THE LITTLE BROTHER.

FANNY aroſe one morning very early, intending to go and gather ſome flowers in the garden, and to make a noſegay of them to carry to her mama, who was then in bed. As ſhe was juſt preparing to go down ſtairs, Mr. Glaſsford her father entered her chamber ſmiling, and took her up in his arms, ſaying, "Good morning, my dear Fanny! come along with me directly; I am going to ſhew you ſomething which you will cer⯑tainly be very glad to ſee." Fanny eagerly aſked, "What is it, papa?" "God has given you a little brother laſt night," anſwered he. "A little brother? Ah! where is he? Let me ſee him! Pray carry me to him directly!" Her father opened the door of the chamber in which her mother lay. There was beſide the bed a ſtrange woman whom Fanny had never before ſeen in the houſe, and who was wrapping up the new-born infant in its ſwathes. Fanny aſked a thouſand queſtions, to which her father anſwered as well as he was able; and thought he had ſatisfied her curioſity in every thing, when ſhe ſaid to him, "Papa, who is that old woman? how ſhe binds my little brother up! Are not you afraid that ſhe will hurt him?"

Oh, no; never fear. It is an honeſt woman that I have ſent for to take care of him.

But he belongs to mama. Has ſhe ſeen him yet?

Yes, Fanny, I have ſeen him. Tell me, are not you glad to ſee him?

Oh, indeed I am, mama. You have given me a very pretty young companion! what a cunning little face he has! and all red, as if he had juſt been running. Papa, will you let him play with me?

That is not poſſible, my dear, he cannot ſtand upon his little legs. You ſee how weak they are.

Oh dear! the little legs! I ſee it will be a long time before we ſhall run about together.

All in good time. He muſt firſt learn to walk; and then you will ſoon be able to play and jump together in the garden.

Shall we? O my poor little fellow! I muſt give you ſomething to make you fond of me. Hold; I have a little picture in my pocket. There, take that. What is the matter, papa? the little monkey will not have it. He holds his little fiſts ſhut.

He does not know how to uſe them yet. We muſt wait a few months.

Is that the caſe? aha! my little man, I will give you all my play-things. Well! are you glad of that? anſwer me. He ſeems to ſmile. Call me Fanny! What, wont you ſpeak?

He will not be able to ſpeak theſe two years. But Fanny, take care that you do not diſturb your mama with too much talk.

Ah! papa, look there, his face is quite changed; ſee, he cries; certainly it is becauſe he is hungry. Be quiet then, my little man, and I will go get you ſomething nice.

Do not trouble yourſelf, my dear, about his victuals. He has no teeth yet. How ſhould he be able to eat?

Cannot he eat? What will he live upon then? Muſt he die?

No my child. God has given me milk in my breaſt for the nouriſhment of thy little brother. He is very weak as yet; but after ſome time you ſhall ſee how he will tumble about on the floor, like a little lamb.

How I long to ſee that! But only look what a pretty tiny head! I dare not touch it.

You may touch it; but very gently.

Oh! quite gently. Oh dear! how ſoft it is! like a ball of cotton.

Every little child has ſuch a head as your bro⯑ther.

If he was to fall he would break it all to pieces.

Certainly. But we will take good care to hold him, ſo that he ſhall not fall.

Do you know, Fanny, that five years ago you were as little as he?

As little as he! Oh, papa, you are joking.

No, my dear; nothing is more true.

Yet I do not remember it.

That I believe. Do you remember when I had this carpet put on the floor?

Why it has always been as it is now.

Not at all. I had this carpet laid down at the very time when you were as little as your brother.

Indeed! then I never took notice of it.

Little babies never take notice of what paſſes where the [...] are. When your brother ſhall be as old as you, aſk him if he remembers that you tried this day to make him learn to pronounce your name. You will then ſee if he recollects it.

What, and did I ſuck at mama's breaſt too?

Certainly. If you knew all the pains that ſhe has taken for you! In the firſt place you were ſo weak that you could ſcarce take any nouriſhment. We were afraid every moment that you would die before our faces. Your mother uſed to ſay, My poor infant! if ſhe ſhould fall into a fit! and believe me ſhe took infinite pains to get you to ſuck a few drops of milk.

Ah, dear mama! it was you then that taught me to feed myſelf?

Yes, my child. Then after your mother had ſucceeded in making you take to the breaſt of yourſelf, you grew fat and good-humoured. Such were her cares for near two years, every day and every hour of the day. Sometimes, when your mother was fallen aſleep merely through fatigue, you would diſturb her reſt by your cries. Then would ſhe be obliged to riſe and run to your cradle. My dear Fanny, would ſhe ſay, while ſhe endeavoured to [4]quiet you, ſurely thou muſt be thirſty, and then ſhe would take you to her breaſt.

And was my head at that time as ſoft as my brother's?

Juſt the ſame, my dear.

What mine! that is ſo hard now? Oh dear, I muſt have broken it a thouſand times.

Ah! child; we took ſo much care of you. Your mother for a time renounced every pleaſure, and kept from all company, on purpoſe not to loſe you a mo⯑ment from her ſight. As often as buſineſs, that was abſo⯑lutely indiſpenſable, obliged her to go out, ſhe was in con⯑tinual apprehenſion for you. My dear Grace, ſhe would ſay to your nurſe, I give Fanny into your care, to look to her as if it were your own child; and ſhe was continually making the good woman preſents, to induce her to take more particular care of you.

Ah! my dear good mama!—But was there ever a time, papa, when I could not run? I that can run ſo well now. See; in three or four ſteps I am acroſs the room. Who was it that taught me this?

Thy mother and I. We put a bandage of vel⯑vet well ſtuffed about your head, that if you happened to fall you might not hurt yourſelf. We then held you by leading-ſtrings to aſſiſt your firſt attempts in walking, and every day we went into the garden upon the graſs-plat, where placing ourſelves oppoſite to each other, at a little diſtance, we ſet you down betwixt us, ſtanding all alone, and held out our arms to invite you to come ſometimes to one, ſometimes to the other. Your ſlighteſt ſtumble would make our blood run cold. It was by often repeat⯑ing theſe trials that we taught you to walk.

I could never have thought that I gave you ſo much trouble. Was it you too that taught me to ſpeak?

Yes; for that again you are indebted to us. I uſed to take you upon my knees, and repeat to you the words papa and mama, until you were able to liſp them to me again. Every word that you can ſpeak this day we taught you in the ſame manner. I dare ſay you can re⯑collect that it was we alſo who ſhewed you how to read.

Oh! I remember that perfectly. You had me placed every day at dinner between you; and at the deſſert, a plate of raiſins was ſet upon the table, and ſome ſmall [5]ſquares marked with the letters. Whenever I was ſo lucky as to name them perfectly, you always gave me ſome rai⯑ſins. Oh! it was a very pretty play.

If we had not taken all theſe pains with you, if we had left you to yourſelf, what would have become of you?

I ſhould have been dead a long time ago. Ah, the dear good papa and mama!

And yet you ſometimes vex your papa; you are ſometimes diſobedient to mama!

I will never be ſo any more as long as I live. I did not know how much you had done for me.

Take notice of the attention that we ſhall pay to your little brother, and then ſay to yourſelf, "I too have given my parents the ſame trouble."

This converſation made a lively impreſſion upon Fanny; and when ſhe ſaw all the tenderneſs which her mother teſtified for her little brother; all the anxiety that ſhe felt for his health; the patience which ſhe exerted in en⯑deavouring to make him take to his nouriſhment; how much ſhe was afflicted whenever ſhe heard him cry; with what tender ſolicitude her father relieved her of ſome part of her fatigue, and how both one and the other took infi⯑nite pains in teaching the infant to walk and ſpeak; ſhe would ſay in her own mind, My dear parents have taken the ſame trouble with me. This reflexion inſpired her with ſo much affection and gratitude towards them, that ſhe ever after faithfully obſerved the promiſe which ſhe had made, never voluntarily to cauſe them the ſlighteſt uneaſineſs.

THE FOUR SEASONS.

AH! if it would always continue to be winter! ſaid young Florio, who was juſt returned from ſliding, and was amuſing himſelf in the garden with making men of ſnow. Mr. Gardener his father, hearing theſe words, ſaid to him, My dear, thou wilt do me a pleaſure to write down that wiſh on my tablets. Florio complied, and wrote while his hand trembled with cold. The win⯑ter paſſed away, and ſpring ſucceeded. Florio was walk⯑ing [6]along with his father beſide a border in the garden, where the hyacinth, auricula and narciſſus were in perfect bloom. He felt the moſt lively pleaſure in breathing their perfume, and admiring their freſh and vivid colours. Theſe are the productions of Spring, ſaid Mr. Gardener to him. They are beautiful, but of very ſhort duration. Oh! replied Florio, that it were always Spring! Be ſo good as to write that wiſh in my tablets. Florio obeyed while his heart beat with joy. The Spring very ſoon made room for Summer. Florio, one fine day, went out to take a walk with his parents and ſome of his young acquaintance to a neighbouring village. Their walk afforded them a proſpect ſometimes of green corn fields, waving ſmoothly like a calm ſea lightly agitated by the breeze; and ſometimes of meadows enamelled with a thouſand flowers. On every ſide they beheld young lambs at play, and the high ſpirited colts and fillies ſporting round their dams. They eat cherries, ſtrawberries, and other fruits of the ſeaſon, and paſſed the whole day in amuſing themſelves in the fields. Do not you think, Florio, ſaid Mr. Gardener as they were returning to town, that the Summer too hath its pleaſures! Oh! replied he, I wiſh it would laſt all the year; and at the requeſt of his father he wrote down this wiſh too on his tablets. At length the Autumn arrived. All the family went to ſpend a day in the country, at harveſt time. The weather was not quite ſo hot as in Summer; the air was mild, and the ſky clear. The gardens and orchards were loaded with fruits. The round plump melons from their rich beds diffuſed a delicious odour; and the branches of the pear⯑trees bent under the weight of the fineſt pears. This was a day of feaſting for Florio, who loved nothing ſo much as grapes, melons and peaches; and he had the additional pleaſure of gathering them himſelf. This fine ſeaſon, ſaid his father to him, will ſoon paſs away. Winter is advancing towards us very faſt, to deprive us of the Autumn. Ah! anſwered Florio, I wiſh it would ſtop ſhort in its approach, and Autumn never leave us.

Should you be glad of that, Florio?

Oh! very glad, papa, I promiſe you.

But, replied his father, taking out his tablets, caſt your eye a little on what is written here. Read it out!

Ah! if it would always continue to be Winter!

Now let us look a few leaves farther.

Oh, that it were always Spring!

And on the next leaf what do we find?

I wiſh that the Summer would laſt all the year.

Do you recollect whoſe hand this is?

It is mine.

And what was your wiſh but juſt now?

That the Winter would ſtop ſhort in its approach, and Autumn never leave us.

This is ſomething particular. In the Win⯑ter, you deſired that it might be always Winter; in the Spring, that it might always be Spring; in Summer, that that ſeaſon would always continue; and now, in Autumn, you wiſh that it may always be Autumn. Do you reflect what concluſion may be drawn from all this?

That all the ſeaſons of the year are good.

Yes, my ſon, they are all bleſt with plen⯑teous increaſe, and variety of pleaſures: and God knows much better how to govern the ſyſtem of nature than we, limited beings as we are. If it had depended only on thee laſt Winter, we ſhould never have had any more Spring, nor Summer, nor Autumn. Thou wouldeſt have covered the earth with eternal ſnows, and never felt any other pleaſure than that of ſliding, or making men of ſnow. Of how many other enjoyments wouldeſt thou not have been deprived by ſuch a diſpoſition of things! we are happy that it is not in our power to regulate the courſe of nature. Every thing would be loſt which was intended for our happineſs, if our own raſh vows were heard.

THE SNOW.

AFTER many deceitful promiſes of its return, Spring at length arrived. A gentle breeze warmed the air. The ſnow was ſeen to melt, the fields to reſume their ver⯑dure, and the flowers to bud forth. The ſinging of birds was heard on every ſide. Little Louiſa was already gone [8]out to the country with her father. She had heard the firſt ſongs of the blackbird and the linnet, and ſhe had gathered ſome of the earlieſt violets. But the weather changed once more. There aroſe ſuddenly a violent north⯑wind, that whiſtled through the groves, and covered the roads with ſnow. Little Louiſa went to bed that night ſhivering with cold, and bleſſed God for having given her ſo comfortable a ſhelter from the inclemency of the air. Ah! what a ſight when ſhe aroſe the next morning! Every thing was perfectly white. There had fallen du⯑ring the night ſo great a quantity of ſnow, that it was knee-deep in the roads. This made Louiſa quite dull. The little birds appeared ſtill more ſo. The ground being every where covered to a great depth, they were not able to find the leaſt grain or worm to appeaſe their hunger. All the feathered inhabitants of the grove took refuge in the towns and villages, to ſeek the relief of man. Nu⯑merous flights of ſparrows, linnets, chaffinches and larks, alighted in the ſtreets and court-yards of houſes, and ſcraped with their claws and bills into every heap of rub⯑biſh, to find if poſſible ſome nouriſhment. There came near fifty of theſe gueſts into the yard of the houſe where Louiſa was. She ſaw them, and returned quite afflicted into her father's chamber. What is the matter, my dear? ſaid he. Ah! papa, anſwered ſhe, there they are, all in the yard. The poor little birds that ſung ſo chearfully only two days ago. They ſeem to be quite ſtarved with cold, and to aſk for ſomething to eat. Will you let me give them a little corn? With the greateſt pleaſure, ſaid her father. The barn was on the other ſide of the way: thither ſhe ran, accompanied by her governeſs, to get a few handfuls of corn and hemp-ſeed, and came imme⯑diately back to ſcatter it in the yard. The little birds approached, fluttering about her in great numbers, and picking up every grain. Louiſa amuſed herſelf in look⯑ing at them, and was quite delighted with the ſight. She went to aſk her papa and mama to come and view them alſo, and to partake of her ſatisfaction. But theſe hand⯑fuls of grain were ſoon picked up. The birds then flew up to the houſe-top, and ſeemed to eye Louiſa wiſtfully, as if they would have ſaid, "Haſt thou nothing more to give us?" Louiſa underſtood their language. She flies like lightning to ſeek more grain. In croſſing the way [9]ſhe met a little boy, who had not a heart quite ſo compaſ⯑ſionate as hers. He was carrying in his hand a cage full of birds, and was ſhaking it ſo careleſsly that the poor little creatures were thrown every moment with their heads againſt the wires. This ſight gave Louiſa pain. What are you going to do with thoſe birds? ſaid ſhe to the little boy. I do not know yet, anſwered he. I am trying to ſell them, and if nobody will buy them I ſhall feaſt my cat upon them at home. Your cat! replied Louiſa: Your cat? Oh! what an ill-natured boy! As to that, they would not be the firſt that ſhe has munched alive. So, dangling his cage as before, he was ſetting off at a great pace, when Louiſa called him back, and aſked how much he would have for his birds? I will ſell them, ſaid he, three for a penny, and there are eighteen of them. Well then, ſaid Louiſa, they are mine. So bidding the little boy to follow her, ſhe ran to her papa, and aſked his permiſſion to purchaſe thoſe birds. Her father granted it with plea⯑ſure, and even gave his daughter an empty room for the reception of her little gueſts. Jack (that was the name of the ill-natured boy) went away very well ſatisfied with his bargain, and told all his companions that he knew a little miſs who would buy birds. In a few hours there came ſo many little country boys to Louiſa's door that one would have thought it the entrance to a market. They all crouded round her, climbing upon each other, and holding up their cages with both hands, each hoping to obtain the preference for his birds. Louiſa purchaſed all that were brought before her, and had them carried into the chamber where the firſt were. Night came. It was a long time ſince Louiſa had gone to bed ſo well pleaſed in her mind. Am not I very happy, ſaid ſhe to herſelf, in being able to ſave the lives of ſo many inno⯑cent creatures, and to give them food? When Summer comes, I will go into the fields and groves, and all my little gueſts will ſing their ſweeteſt ſongs to thank me for the care that I have taken of them. With this reflexion ſhe went to ſleep, and dreamed that ſhe was in a grove of trees of the fineſt verdure, which were all covered with birds chirping as they fluttered from bough to bough, or engaged in ſeeding their young ones. The happy Louiſa ſmiled in her ſleep. She roſe very early to go and feed her little friends in the aviary and in the yard: but ſhe [10]was not now ſo happy as ſhe had been the day before. She knew how much money ſhe had put into her purſe, and that there could not remain much of it by this time. If this ſnowy weather ſhould laſt ſome few days longer, ſaid ſhe, what will become of the other birds? The wicked little boys will give them alive, as they are, to their cats! and for want of a ſmall ſum of money I ſhall not be able to ſave them. Full of theſe ſorrowful ideas ſhe draws her purſe out ſlowly in order to count her little trea⯑ſure once more; but how great is her aſtoniſhment to feel her purſe heavy! She opens it and finds it full of pieces of coin, of every ſort indiſcriminately, up to the very ſtrings. She runs immediately to her father, and relates the incident to him with tranſports of pleaſure and ſur⯑priſe. Her father took her to his boſom, kiſſed her, and ſhed tears of joy upon the cheeks of Louiſa. My dear child, ſaid he, thou haſt never made me ſo happy as in this moment. Continue to relieve the little creatures that thou ſhalt ſee in diſtreſs, and in proportion as thy purſe is diminiſhed, thou ſhalt find it filled again. What joy⯑ful news for Louiſa! She ran immediately to her aviary, with her apron-full of hemp-ſeed and corn. All the birds came fluttering round her, and looked with eager eyes for their breakfaſt. After feeding them, ſhe next went down into the yard, and beſtowed a plentiful meal upon the famiſhed birds that were there. She ſaw herſelf now en⯑gaged in the ſupport of almoſt an hundred dependents. This afforded her ſuch a pleaſure! Her dolls and play⯑things never had given her half ſo much. In the after⯑noon, as ſhe put her hand into the bag of hemp-ſeed, ſhe found a note with theſe words: The inhabitants of the air fly towards thee, O Lord! and thou giveſt them their food; thou openeſt thy hand, and filleſt all things living with plen⯑teouſneſs. Her father had followed her. She turned to him, and ſaid, I am now therefore like God. The in⯑habitants of the air fly towards me, and when I open my hand, I fill them with plenteouſneſs. Yes, my dear, ſaid her father, every time that thou doeſt good to any crea⯑ture, thou art like God. When grown up thou ſhalt aſſiſt thy fellow-creatures as thou now doſt the birds, and thou ſhalt then reſemble God much more. Ah, what happineſs for a mortal to be able to act like God! Du⯑ring a week, Louiſa continued to extend her bounty, and [11]feed every thing that was hungry about her. At length the ſnow melted, the fields reſumed their verdure, and the birds, which before had not dared to quit the neigh⯑bourhood of the houſes, now turned their flight toward the grove. But thoſe that had been put into the aviary remained there confined: they ſaw the ſun, flew up againſt the window, pecked at the glaſs, but in vain; their pri⯑ſon was too ſtrong for them. Louiſa could not as yet imagine what made them ſo uneaſy. One day, as ſhe was taking them their food, her father entered a few moments after her. She was very happy to ſee that he was deſirous of being witneſs to her pleaſure. My dear Louiſa, ſaid he, why do theſe birds ſeem ſo uneaſy? I ſhould imagine that they want ſomething. May not they, perhaps, have left in the fields companions whom they would now be glad to ſee again? You are right, papa; they ſeem to be dull ever ſince the return of the fine weather. I will go and open the window, and let them fly away. I think thou wouldeſt not do amiſs, replied her father. Thou wilt diffuſe joy through all the country. Theſe little priſoners will go to find their friends once more, and will fly to meet them, as thou doſt to meet me when I have been abſent ſome time from home. Before he had finiſhed ſpeaking, the windows were all thrown up: the birds perceived it, and in two minutes there did not remain a ſingle one of them in the room. Some were ſeen to ſkim along the ground; others to ſoar up into the air; ſome to perch upon the neighbouring trees, and others to fly backwards and forwards before the windows with chirpings of joy. Louiſa went every day to walk in the fields. She ſaw and heard numbers of birds on every ſide. At one time a lark would riſe up before her feet, and ſing its ſprightly ſtrain while it mounted to the clouds. At another time a linnet, perched upon the higheſt branches of a tree, chirped forth its ſong. And whenever ſhe obſerved any one to diſtinguiſh itſelf by the ſweetneſs of its muſic, Louiſa would ſay, There is one of my little gueſts: one may know by its voice that it has been well fed laſt Winter.

ARTHUR.

A Poor labourer, of the name of Bernard, had ſix young children, and found himſelf much at a loſs to main⯑tain them. As an addition to his misfortune, the ſeaſon happened to be unfavorable, and conſequently bread much dearer than the year before. Bernard worked day and night, yet in ſpite of his labours could not poſſibly earn money enough to provide food (even of the moſt indifferent ſort) for ſix hungry children. He was reduced to extremity. Calling therefore one day his little family together, with tears in his eyes he ſaid to them, My dear children, bread is riſen ſo dear that with all my labour I am not able to earn ſufficient for your ſubſiſtence. You ſee how I am circumſtanced. This piece of bread in my hand muſt be paid for with the wages of my whole day's labour, and therefore you muſt be content to ſhare with me the little that I have been able to earn. There certainly will not be ſufficient to ſatisfy you all; but at leaſt there will be enough to prevent your periſhing with hunger. The poor man could ſay no more: he lifted up his eyes to heaven, and wept. His children wept alſo, and each one ſaid within himſelf, O Lord, come to our aſſiſtance, unfortunate infants that we are! Help our dear father, and ſuffer us not to periſh for want! Bernard divided the bread into ſeven equal ſhares: he kept one for himſelf, and diſtributed the reſt amongſt his children. But one of them, named Arthur, refuſed to take his por⯑tion, and ſaid, I cannot eat any thing, father; I find myſelf ſick. Do you take my part, or divide it amongſt the reſt. My poor child! what is the matter with thee? ſaid Bernard, taking him up in his arms. I am ſick, anſwered Arthur; very ſick. I would go to bed. Ber⯑nard carried him to bed, and the next morning, over⯑whelmed with ſorrow, he went to a phyſician, and be⯑ſought him for charity to come and ſee his ſick child, and to aſſiſt him. The phyſician, who was a man of great humanity, went to Bernard's houſe, though he was very ſure of not being paid for his viſits. He approached Arthur's bed, felt his pulſe, but could not thereby diſcover any ſymptom of illneſs. He found him, however, very weak, [13]and, in order to raiſe his ſpirits, was going to preſcribe a cordial draught; but Arthur ſaid, Do not order any thing for me, ſir! I could take nothing that you ſhould preſcribe for me.

Could not take it! why not, pray?

Do not aſk me, ſir: it is not in my power to tell you.

What hinders thee, child? Thou ſeemeſt to me to be an obſtinate little boy.

I aſſure you, doctor, it is not from obſtinacy.

It may be ſo: however, I ſhall not preſs you; but I will go and aſk the reaſon from your father, who will perhaps not be ſo myſterious.

Ah! I beſeech you, do not let my father know any thing of it.

Thou art a very unaccountable child! but I muſt certainly acquaint your father with this, ſince you will not confeſs the truth.

O dear! by no means, ſir: I will rather explain every thing to you myſelf. But firſt I beg that my bro⯑thers and ſiſters may quit the room.

The phyſician ordered the children to withdraw, and then Arthur continued: Alas! ſir, in this hard ſeaſon, my father can ſcarcely earn us every day a loaf of coarſe bread. He divides it amongſt us. Each of us can have but a ſmall part, and he will hardly take any for himſelf. It makes me unhappy to ſee my little brothers and ſiſters ſuffer hunger. I am the eldeſt, and have more ſtrength than they; I like better, therefore, not to eat any, that they may divide my ſhare amongſt them. This is the reaſon why I pretended that I was ſick, and could not eat; but I entreat you not to let my father know this!

The phyſician wiped his eyes, and ſaid, But, my dear little friend, art thou not hungry?

Yes, ſir, I am hungry, ſure enough; but that does not give me ſo much pain as to ſee my family ſuffer.

But you will ſoon die if you take no nouriſh⯑ment.

I am ſenſible of that; but I ſhall die contented. My father will have one mouth leſs to feed; and when I ſhall be with God, I will pray him to give bread to my little brothers and ſiſters.

[14]The humane phyſician was melted with pity and admi⯑ration on hearing the generous child ſpeak thus. Taking him up in his arms, he claſped him to his heart, and ſaid, No, my dear little friend, thou ſhalt not die! God, who is the father of us all, will take care of thee and of thy family. Return him thanks that he hath led me hither. I ſhall come back very ſoon. He haſtened therefore to his own houſe, and ordering one of his ſer⯑vants to take a quantity of proviſions of all ſorts, re⯑turned with him immediately to Arthur and his famiſhed little brothers. He made them all ſit down at table, and eat heartily, until they were ſatisfied. It was a de⯑lightful ſight for the good phyſician, to behold the joy of thoſe innocent creatures. On his departure, he bid Arthur not to be under any concern, for that he would provide for their neceſſities; which promiſe he faithfully obſerved, and furniſhed them every day with a plentiful ſubſiſtence. Other charitable perſons alſo, to whom he related the circumſtance, imitated his generoſity. Some ſent them proviſions, ſome money, and others clothes and linen, inſomuch that very few days paſſed before this little family had more of every thing than was ſufficient for their wants.

As ſoon as Bernard's landlord was informed of what the generous little Arthur had ſuffered for his father and his brothers, filled with admiration at ſuch nobleneſs of ſoul, he ſent for Bernard, and addreſſed him thus: You have an admirable ſon; permit me to be his father alſo. I will allow you an annuity out of my own pocket, and Arthur, with all your other children, ſhall be maintained at my expence, in whatever profeſſions they ſhall chuſe. If they make uſe of this eſtabliſhment to their own advantage, I will charge myſelf with the care of their fortunes.

Bernard returned to his houſe tranſported with joy, and throwing himſelf on his knees, bleſſed God for having given him ſo worthy a child.

CAROLINE.

MRS. P—, a young married lady, as much diſ⯑tinguiſhed for the elegant charms of her wit, as for the delicacy of her ſentiments, and the reſpectability of her character, was one day reproving Pamela, her eldeſt daughter, for a ſlight fault very pardonable at her age. Pamela, touched with the tender manner in which her mother delivered the reproof, ſhed tears of ſorrow and affection. Caroline, who was then but three years old, ſeeing her ſiſter weep, climbs up the ſteps of her chair, in order to reach her; with one hand ſhe takes her handker⯑chief, and wipes her ſiſter's eyes, and with the other ſlips into her mouth a piece of ſweetmeat from her own. I think, an able painter might make a charming picture on this ſubject.

THE CANARY-BIRD.

CANARY-BIRDS to ſell! Who'll buy my Canary⯑birds? Fine Canary-birds! Thus cried a man paſſing by the houſe of little Jeſſy. Jeſſy heard him: ſhe ran to the window, and looking into the ſtreet, ſaw that it was a bird-ſeller who carried upon his head a large cage full of Canary-birds. They jumped ſo nimbly from perch to perch, and chirped ſo ſweetly, that Jeſſy, in the eagerneſs of her curioſity, was near falling out of the window, while ſhe endeavoured to have a nearer view of them. Will you buy a Canary-bird, miſs? ſaid the birdman to her. Perhaps I may, anſwered Jeſſy; but that does not depend on me entirely. Stop a little; I will go and aſk my papa's leave. The man promiſed to ſtop, and ſeeing a bu [...]k on the other ſide of the ſtreet, laid down his cage theſe and ſtood by the ſide of it. Jeſſy in the mean time [35]ran to her father's chamber, and entered it quite out of breath, crying, Come here, papa! quick! make haſte!

And what is the hurry?

There is a man in the ſtreet that ſells Canary⯑birds. I dare ſay he has more than a hundred. He car⯑ries a great cage quite full of them on his head.

And why does that make you ſo glad?

Ah! papa; becauſe—that is if you give me leave—I ſhould like to buy one.

And have you money enough?

O yes, in my purſe.

But who will feed the poor bird?

I will, papa, myſelf. You'll ſee, it will be glad to be my bird.

Ah! I am afraid—

Of what, papa?

That you will let him die of hunger or thirſt.

I let him die of hunger or thirſt? Oh! no, cer⯑tainly I ſha'nt. Nay, I will never touch my own break⯑faſt, before my bird has had his.

Jeſſy! Jeſſy! you know you are very giddy! and then you have only to neglect him one day.

Jeſſy promiſed her father ſo fairly; ſhe coaxed him ſo much, and pulled his coat-ſkirt ſo often, that Mr. Gower conſented at laſt to his daughter's requeſt. He croſſed the ſtreet, leading her by the hand; and when they came up to the cage, they choſe the prettieſt Canary-bird in it; a male, of the moſt lively yellow, with a little black tuft upon his head. Who was ever ſo happy as Jeſſy then? She held her purſe to her father, that he might pay for the bird. Mr. Gower then took money out of his own, to buy a handſome cage with drawers, and a water-cup of cryſtal. Jeſſy had no ſooner given the Canary-bird poſſeſſion of its little palace, than ſhe ran to every part of the houſe, calling her mama, her ſiſters and all the ſervants, and ſhewing them the bird which her father had been ſo good as to buy her. When any of her little friends came to ſee her, the firſt words were, do you know I have the prettieſt Canary Bird in the world? he is as yellow as gold, and has a little black creſt like the plumes of mama's hat. Come, I will ſhew him to you; his name is Cherry. Cherry was quite happy under [36]Jeſſy's care. The firſt thing that ſhe thought of in the morning was to give him freſh grain and the cleareſt wa⯑ter. Whenever there was any cake at table, Cherry had his part of it firſt. She had always ſome bits of ſugar in ſtore for him, and his cage was garniſhed with freſh greens of one ſort or another. Cherry was not ungrateful to all theſe attentions. He ſoon learned to diſtinguiſh Jeſſy; and the moment he heard her ſtep in the room, what flut⯑tering of his wings! what inceſſant chirpings! Jeſſy al⯑moſt devoured him with kiſſes. At the end of a week he began to ſing, and produced the moſt delightful muſic. Sometimes he ſwelled his little notes to ſuch a length, that one would have thought he muſt expire from fatigue; then, after pauſing a moment, he would begin again ſweeter than ever, with a tone ſo clear and brilliant that he could be heard all over the houſe. Jeſſy paſſed whole hours in liſtening to him as ſhe ſat by his cage. She ſome⯑times would let her work fall out of her hands to gaze at him, and, after he had entertained her with a ſweet ſong, ſhe regaled him in her turn with a tune upon the bird⯑organ which he would endeavour to imitate. Theſe plea⯑ſures, however, became familiar to Jeſſy. Her father, one day, made her a preſent of a book of prints. She was ſo agreeably taken up with it that Cherry was ſomething the leſs minded. He would chirp the moment that he ſaw Jeſſy, though ever ſo far off; but Jeſſy heard him not. Almoſt a week had paſſed ſince he had either had freſh greens or biſcuit. He repeated the ſweeteſt airs that Jeſſy had taught him, and compoſed new for her, but in vain. The truth was, Jeſſy's thoughts were otherwiſe engaged. Her birth-day came on, when her godfather gave her a great jointed doll. This doll, which ſhe called Colum⯑bine, completely baniſhed all thoughts of Cherry. From morning till night ſhe was buſied with nothing but dreſ⯑ſing and undreſſing Miſs Columbine a hundred times, talking to her, and carrying her up and down the room. The poor bird was very happy to get ſome food towards evening. Sometimes it happened that he was obliged to wait for it till the next day. At length, one day when Mr. Gower was at table, and caſt his eye accidentally upon the cage, he ſaw the Canary-bird lying upon its breaſt and panting for breath. Its feathers were ruffled, and it ſeemed contracted all of a lump. Mr. Gower [37]went cloſe up to it; but no more fond chirpings! The poor little creature had ſcarce ſtrength enough left to breathe. Jeſſy, cried Mr. Gower, what is the matter with your Canary-bird? Jeſſy bluſhed. Why, papa, I — ſomehow, I forgot;—and all in a tremble ſhe ran to fetch the box of ſeed. Mr. Gower took down the cage, and examined the drawer and the water-cup. Alas! Cherry had not a ſingle grain, nor a drop of water. Ah! poor bird! cried Mr. Gower; thou art fallen into cruel hands! If I had foreſeen this, I ſhould never have bought thee. All the company roſe from table, holding up their hands, and crying, The poor bird! Mr. Gower put ſome ſeed into the drawer, and filled the cup with freſh water, but had much difficulty in bringing Cherry back to life. Jeſſy left the table, and went up into her cham⯑ber, crying, and made her handkerchief quite wet with her tears. The next day Mr. Gower ordered the bird to be carried out of the houſe, and given as a preſent to the ſon of Mr. Mercer, his neighbour, who was counted a very careful boy, and would pay more attention to him than Jeſſy had done. But, to hear the little girl's com⯑plaints and expreſſions of ſorrow! Ah! my dear bird! my poor Cherry! Indeed I promiſe you faithfully, papa, that I will never forget him a ſingle moment as long as I live. Only leave him with me this once. Mr. Gower ſuffered himſelf at length to be touched with Jeſſy's en⯑treaties, and gave her back the Canary-bird, but not without a ſevere reprimand for her negligence, and the ſtricteſt injunction as to the future. This poor little crea⯑ture, ſays he, is ſhut up, and therefore not able to pro⯑vide for its own wants. Whenever you want any thing, you can aſk for it; but Cherry cannot make people un⯑derſtand his language. If ever you let him ſuffer hunger or thirſt again— At theſe words Jeſſy ſhed a flood of tears. She took her papa's hand and kiſſed it, but her grief was ſo full that ſhe could not utter a word. Now Jeſſy was once more miſtreſs of Cherry, and Cherry was ſincerely reconciled with Jeſſy. About a month after, Mr. Gower was obliged to go into the country for a few days with his lady. Jeſſy, Jeſſy, ſaid he, in parting with his daughter, I earneſtly recommend poor Cherry to your care. Her parents were ſcarcely got into the carriage, when Jeſſy ran to the cage, and carefully provided the [38]bird with every thing neceſſary. In a few hours after, her time began to hang heavy. She ſent for ſome of her little acquaintance, and ſoon recovered her chearfulneſs. They went out to walk together, and at their return ſpent part of the evening in playing at blind-man's buff and four corners. After that they danced. In fine, the little company broke up very late, and Jeſſy went to bed quite fatigued. The next morning ſhe awoke by break of day, and began thinking on the amuſements of the evening before. If her governeſs had let her, ſhe would have run as ſoon as ſhe got up, to ſee the Miſs Marſhalls, but was obliged to wait till after dinner. However, ſhe had ſcarcely finiſhed it, before ſhe deſired to be conducted to their houſe: and Cherry!—he was obliged to ſtay at home alone, and to faſt. The following day was alſo ſpent in amuſements: and Cherry!—he was forgotten again. It was the ſame the third day: and Cherry!—who could think of him in the midſt of ſuch diverſions? The fourth day, Mr. and Mrs. Gower returned from the country. Jeſſy had thought very little about their return. Her father had ſcarce kiſſed her and enquired after her health, before he aſked, How is Cherry? Very well, cried Jeſſy, a little confuſed; and ſhe ran towards the cage to carry him ſome water. Alas! the poor little creature was no more. He was laid upon his back, with his wings ſpread and his bill open. Jeſſy ſcreamed out and wrung her hands. Every one in the houſe ran up, and was eye-witneſs of the diſaſter. Ah! poor bird! cried Mr. Gower; how painful has thy death been! If I had wrung thy head off the day that I went to the country, thou wouldeſt have had but the pain of a mo⯑ment, whereas now thou haſt endured for ſeveral days the pangs of hunger and thirſt, and haſt died in a long and cruel agony. However, thou art ſtill happy in being delivered from the hands of ſo pitileſs a guardian. Jeſſy would have hid herſelf in the bowels of the earth: ſhe would have given all her play-things, and all her pocket⯑money, to purchaſe the life of Cherry; but it was then too late. Mr. Gower took the bird, and had its ſkin ſtuffed and hung up from the ceiling. Jeſſy did not dare to look at it: her eyes were filled with tears whenever ſhe chanced to perceive it, and every day ſhe entreated her father to remove it from her ſight. Mr. Gower did not [39]conſent, till after many ſupplications on her part; and whenever Jeſſy ſhewed any mark of inattention or giddi⯑neſs, the bird was hung up again in its place, and every body would ſay in her hearing, Poor Cherry! what a cruel death you ſuffered!

THE CHILDREN WHO WOULD BE THEIR OWN MASTERS.

AH! Papa, how I ſhould wiſh to be big! to be as big as you.

And why ſhould you wiſh ſo, my dear?

Becauſe then I ſhould not be under any body's command, and might do whatever came into my head.

I ſuppoſe, then, you would do wonders.

That I ſhould, I promiſe you.

And do you wiſh alſo, Julia, to be free to do whatever you pleaſe?

Yes indeed, papa.

Oh! if Julia and I were our own maſters!

Well, children, I can give you that ſatiſ⯑faction. After to-morrow morning you ſhall have the liberty of conducting yourſelves entirely according to your own fancy.

Ah! you are jeſting, papa.

No, I ſpeak quite ſeriouſly. To-morrow, neither your mother, nor I, nor in ſhort any body in the houſe, ſhall oppoſe your inclinations.

What pleaſure ſhall we feel to have our necks out of the yoke!

That is not all. I do not intend to give you this privilege for to-morrow only: it ſhall continue until you come of yourſelves and requeſt me to aſſume my authority again.

At that rate we ſhall be our own maſters a long while.

Well, I ſhall be glad to ſee you able to conduct yourſelves: ſo prepare to become great folks to⯑morrow.

The next day came. The two children, inſtead of riſing at ſeven o'clock as uſual, lay in bed till near nine. Too much ſleep makes us heavy and liſtleſs. This was [40]the caſe with Camillus and Julia. They awoke at length uncalled, and got up in an ill-humour. However, they pleaſed themſelves a little with the agreeable idea of act⯑ing in whatever manner they liked the whole day. Come, what ſhall we do firſt? ſaid Camillus to his ſiſter, after they had dreſſed themſelves and breakfaſted.

Why, we'll go and play.

At what?

Let us build houſes with cards.

Oh! that is very dull amuſement. I am not for that.

Will you play at blind-man's buff?

What, only two of us?

Well, at crafts, or at fox and geeſe.

You know I cannot bear thoſe games that oblige one to ſit ſtill.

Well, then mention ſome to your own liking.

Then we'll play at riding on a ſtick.

Ay, that is pretty play for a little girl!

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

On, yes! to laſh me with your whip as you did t'other day. I have not forgot that.

I never do it willingly; but the thing is, you won't gallop.

Ay, but that hurts me: ſo I won't play at any ſuch game.

You won't? won't you? Well! let us play at hounds and hare. I will be the huntſman, and you ſhall be the hare. Come, make ready; I ſhall ſet off.

Pſhaw! I'll have none of your hunting. You do nothing but tread upon my neels, and punch me in the ſides.

Well, ſince you do not chuſe any of my games, I'll never p [...]ay with you again. Do you hear that?

Nor I with you. Do you hear that too?

At theſe words they quitted the middle of the room, where they were ſtanding, and retired each into a corner, and there remained a conſiderable time without looking at or ſpeaking to each other. They were ſtill in a pout, when the clock ſtruck ten. The forenoon would ſoon paſs [...]; therefore Camillus at length approaching his [...] ſaid, "I muſt do every thing that you like. Well [41]then, I will play at drafts with you for twelve cheſnuts a game."

I have no cheſnuts: and beſides you know you owe me a dozen already. You ſhould pay me thoſe firſt.

Yes, I owed them to you yeſterday; but I do not owe any thing to-day.

And pray how did you come to be quit?

Nobody has a right to aſk any thing of thoſe who are their own maſters.

Very well! I ſhall tell my papa of your cheat⯑ing.

But papa has no power over me now.

If that be the caſe, I won't play.

Then you may do as you like.

They go away pouting again to the farther ends of the room from each other. Camillus began to whiſtle, Julia to ſing. Camillus tied knots on his whip, and cracked it: Julia dreſſed her doll, and began a converſation with it. Camillus grumbled, and Julia ſighed. The clock ſtruck again. They had another hour leſs to play in. Camillus, in a pet, threw his whip out of the window: Julia toſſed her doll into a corner. They look at each other, not knowing what to ſay. At length Julia breaks ſilence: "Come, Camillus, I will be your horſe."

There now, that is right! I have a long ſtring for the bridle. See here. Put it into your mouth.

No, not into my mouth. Tie it round my waiſt, or faſten it to my arm.

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

But I am not a real horſe.

Well, but you ſhould do juſt the ſame as if you were.

I do not ſee any occaſion for that.

I ſuppoſe you think that you know more about it than I do, who am all the day in the ſtable. Come, take it the right way.

You have been trailing it about in the dirt all the week. No, I'll never put it into my mouth.

Then I won't have it any where elſe. I would rather not play at all.

Juſt as you like!

[42]A third fit of pouting, more ſullen and peeviſh than before. Camillus goes for his whip: Julia takes up her doll. But the whip refuſes to crack: the doll's dreſſing goes all wrong. Camillus ſighs, Julia weeps. This in⯑terval brought on dinner-hour; and Mr. Orpin came to aſk them, if they choſe to have it ſerved up. But what is the matter with you? ſaid he, ſeeing them both quite dull. Nothing, papa, anſwered the children, and wiping their eyes, followed their father into the dining⯑room. The dinner this day conſiſted of a number of diſhes, and a bottle of wine was opened for each of the children. My dear children, ſaid Mr. Orpin, if I had ſtill my former authority over you, I would forbid you to taſte all theſe diſhes, and particularly to drink wine. At leaſt, I would deſire you to be very ſparing of them, be⯑cauſe I know how dangerous wine and high-feaſoned food are to children. But ye are now your own maſters, and may eat and drink whatever ye fancy. The children did not wait to be told this twice. The one ſwallowed great bits of meat without bread; the other took ſauce in whole ſpoonfuls: and they drank full bumpers of wine, without remembering to mix water with it. My dear, whiſpered Mrs. Orpin to her huſband, they will make themſelves ſick. I fear they will, my dear, anſwered Mr. Orpin; but I would rather that they ſhould learn for once at their own expence how much one may ſuffer from ignorance, than by a premature attention deprive them of the fruits of ſo important a leſſon. Mrs. Orpin ſaw her huſband's intention, and therefore ſuffered our thoughtleſs little couple to indulge their greedineſs. The cloth was now removed. The children had ſtuffed as long as they were able, and their little heads began to be heated. Come with me, Julia, cried Camillus, and took his ſiſter with him into the garden. Mr. Orpin thought proper to follow them unobſerved. There was a little pond in the garden, and at the edge of the pond a ſmall boat. Camillus had a mind to go into it Julia ſtopped him. You know, ſaid ſhe, that we muſt not go there. Muſt not? anſwered Camillus. Do you forget that we are our own maſters? Oh! that is true, ſaid Julia: ſo, giving her hand to her brother, they both went into the boat. Mr. Orphin drew nearer to them, but did not chuſe to diſcover himſelf yet. He knew that [43]the pond was not deep. Even if they fall in, ſaid he to himſelf, I ſhall not have much trouble in getting them out. The two children wiſhed to diſengage the boat from the bank, and puſh it out towards the middle of the pond; but they were not able to untie the knots of the rope which held it faſt. Since we cannot fail, ſaid the giddy Camillus, we may at leaſt balance ourſelves. So, ſtriding acroſs the boat, he began to preſs it down, firſt on one ſide, then on the other. Their heads being a little dizzy, it was not long before their legs failed them. They laid hold of each other to ſupport themſelves, and fell both plump upon the ſide of the boat, and from thence into the water. Mr. Orpin flew like lightning from the place where he had been hid. He threw himſelf into the water, ſeized his raſh children one in each hand, and brought them back into the houſe, half dead with terror. They felt themſelves violently ſick while they were un⯑dreſſing and rubbing with cloths. At length they were put each in a warm bed: they fell alternately into a ſtupor and convulſions: they complained of a dreadful head-ach and pains in the bowels, were ſeized with frequent faint⯑ing fits, and in the intervals with ſhudderings, ſickneſs of the ſtomach, and difficulty of breathing. In this deplora⯑ble condition they paſſed the reſt of the day: they ſobbed and wept, till at length they fell faſt aſleep through wea⯑rineſs. Early the next morning their father entered their chamber, and aſked how they had paſſed the night. Very ill, anſwered both in a feeble voice: we could not lie eaſy in bed, and feel a ſickneſs yet in the head and ſtomach. Poor children, how I pity you! But, added he a moment after, what will ye do with your liberty to-day? Ye remember that ye enjoy it ſtill. Oh! no, no, anſwered both eagerly. And why, my little friends? Ye ſaid, the other day, that it was ſo diſagreeable to be ſubject to the direction of others. We have been well puniſhed for our folly, replied Camillus. And ſhall take warning for a long time, added Julia.

Ye will not be your own maſters then, any longer?

No, no, papa: we would rather be told by you what to do.

It will be much better for us both.

Think well of what ye ſay; for, if I re⯑ſume my authority, I inform you before-hand, that my very firſt orders will be diſagreeable to you.

No matter, papa; we are ready to do whatever you ſhall think proper.

Well, I have here a yellow powder, called rhubarb. It has an unpleaſing taſte, but is excellent for thoſe who have hurt their ſtomachs by exceſs. Since ye conſent to follow my orders, I command you inſtantly to take this powder. Let me ſee you obey!

Oh! yes, yes, papa.

I would take it, though it were as bitter as ſoot.

Mr. Orpin gave them the medicine, and the children, without making, as formerly, any grimaces, endeavoured each to excel the other in taking it with a chearful coun⯑tenance. This remedy happily had its effect, and they both recovered very ſoon. After that, whenever their parents would terrify them with threats of puniſhment, they would ſay, We ſhall let you be your own maſters! and the children ſelt more terror from this threat than many others to whom one ſhould ſay, I will put you in priſon!

THE BUSHES.

ONE fine evening in the month of May, Mr. Ogilby was ſitting with Algernon, his ſon, upon the ſide of a ſmall hill, from whence he pointed out to him the beau⯑ties of nature as they lay before him. The ſetting ſun, in taking his laſt adieu, ſeemed to have clothed every thing in a robe of purple. They were rouſed from this pleaſing meditation by the chearful ſong of a ſhepherd who was driving back his bleating flock from a neigh⯑bouring field. On each ſide of his road there grew up thorn-buſhes which no ſheep approached without leaving upon them ſome part of her fleece. Little Algernon grew quite angry at thoſe robbers. Do you ſee, papa, cried he, thoſe buſhes, how they rob the ſheep of their wool? Why did God make thoſe ill-natured brambles? or why do not all men join with one accord to deſtroy them? If the poor ſheep come back this ſame way again, they will leave the [45]reſt of their clothing upon them. But, no; I will riſe to-morrow at break of day, and come with my bill-hook, and ſnip-ſnap, cut all thoſe briars down to the ground. You ſhall come with me, papa, and bring a little axe, and the whole ſhall be finiſhed before breakfaſt.

We will think of your project, anſwered Mr. Ogilby. But in the mean time do not be unjuſtly angry with thoſe buſhes. Remember what we do about Lammas.

What do we do then? papa.

Have not you ſeen the ſhepherds arm them⯑ſelves with great ſhears, and rob the trembling ſheep not of a few locks of wool only, but of their whole fleece?

That is very true, papa, becauſe they want it to make themſelves clothes; but thoſe buſhes rob them out of mere ſpite, and without having the leaſt occaſion for it.

You don't know what purpoſe theſe bits of wool may ſerve to them; but ſuppoſing that they ſerved none, has a perſon any right to appropriate a thing to himſelf, merely becauſe he wants it?

But I have heard you ſay, papa, that ſheep na⯑turally loſe their fleeces about that time of the year; then it is much better to take it for our uſe, than to ſuffer it to fall off quite uſeleſs.

Your remark is juſt. Nature hath given all beaſts a clothing, and we are obliged from them to borrow ours, unleſs we chuſe to go quite naked and re⯑main expoſed to the inclemency of the Winter.

But a buſh has no occaſion for clothing. So you ſee, papa, we muſt not give up our deſign. I ſhall certainly cut all theſe thorns down to-morrow. You will come along with me, won't you?

With all my heart. Come then, now for to-morrow morning by break of day.

Algernon, who thought himſelf already an hero, merely from the thought of deſtroying with his little arm this legion of robbers, could hardly ſleep, taken up as he was with his victories of the next day. Scarce had the chear⯑ful ſinging of the birds that perched on the trees near his windows announced the return of the dawn, before he haſted to awake his father. Mr. Ogilby, on the other hand, though indifferent as to the fate of the thorn-buſhes, yet, pleaſed with the opportunity of ſhewing to his ſon the beauties of the opening day, was no leſs eager to quit [46]his bed. They dreſſed themſelves haſtily, took their in⯑ſtruments, and ſet forward on the expedition. Algernon went before with an air of triumph, and Mr. Ogilby had ſome difficulty to keep up with him. As they approached the buſhes, they ſaw a number of little birds flying back⯑wards and forwards amongſt them, and fluttering about the branches. Softly! ſaid Mr. Ogilby to his ſon. Let us ſuſpend our vengeance for a moment, for fear of diſ⯑turbing thoſe innocent creatures. Let us go up again to that part of the hill where we ſat yeſterday evening, and examine what it is that thoſe birds ſeem to ſeek ſo buſily. They went up the hill, ſeated themſelves, and looked on. They ſaw that the birds were employed in carrying away thoſe bits of wool in their beaks, which the buſhes had torn from the ſheep the evening before. There came multitudes of yellow-hammers, chaffinches, linnets and nightingales, who loaded themſelves with this plunder. What is the meaning of that? cried Algernon, quite aſto⯑niſhed. It means, replied his father, that Providence takes care of the ſmalleſt creatures, and furniſhes them with every expedient for their happineſs and preſervation. You ſee, the poor birds find here a lining for the habi⯑tation which they prepare for their young. They make ready, you ſee, a very comfortable bed for themſelves and their little family. Thus the honeſt thorn-buſh, againſt which you were ſo eaſily provoked yeſterday, unites the inhabitants of the air with thoſe of the earth. He takes from the rich his ſuperfluities, to ſatisfy the wants of the poor. Will you come now, and cut him down? Heaven forbid, cried Algernon. Thou art right, my ſon, replied Mr. Ogilby. Let him flouriſh in peace, ſince he makes ſo generous a uſe of his conqueſts.

JOSEPH.

THERE lived once in Briſtol a crazy perſon whoſe name was Joſeph. He never went out without having five or ſix wigs on his head at once, and as many muffs upon each of his arms. Though his ſenſes were diſordered, he was not miſchievous, and muſt be teazed a long time to be put in a paſſion. Whenever he walked [47]the ſtreets, a number of troubleſome little boys would come out of the houſes and follow him, crying, Joſeph! Joſeph! how do you ſell your wigs and your muffs? Some of them were even ſo ill-natured as to throw ſtones at him. Though Joſeph commonly bore all theſe inſults very quietly, yet he was ſometimes ſo tormented that he would fall into a fury, and take up ſtones or handfuls of dirt to throw at the rabble of boys. Such a combat as this happened one day before the houſe of Mr. Denham. The noiſe drew him to the window, and he beheld with grief his own ſon Henry engaged in the fray. As ſoon as he perceived this, he ſhut down the ſaſh, and went into another chamber. At dinner, Mr. Denham ſaid to his ſon, Who was that man that you was running and hal⯑looing after?

You know him very well, papa. It is the crazy man called Joſeph.

Poor man! What can have occaſioned this misfortune to him?

They ſay that it was a lawſuit for a great eſtate. He was ſo grieved at loſing it that he has loſt his ſenſes too.

If you had known this man at the very time when he was ſtript of his eſtate, and if he had ſaid to you, My dear Henry, I am unfortunate; I have juſt loſt an inheritance which I long enjoyed peaceably; all my property is gone to ſupport the expence of a law-ſuit; I have now neither town-houſe nor country-houſe; in ſhort, nothing upon earth left. Would you have laughed at him then?

God forbid! who could be ſo wicked as to laugh at a man in his misfortunes! I ſhould much rather have endeavoured to comfort him.

What, then, is he happier now, when he has loſt his reaſon beſides?

On the contrary, he is much more to be pi⯑tied.

And yet this day you inſult and throw ſtones at an unfortunate man, whom you would have en⯑deavoured to comfort when he was leſs an object of pity.

My dear papa, I have done wrong; forgive me!

I pardon you willingly, if you are ſorry for your fault. But my pardon is not ſufficient. There is another whoſe forgiveneſs you have ſtill to aſk.

You mean Joſeph.

And why Joſeph?

Becauſe I offended him.

If Joſeph had retained his ſenſes, it would certainly be his pardon that you ſhould demand; but as he is not able to underſtand what is meant by pardon, it were uſeleſs to addreſs yourſelf to him. Yet you think that every one ſhould aſk pardon of thoſe whom he has offended?

So you have taught me, papa.

And do you know who it is that has commanded us to have compaſſion upon the unfortunate?

God.

And yet you have not ſhewn compaſſion to poor Joſeph: on the contrary, you have aggravated his miſery by your inſults. Do you think that ſuch conduct does not offend God?

Yes, I acknowledge it, and will aſk forgiveneſs of him to-night in my prayers.

Henry kept his word; he repented of his fault, and at night aſked pardon of God from the bottom of his heart. And he not only ceaſed to trouble Joſeph for ſeveral weeks himſelf, but he hindered alſo others of his comrades from inſulting him. In ſpite of his fair reſolu⯑tions, however, he happened one day to mix in the rabble of boys who were following him. 'Tis true, it was purely out of curioſity, and only to ſee the tricks that they played upon this poor man. Now and then he could not refrain from hallooing like the reſt, Joſeph! Joſeph! and by degrees came to be the foremoſt in the mob. At length Joſeph's patience being tired by the ſhouts that purſued him, he turned ſhort about, and taking up a large ſtone, threw it at him with ſuch violence that it grazed his cheek, and almoſt cut off part of his ear. Henry returned home all over blood, and roaring heartily. It is a juſt puniſh⯑ment on you from God, ſaid Mr. Denham, But, replied Henry, Why have I alone been hurt, while my compa⯑nions, who uſed him much worſe than I did, have not been puniſhed? The reaſon is, anſwered his father, that you knew better than the others, what a fault you were [49]committing, and conſequently your offence was more criminal. It is very juſt that a child who knows the commands of God, and of his father, ſhould be doubly puniſhed, whenever he has ſuch a diſregard of his duty as to violate them.

CECILIA AND MARIAN.

BEFORE the ſun had riſen above the horizon to en⯑liven with his ſplendor one of the fineſt mornings of the ſpring, young Cecilia went down into her father's garden to taſte with more appetite, as ſhe roved through its walks, the ſweetneſs of a little cake of which ſhe in⯑tended to make her breakfaſt.

Every thing that could add to the beauties of the riſing day united to charm her. The pure breath of zephyr, while it diffuſed a calm around, refreſhed every ſenſe. Her palate was feaſted with ſweets; her eye with the lively freſhneſs of the ſpringing verdure; her ſmell with the balmy perfume of a thouſand flowers; and that her ear alone might not be without its ſhare of delight, two nightingales perching near her on the top of a green ar⯑bour, charmed her with their morning ſong. Cecilia was ſo tranſported with all theſe delicious ſenſations that her fine eyes were bedewed with a moiſture which, however, reſted on her eye-lids without dropping in tears. Her heart felt a ſoft emotion and was impreſſed with feelings of tenderneſs and benevolence. All at once this agree⯑able calm was interrupted by the ſound of ſteps, and a little girl came forward towards the ſame walk, eating with great appetite a piece of coarſe brown bread. As ſhe, too, came into the garden for amuſement, her eyes wandered from one object to another, without being fixed on any; ſo that ſhe came cloſe up to Cecilia before ſhe per⯑ceived her. On ſeeing who it was, ſhe ſtopped ſhort a moment, and looked down; then like a young deer that is frightened, and almoſt as ſwift as one, ſhe ran back again with all her ſpeed. Stop, ſtop, cried Cecilia, wait for me; why do you run away? But theſe words made the little wild creature fly ſtill faſter. Cecilia pur⯑ſued; [68]but, as ſhe was leſs uſed to running, could not poſ⯑ſibly come up with her. Luckily the little ſtranger had turned up another walk; and that in which Cecilia was led directly to the garden gate. Cecilia, as ſenſible as ſhe was pretty, ſlipped ſoftly along by a cloſe hedge that bordered the walk, and reached the end of it juſt as the little girl was going to paſs by. She caught hold of her unawares, crying, Ah! now you are my priſoner. Oh! I have you fa [...] you cannot eſcape now. The little girl ſtruggled to get out of her hands. Do not be ill-natured, ſaid Ceci⯑lia to her; if you knew how well I mean to uſe you, I am ſure you would not be ſo ſhy. Come, my good child, come along with me for a moment. Theſe friendly words, and ſtill more, the gentle tone of voice with which they were pronounced, encouraged the little ſtran⯑ger, and ſhe followed Cecilia into a ſummer-houſe that was near.

Is your father alive? ſaid Cecilia, making her ſit down beſide her.

Yes, Miſs.

And what does he follow?

Any trade at all to earn his bread. He came to day to work in your garden, and has brought me with him.

Oh! I ſee him down there, upon the lettuce bed. It is fat Thomas. But what are you eating for your breakfaſt? Let me ſee; I want to taſte your bread. Oh dear! how it ſcrapes my throat! Why does not your fa⯑ther give you better than this?

Becauſe he has not ſo much money as your papa.

But then he earns ſome by his work, and he could afford you houſhold bread, or elſe ſomething along with this to make it palatable.

Yes, if I was his only child; but there are five of us, and we all eat heartily; and then one wants a frock, and another a jacket, and that makes my father quite at a leſs what to do. Sometimes he ſays, 'tis all in vain for me to work, I ſhall never earn enough to feed and clothe this young fry.

Then you never eat any plum cake?

Plum cake? what is that?

See, here is ſome in my hand.

La! I never ſaw any before in my life.

Taſte a little of it. Don't be afraid. You ſee I eat it.

Oh! dear Miſ, how good it is.

I believe ſo. My good girl, what is your name?

Marian, Miſs, at your ſervice.

Well, my good Marian, ſtop here for me a mo⯑ment. I am going to aſk ſomething from my governeſs for you, and will return immediately. But don't you go away.

Oh! no; I am not afraid of you now.

Cecilia ran to her governeſs and begged her to give her ſome currant jelly for a little girl who had nothing but dry bread for breakfaſt. The governeſs was pleaſed with the good-nature of her amiable pupil. She gave her ſome in a cup, and a ſmall roll at the ſame time; and Cecilia ran with all her ſpeed to carry Marian this break⯑faſt. Well, ſaid ſhe as ſhe came up, have I made you wait long; Here, my good child, take this; lay down your brown bread, you will eat enough of that another time.

It is like ſugar. I never taſted any thing ſo ſweet.

I am glad that you like it. I was pretty ſure it would pleaſe you.

What, do you eat ſuch as this every day? Ah! we poor people do not know what it is to taſte it.

I am ſorry for that. Hark ye, come to ſee me now and then, I will always give you ſome. But bleſs me, how healthy you look! Are you never ſick?

Sick, what I? no never.

Do you never catch cold? or feel your head ſtuffed?

What ſickneſs is that?

When one is always coughing, and blowing one's noſe.

Oh, yes, that happens to me ſometimes, but it is not a ſickneſs.

And do they make you keep your bed then?

Ha! ha! my mother I dare ſay would make a fine noiſe if I were to take it in my head to be lazy.

Why, what work can you do? You are ſo little.

Muſt not I go in the winter to get ſtraw for our cow, and dry ſticks to make the pot boil? and in ſum⯑mer muſt I not go to weed the corn, and in harveſt time to glean and pull hops? Ah, Miſs, we are never at a loſs for work.

And are your ſiſters, too, as healthy as you?

Oh! we are all hearty, and as full of play as little mice.

Well, now I am glad of that; I was at firſt afraid that God took no care of ſo many poor children; but ſince you have your health, I ſee that he has not forgotten you. I am very well, too, in health, though certainly not ſo ſtrong as you; but, child, you go barefoot; why do not you wear ſhoes and ſtockings?

Becauſe it would coſt my father too much mo⯑ney, if he was to give them to us all; ſo he gives none of us any.

And are not you afraid of hurting yourſelf?

I never once mind it. God almighty made the ſoles of my feet hard, like ſhoes.

I ſhould not like to lend you mine; but how comes it that you have left off eating?

The time has paſt away in talk. I muſt now go and gather ſome greens for our cow. It will ſoon be eight o'clock, and ſhe waits for her breakfaſt.

Well; take the reſt of your roll with you; ſtop a moment; I will take out the crumb, and you ſhall put the jelly into the hollow of the cruſt.

I will carry it to my youngeſt ſiſter. Oh! ſhe will not be nice about it; ſhe won't leave the leaſt crumb, when once ſhe taſtes it.

Now I love you better than ever for thinking of your little ſiſter.

I never get any thing good but I give her part. Good bye miſs.

Good bye Marian; but remember to come here to-morrow at the ſame hour.

If my mother does not ſend me ſomewhere elſe, I'll warrant I ſhall not fail.

Cecilia had now taſted the happineſs of doing good. She walked a little longer in the garden, thinking how happy ſhe had made Marian, how grateful Marian had ſhewed herſelf, and how pleaſed her little ſiſter would be [71]to taſte currant jelly. What will it be, ſaid ſhe, when I give her ſome ribbands and a necklace. Mama gave me ſome the other day that were pretty enough; but I am tired of them now. Then I'll look in my drawers for ſome old things to give her. We are juſt of a ſize, and my ſlips would fit her charmingly. Oh! how I long to ſee her well dreſt.

Next morning Marian ſlipped into the garden again. Cecilia gave her ſome gingerbread that ſhe had bought for her. Marian did not fail to come every day, and Cecilia thought of nothing but new dainties to give her. When her pocket-money was out, ſhe begged her mama to order her ſomething out of the pantry, and her mother conſented with pleaſure. It happened however, one day, that Cecilia received an anſwer which grieved her. She was entreating her mother to advance her a little of her weekly allowance to buy ſhoes and ſtockings for Marian, that ſhe might not go barefoot. No, my dear Cecilia, anſwered her mother. And why, mama? I will tell you at dinner my reaſons for wiſhing that you would be a lit⯑tle more ſparing towards your favourite. Cecilia was ſurprized at this refuſal. She never longed ſo much for dinner-time as that day. At length they ſat down to table. Dinner was half over before her mother ſpoke a word concerning Marian. At length, however, a diſh of ſhrimps that was ſerved up furniſhed Mrs. Allen with an opportunity of beginning the converſation thus.

Ah! here is my Cecilia's favourite diſh, is it not? I am glad they have brought ſome up to-day.

Yes, mama, I like ſhrimps very well, and at this ſeaſon they are good.

I dare ſay that Marian would like them ſtill better than you do.

Ah! my poor Marian! I ſuppoſe ſhe has never ſeen any. If ſhe was only to look at theſe long whiſkers, ſhe would be frightened; oh! ſo frightened! I think I ſee her running away with all her ſpeed. Mama, if you will give me leave, I ſhould be curious to ſee how ſhe would look. There, I will take only two for her, two of the ſmalleſt.

I am almoſt unwilling to conſent to your re⯑queſt.

Why ſo, mama? You that do good to every body? I aſked you this morning, too, for a little money to buy ſhoes and ſtockings for Marian, and you refuſed me. Marian ſurely muſt have vexed you. Has ſhe done any m [...]ſchief in the garden? oh! I ſhall be ſure to ſcold her.

No, my dear Cecilia, Marian has not diſ⯑pleaſed me. But do you wiſh by your kindneſs to her to make her happy or unhappy?

Happy, mama. God forbid that I ſhould wiſh the contrary.

I could wiſh, too, with all my heart, to ſee her more fortunate, ſince ſhe has gained your eſteem. But is it true, Cecilia, that ſhe eats her bread quite dry for breakfaſt?

It is very true, mama. I would not deceive you.

How! and has ſhe been content with it till now?

O dear! yes, and I never eat a tart with more pleaſure than ſhe ea [...] her brown bread.

Then I ſhould think ſhe has a good appetite. But I can hardly imagine that ſhe goes barefoot.

I have always ſeen her barefoot. Aſk the gar⯑dener elſe.

Then ſhe makes them all over blood, when ſhe walks on the gr [...]vel or pebb [...]es.

Not at all. She runs about in the garden like a little [...]eer; and ſhe ſays, langhing, that God almighty has made the [...]les of her feet hard, like a pair of ſhoes.

I know that you never tell ſtories, but I con⯑feſs that I can hardly believe what you ſay now. I ſhould be glad to ſee the wry faces that my Cecilia would make in eating her bread quite dry, without butter or ſweet⯑meats.

Oh! I know it would ſtick in my throat.

Nor ſhould I be leſs curious to ſee how ſhe would ſet about walking b [...]efoot.

Well then, mama, do not be angry, but yeſterday I had a mind to try. Being all alone in the garden, I took off my ſhoes and ſtockings to walk barefoot. I felt my feet ſadly hurt, but ſtill I walked on. At laſt I ſtruck againſt a ſtone. Oh! that did ſo pain me, that I went back as ſoftly as I could, and put on my ſhoes and [73]ſtockings, and I promiſed fairly never to walk barefoot again. My poor Marian! yet ſhe is ſo all the ſummer.

But how comes it, then, that you cannot eat dry bread, nor walk barefoot as ſhe does?

The thing is, perhaps, that I am not uſed to it.

Why then, if ſhe uſes herſelf, like you, to eat ſweet things, and to wear ſhoes and ſtockings, and af⯑terwards if the brown bread ſhould go againſt her, and ſhe ſhould not be able to walk barefoot, do you think that you would have done her any great ſervice?

No, mama: but I mean that ſhe ſhall never be obliged to do ſo again all her life-time.

A very generous deſign! and will your poc⯑ket-money be ſufficient for that?

Oh! yes, mama, if you will only add ever ſo lit⯑tle to it.

You know that my heart is never againſt help⯑ing the diſtreſt, whenever an occaſion offers. But is Ma⯑rian the only child that you know in neceſſity?

Nay, I know many others beſide. There are two, eſpecially, juſt by in the village, that have neither father nor mother.

And they without doubt ſtand much in need of aſſiſtance.

Oh! they do indeed, mama.

But if you give Marian every thing, if you feed her with biſcuits and ſweetmeats, while you let the reſt die with hunger, will there be much juſtice and hu⯑manity in that management?

But now and then I ſhall be able to give them ſomething. Yet, after all, I love Marian beſt.

If you were to die, and Marian had been uſed to enjoy every indulgence—

I am pretty ſure that ſhe would cry for my death.

Yes, I am convinced of that. But then would ſhe fall into indigence again, and perhaps be obliged to do ſome diſgraceful action, in order to live well and dreſs well as before. Who would then have the blame of her ruin?

I ſhould, mama. So then I muſt never give her any thing again?

I do not think ſo; however, I ſhould imagine that you will do well to give her ſweet things ſeldomer, and to make her a preſent rather of a good coat.

Why, I was thinking of it. I will give her, if you pleaſe, one of my frocks.

I ſuppoſe your muſlin ſlip would become her ſurprizingly; eſpecially without ſhoes or ſtockings.

Oh! every body would point at her. How ſhall we do then?

If I were in your place, I would be ſparing in my amuſements for ſome time, and when I had ſaved a little money, would lay it out in buying whatever was moſt neceſſary for her. The ſtuff that poor children wear, is not very expenſive.

Cecilia followed her mother's advice. Marian came feldomer indeed to ſee her about breakfaſt time, but Ce⯑cilia made her other preſents that were more uſeful. At one time ſhe would give her an apron, another time a petti [...] and ſhe paid the ſchoolmaſter of the village ſo much a month for her ſchooling, that ſhe might im⯑prove herſelf perfectly in reading. Marian was ſo ſen⯑ſible of theſe kindneſſes that ſhe grew every day more tenderly attached to Cecilia. She came frequently to ſee [...]er, and would ſay to her, Have you any commands for me [...] Is there any work that I can do for you? And when⯑ever Cecilia gave her an opportunity of doing any ſlight ſervice, it was pleaſing to ſee with what joy Marian [...]erted herſelf to oblige her. One day ſhe came to the garden gate to wait for Cecilia's coming down, but Ce⯑cilia did not come. Marian came back again, but could not ſee Cecilia. She returned two days ſucceſſively, but no Cecilia appeared. Poor Marian was diſconſolate, not finding her benefactreſs. Ah! ſaid ſhe, can it be that ſhe does not love me? I have perhaps vexed her without meaning it. I am ſure, if I knew in what, I would aſk her pardon, for I could not live without loving her. Juſt then Mrs. Allen's maid came out. Marian ſtopped her. Where is Miſs Cecilia? aſked ſhe. Miſs Cecilia? re⯑plied the woman. She has, perhaps, not long to live. I am afraid that ſhe is in her laſt moments. She has the ſmall-pox. O dear heart! cried Marian, I won't let her die: and running to the ſtairs, ſhe flies up into Mrs. Allen's chamber. Madam, ſaid ſhe, for God's ſake tell [75]me where is Miſs Cecilia? I muſt ſee her. Mrs. Allen would have ſtopped Marian, but the door being half open, ſhe had a ſight of Cecilia's bed, and was alrea⯑dy by her ſide. Cecilia was in a violent fever, alone, and very low in ſpirits; for all her little acquaintances had forſaken her. Marian, drowned in tears, took her hand, ſqueezed it in hers, and kiſſed it; ſaying, Ah! is it thus I find you! Do not die, I pray you; what would become of me, were I to loſe you? I will ſtay with you night and day. I will watch over you, and ſerve you; will you allow me? Cecilia, ſqueezing her hand, ſignified to her that ſhe would do her a pleaſure in ſtaying con⯑ſtantly with her. Marian was now become, with the conſent of Mrs. Allen, Cecilia's nurſe; and performed this part to admiration. She had a ſmall bed made up for her cloſe beſide her little ſick friend, and never left her a moment. On the ſlighteſt expreſſion of pain from Cecilia, Marian roſe immediately to know what ſhe wanted. She gave her, with her own hands, the medi⯑cines ordered her by the phyſicians. Sometimes ſhe would go and gather bulruſhes, to amuſe her by making handſome little ruſh baſkets while ſhe looked on. Some⯑times ſhe would tumble all Mrs. Allen's library over, to find pictures for her in the books. She exerted her ima⯑gination in ſearch of every thing that was capable of diverting Cecilia from the ſenſe of her illneſs. Cecilia had her eyes cloſed by the diſorder for near a week. This time appeared to her very tedious! but Marian told her ſtories of what happened in the village; and as ſhe had profited well by her leſſons at ſchool, read to her what⯑ever ſhe thought would give her pleaſure. Now and then, too, ſhe addreſſed her with the moſt ſenſible conſo⯑lations. With a little patience ſhe would ſay, God al⯑mighty will have pity upon you, as you have had pity on me. At theſe words ſhe would weep, then quickly drying her eyes, Will you let me ſing you a pretty ſong to divert you! Cecilia had only to make a ſign, and Ma⯑rian would ſing her all the ſongs that ſhe had learned from the young country maids round about. Thus the time paſſed over, without hanging heavy on Cecilia. At length by degrees her health was re-eſtabliſhed: ſhe could open her eyes again: her lowneſs of ſpirits left her: the pock dried up, and her appetite returned. Her face was [76]ſtill covered with red ſpots. Marian ſeemed to look at her with more pleaſure than ever, while ſhe thought how narrowly ſhe had miſſed loſing her. Cecilia on the other hand regarded her with equal tenderneſs. How ſhall I be able to pay you, ſhe would ſay, to my ſatisfaction, for all that you have done for me? She aſked her mama in what manner ſhe might recompenſe her tender and faithful nurſe. Mrs. Allen, who was almoſt beſide herſelf with joy to ſee her dear child reſtored to health after ſo dan⯑gerous an illneſs, anſwered her, Leave it to me. I ſhall take the charge of acquitting both your obligations and mine to her. She gave private orders to have a complete ſuit of clothes made for Marian, and Cecilia undertook to try it on her the firſt day that ſhe ſhould be allowed to go down into the garden. It was a day of rejoicing through the whole houſe. Mrs. Allen and all her family were tranſported with gladneſs at the recovery of Cecilia. Cecilia was delighted that ſhe had it in her power to re⯑compenſe Marian: and Marian was out of her wits with joy to behold Cecilia once more in the ſame ſpot where their acquaintance had commenced, and beſides, to find herſelf new clad from head to foot.

LITTLE JACK.

MR. Churchill was returning home one day on horſe⯑back, after taking a ride about his own eſtate. As he paſſed by the wall of a burying-ground belonging to a ſmall village, he heard the groans of a perſon on the other ſide. This worthy gentleman had a heart too full of compaſſion to heſitate in flying to the relief of the unfortunate perſon whom he heard groan. He alighted, and giving his horſe to the ſervant who followed him, ſprung over the encloſure of the burying-ground. He ſtood on tiptoe, and looking all round, at length per⯑ceived in a corner, at the fartheſt end, a grave covered with earth that was ſtill quite freſh. Upon this grave lay, at his full length, a child about five years old, who was weeping. Mr. Churchill approached him with looks [77]of kindneſs, and ſaid to him, What doſt thou do there, my little friend?

I am calling my mother. They laid her here yeſterday, and ſhe does not get up.

That is becauſe ſhe is dead, my poor child.

Yes, they ſay that ſhe is dead, but I cannot be⯑lieve it. She was ſo well the other day, when ſhe leſt me with old Suſan our neighbour; ſhe told me ſhe was to come back, but ſhe does not come. My father is gone away too, and my little brother, and now the other little boys of the town won't have me.

Won't have you? why ſo?

I do not know; but when I want to go along with them, they drive me away and leave me by myſelf. And they ſay naughty things, too, about my father and mother. That is what vexes me moſt of all. O mammy get up, get up!

Mr. Churchill's eyes filled with tears. You ſay that your father is gone away, and your brother too; where are they gone?

I do not know where my father is; and my lit⯑tle brother went away yeſterday to another town. There came a gentleman all in black, juſt like our parſon, and took him away.

And where do you live now?

With our neighbour Suſan. I am to be there until my mother comes back, as ſhe promiſed me. I love my other mammy Suſan very well; but

I love my mammy that is here a great deal better. O mother, mother! why do you lie ſo long? when will you get up?

My poor child, you call her in vain, for you will never awake her.

Well then, I will lie down here, and ſleep by her. Ah! I ſaw her when they put her into a great cheſt to carry her away. Oh! how white ſhe was! and how cold! I will lie down here and ſleep by her.

Mr. Churchill could no longer refrain from tears. He ſtooped down, took the child up in his arms, and kiſſing him tenderly, ſaid, What is your name, my poor little fellow?

They call me Jackey when I am good, and when I am a bad boy they call me you Jack.

[78]Mr. Churchill, though in tears, ſmiled at this anſwer. Will you take me to Suſan? Oh yes, yes, Sir, anſwered the child; and running before Mr. Churchill as faſt as his little legs could go, conducted him to Suſan's door. Suſan was not a little ſurprized on ſeeing a gentleman enter her cottage with little Jack, who pointing to her, and running to hide his face in her lap, ſaid, That is ſhe; that is my other mammy. She knew not what to think of ſo extraordinary a viſit. Mr. Churchill, how⯑ever, did not leave her long in ſuſpence. He expreſſed to her the ſituation in which he had found the child, and the compaſſion that he felt for him; and at the ſame time requeſted her to favour him with every information con⯑cerning the parents of little Jack. Suſan bade him be ſeated, and placing herſelf cloſe by him, began thus. The father of this child is a ſhoe-maker, whoſe houſe joins mine. He is an honeſt, ſober, laborious man, un⯑der thirty, and a comely perſon. His wife was a hand⯑ſome woman, but did not get her health well. Withal ſhe was very careful, and a good houſewiſe. They were married about ſeven years ago, lived vaſtly well together, and would have made the happieſt couple in the world, if they had been a little better in their affairs. John had nothing but his trade, and Margaret being left an orphan, brought her huſband only a little money that ſhe had ſav [...] in the ſervice of a worthy clergyman, the curate of the next pariſh. This little ſum was laid out in buying a bed, and a few other articles of houſhold furniture, with a ſmall ſtock of leather for his work. In ſpite of their poverty, they contrived to maintain themſelves during the firſt years of their marriage, by dint of labour and good management. But children came on, and then be⯑gan their difficulties. Yet ſtill they might have made it out by doubling their induſtry, if misfortunes had not happened to them. Poor Margaret who had worked in the fields every day during the hay time, to bring home ſome money at night to her huſband, fell ſick of fatigue, and continued ſo all the harveſt and all winter. Phy⯑ſick is very expenſive, and then beſides, the work did not go on ſo well, becauſe John's cuſtomers left him one by one, as they were afraid of being ill ſerved in a houſe where there was a ſick wife. At laſt Margaret grew bet⯑ter, but her huſband's buſineſs declined. He was obliged [79]to borrow money to pay the apothecary; and having loſt all his cuſtomers, he was now quite out of work. At the ſame time Margaret could earn nothing; her ſtrength was ſo much reduced that nobody would give her em⯑ployment. Beſides, the rent of their houſe, and the in⯑tereſt of the money that they had borrowed, came heavily upon them. They were obliged more than once to ſuffer hunger, and thought themſelves very happy when they had a morſel of bread to give to their children. At theſe words little Jack withdrew into a corner, and began to ſob. With all this it happened that their hard-hearted landlord, ſeeing them not able to pay the rent of the two winter quarters, threatened John to put him in ga [...] They begged hard of him to have patience until the hay [...] making came on, becauſe then they could earn ſome⯑thing by working in the fields; but neither their entr [...] nor their tears could ſoften him, though he is the richeſt man in the place. It was with much ado that he al⯑lowed them a month's delay; but he ſwore that if at the end of that time he was not paid the whole, he would ſell their furniture and put John in priſon. Their houſe was now a [...]cture of melancholy and patient diſtreſs, capable of [...]oftening a heart of ſtone. You may believe me, Sir; I have often been grieved to the ſoul on hear⯑ing the complaints of theſe good neighbours, and not being able to relieve them. I went once myſelf to their landlord, and prayed him to have compaſſion on their extremity. I offered to pawn to him all that I poſſeſſed in the world. But it was to no purpoſe. You are no better than they are, anſwered he; this it is to have ſuch traſh of tenants as you are all together. Ah! Sir,

I bore this reproach patiently, that I might not provoke him ſtill more; but oh! how I ſuffered in being no more than a poor widow, and in not being able to afford the leaſt comfort to thoſe worthy people! How much good the rich might do if they had the ſame inclination as the poor! But to return to our unfortunate neighbours; I adviſed Margaret to make known her diſtreſſes to the clergyman with whom ſhe had lived ſome years as an honeſt and worthy ſer⯑vant, and to beg of him to advance her ſome money. She anſwered me, that ſhe would ſpeak about it to her huſband, but that ſhe could hardly think of doing ſo, [80]becauſe the carate might imagine that they were reduced to want through their own bad management. Three days ago ſhe brought me her two children as ſhe uſed to do, and begged me to take care of them till the evening. She intended to go to a neighbouring village, and try if ſhe could have ſome hemp from the weaver to ſpin, in order to clear her debt. She could never bring herſelf to go before the clergyman her old maſter; but her huſband was to go in her ſtead, and he had ſet off the ſame day. I took charge of the children with pleaſure, for I loved them very well, having been at the birth of them. Mar⯑garet, as ſhe was going, claſped them to her breaſt and kiſſed them, as if it were the laſt time that eyer ſhe ſhould ſee them. Her eyes were ſwimming in tears, and ſhe ſaid to the eldeſt, Jackey, I am to be back very ſoon, and then I'll come and ſetch you. She took me by the hand, thanked me for being ſo good as to look after her chil⯑dren, kiſſed them once more, and departed. A little time after, I heard an odd ſort of noiſe in her houſe, that went thump, as it were; but imagining that ſhe was gone out, I ſuppoſed it might be only the inner door clapping to, and ſo did not think any more about it. Well, the evening came on, it grew dark night, and I ſaw nothing or my neighbour. I thought I would go to her houſe, and ſee it ſhe was gone in to lay her hemp down before ſhe came to fetch the children. I found the door open, and went in. But O heavens! how was I ſtruck on behold⯑ing Margaret ſtretched at her length, ſtone dead, at the f [...]t of the ſtairs. As for me, I ſtood motionleſs, and as cold as a ſtone. I did not know what to do. At length after trying in vain to recover her, I ran to the ſurgeon who came, and feeling her pulſe, ſhook his head and ſent directly for the coroner. They held an inqueſt, the ſurgeon being preſent, to examine how ſhe came by her death; and they brought it in that ſhe muſt have died ſuddenly, or that having fallen into a fit, and not being able to call for help, ſhe expired in that condition. I can eaſily imagine how it happened. She had returned into her own houſe to go up to the loſt for the bag that was to hold her hemp, and as her eyes were ſtill dimmed with tears, ſhe had miſſed her ſtep in coming down, and fallen from the top of the ſtairs, with her head foremoſt, on the ground. The bag that was beſide her ſhewed it [81]plainly. Yet for all that, the coroner thought otherwiſe. So the body was ordered to be buried the next morning before day-light in a corner of the church-yard, and an enquiry to be made after John, to know what was be⯑come of him. I propoſed to the pariſh officers to keep the two children myſelf; for though I find it hard enough to live, yet, thought I, the bounteous God knows that I am a helpleſs widow; and if theſe two children come to my charge, will ſurely aſſiſt me to feed them. The younger brother to this did not ſtay long with me. Yeſterday of all days, and even not long after Margaret had been buried, did the worthy curate her old maſter come by chance to ſee her. He knocked for ſome time at her door, and as nobody opened, he came to my win⯑dow and aſked me what was become of John Johnſon the ſhoemaker that lived in the next houſe. I told him that if he would give himſelf the trouble to ſtep in a mo⯑ment, I had many things to tell him. He came in, and ſat down there, juſt where you are. I told him all that had happened, which made him ſhed tears. Afterwards I told him that John had ſome thoughts of applying to him in his diſtreſs. He ſeemed ſurprized, and aſſured me poſitively that he had not ſeen John. The two children came up to him, and he fondled them a good deal. Little Jack aſked him if he could not awake his mother, who had been a long time aſleep. The tears came into the good curate's eyes when he heard the child talk ſo; and he ſaid to me, Good woman, I will ſend to-morrow for theſe two little boys, and I will keep them at home with me. If their father returns, and ſhould be able to bring them up, I ſhall reſtore them to him whenever he requires it. In the mean time I will take charge of their educa⯑tion. All this was not very agreeable to me; for I love theſe little innocents as if I were their mother, and it would have given me ſome pain to ſee them ſnatched from me ſo ſoon. Doctor, ſaid I to him, I cannot conſent to part with theſe children. I am uſed to them, and they are uſed to me.—Well then, my good woman, you muſt give me one of them, and I will leave you the other, ſince he is likely to be ſo happy with you; and from time to time I ſhall ſend you ſomething towards his maintenance. I could not refuſe the good parſon this. He aſked little Jack if he ſhould not like to go with him. What, there [82]where my mother is? ſaid Jack; oh yes, with all my heart.—No, my little man, I do not mean there! but to my handſome houſe, and my handſome garden.—No, no, let me ſtay here with Suſan. I'll go every day to where my mother is. I would rather go there than to your handſome garden. The good gentleman did not chuſe to trouble the child more, who had gone to hide himſelf be⯑hind the curtains of my bed. He told me that he would ſend his man for the youngeſt, who would give me more trouble than the other; and at his going, left me ſome money for this child. This, Sir, is all that I have to in⯑form you of the parents of little Jack. What doubles my uneaſineſs at preſent is, that John does not return, and that a report goes in the pariſh, that he is gone to join a gang of ſmugglers, and that his wife killed herſelf for grief. Theſe ſtories have gained ſuch ground in the village, that there is not one, even to the children, but talks of them; and whenever my poor Jack would go amongſt the other boys, they drive him away, and are ready to beat him. The poor child is quite dull, and never ſtirs out now, unleſs to go to his mother's grave.

Mr. Churchill had liſtened in ſilence to Suſan's account, and was deeply affected by it. Little Jack was come again cloſe up to her. He looked at her with fondneſs, and called her ſeveral times his mother. At length Mr. Charchill ſaid to Suſan, My worthy woman, you have conducted yourſelf very generouſly towards this unfortu⯑nate family: God will not fail to reward you for it.

I have done no more than my duty. We are ſent into this world to aſſiſt and relieve each other. I always thought that I could do nothing more pleaſing in the ſight of God for all the bleſſings that I have received from him, than to comfort my poor neighbours to the utmoſt of my power. Ah! if I could have done more than I did! But I am poſſeſſed of nothing in the world ex⯑cept my cottage, a little garden where I have a few greens, and what I can earn by the work of my hands. Never⯑theleſs, for theſe eight years that I have been a widow, God has always given me an honeſt ſupport, and I hope will do ſo while I live.

But if you keep this child, the expence of maintaining him may be very inconvenient to you, before he be capable of earning his bread.

I ſhall always take care not to let him want. We will ſhare even to my laſt morſel of bread.

And how are you to furniſh him with clothes?

I leave the care of that to him who clothes the fields with graſs and the trees with leaves. He has given me fingers to ſew and ſpin; they ſhall work to clothe our poor little orphan. Whoſoever can pray and work, will never want.

Then you are reſolved to keep little Jack with yourſelf.

Always, Sir; I could not live under the thought of ſending away this deſtitute infant from me, or of ſet⯑ting him come upon the pariſh.

You are, I ſuppoſe, related to his family?

No otherwiſe than as neighbours and fellow⯑chriſtians.

Then, as I am alſo related to both of you, by re⯑ligion and humanity, I will not ſuffer you alone to have all the honour of doing good to this orphan, ſince God has provided me with the means for it more amply than you. Commit the education of little Jack to my care; and ſince you are ſo ſtrongly attached to each other, and that your benevolence merits my eſteem as much as the child's affec⯑tion for his mother, I will take you both home with me, and provide for you. Sell your garden and your cottage, and come live at my houſe; there you ſhall have a com⯑fortable ſupport and a home for the reſt of your life.

Do not be angry at me, ſir. May God reward you for all your goodneſs! but I cannot accept your offers.

And why?

In the firſt place, I am fond of the ſpot where I was born, and have lived ſo long; then again, I could not ſuit myſelf to the buſtle of a great houſe, nor to the ſight of ſo many folks in a family; neither am I uſed to eaſe or nice living. I ſhould fall ſick if I had nothing to do, or if I eat finer food than ordinary. Let me bide therefore in my cottage with my little Jack: it will do him no harm to live a little hard. Nevertheleſs, if you chuſe to ſend him now and then a ſmall matter, to pay for his ſchooling, and to furniſh him with tools for whatever trade he may take up, the gracious God will not [...] to pay you an hundred fold; at leaſt this boy and I will [...] [84]daily for you that he may. I have no child; he ſhall be inſtead of one to me; and what little I poſſeſs ſhall be⯑long to him, whenever it pleaſes the Lord to call me to himſelf.

Well then, be it ſo. I do not wiſh that what I mean well ſhould make you unhappy. I will leave little Jack with you, ſince you are ſo well together. Talk to him often of me, and tell him that I am in the place of a father to him, while you, on the other hand, will take upon you the cares and the name of the mother for whom he grieves ſo much. I ſhall ſend you every month what may be ſufficient for your ſubſiſtence. I will come fre⯑quently to ſee you; and my viſit ſhall be as much on your account as his.

Suſan lifted up her eyes to heaven, and implored its favours on Mr. Churchill. She then ſaid to the child, Come hither, Jackey, and aſk this gentleman's bleſſing; he will be your father now. The little boy did ſo; but ſaid preſently to Suſan, How can he be my daddy? he wears no apron. Mr. Churchill ſmiled at this innocent queſtion of little Jack, and throwing his purſe on the table, Farewel, ſaid he, generous Suſan! farewel my little friend! it ſhall not be long before you ſee me again. He then left them, and mounting his horſe, took the road that led to the pariſh where the Curate lived who had taken home the younger orphan. He found the Cu⯑rate reading a letter, on which he now and then ſhed tears. After the firſt civilities, Mr. Churchill explained the ſubject of his viſit to the worthy divine, and aſked him if he knew what was become of the father of thoſe two unfortunate children. Sir, anſwered the Curate, it is not a quarter of an hour ſince I received this letter, written by him to his wiſe. It was encloſed in one to me, and con⯑rains a ſmall draft for the uſe of his wife: he requeſts me to deliver it to her, and to conſole her for his abſence. As ſhe is dead, I have opened the letter: here it is; be ſo kind as to read it. Mr. Churchill eagerly took the letter, and read as follows:

Mr. Churchill's eyes were filled with tears while he read this letter. When he had finiſhed it, This man, cried he, may truly be called a good huſband, a good father, and an honeſt man! Sir, there is a real pleaſure in contributing to the happineſs of ſuch excellent people. As to John's debts, I will pay them and will enable him beſides to take up his trade again decently. Let this money remain for the children who have coſt their father dear; and let it be divided between them as ſoon as they are capable of doing for themſelves. Till then keep it in your hands, and ſpeak to them at times of it as of the ſtrongeſt proof of a father's affection. I will pay you intereſt for it, to be joined with the capital; for I wiſh to have ſome part in this ſacred depoſit. The worthy curate was too much affected to be able to anſwer Mr. Churchill. The latter underſtood the force of his ſilence, and ſqueezing him by the hand, took his leave.

[87]All his deſigns in favour of John have been executed. John, being ſafe returned, enjoys an eaſineſs of cir⯑cumſtances which he never experienced before, and would be the happieſt of men, but for his grief for the loſs of Margaret. He finds no other comfort, than in talking of her conſtantly with Suſan. This worthy wo⯑man looks upon herſelf as his ſiſter, and as a mother to his children. Little Jack never lets a ſingle day paſs without going to his mother's grave. He has made ſo good a uſe of Mr. Churchill's generoſity, in improving himſelf, that this excellent gentleman has it in view to eſtabliſh him in the moſt advantageous manner. He has taken the ſame care of John's younger ſon, and he never mounts his horſe without recalling to mind this affecting incident. Whenever he meets any ſubject of chagrin, he goes to ſee the perſons whom he has made happy, and always returns home relieved of every uneaſy ſenſation.

THE MASONS ON THE LADDER.

AS Mr. Dormer was walking one day with little Archibald his ſon, in one of the public ſquares, they ſtopped before a houſe that was building, and which was raiſed as high as the ſecond ſtory. Archibald re⯑marked a number of workmen placed one above another upon the rounds of a ladder, who were moving their arms up and down ſucceſſively. This appearance excited his curioſity. Papa, cried he, what game are thoſe men playing? Let us go a little nearer to the foot of the ladder.

They placed themſelves in a ſpot where there was no danger, and obſerved a man go and take a large ſtone from a heap, and carry it to another man placed on the firſt round of the ladder; and he, raiſing his arms above his head, handed the ſtone to a third who was placed above him, who, by the ſame operation, paſſed it up to a fourth; and thus, from one hand to another, the ſtone very ſoon reached the ſcaffold, where the maſons were ready to make uſe of it.

[88]What do you think of this ſight? ſaid Mr. Dormer to his ſon. Why are ſo many perſons employed in building this houſe? Would it not be better that one man ſingly ſhould work at it, and that the reſt ſhould go, and each build for himſelf?

Very true, indeed, papa, anſwered Archibald! there would then be many more houſes than there are.

Do you conſider well, ſaid Mr. Dormer, what you now ſay? Do you know how many arts and trades are con⯑cerned in forming ſuch a houſe as this? One ſingle man, therefore, who would undertake a building, ſhould be maſter of all theſe profeſſions; ſo that he would ſpend his whole life in acquiring thoſe different ſorts of knowledge, before he could begin to build. But, ſuppoſing that he could in a ſhort time perfect himſelf in every thing neceſ⯑ſary to be known for the purpoſe; ſee him all alone, and without any aſſiſtance, firſt digging the earth to lay his foundation; then going to ſeek ſtone, hewing it, making mortar, plaiſter and white-waſh; in ſhort, preparing every thing neceſſary to a maſon. See him fell of ardor, taking his meaſurements, raiſing his ladders, erecting his ſcaffolds: but in what time do you think his houſe would be raiſed to the top?

Ah! papa, I am greatly afraid that he would never be able to finiſh it.

You are very right, child; and it is the ſame with all the labours of ſociety. Were a man to with⯑draw himſelf totally and work for himſelf alone; were he to refuſe to borrow the aid of others, fearing to be obliged to lend them his in return, he would exhauſt his ſtrength in the undertaking, and ſee himſelf quickly under the neceſſity of abandoning it: whereas, if men lend their aſſiſtance mutually, they execute in a ſhort time the moſt puzzling and laborious works, to perform which each of them ſingly would require the courſe of a whole life. It is the ſame alſo with the pleaſures of life: he who would taſte them alone could procure to himſelf but few enjoyments; but let all unite in contributing to their mu⯑tual happineſs, and each will find his ſhare in this union.— You are one day to be a member of ſociety, my dear child! Let the example of theſe workmen be always pre⯑ſent to your memory. You ſee how much they eaſe and ſhorten their labours by mutually aiding each other. We [89]will paſs by here again, ſome days hence, and we ſhall find their houſe finiſhed. Endeavour, therefore, to help others in their undertakings, if you wiſh that they ſhould, in their turn, exert themſelves to labour for you.

PRISCILLA AND MARCUS.

MRS. CAREY a young widow had two children Priſ [...]illa and Marcus both equally deſerving of her affecti [...]n, which nevertheleſs they ſhared very une⯑qually. [...], young as ſhe was, perceived her mama's part ality to her brother. It afflicted her, but ſhe con⯑ce [...]led within her own breaſt the ſorrow which this preſer⯑ence [...]o [...]ioned her. Though not diſagreeably plain, [...] features did not correſpond with the charms of her [...]ind: but her brother was beautiful as the God of Love is painted to us. All the f [...]ndneſs, all the careſſes of [101]Mrs. Carey, were laviſhed on him alone; and the ſer⯑vants, to gain the favour of their miſtreſs, were ſtudious to flatter him in all his fancies. Priſcilla, on the con⯑trary, from her mother's coldneſs, found herſelf the more ſlighted by the reſt of the family. Far from anticipating her wiſhes, they even neglected her real wants. She would ſhed floods of tears, when ſhe found herſelf alone and forſaken by every body, but never ſuffered the ſlighteſt complaint or mark of diſcontent to eſcape her in the preſence of others. In vain did ſhe endeavour, by a conſtant obſervance of her duty, by her mildneſs and her attentions, to make amends in her mother's opinion for the deficiency of her beauty: the qualities of her mind were unnoticed by eyes accuſtomed only to look on out⯑ward advantages. Mrs. Carey, not much affected by the marks of tenderneſs which Priſcilla ſhewed her, ſeemed, particularly ſince her huſband's death, to view her with a kind of diſguſt. She was continually chiding her, and required perfections in her which could not even be ex⯑pected from an underſtanding far more advanced.

This unjuſt mother fell ſick. Marcus appeared ſtrongly touched at her ſufferings; but Priſcilla, who, in the ſoftened looks and languid countenance of her mother, thought ſhe perceived an abatement of her accuſtomed ſeverity, far ſurpaſſed her brother in her care and vigi⯑lance. Attentive to her mother's ſlighteſt wants, ſhe exerted all her penetration to diſcover them, that ſhe might ſpare her even the trouble of expreſſing them. While her mother's illneſs had the leaſt appearance of danger, ſhe never quitted her pillow. Entreaties, or even commands, could not prevail upon her to take a moment's repoſe. At length Mrs. Carey recovered. This happy circumſtance diſſipated the apprehenſions of Priſcilla; but her ſorrows began afreſh, when ſhe ſaw her mama reaſſume her uſual ſeverity towards her.

One day, when Mrs. Carey was diſcourſing with her children of the pains that ſhe had ſuffered during her ill⯑neſs, and was thanking them for the tender and earneſt affection which their cares for her had teſtified, "My dear children, added ſhe, you may both aſk of me whatever will give you moſt pleaſure. I promiſe to grant it to you, if your deſires are within the extent of my fortune.

[102]What do you wiſh, Marcus? ſaid ſhe firſt to her ſon.— A watch and a cane, mama, replied he.—You ſhall have them to-morrow morning.

And you, Priſcilla?—Me, mama? me? anſwered ſhe, trembling, I have nothing to wiſh for, if you love me.

That is not an anſwer. You ſhall have your recom⯑penſe too, miſs. What would you wiſh? Speak.

Though Priſcilla had been accuſtomed to this tone of ſeverity, yet ſhe felt it more ſenſibly on this occaſion than ever ſhe had done before. She threw herſelf at her mo⯑ther's feet, looked up to her with eyes all drowned in tears, and ſuddenly hiding her face with both her hands, liſped out theſe words, "Give me only two kiſſes, ſuch as you give my brother."

Mrs. Carey's heart melted at theſe words, and ſhe felt thoſe ſentiments of affection to her daughter now revive which ſhe had hitherto ſuppreſſed. Taking her up in her arms, ſhe claſped her to her breaſt and loaded her with kiſſes. Priſcilla, who for the firſt time received her mother's careſſes, gave a looſe to the effuſions of her joy and love. She kiſſed her cheeks, her eyes, her breaſt, her hands: and Marcus, who could not help loving his ſiſter, mixed his embraces with her's. They all enjoyed a happineſs which was not confined to the preſent mo⯑ment. Mrs. Carey repaid with intereſt to Priſcilla that affection which ſhe had before withheld from her, and Priſcilla returned it with new marks of tenderneſs. Nor was Marcus in the leaſt jealous on this account, but re⯑joiced in his ſiſter's happineſs. He ſoon reaped the re⯑ward of ſo generous a behaviour. The natural goodneſs of his diſpoſition having been a little injured by the weakneſs and doating fondneſs of his mother, he gave way in youth to many little indiſcretions which would have loſt him her heart, but Priſcilla always found means to excuſe him to her. The ſenſible advice too which ſhe gave him completed the reform of his manners; and they all three experienced that there is no true happineſs in a family without the moſt cerdial union between bro⯑thers and ſiſters and the moſt lively and equal affection between parents and children.

THE LAMB.

LITTLE Flora, the daughter of a poor countryman, was ſeated one morning by the ſide of the road, holding on her lap a porringer of milk for her breakfaſt, in which ſhe ſopped a few ſlices of coarſe black bread. Juſt then a farmer was paſſing the road, who had in his cart about a ſcore of lambs that he was going to ſell at the market. Theſe poor creatures, crowded one upon the other, with their feet tied together and their heads hang⯑ing down, filled the air with plaintive bleatings, which pierced the heart of Flora, but were heard by the farmer with an ear of unconcern.

When he was come up oppoſite to the little country girl he threw down before her a lamb which he was carrying acroſs his ſhoulder. "There, my girl, ſaid he, is a good-for-nothing beaſt that has juſt died, and made me five ſhillings the poorer. Take it, if you will, and make a ſtew of it."

Flora quitted her breakfaſt, laid down her porringer and her bread, and taking up the lamb, began to examine it with looks of compaſſion. "But, ſaid ſhe immediately, why ſhould I pity you? To-day or to-morrow they would have run a great knife through your throat, while now you have nothing more to fear." While ſhe was ſpeak⯑ing thus, the lamb revived by the warmth of her arms, opened its eyes a little, made a ſlight motion, and cried baa faintly, as if it was calling its mother. It would be difficult to expreſs the little girl's joy. She covers the lamb with her apron, and over that with her ſtuff petti⯑coat, bends her breaſt down towards her lap to warm it ſtill more, and blows with all her force into its noſtrils and mouth. She felt the poor animal ſtir by degrees, and at each of its motions ſhe felt her own heart throb. Encouraged by this firſt ſucceſs, ſhe crumbles ſome ſoft bread into her porringer, and taking it up in her fingers, with ſome difficulty forced it between its teeth which were ſhut faſt. The lamb, which was dying only through hunger, felt itſelf a little ſtrengthened by this nouriſh⯑ment. It began now to ſtretch its limbs, to ſhake its head, to wag its tail, and to prick up its ears. It had ſoon ſtrength enough to ſupport itſelf upon its legs, and [104]then went of its own accord to Flora's porringer, who ſmiled to ſee it drink up her breakfaſt. In ſhort, before a quarter of an hour was paſt, it had already played a thouſand little gambols.

Flora, tranſported with joy, took it up in her arms, and running to the cottage, ſhewed it to her mother. Baba (ſo ſhe named it) became from that moment the object of all her cares. She ſhared with it the little bread which was given her for her meals, and would not have exchanged it ſingly for the largeſt flock in the neighbour⯑hood. Baba was ſo gratefully ſenſible of her fondneſs, that ſhe never quitted Flora a ſingle ſtep: ſhe would come to eat out of her hand, would friſk round her, and when⯑ever ſhe was obliged to go out without her, would bleat moſt pitifully.

This was not the only recompence with which Heaven repaid Flora's compaſſionate tenderneſs. Baba brought forth young lambs, and theſe others in their turn: ſo that in a few years after, Flora had a pretty flock that nouriſh⯑ed all her family with their milk, and furniſhed them comfortable clothing from their wool.

THE VINE-STUMP.

MR. Sutton, being at his country-houſe in the ſpring, went out with his ſon Julius to walk in his garden. The violet and primroſe were in their bloom, and many trees began already to ſhew their budding verdure, and to be clothed in white and crimſon bloſſoms.

They went by chance into a ſummer-houſe at the foot of which roſe a vine-ſtump twiſting wildly and ſtretching its naked branches in a rude irregular manner. "Papa! cried Julius, ſee this ugly tree, how it points at me! why do not you have Martin to grub it up and make fire-wood of it?" At the ſame time he began to pull at it in order to tear it up, but its roots had taken too firm hold in the earth. "Do not moleſt it, ſaid Mr. Sutton to his ſon, I will have it ſtand as it is, and at the proper time I ſhall tell you my reaſons."

But, papa, ſee cloſe by it thoſe lively bloſſoms of the lilac and the lauruſtinus. Why is not it as well adorned as they are, if it is to be kept? It ſpoils and diſ⯑figures the garden. Shall I go and tell Martin to pluck it up?

No, my dear; I tell you, I will have it ſtand as it is, at leaſt a little longer.

Julius perſevered in condemning it: his father tried to divert his attention to other objects, and the unfortunate vine-ſtump was forgotten.

Mr. Sutton's affairs called him to a diſtant part of the country. He ſet off the next day, and did not return till the middle of Autumn. His firſt care was to viſit his country-houſe, whither he brought his ſon once more. The day being very hot, they went to enjoy the ſhade of the ſummer-houſe. "Ah! papa, ſaid Julius, what a charming green ſhade! I thank you for having that ugly dry ſtump plucked up that I was ſo uneaſy to ſee laſt Spring, and for putting in its place this handſome ſhrub, to give me an agreeable ſurprize. What delightful fruit! See, theſe fine grapes, ſome purple, others almoſt black. There is not a ſingle tree in the garden that looks ſo well. They have all loſt their fruit, but this;—ſee how it is covered! ſee thoſe large green leaves that hide the cluſters. I ſhould like to know if the fruit be as good as it appears handſome."

Mr. Sutton gave him a grape to taſte. This renewed his joy; and how much was it enlivened, when his father informed him that from thoſe berries was produced that delicious liquor which he ſometimes taſted after dinner. "You ſeem to be aſtoniſhed, my dear, ſaid Mr. Sutton. I ſhould ſurprize you much more, were I to tell you that this is the ſame crooked miſhapen ſtump that pointed at you in the Spring. I will go, if you chuſe, and order Mar⯑tin to pluck it up and make fire-wood of it."

Oh! by no means, papa: let him take all the others in the garden before this; I do like the grapes ſo well!

You ſee then, Julius, that I did well in not following your advice. What has happened to you happens frequently in the world. We ſee a child ill clothed, and of an unpleaſing outſide appearance; we deſpiſe him and grow proud, on comparing ourſelves with [106]him; we even carry our cruelty ſo far as to addreſs him with inſulting diſcourſes. Beware, my child, of ſuch haſty judgments. In this perſon, ſo little favoured by nature, dwells perhaps an exalted ſoul which will one day aſtoniſh the world by its great virtues, or enlighten it by its knowledge. It is a rugged ſtem, but may produce the nobleſt fruits.

CAROLINE.

LITTLE Caroline, of whom we have ſpoken, (page 15,) was one day playing beſide her mother who was then buſy writing letters. The hair-dreſſer being come, Mrs. P—told him to ſtep into an adjoining dreſſing-room with Caroline, and to take a little of her hair off. Inſtead of a little, the hair-dreſſer took off ſo much that the little girl's head was entirely naked. Her mother entered juſt as this unlucky operation was finiſhed. "Ah! my poor Caroline, exclaimed ſhe, you have loſt all your fine hair!"—"Do not be uneaſy, mama, anſwered Caroline with the greateſt ſimplicity; it is not loſt, it is put up in that drawer."

Laſt Summer vacation, while ſhe was in the country a chicken was ſerved up at dinner, and Mrs. P—, who had no company but her children, having helped her eldeſt daughter to ſome of it, offered a bit to Caroline.

No, mama, anſwered ſhe with a ſigh; I ſhall not eat any of it.—

And why, my dear?—

Becauſe, mama, that chicken and I ſaw one another every day, and we lived very friendly together.—

But your ſiſter eats ſome of it.—

Oh! my ſiſter may eat it, to be ſure; ſhe was not ſo well acquainted with it as I was.

What may not be hoped from a child born with ſuch amiable ſimplicity, and ſuch tenderneſs of heart? May ſhe reſemble her mother more and more, and all my wiſhes for her will be accompliſhed,

THE FARMER.

SIR John Downton had ſhut himſelf up one morning in his ſtudy, in order to give his attention to ſome affairs of conſequence. A ſervant came to inform him that farmer Martin his tenant was at the ſtreet-door and deſired to ſpeak with him. Sir John ordered him to ſhew the farmer into the drawing-room, and to requeſt him to ſtay a moment, until his letters ſhould be finiſhed. Robert, Arthur and Sophia, Sir John Downton's chil⯑dren, were in the drawing-room when Mr. Martin was introduced. He ſaluted them reſpectfully as he entered, but it was eaſy to ſee that he had not learned his bow from the dancing-maſter; nor were his compliments of a more elegant turn. The two boys looked one at the other, ſmiling with an air of contempt. Their eyes meaſured him very familiarly from head to foot. They whiſpered each other and laughed out ſo loud that the poor man bluſhed and did not know what countenance to put on. Robert even carried his incivility ſo far, as to walk round him, holding his noſe, and aſking his bro⯑ther, "Arthur, do not you perceive ſomething of the ſmell of a dung-heap?" And going for a chaſing diſh of hot coals, he burnt ſome paper over it and carried it round the room, to diſperſe, as he ſaid, the unpleaſant ſmell. He then called a ſervant and deſired him to ſweep up the dirt that Martin had left on the floor-cloth with his nailed ſhoes. Arthur, mean time, held his⯑ſides, laughing at his brother's impertinences.

It was not the ſame with Sophia their ſiſter. Inſtead of imitating the rudeneſs of her brothers, ſhe reproved them for it, endeavoured to excuſe them to the farmer, and approaching him with looks of good-nature, offered him wine to refreſh himſelf, made him ſit down, and took his hat and ſtick herſelf and laid them by. In the mean time Sir John came out of his ſtudy, and approach⯑ing farmer Martin in a friendly manner, took him by the hand, aſked how his wife and children were, and what had brought him to town. "Sir, anſwered the farmer, I come to pay you my half-year's rent:" and at the ſame time he drew out of his pocket a leathern bag full of [108]money. "You will not be diſpleaſed, continued he, that I have been ſomething beyond my time: our roads were ſo flooded, that I could not carry my corn to market ſooner."

"I am not at all diſpleaſed with you, replied Sir John: I know that you are an honeſt man and have no occaſion to be put in mind of your engagements." At the ſame time he had a table laid before the farmer, to count the money on. Robert ſtared at the ſight of farmer Martin's guineas, and ſeemed to look at him with a little more reſpect.

When Sir John had counted the farmer's money and found it right, the latter drew out of his great-coat pocket a ſmall jar of candied fruits. "I have brought ſomething ſaid he, for the young folks. Won't you be ſo good, Sir John, as to let them come out one of theſe days, and take a mouthful of the country air with us. I'd try to enter⯑tain and amuſe them too, as well as I could. I have two good ſtout nags, and would come for them myſelf, and take them down in my four-wheeled chaiſe."

Sir John premiſed to go and ſee him, and would have kept him to dinner; but Mr. Martin thanked him for his kind invitation, and excuſed himſelf for not being able to accept it, as he had many bargains to make in town, and was in a hurry to return home. Sir John filled his pockets with cakes for his children, thanked him for the preſent that he had made to his, and having wiſhed him good health, as well to ſupport his fatigues as on his fa⯑mily's account, ſaw him down ſtairs and took his leave.

As ſoon as he was gone, Sophia, before her brothers, informed her father of the rude reception which they had given to the honeſt farmer. Sir John expreſſed his diſ⯑pleaſure at Robert and Arthur, and at the ſame time commended Sophia for her conduct. "I ſee, ſaid he kiſſing her, that my little Sophia knows how to behave herſelf to honeſt people."

As it was about breakfaſt hour, he opened the farmer's jar of fruits and eat ſome of them with his daughter, and they both thought them excellent. Robert and Arthur were at table too, but were not invited to taſte the fruits. They devoured them with their eyes, but Sir John did not ſeem to obſerve their longings. He reſumed his com⯑mendations of Sophia, and exhorted her never to deſpiſe [109]a perſon for the plainneſs of his dreſs. "For, ſaid he, if we were to behave politely only to thoſe who are well clad, we ſhould ſeem to direct our civilities to the dreſs, not to the perſon who wears it. People in the moſt homely clothing are often the moſt honeſt; we have an inſtance of it in farmer Martin. He not only by his labour ſup⯑ports himſelf, his wife and children, but during theſe ſix years that he is my tenant, he pays his rents ſo punctually that I have never had the ſmalleſt fault to find with him in that reſpect. Yes, my dear Sophia, if this man was not ſo honeſt, I could not ſupply the expence of main⯑taining you and your brothers. It is he who clothes you and procures you a good education; for it is in clothing you and paying the expences of your inſtruction that I diſpoſe of the ſums which he pays me every half-year."

After the breakfaſt was finiſhed, he ordered the re⯑mainder to be locked up in the beauſet. Robert and Arthur followed it with deſiring eyes and ſaw plainly that it was not kept for them. In this their father ſoon confirmed them. "Do not expect, ſaid he, to taſte theſe fruits, either to-day, or any other time. When the farmer who brought them ſhall have reaſon to be ſatisfied with you, he will not fail to ſend you ſome."

But, papa, is it my fault, if he did not ſmell well?

How did he ſmell, then?

Of the dung-heap, inſufferably.

Whence could he have contracted that ſmell?

From his loading carts with it every day.

What ſhould he do then, to get rid of it?

He ſhould—he ſhould—

He ſhould, perhaps, not put dung upon his grounds at all?

There is only that way.

But if he did not enrich his land, how could he draw a plentiful crop from it? And if he had always bad crops, how could he manage to pay me the rent of his farm?

Robert would have replied, but his father gave him a look in which Arthur and he plainly read his diſpleaſure. —The next Sunday, very early, the good farmer was at Sir John Downton's door. He ſent up his compliments, and kindly invited him to come and take an excurſion to [110]his farm. Sir John, pleaſed with his hearty obliging manner, would not mortify him by a refuſal. Robert and Arthur earneſtly entreated their father to make them of the party, and promiſed to behave themſelves more civilly. Sir John yielding to their ſolicitations, they mounted the four-wheeled chaiſe with joyful looks, and as the farmer had a pair of excellent horſes and drove well, they were at his houſe before they had any ſuſpicion of it. Who can deſcribe their ſatisfaction when the chaiſe ſtopped? Cicely, wife to farmer Martin, appeared with a ſmiling countenance at the wicket, which ſhe opened, and ſaluted her gueſts; and taking the children in her arms to help them down, ſhe kiſſed them, and led them into the yard. All her own children were there in their beſt clothes, who welcomed the young gentlemen, ſa⯑luting them with great reſpect. Sir John would willingly have ſtopped a moment to talk with the little ones and careſs them, but Mrs. Martin preſſed him to go in, leſt the coffee ſhould grow cold. It was already poured out, at a table which was covered with a napkin as white as ſnow. The coffee-pot was not of ſilver, nor the cups of china, yet every thing was in the neateſt order. Robert and Arthur, however, looked at each other ſlily and would have burſt out in a laugh if they had not feared to offend their father. But Cicely, gueſſing their thoughts by the looks which they exchanged, made an apology for their fare, which ſhe confeſſed was not ſo fine as they would have had at their own houſe; however ſhe hoped that they would be ſatisfied with the cheerful en⯑tertainment of poor people. With the coffee they had muffins of a delicious taſte. It was eaſy to ſee that Mrs. Martin had uſed all her art in kneading and baking them.

After breakſaſt, the farmer aſked Sir John to look at his orchard and grounds, to which he conſented. Cicely took all the pains imaginable to make this walk agreeable to the children. She ſhewed them all her flocks which covered the fields, and gave them the prettieſt lambs to play with. She then led them to her pigeon-houſe: every thing there was clean and wholeſome: there were on the ground two young pigeons which had juſt quitted their neſt, but did not dare as yet to truſt their callow wings. Some of the mothers were ſitting over their eggs, and [111]others buſied in giving nouriſhment to their young which had juſt broken the ſhell. From the pigeon-houſe they went to the bee-hives: Cicely took care that they ſhould not go too near them, but however ſhe gave them a view of the bees at work.

As moſt of theſe ſights were new to the children, they ſeemed very much delighted with them: they were even going to take a ſecond review of them, if farmer Martin's youngeſt ſon Tom had not come to inform them that dinner waited. They were ſerved on pewter and drank out of Delft ware: but Robert and Arthur were ſtill ſo full of the pleaſure of their morning's walk that they were aſhamed to indulge their ſatirical humour; they thought every thing excellent. It is true, Cicely had ſurpaſſed herſelf in preparing them the beſt cheer.

After dinner, Sir John perceived two fiddles hung up againſt the wall. What perſon here plays thoſe inſtru⯑ments? ſaid he.

My eldeſt ſon and I, anſwered the farmer; and with⯑out ſaying any more, he made a ſign to Luke, his ſon, to take down the fiddles. They played by turns ſome old tunes on the fiddles, both ſprightly and pathetic, of which Sir John expreſſed his ſatisfaction in the moſt flattering manner.

As they were going to hang up the inſtruments again, "Come Robert and Arthur, ſaid Sir John, it is now your turns. Play us ſome of your beſt tunes:" and at the ſame time he put the fiddles into their hands. But they did not know even how to hold the bow, and their con⯑fuſion raiſed a general laugh.

Sir John then requeſted the farmer to put the horſes to, that they might return to town. Martin preſſed him ſtrongly to paſs the night with him, but at length yielded to Sir John's excuſes.—"Well, Robert, ſaid that gen⯑tleman to his ſon, as they returned, how do you find yourſelf after your little journey?"

Very well, papa. Thoſe good people have done their utmoſt to give us every ſatisfaction.

I am happy to ſee you ſatisfied. But if farmer Martin had not taken ſo much pains in doing the honours of his houſe, if he had not offered you the ſmalleſt refreſhment, would you have been as well pleaſed with him as you now ſeem to be?

No, certainly.

What would you have thought of him?

That he was an unmannerly clown.

Robert, Robert, this honeſt man came to our houſe, and far from offering him any refreſhment, you made game of him. Which then is the beſt bred, you or the farmer?

But it is his duty to receive us well. He gains by our lands.

What do you call gaining?

I mean, that he finds it his advantage to gather in the crops of our corn-fields, and the hay of our meadows.

You are right. A farmer has occaſion for all that; but what does he do with the grain?

He maintains with it, himſelf, his wife and his children.

And with the hay?

He gives it to his horſes to eat.

And what does he do with his horſes?

He uſes them in plowing the ground.

Thus you ſee, that one part of what he gains from the earth returns to it. But do you believe, that he conſumes the remainder with his family and his horſes!

The cows have their part of it too.

And his ſheep too, and his pigeons, and his poultry.

That is true. But are his whole crops con⯑ſumed upon his own ground?

No. I remember to have heard him ſay that he took part of them to market, to ſell for money.

And what does he do with this money?

I ſaw, laſt week, that he brought you a leathern bag full of it.

You now ſee who draws the greateſt profit from my lands, the farmer or I. It is true, he feeds his horſes with hay from the meadows, but his horſes ſerve to plow the fields which, without theſe plowings, would be exhauſted by weeds. He feeds his ſheep too, and his cows, with the hay; but their dung contributes to make the fallow grounds fruitful. His wife and his children are ſed with the corn of the harveſts, but in return they paſs the ſummer in weeding the crops, and afterwards, ſome in reaping them, ſome in threſhing; and theſe labours [113]again turn to my advantage. The reſt of his corn and hay he takes to market to ſell them, but it is in order to give me the money that he receives. Suppoſe that there remains ſome part for himſelf, is it not fair that he ſhould have a recompence for his labours? Now therefore, once more tell me, which of us two draws the greateſt profits from my lands?

I now plainly ſee that you do.

And without this tenant, ſhould I have that profit?

Oh! there are many tenants to be had.

You are right; but not one more honeſt than this. I had formerly let this farm to another who impo⯑veriſhed the land, cut down the trees, and let the out⯑houſes run to ruin. At quarter-day, he never had any money for me; and when I would expoſtulate with him, he ſhewed me clearly that his whole ſtock was not ſufficient to anſwer my demand.

Ah! the knave!

If this man were of the ſame kind, ſhould I receive much profit from my eſtate?

Certainly not.

To whom then am I obliged for what I do receive?

I ſee that you owe it to this honeſt farmer.

Is it not therefore our duty to receive a man well who renders us ſo great ſervices?

Ah! papa, you make me ſee very plainly that I was wrong.

For ſome minutes a deep ſilence enſued. Sir John then reſumed the diſcourſe thus; Robert, why did not you play upon the fiddle?

You know, papa, that I have never learned.

Then farmer Martin's ſon knows ſomething that you do not.

That is true. But then, does he underſtand Latin as I do?

And do you know how to plow? can you drive a team? can you ſow wheat, barley, oats, and other grain, or rear a crop of them? Would you know how ſo much as to fix a hop-pole, or prune a tree, ſo as to have good fruit?

I have no occaſion to know all that: I am no farmer.

But if all the people in the world knew no⯑thing elſe but Latin, how would things go then?

Very ill; we ſhould have no bread, no vege⯑tables.

And could the world do very well, even though nobody knew Latin?

I believe it could.

Remember then all your life what you have juſt ſeen and heard. This farmer ſo coarſely clad, who ſaluted and addreſſed you in ſo ruſtick a manner; this man is better bred than you, knows much more than you, and things of much greater uſe. Therefore you ſee how unjuſt it is to deſpiſe any one for the plainneſs of his dreſs or the ungracefulneſs of his manner.

THE LITTLE MISS DECEIVED BY HER MAID.

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

No, I do not chuſe it, Amelia.

Pray, mama, why ſo?

I have no occaſion, I ſuppoſe, to tell you my reaſons. A little miſs ought always to obey her parents, without allowing herſelf to aſk them queſtions. However, to ſatisfy you that I have always a reaſonable motive, whenever I order or forbid you any thing, I ſhall tell you. Your couſin Henry can only ſet you an indifferent ex⯑ample; and I ſhould fear, if you ſaw him too often, that you would imitate his levity and indiſcretion.

But, mama—

No reply, I requeſt. You know that my orders muſt be followed punctually.

Amelia retired a little to hide her tears; and ſoon after, her mother being gone out, ſhe ſat down in a corner, and gave her grief full vent. Juſt then Nanny, who was lately come into Mrs. Barlow's ſervice, entered the room. "How, Mi [...]s Amelia, ſaid ſhe, are you crying? What is the matter? May not I know what troubles you?"

Leave me, Nanny. You cannot comfort me.

Nay, why not? There was Miſs Sophy, at my laſt ſervice, always name to me whenever any thing ailed her, "My dear Nanny, ſhe would ſay, you ſee what has happened to me; tell me, what muſt I do?" And I had always good advice to give her.

I do not want your advice. I tell you once more, that you can do nothing for me.

Give me leave, at leaſt, to go for your mama. She will, perhaps, be better able to comfort you. I do not like to ſee ſo pretty a miſs as you in trouble.

Oh, yes! mama, indeed!

I cannot believe that it was ſhe who grieved you.

Who ſhould it be, then?

I could never have thought it. I ſhould always ſuppoſe you ſo reaſonable, that your mama could not refute you any requeſt. Ah! if I had a child ſo well diſpoſed as you ſhe ſhould be her own miſtreſs. But your mama loves to command, and for a whim would oppoſe your moſt innocent wiſhes. How can one have ſo amiable a child, and take pleaſure to thwart her! I can⯑not expreſs how I ſaffer to ſee you in this ſituation.

Ah! it will break my heart.

Indeed, I fear it will. How red and ſwelled your eyes are! You are very cruel to yourſelf, not to let thoſe who love you ſincerely, try to give you ſome co [...] ⯑fort. Ah! if Miſs Sophy had been in half your trouble, ſhe would not have failed to open her heart to me.

I dare not mention mine to you.

Not that, for my part, I care much about knowing it.—Oh! it is, perhaps, becauſe your mama make you ſtay at home while ſhe goes to the play.

No: ſhe has promiſed me not to go there with⯑out me.

Well, what is it, then? Your trouble ſeems to increaſe. Shall I go for your little couſin? You may play along with him to divert you.

Ah! I ſhall not have that pleaſure any more.

It will not be hard to procure it for you. A young mi [...]s ſhould have ſome company. Your mama has not a mind to make a nun of you?

I am not allowed to ſee him.

Not to ſee him? I do not know what your mama thinks. Miſs Sophy's was juſt the ſame. She would never let her have the leaſt intimacy with Miſs Semple. But how we contrived to deceive her!

How was that?

We watched the moment when ſhe went out to pay viſits: then either Miſs Sophy went to Miſs Semple, or Miſs Semple came to her.

And her mama did not know it?

It was I that guarded againſt that.

But if I were to go to ſee my couſin, and mama ſhould aſk, Where is Amelia?

I would tell her that you were in the garden: or, if it was a little late, I would tell her that you were gone to bed, and faſt aſleep; and immediately I would run to find you.

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

Truſt me for that: ſhe will never ſuſpect it. Will you take my advice? Go and paſs the evening with your little couſin. Never trouble yourſelf about the reſt.

I have a mind to try it for once. But you pr [...]miſe me at leaſt that mama—

Go! never fear!

Amelia in effect did go to ſee her couſin. Her mama came home a ſhort time after, and aſked where ſhe was. Nanny anſwered, that ſhe had been tired of ſitting all alone, ſo had eaten a good ſupper, and was gone to bed.

In this manner Amelia deceived her unſuſpecting mama ſeveral times. Ah! much more did ſhe deceive herſelf in acting thus. Before, ſhe was always cheerful, and took pleaſure in being near her mama, and would run with joy to meet her, whenever ſhe had been abſent a moment. But now, what was become of her chearful⯑neſs? She was ever ſaying to herſelf, "O dear! if mama knew where I have been!" and ſhe trembled whenever ſhe heard her voice. If at any time ſhe ſaw her look a little ſerious, "I am undone! ſhe would cry. Mama has diſcovered that I have diſobeyed her." But this was not all that made her unhappy. Nanny would often cunningly tell her how generous Miſs Sophy had been to her; how often ſhe had given her ſugar and tea; and how freely ſhe had truſted her with the keys of the cellar and beaufet. Amelia took pride in deſerving from Nanny the ſame praiſes for conſidence and generoſity. She ſtole ſugar and tea from her mama for Nanny, and found means to procure her the keys of the cellar and [138]beauſet. Nevertheleſs, ſometimes ſhe felt the reproaches of her conſcience. "I am doing wrong, ſhe would ſay to herſelf, and my tricks will be found out ſooner or later. I ſhall loſe the friendſhip of mama." She then went to Nanny, and proteſted that ſhe would never give her any thing again. "Juſt as you pleaſe, miſs, anſwered Nanny; but take care; you may perhaps, have reaſon to repent it! Stay till your mama comes home, I will tell her how obe [...]iently you have followed her orders." Amelia cried and did every thing that Nanny deſired her. Be⯑fore, it was Nanny that obeyed Amelia; but now it was Amelia that obeyed Nanny. She ſuffered every ſort of rudeneſs from her, and had nobody to whom ſhe could complain. The wicked girl came to her one day and ſaid, "You muſt know, I have a fancy to taſte the pie that was looked up in the beauſet yeſterday; beſides that, I want a bottle of wine. You muſt go and look for the keys of your mama's drawers."

But, dear Nanny!

We are not talking about dear Nanny! Do you mind what I aſk of you?

Why, mama will ſee us; or if ſhe does not ſee us, God Almighty will ſee us and puniſh us.

He ſaw you all the times that you went to your couſin, yet I never obſerved that he has puniſhed you.

Amelia had received good inſtructions in religion from her mother. She was ſtrongly perſuaded that God has always an eye upon us; that he rewards our good actions, and has only forbidden us what is evil, becauſe it is h [...]rt⯑ful to us. It was through mere thoughtleſſneſs that ſhe went to ſee her couſin, contrary to her mama's orders. But it always happens that, from yielding to one error, one fa [...]ls immediately into another. She ſaw herſelf obliged to do every wrong thing that her ſervant ordered her, for fear of being betrayed by her.

It may eaſily be imagined how much ſhe ſuffered in this ſituation. She one day withdrew to her chamber, in order to weep at her eaſe. "Oh! cried ſhe, how much is one to be pitied who is diſobedient! Unhappy child [...] that I am! Slave to my own ſervant! I can no longer do what is my duty, but am forced to do what a wicked maid orders me. I muſt be a liar, a thief and a hypocrite! Lord have mercy on me!" Saying thus, ſhe held up [139]both hands to hide her face which was drowned in tears, and began to reflect what ſteps ſhe ſhould take. At length, ſhe roſe all at once, crying, "I am reſolved: and though my mama were not to let me come near her for a month; though ſhe were to—But no, ſhe will be reconciled to me; ſhe will call me once more her Amelia. I depend on her fondneſs. But how dear it will coſt me! How ſhall I bear her looks and reproaches! No matter; I will confeſs the whole to her." She then immediately ſprung out of her chamber, and ſeeing her mama walking all alone in the garden, ſhe flew towards her, and embracing her cloſely, covered her cheeks and her boſom with her tears. Grief and confuſion ſtopped her ſpeech.

What is the matter, my dear Amelia?

Ah! mama—

What is the meaning of theſe tears?

My dear mama!

Speak, child! what occaſions this agitation?

Ah! if I thought that you could pardon me!

I pardon you, ſince your repentance appears ſo lively and ſo ſincere.

My dear mama, I have been a diſobedient girl; I have gone ſeveral times to ſee my couſin Henry, contrary to your orders.

Is it poſſible, my dear Amelia? you who for⯑merly feared ſo much to diſpleaſe me!

Ah! I ſhould not be your dear Amelia, if you knew all.

You make me uneaſy: but truſt every thing with me. You muſt have been deceived. You never gave me cauſe of complaint until now.

Yes, mama, I have been deceived. 'Twas Nanny, Nanny—

What! it was ſhe?

Yes, mama: and that ſhe might not tell you, I have often ſtolen the keys of the cellar and beaufet. I have ſtolen for her I know not how much ſugar and tea.

Unhappy mother that I am! Do I hear this ſhocking account of my own daughter! Leave me, un⯑worthy child! I ſhall go and conſult with your father how we ſhould treat you.

No, mama, I will not quit you. Puniſh me firſt, but promiſe me that your love for me will one day return.

Ah! unhappy child! you will be ſufficiently puniſhed.

Mrs. Barlow, at theſe words, left Amelia quite diſcon⯑ſolate, ſeated on a graſſy turf, and went to ſeek Mr. Bar⯑low, and they concerted together the means of ſaving their child from her ruin.

Nanny was called up. Mr. Barlow, after loading her with the ſevere [...] repreaches, ordered her to quit his houſe immediately. It was in vain that ſhe wept and pleaded for a leſs [...]gorous ſentence. In vain ſhe promiſed that nothing of the ſame ſort ſhould ever happen again. Mr. Barlow was inexorable. You know, anſwered he, how mildly I have treated you, and what indulgence I have ſhewn to your faults. I thought that my kindneſs might induce you to ſecond my wiſhes as to my child's education, and it is you that have led her into diſobedience and theft. You are a monſter in my ſight! Leave my preſence, and be careful to reform, unleſs you wiſh to fall into the hands of a more terrible judge.

It was next Amelia's turn. She appeared before her parents in a ſituation worthy of pity. Her eyes were ſwoln with crying; all the features of her face were changed; a frightful paleneſs covered her cheeks, and her whole body ſhuddered as if in the convulſions of an ague. Unable to utter a word, ſhe awaited in mournful ſilence the judgment of her father. "You have, ſaid he in a ſevere voice, you have deceived, you have offended your parents. What could incline you to follow the ad⯑vice of a wicked ſervant, rather than of your own mother, who loves you ſo tenderly, and deſires nothing in the world ſo much as to make you happy? If I puniſhed you with the indignation that your behaviour inſpires; if I baniſhed you from my ſight for ever, as I have the com⯑panion of your faults, who could accuſe me of injuſtice?"

Ah! papa, you can never be unjuſt towards me. Puniſh me with all the ſeverity that you ſhall judge neceſ⯑ſary, I will bear the whole: but begin with taking me once more in your arms; call me once more your Amelia!

I cannot embrace you ſo ſoon. I am wil⯑ling not to chaſ [...]ſe you, on account of the confeſſion that you have made; but I ſhall not call you my Amelia, until you have deſerved it by a long repentance. Pay great [141]attention to your conduct. Puniſhments always follow faults, and it is you that will puniſh yourſelf.

Amelia did not as yet fully underſtand what her father meant by theſe laſt words. She did not expect ſo mild a treatment: ſhe went therefore up to her parents with a heavy heart, and curtſying to them, repeated afreſh her promiſes of the moſt perfect ſubmiſſion. In effect, ſhe kept her worn: but alas! her puniſhment followed very ſoon, as her father had told her. The wicked Nanny ſpread the moſt infamous ſtories concerning her. She told all that had paſſed between her and Amelia, and added a thouſand horrid lies beſides. She ſaid that Amelia, by the humbleſt entreaties, and by the force of preſents which ſhe had ſtolen from her parents, had laboured ſo long to corrupt her, that at length the ſuffered herſelf to be perſuaded to procure her ſecret meetings with her couſin Henry; that they ſaw each other every evening, unknown to their parents; and that Amelia came often home very late. Theſe things ſhe related with circumſtances ſo odious, that every one con⯑ceived the moſt diſadvantageous ideas of Amelia. She was obliged to ſuffer the moſt cruel mortifications on this ſubject. Whenever ſhe entered amongſt a party of her little friends, ſhe ſaw them all whiſper each other, and look at her with an air of contempt, and an inſulting ſmile. If ever ſhe ſtaid ſomewhat late in a company, they would ſay, "It is plain, ſhe waits here until the hour of her appointment." Had ſhe a faſhionable rib⯑band, or an elegant dreſs, they would ſay, "Whenever one can get one's mama's keys, one may buy what one pleaſes." In ſhort, upon the leaſt difference between her and any of her companions, "Do not talk, miſs! they would ſay. Thinking of your couſin Henry confuſes your ideas." Theſe reproaches were ſo many ſtabs to the heart of Amelia. Often, when ſhe was quite overwhelmed with grief, ſhe would throw herſelf into her mother's arms, and ſeek for comfort there. Her mother generally anſwered her, "Suffer with patience, my dear child, what your imprudence has brought on you. Pray to God to forget your fault, and to ſhorten the time of your mor⯑tifications. Theſe proofs will be of ſervice to you all your life, if you can profit by them. God has ſaid to chil⯑dren, Honour your father and your mother, and ſubmit in all things to their will. This commandment is meant for [142]their happineſs. Poor children! ye know not the world yet. Ye cannot foreſee the conſequences that your actions may draw after them. God has committed the care of guiding you to your parents who love you as themſelves, and who have more experience and reflection to ward off every danger from you. This you did not chuſe to be⯑lieve; but you now experience how wiſely God requires of children ſubmiſſion to their parents, ſince you have ſuffered ſo much by your diſobedience. My dear Amelia, let your misfortune ſerve for your inſtruction! It is the ſame with all the commandments. God preſcribes to us only what is advantageous: He forbids only what is per⯑nicious to us. We act therefore to our own hurt, when⯑ever we do what is wrong. You will often find yourſelf in circumſtances, when it will be impoſſible for you to fore⯑ſee how much vice may injure you, or how much virtue may profit you. Recollect then what you have ſuffered by one ſingle fault, and regulate all the actions of your life upon this unerring principle: Every action which is contrary to Virtue, is contrary to our own happineſs."

Amelia punctually obeyed the wiſe advice of her mo⯑ther. The more ſhe was afterwards obliged to ſuffer the conſequences of her imprudence, the more reſerved ſhe became and attentive to her own behaviour. She pro⯑fited ſo well by this diſgrace that, through the prudence of her conduct, ſhe ſtopped the mouths of all who would ſpeak ill of her, and obtained the name of the irreproach⯑able Amelia.

THE OLD MAN BEGGING.

WHY did not you make this good old man come in?

Sir, I was aſked; but it was my own choice not to go in.

And why, pray?

I bluſh to tell. I am doing a thing to which I am not accuſtomed: I come—to beg alms.

You ſeem honeſt: why ſhould you bluſh to be poor? I have ſome friends that are ſo. Be you of the number.

Excuſe me, ſir: I have not time.

What have you then to do?

What is the moſt important thing in this world: to die. I may tell you, ſince we are alone. I have not more than a week to live.

How do you know that?

How do I know it? I can ſcarcely explain that to you. But I know it, becauſe I feel it: and that proof is ſure. Happily nobody is a loſer by my death. My daughter and my ſon in law have maintained me theſe two years.

They have only done their duty.

I was once juſt rich enough not to fear be⯑coming chargeable to any body. I lent my money to a gentleman that called himſelf my friend. He lived mer⯑rily, until at laſt he reduced me to poverty. I beg pardon, ſir! you are a gentleman too; but I ſpeak the truth.

I have as much pleaſure in hearing it as you have in ſpeaking it, though it were even againſt myſelf.

I ſhould have been wiſer, had I worked to the laſt; but I was grown pale and withered, and I looked upon this change as a ſignal from Providence to repoſe myſelf. I never diſliked work, Sir. When I was young, that ſupported my health: I had no other phyſician. But what ſtrengthens youth, exhauſts old age. I was no longer able to work. When I had loſt my fortune, I was deſirous to work again. I deſired it with all my heart. I felt for my arms, but could not find them. Excuſe me for dropping a tear when I think of it. No moment of my life ever was more heavy than when I felt myſelf ſo weak.

You then had recourſe to your children?

No, ſir: they came to me of themſelves. I had only one daughter, but I found a ſon in her huſband. They made me welcome to every thing they had, and took care of me, although I had not ſixpence to leave them. May God Almighty take them to his heavenly table, as they have taken me to their table in this world!

What, are they become cooler to you now?

No, ſir, but they are become poor themſelves. The floods have ſwept away their houſe and deſtroyed their flock: ſo they have borrowed money to maintain me at caſe till my death; the only thing that ever they did againſt my will. I could wiſh them to have a ſum for my [144]funeral before-hand, that I may not be a charge to them, even when dead. It is for this reaſon that I come begging alms. I am an old man, but a young beggar.

And where do you live?

I beg pardon, ſir; but muſt not anſwer that, either for myſelf or my children.

Excuſe my indiſcreet curioſity. Heaven for⯑bid that I ſhould ſeek to gratify it!

Sir, I believe you. In eight days, look up to heaven: you will then, I hope, ſee my dwelling; it will not be concealed then.

Take this, good old man, and may God keep you!

All that, ſir? No, it was not my intention. I want but a crown; the reſt is of no ſervice to me. There is no want in heaven.

You will give the remainder to your children.

God forbid! My children can work; they want nothing.

Farewell, my good old man! Go and repoſe yourſelf.

Take this again, ſir.

My friend, you make me bluſh.

I bluſh myſelf too. Even a crown is too much to take. Keep the reſt for thoſe who are to beg longer than I.

I feel for your ſituation.

I hope that heaven will alſo feel for it, and for your generoſity, ſir, and repay it to you.

Will you take any food?

I have already had ſome broth and ſome bread.

At leaſt take ſome proviſion with you.

No, ſir; I will not affront Providence ſo much. However, a glaſs of wine, —juſt one—

More, if you chuſe, my friend.

No, ſir, only one; I cannot bear more. You deſerve that I ſhould drink with you the laſt drop of wine that I ſhall taſte upon earth, and in heaven I will tell from whom I received it. Bountiful God! even a cup of water is not without its recompenſe from thee.

My laſt refreſhment! Heaven reward him one day who gives it to me.

Take this glaſs, my good old man. I have brought one for my⯑ſelf too. We will drink together.

God be thanked for all the bleſ⯑ſings of this life!

May the Lord grant that your latter end be as happy as mine!

My good old man, ſtop here to-night. No⯑body ſhall ſee you, if you deſire it.

No, ſir, I cannot; my time is precious.

Can I ſerve you in any thing further?

I could wiſh it, ſir, for your ſake. But I want nothing more in this world; nothing but a glove,

I have loſt mine.

Here, my good friend.

Keep that: I aſk only one.

And why do you not take the other?

This hand can bear the air. It is only the left that ſuffers. It has loſt its warmth theſe two years.

I ſhall think of you, ſir.

And I too of you. O my good friend! let me accompany you. I find it hard to keep the promiſe that I gave you.

Then ſo much the better for you, ſir, if you keep it.

Give me your hand once more, my good old man! It is full of bleſſings.

I hope to take you by the hand in Paradiſe.

THE PLEASURES AND ADVANTAGES OF A SOCIABLE CHARACTER.

FERDINAND was by nature of a thoughtful and obſerving turn. In his walks with his uncle, nothing that ſtruck his view was loſt to his reflexions. His couſins complained that, while he appeared to enjoy ſo much [146]himſelf, he ſought ſo little to contribute to the general amuſement of the family. They thought at firſt of re⯑queſting their father not to take him with them any more, but a more gentle method of correcting him ſoon occurred. They agreed together to hold the ſame conduct with him, for ſome days, that he maintained towards them. One went to ſee Weſtminſter-abbey; another the regalia and armoury at the Tower; a third the exhibition at Somerſet⯑houſe; but when they came home, the accounts which they generally gave to each other of what they remarked were ſuppreſſed. Inſtead of that mutual communication of the pleaſures of the day which made their evenings paſs ſo delightfully before, a grave reſerve and a tireſome ſilence took place amongſt them. Ferdinand remarked this change with as much ſurprize as mortification. He felt the want of thoſe effuſions of communicative chear⯑fulneſs which, indeed, rarely originated from him, but in which he never failed to intereſt himſelf. Accuſtomed as he was to reflexion, he eaſily perceived the injuſtice of his own behaviour, and ſoon became as free as he had before been reſerved. When he yielded to this amiable principle which is implanted in men by nature, in or⯑der to connect and unite them by ſentiment, his heart taſted the pleaſures of benevolence and friendſhip; and his ardent deſire of knowledge found new means of grati⯑fication from the lights which he collected from others, at the ſame time that he imparted his information to them.

OLD COLIN.

PAPA, I know a very good ſervant to re⯑commend to you, when you diſcharge old Colin.

Who has given you that commiſſion? Have I any thoughts of ſending him away?

Would you always keep that old fellow? I think, a young ſervant would do much better for us.

How, Percival? That is a very bad rea⯑ſon for being tired of a good ſervant. You call him an old fellow! Child, you ought to bluſh for it! It is in my ſervice that he is grown old; and perhaps the cares which he took of your infancy and the ſorrow that he felt for your fits of illneſs have haſtened old age on him. You ſee then, how ungrateful and unreaſonable it would be to take an averſion to him on account of his age. And do you think yourſelf any better founded in ſaying that a young ſervant would anſwer our purpoſe? That deciſion is above your age, and requires more experience than you can poſſeſs. At another time I will make you ſenſible of the advantage that an old ſervant has above a young one in diligent and faithful ſervice.

I believe it, papa, ſince you ſay ſo. But he wears a wig; and it is ſo droll to ſee a man in a wig ſtanding behind your chair at dinner. I can hardly turn my eyes towards him, without being ready to laugh out.

That does not ſhew a good diſpoſition, boy! I ſhould never have ſuſpected you of it. Do you know that he loſt his hair in a long and dangerous ſick⯑neſs? To ridicule him, is it not to inſult God who ſent this ſickneſs on him?

But he is always grumbling, and is not ſo merry as the other ſervants.

Colin may be ſerious, but is not a grum⯑bler. It is true, he is not ſo nimble as a young puppy of eighteen or twenty; but does he incur your diſlike on that account? O ſon, that thought makes me ſhudder! [158]Then you will have an averſion to me too, if God ſhould grant me a long life?

Oh! no, papa; I am not ſo wicked.

And do you think that it is not ſo to hate Colin, becauſe his age hinders him from being ſo alert as formerly?

I am wrong, papa, I confeſs; and I aſſure you that I am very ſorry for having—

Why do you ſtop? For what are you ſorry, do you ſay?

If I diſcover my fault to you, perhaps you will be angry with me and I ſhall gain nothing by it but a puniſhment.

You know, child, that I am not fond of puniſhing, and that I try that method very ſeldom. It is by kindneſs and good advice that I endeavour to cor⯑rect your ſiſter and you. I do not know what fault you have committed, therefore cannot promiſe abſolutely not to chaſtiſe you. Is it on thoſe terms that you intend to make a confeſſion? You know my affection for you. That is the only ſecurity that I can give you; and you may de⯑pend on it with as much confidence as on my promiſe.

Well, papa, I own that—I called Colin—an old rogue.

How? Is it poſſible? Could you ſo far forget how you ſhould behave to an honeſt man? And did Colin hear you?

Yes, papa; and that is what troubles me moſt.

It is very well to be ſorry. But it is not enough to be concerned for having affronted one of our fellow-creatures to his face: one ought to feel the ſame ſorrow for affronting him in his abſence.

Yes, I am ſorry to have uſed Colin ill at all: but what grieves me moſt, is that I treated him ſo before his face: for—

You have begun to open your heart to me. Conclude!

Yes, papa—for Colin, when I uſed him ſo ill, ſhed tears, and ſaid, The pains and infirmities of my old age are not enough, but I muſt moreover be the laughter of childhood.

Poor Colin! I know him well. That ill treatment would go to his heart. It is indeed hard at his age to be the laughing ſtock of a child. But how much more muſt he ſuffer in receiving this treatment from a child whom he has known from his birth, and ſerved with an attachment that can never be requited.

Ah! papa, how much am I to blame! I will aſk his pardon; and be aſſured that in all my life he ſhall never have reaſon to complain of me.

Very well, child: on this condition alone God and I can pardon you. We are all weak and liable to be carried away by our paſſions for a moment. But when we return to ourſelves, we muſt thoroughly repent for our fault; we muſt force our pride to make amends for it, and uſe all our reſolution to avoid it for the future. But I ſhould wiſh to know what could make you behave ſo ungenerouſly to Colin. Had he offended you?

Yes, papa—At leaſt I thought ſo. I was playing with my pop-gun, and aimed to ſhoot a pea at his face. Have done, Maſter Percival, ſays he, or I ſhall go and complain to your papa. His threatening made me angry, and then I called him names.

It was on purpoſe, then, that you ſtrove to vex him?

I cannot deny it.

That aggravates your fault; and that was what made him ſhed tears.

Ah! papa, if you give me leave, I will go to him this moment, and aſk his pardon. I ſhall not be eaſy until he forgives me.

Yes, child; we ſhould never put off for a moment the performance of our duty. I ſhall wait for you here.

Papa, now I am pleaſed with myſelf. Colin has forgiven me with all his heart: and I do not think that I ſhall ever commit the ſame fault again.

God forbid that you ſhould! Without his grace you can never anſwer for the firmeſt reſolution.

And what ſhould I do for that purpoſe?

Pray for his aſſiſtance. He will not refuſe it to you.

I will pray for it from the bottom of my heart. But papa, there is another thing that I have juſt now done without your leave, and which perhaps will make you angry.

What is that, child?

The new crown-piece that you gave me as a Chriſtmas-box I have given to Colin.

Why ſhould I be angry at that? I am very well pleaſed that you ſhould do good actions of yourſelf, without acquainting me. You may diſpoſe of all the money that I give you. It is your own; and you could not make a better uſe of it. We ſhould early accuſtom ourſelves to a prudent generoſity. Did Colin ſeem ſatisfied?

He dropped tears of joy, and I was pleaſed to ſee it.

I applaud you for that ſentiment, my boy. A humane heart always rejoices to ſoften the diſtreſſes of its fellow-creatures. All the virtues produce joy in our ſouls, but none fills them with ſenſations more delightful and more laſting than beneficence.

Ah! if ever I poſſeſs the means, I will relieve all thoſe about me that are in diſtreſs.

My laſt prayer to heaven ſhall be to ſtrengthen this virtue in your heart, and to render you capable of putting it in practice.

And ſhall I be every time ſo well pleaſed as to-day?

It is the only pleaſure that never grows weak. Endeavour above all things to enjoy it in your family. If your ſervants are honeſt people, you ought to gain their affections ſtill more by kind treatment than by money; and at the ſame time not neglect to make them ſmall preſents now and then. If you beſtow them ſeaſon⯑ably, and with a good grace, you will make your ſervants your firmeſt friends.

But papa, have they not their wages?

They have them for their ſervice; no more. But ſmall preſents will create affection in them, and they will go beyond their duty.

I do not underſtand you very well, papa.

Colin will ſerve as an inſtance to explain my meaning. I give him his wages, his clothing and his food, for ſerving me. When he has ſerved me, are [171]we not quit? does he owe me any thing more? At the ſame time, you know, he takes care of every thing in the houſe; he has of himſelf undertaken the trouble of inſpecting the other ſervants, and has often ſaved me great expences. He does all this through good-will, without any particular order; becauſe I gained his grati⯑tude by occaſional preſents. When your years will allow you to mix in the world, you will hear nothing in every family but complaints of the negligence and ingratitude of ſervants. Be aſſured, my dear, that the fault lies ofteneſt with the maſters who endeavour to inſpire them with fear, rather than with attachment.

Now I underſtand you perfectly; and I will one day make uſe of your inſtructions and your example.

You will never have reaſon to repent fol⯑lowing them. I inherited them from my father, and ſhall always remember what he uſed to tell us on this ſubject.

Ah! papa, if it be not too much trouble, I ſhould be glad to hear the ſtory.

I take pleaſure in making you this return for acknowledging your fault, and for your generoſity to honeſt Colin. "Captain Flood, a brave officer, who had retired from the ſervice, lived upon his eſtate, with his wife, an amiable lady, and five children worthy of ſuch excellent parents. The inhabitants of the neighbourhood poſſeſſed the greateſt reſpect for them, and this family all together formed the moſt pleaſing ſight imaginable. The ſweetneſs of Mr. Flood's diſpoſition, and the excellent order that ſubſiſted in his houſe, gained him the good-will and admiration of all thoſe who had the happineſs of knowing him. The young people in thoſe parts were eager to be in his ſervice; and whenever a place was vacant in his family by a ſervant's dying or going away, it was ſought as a deſirable ſituation. Content appeared in the faces of all his people. To ſee them, one would have taken them for dutiful children round their father. His orders were ſo juſt and ſo moderate, that not one of them ever had a thought of diſobeying him. Harmony reigned amongſt them as amongſt brothers. If ever they d [...]ſ⯑puted, it was which had moſt zeal in the ſervice of their maſter, and moſt attachment to his intereſts. Mr. Ful⯑mer, who was formerly an intimate of Captain Flood's, [172]and had like him retired to his eſtate in another county, ſtopped one day at his houſe, in paſſing that way on his road to London. After a variety of diſcourſe, the con⯑verſation fell at laſt upon the diſagreeable circumſtances frequently attending the care of a family. Mr. Fulmer complained of the fatiguing employment of watching over ſervants; that he had never found any but ſuch as were inſolent, idle, or inattentive to their maſter's buſi⯑neſs. As to that, ſaid Mr. Flood, I cannot complain of mine. For theſe ten years I have had to weighty ſubject of diſpleaſure. I am very well ſatisfied with them, and they are the ſame with me. That is a happineſs not very common, ſaid Mr. Fulmer. You muſt have ſome parti⯑cular ſecret for making good ſervants, and for keeping them in that perfection. The ſecret is very ſimple, an⯑ſwered Mr. Flood; and here it is, continued he, pointing to a ſmall deſk. I do not underſtand you, ſaid Mr. Ful⯑mer; but Mr. Flood, without making any reply, opened the deſk. It contained ſix drawers, with theſe titles:— Extraordinary expences.—For myſelf.—For my wife.—For my children.—Servants wages.—Gratuities to them.—As I have always by me, reſumed Mr. Flood, a year's rent of my eſtate beforehand, I make ſix portions of it at the beginning of every year. In the firſt drawer I put a certain ſum, which is inviolably reſerved for unforeſeen occaſions. In the ſecond what I intend for my own expences. The third contains the money neceſſary for the domeſtic charges of the family, and my wife's pin-money. The fourth ſufficient for the proper education of my children. The wages of my ſervants are in the fifth; and in the ſixth are the gratuities that I beſtow them. It is to this laſt drawer that I owe the happineſs of having never had bad ſervants. Their wages are for what their duty requires of them: but the preſents that I diſtribute to them occaſionally, are for the performance of what is not ſtrictly comprized within their duty, for ſervices in which their affection to me out⯑ſtrips my orders and my wiſhes."

ALFRED AND DORINDA.

ON a fine ſummer's day, Mr. Vernon had promiſed to go a walking with his two children, Alfred and Dorinda, in a very fine garden a little way out of town. He went up to his dreſſing-room to prepare himſelf, and the children remained in the parlour. Alfred, delighted with the pleaſures that he promiſed himſelf from his walk, jumping and running careleſsly to and fro in the room, bruſhed the ſkirt of his coat againſt a very valuable flower that his father was rearing with infinite pains, and which he had unfortunately juſt brought in from before the window, in order to preſerve it from the heat of the ſun. O brother! what have you done? ſaid Dorinda, taking up the flower which was broken off from the ſtalk. She was holding it ſtill in her hand, when her father, who had finiſhed dreſſing himſelf, entered the parlour. How, Dorinda, ſaid Mr. Vernon in an angry tone, do you pluck a flower that you have ſeen me take ſo much pains to rear in order to have ſeed from it? Dear papa, anſwered Dorinda, trembling, pray do not be angry! I am not angry, replied Mr. Vernon, growing more calm; but as you may take a fancy to pluck flowers too in the garden that I am going to ſee, and which does not belong to me, you will not take it amiſs that I leave you at home.

Dorinda looked down, and held her tongue. Alfred could not keep ſilence any longer. He approached his father with tears in his eyes, and ſaid, It was not my ſiſter, papa; it was I that plucked off the flower: ſo it is I that muſt ſtay at home. Take my ſiſter along with you.

Mr. Vernon, touched with the ingenuous behaviour of his children, and their affection for each other, kiſſed them, and ſaid, You are both dear to me alike, and you ſhall both come with me.

Alfred and Dorinda leaped for joy. They went there⯑fore to walk in the garden, where they ſaw plants of the moſt curious ſorts. Mr. Vernon with pleaſure obſerved Dorinda preſs her cloaths on each ſide, and Alfred take up the ſkirts of his coat under his arms, for fear of doing any damage as they walked among the flowers. The flower that he had loſt would, without doubt, have given [174]him a good deal of pleaſure; but he enjoyed much more in ſeeing mutual affection, candour and prudence, flouriſh in his children.

THE FROWARD LITTLE GIRL.

OYe children, who have had the misfortune to con⯑tract a vicious habit, it is for your comfort and en⯑couragement that I tell the following ſtory: in which you will ſee that amendment is eaſy, whenever one forms a ſincere and courageous reſolution.

Roſalind, until her ſeventh year, was the joy of her parents. At that age, when the growing light of reaſon begins to ſhew us the uglineſs of our faults, ſhe, on the contrary, had contracted one, which cannot better be deſcribed to you, than by the example of thoſe ſnarling ours that growl inceſſantly, and ſeem always ready to run at your legs and bite them. If any one, by miſtake, touched her play-things, ſhe would give that perſon a ſide⯑look, and grumble between her teeth for a quarter of an hour. If any chid her, though ever ſo gently, ſhe would ſtart up, and ſtamp with her feet, and throw the chairs about the room. Neither her father nor mother, nor any one of the family, could bear with her now. It is true, ſhe ſometimes repented of her faults; nay, ſhe often ſhed tears in private, on ſeeing herſelf become the averſion of every body, even to her parents. But habit ſoon got the better of her, and her temper became more croſs every day. One evening (it was New-Year's Eve) ſhe ſaw her mother go towards her room with a ſmall baſket under her cloak. Roſalind would have followed her, but Mrs. Fau [...]k [...]ner ordered her to go back to the parlour. Upon this ſhe put on the ſulleneſt face that ever ſhe ſhewed, and clapped the door to ſo violently that ſhe made all the windows rattle. Half an hour after, her mother ſent for her. What was her ſurprize, on ſeeing the room lighted up with twenty candles, and the table covered with the moſt elegant toys. She could not utter a word, tr [...]nſ⯑perted as ſhe was with joy and admiration. Come hither, Roſalind, ſaid her mother, and read on this paper for [175]whom theſe things are intended. Roſalind went to the table, and ſaw amongſt the toys a ſlip of paper, on which ſhe read the following words written in large l [...]tters:— For an amiable little girl, in return for her good behaviour.

She looked down, and did not ſay a word. Well, Roſalind, ſaid her mother, for whom is this intended?

Not for me, ſaid Roſalind, with the tears in her eyes.

Here is another paper, ſaid Mrs. Faulkener; ſee if this does not concern you.

Roſalind took it, and read, For a froward little girl, who is ſenſible of her faults, and in beginning a new year will take pains to amend them. Oh! that is I, that is I! ſaid ſhe, throwing herſelf into her mother's arms, and crying bitterly. Mrs. Faulkener alſo dropped tears, partly of ſorrow for her daughter's faults, and partly of joy for the repentance that ſhe ſhewed. Come, ſaid ſhe, after a moment's ſilence, take what is intended for you, and may God, who has heard your reſolution, give you force to execute it!

No, mama, anſwered Roſalind, the whole belongs to the perſon meant in the firſt paper. Keep it for me, until I am like her: you can tell me when I am ſo. This anſwer gave Mrs. Faulkener much pleaſure; ſhe therefore imme⯑diately put all the toys into a drawer, and giving the key to Roſalind, ſaid, There, my dear child, you ſhall open the drawer when you yourſelf ſhall think it the proper time.

Near ſix weeks paſſed without the leaſt inſtance of ill⯑humour from Roſalind. She threw her arms round her mother's neck, and ſobbing, aſked, May I open the drawer, mama? Yes, my dear, you may, anſwered Mrs. Faulkener, claſping her tenderly in her arms. But pray tell me how you have managed to get the better of your temper ſo? I ſtudied it continually, replied Roſa⯑lind; it coſt me ſome trouble, but every morning and evening, and a hundred times in the day, I prayed to God to keep up my courage.

Mrs. Faulkener ſhed the moſt delicious tears; and Ro⯑ſalind became miſtreſs of the toys, and ſoon after, of the affections of all her friends.

Her mother related this happy change in preſence of a little miſs who had the ſame fault; and ſhe was ſo ſtruck with it that ſhe immediately formed the reſolution of imitating Roſalind, in order to become amiable like her. [176]This attempt had the ſame ſucceſs: and thus Roſalind was not only more happy herſelf, but rendered thoſe alſo happy who choſe to profit by her example. What child of ſpirit would not wiſh to enjoy the ſame honour and the ſame happineſs?

THE USEFUL DISAPPOINTMENT.

ONE fine morning, in the month of June, Ambroſe prepared to ſet out with his father on a party of pleaſure, which for a fortnight before had taken up all his thoughts. He had riſen, contrary to his cuſtom, very early, in order to haſten the preparations for his jaunt. However, juſt as he thought that he had reached the object of his wiſhes, the ſky darkened all at once, the clouds grew thick, and a violent wind bent down the trees and raiſed up a tempeſt of duſt. Ambroſe went down every moment into the garden, to obſerve how the ſky looked: he then ſkipped up the ſtairs three at a time, to examine the baro⯑meter; but the ſky and the barometer were both againſt him. For all this, he did not ſcruple to give his father good hopes, and to aſſure him that theſe unfavourable appearances would diſperſe in a moment; that preſently it would be the fineſt weather in the world; and he con⯑c [...]uded, that they ought to ſet out directly, to have the benefit of it.

Mr. Powell, who did not repoſe a blind confidence in his ſon's prognoſtics, thought it more prudent to wait a little. Juſt then the clouds burſt, and diſcharged a heavy ſhower of rain. Ambroſe, who was doubly diſappointed, began to cry, and obſtinately refuſed to be comforted. The rain continued until three o'clock in the afternoon. At length the clouds diſperſed, the ſun reſumed his luſtre, the ſky its clearneſs, and all nature breathed the freſhneſs of the Spring. Ambroſe recovered his good humour by degrees, in proportion as the ſky brightened. His father took him out a little way, and the calmneſs of the air, the ſinging of the birds, the freſh green of the fields, and the ſweet perfume that breathed all round him, reſtored peace and ſatisfaction completely to his heart. Do not [177]you remark, ſaid his father to him, the agreeable change juſt now produced all round you? Recollect how dull every thing yeſterday appeared to us; the ground parched up by a long drought, the flowers without colour and hanging their languid heads, and in ſhort, all vegetation ſeeming to be at a ſtand. What muſt we ſuppoſe to have ſo ſuddenly made nature appear young again? The rain that has fallen to-day, ſaid Ambroſe.

The injuſtice of his complaints, and the folly of his be⯑haviour, ſtruck him ſenſibly as he pronounced theſe words. He bluſhed, and his father judged that his own thoughts would be ſufficient to teach him another time to ſacrifice, without reluctance, a ſelfiſh pleaſure to the general advan⯑tage of mankind.