LITTLE Fanny Greenland rose very early one morning, with a design of gathering some flowers, and making them up into a nose­gay for her mama. But, as she was preparing to go down stairs, her father came into the room, and taking her in his arms, said, with a smile: Kiss me, my dear Fanny, and come with me directly: I have something to shew you that I am sure you will like.

WHAT is it, papa? cried she eagerly.

WHY God has made you a present to-night, he answered, of a little brother.

A little brother! O where is he? Pray let me see! Pray carry me to him!

MR. Greenland then opened the door of her mama's chamber. At the bed-side there was a woman, whom Fanny had never before [...]en in the house, wrapping up the new-born baby in swaddling-clothes.

[Page 2]THE little girl asked a thousand and a thou­sand questions: Mr. Greenland answered them with the utmost goodness; and thought he had fully satisfied her curiosity, when she called out: Papa, who is that old woman? How she tosses my little brother about! Are you not afraid she will hurt him?

Not at all; you may be quite easy about that. She is a very good wo­man, and I sent for her on purpose to take care of him.

But he belongs to mama, does not he? Has she seen him yet?

Mrs. GREENLAND,

YES, my love. Are you not very glad to see him yourself?

O, very glad, mama. You are very good to give me such a pretty little companion. What a droll little face he has! and he is as red!—just as if he had been running. Will you let him come and play with me, papa?

He is not able, my love; he cannot stand upon his feet. Only look how weak they are!

O goodness, what little tiny feet! I see he could not run long with me.

You must have patience, Fanny. He must first learn to walk: and after that you may play what gambols you please to­gether in the garden.

May we indeed. O poor little thing! I must see and give you something, that you may begin to love me. Here, I have got a print in my pocket; take it.—Look, papa, look! [Page 3] the little monkey won't take it; he keeps his little hands shut quite close.

He does not know the use he may make of them. You must wait a few months.

O, that I will, my dear pretty little man! I will give you all my play-things. Hey, shall you like to have them? Answer me, I say! He seems as if he smiled. Call me Fan­ny,—Fanny! Why, now, why won't you speak?

He will not speak for two years, perhaps. But take care, lest you disturb your mama with your prattle.

Ah, papa, see if his face is not quite changed: he is crying; I dare say he is hungry. Hush! hush! and I will go and bring you some sugar-plums.

Don't trouble yourself about his food; he has no teeth; how can he eat?

What! can't he eat? What will he live upon, then? Is he going to die?

No, my love. God has given me milk on purpose that I may feed him with it. He is very weak now, but in a few days you will see some difference; and, in a few weeks, he will roll about the ground like a little lamb.

But how tired I shall be to wait so long first! Only see, papa, what a delicate little head he has! I am afraid to touch it.

Yes, you may touch it, but very gently.

O, very gently, indeed. Goodness, how soft it is! it's just like cotton.

The heads of all little babies are the same.

If he should happen to fall, he wo [...] break it into a thousand pieces.

Certainly; but we shal [...] take great care how we hold him, and so preven [...] his falling.

Do you know, my dear Fanny, that five years ago, you were as little as this yourself?

Me! as little as him! O, you are not in earnest, papa?

Nothing can be more true.

Well, I am sure I don't remember it.

No, I fancy not. But do you recollect when I had this chamber papered?

No, papa; it has always been the same as it is now.

No such thing. I had it papered at the time when you were as little as your brother.

Well then, I am sure I never saw it.

Little babies never see or take notice of any thing that passes. When your brother is as old as you, ask him if he remembers your trying to teach him to pro­nounce your name to-day. You will find he knows nothing of it.

And did mama give me milk too, when I was a little thing, like that?

Without doubt. O if you knew all the trouble she has had with you! You were so weak that you could take nothing; every moment we were afraid you would die. Ah, my poor little baby! your mama used to say, what must I do! if she should cry herself into fits! And great, indeed, was the difficulty she found to keep any life in you.

Ah, my dear mama! was it you, then, that taught me how to eat?

Yes, my love, it was your mama. And after she had succeeded in making you take your food, you became fat and spright­ly. For near two years, she had every day, and every hour of the day, the same trouble. Sometimes, when she slept from mere fatigue, you woke her with your cries. She would then instantly rise, and hasten to your cradle. My dear little Fanny, she would say, while she kissed you a thosand times, perhaps you are hungry? And then again she would feed you.

Was my head as soft, then, as my little brother's?

Just the same.

And now it is quite hard! Good­ness, how many hundred times I might have broke it!

O what care did we take that no accident should happen to you! You [...] mama, for a while, gave up all company, all pleasure, all public places, rather than lo [...] sight of you even for an instant. And whene­ver she was absolutely obliged to go out, upon some call of duty, or some indispensible [...] ­ness, she was always in an agony till she [...] [...]n­ed. My dear Gertrude, she would say to your nurse, I entreat you to be as careful of Fanny as if she were your own child. And she co [...] ­tinually made her presents, that she might be induced to pay you the greater attention.

O what a good mama! But, papa, was there ever a time when I did not know how to run? Why I can run now quite fast. Only [Page 6] see, in three steps I am at the end of the room. Who was it first taught me to do this?

Your mama and I. We put a band of stuft velvet round your head, that you might not hurt yourself if you should happen to fall; we held you by leading-strings, to assist your first little steps. We took you every day to the green-plat in the garden, and then, sitting opposite each other, at a little dis­tance, we made you stand all alone between us, and then held out our arms, to invite you first to one, then to the other. The smallest false step you took, made our blood run cold. But by continually repeating this exercise, we taught you at last to walk by yourself.

O, I never thought I had given you so much trouble! And was it you too, that taught me to speak?

Yes, we also taught you that. I took you upon my knees, and repeated to you the names of Papa, and Mama, till you were able to lisp them yourself; and every word that you now know, you were then taught by us in the same manner. You ought yourself to remember that it was us, also, who instruc­ted you how to read.

O, I remember that quite well. You used to put me upon a chair between you at table. Then in the desert we had always a plate of dried plums, and little squares with printed letters. And whenever I named them right, you always gave me some of the plums. O! it was such a pretty play!

If we had not taken any pains with you, if we had left you quite to [Page 7] yourself, what do you think would have become of you?

O, I should have been dead a long while ago. O what a good papa and mama you are!

Yet do you not sometimes vex your papa? Are you not sometimes disobe­dient to your mama?

But I never will again as long as I live! I did not know you had done so many things for me.

Observe well the care we shall take of your little brother, and then say to yourself: And I, I also, have given as much trouble to my parents!

THIS conversation made a deep impression upon Fanny's mind; and when she saw her mama's tenderness for her little brother, her uneasiness for his health, her patience in feeding and nursing him; the sorrow with which she heard his cries; the earnestness of her papa to share some part of her fatigue; and their mu­tual trouble and difficulty, in teaching the child both to walk and speak; she said in her heart: Ah! my dear papa and mama, you have alrea­dy taken the same pains with me! This thought filled her with so much tenderness and gratitude, that she faithfully remembered the promise she had made them, of never w [...]ully giving them the smallest displeasure.

O THAT Winter would but last forever! cried little Frank, as he came home from sliding upon the ice, after amusing himself by making figures with the snow in the garden.

MR. Goodman his father, hearing this ex­clamation, called to him, and said: Frank, you will oblige me, by writing down that wish in my tablets. Frank instantly obeyed, though with a hand that was shaking with cold.

THE winter, however, soon passed away, and the Spring succeeded it.

FRANK walked out one morning with his fa­ther, along a bank that was bordered with hya­cinths, auriculas, and narcissuses, and was almost transported with delight, while he breathed their fragrance, and admired their freshness and beauty.

THESE, said Mr. Goodman, are the pro­ductions of spring. They are brilliant, but they are very short-lived. O! answered Frank, that it was but always Spring!

WILL you write this wish in my tablets? said his father. Frank, jumping with high spirits and joy, readily complied.

THE spring, nevertheless was soon replaced by the Summer.

FRANK, one fine afternoon, went out with his father and mother, and some companions of his own age, to walk in a neighbouring village.

[Page 9]THEY observed, as they proceeded, the most beautiful variety of views and objects: now they admired the young green corn, waving lightly with the wind, like the sea in its gentlest motion; and now a meadow enameled with a thousand flowers. Now they saw little lambs frisking and bounding on the hills; and now little chickens were playing gambols around the hen. They regaled themselves with cherries, strawberries, and other fruits of the season; and they passed the whole day in sporting in the fields.

DO you not find, Frank, said his father, when they were returning home, that summer hath its pleasures?

O yes, answered Frank, how I wish it was to last the whole year!

THIS wish, also, at the desire of his father, he wrote in his tablets.

AT length came the Autumn.

ALL the family now went to see and enjoy the harvest. It was not quite so hot as in sum­mer; the air was soft, and the sky was serene. The waggons were loading with rich sheaves of golden corn, the orchards were blooming with ripe plums and crimson mulberries, and the branches of the apple-trees were bending with their fruit.

THIS was a day of feast and frolic to Frank, who loved nothing so much as green-gages, and rich plums, and who was allowed the full en­joyment of gathering them himself.

THIS fine season, said his father to him, will soon be over; the winter is advancing to us with great strides, to take the place of the au­tumn.

[Page 10]O how I wish, cried Frank, that it would stop by the road, and that the Autumn would never go away from us!

And should you like that, Frank?

That I should, I assure you, papa.

BUT pray, cried his father, taking his tablets from his pocket, look a little at what is written here. Read it aloud.

O that the winter would but last for ever!

Now look and read two or three leaves further.

O that it was but always spring!

Look now at this page; what do you find there?

I wish that the summer was to last all the year round!

Do you know the hand-wri­ting of all this?

Yes, papa; it's my own.

And what is it you were wishing just now?

That winter would stop by the road, and autumn never go away from us.

This is really worth attenti­on. In the winter, you wished it should always be winter; in the spring, that it should always be spring; in the summer, that it should always be summer; and now to-day, in the autumn, you wish that it should always be autumn. Do you reflect at all upon what may be gathered from wishes so contradictory?

Why, I suppose, papa, that all the seasons are good in their turn.

Yes, my dear, they are all good, and all fertile in riches, and in pleasures. God understands much better than we, limited creatures that we are, how to direct and to go­vern their retreat and their approach.

HAD it depended upon you, last winter, we should have seen no more either of spring, sum­mer, or autumn. You would have covered the earth with a perpetual frost, and have been a stranger to all pleasure, but that of sliding upon the ice, and of forming figures with the snow. How many blessings and enjoyments would you have been deprived of by this arrangement!

IT is most fortunate for us, that it is not in our power to regulate the course of nature. All happiness would else be over with us for ever, merely by the grant of our presumptuous wishes.

AFTER many flattering, but deceitful promises, the spring at length returned. The soft-blowing wind again warmed the air, the snow was melted, the grass recovered its beautiful green, the flowers put forth their sweets, and the birds were every where heard singing. Little Louisa was already taken into the country by her father: and already she had listened, with delight, to the ear [...] songs of the cha [...]h and the black-bird, and had gathered [Page 12] the first budding violets; when, suddenly and unexpectedly, the weather again changed. All at once, the wind rose in the North with vio­lence, it blew furiously through the woods, and the ground was covered with snow. At night little Louisa went shivering to bed, yet returning thanks in her prayers to God, that he had giv­en her so safe a shelter from the injuries of the season.

THE next morning when she got up, the flowers, the grass, the hedges, were all one white. There had been, during the night, so great a fall of snow, that the passengers, who were obliged to walk in it, found it up to their knees.

LOUISA was grieved at the sight; but the little birds seemed much more so; for the snow lay so deep upon the ground, that they could find neither grain nor worm, to appease their hunger.

ALL the little feathered inhabitants of the woods, now flew to the towns and the villages, to seek for refuge and protection. Large flights of sparrows, linnets, chaffinches and larks, came into the yards and gardens, perched upon the roofs of the houses, and beat about, with their little bills and their feet, in every heap of rubbish they could find, in hopes of picking up something for food.

NEAR fifty of these little ramblers flew or dropt into the court-yard before Louisa's house. Louisa saw them, and, full of sorrow, went into her papa's room. What is the matter, my love? cried he. O papa, she answered, those poor little birds, that sung so prittily and [Page 13] so merrily only two days ago, are now all down there, in the court-yard. They are quite numb­ed with cold, and they have nothing to eat. May I go to the granary, papa, and take out some grain for them?

WITH all my heart, answered her father. Louisa waited for nothing more. The granary was at some distance from the house; but she hastened to it with all speed, followed by her governess, and eagerly filled her hands with corn and hemp-seed, which she ran and threw all over the court-yard. The birds now flew about her in great numbers, eagerly picking at the smallest little seed. Louisa stood some time looking at them, and was overjoyed at the sight. She then went to her father and mother, beg­ging them to come and look too, and take part in her joy.

BUT these little handfuls of grain were soon devoured. The birds flew to the edges of the roof of the house, and sorrowfully looking at Louisa, seemed to say: Have you nothing more to give us?

LOUISA understood their language; and, swift as an arrow, she ran in search of more grain. In her way she met with a boy who was carrying in his hand a cage filled with birds▪ but who had by no means so compassionate a [...]rt as Louisa's; for he shook the cage so roughly, as he went along, that the poor little animals had their heads continually beat against the wire bars.

LOUISA saw this with much concern. What are you going to do with th [...] [...]ds? cried she to the boy.

[Page 14]I don't know yet, answered he, but I shall sell them if I can; and if nobody will buy them, I shall make a feast of them for my cat.

YOUR cat! cried Louisa, your cat! O you wicked boy!

O, they won't be the first, cried he, that she has had to craunch alive between her teeth. And then, carelessly swinging about the cage, he was walking off.

LOUISA stopt him, and asked how much he would have for them?

I will sell them all at a farthing a piece, he answered, and there are eighteen of them.

VERY well, I'll take them of you, cried Louisa; and bidding the boy follow her, she hurried to her father, and begged his permission to make the purchase.

HER father readily consented, and even gave her the use of an empty room to keep them in.

THE boy, well satisfied with his bargain, then went away; and told all his comrades that he knew a young lady who bought people's birds.

IN a few hours, there came so many other boys, with more of these little animals, to the court-yard before Louisa's house, that the place seemed turned into a bird-market. They all pressed about her when she came in sight, jump­ing one above the other, and lifting their cages up with both their hands, each trying to re­commend to her the birds belonging to himself.

LOUISA bought all that were offered to her, and carried them into the room where she had placed the others.

SHE did not leave them till night; but never had she gone to bed so pleased and delighted [Page 15] before. How happy I am, cried she, to have saved the lives of so many innocent little crea­tures, and now to have the feeding of them myself! When summer comes, I will go into all the fields and woods; and then my little guests shall sing me their prettiest songs, to thank me for all this care I have taken of them.

SHE closed her eyes with this thought, and dreamt that she was strolling in a very beautiful forest, where every tree was peopled with birds, hopping from branch to branch, and gaily warbling, or feeding their young: and Louisa at the sight smiled in her sleep.

SHE rose very early, to get food for her little visitors, both in her room and in the court-yard: but she was not quite so happy to-day, as she had been the night before. She knew what money she had had in her purse, and that but little could now remain. If this snowy weather lasts some days longer, cried she, what will become of all the rest of the birds? The wicked boys here will be giving the [...] [...]ll alive to be eat up by their cats; and for want of a little more money, I shall not be able to save them.

WITH these melancholy thoughts, she slowly drew out her purse, to count over the little trea­sure that was left.

BUT what was her amazement to feel it quite heavy! She opened it, and found it full of coins of different value, mixed and heaped together.

SHE flew to her father, and, in a transport of surprise and joy, related what had happened to her.

[Page 16]HER father took her to his bosom, and, while he embraced her, wetted her cheeks with his tears.

MY dearest child, cried he, thou hast never given me so much satisfaction as at this moment. Continue still to assist all the little suffering crea­tures that are in your power, and as fast as your purse is emptied, you shall again see it filled.

WHAT joy was this for Louisa! She ran in­to her birds apartment, with her apron full of hemp-seed and corn. The birds all flew to her, with eyes that shewed their eagerness for their breakfasts. She then went down into the court-yard, where she gave another plentiful repast to her hungry visitors.

SHE now saw that she had near an hundred pensioners to nourish. What pleasure, what rapture to her was this!

NEVER had her dolls or her play-things af­forded her such delight.

IN the afternoon, as she put her hand into her bag of seeds, she found a little slip of paper, containing these words: "The inhabitants of the air fly towards thee, O Lord! and thou givest them nourishment: Thou puttest forth thy hand, and pourest down thy blessings upon every thing that has life."

SHE eagerly turned to her father, who had followed her, and exclaimed: I, then, papa, am now like God; for the inhabitants of the air fly towards me, and when I put forth my hand, I pour down blessings upon them.

YES, my child, said her father, every time you do good to any living creature, you are [Page 17] like God. When you are grown up, you may succour your fellow-creatures, as you now suc­cour these little birds: and then you will resem­ble God much more. What happiness for a human being to be able to do any thing like God!

DURING a week after this time, Louisa con­tinued to put forth her hand, and pour down blessings upon all the little hungry animals that surrounded her. At length the snow melted; the fields recovered their verdure; and the birds, which had not dared venture from the house­tops, now spread their wings towards the woods.

BUT those which were in her bird-apartment, were still her guests. At the return of the sun, they flew to the windows, and beat their little wings and bills against the glass; but all in vain: their prison was too strong for their resist­ance; and Louisa had no idea of their misery.

ONE day, when she was carrying them some food, her father came into the room; and Louisa was delighted to make him the spectator of her amusement.

BUT, my dear Louisa, cried he, why do these birds look so restless and uneasy? They seem to want something. Perhaps they have left in the fields and woods, some companions they wish to see again.

VERY true, papa; perhaps they have; for they have looked quite unhappy ever since the fine weather. I'll go and open the window, and let them fly away.

I think you will do quite right, answered her father, for you will make a general joy through­out the country. These little prisoners will go [Page 18] and find their companions again; and they will fly before them, just as you run before me, when I have been absent a few days, and come home.

ALL the windows were already open when he had finished speaking. The birds instantly perceived it, and, in a minute, not one remain­ed in the room. Some of them grased the earth with their wings; others mounted upwards to­wards the sky▪ some perched upon the adjoin­ing trees; and others flew backwards and for­wards before the windows, singing and chirping, and rejoicing in the pleasure of their restored liberty.

LOUISA walked out in the country every day during summer, and, on each side, as she turned, always heard or saw some birds. Now the early lark took its flight from her feet, and sung his joyful song in ascending to the clouds: and now the chaffinch twittered hers, as she perched upon the tops of the bushes: and when any one distinguished i [...]self by warbling with unusual sweetness, Louisa said to herself: O! I dare say that was one of my little guests! for I am sure I can tell by his voice, he was well fed in the cold weather.

A POOR labourer, named Bennet, had six young children, whom he found great difficulty in maintaining; but whom he had [Page 19] nevertheless supported by his industry, till there came so bad a season, that the price of corn was raised, and bread was sold dearer than ever. The good man worked day and night; yet, in spite of his utmost diligence, he could not earn money enough to buy even the worst and cheap­est food for so many poor hungry children. He was soon therefore reduced to the utmost mise­ry. One day he called about him all his family, and, with tears in his eyes, said to them: My sweet little ones, every thing is grown so dear, that with all my working I cannot get enough for your subsistence: this morsel of bread, that I now shew you, costs me all the money that I can earn in the whole day. You must content yourselves, therefore, to share with me the little I am able to get: and though it will not be enough to satisfy you, it will serve to prevent your dying quite starved. The poor man could say no more; he raised up his eyes to heaven, and sobbed bitterly. His children all cried too; and every one said to himself: O good God! come to our help, poor little miserable things that we are! help to our poor father, and leave us not to die for hunger!

BENNET then divided his loaf into seven equal parts; he kept a share for himself, and gave the rest among his children. One of them, however, whose name was Andrew, re­fused his portion, saying: I am ill, father, and I can take nothing; so pray eat my share your­self, or else part it among the others. My poor dear child, what is it ails you? cried Bennet, taking him in his arms. I am ill, answered Andrew, very ill, father, I will go and lie down. [Page 20] Bennet immediately carried him to bed; and early the next morning, in the greatest distress, he went to a physician, and conjured him to have the charity to come and see his sick son, and direct what should be done for him.

THE physician, who was a very humane man, consented to accompany Bennet home, though certain he should never be paid for his visit. He went to little Andrew's bed-side, took his hand, and felt his pulse; but could discover no symptom of any disorder. He found him, how­ever, extremely weak, and said he would give orders for some medicine that would strengthen him. No, don't order me any thing, Sir, cri­ed Andrew, for I must not take it, be it what it will.

You must not take it! and pray why not?

Don't ask me, Sir, for I cannot tell you the reason.

And who should hinder you, child? You seem to me a very obstinate lit­tle boy.

No, indeed, Sir, it is not out of obstinacy, if you'll believe me; but only I can't tell you why.

Well, just as you please; I shall not force you: but I shall ask your father; and he, I presume, will speak to be better un­derstood.

O no, pray Sir! don't let my fa­ther hear any thing about it.

You are a most preverse and incomprehensible boy; and I shall most un­doubtedly apply to your father, if you will not explain yourself.

Oh! no, no, Sir! for God's sake don't do that! I would rather tell you every thing! But first, pray send my brothers and sisters out of the room.

THE physician then bid all the chrildren go; and the little Andrew said: Oh, Sir! in these hard times, my father can but just get enough to buy a coarse brown loaf; and he shares it among us all; and every one can have but a little morsel; and for all that he hardly keeps any for himself. But it makes me very sorrow­ful to see my poor little brothers, and my poor little sisters, all so hungry. And I am the eldest, and I am stronger than they are; so I had rather go without myself, than eat any of it from them. And this is the reason I made believe I was ill: but pray, Sir, don't tell my father, for it will only fret him.

THE physician, wiping his eyes, said: But you too, my good boy, are you not hungry yourself?

O yes, indeed, I am very hungry too; only that does not vex me so badly as seeing them so.

But you must soon die your­self, if you will take no nourishment.

I know it very well, Sir, but I shall die with a very good heart; for my father will have one mouth less to fill: and when I go to God almighty, I shall beg him very hard to give my poor little brothers and sisters some­thing to eat.

THE worthy physician felt the utmost tender­ness and admiration as he listened to the senti­ments of this generous child. He took him in [Page 22] his arms, pressed him to his bosom, and said to him: No, my excellent little lad, thou shalt not die; God, the father of us all, will take care of thee, and of all thy family. Give thanks to him, that he has sent me to your as­sistance: I shall return to you presently.

HE then hastened to his own house, and load­ing one of his servants with all sorts of provisi­ons, he bid him attend him back to Andrew and his half-starved little brothers and sisters. He made them all sit down at a table, and desired them to eat till every one was fully satisfied. It was a scene of true delight to this good physician, to witness the happiness of these innocent creatures; and when he went away, he charged Andrew to suffer no further uneasiness, promising to supply them himself with all necessaries.

HE faithfully kept his word, sending them every day food in great plenty: and many other good and charitable persons, to whom he told this adventure, imitated his benevolence. Some gave them provisions, others money, and others linen and clothes; so that, in a very short time, they had even more of every thing than they required.

NO sooner was Bennet's landlord, who was a nobleman of extensive fortune and interest, informed of what the courageous little Andrew had suffered for the sake of his father, and his brothers and sisters, than, struck with admira­tion at such generosity and fortitude, he sent for the poor man, and said to him: You have a most wonderful son; and I will myself, also, be a father to him. I will settle you upon my own estate; and the rest of your children shall be [Page 23] educated to whatever trade they themselves chuse, and at my expence: and if they improve as they ought, I will take care to have them all provided for.

BENNET returned home almost wild with joy; and, throwing himself upon his knees, gave thanks to heaven, for having blest him with so excellent a child.

MRS. P. . . ., a lady as much distin­guished for elegance of manners, and quickness of parts, as for the delicacy of her sentiments, and the dignity of her character, one day gently reproved Priscilla, her eldest daughter, for some little giddiness, which, though proper for correction, was yet very pardonable at her early age. Priscilla, touched by the mildness of her mother's reproaches, burst into a flood of tears, from repentance and tender­ness. Caroline, at that time but three years old, no sooner saw her sister weeping, than climb­ing up by the back of her chair, in order to reach her, she took with one hand her pocket handkerchief, and softly wiped her eyes, while with the other she slipt a sugar-plum into her mouth; which, with the simplicity of childish generosity, she took from her own. How ten­der a subject this, if in the hands of some good painter!

CANARY-birds to sell! who'll buy Canary-birds? choice, fine Canary-birds! cried a voice that was passing by the house where Jami­ma lived. Jamima heard it, and running to the window, looked into every part of the street. She then saw a man carrying upon his head a great cage filled with Canary-birds. They hopped so lightly from perch to perch, and warbled so sweet­ly, that Jamima, in the eagerness of her curiosity, almost threw herself out of the window, in order to see them yet nearer.

MISS, said the man, will you buy a Cana­ry-bird?

I will, if I may, answered Jamima; but I must not of my own accord: if you'll wait a little, I'll run and ask leave of papa.

THE man readily agreed to wait; and seeing a large post at the other end of the street, he went thither, and rested his cage upon it. Ja­mima, in the mean time, ran to her father's room, and, quite out of breath, called out: papa! papa! pray come to the window! pray come directly!

And what is the haste?

Why here's a man that sells Ca­nary-birds: I dare say he has got more than a hundred; a great large cage quite full of them upon his head!

And why are you in such joy about it?

Why, papa, because I want— that is, I mean, if you will give me leave— I wish I might buy one.

But have you any money?

O yes, papa, I have enough in my purse.

And who will feed the poor thing?

I will, papa, I'll feed him myself. You shall see me: O, I am sure he will be very glad to be my bird.

Ah! I fear—

What, papa?

That you will let him die of hunger, or thirst.

I, papa!—I let him die of hunger or thirst! O no, indeed. I will never touch a morsel of breakfast myself, till I have fed him.

O Jamima, Jamima, how giddy are you! And one single day's forget­fulness will kill him!

JAMIMA, however, gave such [...]ir promises to her father; she pleaded, entreated, hung by the skirt of his coat, and begged his consent with so much earnestness, that Mr. Godfrey, at length, could no longer refuse it.

HE then took her hand and led her into the street. They soon came up to the man, and chose the most beautiful bird that was in his cage: his feathers were of the brightest yellow, and he had a little black crest on the top of his head.

WHO, now, was so happy as Jamima? She gave her purse to her papa, that he might pay for it; and he then took money from his own, [Page 59] to buy a very handsome cage, with two pretty drawers to hold seed, and a water-glass of crystal.

NO sooner had Jamima fixed her new favour­ite in its little palace, than she flew all over the house, calling her mama, her sisters, and even all the servants, to shew them the bird which her papa had permitted her to buy. When any of her young friends came to see her, the first words she said to them, were always: Do you know I have got the prettiest Canary-bird in the whole world? he is as yellow as gold, and he has a black tuft upon his head, just like the feathers in mama's hat. But come, and you shall see it: his name is Darling. I christened him myself.

DARLING, thus highly in favour, fared ex­tremely well under the care of Jamima. The moment she rose every morning, her first thought was to procure him fresh seed, and the clearest water. Whenever there were any cakes or biscuits at her father's table, Darling had his share first. She had always some little bits of sugar in reserve for him: and his cage was gar­nished all round with chick-weed, and various good little things.

DARLING was not ungrateful for her atten­tions: he soon learnt to distinguish Jamima from the rest of the family; and the instant he heard her footstep, he fluttered his little wings, and chirped without ceasing. Jamima almost eat him up with kisses.

IN about a week, he began to sing, and his song was the prettiest in the world. Sometimes he would warble his wild notes so long, that [Page 60] she feared he must have died with fatigue in the middle of his little air; then, after a few mo­ments rest, he would begin again, more sweetly than ever, and with so clear and brilliant a tone, that he was heard all over the house.

JAMIMA, seated by the side of his cage, spent whole hours in listening to him. Her work was frequently thrown aside, that nothing might interrupt her looking at him: and when he had delighted her with one of his little songs, she entertained him, in her turn, with an air upon the bird-organ, which he presently strove to imitate.

BY degrees, however, these pleasures became familiar, and lost their power of charming. Her father one day made her a present of a book of prints; and she was so much taken up with admiring them, that Darling was neglected. Still he fluttered his little wings, and chirped, the instant he saw Jamima; but Jamima no longer heard him.

NEAR a week now passed, and Darling had neither fresh chick-weed, nor biscuit. He sung the prettiest little songs that Jamima had taught him; he even composed new ones for her him­self; but all in vain: Jamima had other things in her head.

IT was now her birth-day; and her godfather presented her with a great jointed doll. This doll, which she called Colombine, completed the downfall of Darling. From the time she rose, to the hour of going to bed, she had no thought, and no employment, but to dress and undress, again and again, this dumb little Co­lombine; to talk to her, to call her by her [Page 61] name, and to carry her in her arms up and down the room. The poor bird was now well enough off, if, towards the evening, she remem­bered to give him a little food.

SOMETIMES, however, he had to wait for it till the next morning.

AT length, one day when they were at table, Mr. Godfrey accidentally turning his eyes to­wards the cage, saw the Canary-bird lying upon its stomach, and panting with great difficulty. His feathers almost stood an end, and he looked as round as a ball. Mr. Godfrey went up to him: but no chirping! no fluttering of his wings! the poor little animal had hardly strength even to draw its breath.

JAMIMA! cried Mr. Godfrey, with much displeasure, what is the matter with your bird? Jamima, colouring, stammered out: Why, papa, it's—the thing is—why, I happened to forget—And, trembling and ashamed, she ran for the box of seed.

MR. Godfrey took down the cage, and ex­amined the drawers, and the water-glass. Alas! poor Darling had not one drop of water, nor one single seed!

O poor little bird! cried Mr. Godfrey, into what cruel hands have you fallen! If I had but foreseen it, you should never have been bought. All the company then rose, and approached the cage, lifting up their hands with a look of pity, and calling out: O poor little bird!

MR. Godfrey put some seed into both the drawers, and filled the glass with fresh water: and at length, though with much difficulty, Darling was brought back to life.

[Page 62]JAMIMA, crying, left the table, and running up to her own chamber, passed the rest of the day in tears.

THE next morning, Mr. Godfrey gave or­ders that the bird should be carried out of the house, and given to the son of Mr. Mersey, one of his neighbours, who had the character of being a very careful boy, and who, he hoped, would not forget him, as Jamima had done.

THE sorrow and repentance of the little girl grew now more and more violent. O my dear little bird! she cried, my poor sweet Darling! —O papa! dear, dear papa! indeed I will never forget him again; indeed, indeed, I promise you I will not. Only let me have him this once! this one single time is all I beg!

MR. Godfrey at length, moved by her en­treaties, restored to her the Canary-bird; not, however, without a severe reproof for her past negligence, and a most earnest charge that she would be more attentive for the future. This poor little animal, said he, is shut up in a cage, and has therefore no power to provide for its own wants. If you want any thing, you can at least ask for it; but this poor little bird can make nobody understand his language. If ever again you make him suffer, either from hunger or thirst—

AT these w [...]ds a shower of tears trickled down the cheeks of Jamima. She took her papa's hand, and kissed it, but her shame and sorrow prevented her speaking.

JAMIMA was now once more the mistress of Darling; and Darling was easily and cordially reconciled with Jamima.

[Page 63]ABOUT a month after, Mr. Godfrey and his lady were obliged to make a journey of a few days into the country. My dear Jamima, said he, in taking leave, be very sure you never for­get the little Canary-bird.

O no, papa! cr [...]ed she; and scarcely were they seated in the carriage, before she flew to the cage, and made it her first business to see that the bird should have every thing it could possibly require.

IN an hour or two, however, she began to grow tired; she sent for some of her little friends to visit her, and her gaiety returned. They all walked out together, and when they came back, they spent the first part of the evening in playing Blind-man's-buff, and Puss-in-the-corner; and then they diverted themselves with dancing. It was very late when the little party broke up, and Jamima went to bed quite wearied and fatigued.

THE next morning she awoke almost at the break of day, and could think of nothing but her last night's amusements. If her governess would have given her leave, she would have flown the very moment she was dressed, to re­turn the visit of her young friends: but it was necessary to wait till the afternoon. Scarcely, however, had she patience to finish her dinner, before she desired to be taken to them.

AND what became of Darling? He was obliged to stay at home alone, and to fast!

THE next day, also, was spent in nothing but amusements.

AND Darling?—He was forgotten again!

THE third day it was still the same.

[Page 64]AND Darling?—Why, who would think of him in the midst of such diversions?

THE fourth day Mr and Mrs. Godfrey came home from their journey Jamima had thought but little about their return: but her father had no sooner embraced her, and enqui­red after her health, than he said: And how is Darling?

O, very well, answered Jamima, a little sur­prised, and running to the cage for the bird.

ALAS! the poor little animal was no more! it was lying upon its back, its wings stretched out, and its beak open.

JAMIMA wrung her hands, and scream­ed aloud. Every body ran to her, and saw what had happened.

POOR little hapless animal! cried Mr. God­frey, how painful has been thy death! Had I but myself destroyed thee on the day of my departure, thy sufferings would at least have been but for a moment; while now, for so many days, thou hast borne all the pangs of hunger and thirst, and thy death has been at­tended with the most cruel and lingering pains. Thou art happy, however, to be at length de­livered from the hands of so pitiless a guardian.

JAMIMA wished to hide herself in the bow­els of the earth: she would willingly have given up all her play-things, and all her pocket-money, to have restored Darling to life: but all was now too late!

MR. Godfrey took the [...]rd, and gave orders to have it stuffed, and then hung it up in the saloon.

[Page 65]JAMIMA did not dare look at it: or if, by any accident, it caught her eyes, they were in­stantly filled with tears: and she humbly and earnestly besought her rather to have it removed from her sight.

MR. Godfrey, after many entreaties, at length consented: but every time she was guilty of any fault or folly, the bird was again put in its place; and she heard the whole family exclaiming: Poor unfortunate animal! how cruel a death hast thou suffered!

O PAPA, how I wish I was a great big man, and as tall as you!

And why, my dear, should you wish that?

Because I need not mind any body in the world, and could do every thing that came into my head.

You would then, no doubt, perform wonders!

That I would, I promise you!

And you, little Julia, do you, also, sigh for the liberty of being your own mistress?

Yes, indeed, I do, papa.

O if Julia and I might but be our own managers!

Well, my dears, your wishes, for once, shall be granted: from to-morrow morning you shall have the full power of con­ducting yourselves according to your own fan­cies.

Ah, papa, you are only laughing at us!

No, I am in earnest: and neither your mama, nor myself, nor, in short, any body in the house, shall make the least op­position to your inclinations.

O thank you, dear papa! how nice it will be to feel our necks without a collar!

Neither is this all: I do not give you liberty merely for to-morrow; you shall keep it till you come to me of your own accords, and beg me to take back my authority.

O! if that is the case, we shall be long enough our own masters!

I shall be very glad to see how you will govern yourselves. Prepare, therefore, to become great personages to-morrow.

TO-MORROW arrived. The two children, instead of rising, as usual, at seven o'clock, kept in bed till past nine. Sleep, however, in too great a quantity, serves but to make us languid and heavy. Such was its effect upon Leander and Julia. They woke, at last, without being called, and got up very much out of humour.

THEIR spirits, however, soon revived, by the delightful prospect before them, of doing what­ever they pleased for the whole day.

COME, what shall we begin with? cried Leander to his sister, as soon as they were dress­ed, and had breakfasted.

Why, we'll go and play.

At what?

At building houses with cards.

O, that's very stupid indeed! I won't do that.

Will you play at Blind-man's-buff?

What, only us two?

Well, then at Back-gammon?

You know very well that I can't bear those lazy sorts of games that make [...]ne sit still so.

Very well; tell me what you shall like yourself.

Why, we'll play at riding on a broomstick.

Yes, that's a pretty game, indeed, for a young lady!

We'll play, if you will, then, at driving. You shall be the horse, and I will be the coachman.

O, to be sure, to be beat with your whip, as I was the other day! I have not forgot it so soon.

Why, I was very sorry to do it; only the thing is, you never will go a gallop.

Yes, but it hurt me very much; so I won't play at it any more.

Won't you? Let's play, then, at hunting. I'll be the huntsman, and you shall be the hare. Take care of yourself, there!— Come, run!—

No, no; no more of your hunting. You only keep treading on my heels, and run­ning your hands into my sides.

Well, then, if you won't play at any of my plays, I'll never play with you again; do you hear that, Ma'am?

No more will I with you; do you hear that, Sir?

AT these words, they turned off from the middle of the room, where they were standing; and each went into a corner, where they conti­nued some time, without looking at each other, or speaking a word.

THEY were still sullen and pouting, when the clock struck ten. They had now lost a whole hour in quarreling. Leander, at length, approaching his sister, said: Come, then, if you will, I'll play with you at Cribbage, at a dozen chesnuts a game.

But I have no chesnuts. You know very well that you owe me a dozen already, and you ought to pay me those first.

I owed you them yesterday; but I owe nothing at all to any body to-day.

And pray how have you cleared yourself?

Why, who has a right to ask any thing of people that are their own masters?

O, very well! but I shall tell papa how you've cheated me.

But I am not in papa's power now.

If this is the case, then, I sha'n't play at all.

You are very welcome to let it alone.

AGAIN they were sullen and silent, and again they retreated to different ends of the room. Leander began to whistle; Julia, to hum a [Page 69] song: Leander tied knots in his whip, and lash­ed the floor and wainscot with it; Julia dressed her doll, and began a conversation with it: Leander muttered between his teeth; Julia sighed and fretted.

THE clock now struck eleven, and a second hour had been lost in quarreling. Leander, in a rage, flung his whip out of the window; Ju­lia threw her doll into a corner. They looked at each other, but neither of them knew what to say.

JULIA, at last, broke the silence:—Come, then, Leander, I'll be your horse.

Will you, then you are a good girl. I have a thick string here, that will do for a bridle. Put it in your mouth.

No, I won't put it in my mouth, indeed! you may fasten it round my waist, or tie it to my arm.

How you talk! Did you ever see the horses with their bits any where but between their teeth?

But I am not a real horse, Sir!

But you must do the same as if you were, Ma'am.

Indeed I see no reason for that.

I suppose you think you know more of the matter than I do, who am all day long in the stable? Come, I say, take it as you ought.

You have been drawing it about in the dirt all the week, and I'am resolved I won't put it in my mouth as long as I live.

I won't have it put any where else, I had rather not play at all.

Just as you please.

A third time they separated, and with more pe [...]vishness and a [...]ger than ever. Leander brought back his whip; Julia again took her doll; but the whip no longer sounded to his mind, and every thing went wrong at the doll's toilette. Leander sighed; Julia wept. At length the dinner-bell rang, and Mr. Dartrey himself made enquiries if they were ready to come to the table. But what, cried he, seeing them both so sad, what is the matter with you?

NOTHING at all, papa, answered the children; and drying their eyes, they followed their father into the dining parlour.

THEY had, this day, a variety of dishes upon the table, and each a bottle of wine upon the side-board.

MY dear children, said Mr. Dartrey, had I still any authority over you, I should forbid you tasting all these dishes, and still more your drink­ing any wine: or, at least, I should help you to very little, from my knowledge of the danger of wine and spices to children. But you are now your own managers, and must eat and drink according to your discretion.

THE children waited not to be told this twice: one swallowed great mouthfuls of meat without bread, the other took the gravy and sauce in large spoonfuls; and both of them poured out full bumpers of wine, without thinking of mix­ing it with water.

BUT, my dear, said Mrs. Dartrey, in a whisper to her husband, they will make them­selves quite ill.

[Page 71]I fear so too, replied Mr. Dartrey; yet I would rather they should learn, even at their own ex­pense, for once, the mischief of ignorance, than, by too much attention to their health, deprive them of so important a lesson.

MRS. Dartrey, seeing the design of her hus­band, would not interfere, but left the little simpletons to the enjoyment of their gluttony.

THEY now rose from table; the children having eat till they were too full to swallow a morsel more, and drank till their little heads began already to be heated.

COME along Julia, cried Leander; and he carried his sister with him into the garden.

MR. Dartrey thought it necessary to follow their footsteps.

THERE was a small piece of water in the garden, and close to its border a little boat. Leander had a fancy to get into it.

JULIA stopped him. You know very well cried she, we are forbid going there. Forbid! replied he; have you forgot that we are to do just what we like?

O, very true! cried Julia; and giving her hand to her brother, they both jumped into the boat.

MR. Dartrey now approached nearer, but did not yet think proper to discover himself. He knew the water was not very deep, and that, if they fell into it, he should not have much trouble in drawing them out again.

THE children endeavoured to loosen the boat from the side, and push it into the middle of the water; but they could not contrive to untie the knots of the cord with which it was fas­tened.

[Page 72]WELL, if we can't sail, cried the hair-brained Leander, we can at least play at balancing. They then jumped backwards and forwards across the boat, now making it lean on one side, now on the other.

THEIR heads being a little confused, it was not long before their feet began to stagger. Each caught hold of the other for a prop; but they both fell instantly upon the edge of the boat, and from the edge of the boat, plump, into the water.

MR. Dartrey, swift as lightning, now flew from the place where he had been concealed. He flung himself into the water, seized in each hand one of his daring little children, and car­ried them, half dead with terror, into the house.

THEY were now very sick, but instantly un­dressed, and rubbed with flannel. They were then each put into a warm bed, where they lay successively in a state of extreme weakness, or in convulsions. They had a most dreadful head-ach, and a pain in the stomach they could hardly endure. They fainted away several times; and every fainting was followed by ter­rible sickness, and much difficulty of breathing.

IN this deplorable manner they passed the rest of the day. They shed tears in abundance; they sobbed aloud; till, at length, fatigued with sorrow and suffering, they cried themselves to sleep.

EARLY the next morning, their father came into the chamber, and desired to know how they had passed the night.

O, very ill, papa! cried they, both at once, and in a very feeble voice; we could hardly sleep at all, and we have the head-ach and the stomach-ach still.

[Page 73]POOR little things! said their father, how sorry I am for you! But what, added he a moment after, do you purpose doing with your liberty to-day? You have it still, you know, in your own possession.

O no, no! cried they with eagerness, and both in a breath.

WHY how now? cried he; did you not tell me, the other day, how sad it was to obey the directions of other people?

YES, papa, answered Leander; but we have been well punished for that foolishness.

O yes; added Julia, and indeed we shall not soon forget it!

You would, no longer, then, be your own masters?

No, indeed, papa; we had much rather you should tell us what to do.

I am sure that will be a great deal better for us.

Think well of what you are saying; for, if I again take up my authority, I give you warning that I shall instantly order you something that you will find very disagree­able.

Never mind, papa; we are quite ready to do whatever you think proper.

Very well; here is a yellow powder called Rhubarb. Its taste is bad, but its quality is excellent for those whose stomachs have been put out of order by any excess. Since you consent to follow my directions, I desire you to take this powder immediately. Obey quick!

I will, I will, papa!

And I too, papa, if it's as bitter as gall.

MR. Dartrey prepared the medicine, and gave it them. The children, without drawing back, or making wry faces, as they had formerly done, only tried which should take it with the best grace. Its success rewarded their obedi­ence, in restoring them both to their usual health.

FROM this time, whenever they were threat­ened with any terrible punishment for their faults, it was by saying: ‘Remember, we shall give you your liberty!’ a menace of which they had a greater dread than any other children would have felt in h [...]aring said to them: ‘We shall put you in prison!’

IN a very fine evening in the month of May, Mr. Dalton, seated himself, with his son Arthur, upon the side of a little hill; whence he taught him to view and admire the beauties of the prospect before him, which the setting sun, in bidding adieu, seemed to clothe in a robe of purple. They were a little disturbed, however, from this pleasing study, by the loud singing of a shepherd, who was bringing back his bleating flock from the neighbouring mea­dow. At each side of the road he went along, there were bushes full of thorns, upon which every sheep that approached, left some part of its fleece.

[Page 75]LITTLE Arthur, young and eager, was quick­ly in a passion with these robbers. See! see! papa, cried he, only look at those nasty thorns, that are stealing the wool from the sheep! Why did God make those wicked brambles? or why does not every body, of one accord, go and root them all up? If the poor sheep should come back again by the same way, they would leave all the rest of their clothing with them. But no! I won't let them; for I will get up myself to-morrow morning, by break of day, and come with my little bill, and snip, snap, I will cut down every one of the thorn-bushes: and if you will come with me too, papa, and bring your great wood-knife, the business will all be done before breakfast.

WE will think of your scheme replied Mr. Dalton; but, mean time, be not so unjust to those thorns: recollect what happens in sheep-shearing time.

What is that, papa?

Did you never see the shepherds, with their great shears in their hands, strip the poor trembling sheep, not merely of light tufts of wool, but of their whole fleece?

Very true, papa; for then they wanted it for their clothes: but these thorns tear it off from mere ill-nature, and without wanting it at all.

You know not what purpose this may answer to them: but even supposing it to be of no use, is the want of a thing suffi­cient reason for seizing it?

I have heard you say, papa, that the sheep naturally lose their fleece about this [Page 76] time of the year: therefore is it not better to cut it off for our own good, than to let it fall off for nothing at all?

Your observation is just. All beasts have a dress from nature, and from their's we borrow our's: for if we did not, we should be forced to go quite naked, and exposed to all the cruel injuries of the weather.

But the thorns have no need of any dress at all; therefore there can be no reason to spare them. To-morrow I will absolutely cut down every briar. You will come with me, papa, won't you?

Certainly. To-morrow, there­fore, we will meet at the very break of day.

ARTHUR, who thought himself already a hero, from the mere idea of destroying, with his own little hand, this legion of robbers, could with difficulty sleep all night, so full was his mind of his victories for the next morning: and scarce had the gay chirping of the birds, perched upon the trees near his windows, pro­claimed the return of Aurora, before he hasten­ed to awake his father; while Mr. Dalton, tho' little occupied with the destruction of the thorns, yet charmed with an opportunity of shewing to his son the opening beauties of the rising morn, was not less eager to quit his bed. They dress­ed themselves with speed, took up their arms, and set out upon their expedition. Arthur, with an air of triumph, went first, and Mr. Dalton was hardly able to keep pace with him. In approaching the thorns, they saw that they were almost covered with little birds, hopping to and fro, and fluttering upon the branches. [Page 77] Softly, softly! cried Mr. Dalton to his son; let us defer, for a moment, our vengeance, lest we should disturb these pretty innocent creatures. We will go again to that part of the hill where we were seated last night, and try to find out what it is that these little birds are seeking in the bushes, with so busy and occupied an air. They ascended the hill, sat down, and looked on. They then perceived that the birds carried away in their bills those very tufts of wool which the thorns had caught from the sheep the preceding evening; and that chaffinches, linnets, and nightingales, came in large num­bers to enrich themselves with the spoil.

WHAT does this mean? cried Arthur, all astonished.

IT means, replied his father, that Providence takes care of the smallest creatures, and furnishes them with all sorts of methods for their happi­ness and preservation. You see here how the poor birds find [...]apestry for the habitations they build for their little ones; and how soft and warm a bed they prepare for their young family. Thus those honest thorn-bushes, with which but yesterday you were so easily provoked, unite the inhabitants of the air with those of the earth: they take from the rich what is more than they can use, to give to the poor what they absolute­ly need. Will you come, then, now, and de­stroy them?

O heaven forbid! exclaimed Arthur.

YOU are right, my child, answered Mr. Dal­tun; let them flourish in peace, since they make so generous a use of their conquests.

THERE was once a certain crazy man whose name was Joseph, who never went out without putting five or six wigs, one piled above another, upon his head, and as many muffs upon each of his arms. But though his senses were disordered, he was not mischievous, nor ever, unless much teazed and provoked, in a passion. Yet he could not walk in the streets, without being surround­ed by a set of idle and impertinent little boys, who always tormented and followed him, calling out: Here, Joseph, Joseph! What will you sell your wigs for? what will you take for your muffs? Some of them were even wicked enough to throw stones after him. Poor Joseph com­monly bore these insults with great patience; though at times, when pestered and vexed be­yond measure, he would fall into a rage, and gather pebbles, or take up whole handfuls of mud, to fling at the unfeeling little fellows.

IT happened, one day, that this disturbance was made just before the house of Mr. [...]ennis. The noise of it carried him to the window, where he had the sorrow to see that his own son, Henry, was in the midst of the crowd. The moment he observed it, he shut down the sash, and retired into another apartment.

WHEN they met at dinner, Mr. Dennis said to his son: Who was that man you were run­ning after, and calling to, and shouting at so loud?

You know him very well, papa; it's that crazy man they call Joseph.

Poor creature! What can have brought this misfortune upon him?

They say it was a law-suit for a great estate. He was so vexed at losing it, that it made him lose his senses besides.

Had you known him, Harry, at the time when he was deprived of this estate; and had he, with tears in his eyes, said to you: "Ah, my dear Harry, how unfortunate I am! I have lost an estate upon which I lived in peace and happiness; and all that I had besides is gone in the expences of the law-suit: I have now neither a house in town, nor a house in the country; every thing I was worth is taken from me!" would you then have laughed at him, and made game of him?

God forbid! who could be so wick­ed as to make game of such an unfortunate man? I should rather have tried to comfort him.

Do you think him, then, hap­pier to-day, when he has also lost his senses?

No, I think he is more to be pitied than ever.

And yet to-day you can insult, and even throw stones at, a poor wretch that, when he was much less unhappy, you would have tried to comfort!

O papa, I have done very wrong; but pray forgive me, for indeed I will never do so again.

If you repent, I can readily forgive you; but my forgiveness is not enough; [Page 80] there is another, of whom you must also beg it.

Do you mean Joseph, papa?

Why Joseph?

Because it's him I have offended.

If Joseph were still in his senses, you should certainly beg his pardon for what you have done: but as he is not in a condition to understand you, it would be useless to apply to him. You think, nevertheless, that it is right to beg forgiveness of those whom we have of­fended?

You always taught me so, papa.

And do you know who it is that has commanded us to pity the un­happy?

God Almighty.

Yet you have shewn no pity for poor Joseph; on the contrary, you have added to his misfortunes, by insulting him. Do you suppose that such behaviour has not offend­ed God?

Yes, papa, I know it has, now you bid me think of it; but I will beg pardon of him to-night in my prayers.

HARRY was faithful to his promise; he re­pented of his fault, and at night he begged pardon of God with a true and penitent heart: and for some weeks after, he not only left poor Joseph at peace himself, but frequently prevent­ed his companions from abusing him.

YET, notwithstanding all his good resoluti­ons, he one day mixed again in the crowd of idle boys that pursued him. It was merely, in­deed, from curiosity, and to see what tricks [Page 81] they would play the poor man. Yet, from time to time, he shouted out with the rest: Joseph! Joseph! and, by degrees, he found himself the foremost in the set; till at length Joseph, provoked with the noise and hallooing, suddenly turned round and snatching up a great stone, flung it at him with such fury, that it grazed his check, and made his nose gush out with blood.

HARRY returned home all bloody, and roar­ing aloud. This is a just punishment from God for your disobedience, said his father. But why, cried Harry, why am I the only one to come so ill off, when all the rest, though they did a thousand times worse than me, have not been punished at all? The reason, answer­ed his father, is, that you know much better than the others the fault you were committing, and therefore you were the most criminal. A child who is well instructed in the commands of God, as well as in those of his father, me­rits to be doubly chastised when he has the worthlessness to break them.

BEFORE the sun was risen above the hori­son, to give light to the most beautiful morning of the spring, the young Arabella was already in her father's garden, intending to make her breakfast a greater regale to her, by first strolling up and down the long alleys. What­ever could add to the charms of these earliest hours of the day, seemed now united to delight her. The purity and freshness of the air, gave a calm to all her senses. Her taste was gratified by the delicacy of the sweet-meats she was eat­ing; her eye, by the soft lustre of the new-born green; her smell, by the sweet perfume of a thousand flowers; and, lest her ear alone should [Page 112] remain unsoothed, two nightingales perched themselves upon the summit of an arbour just by, as if purposely to rejoice her with their morning songs. Arabella was so enchanted with the loveliness of the scene around her, that tears of pleasure started into her eyes, though they escaped not down her cheeks. Her heart, beating with the softest feelings, was filled with tenderness and benevolence: when, all at once, her pleasing thoughtfulness was interrupted by the sound of the feet of a little girl, who was coming into the same alley, and devouring with great greediness a thick slice of brown bread.

AS she, also, was walking in the garden only to divert herself, she looked all round her, with­out noticing any particular object, and advanced close up to Arabella, without perceiving her. The moment she saw her, she stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ground; and then, with the swiftness of a terrified young deer, she hastily turned back the same way she came.

STOP, stop, cried Arabella, stay for me, lit­tle girl, stay for me! What do you run so for? But these words only made the little rustic fly the quicker.

ARABELLA began to follow her; but being less practised in such races, found it impossible [...] overtake her. Fortunately, however, she had run into a winding path, in order to get out of the garden; and the alley in which she had escaped from Arabella, led directly to the garden-gate. Arabella, who was no less sensible than pretty, crept, therefore, softly along the side of a thick hedge, which bordered the walk; and arrived at the last bush, at the very instant the [Page 113] little girl was obliged to pass it in her way out.

SHE now suddenly seized her, calling out: Ah ha! you are my prisoner! I have you safe, you cannot run away any more.

THE little girl struggled to get out of her hands. Don't be so naughty, cried Arabella; if you knew the good I mean to do you, you would not be so fierce. Come, there's a good girl, come with me for a little while.

THESE friendly words, and still more the soothing voice in which they were spoken, gave the little girl some courage, and she followed Arabella into a summer-house.

HAVE you ever a father? said Arabella, mak­ing her seat herself next to her.

Yes, Miss.

And what does he do?

Any thing he can, to get his living. He is come to-day to work in your garden, and he brought me with him.

O, I see him down there, in the kitchen-garden. 'Tis that great fat man. But what are you eating for your breakfast? Let me taste a bit of your bread. O goodness! how it hurts my throat! Why does not your father give you better bread than this?

Because he has not so much money as your papa has: so he can't let us have nice things.

But he gets some money by his work; and I think he might at least give you a little white bread, or else something sweet to make you get this down.

Yes, if I was his only child; but we are five of us, and we have all good appe­tites at our meals. Besides, one is wanting a waistcoat, and another a jacket, and another a gown: and all that makes daddy almost out of his head; and he says, sometimes, I may work and work, all day long; but I shall never get enough to feed and clothe all these brats.

You never eat any sweet-meats, then, I suppose?

Sweet-meats! What's that?

Look! such as I have here, spread upon my bread.

I never saw any in my life.

Taste a little bit. Don't be afraid; only see how I eat them myself.

O Miss! how nice and sweet!

I thought so! Pray what is your name, little girl?

Peggy, Miss, at your service.

Very well, my good Peggy, wait here a minute or two, and I'll go and beg something for you of my governess, and come back presently. Now pray don't run away in the mean time.

O no, Miss, I a'n't afraid now.

ARABELLA flew to her governess, and en­treated she would give her some sweet cakes, that she might let a poor little girl have some, who had nothing but dry bread for her break­fast. The governess was charmed with the be­nevolence of her amiable pupil: she gave her some in a saucer, with a new-baked roll; and [Page 115] Arabella then, with all the speed in her power, ran back to carry them to Peggy for her break­fast.

WELL, cried she, when she came up to her, did I tire your patience with waiting? Here, then, see what I have brought you! Come, take some; never mind that stale bread; you can eat enough of that at any time.

They are just like sugar! I never tasted any thing so nice before.

I am very glad you like them; I was sure they would please you.

What! do you eat these nice things every day? Ah! we poor folks have nothing of that sort!

I am sorry for that. However, come and see me every now and then, and I'll give you some. But what a healthy look you have! Are you never ill?

I! what I! No, never.

Have not you ever a cough, then, nor a cold in your head?

A cold in my head! What sort of illness is that?

Why, it makes you want t [...] [...] sneezing, and blowing your nose, and [...], all day long.

O yes, that happens to me some­times; but I don't call that illness.

And then don't they bid you lie in bed?

In bed? O, to be sure! My mother would make a fine noise at me, if I took it in my head to be so lazy as that!

Why, what have you to do, such a little thing as you?

Why, in the winter, I have to go and fetch in thistles for the ass, and dry wood to boil the pot; and in the summer, I have enough to do with weeding and leasing; and in the autumn, with gathering grapes, and apples, and pears, and plumbs. O, Miss, we never want for work.

And are your sisters all as healthy as you are?

Yes, they are all as brisk as the little field-mice.

I am very glad to hear that: I was afraid at first that God had not taken good care of you; but as you are all so strong and hearty, I see he has not forgot you. I am very well too, myself, though, to be sure, not so stout as you are. But how come you to be bare-footed? Why don't you wear some shoes and stockings?

Because it would cost daddy too much money to give them to all of us; and so he gives them to none.

And are not you afraid of hurting yourself?

O, I never think of that. God has given me very good soles to my feet; they are as hard as any of your shoes.

I should not like to change with you, though. But why don't you eat some more?

Why, because I must go and get the herbs, and things, and not stand prating here. It's almost eight o'clock, and our ass will be wanting his breakfast.

Well, then, you shall take the rest of your roll with you: but stay a little, and I'll pull out all the crumb, and then put the sweet-meats into the hollow.

I shall go and carry it to my little sister. O, I warrant she won't make faces at this! She won't leave one morsel when once she has tasted it.

I shall love you the better, now, for thinking of your little sister.

O, I never have any thing nice, without giving her some. Good bye, Miss.

Good bye, Peggy. Don't forget to come here again to-morrow, at the same time.

O, I shall take care of that, if my mama does not send me some where else.

ARABELLA had now enjoyed the happiness of doing good. She still stayed sometime walk­ing in the garden, thinking over the pleasure which she had given to Peggy, and the gratitude which Peggy had shewn her in return, and the delight of her little sister in eating the sweet cakes.

BUT what will be her joy, thought she, when I give her two new ribbons, and a neck­lace? I am quite tired, myself, of those mama made me a present of the other day, for all they are so pretty. I'll go and look in my drawers, and see what else I can spare her. We are just of a size, and my things will fit her charmingly. O how I long to dress her, and see how she will look!

THE next morning, Peggy again slipped in­to the garden; and Arabella gave her some sweet-meats which she had bought for her.

[Page 118]PEGGY now failed not to come every morn­ing; and Arabella thought of nothing but what new dainties she could procure for her. When her own pocket-money was insufficient to buy all she wanted, she begged her mama's leave to take sweet-meats and preserves out of the house-keeper's room: and her mama consented with pleasure.

ONE day, however, Arabella had the mor­tification of a refusal. She asked her mama to advance her weekly allowance, that she might buy shoes and stockings for Peggy, and not let her go about bare-footed any more.

NO, I cannot, my dear Arabella, answered her mama.

AND why not, mama?

I will tell you at table, by and by, she repli­ed, the reason that makes me wish you to be a little less extravagant for your favourite.

ARABELLA was much surprised at this denial; and never before so eagerly waited for dinner­time. At length it arrived, and all the family seated themselves at table.

THE dinner, however, was almost over, and still not a word was said that led to the subject of Peggy's shoes and stockings. But, at last, a plate of shrimps was set on the table, and Mrs. Allison began the following conversation.

O, here comes my Arabella's favourite dish; is it not? I am very glad we happened to have it to-day.

Yes, mama, I love shrimps very much, and this is the season when they are best.

And Peggy, I dare say, would like them still better than you do.

O, poor little Peggy, I dare say she never saw any in her life. If I was only to shew her these long whiskers, she would be as frightened—O, how frightened she would be! I think I see her now, running away with all her might. Mama, if you would give me leave, I should like vastly to see what faces she would make at them. Two will be enough for her, if they are the two least in the dish.

This is a request, my dear, that I know not how to grant.

And why, mama, why not? You, that always do so many good things for every body? And when I asked you for some money this morning, to buy Peggy shoes and stockings, you refused it me: so I suppose poor Peggy has made you angry. Has she taken any fruit, or any thing out of the garden, mama? O, I will scold her well for it, if she has.

No, my dear Arabella, Peggy has not made me angry at all: but do you mean, by the things you do for her, to make her hap­py or miserable?

Happy, mama; God forbid I should make her miserable!

And I too, my love, heartily wish her better fortune, since you think she me­rits your regard. But is it certainly true, Ara­bella, that she has nothing but dry bread for her breakfast?

Very true, really, mama; for I am sure I would not deceive you.

Indeed! and has that satisfied her quite till now?

O dear, yes, mama: and if I was to have the nicest Savoy biscuits, I could not eat them with more pleasure than she eats her dry brown bread.

It seems, then, she has a very good appetite. But I don't know how to sup­pose she goes always bare-footed.

Indeed she has always been bare-footed whenever I have seen her; only ask the gardener else.

I dare say, then, her feet are all covered with blood, when she has been walking upon sand, or stones.

No, not at all. She runs about the garden like a fawn; and she laughs, and says that God himself has sewed a pair of hard soles upon the bottom of her feet.

I know very well that my Arabella is no story-teller; but yet, I must own I have some difficulty in believing all this. O, what wry faces would you make, if we were to give you dry brown bread, without any but­ter, or sweet-meats!

O indeed, mama, I know very well it would stop in my throat.

And I should like, also, to see how you would manage if we let you go bare-foot.

Why, mama, now don't be angry, but yesterday I had a mind to try. When I was alone in the garden, I took off my shoes and stockings, on purpose to walk about like Peggy: but I found my feet sadly cut.—How­ever, I resolved to trot on: but at last, I came plump on a sharp flint! O, it hurt me so!— [Page 121] I hurried back as fast as possible, though I pick­ed all the best way I could; and indeed, mama, I'll give you my word, I'll never go about bare-foot any more. Poor little Peggy! do you know she walks so, mama, all summer long?

But what is the reason, then, that you can't eat dry bread, and go bare-foot, as well as she?

I suppose, mama, it's because I am not used to it.

But if you should accustom her to the same delicacies you love yourself, and to wear shoes and stockings, and then the dry bread should be distasteful to her, and walking barefoot should hurt her, do you think you would have done her any kindness?

No, mama; but I want to serve her in such a manner, that she shall never be in that bad way any more.

That's a very generous wish; but can you save enough of your pocket-money to answer such a purpose?

Yes, very well, mama, if you'll only help me a little.

You know well that I never refuse to assist the poor or distressed, when a proper occasion offers: but is Peggy the only little girl you know that wants help?

No, mama, I know a great many others besides; and especially two that live here by the village, that have neither father nor mo­ther.

Doubtless, then, they are in want of many things.

Yes, indeed, mama, they are.

But if you give every thing to Peggy, and feed her with biscuits and sweet-meats, while the other poor things are left to starve with hunger; do you think you are act­ing either with justice or humanity?

But I can give them something too, from time to time, mama; only I love Peggy the best of any of them.

And if you should die, after using Peggy to all these luxuries—

I am sure, if I did, mama, she would cry.

I can easily believe it. But she must then again sink into indigence, or else, perhaps, commit bad actions, in order still to eat what she liked, and dress herself as you had dressed her. Who then would be guilty of her ruin?

I, mama! So then, I suppose, I must give her nothing more?

That is not my intention. I think, however, that you will do well to buy her fewer good things to eat, and rather bestow your money in purchasing her plain and tidy clothes.

I was thinking of that, mama, myself. Suppose I give her one of my own robes?

I think your rose-colour sattin will suit her admirably, especially when she runs about bare-foot.

O no! every body will point at her with their fingers! What can I do, mama?

If I were in your place, I should be very saving, for some time, in my pleasures, [Page 123] till I had got together a little sum of money; and then I would employ it in buying for her whatever I found she most wanted. The things that serve for clothes to the children of the poor, are not very expensive.

ARABELLA followed her mama's advice. She called Peggy but seldom to partake of her break­fast; but she frequently made her other, and far more useful presents. Sometimes she gave her an apron, sometimes a petticoat, and some­times a cap: and she paid herself for her school­ing, that she might be properly taught to read.

PEGGY was so much delighted by these bene­factions, that she every day attached herself more and more tenderly to Arabella. She would fre­quently run after her, to say: Have you any thing I can do for you, Miss Arabella? Can I go of any errand? And, whenever Arabella found her some employment, nothing could equal the joy with which Peggy hastened to oblige her.

SHE went one day to the garden-gate, to wait for Arabella's coming; but after staying far beyond the usual time, Arabella appeared not. Peggy was forced to go home, but soon returned to watch again; but again she saw no­thing of Arabella. Two days following, she continued to come at the accustomed hours; but no Arabella was ready to receive her.

POOR Peggy was now in the utmost distress, that her benefactress seemed thus to have for­saken her.

AH! cried she, does not she love me any longer? May be I have made her angry without know­ing it. I am sure if I could tell what it was, [Page 124] I would beg her pardon again and again; for I shall die, now, if she will not love me always!

AT this moment, Mrs. Allison's maid hap­pened to come out of the garden. Peggy ran after her. Pray tell me, cried she, where Miss Arabella is?

MISS Arabella? said the maid, she is very ill; she has not perhaps, many hours to live. I think her quite at the last moment; she has got the small-pox.

O good God! exclaimed Peggy, she must not die! I can't let her die!

SHE then flew into the house, and ran up stairs into Mrs. Allison's room. O good Lady, she cried, for pity's sake tell me where is Miss Arabella, and let me go to her!

MRS. Allison would have stopped her, but she had seen, through the door, which was half open, Arabella's bed: and she was already at its side.

ARABELLA was in all the restless pain of a violent fever. She was alone, and very melan­choly; for all her young friends had been taken from her.

PEGGY, crying bitterly, caught hold of her hand, pressed it between her own, kissed it a hundred times, and said: Ah! good God! what a way do I see you in! O, don't die, I beg you! What must I do if I should lose you? I will stay with you both day and night; I will watch over you, and wait upon you.—May I, Miss Arabella? will you let me?

ARABELLA pressed her hand, and easily made her understand that she consented with pleasure to her offer.

[Page 125]PEGGY now, with the permission of Mrs. Allison, became the constant attendant of Ara­bella; and whatever she was suffered to do for her, she was careful should be done as well as possible. They made up a bed for her upon the floor, by the side of the little invalid; and she never for an instant quitted her. When Arabella only made the slightest murmur, Peg­gy jumped up to enquire what was the matter. She gave her all her physic herself. Sometimes she gathered rushes, in order to amuse her by shewing her how she could make pretty baskets; at other times, she hunted over Mrs. Allison's library, to find out prints for her to look at. Her mind was always employed in thinking of something to entertain her, and make her for­get her sufferings. During one week of the time, Arabella lost her eye-sight by her disorder; and this week seemed very long indeed: yet Peggy assisted her to bear it, by diverting her with the history of all the village; and, as she had improved very much by her lessons of read­ing, she picked out for her all the books she thought she would like to hear; and frequently, in a very tender manner, she would endeavour to give her comfort: Only have a little patience, she would say, and God will take pity on you, as you used to take pity on me. At this re­membrance, she would cry; but, soon drying her eyes, say more chearfully: Come, Miss Arabella, shall I sing you a pretty song to divert you? Arabella had but to give a nod, and Peg­gy immediately sung to her all the little songs she had learnt from the shepherds' boys in the neighborhood. And thus the time passed away, and Arabella hardly ever was tired.

[Page 126]AT length, though by slow degrees, her health was perfectly re-established. Her eyes again opened, her strength returned, her complexion lost its redness, and her appetite was restored.

HER face, however, was still marked with her late disorder. But Peggy only looked at her with the greatest pleasure, from thinking of the danger she had been in of losing her. Nei­ther could Arabella, in return, ever see her without tenderness.

HOW can I pay you as I wish to do, cried she, for all that you have done for me? She then applied to her mama, to know in what manner she could possibly reward her constant and faithful little nurse. Mrs. Allison, who almost lost her senses with the excess of her joy, in seeing her beloved daughter restored to life, after so dangerous an illness, answered: Leave that to me; I will take care that she shall be properly recompensed for what we both owe to her diligence and fondness.

SHE then gave orders to have a complete dress made for Peggy, including one thing of every sort that she could wear. Arabella undertook to equip her in it herself, the first day that she should be thought well enough to go again into the garden. This day proved a festival to the whole house. Not only Mrs. Allison, but all the domestics, were transported with joy to see Arabella again down stairs; while Arabella was equally delighted, from the pleasure of having so useful a present for her good Peggy. Peggy herself was half crazy with her own happiness, to meet again her little benefactress where she [Page 127] had first known her, and to be dressed in new things from head to foot by her own hands.

AS Mr. Courtney, in returning home from a morning-ride, passed along the walls of a church-yard in a little village, his ears were struck with the sound of a most piteous cry, which seemed to proceed from it. This hu­mane gentleman had too feeling a heart to hesi­tate in hastening to the assistance of the unhap­py person whom he heard in such distress. He alighted from his horse, which he gave to the care of the servant who attended him, and then jumped over the wall into the church-yard. He looked every way around him for some time to no purpose; but at length he perceived, at the further end, and in a corner, a grave which seemed to be just covered with fresh earth. Upon this grave, a little boy of about five years old, lay at his full length. Mr. Courtney went up to him with an air of kindness, and said: What are you doing there, my boy?

I am calling my mammy. They put her to bed here yesterday, and she won't get up.

Poor child! she must be dead.

Yes, they say she is dead; but I don't believe them; for she was quite well the other day, when she left me at our neighbour Sarah's. She told me she would come again, but she has never come! My daddy is gone [Page 128] away from me, too; and so is my little brother; and none of the other children in the village will play any more with me.

They will not play with you? and why not?

I am sure I don't know; but whenever I want to run about with them, they push me away, and leave me all alone. And they say very bad things of my daddy and mam­my; and that is what is worse than all. O mammy, mammy! get up, get up!

MR. Courtney's eyes were now filled with tears. You say, cried he, that your father and your little brother are both gone: Do you know to what place?

I don't know where daddy is; but my little brother went yesterday to another village. There came a gentleman all in black, like our parson, that took him away with him.

And where do you live now?

At our neighbour Sarah's: I shall stay there till mammy comes back, as she promis­ed me. I love mammy Sarah very well; but I love mammy that lies here

better than her. O mammy, mammy, why do you lie here so long? when will you get up again?

Poor little thing! don't call to her any more, for you can never awake her.

Well, then, I will lie down here, and sleep by her side. O, I saw her when they put her in, that great box!—She was so pale! and so cold!—Oh my mammy! I will lie down here, and sleep close by you!

[Page 129]MR. Courtney could no longer restrain his t [...]ars: he leant over the child, took him in his arms, and tenderly embracing him, said: What is your name, my little boy?

I'm called Jemmy, when I am very good; and when I am naughty, my name is James.

WILL you shew me the way to Sarah's? cri­ed Mr. Courtney, smiling, in the midst of his tears, at this simplicity.

Yes, Sir.

JEMMY then began running before Mr. Courtney, as quick as his little feet would let him, till he came to the door of Sarah's cottage.

SARAH was not a little surprised at seeing a gentleman enter her little hovel; while Jemmy, pointing to her with his finger, and then run­ning to hide his face in her lap, called out: Here she is! this is my other mammy!

SHE could not tell what to think of so extra­ordinary a visit: but Mr. Courtney left her not long in uncertainty. He described to her the situation in which he had found the little boy, told her with what compassion he had filled him, and begged her to give him all the information in her power, concerning the relations of the poor child.

SARAH got a chair for him by her side, and beg [...]n her account as follows.

THE child's father is a shoe-maker, that lives next door: and an honest, sober, hard-working man he is; quite young still, and very well look­ing. His wife was a good pretty woman; but she had a poor constitution, though she was in­dustrious enough, and a very good house-wife. [Page 130] 'Tis about seven years ago that they were mar­ried, and they lived very well together, and would have made the happiest couple in the world, if they had but had a little more money. But John had nothing besides his trade; and Margery was without father or mother, and carried nothing to her husband, but a little mo­ney she had saved, when she was at service at the good parson's that belongs to a parish about nine miles off. This little money they spent in buy­ing a bed, and some crockery ware, and things for house-keeping, and a little store of leather for their work. And, poor as they were, they found means to live pretty well, for the first years of their marriage, by good care and hard work. But, then came a family; that was the thing that first brought them into trouble. But, however, they would have got out of that dif­ficulty, by doubling their diligence, if it had not been for other misfortunes. Poor Margery, who worked in the fields all day long in the summer, to get a little money to carry at night to her husband, fell sick with over work and was ill all the autumn, and all the winter and physick is very dear. Besides that, business w [...] on very badly, because John's customers, by little and little, left him off, thinking they should be but ill served in a house where there was a woman always sick. By and by, howe­ver, Margery got up again; but her husband's business was ruined. They were forced to bor­row money to pay the doctor and apothecary. John had no more work to do, for he had lost all his customers; and Margery could get little or nothing, because her strength was so gone, [Page 131] that no body would employ her. And, besides all this, the rent of their house, and the interest they were obliged to pay for the money they h [...]d borrowed, quite crushed them. They were sometimes obliged to go without food; and if they had but a morsel of br [...]ad to give their children, they thought themse [...]ves happy enough.

(AT these words, little Jemmy ran into a corner, and began to cry.)

BESIDES all this, their hard-hearted landlord, seeing they could not pay their winter's quarter, threatened John he would have him taken up. They begged and prayed him to have patience till harvest-time, because then they could get a little money, by working in the fields as day-labourers: but neither their begging nor their praying could melt him; for all he was richer than any body in all the village. It was a sad trouble to them to make him agree to wait only for one month; and he said, that if he was not paid every thing by the end of that, he would sell all their goods, and put John in prison. From that time forward, those poor people were so sad and sorrowful, it would have melted a rock to have see [...] them. You may think, Sir, how it must move my heart, to hear my poor neigh­bours bemoan themselves so, and to have no­thing to help them with. I went once myself to their creditor, and begged him to have some pity on their misfortunes: and I offered to pawn to him all the things I was worth, for their sakes. But it all answered no end. You are but a poor wretch yourself, says he, any more than they; and this comes of letting one's houses to such a set of vagabonds. Ah, Sir!

I took this hardness patiently, for fear of making him still worse; but I was sadly afflicted to think I was only a poor widow, and could do nothing at all for such honest people. What a deal of good the rich might do, if they had but the same good-will towards it that the poor have! But to come back to my poor neighbours. I ad­vised Margery to go to the parson, where she had lived in service so many years, with a good and fair character, and tell him her misfortunes, and pray him to lend her a little money. She told me she would speak of it to her husband; but that it would be a hard matter to do it, for fear the parson should think they had fallen so low by their own bad behaviour. Three days ago she brought me, according to custom, her two children, and asked me to keep them till night: she said she would go to the next village, and see if she could not get some hemp for spinning, in order to pay their debt. But she could not pluck up courage to go to her old master the parson; and so her husband said he would go in her stead; and he set out that same day. I was ready enough to take care of the children, because I loved them dearly, for I had known them both from their births. Margery, when she went away, kissed them and hugged them again and again, as if she knew she was seeing them for the last time. I think I see her still! She had her eyes full of tears, and she said to the eldest: Don't you cry, Jemmy; I shall soon be back, and then I'll come and fetch you. Then she held out her hand to me, thank­ed me for letting her children stay with me, kissed them both again, and went away.

[Page 133]SOME time after, I heard a loud sound in her house; but, as I thought she was gone, I took it for granted it was nothing but a faggot of wood standing loose against the wall, that hap­pened to tumble down; and so I never minded it. Evening however came, and night came too, and still I saw nothing of neighbour Mar­gery. So then I thought I would go to her house, to see whether she was not gone there first, to put by her flax, before she came to take home her children. The door was open; so I went in. O good Lord! how was I struck, to see Margery lying down on the ground, at the foot of the stairs stiff-dead! I stood myself quite fixed, and as cold as a stone. I did not know what to do. At last, after trying to no end to lift her up, I ran to the surgeon, who came back with me, felt her pulse, and shook his head, and then called a jury to sit on her body. The jury and the surgeon together tried to find out how she had been killed; and they said she must have died at once of the fall, or else, for want of help, have gone off in fainting-fits. Now I can tell well enough how it all happened. She had gone back to her house to get a bag from the garret to bring the hemp in, and her eyes being a little misty with crying, she did not see where she had put her foot in coming down the garret-stairs, and so she fell, head foremost, from top to bottom, upon the stone floor. This I know, because of the bag's being at her side. But for all this, our justice had different thoughts: he gave orders to have the body buried the next day in a corner of the church-yard; and he said he would search far and near to find out what [Page 134] was gone with John. I offered him to keep both the children myself; for, hard as I find it to live, I always say to myself: God knows I am but a poor widow; and so, if he gives these children to my care, he will see and help me to rear them. However, the little brother of him you see here, did not stay with me long; for it was but yesterday, a few hours after Margery was buried, that the good parson that she had lived with, happened to call to see her. He knocked some time at the door; and, as nobo­dy opened it, he came up to my window, and asked me what was gone with John, the poor shoe-maker, that lived at the next house. I told him, that if he would give himself the trouble to come in for a moment. I had a great many things to tell him about John, and about Margery too. So he came in, and sat down just where you do. I told him all that had hap­pened; and it brought the tears into his eyes. And then I told him that John had thought of begging a little help of him in his difficulties. He looked quite amazed, and told me he had not so much as seen John. The two children came up to him: and he played with them a good while; and Jemmy asked him if he could not wake his mammy for him, for she had be [...]n asleep a long while. The good parson had the tears in his eyes again, when he heard the poor child talk so; and he said to me: Good woman, I shall send to-morrow for both these little boys, and I will keep them at my house. If their father comes back again, and should be in a way to bring them up himself, he shall have them whenever he desires. But in the mean time, I [Page 135] will take care myself to have them educated. I can't say I liked much to hear this. I love the little souls like a mother, and it would have cost me very dear to lose them so soon. So I said: Sir, I don't know how to bring myself to part from these children; I am so used to them, and they are so used to me.—Well, then, good wo­man, says he, you shall let me have one, and I'll leave you the other, as I see he will be so well off with you. And I will send you from time to time, something to help to keep him. So I could not refuse that much to the good par­s [...]n. So then he asked Jemmy if he should not like to go with him? What there, where mam­my is? says Jemmy. O yes, that I shall! No, my little dear, says he, it is not there; 'tis to my pretty house, and pretty garden.— No, no, no, says Jemmy, I'll stay here with Sarah; and I can go every day to look for mam­my, and I like that better than your pretty house and garden. The good parson would not pester the poor child any more, for he had run to hide himself up in the curtains of my bed. So he said he would send his man for the youngest of them, who would have been more a trouble to me than the eldest; and he left me some money to help on with Jemmy. So, Sir, this is all I have to tell you of Jemmy's relations.—But what makes me most sorry now, is, that John never should come home again; and that the folks have set it a going, that he is gone among a parcel of smugglers, and that his wife killed herself for concern at it. These fibs have run about so in the village, that the very babies have them in their mouths; and when my little [Page 136] Jemmy goes among them, they push him away, and all try to beat him. The poor child is sad­ly unhappy with it all; and so he never cares to go out now, but only just to his mammy's grave.

MR. Courtney had heard in silence, but with the utmost compassion, the simple narration of Sarah. Jemmy had again returned to her; he looked at her with fondness, and called her from time to time, his mammy.

GOOD, worthy woman, said Mr. Courtney at last, you have indeed behaved most generous­ly towards this unhappy family; and God will surely bless you for it.

I have only done my duty; for what are we put here for, but to help one another? I think, for my part, I can do nothing more agreeable to God's commands, in return for all the good things he has given me, than to com­fort, as well as I can, all my poor neighbours. If I could but have done something better for them! But I have nothing on earth but my cottage, and a little garden where I grow herbs, and what money I can earn by the labour of my own hands. But for all that, for these eight years that I have been a poor widow, God has always enabled me to live pretty comfortably: and I have good hope he will support me the same for all the rest of my time.

But if you keep this child constantly, the expence of his maintenance will be very heavy for you, as it will be so long be­fore he can gain his own living.

O, I can always manage so as to have enough for him: and I'll share the last bit of bread I have in the world with him.

But where will you get money enough to buy clothes for him?

O, the same that covers the fields with grass, and the trees with leaves, will take care and cover my Jemmy too. He has given me fingers to sew and to spin, and I'll use them to clothe my little orphan into the bargain. While one can work and pray, one can want for nothing.

You are quite determined, then, to keep Jemmy yourself?

Yes, Sir, as long as I live. I should have no comfort of my life, if I was to turn off the poor little motherless child, or let it be shut up in a work-house.

Are you related at all to his family?

No, Sir, we are related together by nothing but good neighbourhood, and good re­ligion.

I too, then, am related, both to them and to you, by religion, and by hu­manity. I cannot, therefore, suffer you to have alone all the honour of doing good to this or­phan, when heaven has furnished me with far better means to serve him, than it has given to you. You must trust me with the care of Jem­my's education: but since you are so much used to one another, and since your benevolence to him so well deserves to share what his affection for his mother has made me resolve in his favour, I will take you both together into my house, and I will see and provide for you. Part, there­fore, with your garden and your cottage, and follow me. You shall be lodged and nourished for the rest of your life.

Don't be angry with me, Sir; and may God reward you for all your goodness! but indeed I can't accept your kind offers.

And why not?

Why, Sir, in the first place, I should but yearn after the place where I was born, and where I have lived so many years; and in the next place, I should not know what to do in the hurry and bustle of a great house, and be­fore so many people. I am not used to idleness, nor to dainty feeding; and I should only fall sick, if I had nothing to do, or was to eat bet­ter things than ordinary. So I had best stay in my own cot, with my little Jemmy. He'll be never the worse for living a little hardly. But, however, if you'll send him now and then a little money to pay for his schooling, and to buy him tools for some trade, why, God will reward you for it an hundred fold; at least, Jemmy and I will pray him to do it, every day of our lives. I have no child, and so Jemmy is the same to me as if he was my own; and the little I have got shall all go to him, when it pleases God to call me to himself.

Be it so, then; I would not have my good offices for him occasion you any uneasiness. I will leave you the child, since you do so well together. Talk to him about me often, and make him understand that I shall supply the place of a father to him, at the same time that you take upon yourself both the nam [...] and the cares of the mother he so much grieves after. I will send you once a month all that you can want for his maintenance; and I will [Page 139] frequently come and see you myself; and then my visit shall always be as much to you as to him.

SARAH lifted up her eyes towards heaven, while she kissed the skirt of Mr. Courtney's coat; and then, calling to the child: Come, Jemmy, she cried, come and make a bow to the good gentleman, for he says he will be a father to you.

JEMMY made his bow; but, turning to Sa­rah, said: How can he be my daddy? he has no apron on.

MR. Courtney smiled at this childish inno­cence, and, throwing a purse upon the table, said: God bless you, most worthy woman! good-bye to you, my little Jemmy; it shall not be long before you see me again. He then went where he had left his horse, and rode immedi­ately to the parish of the good clergyman, who had taken the younger orphan.

HE found him employed in reading a letter, which was wetted with his tears. After their first salutations, Mr. Courtney acquainted him with the subject of his visit, and begged to know if he had procured any intelligence of what had become of the father of the two poor little boys.

I have just now, Sir, answered the clergyman, received from him this letter, which he had written to his wife. He directed it to me, with this little sum of money, desiring me to forward them both to the poor woman, and to try to console her for his absence. But, as she is dead, I opened it myself. Here it is, Sir; will you have the goodness to read it? Mr. Courtney eagerly took it, and read what follows.

MR. Courtney could not read this letter without tears. When he had finished it, Ah! cried he, how good a husband, how good a fa­ther, and how honest a man! What pleasure can be greater than serving such worthy people? I will go and buy off the six years for John. I will pay his debts, and I will enable him to be­gin his trade again with ease and comfort. The six pound ten shillings shall be reserved for the children. It has been but too dearly earned by their father! It shall be divided between them when they are old enough to go into some busi­ness. Keep the whole sum in your hands for them, and speak to them of it from time to time, as the most lively and tender token of their father's regard for them. I will pay you interest for it myself, which you shall add to [Page 143] their little capital. I cannot but have some share in this most pitiable transaction.

THE worthy clergyman was too much mov­ed to be able to make any answer. Mr. Court­ney well understood the cause and feeling of his silence, and having bid him adieu, pressed his hand and left him.

ALL his schemes in favour of John, have since been put in execution: and John, restored to repose and quiet, now enjoys comfort and peace, such as he had never before tasted, and such as, but for the loss of Margery, would make him the happiest of men. His only con­solation for that, is in continually talking of her, with the faithful Sarah. The good woman looks upon herself as his sister, and as the mo­ther of his children. Little Jemmy has not yet suffered one day to pass, without again visit­ing the grave of his mammy: but he has made such good use of the opportunity which Mr. Courtney has given him for improvement, that the most advantageous plan for his future wel­fare, is already formed by that benevolent gen­tleman. He has also taken care that the same attention shall be paid to his younger brother: nor has he ever, from that time to this, moun­ted his horse, without recalling to his mind this touching adventure: and whenever he is him­self tormented by distress or misfortune, he has­tens to visit those whom his own generosity has made happy, and never fails to return to his family lightened of all his sorrows.

AS Mr. Durand was walking out one day, with his little son Ambrose, through some of the public streets, they stopped to look at a house which was building, and already raised to the second story.

AMBROSE observed several workmen standing one above another upon the steps of a high lad­der, who were successively lifting up, and letting fall down, their arms. This sight raised his cu­riosity. Papa, cried he, what game are these men playing at? Let us go nearer the foot of the ladder, and see.

THEY now put themselves in a place where they could make their remarks without any dan­ger. They then perceived a man, who, from a large pile of stones, took out one, which he carried to another man, who stood upon the first step of the ladder; and who, lifting it up with both his hands above his head, gave it to a third, who stood still higher, and who, in the same manner, passed it on to a fourth. And thus, from one to another, the stone at length arrived at the top of the scaffolding, where the masons were in readiness to go to work with it.

WHAT do you think of all this? said Mr. Durand to his son; can you tell why such a number of people should be employed in build­ing this one house? Should you think it better to [Page 145] have one workman go on with it alone, and so to let every man build a house by himself?

YES, indeed, I should, replied Ambrose; for there would then be a great many more houses than there are now.

DO you consider well what you are saying? cried Mr. Durand: do you know how many different trades and arts belong to the building of a house; that, if one man alone should un­dertake it, he must be well acquainted with them all; and that he might pass his whole life in acquiring such variety of knowledge, before he would know enough of the matter to set about any building at all?

AND even supposing him able to learn, in a short time, all he should know for that purpose; how slowly must he proceed, if wholly without help; first, in digging the earth in order to pre­pare the foundation; then in collecting, and bringing to the spot, the stones or bricks for the structure; then in shaping them; in pre­paring the mortar, plaster, and lime, and what­ever else is required in the business of a mason! Imagine him, however, now here, and in full spirits, settling his dimensions, raising his lad­ders, and running up his scaffoldings;—in what time do you think, all alone, he could build his house to the roof?

Why indeed; papa, I am afraid he would never be able to finish it quite, without a little help.

I think not, indeed. And you may make the same observation upon all the works of a community, as upon the build­ing of this house. When any man takes a fancy [Page 146] to retire from society, and labour by himself; when, from the fear of being obliged to others for assistance, he refuses to work with them; he wastes both his strength and his time in the attempt, and is always, in the end, compelled to abandon it. But where we mutually aid and help one another, we can perform, in a short time, the most difficult and laborious things, and such as, undertaken singly, might each re­quire the life of a man to execute.

IT is the same also, with our amusements and pleasures. Those who would enjoy them alone, and selfishly, must confine themselves to a very small number: but if every one would unite in contributing to the happiness of others, each would be certain of an ample portion for himself.

IN time, my dear Ambrose, you will enter into the world: let the example, therefore, of these workmen, be ever present to your memo­ry. You see, from the mutual help which they give to one another, how much shorter and easier are the labours of all. We will come this way again in a few days, and we shall find, by their united industry, their house will be nearly finished. Endeavour, then, always to assist others in their employments, if you wish to have them ready and willing to assist you in yours.

MRS. CARLTON was left a widow very young, with two children, named Philippa and Maximilian. Each of them alike merited her tenderness, though it was bestowed upon them with the greatest inequality. Phi­lippa, notwithstanding her youth, was very sensible of her mama's partiality in favour of her brother; but, however unhappy it sometimes made her, she concealed in her own litt [...] [...]osom, all the uneasiness which it caused her.

HER face and figure, though not frightfully ugly, were by no means upon a par with her heart and understanding: while her brother was as beautiful as a little Cupid. Mrs. Car [...]ton re­served for him all her fondness and caresses; and even the servants of the house, in order to make their court to their mistress, seemed to think of nothing but diverting him, and com­plying with all his humours. Philippa, on the contrary, because always checked and reproved by her mother, was certain of being treated still worse by the domestics. Far from studying her inclinations, they did not even supply her with necessaries. When she found herself quite [Page 168] alone, and thought herself deserted and forgot­ten, she sometimes burst into a flood of tears; but never, before any witnesses, suffered the smallest complaint to escape her, or shewed the least sign of discontent. It was in vain she strove, by a constant application to all her tasks, by gentleness, and the most active desire of obliging, to make amends in the sight of her mother for what she wanted in beauty: the qualities of the mind are lost upon those who accustom themselves to value nothing but out­ward appearances. Mrs. Carleton, little moved by the proofs of duty or regard she received from Philippa, especially since the death of her father, seemed never even to look at her with­out reluctance. She reprimanded her perpetu­ally; and required from her such perfection, as ought not, with justice, to have been expected, even from an age and understanding far more advan [...]ed.

THIS unjust parent at length had a fit of sickness. Maximilian appeared very truly con­cerned for her sufferings; but Philippa, who in the [...]guid looks and sunk features of her ma­ma, fancied she perceived an abatement of her usual rigour, far exceeded her brother in her attentions and tenderness. She watched every turn of her eye, that she might discover her wishes, and save her the trouble of speaking them, by bringing of her own accord whatever she thought it likely she could want. She would not once quit her bed-side while there was any appearance of danger; and neither entreaties nor commands could prevail with her to take a moment's rest.

[Page 169]MRS. Carlton, however, at length recovered. This much-desired restoration of health remov­ed all the fears of Philippa; but her unhappiness returned at the same time, when she found her mother as harsh with her as ever.

ONE day, when Mrs. Carlton was convers­ing with her children upon the misery she had suffered in her illness, and was thanking them both for the kindness with which they had nurs­ed and attended her; she said: My dear children, you may each of you ask from me whatever you think will give you most pleasure: and I will promise to grant it, be it what it may, so that it does not exceed the limits of my income. What should you like, Maximilian? addressing herself first to her son. A watch and a sword, mama, he answered.—You shall have them both to-morrow, as soon as you rise. And you, Philippa, what will you have?—M [...]? mama, me? cried Philippa, trembling, O, I want nothing at all, if you do but love me.— That is no answer, child; I mean to give you, also, some recompence for your attention to me. What, therefore, should you like? Sp [...], when I bid you. Philippa, though accustomed to this severity, felt more than usually hurt by it upon the present occasion. She threw herself upon her knees before her mother's chair, and looked up to her with her eyes full of tears; then, hiding her face with both her hands, she stammered out: Give to me, then, only two such kisses as you gave my brother!

MRS. Carlton, touched at heart by this un­expected request, felt awakened at that moment all those sentiments of affection for her daughter, [Page 170] which hitherto had been stifled. She took her in her arms, pressed her fondly to her bosom, and kissed her a thousand times. Philippa, who now first received from her mother any marks of her kindness, gave herself wholly up to joy; kissing, in her transport, her eyes, her cheeks, her hair, her hands, and her gown. Maximil­ian, who had never been able to help loving his sister, joined in their mutual caresses: and they all three enjoyed a happiness which was not li­mited to that short instant. Mrs. Carlton, henceforward, bestowed with interest upon Phi­lippa all the fondness she had hitherto denied her; and Philippa returned it with still increas­ing attachment. Maximilian, far from being jealous, made his sister's felicity a pleasure to himself; and he found in a short time the re­ward of this generosity. The natural goodness of his disposition had been somewhat injured by the weakness and blindness of his mother; and as he grew up, many little follies and errors escaped him, that might have weaned her love from him, had not Philippa always made it her study to excuse him. The good advice which, from time to time, she gave to him, brought him back into the right road; and they all three learnt this lesson from their own experience: That there can be no happiness in any family without the most perfect union between brothers and sisters, and the most equal and impartial tenderness to them from their parents.

LITTLE Phebe, a poor shepherd's daugh­ter, was sitting one morning by the side of a great road, holding upon her lap a porringer of milk, into which she was dipping some brown bread for her breakfast.

DURING this little repast, a carrier came the same way, who was driving twenty live lambs to market, in a cart. These poor little animals, heaped one upon another with their legs tied, and their heads drooping, filled the air with the most sorrowful bleatings, which went to the very heart of Phebe, though the carrier heard them without pity. When he came up to her, he flung a poor little lamb before her, that he was carrying by the heels, upon his shoulder. There, child, cried he, there's a good-for-no­thing beast for you, that has just died, to cheat me of a crown. Take it, if you will, and make yourself a feast with it.

PHEBE immediately left off eating her break­fast, and, putting the porringer and the bread on the ground, took the lamb in her arms, and looked at it with the utmost compassion.

POOR little creature! cried she; yet why should I be sorry for you? To-day, or to­morrow, they would only have taken a great knife, and cut your poor throat; and now, in­stead of that, you have nothing more to go through. While she was talking to it in this manner, the lamb, growing warm again in her [Page 172] arms, began to open its eyes and move, and made a fain [...] bleating cry, as if pining for its dam.

IT would be difficult to describe the joy of Phebe at the sound of its voice. She wrapped it up in her apron, then covered it over again with her fustian coat, and bent her neck almost down upon her knees to keep it warmer, breath­ing, at the same time, with all her might, into its nostrils. By little and little, she felt the poor animal revive, and her own heart beat with joy every time it shewed any signs of life. En­couraged by this success, she rolled up some crumbs in her hands, put them into her por­ringer, and taking them out with her fingers, contrived, though not without much difficulty, to force them between its teeth, though they were shut very close. The Lamb, who was only dying from want, felt itself a little strength­ened by this nourishment. She now began to stretch out her legs, and shake her head and her tail, and perk up her ears; and soon after, she was so much better as to stand upon her feet; and then, seeing the porringer with Phebe's breakfast, she went and drank out of it herself, to the great delight of the little girl. In short, a quarter of an hour had hardly passed, before she was so well recovered, as to cut a thousand capers round her new little mistress. Phebe, in a transport of joy, took her in her arms, and running with her into the cottage, shewed her to her mother. Little Baalam, as she now called her, became from this time the object of all her cares. She always shared with her the bread and milk she was allowed from her own [Page 173] meals; and she would not have parted with this one little lamb, for the largest flock of sheep in the village. Baalam was so grateful for her kindness, that she was never a step dis­stant from her. She would eat out of her hand, and frisk perpetually round about her; and whenever Phebe was forced to go out without her, the most plaintive bleating spoke her sorrow at the parting.

THE pity and good-nature of Phebe, howe­ver, had still a greater recompence. Baalam was soon the mother of several other little lambs, who, in their turn, grew the mother of more: so that, in a few years, Phebe had a very pretty flock of sheep, entirely her own; which fed the family with their milk, and supplied them with clothes from their wool.

IN the beginning of the spring, Mr. Sefton took a walk one day about his country house, with his son Jerry. The violets and primroses were in full blow; and many of the trees were already budding forth their green leaves, while others were bright and gay with white or crim­son blossoms, that promised the finest fruits. They strolled on till they came to an alley of lattice-work, at the foot of which was planted a vine, whose rough and crooked stem spread, without beauty or order, its brown and naked stalk all over the lattice. Papa, cried Jerry, do [Page 174] you see this ugly tree, that looks as if it was staring and making faces at us? Why should not we tear it up, and give it the gardener to heat his oven?

JERRY then began pulling at it as hard as he could, in order to force it up by the roots; but the roots were too deep in the earth for his strength. Pray let it alone, cried Mr. Sefton; I will not have it removed. I shall tell you, in due time, my reasons.

But only look, papa, at those beau­tiful blossoms of the almond and peach trees! why should not the vine be as pretty too, if it has a mind not to be pulled up? It spoils and destroys the whole look of every thing. Shall I go and tell the gardener to come and drag it away?

No, my dear, I would have it stay where it is, a little while longer.

JERRY still persisted in abusing it: his father endeavoured to turn his attention upon other objects; and, at last, the unfortunate vine-stalk was forgotten.

MR. Sefton's affairs, soon after, carried him to a town at some distance, where he was de­tained till the autumn.

HIS first care then, was to visit his country seat; and he again took his little son with him. The weather was extremely hot, and they sought shelter from the rays of the sun, by walking in the alley of lattice-work.

AH, papa! cried Jerry, how beautiful is this green, and this shade! How glad I am you made them take away that nasty dry old wood that I was so vexed to see in the spring, and [Page 175] surprise me by putting in its place the most charming tree that ever I saw in my life! What delightful fruit it has! Only look at these fine grapes, some green, some purple, others almost black! There is not one single tree in the whole garden that makes so good a figure as this. Almost all the rest have lost their fruit; but this, only look, papa, how it is covered! see what thick clusters there are under all these large green leaves! I should like to know whether they are as sweet-tasted as they are pretty.

MR. Sefton gave him one to make trial of. It was the muscadine sort. His transports were now increased; and still more, when his father informed him, that it was from pressing these grapes that the delightful juice was produced which he sometimes had tasted at table, after dinner.

I see, my dear, how you are surprised, said Mr. Sefton; but your amazement will be yet greater, when I tell you that this is the very same tree, so dry, brown, twisted, and sprawl­ing, which you so much scoffed at in the spring. Shall I now, then, call the gardener, and tell him to root it up, and heat his oven with it?

O, not for the world, papa! I would rather have him root up every tree in the garden. That muscadine is so good!

You see, then, Jerry, how well I did, not to follow your advice. What has happened to you, frequently happens in life. At sight of an ill-dressed or ugly child, the richer and happier are but too apt to despise him; to grow proud by being compared with him, and even to have the cruelty to insult and deride [Page 175] him. Be careful, my Jerry, of ever forming such hasty judgments. Perhaps in that very outside to which nature has been so unkind, there may reside a soul, that one day may aston­ish the world by the greatness of its virtues, or instruct and benefit mankind by its extraordina­ry talents. The stalk may be rough, where the fruit is the finest and best flavoured.

THE little Caroline, who has already been mentioned in the first volume, was one day playing about her mother, while she was employed in writing letters. The hair­dresser being in waiting, Mrs. P. desired him to go into the next room, and thin the child's hair. Instead, however, of merely thinning it, the man continued to cut off lock after lock, till scarcely a hair remained on her head. Her mother came into the room just as this provok­ing mistake of her orders had taken place. Ah, my poor Caroline! cried she, half-screaming, you have lost all your beautiful hair! Don't vex your­self, mama, cried Caroline, simply; for it is not lost; it's put safe up in that drawer.

IN the summer, during her stay in the coun­try, a chicken was brought upon the table at dinner. Mrs. P. who dined alone with her children, after helping her eldest daughter, gave a bit to Caroline. No, thank you, mama, cried she, sighing, I would rather not eat any.—And [Page 176] why not, my dear?—Because, mama, that chicken and I used to see one another every day, and we quite lived together; for I always used to feed it myself.—But your sister has eat some of it.—O yes, my sister may eat it without any harm; for she did not know it half so well as I did.

WHAT may not in future be expected from a child who has given such early proofs of the ingenuousness of her mind, and the tenderness of her heart? May she but more and more resemble her admirable mother, and all that her most ardent friends can wish for her will be effected!

AS Mr. Dodwell was one day shut up in his library, where he was settling some affairs of importance, a servant came to tell him that farmer Mathews, one of his tenants, was at the street-door, and desired to speak with him. Mr. Dodwell gave orders that he should be shewn into the anti-chamber, and desired to wait there for a few minutes, while he finished his business.

ROGER, Alexander, and Sophy, three chil­dren of Mr. Dodwell, were in the anti-chamber at the time farmer Mathews was car­ried there. He made them the most respectful bow as he came into the room, though it was easy to discover he had never received any lessons [Page 178] from a dancing master. Neither was his lan­guage, nor his manner of speaking to them, at all more courtly.

THE two little boys looked and smiled at one another, with an air of ridicule. They exa­mined the honest farmer from head to foot, with a disdainful eye, whispered one another in the ear, and burst out into such shouts of laughter, that the poor man coloured, and knew not which way to turn himself.

ROGER even carried his ill-breeding so far, as to hold his nostrils, and call out to his bro­ther: Alexander, Lord! what a strong smell here is of dung! He then went for a chafing-dish of hot coals, with which he walked up and down the chamber, burning paper and sealing-wax, to take off, he said, the bad odour. He next rung for one of the servants, and told him to bring a broom, and sweep away the dirt that poor Mathews had made upon the floor with his shoes. Mean while, Alexander held his sides with laughter at the impertinence of his brother.

IT was not the same with their sister Sophy. Far from imitating the rudeness of her brothers, she reproved them for their want of civility, endeavoured to make excuses to the farmer, and going up to him with a look of great sweetness, she asked if he would have any wine to refresh himself, made him sit down, and took his hat and stick herself, and put them upon the table.

AT this time Mr. Dodwell entered the room. He advanced with a friendly air to Mathews, took him by the hand, enquired after his wife and children, and what was the business which had [...]de him come to town.

[Page 179]I have brought you my quarter's rent, Sir, answered Mathews, [...]rawing from his pocket a leather bag full of money. Don't be angry that I am two or three days behind my time; for the roads are so broken up, that I could not any sooner carry my corn to market.

I am not angry with you at all, answered Mr. Dodwell; I know you are a very honest man, and that there is no need to remind you of your debts.

AND then he ordered a table to be brought forward, for the farmer to count his money upon.

ROGER stared very hard at the sight of Ma­thew's crowns and half-guineas, and looked at him now with a little less contempt.

When Mr. Dodwell had examined the far­mer's accounts, and praised his exactness, the good man produced a basket of dried fruit, which he had baked: See, Sir, cried he, I have brought this for your young gentlefolks. Won't you let them come, some day, Sir, to take a little country air? I'll feast them the best I can, and try if I can't find them some amusement. I have got very good horses; and I can come for them myself, and bring them back at night in my chaise-cart. Mr. Dodwell promised he would himself go and see him, and begged him to stay to dinner. Mathews thanked him for his kind invitation, but excused himself from accepting it, because he had some purchases to make in town, and was in great haste to get back to his farm.

MR. Dodwell had his basket then filled with cakes to carry to his children, and tha [...]ed him [Page 179] for the present he had brought to his own; and, after wishing him strength for his hard labour, and health to support his family, he saw him to the head of the stairs, and then bid him good-day.

HE was no sooner gone, than Sophy, before both her brothers, told her father how rudely they had behaved to honest Mathews upon his arrival.

MR. Dodwell expressed much displeasure at Roger and Alexander, and, at the same time, warmly praised Sophy for the difference of her conduct. I am glad to see, said he, kissing her tenderly, that my dear Sophy so well knows what civility is due to all honest people.

IT was now breakfast time; and he ordered the farmer's dried fruits to be brought upon the table, and eat part of them himself, with his daughter. They both found them very good. Roger and Alexander breakfasted at the same time, but were neither of them invited to par­take of the fruit. With their eyes, however, they devoured it all.

MR. Dodwell pretended not to observe them; but again began a praise of Sophy, charging her never to despise any body on account of the plainness of their clothes: Because, said he, if we only are well-bred to those who are finely dressed, it will seem as if our politeness was to the gown, or the coat, and not to the persons who wear them. Those who are the worst dressed, are sometimes the best people. Mathews is an example of this himself: he not only ma­nages, by his industry, to maintain himself, and his wife, and his children; but, for these [Page 180] four years that he has been my tenant, he has paid his rent with such exactness, that I have never once had to call upon him for his money. You don't know, perhaps, my dear Sophy, that if this man were less honest, I could not myself supply all the expences of you and your brothers. It is he, in fact, who buys you clothes, and procures you a good education; for all that I receive from him, I reserve entire­ly for your dress, and your different masters.

WHEN breakfast was over, Mr. Dodwell gave orders to have the rest of the fruit locked up in a buffet. Roger and Alexander looked greedily after it; though they easily understood it was not preserved for their sakes.

THEIR father confirmed this disappointment to them. Expect not, he said, to taste, either to-day, or any other day, those fruits. When the farmer, who brought them for you, has better reason to be satisfied with your behavi­our. he will not forget to send you more.

But, papa, was it any fault of mine that he has such a bad smell with him?

What smell?

O, such a strong smell of dung, there was no bearing it!

And where could he get that smell?

Why, he is all day long working in the midst of it in his fields.

What should he do to prevent it, then?

Wy he should . . . he should . . .

Perhaps he should never put any dung upon his lands?

That would be the only way, papa.

But if he did not improve his lands by manuring them, how would he gather in a plentiful crop from them? and if he had a bad one, how would he manage to pay me rent for his farm?

ROGER was going to answer; but his father gave him a look, in which both he and Alex­ander read his displeasure, and were silenced.

THE following Monday, early in the morn­ing, the good Mathews was at Mr. Dodwell's door. He sent up to him, to know if he should like to come and take a turn about his farm. Mr. Dodwell, pleased with his civility, would not mortify him by a refusal. Roger and Alex­ander earnestly begged to be admitted of the party, and made many promises to behave better.

MR. Dodwell complied with their entreaties; and they jumped into the chaise-cart with much delight: and, as the farmer had excellent horses, and drove well, they came to his house before they knew where they were

WHAT could equal their happiness when the carriage stopped! Mathews' wife came, with an air of the utmost satisfaction, to the door, gave them a joyful [...]eception as she opened it, took the children in her arms to help them out, kissed them cordially, and led them into the farm-yard.

ALL her own children were already there in their best clothes. How do you do? and, You are very welcome, they all cried to their young guests, while they bowed and curtsied with the utmost respect. Mr. Dodwell wished much to [Page 183] talk a little with them, and caress them; but dame Mathews entreated him to come in, for fear the coffee and rolls should grow cold, which she had got for their breakfast.

IT was all ready, and upon a table covered over with the whitest cloth. It was not, indeed, served in silver, nor even in china; but though the delft was ordinary, it was perfectly clean and neat.

ROGER and Alexander looked slyly at each other, and would have shouted with laughter, but from fear of making their papa angry. Dame Mathews, however, saw by their grima­ces what passed in their minds: she made an excuse, that her things were no better; and said, that to be sure they would have been help­ed in finer dishes at their own house, but that they must take in good part what was given them with a hearty welcome.

BESIDE the rolls, they had some home­made cakes, which were so extremely good, that it was easy to discover the hospitable woman had exerted her utmost skill both in making and baking them.

AFTER breakfast, Mathews begged Mr. Dod­well to give a look at his orchard and his grounds. Dame Mathews used her utmost endeavours to make this walk pleasant to the children. She shewed them her flocks of sheep, with which the meadows were covered, and picked out some of the prettiest little lambs for them to play with. She next carried them to her pige­on-house, where every thing was neat and clean. Upon the ground there were two young doves, that were just quitting their nests, but not yet [Page 183] bold enough to venture to trust to their own little fluttering wings. Some of the females were sitting upon eggs in their small houses; and others were occupied by feeding their young, but just coming out of their shells.

FROM the pigeon-house they went to the bee-hives. Dame Mathews took care not to let them come too near, yet placed them where they could plainly see the little creatures at work.

AS the greatest part of these things was quite new to them both, they appeared extremely en­tertained with them: and they were even beg­ging to look at them all a second time, when Tommy, the farmer's youngest son, ran to tell them that dinner was waiting.

IT was served upon pewter dishes, and it was helped in earthen plates: but Roger and Alex­ander were both put into such good-humour by all they had been looking at in the morning, that they were ashamed to give way any longer to their turn for ridicule. They found every thing nice and well dressed; for dame Mathews had done the best she possibly could to regale them.

WHILE they were eating fruit after dinner, Mr. Dodwell perceived two fiddles hanging up against the wall. Who have you that plays upon these instruments here? said he. My eldest boy and myself, answered the farmer; and, without a word more, he made a sign to his son to unhook the violins. They then took it in turn to play some little old ballads, now of a mournful cast, and now gay and jolly, with such readiness, and so much desire of obliging, [Page 184] that Mr. Dodwell both felt and expressed the utmost satisfaction at their performance.

WHEN they were going to hang up the in­struments again in their places, No, no, cried Mr. Dodwell, it is now your turns, Roger and Alexander, to try what you can do for our en­tertainment. Come, play us some of your prettiest tunes. In saying these words, he put the violins into their hands; but they knew not how even to hold the bow, and their aukward­ness and confusion raised a general laugh.

MR. Dodwell then begged the farmer to or­der his horses out, that they might return home. Mathews was very urgent in pressing them to stay all night; but Mr. Dodwell could spare no more time, and therefore they took leave.

WELL, Roger, said Mr. Dodwell, in their way home, how do you find yourself after your little journey?

Very well, papa. Those good peo­ple did the best they could to entertain us.

I am very happy you are sa­tisfied. But if Mathews had taken no trouble in doing the honours of his house to you, and if he had not given you any refreshment, should you have been as well pleased as you are now?

No, certainly, papa.

What should you have thought of him?

That he was a brutish clown.

O Roger, Roger! when this honest man came to our house, far from offer­ing him the smallest refreshment, you only laughed at him, and turned him into ridicule! Who, then, best understands good manners, you, or the farmer?

But it is his duty to re­ceive us well; he gets his living out of our estate.

And how?

Why, by the harvests from our fields, and the hay from our meadows.

True; but what does he do with the corn?

He lives upon it; he, and his wife, and his children.

And what with the hay?

He gives that to his horses.

And what does he do with his horses?

He employs them in tilling the ground.

You see, therefore, that some part of what he takes from the ground, is turn­ed, in the end, to its own benefit. But do you suppose he consumes all it produces among his own family, and his horses?

No, the cows have their share too.

Yes, and the sheep, and the pi­geons, and the chickens.

Very true; but do his family, and his cattle together, consume his whole crops?

No; for I remember I heard him say once that he carried part of it to market to make money of it.

And what does he do with that money?

Why, papa, last week, you know, he brought a leather bag quite full of it to you.

Who, then, at last, has the greater profit from the farm, Mathews, or your father? It is true, indeed, he feeds his horses with the hay he makes out of my meadows; but those horses are employed in tilling the land, which, otherwise, would be over-run with weeds. He feeds, also, as you say, his sheep and his cows with the same hay; but they sup­ply dung for the ground that lies fallow, which again makes it fertile. His wife and children, too, live upon the corn reaped in the harvests; but they spend the summer in weeding that corn, and then threshing it in the barns: and all this, in the conclusion, is my own advantage. The overplus of his crops, he carries to sell at market; but is it not to pay me his rent, that he gets the money? And as to what may re­main, after I have received my dues, does he not well deserve what his own industry procures him? Once more, then, tell me, who is it has the greatest profit, he or I?

Why—I see now it is you.

And what profit should I have without his labours?

O, there are enough other farmers in the world!

True; but there are not any more valuable than this man. The tenant who rented this very farm of me before I let it to Mathews, cut down the trees, exhausted the soil, and suffered the barns and out-houses to run to ruin. When the quarter-days came, he was never ready with his money; and when I complained to him of his neglect, he represent­ed [Page 188] to me that the whole farm was not able to produce enough to pay me.

O, what a rogue!

If Mathews was just such another, do you think I should make much of my estate?

Why, no.

Whom, then, am I obliged to for what I get from it?

Why, Sir, to this honest farmer.

Is it not then, our duty to behave well to a man who is so useful to us?

Ah, papa! you make me quite asham­ed of myself!

THEY were now for some minutes all silent: Mr. Dodwell then again renewed the conversa­tion.

WHY would you not play upon the fiddle, Roger?

You know, papa, I was never taught.

Farmer Mathew's son, then, knows something more than you do?

Yes, papa; but he does not under­stand Latin, as I do.

And do you, Roger, under­stand farming? can you follow the plough? can you tell how to sow wheat, barley, oats, and all sorts of grain? Do you know how they are cultivated? Can you even tell how to prune a vine, or raise a fruit-tree, so as to make it bear?

I am no farmer; so I have no occa­sion to know such things as those.

And if every body in the world knew nothing but Latin, how do you think we should all live?

Why, very ill; for we should not know how to get bread, nor vegetables.

And do you think the world could go on, if not even one single person in it knew any Latin?

Why—yes.

Remember, then, as long as you live, what you have just now heard and seen. This farmer, so coarse in his dress, so aukward in his bow, so uncouth in his compli­ments, this very farmer whom you so despised, is a man infinitely more polite than yourself, and knows many more things than you do, and these things all far more useful than any with which you can pretend to compare them. You see, therefore, now, the folly and injustice of holding any one in contempt for the plainness of his dress, or the want of polished elegance in his manners.

MAMA, will you give me leave to go and see my cousin Harry this evening?

No, Aurelia, I cannot.

Why not, mama?

I don't think it absolutely necessary to tell you my reasons: a little girl, such as you, should obey her parents, without allowing herself the liberty of asking any ques­tions. But nevertheless, to shew you that I have always rational motives, both for what I order, and for what I forbid, I will, for this once, acquaint you what they are. Your cou­sin Harry can only set you a bad example; and I fear, if you were to see him often, he might teach you to be as thoughtless and indiscreet as himself.

But, mama—

No answer, Aurelia! you know very well that I must always be obeyed.

AURELIA now went to the further end of the apartment, to hide the tears which were swimming in her eyes; but, as soon as ever [Page 226] her mama was gone out, she seated herself in a corner, and gave full vent to her sorrow.

AT this time, Nanny, a maid servant but lately hired, came into the room. Why, what's the matter, Miss Aurelia? said she, are you crying? what is it for? won't you tell me who it is that vexes you so?

No, go, Nanny; you can do no­thing to help me.

And how can you tell that? When I lived with Miss Sophy, she was always sure to come to me, whenever any thing was the matter. Ah, my dear Nanny, she used to say▪ now you know what has happened to me, tell me what I shall do. And then I always used to give her some good advice.

But I don't want your advice. I tell you again that you can do nothing at all for me.

Well, at least, then, let me go and see for your mama. She can give you some comfort, if I can't: and I don't like to see such a pretty young lady fretting so.

O yes, certainly, mama will give me great comfort!

Why, sure it could not be she that has vexed you so?

Why, who else could it be?

Well, I should never have thought it! I am sure, so sensible as you are, there is nothing your mama need refuse you. I am sure, if I had a child of my own, as well be­haved as you are, I should let her do every thing she had a mind. But your mama loves dearly to give orders; and, for the sake of her [Page 227] own maggots, she will refuse you the most in­nocent things in the world. How can any bo­dy take a pleasure in contradicting such a sweet child! You can't think how it grieves me to see you in such trouble.

I dare say, Nanny, I shall die with grief!

So I am afraid, too. How red and swelled your eyes are! I am sure it is very wrong of you, and very cruel, not to let the people that really love you, try to give you some comfort. If my little Miss Sophy had only been half as unhappy, she would have opened her whole heart to me.

But I must never open mine to you, Nanny!

It is not for my own sake, I am sure, that I want you to do it.—Perhaps it is because your mama makes you stay here at home, when she is gone out herself to take a walk.

No, no; she has promised me up­on her word, that she won't take a walk with­out me.

But what is it then? You seem to grow worse and worse. Shall I go and bring your little cousin to you? You shall play with him, to put you in spirits again.

No, no; I must never have that pleasure any more!

Nay, it will be no hard matter to get you that. A young lady should not be left alone so. I suppose your mama does not want to make a nun of you?

But I am forbid to see him.

Forbid to see him! very pretty, in­deed! Why, what has your mama got in her head? This is just exactly like Miss Sophy's mama: she took the very same maggot; she would not permit her to see the least in the world of little Billy. But we knew better than to mind her. O, how cunningly we used to cheat her!

And how did you do it?

Why, we always watched for the time of her making her visits; and then Miss Sophy used to go and see little Billy, or else lit­tle Billy used to come and see Miss Sophy.

And did not her mama find it out?

No; I always kept a look-out for them myself.

But if I was to go and see my cou­sin, suppose mama should come home, and say, Where is Aurelia?

I should only tell her you were play­ing in the garden; or, if it should happen to be a little late, I should say you were gone to bed, and fast asleep: and then I should run out slyly, and bring you home.

Ah! if I thought mama would know nothing of it!—

Only trust to me, and she shall ne­ver discover it. Will you take my advice? Go and spend the evening with your cousin, and leave the rest to my management.

I should like to try it for once. But then you will promise that mama—

Go, go; don't be afraid.

AURELIA now gave way, and, with a little further encouragement, went to see her cousin. [Page 229] Her mama returned home soon after, and im­mediately enquired for her. Nanny answered that she was tired of being alone, but had eat a very hearty supper, and was gone to bed.

IN this manner, Aurelia deceived her unsus­pecting mother several times. Alas! thought­less little girl! was it not rather herself that she deceived by such behaviour? Till now, she had always been gay and happy; she delighted in the presence of her mama, and flew joyfully to meet her, if she had been separated from her even for a moment. Where, now, was this pleasure fled? She was continually saying to herself: O! if mama was to know where I have been! She trembled even at the sound of her voice. When ever she saw her grave or uneasy, O! thought she, I am undone! Mama has discovered my disobedience! Neither was this all her unhappiness. The artful Nanny perpetually told her of the generosity which had been shewn her by Miss Sophy, how often she had given her money and presents, and with what confidence she always had trusted her with the key of the tea-chest. Aurelia was all eager­ness to deserve from Nanny the same praise for generosity and confidence that she bestowed upon Miss Sophy. She took every opportunity of stealing tea and sugar for her, of her mama; and she even contrived to get for her the keys of the cellar and store-room.

SOMETIMES, however, she listened to the reproaches of her conscience. I am acting very ill, said she to herself; and all that I am doing may sooner or later be discovered: and then I shall lose all mama's love entirely! Frightened [Page 230] at this thought, she flew to Nanny, and warmly protested she would give her nothing more. O, just as you please, Miss, answered Nanny; but have a care! you may perhaps repent this! Your mama is coming,—and I shall let her know how well you have minded her orders.

AURELIA could then only cry, and do every thing that Nanny was pleased to command. Formerly it was the place of Nanny to obey Aurelia; but now it became the place of Aure­lia to obey Nanny. She was obliged to bear with all her insolence and rudeness, and had not a creature to whom she dared even complain.

ONE day, this artful and wicked maid came to Aurelia, and said, I have a great longing to taste that tart that is locked up in the buffet; and I want a bottle of wine besides. So you must go and look in your mama's drawers for the keys.

But, my dear Nanny,—

O, none of your dear Nannys! on­ly go and do what I ask you.

But mama may see me; or, if she should not, God will, Nanny; and then he will punish us well!

And did not he see you too, every time you went to your cousin? Yet I don't find that he has punished you for it.

AURELIA had received from her mother the most excellent lessons of religion; she was firm­ly persuaded that God has always his eyes upon his creatures, that he recompenses our good actions, and only forbids our committing bad ones, because they are really hurtful to ourselves. It was from mere childish folly that she made [Page 231] her visit to her cousin against the consent of her mama. But it almost constantly comes to pass, that when we are led into one error, we fall soon after into errors without end. She thought herself now compelled to do every thing that the maid directed, lest she should be provoked, by a refusal, to betray her. It may easily, there­fore, be imagined how much she had to bear from her.

SHE one day shut herself up in her chamber, merely to have the liberty of crying at her ease. O good God! cried she, sobbing, what a sad thing it is to disobey you! Poor unhappy little girl that I am! I am become quite the slave of my maid! I can do no longer what is my du­ty, because I must do every thing which that wicked woman bids me. I am obliged to be a story-teller, and a thief, and a cheat! O take pity upon me, good God! and save and deli­ver me!

SHE then hid her face, which was bathed in tears, with both her hands, and began earnest­ly to reflect upon what course she could possibly take. At length, suddenly rising, she called out: Yes, I am now resolved upon it; and even if mama were to banish me from her for a whole month, or even — But no, no, she will not! she will be softened, I know, and she will call me her dear Aurelia again. I can trust to her goodness: but oh! what this task will cost me! how shall I bear her looks and her an­ger? No matter; I will go to her this mo­ment, and confess every thing.

SHE then hurried out of her chamber, and seeing her mama walking alone in the garden, [Page 232] she flew up to her, threw herself into her arms, and, while she embraced her, wetted her cheeks and her bosom with her tears: but shame and distress kept her from speaking.

My dear Aurelia, what is the matter with you?

Oh mama!

What is it you are cry­ing for?

My dear, dear mama!

Tell me, my love, what is it thus disturbs you?

Oh, if I thought you would for­give me—

I do forgive you, since your repentance seems so true, and so humble.

My dear mama, I have been very, very disobedient! I have several times, for all you commanded me not, been to see my cousin Harry.

Is it possible, my Aurelia? What! you, who used to tremble so much at displeasing me?

Ah! I shall no longer be your Au­relia, mama, when you know every thing!

You alarm me: Go on with your account. Surely you must have been se­duced from your duty. You never yet gave me reason to be seriously angry.

Yes, mama, I have been seduced indeed! It was Nanny — O Nanny —

How! Nanny!

Yes, mama. And to keep her from telling you of what I had done, I used to steal away from you the key of the cellar and the [Page 233] tea-chest. I have taken from you I don't know how much tea and sugar, and wine, for her!

Then am I a most unhappy mother indeed! to have suffered crimes and in­juries such as these from my own daughter! Leave me, unworthy girl! I must go myself to your father, and consult with him upon what must be done with you.

No, mama, I cannot leave you! I know you must punish me; but only promise me that some time or other you will love me again!

Ah, miserable child! you will indeed be punished enough!

MRS. Beaumont at these words walked away, and left Aurelia in utter despair upon a green bank on which she had thrown herself: she went instantly to her husband; and they considered together upon what means must be used to save their child from ruin.

SOON after, they went for Nanny; and, hav­ing reproached her with the utmost severity and indignation, Mr. Beaumont ordered her in­stantly to leave the house. It was in vain she cried, and begged to be treated with less hard­ness; and in vain she made a thousand promises never to offend in the same manner for the fu­ture: Mr. Beaumont was resolute. You know well, cried he, with what kindness I have be­haved to you, and with what patience I have borne with your faults. I hoped to have en­gaged you, by my indulgence, to have seconded my cares in the education of my child; instead of which, it is you yourself who have led her to theft and disobedience. I look upon you as [Page 234] a monster. Quit my sight instantly, and think well of your own reformation, if you hope to save yourself from falling into the hands of a far more terrible Judge.

AURELIA's turn was next. She came into the presence of her parents in a state that might well excite compassion. Her eyes were inflam­ed with crying, and all her features were swolen. Her cheeks were pale with terror, and her whole frame trembled as if she had been in the shiver­ing [...]it of an ague. Unable to utter a single word, she waited in mournful silence to hear the sentence of her father.

YOU have deceived, cried he, in a voice of severity, you have deceived and you have of­fended your parents. What could induce you to listen to a worthless servant, in preference to a mother who so tenderly loves you, and who wishes nothing upon earth so much as your happiness? Were I to punish you with all the indignation with which you have filled me, and to banish you for ever from my sight, as I have done the accomplice of your fault, is there any body, do you think, who could accuse me of injustice?

No, papa, you can never be unjust to me: and if you punish me with all the seve­rity that you can, I shall bear it all; but only begin first by taking me once more in your arms, and once more calling me your poor Aurelia!

No, I can by no means so soon forgive you. The confession which you have made of your own accord, prevails with me not to banish you from my sight; but I [Page 235] cannot call you again my child, and my Aure­lia, till you have merited my kindness by a long repentance. Attend well to your own be­haviour. Punishment always follows faults, and you will soon find yourself your own pun­isher in having committed them.

AURELIA did not well understand her papa's meaning in these last words. She expected yet greater severity, and she approached him almost broken-hearted; she kissed his hands, and again promised the most perfect duty and submission for the future.

SHE kept her word: but alas! the punish­ment with which her father threatned her, soon followed. The worthless Nanny spread every where the most injurious reports. She related what had passed between them, with the addi­tion of many frightful falsehoods. She declared that Aurelia, by servile and pressing entreaties, and a thousand presents which she stole from her father and mother, tried so continually to corrupt her, that she had been at length pre­vailed upon to contrive secret meetings for her with her cousin Harry; that they saw one ano­ther, unknown to their parents, regularly every night, and that it was frequently extremely late before Aurelia returned home. And to this ac­count she added so many horrid circumstances, that every body conceived the most disadvanta­geous opinion of Aurelia.

SHE was forced to bear, therefore, the most cruel mortifications. When she went into the company of other little girls, she saw them all whisper one another, and look at her with an air of the utmost disdain, or else with the most [Page 236] insulting smiles. If she stayed later than usual any where, they would say, "I suppose she waits till the time comes for her meeting her cousin Harry!" If she had a fashionable ribbon, or any new ornaments, they would exclaim: "O, people who can get at their mama's keys, may very well contrive to buy new things!" And if she had the most trifling dispute with any of them, they would cry: "You had bet­ter hold your peace, Miss Aurelia, for you think so much of your cousin Harry, that you don't know what you talk of."

THESE reproaches were so many pointed needles to tear the heart of Aurelia. And fre­quently, quite overpowered by her sorrows, she would throw herself, in an agony, into her mo­ther's arms, and entreat pity and comfort from her.

HER mother generally answered: You must suffer, Aurelia, with patience, the punishment which your errors have drawn upon you; and you must pray to Heaven to pardon your faults, and to shorten the time of your correction. These trials may mend you for all the rest of your life, if you attend to them properly. God has commanded all children to honour their father and their mother, and to submit in every thing to their orders. This command is for their own happiness. Poor little things! they know nothing of the world themselves; they cannot foresee the consequences of their own actions: God, therefore, has put the care of you into the hands of your parents, who love you as they love themselves, and who have experience and reflection to enable them to save you from [Page 237] the dangers which every way surround you. This, however, you did not chuse to believe: and now you find, with but too much affliction, the wisdom of God in his commands, since your disobedience to them has cost you so dear. Ah! my Aurelia, may your suffering at least be your improvement! Every command­ment of God is equally wise: he ordains no­thing that is not for our advantage; he forbids nothing that would not do us injury. It is our­selves, therefore, that we hurt, every time we commit any evil. You may often find yourself in situations where you cannot, at first, perceive either how vice may harm, or virtue serve you. Always, at these times, call back to your mind your own sufferings from one single failure in duty, and regulate every action of your life by this infallible maxim:

AURELIA now followed with strictness all the advice of her mother: and the more she had to suffer from the errors of her conduct, the more attentive she became to all she said or did. And, in the end, from the manner in which she bore this disgrace, she not only silenced all her censu­rers, but even acquired the glorious name of the faultless Aurelia.

WHY don't you let the good old man come in?

Your servants would have given me entrance, Sir; it was my own fault that I kept back.

And why?

I am ashamed to answer!— but I am doing a thing to which I have not been accustomed;—I am come, Sir,—to beg your charity!

You look very honest; why then should you be ashamed of being poor?' Many among my own friends are poor too; and, if you will, you shall be counted one of the number.

You must forgive me, Sir; I have not time for that honour.

Why, what have you to do?

That which is our most im­portant business in this lower world; to die. I may own it as we are alone; I have now but one week more to live.

How can you know that?

How I know it, Sir, I have no means of explaining to you; but I know it because I feel it, and that is a way not to be mistaken. Happily nobody will lose by my [Page 239] death; for my daughter and her husband have maintained me themselves for these last two years.

They have only done their duty.

I was once rich enough not to fear becoming a weight to any body: but I lent my money to a gentleman who called himself my friend, and who lived a gay and thoughtless life with the help of it, till he saw me reduced to want. Excuse me, Sir; you are a gentleman too yourself; yet what I say is the truth.

I have always as much plea­sure in hearing the truth, as you can have in telling it; and even if it were to speak against myself, I would not have it disguised.

I should have been wiser to have worked on 'till I died. But I was grown feeble and helpless, and I looked upon that as a sign from God that I might now rest from la­bour. 'Till then, I had never flown from it; it had kept me in health all my young time, and I had never any other physician. But that which strengthens one in youth, wears one out in age. I thought, therefore, I would work no longer. Yet, when I had lost all my money, I wanted to try at it again; and I struggled with all my heart to do as I had done before: but no!— when I came to make use of my arms, I seem­ed as if I had lost them!—Forgive me, Sir, these few tears in calling it back to my mind; but I never had a moment of so much unhap­piness in my life, as when I first found that I was so weak, and so broken, that I could do no­thing for my own living.

You applied then, I suppose, to your children?

No, Sir, they were so good that they applied to me. I had only one daugh­ter, but her husband has proved a true son to me. All that they are worth is like my own. They took care of me, though I had not a crown to leave them. May God give them a place at his heavenly table, as they have given one to me at their table upon earth!

And have they now left off taking care of you?

No, Sir; but they are now grown poor themselves. They have met with some accidents that have brought them to ruin: but for all that, they have been borrowing mo­ney to make me live in quiet for the rest of my days; and this is the only thing they ever did to disobey me. I wish, however, to have ready the small pittance necessary for my burial, that at least I may be no burthen to them after my death. And this is the reason of my asking charity: for though I am old as a man, I am but young as a beggar.

And where do you live?

Pray, Sir, excuse me; I can­not tell that, neither for my own sake, nor my children's.

Pardon the question. It was an improper curiosity; but, depend upon it, I will take no farther means to satisfy it.

I don't doubt you, Sir. In a week, however, if you look up towards hea­ven, you will see, I hope, where I shall live; for then it will no longer be a secret.

Take this, good old man, and may God bless you with it!

All this, Sir? No! it is more than I require: a crown is as much as I want. Any thing further would be of little use to me. There will be no cravings, no desires, in hea­ven.

Give the rest, then, to your children.

God forbid! my children are able to work; and while that's the case, they need want for nothing.

Fare you well, good old man, go now, and take some rest.

Take back this, Sir.

You make me ashamed, friend!

O, Sir! I am ashamed myself! It is but too much to have taken a crown. Keep the rest for those who have longer time to beg than I have.

Your situation really touch­es me!

I hope it has touched God! your generosity will touch him also, Sir, and you will find yourself repaid for it.

Will you have any thing to eat or drink?

I have already had some bread and milk.

You shall, at least, then, take some refreshment home with you.

No, Sir, I will not so far abuse Providence. One glass of wine, however, I should be thankful for.

You shall have it, my friend; and as many more glasses as you like.

No, Sir, one only: I can take no more. You well deserve that I should drink, at your house, the last drop of wine I shall swallow in this world; and I will make it known in Heaven where it was that I drank it. Ah! bountiful God! not even a glass of water is bestowed upon the poor, that thou dost not re­compence!

My last taste of wine! Just God! I pray thee one day to return it two-fold to him from whom I receive it.

Take this glass, my good old man: I have brought one also for myself. We will drink together.

I thank thee, my God, for all the blessings thou hast granted me in this life!

May Heaven grant you, Sir, as happy an end as mine!

Stay and spend the night here, good man. Not a creature, if you dis­like it, shall see you.

No, Sir, I cannot. Time is precious.

Can I do any thing further for you?

I wish you could, Sir, upon your own account: but for myself, I want no­thing more in this world

or, [Page 243] at least, nothing but a glove. I have lost my own.

Here, take these, friend.

Keep that, Sir; I only want one.

And why should you not take the other?

This hand can still bear the cold very well: it is only the left hand that suffers from it; and that has been struck with the palsy these two years.

Adieu, Sir; I shall not for­get you.

Nor I you. Come, my good friend, you must let me follow you: it will be painful to me, now, to keep my word with you, of letting you go alone.

Your keeping it, then, Sir, will be so much the better for you.

Give me your hand once more, good old man! it is full of the blessings of the Almighty!

I hope myself to present him with yours in Paradise.

HAROLD had received from Nature a melancholy disposition, with a penetra­ting understanding. When he walked out with his uncle, every thing that he saw, awakened some reflection, and gave rise to new thought­fulness. His cousins frequently complained, that while he seemed himself so much engaged, he took no trouble in contributing to the gene­ral amusement of the house. They even re­solved, among themselves, to beg that their fa­ther would not let him walk out with them any more: but a gentler method of correcting him, came afterwards into their minds. They agreed together to practise, for some days, the very same conduct towards him, that he practised towards others. One of them went to see some fine pictures; another, some new buildings; and a third, a collection of natural curiosities: but when they returned home, they kept to themselves all the accounts, which they had formerly been eager to relate, of what they had seen or heard; and instead of that mutual com­munication of the pleasures of the day, which had made their evenings lively and agreeable, they had nothing now in common, but formal gravity, and a tiresome silence. Harold remarked [Page 245] this change with equal surprise and vexation. He felt the want of that gaiety, and openness of conversation, which, though he rarely gave way to, made, in fact, all his entertainment. Accustomed, however, to reflection and consi­deration, it taught him immediately the injus­tice of his own behaviour: and he soon became as communicative, as he had hitherto been re­served. In giving way to that social openness, with which Nature has gifted mankind for their mutual blessing, attachment, and union, his own heart first tasted the sweets of friendship and benevolence; while the vigour and vivacity of his genius found fresh employment and satis­faction, from the information he gathered, in return for what he imparted.

LEONORA was a little girl of quick parts and vivacity. At only six years old, she could both work and handle her scissars with much dexterity, and her mama's pincushions and huswifes were all of her making. She could read, with ease and readiness, any book that was put into her hand: she could also write very prettily, and she never put large letters in the middle of a word, nor scrawled all awry, from corner to corner of her paper. Neither were her strokes so sprawling, that five or six [Page 246] words would fill a whole sheet, from the top to the bottom; as I have known to be the case with some other little girls of the same age.

HER papa and mama had as much reason to be pleased with her obedience, as her master had with her industry. She lived in the greatest harmony with her sisters, behaved to all the servants with civility, and to her play-fellows with the utmost good-nature and desire of obliging. The old friends of the family, and the strangers who made a new acquaintance with it, seemed equally delighted with her man­ners and accomplishments.

WHO could believe, that with such qual­ities, such talents, such good-breeding, she who possessed them could be insupportable? Such however was, unhappily, the misfortune of Leonora.

ONE fault, though a single one, of which she was guilty, almost wholly destroyed the effect of all her acquirements: her troublesome fondness of talking soon made every one forget the merit of her mind, and the goodness of her heart. The little Leonora was the greatest prate-apace in the universe.

IN the morning, for example, when she took her work, she would first begin with saying: Well, it is high time now to be a little busy. What would mama say, if she were to come and see me sitting with my hands before me? O dear! what a monstrous long piece I have got here to sew! Well, thank Heaven, I am no sluggard, so I shall soon contrive to see the end of it. Ah! here now the clock strikes; one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, [Page 247] nine:—Well, I have two hours yet before I need go to the harpsicord. One may do a good deal of work in two hours. I know mama will give me some sweet-meats to reward me. O what pleasure I shall have in eating them! I love nothing so much as sweetmeats, though French plumbs are very good too. Papa gave me some the other day. But I think almonds and raisins are best; or, at least, better than any thing else, except sweetmeats. Now, if Dolly would but come to day, I should shew her my new trimming. She is a very good-natured girl, that Dolly, only she loves talking too much —one can't get in a single word for her. Why now where is my thimble? Sister, have not you seen my thimble? I dare say Jenny has taken it away with her. That tiresome creature is always doing some mischief. Who can work, now, without a thimble? The needle will be always running into one's finger. And then one's finger will be bleeding, and that will hurt one so! and dirty all one's work besides. Jenny! Jenny! why where are you now? Do you know any thing of my thimble? No, here it is —all entangled in my thread.

IN this manner, the little thing would chat­ter incessantly all day long. When her father and mother were conversing together upon sub­jects of the utmost importance, she would come with her idle prattle and interrupt their dis­course. At dinner she was frequently only be­ginning her soup, when the rest of the family had finished their meal. She forgot both to drink and to eat, in her eagerness to be eternal­ly talking.

[Page 248]HER father every day, and repeatedly, repri­manded her for this fault: but both reproaches and remonstrances were equally vain. Neither had correction any better effect.

AS she suffered nobody to be heard but her­self, she was frequently sent up stairs alone into her own chamber, in order to be kept out of the way. At other times, they made her, du­ring dinner, sit at a little table by herself, as far off from the family as possible. Leonora was sorry and ashamed, but she did not the more reform. She always found something to say aloud to herself, when she could seize upon no one else to hear her. Rather than be silent, she would begin to prattle with her knife and fork.

AND what did she gain by persevering in this troublesome habit? Nothing, my little friends, as you will soon see, but mortification and ha­tred. I will tell you, now, what she was one day obliged to endure.

HER father and mother were invited by a friend, to go and spend a few days in the coun­try. It was in the autumn; the weather was delightful; and there had never, in any season, been a greater abundance of peaches, nectarines, apples, and pears.

LEONORA had the fullest expectation of mak­ing one in this party. She was greatly surpri­sed, therefore, when her father bid her little sis­ters, Julia and Cecilia, prepare for the journey, and, at the same time, turning to her, told her she must stay at home. She f [...]ew, all in tears, to her mother, and called out: O mama, what have I done to make papa in such a passion with me?

[Page 249]YOUR papa is not in a passion with you, an­swered her mother; but there is no possibility of enduring you in any society. You interrupt all our peace and comfort by your impertient prating.

MUST I never speak one word then? said Leonora.

THAT, answered her mother, would be near­ly as great a fault as this, of which we desire to correct you. But you must always wait for your turn, and not perpetually interrupt your father and me, and people who are both older and wiser than you can be. You ought, also, to break yourself of that idle and troublesome trick of saying every thing that comes into your head. When you wish to ask any question re­ally for your instruction, you should do it in few words, and at once: and when you have any little account to give, always consider first in your own mind, whether your friends, or who­ever you are speaking to, are likely to wish to hear it.

LEONORA, however deficient she might be in reasons, would at least have found abundance of words in her own justification, had she not heard her papa's voice, calling aloud to her mother and sisters, that the carriage was waiting.

LEONORA saw them set off, with many sighs; and followed the carriage with her eyes, which were swimming in tears, as long as it was in sight: and when she could see it no more, she went and seated herself in a corner, and spent the first quarter of an hour in nothing but cry­ing. O wicked tongue! said she, it is to you I owe all my misfortunes! But I will take care [Page 250] you shall never, never for the future, say one single word more than you ought.

IN a few days the family returned. Her sis­ters brought home baskets full of nuts and grapes; and, as they had excellent dispositions, their first pleasure was to beg Leonora to partake of their presents: but Leonora was so lost in melancholy, that she would not even taste them. She went up to her father, and said to him: Ah! my dear papa, forgive me for making you punish me so; for I am sure you have been as sorry for it as myself: and so I think we have both been sufferers; but indeed, indeed, papa, I will never be such a prate-apace any more.

HER father embraced her tenderly; and the next morning, she was permitted to breakfast at table with the rest of the family. She spoke very little, and all she said was modest and to the purpose. It is true, she found it very diffi­cult, at first, to keep her tongue in such order; for, unused to any control, it was continually in motion, rolling from side to side of her mouth. But the day after, this restraint grew less painful to her, and every following day still less and less; till, by degrees, she was able wholly to conquer her insupportable love of chattering. And now she perfectly understands how to bear her part in society, without ever being impertinent, tiresome, or intruding.

ARCHIBALD had often been told by his fa­ther, that children know little or nothing of what is fit for them, and that they can never grow wise but by following the counsel of those who are older than themselves. But this was a lesson which he was unwilling to understand, or else, which he did not remember.

A division had been made of a little square piece of ground in the garden, between his bro­ther Percival and himself; and each had his own half at his entire disposal, with full permission to sow or to plant in it whatever he pleased.

PERCIVAL immediately recollected his father's instructions. He went, therefore, to the gar­dener, and said to him: Robert, be so good as to tell me what I can plant in my little garden, and how I must manage to make things grow in it.

ROBERT gave him some roots, and picked him out some of his best seeds. Percival flew to put them in the earth: and Robert had the good-nature to over-look and to direct his pro­ceedings.

ARCHIBALD only shrugged his shoulders at the compliance of his brother. Should you like, said the gardener, that I should do some­thing also for you?

O, to be sure, cried Archibald, I have great need of your advice!

[Page 252]HE then went himself, and gathered some flowers, and planted them by the stalk in the ground; while Robert [...] [...]im wholly to him­self.

THE next morning, Archibald went to visit his flowers, and saw them all drooping, withered, faded, and bending down to the earth. He in­stantly, however, planted more; but he saw, the next day, that they had shared the same fate.

HE soon grew weary of this work. It was paying rather too dear for the pleasure of having flowers in his garden. He ceased, therefore, to take any further trouble with it, and the ground was quickly covered with thistles and weeds.

ABOUT the latter end of the next spring, he perceived, upon his brother's ground, something red, that seemed budding in the midst of thick clusters of green. He went to examine it; and found the finest strawberries, beautiful in their colour, and delicious in their taste. O dear! cried he, if I too had but planted some of these in my garden!

NOT long after, he observed some little round things, of a deep vermillion, hanging in bunches between the leaves of a thick bush. He instant­ly went up to them. They were currants, so fine, ripe, and inviting, that only to look at them might create an appetite. Ah! cried he again, if I had but planted some of these, too, in my garden!

YOU may eat of them, as if they were en­tirely yours, said his brother.

IT was all in your own power, said the gar­dener, to have had some equally good. So pray [Page 253] take care for the future not to despise the advice of people who have had more experience than yourself.

BUTTERFLY, pretty butterfly! come and rest on the flower that I hold in my hand!

WHITHER goest thou, little simpleton? Seest thou not that hungry bird that watches thee? His beak is sharpened, and already open to de­vour thee. Come, come then, hither; he will be afraid of me, and he will not then dare ap­proach thee.

BUTTERFLY, pretty butterfly! come and rest on the flowers that I hold in my hand!

I will not pull off thy wings, nor torment thee: no, no, no; thou art little and helpless, like myself. I only wish to look at thee nearer. I want to see thy little head, and to examine thy long body, and thy spread wings, mottled and speckled with a thousand different colours.

BUTTERFLY, pretty butterfly! come and rest on the flower that I hold in my hand!

I will not keep thee long; I know thou hast not long to live. When the summer is over, thou wilt be no more; and for me, I shall only then be six years old.

BUTTERFLY, pretty butterfly! come and rest on this flower that I hold in my hand! Thou hast not a moment to lose from enjoying this short life; but thou mayest feed and regale thyself all the time that I look at thee.

PAPA, I can tell you of a very good servant when you turn away old John.

And who commissioned you to take any such trouble? Why should you think I intend to turn him away?

What, papa, shall you always keep that old fellow? I am sure a younger man would do much better for us.

How now, Peregrine! This is a bad reason for discharging an old servant. An old fellow, you call him; O Peregrine! you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Is it not in my service that he is grown old? is it not even very probable that his attendance upon you in your childhood, and the concern and anxiety which he felt for your frequent illnesses, have made him grow old before his time? How unreasonable, therefore, and how ungrateful it would be, to take an aversion to him on ac [...]ount of his age! and do you fancy yourself at all more justifiable in telling me that a younger man would suit us so much better? A decision [Page 290] such as that requires far more experience than you can yet have had, and a judgment at which you cannot have arrived. I will, how­ever, convince you, in a few minutes, of the very superior advantages an old servant has over a young one, for fidelity, for exactness, and for knowledge of his business.

I believe it, to be sure, papa, if you say so. But then his wearing that wig! it seems so droll to see a man standing behind your chair, and waiting upon you, with a wig on! I can never look at him without being ready to burst out a laughing.

This is a bad account of your own disposition, Peregrine, and such a one as I did not suspect you of deserving. Do you not know that he lost his hair in a long and dangerous illness? Is not laughing at him, then, an insult on God, who inflicted upon him that illness?

But then he is such a grumbler, papa! and besides, he is not half so nimble as any of the others are.

No, no, Peregrine, he may be grave, or thoughtful; but I am sure he is no grumbler. Neither, indeed, is he quite so alert as a young lad of eighteen or twenty; but are you therefore to hate him? Oh Peregrine! the very idea makes me shudder! You may also, then, hate me too, should Heaven indulge me with a long old-age?

O no, indeed, papa; I am not so wicked.

You do not think it any wickedness, then, to hate poor old John, be­cause [Page 291] his age prevents him from being so active as he was formerly?

I am in the wrong, I own, papa; and, indeed, I am very sorry, now, to recollect how—

Why do you stop? What is it you are sorry to recollect?

If I should confess what I have done, papa, you would only be angry with me, and then I should get punished.

You know very well, Peregrine, that I do not love to chastise you, and that it is a method of correction I employ very seldom. It is by reasoning, and by gentleness, that I endeavour to direct and to govern both you and your sister. I am ignorant what the fault is that you have committed; I cannot, therefore, make you a promise that you shall not be pun­ished for it. But is that the condition you would prescribe for making your confession? Do not you know my affection for you? I shall give you no other pledge: on that, however, you may rely as much as upon a promise.

Why then, papa, I will own to you, that I —I called old John—an old rascal.

Is it possible! and could you really so far forget what is due to so worthy a man? Did he hear you?

Yes, papa; that's what makes me so sorry.

You have reason, indeed, to be sorry; but it is not sufficient to repent mere­ly because your insult to an innocent fellow-creature was heard by him; you should feel [Page 292] the same remors [...] [...] you abused him in his absence.

And so I do, papa; but the thing I am so sorry for, is having used him so ill to his face; for—for—

Go on Peregrine; you have begun to open your heart to me; do not stop.

I won't, papa;—for when I had treated him so, he fell a crying, and said: Are not the misfortunes of old age bad enough to bear? must I also be made the scorn of child­hood?

Poor old John! I know well it was just the sort of injury to wring his very heart. It is, indeed, very hard, at his time of life, to be made the sport of a child; and how much more hard, when from a child whom he has known and attended from his birth, and to whom he has done services and good offices that can never be repaid!

Ah, papa, how much I have been to blame! I will go and ask his pardon! and I promise you, for all my life long, that he shall never have to complain of me again.

You will do very right; and on those terms alone can you obtain forgiveness for yourself from God, or from your father. We are all weak creatures, and, for a few mo­ments, may easily be hurried from our duty by our passions. But when we come again to ourselves, our repentance for our faults ought to make the deepest impression upon us; we should force our pride to submit to offering repa­ration for them, and study with all our might to save ourselves from the same failings in future. But [Page 293] I would fain know what could have led you to this outrage against poor John! Had he offend­ed you?

Yes, papa; or at least I thought he had. I was playing with my squirt, and I made aim at his face with some peas I had put in it. Have done, then, Master Peregrine, cried he, or I will tell your papa of you. And I was so provoked with him for threatening me, that I called him that name.

It was by design, then, that you endeavoured to mortify him?

I can't deny that, papa.

This, then, is what adds to your fault; and this, I suppose, drew the tears from his eyes?

O papa, if you will give me leave, I'll run to him directly, and make my peace; I sha'n't be easy now till I have got his pardon.

Go, then, my dear: not a moment should ever be lost in fulfilling our duty. I will wait for you here.

Now, papa, I am quite happy again. Old John has forgiven me with all his heart. O, I don't believe I shall ever do such a bad thing as this any more!

May God keep you from it! but without his aid, you cannot promise your­self any firmness of resolution.

And what ought I to do, that God may keep me from it?

You must pray to him to guide and assist you, and he will not refuse you.

I will pray to him, then, from the bottom of my heart. But, papa, there is one other thing I have done without asking your leave, and perhaps it may make you angry?

What is it?

I have been giving old John that crown-piece you made me a present of at my birth-day.

And why should I be angry? On the contrary, I am pleased that you should do a good action of your own accord, and without any injunction. You may always dis­pose as you like of what money I give you. It is your own. You could not have made a bet­ter use of my present. A prudent generosity can never be practised too early. Did it not make old John very happy?

Yes, he cried for joy; and I felt myself quite glad to see it.

I am pleased you had that feel­ing my love. A good heart must always de­light in having had power to soften the sufferings of a fellow-creature. The exercise of every vir­tue is an incitement to joy; but there is none which inspires so sweet or so lasting a satisfaction as beneficence.

If ever I should have a fortune of my own, I am resolved to give all the help that ever I can to every body that I see in dis­tress.

And the last prayer, my son, that I shall offer up to God, will be that he may strengthen you in [...] performance of this design, and join the means to the inclination that may enable you to fulfil it.

And will it always make me as happy, papa, as it has done to-day?

It is, perhaps the only plea­sure which never grows weaker. Let your chief attention be to enjoy it in your own fami­ly. If your servants are worthy people, you may better secure their attachment to you by good offices, than by money. Not, however, that you should neglect, from time to time, making them some little presents; and if you are careful to give them at proper seasons, and with a good grace, you may insure yourself a friend in every domestic in your house.

Why, papa, have not they their wages?

Their wages are merely the pay of their work: but a present is a matter of favour, and will not only excite their gratitude, but induce them to go beyond what is actually their duty in serving you.

I don't quite understand you, papa.

I will explain myself, then by the instance of old John. I give him his wages, his clothes, and his food, in return for his time, his labour, and his service: but when he has given me his time, his labour, and his services, is he not out of my debt? Does he owe me yet more? Nevertheless, you well know he takes care of every thing in my house; that he has made himself superintendant over the rest of the servants, and that he frequently saves me from losses and imposition. And this he does purely from personal regard to me, without any particular order from myself, and merely in [Page 296] gratitude for the [...]ndnesses he has received from me, and the presents which I have occasionally made him. When you are old enough to mix in the world, you will hear complaints of the ingratitude and carelessness of servants where­ever you go. But believe me, Peregrine, the fault is generally in the masters, who seem al­most always more desirous to be feared than to be loved.

Now I understand you perfectly, papa; and when I am grown up, I intend to follow your advice and your example.

You will never have any rea­son to repent it. I inherited them myself from my own father, and I shall never forget what he has said to me upon this subject.

O papa, if it would not tire you, how I should like to hear what it was!

I will tell it you with pleasure, both as a recompence for your repentance, and your generosity to honest John.

CAPTAIN FORD, a brave officer who had re­ [...]red from service, lived upon his own estate, with an excellent wife, and five children, who were every one o [...]em worthy of such parents. All the inhabitants of the neighbouring villages felt the utmost respect for them; and the per­fect harmony which reigned in the whole fami­ly, made the sight of it pleasant▪ and even af­fecting to all beholders. The sweetness of Captain Ford's disposition, joined to the order and decorum preserved throughout his house, insured to him the good-will and admiration of whoever had the happiness of knowing him. All the young lads who lived near his estate [Page 297] were eager to enter into his service; and when­ever there was a vacancy in his household, by the death or discharge of any domestic, the place was instantly sought, as if it had been an employment of high honour. Chearfulness and content were marked upon the countenances of all who belonged to him. They seemed but like humble and dutiful children waiting upon their father. His commands were always so just, and so easy, that no one had even a wish to disobey them. They lived together in as strict a union as if they had been brothers: or, if they had ever any dispute, it was but of zeal for the service of their master, and of regard for his interest.

MR. Fenwick, an old comrade of Captain Ford, who had likewise retired to live in the country, though at a great distance from the estate of his friend, made him a visit one day, as he was passing near his house in his way to the capital. After various other subjects, the conversation fell upon the many difficulties and inconveniences of house-keeping. Mr. Fenwick declared that watching and superintending ser­vants was the greatest of all fatigues, and that he had never met with any who were not either insolent, lazy, or careless of their master's con­cerns. I have no such complaints, said Captain Ford, to make of mine. I have not, for these ten years past, had one serious subject of dis­pleasure in my own house. I am quite satisfied with my servants, and they seem equally satisfied with me. You have uncommon good-luck, then, answered Mr. Fenwick; and you must certainly have learnt some secret, first of making [Page 298] servants good, and then of keeping them so. The secret, answered Captain Ford, is a very simple one, and I will shew it to you. He then brought forth a strong box. What does this mean? cried Mr. Fenwick. Captain Ford, without making any reply, opened the box; and he then saw six drawers, with these inscrip­tions. Extra expences.—My own.—My wife's.— My children's.—Servant [...]' wages.—Grat [...]ities.— As I have always a year's income before-hand, Captain Ford now answered, I divide it into six parts at the beginning of every twelve-month. in the first drawer, I put a certain sum, to be strictly reserved for unexpected demands and oc­casions. In the second, is what I allow for my own private purse. The third contains what is necessary for house-keeping, and my wife's pin-money. The fourth, all that the education of my children, which is the best I can give them, ought to cost me. The fifth, the servants' wages. And the sixth, what I think proper to dispense in presents and gratuities to them. It is to this last drawer that I owe the happiness of never having a bad servant. Their wages are only for what their service makes their due; but the little gifts which I occasionally distribute among them, are for good offices not included in their actual duty, but which their personal affection for me leads them to do, beyond either my orders or expectations.'

ON a beautiful day in the midst of summer, Mr. Wilkins promised his two children, Dorinda and Antony, that he would take them to walk out with him in a very pretty garden, at some little distance from his house. He went, therefore, into his dressing-room to get ready, and desired the two children to wait for him in the parlour.

ANTONY, transported with the pleasure he expected from this little expedition, began run­ning and jumping about, giddy with joy, till the skirt of his coat brushed down a very rare and curious flower, which his father was culti­vating with infinite care and attention, and which, at noon-day, in order to shelter from the burning heat of the sun, he had unfortu­nately removed into the room.

O brother! what have you done? cried Do­rinda, picking up the flower, which was broken off from the stem.

SHE had it still in her hand, when her father, having changed his dress, returned into the parlour.

WHAT does this mean, Dorinda? exclaimed Mr. Wilkins, very angrily; have you been ga­thering that flower, which you have seen me take so much pains to cultivate, on purpose to preserve its seed? Dear papa, cried Dorinda, trembling, don't be angry, pray!

[Page 300]I shall not be angry now, answered Mr. Wil­kins, recovering his temper; but lest you should happen to have the same fancy for gathering flowers in the garden to which I am going, and which does not belong to me, you must not be surprised that I think it necessary to leave you at home.

DORINDA looked down, and said nothing; but Antony would no longer be silent. He approached his father, while his eyes swam in tears, and said to him: It was not my sister, papa, it was I that broke off the flo [...]r: so it must be for me to stay at home; but pray let Dorinda go.

MR. Wilkins, touched by the ingenuousness of his children, and by the affection which they shewed for each other, tenderly embraced them, and said: You are both of you my darlings, and you shall go with me together.

DORINDA and Antony jumped for joy. They were then taken to the garden, where all the most curious plants were pointed out to them. Mr. Wilkins observed, with much satisfaction, that while they were walking in the flower-beds, Dorinda pressed her frock tight down on each side with her hands, while Antony h [...]d up the flaps of his coat under his arms, from the fear of doing any mischief.

THE flower which Mr. Wilkins had lost, would probably have given him some pleasure; but he received infinitely more in viewing the fraternal tenderness, the candour and the dis­cretion which flourished in his children.

OH, most unhappy children, who have had the misfortune to contract vicious habits! It is to reform, and to console you, that I relate the history which you have now to read. It will teach you, that it is always possible for you to amend yourselves, when you have the spirit and courage to resolve upon it from the bottom of your hearts.

ROSAMOND, till she reached her seventh year, was the joy and delight of her p [...]. At that age, when the first [...]w [...]ing of opening reason ought to shew us the [...]i [...]ou [...]ss of our failings, Rosamond, unhappily, only [...] a new defect; which cannot better he deser [...]d, than by comparing it with the perpetual grow [...] ­ing of a little snarling cur, who runs yel [...] after every body he sees, and appears to make it his constant aim, to snap at their legs, and bite them.

IF, by any mistake, or accident, one of her play-things happened to be touched, she frown­ed, and looked discontented, and muttered be­tween her teeth for a quarter of an hour.

IF she was reproved, however gently, she hastily arose, st [...]mped with her feet, and threw the chairs, tables, and furniture, about the room.

BY degrees, neither her father, her mother, nor any body in the house, could tell how to endure her.

[Page 302]IT is true, she sometimes repented her mis­behaviour, and shed tears in secret at finding herself become an object of general aversion, even to her parents; but the bad habits into which she had fallen, soon regained their full power, and her disposition grew every day more peevish and hu [...]oursome.

ONE night, which happened to be Christmas eve, she saw her mother going into her own room with a basket under her cloak.

ROSAMOND attempted to follow her; but Mrs. Freeman ordered her to return to the drawing-room. At this command, she looked more cross and pouting than ever, and shut the door with such violence, that she shook every window-frame in the house.

HALF an hour after, her mother sent for her. What, then, was her surprise, to see the room i [...]ated with twenty wax-candles, and the table spread with the most beautiful toys! she could not utter a syllable, from her transports of pleasure and admiration.

COME hither, Rosamond, said her mother, and read, in this paper, for whom it is these things are designed. Rosamond approached, and perceived, in the midst of the toys, an open note. She took it, and saw, in capital letters, the following words: ‘FOR AN AMIABLE LITTLE GIRL, AS A RE­WARD FOR HER GOOD-NATURE.’

ROSAMOND looked down, but said nothing. Well, Rosamond, said her mother, for whom do you think that is meant? Not for me, an­swered Rosamond, while the tears start [...]d into her eyes.

[Page 303]HERE is another note, cried Mrs. Freeman: see if you have any better claim to that.

ROSAMOND took it, and read: ‘FOR A GRUMBLING LITTLE GIRL, WHEN SHE CONFESSES HER FAULTS, AND PROMIS­ES, AT THE BEGINNING OF A NEW YEAR, TO CORRECT THEM.’

O, this is me, this is me! cried Rosamond, running up to her mother, and crying bitterly.

MRS. Freeman wept too herself, from min­gled concern at the bad temper of her daughter, and from joy at the repentance and shame which seemed now awakened in her.

COME then, cried she, after a short [...] take what belongs to you [...]and may G [...] [...]o has given you grace enough to see your [...] give you strength to reform them [...]

NO, my dear mama, answered Ros [...]: these things ought only to belong to the person who deserves the first note. Keep them until I am that person myself. You will [...], I know, when you think me good enoug [...] ▪

THIS answer gave Mrs. Freeman much pleasure. She collected the play-things, and put them all into a cabinet, and then, present­ing the key of it to Rosamond, said: Here, my dear child; you shall yourself open the cabinet, when you think you are untitled to what it con­tains.

[Page 304]SIX whole weeks now passed, during which Rosamond was not once out of humour.

ONE day, about this time, she threw her arms round her mother's neck, and, in a voice hardly loud enough to be heard, fearfully said: May I open the cabinet, mama? Yes, my love, answered Mrs. Freeman, kissing her with the utmost tenderness; but tell me, Rosamond, how is it you have managed to correct your disposi­tion so well, and so speedily? By thinking of nothing else, mama, replied Rosamond; and indeed I must own it has sometimes cost me dear: but every morning, and every night, and a hundred times in the day besides, I prayed to God to give me grace to mend myself.

[...] Freeman wept over her with joy and [...] Rosamond instantly took possession [...] her play-things, and, in a short time, of the [...] of all her friends.

[...] mother, soon after, related this happy [...] i [...] the presence of a little girl who was [...] the same fault: and the little girl was so much struck by what she heard, that she im­mediately formed the resolution of copying Ro­s [...] and becoming equally amiable.

[...] project had the same success: and thus Ros [...]ond not only grew happier herself, but pointed out the road of happiness to all who were willing to follow her example.

AND what sensible and well-brought-up child would not also endeavour to imitate a conduct, which both honour and felicity are ready to reward?

IN a beautiful morning in the month of June, Alexis had got himself ready to accompany his father upon a party of pleasure, which had occupied all his hopes and thoughts for a fort-night before. Contrary to his usual custom, he had risen very early, to hasten the preparations for his expedition: but just at the instant, when he fancied he had arrived at the accomplishment of his expectations, the sky became dark, the clouds thickened and grew black, and a most tempestuous wind beat down the branches of the trees, and blew up the dust in whirlwinds. Alexis ran continually into the garden, to exa­mine the sky; and then skipt up stairs, three steps at a time, to consult the barometer▪ but both the sky and the barometer agreed in dis­appointing his wishes. Nevertheless, he scrup [...]ed not to assure his father they might go in safety, that all these gloomy threats would disperse into nothing, that the weather would be finer than before, and that they ought to s [...]t out without losing another moment.

MR. Pierson, however, who had no blind confidence in the foresight of his son, thought it wiser to wait a little longer: and soon after, the clouds suddenly burst, and a torrent of rain [Page 306] fell upon the earth. Alexis, then, ashamed as well as grieved, burst into a flood of tears, and refused all consolation.

THE rain continued till three o'clock in the afternoon: the clouds then dispersed, the sun recovered its splendour, the sky its serenity, and all nature seemed restored to the freshness of spring. The temper of Alexis cleared, like the horizon, by degrees. His father took him out into the fields; where the calmness of the air, the warbling of the birds, the beauty of the meadows, and the sweet perfumes breathing every where around him, soon brought back peace and good humour into his bosom.

DO you observe, said his father, how de­lightful a change has just been made throughout the creation? Recollect but the gloomy face of things, which so lately saddened us: the earth, you may remember, was parched, and opened in wide gaps from the long drought: the flow­ers lost their sweet smell, and bent their droop­ing heads; all vegetation seemed at an end. To what must we attribute this sudden renewal of the beauties of nature? To the rain we have had, to-day, papa, answered Alexis: and, in pronouncing these words, he was instantly struck himself with the folly of his behaviour, and the injustice of his repining. He coloured; and his father judged by his consciousness, that his own reflexions would suffice to teach him, for the future, to sacrifice, without murmuring, his personal gratification, for the general good.

I WISH I might do nothing but play all day long, mama, cried little Laura to Mrs. Draper, her mother.

What! nothing else for the whole day?

Yes, mama, nothing else at all.

I have no desire but to make you happy, my love; but I am sure playing so long will only tire you.

Playing tire me, mama! O no, in­deed! you shall see if it will.

LAURA then, jumping at every other step, flew in search of all her play-things. She soon got them together: but she was quite alone, for her sisters were employed in studying with their several masters till dinner-time.

SHE enjoyed her liberty at first with all possi­ble spirit, and, for one whole hour, was perfect­ly happy: but, after that, she began to grow weary, and every moment took from her some portion of her pleasure.

SHE had already looked at her play-things, one after another, an hundred times; and now she knew not what to do next. Even her fa­vourite doll displeased and tired her.

SHE went to her mama, and begged she would tell her of some new amusement, and play with her a little herself; but, unfortunately, Mrs. Draper was engaged in settling some affairs of [Page 308] importance; and she was therefore forced to re­fuse Laura's request, however unwillingly.

THE little girl then seated herself mournfully, in a corner, where, uncomfortable and yawn­ing, she waited till her sisters had finished their lessons, and were allowed to find entertainment for themselves.

THIS time, at last, arrived. Laura ran up to them, and, in a doleful voice, told them how long the morning had seemed to her, and how impatient she had been for their coming.

THEY now made choice of their most favour­ite plays, in order to raise the spirits of their little sister, who was tenderly loved by them all.

BUT, alas! their kindness was in vain. Laura declared she was quite sick of all these plays al­ready, and that they did not give her the least pleasure; and added, she believed they were all in a plot against her, not to chuse any game that she liked.

ADELAIDE, her eldest sister, who was a young lady of ten years of age, and very sensi­ble and reasonable, now took her by the hand, and said to her, with great sweetness:

LOOK at us all, Laura, one after another, as we stand here together; and then I will tell you who among us it is that occasions your discon­tent.

And who is it, then, sister? for I am sure I can't find out.

That is only because you have not looked at yourself. Yes, my dear Laura, it is nobody but yourself; you see very well that these plays still amuse us, notwithstanding we [Page 309] have played at them so often, and that even be­fore you were born. But we are just come from doing our tasks, which makes every thing seem new to us. If you had earned your plea­sure, as we have done, by working, you would find it as sweet as we do.

LAURA, who, child as she was, did not want for understanding, was much struck by her sister's discourse. It taught her that, to be re­ally happy, it was necessary to mingle useful ex­ercises with pleasant diversions. And I know not whether, since that time, she would not have conceived a greater dread of a whole day of mere pleasure, than of one filled up with every employment, such as was suited to her age.

MAMA, Mama! cried little Simon, one evening, as, quite out of breath, he ran up to his mother, only look at what's in my hat!

Ha ha, a little bird! and where did you get it?

I found a nest this morning in the garden-hedge: so I waited till it was night; and then I slid softly up to the bush, and before ever the bird was aware, pop! I caught it by the wings.

And was it alone in it's nest?

No, mama, all its children were there too. But they are so little, they have got no feathers on yet: so I am not afraid of their escaping.

And what would you do with this bird?

I shall put it in a cage, and hook it up in my room.

And all the poor little ones?

O, I shall take them too, and feed them myself. I'll go and run for them now directly.

I am sorry to tell you, you won't have time.

O, it is not far off. You know where the great cherry-tree is? Well, its just opposite to that. I looked well at the place.

But that is not the thing; I am afraid you will be seized yourself first. The soldiers are, perhaps, at the door already.

The soldiers, mama! to take me!

Yes, you. The king has just had your father arrested; and the guard who forced him away, said he should return to fetch you and your sister, and carry you also to pri­son.

O dear, O dear!—what will they do with us?

You will be confined in a small apartment, and never be allowed to go out of it.

O, what a wicked king!

He will have no harm done to you. You will have food and drink every day. You will only be deprived of your liber­ty, and of the pleasure of ever seeing me again.

Why, my love, why what's the matter with you? Is it so great a misfortune to be shut up in a room, when you will have all the necessaries of life?

The king does but behave to your father, your sister, and yourself, as you have behaved to this bird and its little ones. You cannot, therefore, call him wicked, with­out calling yourself so at the same time.

Oh!—I'll go and let the bird fly away!—

Take courage, my child; I have said this merely to [Page 312] try you. Your father is not in prison, and nei­ther your sister nor yourself are going to be confined. I wanted but to make you under­stand how ill you were acting, in desiring to imprison this poor little animal. Just as you were terrified yourself when I told you that you were to be seized, this bird was ter­rified when you robbed him of his liber­ty. You little considered how the husband would have pined for his wife, how the children would have cried for their mother, and how af­flicted they must all have been by such a separa­tion. I am sure this did not once enter your mind, or, certainly, you would never have taken the bird. Is it not true, my dear?

Yes, mama, for I had never thought about all that!

Well, think of it, then, in future; and forget not that these innocent little animals were created to enjoy their liberty, and that it is highly cruel to fill a life so short as theirs with bitterness and sorrow. But, to re­member it better, you should get by heart your good friend's verses upon this subject.

What! mama, the verses by the Children's Friend? O, read them to me, dear mama!

I will; here they are: