth it is,
only of this peculiar construction for the better
display of the plants, which are arranged in the
centre, in the form of a pyramid, to the very top.
After you enter, you ascend a flight of steps, into
a gallery which extends round the building, giv-
ing you a view of the pyramid of green on all its
sides, with its beautiful camilla japonicas, a
flower as large as a tea-cup, some of a pure
white, others of a brilliant scarlet, pink, and rose-
colors. Orange trees, with their brilliant yellow
fruit, beam out among this wilderness of green,
and the pale lemon is seen, too, with both fruit
and blossom. The glossy-leafed myrtle, and the
whole family of geraniums, and the brilliant scar-
let verbena, and the splendid sage, lend their
aid to make the display both gorgeous and beau-
tiful. You stand feasting your eye with this
array of nature's choicest gems, when your ear is
THE CONSERVATORY.
115
regaled with the music of many voices,gay
songsters of the grove; and, looking down, you
see birds of every plume, from the gay paraquet
to the neat Java sparrow, in his black over-coat
and light under-clothes, looking as if dressed in
half-mourning. The birds are not confined in
cages, but the space they occupy is enclosed by a
wire net-work. They seem to live on the best
terms, and are billing and cooing, and making
love to each other, as unconcerned as if they were
enjoying the solitude of their native bowers.
Against the wall are nailed neat straw nests of
basket-work, in which they make themselves as
much at home, as if they had gathered the mate-
rials and constructed them after their own fash-
ion. Some aquatic birds were performing their
ablutions, and, strutting near them, were two
lofty-looking birds, with very long legs, and a
high tuft of plumage on their heads, to whom I
was not introduced, so, of course, I cannot give
you their names; but they were mighty civil,
116
THE CONSERVATORY.
and at every step made a sort of bow, after the
manner of a beau of the last century.
I found the company of the birds quite fasci-
nating, and the scene altogether more like fairy
land than anything else; but a few steps brought
me again into the real world of frost and snow,
and the dinner-bell reminded me that I had spent
nearly half a day among the birds and flowers.

THE CONTRIBUTION BOX:
A FAMILY NEWSPAPER,
'HARK! children,' says Hall, 'here comes our
sister Ellen, laboring under the weight of the
family post-bag, containing the important Con-
tribution Box for this week. Listen, and you
shall hear what it contains. Be seated, most ex-
cellent little carrier, and thou, most worthy editor;
it is my turn to read it to-night.'
Bless me, what is here? A New-Year's Ad-
dress from the carrier, as I live. This must be
read first by all means.
}
118
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
CARRIER'S NEW-YEAR'S ADDRESS,
FOR THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
YOUR Editor enjoys good health,
Which she considers nature's wealth;
And hopes her patrons all are rich in
This same inestimable blessing.
She wakened me at early dawning
And told me it was New-year's morning;
And I must trip like any fairy,
And take this message from aunt Mary.
For Contribution Box must pay
Its earliest tribute New-year's day:
So to the boys and little misses
She sends her best of New-year's kisses.
Our paper's in its childhood yet,
That time of expectation,
So we are willing to assume
A very humble station.
We leave to wiser heads than ours,
The affairs of this great nation,
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX. 119
For we are only subject to
Domestic legislation.
The currency do n't trouble us,
For we have food and raiment;
And the small banks, from which we draw,
Have never yet stopped payment.
We take our pay in dimpled smiles,
In kisses sweet as honey;
And be assured this currency
Is better than hard money.
We have no gold or silver coin,
Our bills we never print, sir;
For these same smiles, and kisses, too,
Are coined in nature's mint, sir.
We've many pet banks, I'll allow,
Set up by near relations;
But even these, in hardest times,
Have met our expectations.
The triumphs of the Temperance cause,
We always hail with pleasure;
And wish success to all its friends,
In every lawful measure.
We feel a growing interest in
The Anti-slavery cause,
120
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
And hope to see the slave cnjoy
Our free and equal laws.
The great ones of the nation now
To common schools are turning,
And if every man were IIorace Mann,
We should not want for learning.
We're glad the schoolmaster's abroad,
And we are pleased to find
He carries neither birch nor strap,
To make his scholars mind.
But in his hand he bears a scroll,
And on it you may see
The name of every boy and girl,
And what their rank may be.
There's number one, and number two,
Aud three, and four, and five,
And every scholar in the school,
For number one must strive.
I looked upon the list with care,
My patrons' names to see,
And one I found at number four,
And one at number three.
Oh, fie upon you, master Charles,
And Lucy, fie on you;
Why, if you can't get number one,
At least get number two.
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX. 121
The past year we have had a gift,
All other gifts excelling,
A little brother has come here,
And taken up his dwelling.
We've had a famous wedding, too,
Within our commonwealth;
And James broke through his temperance pledge,
To drink the fair bride's health.
Our kitchen cabinet has changed
Its whole administration;
It's officers are good and truc,
Though of another nation.
With foreign powers we've kept at peace,
And waged no civil war,
And promptly settled all disputes
Without the aid of law.
My Contribution-box is full,
Indeed 't is running o'er;
So I had better drop my pen,
And not write any more;
Except to give my patrons kind
My best of New-year's wishes;
And when I bring my address round,
I'll take my pay in kisses.
9
THE CONTRIBUTION-BOX.
LET LOVE THROUGH ALL YOUR ACTIONS RUN.'
SATURDAY MORNING, JAN. 2, 184-.
THE Contribution Box is to
be issued weekly. Terms libe-
ral. Articles for its columns
gratefully received, and an ex-
change with other family-papers
solicited by the editor.
object is to promote domestic
union, harmony, and love. It is
to contain, like other contribu-
tion boxes, coins of various
value. It is hoped no articles
will be presented, that have not
on them the true stamp, fit to cir-
UPON commencing a paper, it | culate through the family, and
is common to send out a Pros- promote the objects above
pectus, making known its object, named.
naming the subjects to be dis-
cussed, and the principles, moral,
religious, and political, it is
pledged to support.
The name of our paper indi-
cates, in some sense, its charac-
ter. It belongs to no party. Its
If offence is taken by any
member of the family, at the ex-
posure of a fault, or the play-
ful exhibition of any impropriety
of manner, that person is to be
deprived of any interest in the
paper for a month.
124 THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
It is the ardent wish of the ing. There is no such thing as
editor that love, good-will, and
the best interests of the domestic
circle, may be promoted by the
Contribution-Box, and articles
of an amusing and instructive
nature will often appear in its
columns.
THE WEATHER.
E.
OLD January came in yester
day, with a great bluster; strode
over the Merrimack River, and
changed it into an ice-bridge, so
that the boys can now go over
toll free; laid his hand on the
thermometer at the front door,
and sent the mercury so low,
that it was almost out of sight-
quite below nothing,- drew a
gauze curtain over the window-
glass, stopped the noses of the
pumps, and nipped the noses of
the children. For all this we
stopping the chariot-wheels of
time; and I am half inclined to
think, like every thing else, this
old chariot now goes by steam-
power, it certainly did n't use
to travel so fast.
We have had but little snow
this winter, not enough to
make sleighing. The clouds
have sifted out a little, once now
and then, making a crust about
as thick as the frosting of a
plum-cake; the boys have had
no use for their sleds, all painted
so fine; and skating has been the
order of the day.
DOMESTIC ACCIDENTS.
A CLOSET -the sacred de-
posit of ancient china, and other
valuable heir-looms,—was a few
evenings since opened to obtain
some articles placed there for
give the New-year a warm greet- I safe keeping; when, lo! what
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX. 125
was the dismay of the beholder,
to see, in sad confusion at the
bottom of the closet, the hoarded
treasures of the broad shelf. The
cumbrous dignity of the articles,
and the weight of years, proved
The same evening of this fatal
occurrence, the kitchen snap-
table (most appropriate name!)
caught the infection, and by a
movement resembling a convul-
sion fit, sent dishes, spoons, and
too much for the frailty of mod-platters, on the floor, proving
ern building, and the shelf fatal to the brittle part of its con-
showed itself unworthy of its tents. And here ends my chap-
trust, by letting its whole con- ter of accidents.
tents fall, a shapeless mass, on
the floor. Here a handle-less
mug; there an ancient dish- a
huge bowl that had seen nearly
a century pass over its rim,
crushed beneath a glass pyra-
its im, T
ADVERTISEMENT.
10 be represented in the draw-
ing room, on Tuesday eve-
N. B. Wanted, some person
of sufficient height to represent
Meg Merriles.
mid—like its namesakes of un-ning next, five Tableau-scenes,
known date- and the whole principally from Walter Scott.
lying a mass of fragments that
neither putty nor cement could
ever unite. Shades of my an-
cestors, how could you witness
unmoved such havoc? Portrait
of my stately great-grandfather,
why did you not step from your
frame and stay the destroyer? could speak, what celebrated
CONUNDRUMS.
Ir the blower of the grate
126 THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
Arithmetician would it name? | circle; and we are not saying
Colburn. Coal-burn.
What scholar in the High
School, who, though in good
health, is always in pain? John
Aiken. -Aching.
ANECDOTE.
A CHILD, a few Sundays
since, was asked by his teacher,
what he thought backbiters
meant answered from his own
experience, 'I should think it
meant fleas?'
OBITUARY.
DIED, at the Parsonage, by
the murderous hands of Miss
Grimalkin, Bob Canary, a favor-
ite bird, aged fourteen years and
two months.
The deceased was one of those
mild little beings who always
give pleasure in the domestic
too much, when we assert, that
during his long period of exist-
ence, he never gave cause of un-
happiness to a living being. His
cheerful song in the morning
grected the ear of the early riser,
and even those who appeared
last at the breakfast table, came
in for a share of his light, sweet
carol.
[COMM.
communication
The above
suggested the following lines.
LAMENT FOR BOB CANARY.
Poor little bird poor little bird!
Thy voice will never more be heard;
Thy early song no more will break
Upon my ear, and bid me wake.
And when in bed too long I lie
Regardless of thy minstrelsy,
Shall hear no more a warning note,
Come warbling from thy little throat.
Thou wert a charming little fellow,
With eyes so bright and plume so yellow.
The very sweetest of thy race,
Adorned with every bird-like grace,
To charm the eye and win the heart,
How can I bear with thee to part?
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
127
Poor little Bob! how didst thou die?
Canst thou explain the mystery?
Did Pussy steal into the room,
And bring thee to thy cruel doom?
I heard thy sweet voice carol clear,
And thought no enemy was near.
Oh, treacherous, wicked, selfish cat!
Thou dost not e'en deserve a rat,
To serve thee in thy greatest need,
If thou could'st do this cruel deed.
I surely never can forgive thee,
If thou didst kill my sweet Canary.
I turned to where my birdie lay,
These were the words he seemed to say:
'My gentle mistress, do not chide,
But pardon her by whom I died.
She only followed nature's law,
When she stretched out her cruel claw,
And laid it on my helpless neck,
As I hopped out the crumbs to peck;
I've often seen her eager cye
Fixed on my cage, as it hung high,
And my poor heart went pit-a-pat,
For fear of that same Tabby Cat;
And sung her many a grateful song,
That she had spared my life so long.
And now I lay me down to die,
Hushed is my native melody;
I've only one more note to spare,
With that I'll thank you for the care
With which you've nurtured me so long.
Adicu-this is my farewell song.'
k y
MORAL.
May this sad story prove to be
A lesson both to you and me,
On the presumption man displays
When he reverses nature's ways,
By trusting that the hungry cat
Will spare the bird and kill the rat.
There are mysteries in nature's plan
Left unexplained to feeble man;
But this we know from holy Word,
That not the meanest, smallest bird,
Falls to the ground unnoticed by
Our IIcavenly Father's watchful eye.
ARRIVED, by the hand of Fa-
ther Nicholas, (the old gentle-
man grows more generous every
year he lives,) New-year's to-
kens from many friends, consist-
ing of books, games, toys, &c.,
too many and great to be placed
in the stockings; and, by the help
of some fairy or other, Father
Nicholas contrived to arrange
them on a table, after we had
all retired to bed to dream of
New-year's presents.
128
THE CONTRIBUTION BOX.
tively, is an offence against the
ST
ONE CENT REWARD!
TRAYED—supposed to be
stolen from the yard of
|
laws of politeness. A great deal
is to be learned from intelligent
the subscriber,—a grey kitten, conversation, as well as from
with a stripe of black through books, and you cannot treat per-
her back, the tip of her tail white, sons older than yourself with
with an amiable expression of greater contempt, than to take
face. She has no fault but a up a book and read in their
thievish propensity, and was presence, or interrupt them while
never guilty of the inhuman speaking, or show any rudeness
practice, so common to her spe- of this kind.
cies, of destroying rats and mice,
preferring always to dine from
the shelves of the pantry. The
above reward will be given to
any one who will restore her to
the owner, and no questions
asked.
LUCY ANN GREEN.
An eastern sage was relating
his misfortunes to a Statue :
'Fool,' said a traveller, 'do you
suppose that cold marble hears
you?' The sage replied-‘I
know the marble hears me not,
but at least it does not interrupt
me.'
A GREAT deal has been writ-
ten on the art of speaking, but
very little upon the art of listening,
which is quite as hard to acquire.
Not to listen when another is
speaking, or to listen inatten-lishment in other families.
THE foregoing is a copy of a
manuscript paper, that amused a
family circle of young people for
several years. Wo give it, think-
ing it may suggest their estab-
1629-44

BOUND
BY
HMM
81J12
00

UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
wils
81J12 00
Jackson, Helen Maria Fiske Hunt, 1831-18
Old times, with other familiar sketches
3 1951 002 381 466 D
:
WILSON
ANNEX
AISLE 70
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