Caleb then went to Raymond, and told him that he could not make his fire burn.

"O you must not come to me, youngster; you promised not to trouble me with it," said Raymond, as he hooked the chain around the butt-end of another tree.

"But I thought I could make it burn."

"Well, what's the matter with it? But stand back, for I am going to start this tree along."

"Why the bark all curls up and burns my hand," said Caleb, retreating at the same time out of the way of the top of Raymond's tree.

The oxen started along, dragging the tree, and Caleb followed, trying to get an opportunity to speak once more to Raymond. Raymond, however, went calling aloud to his oxen, and directing them here and there with his "Gee, Star," and his "Ha, Lion," and his "Wo up, Whoa".

At length, however, he had the tree in its place, and seeing Caleb standing at a little distance patiently, he asked him again,

"What do you say is the matter with your fire, Caleb?"

"Why, the birch bark curls up and burns me: I wish you would come and set it a-fire."

"No," said Raymond, walking along by the side of his oxen; "I must not leave my work to help you play; but I will tell you three ways to carry the fire, and you can manage it in one or the other of them."

So saying, he took out his knife, and cut down a small, slender maple, which was growing near him, and trimmed off the top and the few little branches which were growing near the top. It made a slender pole about five feet long, with smooth but freckled bark, from end to end. He then made a little split in one end.

"There, Caleb," said he, "take that, and stick a piece of birch bark in the split end; then you can carry it, and let it curl as much as it pleases. Or, if that fails, put a large piece of birch bark directly upon the fire. Then, as soon as it begins to burn, it will begin to curl, and then you must put the end of the stick down to it, in such a manner that the bark will curl over and grasp it, and then you can take it up and carry the roll upon the end of your pole."

"Very well," said Caleb, "there are two ways."

"There are two ways," repeated Raymond.

"Now, if both these fail, you must put on a good many fresh sticks upon the fire, with one end of each of them out. Then, as soon as the ends which are in the fire have got burnt through, take up two of them by the ends that were out of the fire and lay them down at the foot of the hollow tree, close to the wood you have got together there. Then come back and get two more brands, and lay them down in the same way, and be careful to have the burnt ends all together. So you must keep going back and forth, until you find that the brands are beginning to burn up freely in the new place."

Caleb took the maple pole and went back to his fire. He tore the salt-cellar in two, and this made two very good small strips of bark. He pulled open the split end of his pole, and carefully inserted one of them, and then, holding it over a little flame which was rising from a burning brand, he set it on fire. The bark was soon in a blaze, and it writhed and curled as if it were struggling to get away; but it only clung to the end of the pole more closely; and Caleb, much pleased at the success of his experiment, waved it in the air, and shouted to Raymond to look and see.

He then walked slowly along, stopping every moment to wave his great flambeau, and shout; and so, when at last he reached the hollow tree, the bark was nearly burnt out, and the fragments were beginning to fall off from the end of the pole. He then thrust it hastily under the heap of fuel, which had been collected in the tree; but it was too late. It flickered and smoked a minute or two, and finally went out altogether.

"I don't care," said Caleb to himself, "for I have got the other half of the salt-cellar;" and he went back for that. It happened unluckily, however, this time, that, in pulling open the cleft which Raymond had made in his maple pole, he pulled too hard, and split one side off. Here was at once an end to all attempts to communicate fire to his chimney by this method. So, after refitting the split part of his stick to its place, once or twice, and finding that the idea of uniting it again was entirely out of the question, he threw the broken piece away, and said to himself that he must try Raymond's second plan.

He accordingly took the other large piece of bark, which was the one which Raymond had used for his plate, and laid it upon the fire. As soon as it began to curl, he laid the end of the stick close to it, on the side towards which it seemed to be bending,—and in such a way that it curled over upon it, and soon clasped it tight, as Raymond had predicted that it would do. He then raised it in the air, and set out to run with it, so that it should not burn out before he reached the place. But he ought not to have run. It would have been far safer and better to have walked along carefully and slowly; for as he ran on, jumping over logs and stones, and scrambling up and down the hummocks, the top of the pole, with the blazing roll of bark, was jerked violently about in the air, until, at length, as he was wheeling around a tree, he accidentally held the top of the pole so far that it wheeled round through the air very swiftly, and threw the birch bark off by the centrifugal force: and away it went, rolling along upon the ground.

The centrifugal force is that which makes any thing fly off when it is whirled round and round.

Caleb did not understand this very well, but he was surprised to see his roll flying off in that manner. He immediately took two sticks, and tried to take up the roll with them, as one would with a pair of tongs; but he could not hold it with them.

"Well, then," said he, "I must try the third way."

So he began to gather sticks, and put the ends of them upon the fire. When they began to burn, he took up one; but as soon as he got it off the fire, it began to go out, and he said that he knew that way to kindle a fire never would do. In fact, he began to get out of patience. He threw down the stick, and went off again after Raymond.

"Raymond," said he, "I cannot make my fire burn; and I wish you would come and kindle it for me."

"Have you tried the ways I told you about?"

"Yes," said Caleb.

"Have you tried all of them faithfully?"

"All but the last," said Caleb, "and I know that won't do."

"You must try them all, faithfully, or else I can't come." So saying, Raymond went on with his work.

Caleb went back a good deal out of humour with himself, and saying that he wished Raymond was not so cross. He took up two of the sticks, which were now pretty well on fire, and carried them along, swinging them by the way, to make fiery rings and serpents in the air. When he reached the chimney, he threw them down carelessly, and stood watching them, to see if they were going to burn. Instead, however, of setting the other wood on fire, they only grew dimmer and dimmer themselves; and he said to himself, "I knew they would not burn." Then he sat down upon a log, in a sad state of fretfulness and dissatisfaction.

However, after waiting a few minutes, longer, he went back to the fire, determined to bring all the brands there were, and put them down, though he knew, he said, that they would not burn. He was going to do it, so that then he could go and tell Raymond that he had tried all his plans, and that now he must come, and light the fire himself.

So he walked along, back and forth bringing the brands, and laying them down together near the foot of the heap of fuel in the tree. But before he had brought them all, he found that they began to brighten up a little, and at length they broke out into a little flame. He stood and watched it a few minutes. It blazed up higher and higher. He then put on some more wood which was near. The flame crept up between these sticks, and soon began to snap and crackle among the brush in the tree. Caleb stepped back, and watched the flame a moment as it flashed up higher and higher, and then clapped his hands, jumped up on a log, and shouted out,

"Raymond, it's a-burning, its a-burning."



CHAPTER X.

THE CAPTIVE.

When Raymond heard Caleb's voice calling to him so loudly, he paused a moment from his work, and seeing that the fire had actually taken, in earnest, he told Caleb that he must go back a little way, for by-and-bye the tree would fall. So Caleb went back to some distance, and asked Raymond if that was far enough. Raymond said it was, and Raymond then sat down upon a log, with his maple pole in his hand, to watch the progress of the fire.

A dense smoke soon began to pour out of the top of the chimney. The fire roared up through the hollow, and it caught outside too, under the bark, and soon enveloped the whole tree in smoke, sparks, and flame. Large pieces of the blazing bark detached themselves, from time to time, from the side of the tree, and came down, crackling and sparkling to the ground; and the opening below where Caleb had crammed in his fuel, soon glowed like the mouth of a furnace.

Near the top of the tree was an old branch, or rather the stump of an old branch, decayed and blackened, reaching out a little way, like an arm. This was soon enveloped in smoke; and, as Caleb was watching it, as it appeared and disappeared in the wreaths, he thought he saw something move. He looked again, intently. It was a squirrel,—half suffocated in the smoke, and struggling to hold on. Caleb immediately called out to Raymond as loud as he could call,

"Raymond, Raymond, come here, quick: here is a poor squirrel burning up."

Raymond dropped his axe, and ran,—bounding over the logs, and hummocks; but before he reached the place, the squirrel, unable to hold on any longer, and half stifled with the smoke and scorching heat, dropped from his hold to the ground. Raymond came up at the moment, and seized him; he brought him to where Caleb was sitting,—Caleb himself eagerly coming forward to see.

"Is it dead?" said Caleb.

"Pretty much," said Raymond. The squirrel lay gasping helplessly in Raymond's hands. "Here, put him in my cap," said Caleb; "that will make a good bed for him, and perhaps he will come to life again."

Raymond examined him pretty carefully, and he did not seem to be burnt. He said he thought he must have been suffocated by breathing the smoke and hot air. Raymond then went back to his work, and Caleb sat upon the log, watching alternately the squirrel and the burning tree.

In a few minutes a great flame flashed out at the top of the tree: and finally, after about half an hour, the whole trunk, being all in a blaze, from top to bottom, began slowly to bend and bend over.

"Raymond," shouted Caleb,—"Raymond, look;—it is going to fall!"

The tall trunk moved at first slowly, but soon more and more rapidly, and finally came down to the ground with a crash.

The crash startled the little squirrel, so that he almost regained his feet; and Caleb was afraid that he was going to run away. But he laid over again upon his side, and was soon quiet again as before.

Not long after this, Raymond finished his work, and prepared to go home. He proposed to Caleb that they should leave the squirrel there, upon the log; but Caleb was very desirous to carry him home, because, he said, he could tame him, and give him to Mary Anna. So Raymond asked how they should contrive to carry him. Caleb wanted to carry him home in his cap; but Raymond said that he would take cold by riding home bare-headed. "However," said Raymond, "Perhaps I can contrive something." So he went after another piece of birch bark from the tree, about six inches wide, and two feet long, and rolled it over, bringing the two ends together, so as to make a sort of round box,—only it was without top or bottom. To keep it in shape he tied a string round it.

"But how are you going to keep him in?" asked Caleb.

Raymond said nothing, but he took a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and spread it out upon the ground, and put his birch bark box upon it. He then laid the squirrel gently in upon the handkerchief, which thus served for a bottom. Next he drew the corners of the handkerchief up over the top, and tied the opposite pairs of ends together. Thus the handkerchief served for top, bottom, and handle.

They soon reached the place where they had left the cart; they got into it and rode on. Caleb held the squirrel in his lap, and of course, as there was nothing but the thin handkerchief for a bottom to the box, Caleb felt the weight of the squirrel, pressing soft and warm upon his knees. The squirrel lay very still until they got very near home, and then Caleb began to feel a creeping sensation, as if he was beginning to move. Caleb was highly delighted to perceive these signs of returning life; he held his knees perfectly still, that he might not disturb him, crying out, however, to Raymond,

"He's moving, Raymond; he's moving, he's moving."



CHAPTER XI.

MARY ANNA.

Caleb and Raymond reached home about the middle of the afternoon: and while Raymond went into the yard to leave the cart and turn out the cattle, Caleb pressed eagerly into the house, to shew his prize. Mary Anna, or Marianne, as they generally called her, came to meet him to see what he had got in his hand.

"Is that my birch bark?" said she.

"There! I forgot your birch bark," said Caleb.—"But I have got something here a great deal better." And so saying he put his handkerchief down, and began very eagerly to untie the knots.

When he had got two of the ends untied, and was at work upon the other two, out leaped the squirrel, and ran across the room. Mary Anna, startled by the sudden appearance of the animal, ran off to the door, and Caleb called out in great distress, "O dear! O dear! What shall I do? He'll get away. Shut the door, Mary Anna,—shut the door, quick! call Raymond; call Raymond."

Mary Anna, at first, retreated outside of the door, and stood there a moment, peeping in. Finding, however, that the squirrel remained very quiet in a corner of the room, she returned softly, and went round, and shut all the doors and windows, and then Caleb went and called Raymond.

The squirrel had by no means yet got over his accident, and he allowed himself to be easily retaken and secured. Raymond contrived to fasten him into a box, so as to keep him safe, until next morning; and by that time they thought, if he should then seem likely to get well, they could determine what it was best to do with him.

While Caleb was coming home, there had been a strange mixture of delight and uneasiness in his feelings. The delight was occasioned by the possession of the squirrel. That was obvious enough. The uneasiness he did not think about very distinctly, and did not notice what the cause of it was. Boys very often feel a sort of uneasiness of mind,—they do not know exactly how or why,—and they have this feeling mingling sometimes strangely with their very enjoyment, in their hours of gaiety and glee. Now the real reason of this unquiet state of mind, in Caleb's case, was that his conscience had been disturbed by his feelings of vexation and impatience, towards Raymond, for not leaving his work, to come and kindle his fire. He had not yielded to these feelings. He had restrained them, and had stood still, and spoken respectfully to Raymond, all the time. In fact, he was hardly aware that he had done any thing wrong, at all. But still, for a moment, selfish passions had had possession of his heart, and whenever they get possession, even if they are kept in subjection, so as not to lead to any bad actions or words, and even if they are soon driven away by new thoughts, as Caleb's were, by the sight of his blazing fire,—still, they always leave more or less of misery behind.

So Caleb, as he was going home, had his heart filled with delight at the thoughts of the squirrel resting warmly in his lap; and he was also a prey, in some degree, to a gnawing uneasiness, which he could not understand, but which was really caused by a sting which sin had left there.

And yet Caleb came home with an idea that he had been a very good boy. So, after they had got tired of looking at the squirrel, and Mary Anna had taken her seat at her work by the window, with her little work-table before her, Caleb came up to her, and kneeling upon her cricket, and putting his arms in her lap, he said,

"Well, Aunt Marianne, I have been a good boy all day to-day, and so I want you to make me a picture-book, this evening."

Marianne had a way of making picture-books that pleased children very much. The way was this: she used to save all the old, worn-out picture books, and loose pictures, she could find, and put them carefully in one of her drawers, up stairs. Then she would make a small blank book, of white paper, and sew it through the back. Then she would cut out pictures enough from her old stores to fill the book, leaving the colours blank, because they were to be covered with some pretty-coloured paper, for a title. Then she would paste the pictures in. And here, when Mary Anna first began to make such books, an unexpected difficulty arose. For, when paper is wet, it swells; and then, when it dries again, though it shrinks a little, and does not shrink back quite into its original dimensions,—that is, quite to the length and breadth that it had at first. Now, when Mary Anna pasted her pictures in the pages of the book, that part of the leaf which was under the picture was wet by the paste, and so it swelled, while the other part remained dry. And when the picture came to dry, it did not shrink quite back again. It remained swelled a little; and this caused the page to look warped or puckered, so that the leaves did not lie smooth together.

At length she found out a way to remedy this difficulty entirely; and this was, to wet the whole of the leaf, as well as that part that the picture was pasted to, and that made it all swell alike. The way she managed the operation was this:

After sewing the book, she would cut out a piece of morocco paper, or blue paper, or gilt paper, and sometimes a piece of morocco itself, just the size of the book when open, for the cover. Then, after spreading out a large newspaper upon the table, so as to keep the table clean, she would lay down the cover with the handsome side down, and then spread the paste over the other side, very carefully, with a brush which she made from the end of a quill. Then she would put the back edge of the book down upon this cover, and lay it over, first on one side, and then on the other, and pat it down well with a towel; and that would make the cover stick to the outside leaves of the book, and cover up and hide the great stitches in the back, by which the leaves had been sewed together. Then she would take the book before her, and begin at the beginning. First, she would lay down the cover and put upon it a piece of tin, made to fill papers with, to keep it down smooth. Then she would lay the next leaf down upon the tin. The leaf was to have the title-page upon it, and so there were to be no pictures pasted to it. She would, therefore, lay this down upon the tin, and then, with one of her large paint brushes, dipped in the water, she would wet it all over, patting it afterwards with a towel, to take up all the superfluous water. Then she would take up the tin, and put the title-leaf down upon the cover, and put the tin over it to keep it down smooth. The next leaf would be for pictures, and, after pasting pictures upon it, on both sides, she would lay it down upon the tin, and with her brush she would wet all those parts which had not been pasted. Then patting it with a dry towel, or soft cloth, to dry it as much as possible, she would put it under the tin. In this way she would go on regularly, through the book, pasting pictures upon all the pages, and wetting with her brush all those parts of the paper which had not been wet by the paste, and putting the tin over the leaves as fast as she finished them, to keep them all smooth. Then, when she had got through, she would put the whole away between two boards, to dry; the weight of the paper board being sufficient to keep the leaves all smooth. The next morning when she came to look at her book, she generally found it nearly dry; and then she would put some heavy weight upon the upper board, to press it harder. When it was perfectly dry, she took out the book, and pared off the edges, all around, with a sharp knife and a rule. Then she would get her paint-box, and colour all the pictures beautifully, and make borders about them, in bright colours, and print a handsome title-page with her pen, and write the name of the boy in it whom she meant to give it to.

So Caleb, when he came and told Mary Anna, what a good boy he had been, meant to have her make such a book as this.

"But sometimes boys are mistaken in thinking they have been good boys. I should want to ask Raymond."

"He would say so, I know," said Caleb; "for I certainly did not trouble him at all, all the day."

"Suppose you run and ask him."

"Well," said Caleb; and away he ran.

"But stop," said Mary Anna; "you must not ask him by a leading question."

"What is that?" said Caleb.

"Don't you know?" said Mary Anna.

"No," said Caleb.

"O, that is very important for boys to know; for they very often ask leading questions, when they ought not to. Now, if you go and say, 'Raymond, haven't I been a good boy to-day?' that way of asking the question shews that you want him to say, 'Yes, you have.' It is called a leading question, because it leads Raymond to answer in a particular way. Now, if I should go and ask him thus, 'Has Caleb been a good boy to-day?' with the emphasis on has, it would be a leading question the other way. It would sound as if I wanted him to say you had not been a good boy."

"How must I ask him, then?" said Caleb.

"Why you can say, 'Raymond, Aunt Marianne wants to know what sort of a boy I have been to-day,' that way of putting the question would not lead him one way or the other."

"Why, he might know," said Caleb, "that I should want him to say I have been good."

"Yes, but not from the form of the question. The question would not lead him."

While Mary Anna was saying this, Caleb was standing with his hand upon the latch of the door, ready to go; and when she had finished what she was saying, he started off to find Raymond.

As he passed across the yard, he heard the sound of voices before the house. It was Dwight and David coming home from school. In a minute they appeared in view, by the great elm. Dwight had a long slender pole in his hands, which he was waving in the air, and David had a small piece of wood, and a knife. He sat down under the elm, and began to shave the wood with the knife.

Caleb ran to tell them about his squirrel; but before he got there, Dwight, seeing him, began to wave his pole in the air, and shout, and then said, "See what a noble flag-staff we have got."

"Is that your flag-staff?" said Caleb.

"Yes. John Davis gave it to us. He got it out of his father's shop. We are going to set it up out at the end of our mole."

"Yes," said David, "and I am going to make a truck on the top, to haul up the flag by. Marianne is going to make us a flag."

"A truck?" said Caleb, enquiringly.

"Yes," said David, "a little wheel to put a string over to hoist it by."

Caleb looked upon the pole, and upon David's work, for a minute in silence, and then said,

"I have got something better than a flag-staff."

"What?" asked Dwight.

"A squirrel."

"A squirrel!" said David in surprise.

"Yes," said Caleb, "a grey squirrel."

"Where is he?" said David, looking up eagerly, from his work.

"In the back-room," said Caleb. "Raymond put him in a box.—Come, and I will shew him to you."

Down went Dwight's pole, in a moment; David, too, shut his knife, and put it in his pocket, and off they went to see the squirrel.

The little nut-cracker was frightened at seeing so many eyes peeping in upon him from every crevice and opening in his box. He looked much brighter and better than he did when he was put into the box, and Caleb thought he would get entirely well.

"O, I wish I had him," said Dwight.

"I am going to keep him in a cage," said Caleb.

"I wish he was mine," said Dwight. "Why can't you give him to me, Caleb?"

"O, no," said Caleb, "I want to keep him."

"You don't know how to take care of him," said Dwight. "Come, you give him to me, and I will give you my flag-staff."

"No," said Caleb, "I don't want any flag-staff. I want to keep the squirrel."

"See, see," said David, "he is creeping along."

"O," said Dwight, "I wish he was mine."

"There, he is curling up in the corner."

"Would you give him to me for my top?" said Dwight, very eagerly.

"He's going to eat that kernel of corn," said David.

"I should think you might give him to me," said Dwight, pettishly, "for that top; the top is worth a great deal the most."

After a few minutes, Dwight finding that there was no prospect of inducing Caleb to sell him the squirrel, desisted from his attempts; and then, after a moment's pause, he said,

"I don't think it is your squirrel, after all, Caleb."

"Whose is it then?"

"Raymond's. He saved it. The poor thing would have been burnt up, if he had not run and caught it up."

"No, he wouldn't," said Caleb, "I was just going to get him myself."

Dwight, having decided in his own mind that the squirrel was Raymond's, ran off to find Raymond, with the design of asking him to give the squirrel to him. But Raymond said the squirrel was Caleb's.

"But you caught him," said Dwight.

"Yes, but I caught him for Caleb, not for myself."

"And you fixed the box to bring him home in," said Dwight.

"I know it, but I only did it to please Caleb. The squirrel is his altogether."

So Dwight had to return disappointed.

When Caleb came in, Mary Anna was putting up her work, and arranging her things neatly in her drawer.

"Well, Caleb," said she, "and what did Raymond say?"

"O, he said it was mine," replied Caleb.

"What was yours?" said Mary Anna.

"The squirrel."

"The squirrel!" repeated Mary Anna; "you went to ask him what sort of a boy you had been."

"O!" said Caleb—"there!—I forgot all about that. I'll run and ask him now."

"No,—stop," said Mary Anna; "it is time for supper now; and besides, I will take your word for it; you are a pretty honest boy. You say you was a pleasant boy all day."

"Yes," said Caleb, "I was." He had forgotten his feelings of ill-humour, when Raymond would not come and light his fire.

"And you think I ought to make you a picture book for a reward."

"Yes," said Caleb, "I wish you would."

"But I cannot tell how pleasant in mind you have been all day, unless I know what you have had to try you."

"To try me?" asked Caleb.

"Yes, I want to know what troubles, or difficulties, or disappointments you had to bear, and did bear patiently and pleasantly."

Caleb looked a little perplexed.

"You know, Caleb," she continued, "there is no merit in being pleasant unless things go wrong."

"Isn't there?" said Caleb.

"Why, no," said Mary Anna, as she shut up her work-table drawer, "is there?"

"Why no," said Caleb, smiling; for he could not help smiling, while yet he was a little disappointed at finding all his fancied goodness melted away.

"Now, did you have a good time in the woods to-day?"

"Yes," said Caleb.

"Did Raymond take good care of you?"

"Yes," said he.

"And did you have a good dinner?"

"Yes; and a noble great fire," said Caleb.

"You little rogue, then!" said Mary Anna, laughing, and stabbing at his sides with her finger; "here you have been having a beautiful time in the woods, amusing yourself all day, and had every thing to please you; and now you come to me to pay you for not having been impatient and fretful! You little rogue!"

Caleb turned, and ran laughing away, Mary Anna after him, and pointing at him with her finger. Caleb made his escape into the front entry, and hid behind the door. Mary Anna pretended to have lost sight of him, and not to know where he was; and she went about, saying,

"Where is that little rogue? He came to get away one of my picture-books for nothing. He wanted to be paid for bearing happiness patiently. The rogue! I'll pinch him if I can only find him."

So saying, Mary Anna went and sat down to supper, and soon after Caleb came and took his seat too; Mary Anna roguishly shaking her finger at him all the time. He had to hold his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing aloud.

Perhaps some of the readers of this book may smile at Caleb's idea of his merit in having been a pleasant boy all day, when he felt vexed and unsubmissive in the only case which brought him any trial; but it is so with almost all children, and some grown persons too. A great deal of the goodness upon which we all pride ourselves, is only the quiescence of bad propensities in the absence of temptation and trial.



CHAPTER XII.

THE WALK.

Outside of the window in Madam Rachel's bedroom, where the children used to sit and talk with her just before going to bed, there was a little platform, with a plain roof over it, supported by small square posts, altogether forming a sort of portico. Below this window there were two doors, opening from the middle out each way, so that when the window was raised, and the doors were opened, a person could walk in and out. There were seats in the portico, and there was a wild grape-vine growing upon a plain trellis, on each side. In front of the portico was one of the broad walks of the garden, for on this side the garden extended up to the house. At least there was no fence between, though there was a small plot of green grass next to the house; and next to that came the trees and flowers.

One pleasant evening Dwight and Caleb were playing on this grass, waiting for Madam Rachel to come and call them in to the sofa. It was about eight o'clock, but it was not dark. The western sky still looked bright; for though the sun had gone down, so that it could no longer shine upon the trees and houses, it still shone upon the clouds and atmosphere above, and made them look bright.

Presently Madam Rachel came, and stood at the window.

"Where's David?" said she.

"Out in the garden," said Dwight, "and mother," he continued, "I wish you would walk in the garden to-night."

At first, Madam Rachel said she thought she could not very well that evening, for she had a difficult text to talk about; but the boys promised to walk along quietly, and to be very sober and attentive; and so she went and put on her garden bonnet, and came out.

The garden was not large, it extended back to some high rocky precipices, where the boys used sometimes to climb up for play.

"I am afraid," said Madam Rachel, as she sauntered along the walk, the children around her, "that you will not like the verse that I am going to talk with you about this evening, very well, when you first hear it."

"What is it mother?" said Dwight.

"'And you hath he quickened, who were dead in trespasses and sins.'"

"What does quickened mean?" asked David.

"Made alive, or brought to life. Quick means alive, sometimes; as for instance, the quick and the dead, means the living and the dead. And so we say, 'cut to the quick,' that is, cut to the living flesh, where it can feel."

"Once I read in a fable," said David, "of a horse being stung to the quick."

"What, by a hornet?" said Dwight.

"No," said David, "by something the ass said."

"O, yes," said Madam Rachel, "that means it hurt his feelings. If a bee should sting any body so that the sting should only go into the skin, it would not hurt much; but if it should go in deep, so as to give great pain, we should say it stung to the quick, that is, to the part which has life and feeling. So I suppose that something that the ass said, hurt the horse's feelings."

"What was it, David, that the ass said?" asked Dwight.

"Why—he said, I believe that the horse was proud, or something like that."

"No matter about that fable now," said their mother; "you understand the meaning of the verse. It was written to good men; it says that God gave them life and feeling, when they were dead in trespasses and sins. But I must first tell you what dead means."

"O, we know what 'dead' means, well enough," said Dwight.

"Perhaps not exactly what it means here," said Madam Rachel.

"Dead means here insensible."

"But I don't know what insensible means," said Caleb.

"I will explain it to you," said she. "Once there were two boys who quarreled in the recess at school; and the teacher decided that for their punishment they should be publicly reproved before all the scholars. So, after school, they were required to stand up in their places, and listen to the reprimand. While they were standing, and the teacher was telling them that they had done very wrong,—had indulged bad passions, and displeased God, and destroyed their own happiness, and brought disgrace upon the school,—one of them stood up with a bold and careless air, while the teacher was speaking, and afterwards when he took his seat, looked round to the other scholars, and laughed. The other boy hung his head, and looked very much ashamed; and as the teacher had finished what he was saying, he sunk into his seat, put his head down upon his desk before him, and burst into tears. Now, the first one was insensible, or as it is called in this text, dead to all sense of shame. The other was alive to it. You understand now?"

"Yes, mother," said the boys.

The party walked on for a short time in silence, admiring the splendid and beautiful scenery which was presented to view, in the setting sun, and the calm tranquility which reigned around.

Suddenly Caleb, seeing a beautiful lily growing in a border, as they were walking by, stopped to gather it. Madam Rachel was afraid that he was not attending to what she was saying.

"Now, Caleb," said she, "that's a very pretty lily; but suppose you should go and hold it before Seizem. Do you suppose he would care any thing about it?"

Seizem was a great dog that belonged to Madam Rachel.

"No, grandmother," said Caleb, "I don't think he would."

"And suppose you were to go and pat him on his head, and tell him he was a good dog, would he care any thing about that?"

"Yes," said Dwight; "he would jump, and wag his tail, and almost laugh."

"Then you see, boys, that Seizem is 'quick' and alive to praise; but to beauty of colour, and form he is insensible, and as it were, dead. The beauty makes no impression upon him at all, he is stupid and lifeless, so far as that is concerned.

"Now, what is meant by men being dead in trespasses and sins is, that they are thus insensible to God's goodness, and their duty to love and obey him. Suppose, now, I was to go out into the street, and find some boys talking harshly and roughly to one another, as boys often do in their plays; and suppose they were boys that I knew, so that it was proper for me to give them advice; now, if I were to go and tell them that it was the law of God that they should be kind to one another, and that they ought to be so, and thus obey and please him, what effect do you think it would have?"

"They would not mind it very much," said David.

"I expect that they would though," said Dwight.

"I don't think that they would mind it much myself. Each one wants to have his own way, and to seek his own pleasures, and they do not see the excellence of obeying and pleasing God at all. It seems to me a very excellent thing for boys to try to please God, but I know very well that most boys care no more about it than Seizem would for your lily, Caleb. In respect to God they are insensible and dead; dead in trespasses and sins, and the only hope for them is, that God will quicken them; that is, give them life and feeling; and then, if I say just the same things to them, they will listen seriously and attentively, and will really desire to please God. As it is now with almost all boys, they are so insensible and dead to all sense of regard to God, that when we want to influence them to do their duty, we must appeal to some other motive; something that they have more sensibility to.

"For example, you remember the other day when you went a strawberrying with Mary Anna."

"Yes," said Dwight.

"Now, I recollect that I thought there was great danger that you might be troublesome to Mary Anna, or to some others of the party; and I wanted to say something to you before you went, to make you a good boy. The highest and best motive would have been for me to say, 'Now, Dwight, remember and do what is right to-day. The trees and fields, and pleasant sunshine; the flowers and the strawberries, your own health and strength, and joyous feelings, all come from God; the whole scene that you are going to enjoy to-day, he has contrived for you, and now he will watch over you all the time, and be pleased if he sees you careful and conscientious in doing right all day. Now, be a good boy, for the sake of pleasing him.' Suppose I had said that to you, do you think it would have made you a good boy?"

Dwight held down his head, and said, hesitatingly, that he did not think it would.

"That motive would have been piety. If a boy takes pains to do what is right, and avoid what is wrong, because he is grateful to God, and wishes to please him, it is piety. But I was afraid that would not have much influence with you, and so I tried to think of some other motive. I thought of filial affection next."

"What is that?" said Caleb.

"Filial affection is a boy's love for his father or mother," replied Madam Rachel. "I said to myself, How will it do to appeal to Dwight's filial affection, to-day? I can say to him, 'Now, Dwight, be a good boy to-day, to please me. I shall be very happy to-night if Mary Anna comes home and says that you have been kind, and gentle and yielding all day.' But then, on reflection, I thought that that motive would not be powerful enough. I knew you had at least some desire to please me, but I had some doubt whether it would be enough to carry you through all the temptations of the whole day. Do you recollect what I did say to you, Dwight?"

"Yes, mother," replied Dwight, "you told me just before I went away, that if I was a good, pleasant boy, Mary Anna would want to take me again some day."

"Yes, and what principle in your heart was that appealing to?"

Dwight did not answer. David said, "Selfishness."

"Yes," said his mother; "or rather not selfishness, but self-love. Selfishness means not only a desire for our own happiness, but injustice towards others. It would have been wrong for me to have appealed to Dwight's selfishness, as that would have been encouraging a bad passion; but it was right for me to appeal to his self-love, that is, to shew him how his own future enjoyment would depend upon his being a good boy that day.

"Now, Dwight, do you think that what I said had any influence over you that day?"

"Yes, mother," said Dwight, "I think it did. I thought of it a good many times."

"Would it have had as much influence if I had asked you to be a good boy only to please me?"

Dwight acknowledged that he did not think it would.

"Do you think it would have had as much influence if I had asked you to do right to please God?"

"No, mother," said Dwight.

"Do you think that would have had any influence at all?"

Dwight seemed at a loss, and said he didn't know.

"Do you think it would?" said Caleb.

"Why, yes," said Madam Rachel, though she spoke in rather a doubtful tone. "I rather think it would have had some influence—not much, but some. He would not have thought of it very often, but still, I rather think, at least I hope, that Dwight has some desire to please God, and that it now and then influences him a little. But in boys generally, I don't think that such a motive would have any influence at all."

"Not any at all?" said David.

"Why, you can judge for yourself. Do you suppose that the boys at school, and those that you meet in the street, are influenced in their conduct every day, by any desire to please God?"

"Why, nobody tells them," said Dwight.

"O, yes, they have been told over and over again, at church, and in the Sabbath school, till they are tired of hearing it."

The boys were silent, and the whole party walked along very slowly, for several steps; and then David said that he thought that though the boys were pretty bad, he did not think they were quite so bad as they would be, if they did not hear any thing about God. He said it seemed to him that it had some influence upon them.

"O, yes," said Madam Rachel, "I have no doubt that what is said to them about their duty to God has a very important influence over them in various ways. Religious instruction produces a great many good effects upon the conduct of boys and men, even where it does not awaken any genuine love for God, and honest desire to please him. That is a peculiar feeling. I will tell you."

So saying, Madam Rachel paused, and seemed a moment to be lost in thought. The whole party had by this time gone almost the whole round of the walk, and were now slowly sauntering towards the house and as Madam Rachel said those last words, they were just passing along by the side of the rocky declivity at the back of the garden. Madam Rachel looked upon the rocks, and saw a beautiful little blue-bell growing there in a crevice, and hanging over at the top.

"What a beautiful blue-bell there is!" said she.

"Where?" said the boys, looking around.

"There," said she, "just by the side of the little fir-tree. How Mary Anna would admire it."

"I'll climb up and get it for her," said Dwight. "I'll have it in a minute."

He dropped his mother's hand, and began scrambling up the rocks. They were jagged and irregular fragments, with bushes and trees among them, and Dwight, who was a very expert climber, soon had the blue-bell in his hand, and was coming down delighted with his prize. He brought the leaves of the plant with it, and it was in fact an elegant little flower.

"Now, Dwight," said Madam Rachel, as they walked along again, Dwight holding his flower very carefully in his hand, "notice this feeling you have towards Mary Anna, which led you to get the flower. It was not fear of her,—it was not hope of getting any reward from her, I suppose."

"No, indeed, mother," said Dwight.

"It was simply a desire to give her pleasure. When you go in, you will take a pleasure yourself in going to her, and gratifying her with the present. Now, do you suppose that the boys generally have any such feeling as that towards God?"

"No, mother," said David, "I don't think they have."

"Nor do I. They are dead to all such feelings. They take no pleasure in pleasing God. They don't like to think of him, and I don't see that they shew any signs of having any love for him at all."

They walked along, after this, silently. Dwight saw how destitute of love to God his heart had been, and still was; and yet he could not help thinking that he did sometimes feel a little grateful to God for all his kindness and care; and at least some faint desires to please him.

It was nearly dark when they arrived at the house; and Dwight asked his mother to let him run and give Mary Anna her blue-bell. She was very much pleased with it indeed. She arranged it and the leaves that Dwight had brought with it, so as to give the whole group a graceful form, and put it in water, saying she meant to rise early the next morning to paint it. Dwight determined that he would get up too and see her do it.



CHAPTER XIII.

THE JUNK.

A few days after this, when David and Dwight were at work one evening upon their mole, and Caleb was playing near, sometimes helping a little and sometimes looking on, Mary Anna came down to see them. They had nearly finished the stone-work and were trying to contrive some way to fasten up their flag-staff at the end.

"We can't drive the flag-staff down into our mole," said Dwight, looking up with an anxious and perplexed expression to Mary Anna, "for it is all stony."

"Couldn't you drive it down into the bottom of the brook, and then build your mole up all around it?" said Mary Anna.

"No," said Dwight, "the bottom of the brook is stony too."

"It looks sandy," said Mary Anna, looking down through the water to the bottom of the brook.

"No, it is very hard and stony under the sand, and we cannot drive any thing down at all."

"Well," said Mary Anna, "go on with your work, and I will sit down upon the bank and consider what you can do."

After some time, Mary Anna proposed that the boys should go up to the wood-pile and get a short log of wood, which had one end sawed off square, and roll it down to the mole. Then that they should dig out a little hole in the bottom of the brook with a hoe, so deep that when they put in the log, the upper end would be a little above the surface of the mole. Then she said they might put in the log, with the sawed end uppermost, and while one boy held it steady, the other might throw in stones and sand all around it till it was secure in its place. Then they could build the mole a little beyond it; and thus there would be a solid wooden block, firmly fixed in the end of the mole.

"But how shall we fasten our flag-staff to it?" said David.

"Why you must get an augur, and bore a hole down in the middle of it, and make the end of your flag-staff round so that it will just fit in."

The boys thought this an excellent plan, and went off after the log. While they were gone, Mary Anna asked Caleb if he had fed his squirrel that evening, and Caleb said he had not.

"Hadn't you better go now and feed him before it is too dark?"

"Why, no," said Caleb, "I don't want to go now; besides, I am going to let Dwight feed him to-night. I promised Dwight that I would let him feed him sometimes."

The truth was that Caleb wanted to stay and see the boys fix their log. He had had his squirrel now several days, and had lost his interest in him, as boys generally do in any new play-thing, after they have had it a few days. He was really, under this show of generosity and faithful performance of his promise, only gratifying his own selfish desires, but he did not see it himself. The heart is not only selfish and sinful, but it is deceitful; it even deceives itself.

So, presently, when Caleb saw David and Dwight rolling the log down from the house, he ran off to meet them, and said,

"Dwight you may feed my squirrel to-night, and I will help David roll down the log."

Dwight looked up with an air of indifference, and said he did not want to feed the squirrel that night.

Caleb was quite surprised at the answer; and he walked along by the side of Dwight and David towards the mole, as they rolled the log along, scarcely knowing what to do. He did not want to leave the poor squirrel without his supper; and, on the other hand, he did not want to go away from the mole. Mary Anna saw his perplexity, and she understood the reason of it.

Now, it happened that Mary Anna had been forming a very curious plan about the squirrel, from the very day when he was brought home; though she had not said any thing to the boys about it. To carry her plan into execution, it was necessary that the squirrel should be hers; and she resolved from the beginning, that as soon as a convenient opportunity should offer, she would try to buy him. She determined, therefore, to wait quietly until she saw some signs of Caleb's being tired of his squirrel, and then she determined to buy him.

She did not suppose that Caleb would have got tired of the care of his squirrel quite so soon as this; but when she found that he had, she thought that the time had arrived for her to attempt to make the purchase. So when Caleb came back to the mole, she said,

"Caleb, I have a great mind to go and feed your squirrel for you, if you want to stay here and help the boys to make the mole. In fact, I should like to buy him of you, if you would like to sell him."

"Well," said Caleb, "what will you give me for him?"

"Let me see—what can I make you." And Mary Anna tried to think what she could make Caleb that he would like as well as the squirrel. She proposed first a new picture-book, and then a flag, and next her monthly rose; and, finally, she said she would make him something or other, and let him see it, and then he could tell whether he would give his squirrel for it or not.

"I shall, I know," said Caleb, "for I can see him just as well if he is yours as I can if he is mine."

"But perhaps I shall let him go," said Mary Anna.

"O no," said Caleb, "you must not let him go."

"If I buy him of you," replied Mary Anna, "he will be mine entirely, and I must do whatever I please with him."

"O, but I shall make you promise not to let him go," said Caleb, "or else I shall not want to sell him to you."

"Very well," said Mary Anna; "though you can tell better when you see what I am going to make you."

Mary Anna then went up to the house, and fed the squirrel, and as it began to grow dark pretty soon after that, the boys themselves soon came up. She asked David if he would make her a mast, and also a small block of wood for a step.

"A step!" said David; "a step for what?"

"A step for the mast," said Mary Anna.

"What is a step for a mast?"

"It is a block, with a hole in it for the lower end of the mast to fit into," said Mary Anna.

"Do they call it a step?" said David.

"Yes," said Mary Anna; "I read about it in a book where I learned about rigging. Any little block will do."

David's curiosity was very much excited, and he begged Mary Anna to tell him what she was going to make.

"Well," said Mary Anna, "if you will keep the secret."

"Yes," said David, "I will."

"A Chinese junk!" said Mary Anna.

"A Chinese junk!" said David, with surprise and delight.

"Yes, now run along to mother."

So David went, and Mary Anna began to think of her work. She happened to have recollected that there was in the garret an old bread-tray, of japanned ware, which had been worn out and thrown aside, and was now good for nothing; and yet it was whole, and Mary Anna thought it would make a good boat. As, however, it was not shaped like a boat, she thought she would call it a Chinese junk, which is a clumsy kind of vessel, built by the Chinese. Accordingly after the boys had gone to bed, she got all her materials together; the old bread-tray for the hull of the junk, some fine twine for the rigging, David's mast and step, and a piece of birch bark, which she thought would represent very well the mats of which the Chinese make their sails. She carried all those things to her room, so as to have them all ready for her to go to work upon the vessel very early the next morning.

And early the next morning she did get to work. On the whole, the craft, when finished, if it was not built exactly after the model of a real Chinese junk, would sail about as well, and was as gay. She got it all done before breakfast, and carried it down, and hid it under some bushes near the mole.

Then, after breakfast, she took the boys all down, and told Caleb that she was ready to make him an offer for his squirrel. She then went to the bushes, and taking out the junk, she went to the mole, and carrying it out to the end, she gently set it down into the water. The boys looked on in great delight, as the junk wheeled slowly around in the great circles of the whirlpool.

Caleb hesitated a good deal before he finally decided to give Mary Anna his squirrel, and he tried to stipulate with her, that is, make her agree, that she would not let him go; but Mary Anna would not make any such agreement. She said that if she had the little fellow at all, she must have him for her own, without any condition whatever; and Caleb, at length, finding the elegance of the Chinese junk irresistible, decided to make the trade.

And now for Marianna's plan. She liked to see the squirrel very much; she admired his graceful movements, his beautiful grey colour, and his bushy tail, curled over his back, like a plume. But then she did not like to have him a prisoner. She knew that he must love a life of freedom,—rambling among the trees, climbing up to the topmost branches, and leaping from limb to limb; and it was painful to her to think of his being shut up in a cage. And yet she did not like to let him go, for then she knew that in all probability he would run off to the woods, and she would see him no more.

It happened that one limb of the great elm before the house was hollow for a considerable distance up from the trunk of the tree, and there was a hole leading into this hollow limb at the crotch, where the limb grew out from the tree. She thought that this would make a fine house for the squirrel, if he could only be induced to think so himself, and live there. It occurred to her that she might put him in, and fasten up the hole with wires for a time, like a cage; and she thought that if she kept him shut up there, and fed him there with plenty of nuts and corn, for a week or two, he would gradually forget his old home in the woods, and get wonted to his new one.

After thinking of several ways of fastening up the mouth of the hole, she concluded finally on the following plan. She got some small nails, and drove them in pretty near together on each side of the hole, and then she took a long piece of fine wire, and passed it across from one to the other, in such a manner as to cover the mouth of the hole with a sort of net-work of wire. She then got Raymond to put the squirrel in through a place which she left open for that purpose, and then she closed this place up like the rest, with wires. The squirrel ran up into the limb, and disappeared.

When the boys came and saw the ingenious cage which Mary Anna had contrived, they thought it was an excellent plan; and they asked her if she was not afraid that when she opened the cage door, he would run off into the woods again. She said she was very much afraid that he would, but that still there was a possibility that he might stay; and if he should, she should often see him from her window, running about the tree, and she should take so much more pleasure in that than in seeing him shut up in a cage, that she thought she should prefer to take the risk. She made the boys promise not to go to the hole, for fear they might frighten him, and she said she meant to feed him herself every day, with nuts and corn, and try to get him tame before she took away the wires.

The children felt a good deal of curiosity to see whether the squirrel would stay in the tree or run away, when Mary Anna should open his cage door; and after a few days, they were eager to have her try the experiment. But she said, no. She wished to let him have full time to become well accustomed to his new home.

Mary Anna generally went early in the morning to feed the squirrel,—before the boys were up. Then she fed him again after they had gone to school, and also just before they came home at night. She knew that if she fed him when they were at home, they would want to go with her; and it would frighten the squirrel to see so many strange faces,—even if the boys should try to be as still as possible.

One morning, Mary Anna and the boys were down near the mole, and were talking about the squirrel. David and Dwight were sailing their boats, and Mary Anna was sitting with Caleb upon a bench which David had made for his mother, close to the shore. Caleb's junk was upon the ground by his side. Caleb asked Mary Anna when she was going to let her squirrel out.

"O, I don't know," said she, "perhaps in a week more."

"A week!" said Dwight, pushing his boat off from the shore, "I wouldn't wait so long as that."

"Why, when I first had him, you wanted to have me keep him in a cage all the time."

"I know it," said Dwight; "but now I want to see whether he will run away."

"I would not try yet," said David—"but you'd better have a name for him, Marianne."

"I have got a name for him," said she.

"What is it?" said Dwight, eagerly.

"Mungo."

"Mungo!" repeated Dwight; "I don't think that is a very good name. What made you think of that name?"

"O, I heard of a traveller once, named Mungo. The whole of his name was Mungo Park; but I thought Mungo was enough for my squirrel."

"He has not been much of a traveller," said Dwight.

"O, yes," replied Mary Anna, "I think it probable he has travelled about the woods a great deal."

"Did Mungo Park travel in the woods?"

"Yes, in Africa. I think Mungo knows his name too," said Mary Anna.

"Do you," said Dwight. "Why?"

"Why, whenever I go to feed him," said Mary Anna, "I call Mungo! Mungo! and drop my nuts and corn down through the wires into the hole. And now he begins to come down when he hears my voice, and the little rogue catches up a nut and runs off with it."

"Does he?" said Caleb. "O, I wish you would let him out. I don't believe he would run away."

"Not just yet," said Mary Anna.

"But if you don't let him out pretty soon, I shall be gone," said Caleb; "for I am going to Boston, you know, next week."

"So you are," said Mary Anna; "I forgot that."

Caleb's father and mother were coming up from Boston that week, and they had written something about taking Caleb back with them, when they returned. Caleb was much pleased with this idea. He liked living in the country better than living in Boston; but still, he was very much pleased at the thought of seeing his father and mother, and his little sister, at home. He also liked riding, and was very glad of the opportunity to ride several days in the carryall, upon the front seat with his father. He expected that his father would let him have the whip and reins pretty often to drive.

"It is not certain, however," continued Mary Anna, "that you will go to Boston this summer. Mother said that perhaps you would not go until the fall, and then perhaps she would go with you, and bring you back to stay here through the winter."

"But I don't want to stay here in the winter," said Caleb.

"Why not?" said Mary Anna.

"O, it is so cold and snowy;—and we can't play any."

"That's a great mistake," said Dwight; "we have fine times in the winter."

"Why, what can you do?"

"O, a great many things; last winter we dug out a house in a great snow-drift under the rocks, and played in it a good deal."

"But it must be very cold in a snow-house," said Caleb.

"O, we had a fire."

"A fire?" said Caleb.

"Certainly," said Dwight, "We put some large stones for the fire-place, and let the smoke go out at the top."

"But then it would melt your house down."

"It did melt it a little around the sides, and so made it grow larger: but it did not melt it down. We had some good boards for seats, and we could stay there in the cold days."

"Yes," said Mary Anna, "I remember I went in one cold, windy day, and I found you boys all snugly stowed in your snow-house, warm and comfortable, by a good blazing fire."

"Once we made some candy in our snow-house," said David.

"Did you?" said Caleb.

"Yes," said David; "Mary Anna proposed the plan, and got mother to give us the molasses in a little kettle, and we put it upon three stones in our snow-house, and we boiled it all one Wednesday afternoon, and when it was done, we poured it out upon the snow. It was capital candy."

"I should like to see a snow-house," said Caleb, "very much."

"Then should not you like to stay here next winter? And then we can make one," said David.

"Perhaps I could make one in Boston," said Caleb.

"Ho!" said Dwight, with a tone of contempt, "you couldn't make a snow-house."

"But there are enough other boys in Boston to help me," said Caleb.

"There is not any good place," said Mary Anna, in a mild and pleasant tone. "There is only a very small yard, and that is full of wood piles."

"I can make it on the common," said Caleb. "The common is large enough I can tell you."

Here Dwight suddenly called out in a tone of great eagerness and delight, to look off to a little bush near them, to which he pointed with his finger.

"See! see! there is a squirrel!—a large grey squirrel!"

"Where?" said Caleb, "where? I don't see him."

"Hush!" said Mary Anna, in a low tone: "All keep perfectly still. I'll shew him to you, Caleb. There, creeping along the branch."

"I see him," said David. "Let us catch him, and put him in with Mungo."

"I'm afraid it is Mungo," said Mary Anna.

"Mungo!" said Dwight, with surprise.

"Yes," said Mary Anna, "it looks like him. I am afraid he has got out of some hole, and is going away. Sit still, and we will see what he will do."

"O, no," said Dwight, "I will go and catch him."

"No, by no means," said Mary Anna, holding Dwight back, "let us see what he will do."

It was Mungo. He had gnawed himself a hole, and escaped from his prison.

He did not, however, seem disposed to go away very fast. He came down from the bush, and crept along upon the ground towards the brook, and then finding that he could not get across very well, he ran about the grass a little while, and then went back by degrees to the tree. He climbed up to the great branch, playing a minute or two about the grating over the hole, and then ran along out to the end of the branch, the children watching him all the time, and walking slowly along up towards the tree.

"I'll go and get him some corn," said Mary Anna, "and see if he will not come down for it to his hole, when I call him. You stand here perfectly still, till I come back."

So she went in and got a nut instead of corn, and put it down by the hole, calling "Mungo!" "Mungo!" as usual. The squirrel came creeping down the branch, and Mary Anna left the nut upon the grating, and went away. He crept down cautiously, seized the nut, stuffed it into his cheek, and ran off to one of the topmost branches; and there standing upon his hind legs, and holding his nut in his forepaws, he began gnawing the shell, watching the children all the time.

The next morning, Mary Anna tore off the netting, and the squirrel lived in the tree a long while. Caleb, however, saw but little more of him at this time, for he went to Boston the next week with his father. What befell him there may perhaps be described in another book, to be called "CALEB IN TOWN."

END OF CALEB IN THE COUNTRY.



POETRY.

PASSING AWAY.

Mothers! where are they?—where? They are gone from this passing scene, Gone with the dreams of joy that were, As if they ne'er had been. Husbands! where are they?—where? The visions of life are fled; But they live—beneath—above—in air, For spirits can ne'er be dead.

Children! where are they?—where? Will the sun or stars reply? Nor earth, nor sea, nor air, Will answer to the cry. Return they not with the early morn? Where are the lost ones? say— Gone to a land whence none return, But where,—Oh, where are they?

Dear ones! where are they?—where? They are gone from the village home; We ponder and gaze on the empty chair, And recall the voice's tone. Loved ones! where are they?—where? We stand by the vacant bed, On the spot where we breathed the prayer, When we raised the dying head.

The friends! where are they?—where? Their spirits have left the clay; Are they gone to weep in black despair, Or to sing in eternal day? Where are they? Oh tell us where! That our aching hearts may rest; Do they breathe the rich man's prayer, Or are they among the blest?

Lost ones! where are they?—where? We ask—but we ask in vain; The sound goes round on the waves of air, And echo says, "Where?" Again— Where are they?—where?



WEEP NOT FOR ME.

Weep not, my child, weep not for me, Though heavy is the stroke, And thou must early learn indeed To bear affliction's yoke. Yet weep not, for you all have heard, Oft from these lips, in health, How Death will often snatch away Mothers by mystic stealth. How often, when within the home The sun of joy doth glow, Some deed of his insidious hand Will fill that home with woe.

But when thy mother far has soared To regions all divine, A livelier voice, my precious one, Shall speak to thee, than mine. Weep not for me—all tears remove— I die without a fear; My God, to whom you are assigned, Your early prayers shall hear. When twilight opes the dappled morn, And clothes the east in grey, When sunbeams deck the west at eve, Oh then, beloved one—PRAY.

* * * * *

Milner & Sowerby, Printers, Halifax.

THE END