The book was a sad drawback to Ellen's happiness, for she never looked in it unless obliged, and her mother had always great difficulty in fixing her attention on it when she wished to do so.

Mrs. Danvers rose from her seat, and quietly lowered the venetian blind, and Ellen again stole back to her seat. She looked out of the corner of one of her little blue eyes to see if her mother was angry, and again for a few minutes was very assiduous. Presently the room door opened, and a servant entered to say that a poor woman wished to speak to his mistress. Mrs. Danvers desired that the woman should be shown into the room, and she entered, leading in her hand a little girl about the age of Ellen. Ellen's eyes were immediately diverted from her book, but her mother on this occasion said nothing.

The poor woman came to entreat assistance for her sick husband, who was unable to go to his work, and for her little girl, who had cut her finger very badly. The child's finger was covered with a piece of rag, which was soaked with blood, and tears streaming from her eyes showed that she was in pain.

'How was the finger cut?' said Mrs. Danvers.

'In helping father cut a piece of wood to mend Charley's hayfork,' replied the child. 'Father fell down in a fit, and let the knife fall upon my finger.'

'It is a bad cut,' said Mrs. Danvers. 'Run, Ellen, and ask Sarah for some rag, and we will tie it up for her.'

Ellen was out of the room in a minute, for she liked running about and waiting upon anyone in distress. Indeed, Ellen was on the whole a good little girl, though she could not be made to like either her book or her work. She soon returned with the rag, and Mrs. Danvers tied up the little girl's finger, and gave her a nice slice of cake to divert her attention from the pain she was suffering.

'Is it painful now?' said Mrs. Danvers.

'No, madam,' replied the child, but she still continued to cry.

'Then do not cry any more, and it will be soon well.'

'Mary does not cry so much about the pain, madam,' said the poor woman, 'as because you see it is her thimble finger;' and she held the little girl's hand up.

Ellen thought this could be no very great misfortune, but Ellen was a silly little girl to think so, and so she was convinced when the poor woman said that Mary did needlework enough to keep her in shoes, and with the pennies she got by reading her book well at school she had bought two nice pinafores out of her own money.

Ellen looked a little foolish and hung her head. The poor woman and the industrious little girl left the room after Mrs. Danvers had promised to call on the sick man in the evening, and Ellen again took up her book.

'I am afraid you will never get any pennies for reading well,' said Mrs. Danvers in a few minutes, for again Ellen's eyes were off her book. The kitten had frisked into the room; it was playing with a cork under the sofa, and Ellen laughed aloud as she saw it turn round, and over and over.

'If you like the kitten better than George,' said Mrs. Danvers, 'you may continue looking at it, and stay at home and read when your father and I go out into the fields by-and-by.'

'Then pray, mother, put the kitten out of the room,' said Ellen. Mrs. Danvers did so, and again Ellen seated herself on her little stool with her book.

Ellen now really applied to her book, for she was very much afraid of being left at home when her father and mother went out for their walk. It was very little trouble to her to learn when she gave her attention to her lessons, and at length she got over them very creditably and without another word of reproof from mother.

'Now, Ellen,' said Mrs. Danvers, when the book was closed, 'if you had attended to your lessons at once it would have been over long since, and by this time you might have finished your work, and have been running in the field or garden. It is twelve o'clock, but I must have this handkerchief hemmed before you move.'

'Oh dear,' said Ellen, with a most sorrowful look, 'I thought I should have gone out now. What a happy boy George is. Oh dear, I wish I was a boy, and then I should be running about all day, and should not be obliged to work.'

'You would not be obliged to work with your needle, Ellen,' said Mrs. Danvers, as she turned down the hem of the handkerchief, 'but you would have a great many things to learn much harder than you have now, and which would take you a great deal of time to get by heart unless you were more attentive than you frequently are.'

'Oh, I am sure I could learn them, mother,' answered Ellen; 'besides, George has nothing to do—nothing but to play and amuse himself all day long.'

'This is not the case when George is at school, I can tell you, Ellen,' replied Mrs. Danvers, 'nor is it always the case, you know, at home, and I much question whether the days that George sits down with his father for a few hours after breakfast are not happier days generally than those which he spends exactly in the manner he himself chooses.'

'Oh, I think he is generally laughing and merry,' said Ellen, 'when he sets off after breakfast into the hayfield, or the cricket meadow; much more so than when he walks with his grave face and his book under his arm into father's study.'

'And I very well remember, Ellen,' replied Mrs. Danvers, 'that this merry mood of his, which you think so delightful, has more than once ended in a flood of tears before night, while, on the contrary, I think the grave study countenance is generally turned into lasting smiles by dinner-time. But if you continue chatting the work will never be done. Sit quietly, and be industrious for half an hour, and then we will go into the garden together, and see if the gardener has any strawberries for us; I dare say George's companions will like some strawberries and milk after their game.'

While Ellen is attending to her mother's directions, and industriously performing the task required of her; we will take a view of George and his young companions, and see whether or not he is likely to be tired of his day of idleness.

George had got up very early in the morning to prepare the wickets for the game of cricket, which had been proposed to him by several lads living in the neighbourhood. If the young reader is a little girl and not a cricket player herself, she must ask her brothers or cousins to describe to her what are wickets, and if neither of these are near her she must ask her father, who will no doubt be very happy to give her the desired information. George had been awake very early indeed, but as he had had a strict injunction never to be out of doors before the gardener and groom were at their work, he had lain in bed till he heard the stable-door opened, and then, hastily jumping up and dressing himself, had said his prayers, and was downstairs before the clock struck five. He then went to what he called his toolhouse, which was a little shed by the side of the greenhouse, where the gardeners kept their watering-pots, and where he had a box containing a hammer, a saw, and a plane adapted to the use of young hands, and a small box containing nails. He had also here a repository of pieces of wood thrown aside by the carpenter, and old sides and covers of boxes, which were no longer of any service for the uses for which they were designed, and here it was that George's day of pleasure commenced. He hammered and chopped and sawed like any workman toiling for his bread till eight o'clock, which was the hour for breakfast, when, being somewhat hot and tired, he was not very sorry to hear the summons to a good plateful of bread and butter, and a fine sweet draught of new milk. Young spirits are soon refreshed, and George did not sit long at his breakfast; the meal was soon despatched, and George again was out of doors and in his toolhouse. Hither Ellen had accompanied him for a few minutes to see the wickets completed, and, when finished, she had left him, longing to make one of the party who were now assembling to their play, and with whom she left him to return into the house, and join her mother in the drawing-room.



The boys soon began to play, and for some time the game went on very well—all was high good humour; but George was the least of the party, and not having played so frequently, and not being so strong, did not get as many notches as many of his companions. At school he had been more accustomed to play with less boys, and perhaps with boys even less than himself, where he was the best player of the set, and he could not help feeling mortified now that he found himself the worst player, and not being able to keep in at all against boys who played with so much more skill than he did. Sometimes he would not have minded this, but the day was very hot, George had risen early, began to be tired, and, as the truth must be told on these occasions, rather cross and pettish. Several games had been played, all of which had been won by the set of boys of the side opposite to that of George, for as four of the lads with whom he played were good players, and the fifth, Tom Fletcher, a much better player than George, the consequence was that Tom and his two companions were always on the successful side. One of the best players, Charles Wilson, then proposed to make an alteration in the sides; he asked George to come over to him and his companions, and let Tom Fletcher take his place; 'And then we shall see,' he added, 'which plays the best, you or Tom.'

'Oh, you think you know already,' said George, not in the best of humours, and throwing down his bat. 'I don't want to play at all, and I know I go for nothing.'

'The young man is up,' said Wilson's companion, Stevens. 'Never mind, let him go; we shall do very well without him,' and he was taking up the discarded bat; but Wilson, who was a very good-natured boy, said:

'We do not think you go for nothing, George; but it is not likely you should play so well as we do, who are so much bigger than you, or than Tom Fletcher, who lives with a bat in his hand, and always plays amongst the great boys. I only wanted to make the game more even, for it is very tiresome for one party always to win, and the others to lose. Come, let us play on again as we were, and perhaps you may be more lucky. Come, Tom, take up the bat.'

Stevens looked very angry, and was about to make some provoking reply; but the other boys reminded him that they were playing in Mr. Danvers' ground, and there was no ground like his in the neighbourhood, so the ball was again bowled, and the bat once more sent it whirling back through the long field.

'Well done, little fellow!' said Wilson, as George again took the bat, and gave a pretty good hit. 'Well done; you'll soon play very well. Tom, take care of yourself, and mind your play, or we shall lose a game against them now.'

'Not if you mind your play,' replied the sharp Tom Fletcher, who saw that Wilson in bowling favoured George, and gave him balls that he could hardly help hitting. George exerted himself to the uttermost, and really did play better than he had done before; but his party would not have got the game but for the good-nature of Wilson, who did not put out his best play, and whose party for the first time were losers. Wilson was not right in doing this, because, even in a game of cricket, he ought to have been true to his side, and played his best. It was practising deceit, and deceit is never to be practised harmlessly. Neither was George much gratified by his success, for he felt he had gained it in a childish manner, and it would have been more honest to have lost the game. Tom Fletcher and Stevens were both extremely angry, and both declared they would not be beat in that way to please the humours of any young pet. Tom said he would be matched singly against George, and the other two boys agreed it would be the fairest way, and also for them to be matched against Stevens and Wilson, and then they should see where all the strength lay. Everybody agreed to this, and the two younger boys were to have the first game. Tom was to give George two notches to begin with, to which George had no objection, as Tom was allowed to be a very capital player for his age, and the two young antagonists commenced their game. For some time they went on pretty evenly. Tom was very cool and cautious, and George, who put out all his strength, got several notches, and continued ahead of his rival. It almost seemed doubtful whether George was not a better player than he had been taken for, and as the lads who were looking on cried out, 'Now, George,' 'Now, Tom,' George seemed to have as good a chance of the game as Tom. But Tom was not fagged as George was, nor was he so hasty in his temper. He was not at all moved at the show of adverse fortune against him, while George was in a complete agitation, and on the very first reverse so put out that he bit his lip with anger, and flung at the bowler with great violence the ball which he had missed. It took the direction of Tom Fletcher's eyebrow, narrowly escaping his eye, and the boy put up his hand in agony to his enlarged forehead.

'Oh, I am very sorry, Tom,' said George, who had most unintentionally done the mischief.

'Oh, I don't mind a bit,' replied Tom, who was a very hardy boy. 'Stand to your bat, man.' And with one hand held to his aching head, he bowled sharply with the other, and dashed away the wickets.

'It is hardly fair play, for he was off his guard,' said one of the other boys.

'If Tom could bowl with that black eye,' said Stevens, 'I think George has no right to complain.'

'I don't complain,' said George, throwing down his bat. 'It's my own fault; I was in a passion. The game is yours, Tom.'

'No, the game is not mine yet, George,' said Tom, 'even if you go out now, for though you sent the ball in a passion, I had no right to take you in as I did. I was in a passion, too, or I should not have bowled upon you so sharp. Come, give me your hand, and then take up the bat, man, and we will see what we can do.'

'Then take back your two notches to set against the black eye,' said George, giving his hand. Tom, however, would not agree to this, and it was at length settled that they should go on as if nothing had happened. George took up the bat, and Tom returned to the bowling place. George's notches increased rapidly, but it was evident the cause of this was in Tom's eye, which by this time was almost closed, though the spirited boy did not once complain of pain. George requested him not to go on, but he persisted in bowling till his opponent threw down the bat, declaring it was not fair play, and he did not want to beat in that mean way.

All the boys agreed that George was right, and it was determined that the two young ones should defer their trial of skill till Tom had recovered the use of his eye, and the bigger boys then commenced their game.

It was at this period of the day that Mrs. Danvers and Ellen, after having taken a walk round the garden, and collected plenty of strawberries and cherries from the gardener, arrived in the cricket-field to inquire if the lads wished for any refreshment. George felt ashamed, as he remembered Tom Fletcher's eye, and the good-natured boy stepped forwards to speak to Mrs. Danvers, and draw attention from Tom to himself. The accident, however, could not be concealed; and though Tom declared that it was nothing, Mrs. Danvers was sure that he must be suffering great pain, and begged of him to go into the house and have his eye bathed. Fletcher replied that he had better go home, for his mother had a lotion that cured all sorts of bruises; and saying that he would be up in the cricket-field again before the other game was over, he bounded over the stile that separated one field from the next, and was out of sight in a minute. The other lads, who were just beginning their game, took some fruit of Mrs. Danvers, but declined at present going into the house; and after standing a few minutes with Ellen to look at the players, Mrs. Danvers persuaded George to accompany her into the house, for she saw that he was not very comfortable, and the day was intensely hot.

As they walked along, Mrs. Danvers said nothing about the black eye, for she thought that it had happened through some hastiness of George. She found by his manner he was ashamed of himself for something, and she knew, as he was an honest boy, that when he was in a little better humour than he appeared at present he would relate to her everything that had passed. On arriving in the house, Mr. Danvers met them, and requested Mrs. Danvers to walk down into the village to see the poor man who had fallen down in a fit, and inquire if he wanted any assistance. Mrs. Danvers immediately complied, and recommending George to amuse himself with his sister during the rest of the morning, she left the house, and took the road to the village.

'John has not taken that donkey home,' said Mrs. Danvers, as they passed through a small field where there was one picking in the hedges.

'No,' replied Mr. Danvers, 'but I wish he would do so, for the animal only destroys the beauty of the hedges, and endeavours to make ugly gaps in them. It is not at all fit for the children to ride.' And they proceeded in their walk.

As soon as his father and mother were gone, George threw himself upon the carpet on his back, for he was very tired, very cross, and very stiff.

'Oh dear, what a tiresome day this is!' said he, as he rolled over on the carpet. 'I wish it was over and bedtime was come.'

'Why, you have done nothing but play all day,' said Ellen. Now Ellen felt as brisk and as merry as she had done the very earliest part of the morning, and could not help wondering what could be the matter with George that he was not equally so.

'It is so hot—so very hot,' said George. The kind little Ellen took her stool, and, standing on tiptoe, and reaching up to the top of the blinds, at the risk of her neck, at length succeeded in pulling them down, and prevented the sun from shining into George's eyes.

'Oh, how dark you have made the room, child,' said George.

'I thought you would like to have the sun shut out, George,' said the affectionate little Ellen, with a tear starting into her eyes, because George would not be pleased with her.

George saw the tear, and was vexed with himself that he had caused it; but at present he was not sufficiently subdued to say he was sorry, and he continued to roll upon the carpet backwards and forwards, till he rolled over against a small rose-wood cabinet which stood in one corner of the apartment. The slender fabric shook, and down rolled a beautiful little vase, which had been sent for Mrs. Danvers by a particular friend, and on which both the children knew she set a great value. George started up, and he and Ellen looked at each other. The vase was broken into twenty pieces. Ellen burst into tears, and George looked very sorrowful; but the vase was broken, and could not be restored. At this moment the door was opened, and a little favourite terrier dog bounded into the room, and began to play amongst the scattered fragments. He was followed by a servant, from whom he had made his escape, for she had been ordered to wash the dog, and the dog had resisted, and ran away from the bath designed for him.

'Why, what a piece of work is here,' said the servant. 'Pompey, you little tiresome thing; now to come bouncing in here, and making all this mischief. What will mistress say when she sees her china broken, and all through you, you little tiresome puppy?'

George and Ellen looked at each other for a moment. Had they not been well instructed to abhor a lie, and speak the truth, the temptation was a strong one, and they might have yielded to it; but they knew that although they might deceive the servant, there was One who could not be deceived, and by an instantaneous movement of honesty they both at once exclaimed:

'It was not poor Pompey, Ann; it was——' Here Ellen stopped, unwilling to accuse her brother; but George with great firmness added: 'It was I, Ann.'

'Well, it's a sad business,' said Ann, 'but I dare say my mistress will not be very angry. I am sure I should not have known but what it was Pompey;' and in saying this Ann, who was herself a good well-principled girl, silently resolved that her mistress should certainly know how the young gentleman and lady 'scorned,' as she said, 'to tell a lie.'

Pompey was now removed, and George and Ellen were again left together. Ellen picked up the broken pieces, and then asked George if he had not better go and dress himself. 'His nice clean trousers,' she said, 'were quite green and dirty from rubbing about upon the grass, and the flue of the carpet was come off upon his jacket.' George, however, was not yet quite himself, though he was very much softened by the last misfortune. Ellen then asked him if she should get some quiet play for him—maps, puzzles, or bricks? But nothing would go right with George this day; all Ellen's efforts to amuse him were in vain, and at length he resolved upon going out of doors again. Ellen reminded him that mother had recommended him to stay indoors.

'Yes, but she did not order me,' said George; 'besides, I think I ought to go down and ask how Tom Fletcher is, for I gave him that horrible blow in his face.'

'But you could not help it, I am sure,' said Ellen.

'I did not do it on purpose,' said George, 'but I did it in a passion, and that is as bad.'

'Oh, this unlucky day,' said Ellen, 'and this morning I thought you so happy, but I think you had better stay till evening before you go down to Mr. Fletcher's. I am sure mother thought you had better stay quiet this morning, and mother is always so kind.'

George felt all this, and went out of the room, and returned into it several times, from irresolution and dissatisfaction with himself. He kissed Ellen, and told her not to mind his being cross, upon which she threw her arm across his shoulder, and entreated him to sit quietly at home, and not to go out and heat himself and make himself uncomfortable just as he was beginning to get cool.

George seemed to long to stay with Ellen, and even when he got to steps which led from the hall into the pleasure-grounds, he went very slowly down, dragging one leg after the other, half inclined to return, but at this moment that frisking little Pompey came by looking very bright and clean after his washing, and he jumped upon George, and invited him to play. George then gave him a call, and they bounded together over the fields and hedges, and were very soon lost to the sight of Ellen, who returned into the house, and could scarcely refrain from shedding tears.

George passed with his frolicsome companion through the same field where Mr. and Mrs. Danvers had noticed the donkey browsing in the hedges, and the animal was still browsing, and picking up nettles and flowers, and enjoying his freedom. George might just as well have walked quietly through the field, and have left the poor donkey to his repast, but he was in a very odd sort of a humour still, and thought it would be very good fun to have a little scamper round the field upon the donkey's back. He had heard his father and mother say that the donkey had never been properly broken in, and that he was not fit to be ridden, but George thought that if he could ride a pony, which he sometimes did, he certainly could ride a donkey, and at any rate he was determined to try. He went back to the stable therefore to ask the groom for a halter, but the groom was not in the stable, unfortunately, or he would have known better, it is to be hoped, than to have encouraged the young gentleman in what he knew to be wrong. So George helped himself to an old piece of rope which he found under the cartshed, and, taking a small hunting-whip of his own, returned to the field with the intention of having a good ride. He had some difficulty in catching the animal, which was better pleased to graze at liberty than to be confined, and have a burthen put upon his back. It must be owned, nevertheless, that it was not a very heavy burthen preparing for him, nothing compared to the great weights many, many poor donkeys are compelled to toil under, and never stopping to rest, perhaps, from morning till night. Still, the donkey had rather been left in the hedges, and many a race round and round the field did he give George, and many a time did he kick up his hinder legs in defiance before George at length succeeded in throwing the halter over his head. The mighty feat, however, was, after repeated failures, accomplished, and George felt not a little satisfied when he found himself safely seated on the animal. He certainly was seated, but as to riding, it was what the donkey seemed resolved he should not do, and there he continued to sit, perfectly still and quiet, for some minutes, for although the animal had shown great fleetness and alacrity when George was attempting to stop him, it was very different now George was endeavouring to make him go on. George kicked as hard as he could kick with both his heels, and flogged with all his might, but the stubborn beast would not stir an inch. He then got off his back, and led him into the road, which he had some difficulty in accomplishing, and when there he would not go a bit better than in the field. He had no preference to the turnpike road, and George, after fatiguing himself, and getting into a violent heat by beating and thumping the animal's impenetrable skin, considered that he had better get him back again into the field, and there leave him. But here again the stubborn beast perplexed him; he would not budge an inch, no, not even when George pulled and dragged him by the halter till his arms ached so much he was obliged to desist. Now what was to be done? The donkey was not his father's; it was borrowed. If he left it on the road it would be lost or stolen, and as to riding it or leading it away it seemed entirely impossible. He was standing in not a very happy mood, and leaning against the donkey's neck, when a butcher's boy came jogging along upon his shaggy and bareboned pony.

'Do you want to get him on, sir?' said the boy.

'Yes, but he won't stir,' said George.

'Oh, trust me to making him stir,' replied the hatless, greasy-haired lad. 'Get upon his back, sir, and I'll send him on for you.'

George was upon his back in a minute, but with all the famed prowess of the butcher's boy as a donkey driver, and with all George's renewed thumps and kicks, the animal would not move from the spot where he had fixed himself. The butcher's boy was quite in a rage, and he was venting his spleen upon the stubbornness of all donkeys, and of this donkey in particular, when the sudden sound of a horn made both the donkey and the pony prick up their ears. In a few moments a stage coach was in sight, and in a few more the horn and the rattling wheels approached with great velocity towards the two equestrians. George would have jumped off to save himself from being run over, but the donkey saved him for the present the trouble. All his energies were suddenly roused, and he darted forward in a pelting gallop; the butcher's pony did the same. Away they both flew before the leaders of the stage, scarcely distancing them by a horse's length, and all the passengers thought that mischief was inevitable. A gentleman on the box begged the coachman to pull in, but the coachman seemed to enjoy the fun, and only whipped on his horses. The pony and the donkey were still galloping furiously, both their riders keeping their seats. Butchers' boys always seem glued to their saddles, so that there appeared nothing astonishing in Jem Rattle's not getting a fall; but how George, without his saddle, and not much accustomed to riding, sat so long was something more remarkable. Whether he might have got to the end of his race without accident if his father and mother had not now appeared by the side of the road it is impossible to say; but certain it is that the sight of them diverted the attention which had before been entirely given to keeping his eye steadily before him. At the same instant the donkey gave a little curve out of the line in which he had been going, and most providential was it that he did so, for by this inclination George was thrown sufficiently to the right of the road to clear the wheels of the coach. The pony had given in some few minutes before, and the donkey, having once checked himself, stopped suddenly, and stood quietly by the roadside as if nothing had happened. The gentleman on the box now insisted upon the coachman's drawing up, to see if the young gentleman had sustained any injury; and Mr. and Mrs. Danvers, in a state of harassing alarm, also hastened to approach the spot.

Mr. and Mrs. Danvers were more alarmed than George was hurt; he certainly got a few bruises, but he received no serious injury. He immediately jumped on his legs, and relieved the anxiety of his parents, when, after Mr. Danvers had thanked the gentleman for his kind interference, and joined with him in condemning the coachman for not having before checked his horses, the coach drove on, and George joined his father and mother. The butcher boy was commissioned, with the promise of a shilling, to bring back the donkey to Mr. Danvers' field, and George looked not a little foolish as he began his walk home by the side of his father.

'I thought you had been remaining quietly at home, George,' said Mrs. Danvers.

'And certainly, if you had been out,' added Mr. Danvers, 'you had no business to have been riding that donkey. You must have heard me say that it was not fit to be ridden, for it is always playing tricks of some sort. And you may be very thankful that you did not get either a broken limb or a severe blow on your head.'

George made no reply, but he burst into tears, for his ill-humour had now entirely given way to sorrow; and he continued crying as he walked by the side of his father.

'I am afraid you have too much indulgence,' said Mr. Danvers, 'and too much liberty in disposing of your time; you are not the happier for it, you see. When left to yourself to amuse yourself as you please the whole day, you almost constantly get into some trouble or other before the day is over. In future I shall take care that your time is better employed than in riding races with butchers' boys, and trying to tame incorrigible donkeys.'

Here George tried to put his father right as to his riding with the butcher's boy being entirely accidental; but his sobs prevented his speaking articulately, and they had nearly arrived at home before Mr. and Mrs. Danvers could exactly understand how the accident had happened.

'And how came Fletcher by his black eye?' said Mr. Danvers.

'Oh, that was done in a passion,' replied George. 'I was tired before I began to play, and I did not like to be beat by a boy so near my own size.'

'And how would you have felt,' said Mr. Danvers, 'had you deprived your companion of the sight of his eye, which was very near being the case? Accidents of this sort have sometimes happened from cricket-balls; but this, instead of accidental, would have been the consequence of pettish ill-humour. I shall allow no more cricket for some days; indeed, I fear it will be some days before Fletcher will be well enough to play; and certainly I shall allow no more whole days of play.'

'I wish you would not, father,' said George, 'for they always end unhappily; and you have not heard all the unhappiness of this.'

George was endeavouring to commence his relation of the broken vase, when the lads from the cricket-field, who had just finished their game, approached to bid Mr. and Mrs. Danvers a good-morning, and inquire of their young companion why he and Tom Fletcher had not again joined them. In pity to the confusion visibly stamped on George's countenance, Mr. Danvers undertook to explain the cause of their absence, and begged that they themselves would come, whenever it was pleasant to them, to play in his field. As to Tom, he thought he would not be able to play again within a week; but on that day se'nnight, if his eye was well enough to allow of his playing, Mr. Danvers would himself take a part in the game, and he invited all the party to take tea and refreshments after its conclusion. The boys seemed delighted with this proposition, and took their leave, when George accompanied his father and mother into the house, where they were joined by little Ellen. The accident of the broken vase was related, at which Mrs. Danvers expressed great regret; but her vexation was accompanied with the pleasing reflection that the word of her children might be taken without scruple, for the good-natured Ann was not easy till she had informed her mistress of all that she knew respecting the accident.

From this day, Ellen never wished that she was a boy to do nothing but play from morning till night. She saw, in the example of her brother George, that idleness generally leads to mischief, and consequently to unhappiness; and she felt how necessary it was to have performed her duty well before she could enjoy her play.



Waste Not, Want Not

or

Two Strings to Your Bow

Mr. Gresham, a Bristol merchant, who had, by honourable industry and economy, accumulated a considerable fortune, retired from business to a new house which he had built upon the Downs, near Clifton. Mr. Gresham, however, did not imagine that a new house alone could make him happy. He did not propose to live in idleness and extravagance; for such a life would have been equally incompatible with his habits and his principles. He was fond of children; and as he had no sons, he determined to adopt one of his relations. He had two nephews, and he invited both of them to his house, that he might have an opportunity of judging of their dispositions, and of the habits which they had acquired.

Hal and Benjamin, Mr. Gresham's nephews, were about ten years old. They had been educated very differently. Hal was the son of the elder branch of the family. His father was a gentleman, who spent rather more than he could afford; and Hal, from the example of the servants in his father's family, with whom he had passed the first years of his childhood, learned to waste more of everything than he used. He had been told that 'gentlemen should be above being careful and saving'; and he had unfortunately imbibed a notion that extravagance was the sign of a generous disposition, and economy of an avaricious one.

Benjamin, on the contrary, had been taught habits of care and foresight. His father had but a very small fortune, and was anxious that his son should early learn that economy ensures independence, and sometimes puts it in the power of those who are not very rich to be very generous.

The morning after these two boys arrived at their uncle's they were eager to see all the rooms in the house. Mr. Gresham accompanied them, and attended to their remarks and exclamations.

'Oh, what an excellent motto!' exclaimed Ben, when he read the following words, which were written in large characters over the chimneypiece in his uncle's spacious kitchen—

'WASTE NOT, WANT NOT.'

'"Waste not, want not!"' repeated his cousin Hal, in rather a contemptuous tone; 'I think it looks stingy to servants; and no gentleman's servants, cooks especially, would like to have such a mean motto always staring them in the face.'

Ben, who was not so conversant as his cousin in the ways of cooks and gentleman's servants, made no reply to these observations.

Mr. Gresham was called away whilst his nephews were looking at the other rooms in the house. Some time afterwards he heard their voices in the hall.

'Boys,' said he, 'what are you doing there?'

'Nothing, sir,' said Hal. 'You were called away from us, and we did not know which way to go.'

'And have you nothing to do?' said Mr. Gresham.

'No, sir—nothing,' answered Hal in a careless tone, like one who was well content with the state of habitual idleness.

'No, sir—nothing,' replied Ben, in a voice of lamentation.

'Come,' said Mr. Gresham, 'if you have nothing to do, lads, will you unpack those two parcels for me?'

The two parcels were exactly alike, both of them well tied up with good whipcord. Ben took his parcel to a table, and, after breaking off the sealing-wax, began carefully to examine the knot, and then to untie it. Hal stood still, exactly in the spot where the parcel was put into his hands, and tried, first at one corner and then at another, to pull the string off by force.

'I wish these people wouldn't tie up their parcels so tight, as if they were never to be undone!' cried he, as he tugged at the cord; and he pulled the knot closer instead of loosening it. 'Ben! why, how did you get yours undone, man? What's in your parcel? I wonder what is in mine. I wish I could get this string off. I must cut it.'

'Oh no,' said Ben, who now had undone the last knot of his parcel, and who drew out the length of string with exultation, 'don't cut it, Hal. Look what a nice cord this is, and yours is the same. It's a pity to cut it. "Waste not, want not!" you know.'

'Pooh!' said Hal, 'what signifies a bit of packthread?'

'It is whipcord,' said Ben.



'Well, whipcord. What signifies a bit of whipcord? You can get a bit of whipcord twice as long as that for twopence, and who cares for twopence? Not I, for one! So here it goes,' cried Hal, drawing out his knife; and he cut the cord precipitately in sundry places.

'Lads, have you undone the parcels for me?' said Mr. Gresham, opening the parlour door as he spoke.

'Yes, sir,' cried Hal; and he dragged off his half-cut, half-entangled string. 'Here's the parcel.'

'And here's my parcel, uncle; and here's the string,' said Ben.

'You may keep the string for your pains,' said Mr. Gresham.

'Thank you, sir,' said Ben. 'What an excellent whipcord it is!'

'And you, Hal,' continued Mr. Gresham—'you may keep your string, too, if it will be of any use to you.'

'It will be of no use to me, thank you, sir,' said Hal.

'No, I am afraid not, if this be it,' said his uncle, taking up the jagged knotted remains of Hal's cord.

A few days after this Mr. Gresham gave to each of his nephews a new top.

'But how's this?' said Hal. 'These tops have no strings. What shall we do for strings?'

'I have a string that will do very well for mine,' said Ben; and he pulled out of his pocket the fine, long, smooth string which had tied up the parcel.

With this he soon set up his top, which spun admirably well.

'Oh, how I wish I had but a string!' said Hal. 'What shall I do for a string? I'll tell you what: I can use the string that goes round my hat!'

'But, then,' said Ben, 'what will you do for a hatband?'

'I'll manage to do without one,' said Hal, and he took the string off his hat for his top.

It was soon worn through, and he split his top by driving the peg too tightly into it. His Cousin Ben let him set up his the next day, but Hal was not more fortunate or more careful when he meddled with other people's things than when he managed his own. He had scarcely played half an hour before he split it by driving the peg too violently.

Ben bore this misfortune with good-humour.

'Come,' said he, 'it can't be helped; but give me the string, because that may still be of use for something else.'

It happened some time afterwards that a lady, who had been intimately acquainted with Hal's mother at Bath—that is to say, who had frequently met her at the card-table during the winter—now arrived at Clifton. She was informed by his mother that Hal was at Mr. Gresham's, and her sons, who were friends of his, came to see him, and invited him to spend the next day with them.

Hal joyfully accepted the invitation. He was always glad to go out to dine, because it gave him something to do, something to think of, or at least something to say. Besides this, he had been educated to think it was a fine thing to visit fine people; and Lady Diana Sweepstakes (for that was the name of his mother's acquaintance) was a very fine lady, and her two sons intended to be very great gentlemen. He was in a prodigious hurry when these young gentlemen knocked at his uncle's door the next day; but just as he got to the hall door little Patty called to him from the top of the stairs, and told him that he had dropped his pocket-handkerchief.

'Pick it up, then, and bring it to me, quick, can't you, child?' cried Hal, 'for Lady Di's sons are waiting for me.'

Little Patty did not know anything about Lady Di's sons; but as she was very good-natured, and saw that her cousin Hal was, for some reason or other, in a desperate hurry, she ran downstairs as fast as she possibly could towards the landing-place, where the handkerchief lay; but, alas! before she reached the handkerchief, she fell, rolling down a whole flight of stairs, and when her fall was at last stopped by the landing-place, she did not cry out; she writhed, as if she was in great pain.

'Where are you hurt, my love?' said Mr. Gresham, who came instantly on hearing the noise of someone falling downstairs. 'Where are you hurt, my dear?'

'Here, papa,' said the little girl, touching her ankle, which she had decently covered with her gown. 'I believe I am hurt here, but not much,' added she, trying to rise; 'only it hurts me when I move.'

'I'll carry you; don't move, then,' said her father, and he took her up in his arms.

'My shoe! I've lost one of my shoes,' said she.

Ben looked for it upon the stairs, and he found it sticking in a loop of whipcord, which was entangled round one of the banisters. When this cord was drawn forth, it appeared that it was the very same jagged, entangled piece which Hal had pulled off his parcel. He had diverted himself with running up and down stairs, whipping the banisters with it, as he thought he could convert it to no better use; and, with his usual carelessness, he at last left it hanging just where he happened to throw it when the dinner-bell rang. Poor little Patty's ankle was terribly strained, and Hal reproached himself for his folly, and would have reproached himself longer, perhaps, if Lady Di Sweepstakes' sons had not hurried him away.

In the evening, Patty could not run about as she used to do; but she sat upon the sofa, and she said that she did not feel the pain of her ankle so much whilst Ben was so good as to play at Jack Straws with her.

'That's right, Ben; never be ashamed of being good-natured to those who are younger and weaker than yourself,' said his uncle, smiling at seeing him produce his whipcord to indulge his little cousin with a game at her favourite cat's-cradle. 'I shall not think you one bit less manly, because I see you playing at cat's-cradle with a little child of six years old.'

Hal, however, was not precisely of his uncle's opinion; for when he returned in the evening, and saw Ben playing with his little cousin, he could not help smiling contemptuously, and asked if he had been playing at cat's-cradle all night. In a heedless manner he made some inquiries after Patty's sprained ankle, and then he ran on to tell all the news he had heard at Lady Diana Sweepstakes'—news which he thought would make him appear a person of vast importance.

'Do you know, uncle—do you know, Ben,' said he, 'there's to be the most famous doings that ever were heard of upon the Downs here, the first day of next month, which will be in a fortnight, thank my stars? I wish the fortnight was over. I shall think of nothing else, I know, till that happy day comes.'

Mr. Gresham inquired why the first of September was to be so much happier than any other day in the year.

'Why,' replied Hal, 'Lady Diana Sweepstakes, you know, is a famous rider, and archer, and all that——'

'Very likely,' said Mr. Gresham soberly; 'but what then?'

'Dear uncle,' cried Hal, 'but you shall hear! There's to be a race upon the Downs on the first of September, and after the race there's to be an archery meeting for the ladies, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes is to be one of them. And after the ladies have done shooting—now, Ben, comes the best part of it!—we boys are to have our turn, and Lady Di is to give a prize to the best marksman amongst us of a very handsome bow and arrow. Do you know, I've been practising already, and I'll show you to-morrow, as soon as it comes home, the famous bow and arrow that Lady Diana has given me; but perhaps,' added he, with a scornful laugh, 'you like a cat's-cradle better than a bow and arrow.'

Ben made no reply to this taunt at the moment; but the next day, when Hal's new bow and arrow came home, he convinced him that he knew how to use it very well.

'Ben,' said his uncle, 'you seem to be a good marksman, though you have not boasted of yourself. I'll give you a bow and arrow, and perhaps, if you practise, you may make yourself an archer before the first of September; and, in the meantime, you will not wish the fortnight to be over, for you will have something to do.'

'Oh, sir,' interrupted Hal, 'but if you mean that Ben should put in for the prize, he must have a uniform.'

'Why must he?' said Mr. Gresham.

'Why, sir, because everybody has—I mean everybody that's anybody; and Lady Diana was talking about the uniform all dinner time, and it's settled, all about it, except the buttons. The young Sweepstakes are to get theirs made first for patterns. They are to be white, faced with green, and they'll look very handsome, I'm sure; and I shall write to mother to-night, as Lady Diana bid me, about mine, and I shall tell her to be sure to answer my letter without fail by return of post; and then, if mother makes no objection—which I know she won't, because she never thinks much about expense, and all that—then I shall bespeak my uniform, and get it made by the same tailor that makes for Lady Diana and the young Sweepstakes.'

'Mercy upon us!' said Mr. Gresham, who was almost stunned by the rapid vociferation with which this long speech about a uniform was pronounced. 'I don't pretend to understand these things,' added he, with an air of simplicity, 'but we will inquire, Ben, into the necessity of the case; and if it is necessary—or if you think it necessary that you shall have a uniform—why, I'll give you one.'

'You, uncle? Will you, indeed?' exclaimed Hal, with amazement painted in his countenance. 'Well, that's the last thing in the world I should have expected! You are not at all the sort of person I should have thought would care about a uniform; and now I should have supposed you'd have thought it extravagant to have a coat on purpose only for one day. And I'm sure Lady Diana Sweepstakes thought as I do, for when I told her of that motto over your kitchen chimney—"WASTE NOT, WANT NOT"—she laughed, and said that I had better not talk to you about uniforms, and that my mother was the proper person to write to about my uniform; but I'll tell Lady Diana, uncle, how good you are, and how much she was mistaken.'

'Take care how you do that,' said Mr. Gresham, 'for perhaps the lady was not mistaken.'

'Nay, did not you say just now you would give poor Ben a uniform?'

'I said I would if he thought it necessary to have one.'

'Oh, I'll answer for it he'll think it necessary,' said Hal, laughing, 'because it is necessary.'

'Allow him, at least, to judge for himself,' said Mr. Gresham.

'My dear uncle, but I assure you,' said Hal earnestly, 'there's no judging about the matter, because really, upon my word, Lady Diana said distinctly that her sons were to have uniforms—white, faced with green—and a green and white cockade in their hats.'

'May be so,' said Mr. Gresham, still with the same look of calm simplicity. 'Put on your hats, boys, and come with me. I know a gentleman whose sons are to be at this archery meeting, and we will inquire into all the particulars from him. Then, after we have seen him—it is not eleven o'clock yet—we shall have time enough to walk on to Bristol, and choose the cloth for Ben's uniform if it is necessary.'

'I cannot tell what to make of all he says,' whispered Hal, as he reached down his hat. 'Do you think, Ben, he means to give you this uniform or not?'

'I think,' said Ben, 'that he means to give me one if it is necessary; or, as he said, if I think it is necessary.'

'And that to be sure you will, won't you? or else you'll be a great fool, I know, after all I've told you. How can anyone in the world know so much about the matter as I, who have dined with Lady Diana Sweepstakes but yesterday, and heard all about it from beginning to end? And as for this gentleman that we are going to, I'm sure, if he knows anything about the matter, he'll say exactly the same as I do.'

'We shall hear,' said Ben, with a degree of composure which Hal could by no means comprehend when a uniform was in question.

The gentleman upon whom Mr. Gresham called had three sons who were all to be at this archery meeting, and they unanimously assured him, in the presence of Hal and Ben, that they had not thought of buying uniforms for this grand occasion, and that, amongst the number of their acquaintance, they knew of but three boys whose friends intended to be at such an unnecessary expense. Hal stood amazed.

'Such are the varieties of opinion upon all the grand affairs of life,' said Mr. Gresham, looking at his nephews. 'What amongst one set of people you hear asserted to be absolutely necessary, you will hear from another set of people is quite unnecessary. All that can be done, my dear boys, in these difficult cases, is to judge for yourselves which opinions and which people are the most reasonable.'

Hal, who had been more accustomed to think of what was fashionable than of what was reasonable, without at all considering the good sense of what his uncle said to him, replied with childish petulance:

'Indeed, sir, I don't know what other people think; but I only know what Lady Diana Sweepstakes said.'

The name of Lady Diana Sweepstakes, Hal thought, must impress all present with respect. He was highly astonished when, as he looked round, he saw a smile of contempt upon everyone's countenance; and he was yet further bewildered when he heard her spoken of as a very silly, extravagant, ridiculous woman, whose opinion no prudent person would ask upon any subject, and whose example was to be shunned instead of being imitated.

'Ay, my dear Hal,' said his uncle, smiling at his look of amazement, 'these are some of the things that young people must learn from experience. All the world do not agree in opinion about characters. You will hear the same person admired in one company and blamed in another; so that we must still come round to the same point—Judge for yourself.'

Hal's thoughts were, however, at present too full of the uniform to allow his judgment to act with perfect impartiality. As soon as their visit was over, and all the time they walked down the hill from Prince's Buildings towards Bristol, he continued to repeat nearly the same arguments which he had formerly used respecting necessity, the uniform, and Lady Diana Sweepstakes. To all this Mr. Gresham made no reply, and longer had the young gentleman expatiated upon the subject, which had so strongly seized upon his imagination, had not his senses been forcibly assailed at this instant by the delicious odours and tempting sight of certain cakes and jellies in a pastrycook's shop.

'Oh, uncle,' said he, as his uncle was going to turn the corner to pursue the road to Bristol, 'look at those jellies!' pointing to a confectioner's shop. 'I must buy some of those good things, for I have got some halfpence in my pocket.'

'Your having halfpence in your pocket is an excellent reason for eating,' said Mr. Gresham, smiling.

'But I really am hungry,' said Hal. 'You know, uncle, it is a good while since breakfast.'

His uncle, who was desirous to see his nephews act without restraint, that he might judge their characters, bid them do as they pleased.

'Come, then, Ben, if you've any halfpence in your pocket.'

'I'm not hungry,' said Ben.

'I suppose that means that you've no halfpence,' said Hal, laughing, with the look of superiority which he had been taught to think the rich might assume towards those who were convicted either of poverty or economy.

'Waste not, want not,' said Ben to himself.

Contrary to his cousin's surmise, he happened to have two pennyworth of halfpence actually in his pocket.

At the very moment Hal stepped into the pastrycook's shop a poor, industrious man with a wooden leg, who usually sweeps the dirty corner of the walk which turns at this spot to the Wells, held his hat to Ben, who, after glancing his eye at the petitioner's well-worn broom, instantly produced his twopence.

'I wish I had more halfpence for you, my good man,' said he; 'but I've only twopence.'

Hal came out of Mr. Millar's, the confectioner's shop, with a hatful of cakes in his hand. Mr. Millar's dog was sitting on the flags before the door, and he looked up with a wistful, begging eye at Hal, who was eating a queen-cake. Hal, who was wasteful even in his good-nature, threw a whole queen-cake to the dog, who swallowed it at a single mouthful.

'There goes twopence in the form of a queen-cake,' said Mr. Gresham.

Hal next offered some of his cakes to his uncle and cousin; but they thanked him, and refused to eat any, because, they said, they were not hungry; so he ate and ate as he walked along, till at last he stopped and said:

'This bun tastes so bad after the queen-cakes, I can't bear it!' and he was going to fling it from him into the river.

'Oh, it is a pity to waste that good bun; we may be glad of it yet,' said Ben. 'Give it me rather than throw it away.'

'Why, I thought you said you were not hungry,' said Hal.

'True, I am not hungry now; but that is no reason why I should never be hungry again.'

'Well, there is the cake for you. Take it, for it has made me sick, and I don't care what becomes of it.'

Ben folded the refuse bit of his cousin's bun in a piece of paper, and put it into his pocket.

'I'm beginning to be exceeding tired or sick or something,' said Hal; 'and as there is a stand of coaches somewhere hereabouts, had we not better take a coach, instead of walking all the way to Bristol?'

'For a stout archer,' said Mr. Gresham, 'you are more easily tired than one might have expected. However, with all my heart, let us take a coach, for Ben asked me to show him the cathedral yesterday; and I believe I should find it rather too much for me to walk so far, though I am not sick with eating good things.'

'The cathedral!' said Hal, after he had been seated in the coach about a quarter of an hour, and had somewhat recovered from his sickness—'the cathedral! Why, are we only going to Bristol to see the cathedral? I thought we came out to see about a uniform.'

There was a dulness and melancholy kind of stupidity in Hal's countenance as he pronounced these words, like one wakening from a dream, which made both his uncle and his cousin burst out a-laughing.

'Why,' said Hal, who was now piqued, 'I'm sure you did say, uncle, you would go to Mr. Hall's to choose the cloth for the uniform.'

'Very true, and so I will,' said Mr. Gresham; 'but we need not make a whole morning's work, need we, of looking at a piece of cloth? Cannot we see a uniform and a cathedral both in one morning?'

They went first to the cathedral. Hal's head was too full of the uniform to take any notice of the painted window, which immediately caught Ben's embarrassed attention. He looked at the large stained figures on the Gothic window, and he observed their coloured shadows on the floor and walls.

Mr. Gresham, who perceived that he was eager on all subjects to gain information, took this opportunity of telling him several things about the lost art of painting on glass, Gothic arches, etc., which Hal thought extremely tiresome.

'Come, come, we shall be late indeed!' said Hal. 'Surely you've looked long enough, Ben, at this blue and red window.'

'I'm only thinking about these coloured shadows,' said Ben.

'I can show you when we go home, Ben,' said his uncle, 'an entertaining paper upon such shadows.'[A]

'Hark!' cried Ben; 'did you hear that noise?'

They all listened, and they heard a bird singing in the cathedral.

'It's our old robin, sir,' said the lad who had opened the cathedral door for them.

'Yes,' said Mr. Gresham, 'there he is, boys—look—perched upon the organ; he often sits there, and sings whilst the organ is playing.'

'And,' continued the lad who showed the cathedral, 'he has lived here these many, many winters. They say he is fifteen years old; and he is so tame, poor fellow! that if I had a bit of bread he'd come down and feed in my hand.'

'I've a bit of bun here,' cried Ben joyfully, producing the remains of the bun which Hal but an hour before would have thrown away. 'Pray, let us see the poor robin eat out of your hand.'

The lad crumbled the bun and called to the robin, who fluttered and chirped and seemed rejoiced at the sight of the bread; but yet he did not come down from his pinnacle on the organ.

'He is afraid of us,' said Ben; 'he is not used to eat before strangers, I suppose.'

'Ah, no, sir,' said the young man, with a deep sigh, 'that is not the thing. He is used enough to eat afore company. Time was he'd have come down for me before ever so many fine folks, and have eat his crumbs out of my hand at my first call; but, poor fellow! it's not his fault now. He does not know me now, sir, since my accident, because of this great black patch.'

The young man put his hand to his right eye, which was covered with a huge black patch. Ben asked what accident he meant; and the lad told him that, but a few weeks ago, he had lost the sight of his eye by the stroke of a stone, which reached him as he was passing under the rocks at Clifton, unluckily when the workmen were blasting.

'I don't mind so much for myself, sir,' said the lad; 'but I can't work so well now, as I used to do before my accident, for my old mother, who has had a stroke of the palsy; and I've a many little brothers and sisters not well able yet to get their own livelihood, though they be as willing as willing can be.'

'Where does your mother live?' said Mr. Gresham.

'Hard by, sir, just close to the church here. It was her that always had the showing of it to strangers, till she lost the use of her poor limbs.'

'Shall we, may we, uncle, go that way? This is the house, is it not?' said Ben, when they went out of the cathedral.

They went into the house. It was rather a hovel than a house; but, poor as it was, it was as neat as misery could make it. The old woman was sitting up in her wretched bed, winding worsted; four meagre, ill-clothed, pale children were all busy, some of them sticking pins in paper for the pin-maker, and others sorting rags for the paper-maker.

'What a horrid place it is!' said Hal, sighing; 'I did not know there were such shocking places in the world. I've often seen terrible-looking, tumble-down places, as we drove through the town in mother's carriage; but then I did not know who lived in them, and I never saw the inside of any of them. It is very dreadful, indeed, to think that people are forced to live in this way. I wish mother would send me some more pocket-money, that I might do something for them. I had half a crown; but,' continued he, feeling in his pockets, 'I'm afraid I spent the last shilling of it this morning upon those cakes that made me sick. I wish I had my shilling now; I'd give it to these poor people.'

Ben, though he was all this time silent, was as sorry as his talkative cousin for all these poor people. But there was some difference between the sorrow of these two boys.

Hal, after he was again seated in the hackney-coach, and had rattled through the busy streets of Bristol for a few minutes, quite forgot the spectacle of misery which he had seen, and the gay shops in Wine Street and the idea of his green and white uniform wholly occupied his imagination.

'Now for our uniforms!' cried he, as he jumped eagerly out of the coach, when his uncle stopped at the woollen-draper's door.

'Uncle,' said Ben, stopping Mr. Gresham before he got out of the carriage, 'I don't think a uniform is at all necessary for me. I'm very much obliged to you, but I would rather not have one. I have a very good coat, and I think it would be waste.'

'Well, let me get out of the carriage, and we will see about it,' said Mr. Gresham. 'Perhaps the sight of the beautiful green and white cloth, and the epaulette—have you ever considered the epaulettes?—may tempt you to change your mind.'

'Oh, no,' said Ben, laughing; 'I shall not change my mind.'

The green cloth and the white cloth and the epaulettes were produced, to Hal's infinite satisfaction. His uncle took up a pen, and calculated for a few minutes. Then showing the back of the letter upon which he was writing to his nephews:

'Cast up these sums, boys,' said he, 'and tell me whether I am right.'

'Ben, do you do it,' said Hal, a little embarrassed; 'I am not quick at figures.'

Ben was, and he went over his uncle's calculation very expeditiously.

'It is right, is it?' said Mr. Gresham.

'Yes, sir, quite right.'

'Then, by this calculation I find I could, for less than half the money your uniforms would cost, purchase for each of you boys a warm greatcoat, which you will want, I have a notion, this winter upon the downs.'

'Oh, sir,' said Hal with an alarmed look, 'but it is not winter yet; it is not cold weather yet. We shan't want greatcoats yet.'

'Don't you remember how cold we were, Hal, the day before yesterday, in that sharp wind, when we were flying our kite upon the downs? and winter will come, though it is not come yet. I am sure I should like to have a good warm greatcoat very much.'

Mr. Gresham took six guineas out of his purse; and he placed three of them before Hal and three before Ben.

'Young gentlemen,' said he, 'I believe your uniforms would come to about three guineas apiece. Now I will lay out this money for you just as you please. Hal, what say you?'

'Why, sir,' said Hal, 'a greatcoat is a good thing, to be sure; and then, after the greatcoat, as you said it would only cost half as much as the uniform, there would be some money to spare, would not there?'

'Yes, my dear, about five-and-twenty shillings.'

'Five-and-twenty shillings? I could buy and do a great many things, to be sure, with five-and-twenty shillings; but then, the thing is, I must go without the uniform if I have the greatcoat.'

'Certainly,' said his uncle.

'Ah!' said Hal, sighing, as he looked at the epaulette, 'uncle, if you would not be displeased if I choose the uniform——'

'I shall not be displeased at your choosing whatever you like best,' said Mr. Gresham.

'Well, then, thank you, sir,' said Hal, 'I think I had better have the uniform, because, if I have not the uniform now directly, it will be of no use to me, as the archery meeting is the week after next, you know; and as to the greatcoat, perhaps between this time and the very cold weather, which perhaps won't be till Christmas, father will buy a greatcoat for me; and I'll ask mother to give me some pocket-money to give away, and she will, perhaps.'

To all this conclusive, conditional reasoning, which depended upon the word perhaps, three times repeated, Mr. Gresham made no reply; but he immediately bought the uniform for Hal, and desired that it should be sent to Lady Diana Sweepstakes' sons' tailor to be made up. The measure of Hal's happiness was now complete.

'And how am I to lay out the three guineas for you, Ben?' said Mr. Gresham. 'Speak; what do you wish for first?'

'A greatcoat, uncle, if you please.'

Mr. Gresham bought the coat, and after it was paid for five-and-twenty shillings of Ben's three guineas remained.

'What next, my boy?' said his uncle.

'Arrows, uncle, if you please—three arrows.'

'My dear, I promised you a bow and arrows.'

'No, uncle, you only said a bow.'

'Well, I meant a bow and arrows. I'm glad you are so exact, however. It is better to claim less than more than what is promised. The three arrows you shall have. But go on. How shall I dispose of these five-and-twenty shillings for you?'

'In clothes, if you will be so good, uncle, for that poor boy who has the great black patch on his eye.'

'I always believed,' said Mr. Gresham, shaking hands with Ben, 'that economy and generosity were the best friends, instead of being enemies, as some silly, extravagant people would have us think them. Choose the poor, blind boy's coat, my dear nephew, and pay for it. There's no occasion for my praising you about the matter. Your best reward is in your own mind, child; and you want no other, or I'm mistaken. Now jump into the coach, boys, and let's be off. We shall be late, I'm afraid,' continued he, as the coach drove on; 'but I must let you stop, Ben, with your goods, at the poor boy's door.'

When they came to the house, Mr. Gresham opened the coach door, and Ben jumped out with his parcel under his arm.

'Stay, stay! you must take me with you,' said his pleased uncle; 'I like to see people made happy as well as you do.'

'And so do I, too,' said Hal. 'Let me come with you. I almost wish my uniform was not gone to the tailor's, so I do.' And when he saw the look of delight and gratitude with which the poor boy received the clothes which Ben gave him, and when he heard the mother and children thank him, Hal sighed, and said: 'Well, I hope mother will give me some more pocket-money soon.'

Upon his return home, however, the sight of the famous bow and arrow, which Lady Diana Sweepstakes had sent him, recalled to his imagination all the joys of his green-and-white uniform, and he no longer wished that it had not been sent to the tailor's.

'But I don't understand, Cousin Hal,' said little Patty, 'why you call this bow a famous bow. You say famous very often, and I don't know exactly what it means—a famous uniform, famous doings. I remember you said there are to be famous doings, the first of September, upon the Downs. What does famous mean?'

'Oh, why famous means—now, don't you know what famous means? It means—it is a word that people say—it is the fashion to say it—it means—it means famous.'

Patty laughed, and said:

'This does not explain it to me.'

'No,' said Hal, 'nor can it be explained. If you don't understand it, that's not my fault. Everybody but little children, I suppose, understands it; but there's no explaining those sort of words, if you don't take them at once. There's to be famous doings upon the Downs, the first of September—that is grand, fine. In short, what does it signify talking any longer, Patty, about the matter? Give me my bow, for I must go out upon the Downs and practise.'

Ben accompanied him with the bow and the three arrows which his uncle had now given to him, and every day these two boys went out upon the Downs and practised shooting with indefatigable perseverance. Where equal pains are taken, success is usually found to be pretty nearly equal. Our two archers, by constant practice, became expert marksmen; and before the day of trial they were so exactly matched in point of dexterity that it was scarcely possible to decide which was superior.

The long-expected first of September at length arrived. 'What sort of a day is it?' was the first question that was asked by Hal and Ben the moment that they awakened. The sun shone bright, but there was a sharp and high wind.

'Ha!' said Ben, 'I shall be glad of my good greatcoat to-day, for I've a notion it will be rather cold upon the Downs, especially when we are standing still, as we must, whilst all the people are shooting.'

'Oh, never mind. I don't think I shall feel it cold at all,' said Hal, as he dressed himself in his new green-and-white uniform; and he viewed himself with much complacency. 'Good-morning to you, uncle. How do you do?' said he, in a voice of exultation, when he entered the breakfast-room.

'How do you do?' seemed rather to mean, 'How do you like me in my uniform?' and his uncle's cool, 'Very well, I thank you, Hal,' disappointed him, as it seemed only to say, 'Your uniform makes no difference in my opinion of you.'

Even little Patty went on eating her breakfast much as usual, and talked of the pleasure of walking with her father to the Downs, and of all the little things which interested her, so that Hal's epaulettes were not the principal object in anyone's imagination but his own.

'Father,' said Patty, 'as we go up the hill where there is so much red mud I must take care to pick my way nicely, and I must hold up my frock, as you desired me, and perhaps you will be so good, if I am not troublesome, to lift me over the very bad place where are no stepping-stones. My ankle is entirely well, and I'm glad of that, or else I should not be able to walk so far as the Downs. How good you were to me, Ben, when I was in pain the day I sprained my ankle! You played at jack straws and at cat's-cradle with me. Oh, that puts me in mind! Here are your gloves which I asked you that night to let me mend. I've been a great while about them, but are not they very neatly mended, father? Look at the sewing.'

'I am not a very good judge of sewing, my dear little girl,' said Mr. Gresham, examining the work with a close and scrupulous eye; 'but, in my opinion, here is one stitch that is rather too long. The white teeth are not quite even.'

'Oh, father, I'll take out that long tooth in a minute,' said Patty, laughing. 'I did not think that you would observe it so soon.'

'I would not have you trust to my blindness,' said her father, stroking her head fondly; 'I observe everything. I observe, for instance, that you are a grateful little girl, and that you are glad to be of use to those who have been kind to you, and for this I forgive you the long stitch.'

'But it's out—it's out, father,' said Patty; 'and the next time your gloves want mending, Ben, I'll mend them better.'

'They are very nice, I think,' said Ben, drawing them on, 'and I am much obliged to you. I was just wishing I had a pair of gloves to keep my fingers warm to-day, for I never can shoot well when my hands are benumbed. Look, Hal; you know how ragged these gloves were. You said they were good for nothing but to throw away. Now look, there's not a hole in them,' said he, spreading his fingers.

'Now, is it not very extraordinary,' said Hal to himself, 'that they should go on so long talking about an old pair of gloves, without saying scarcely a word about my new uniform? Well, the young Sweepstakes and Lady Diana will talk enough about it, that's one comfort. Is not it time to think of setting out, sir?' said Hal to his uncle. 'The company, you know, are to meet at the Ostrich at twelve, and the race to begin at one, and Lady Diana's horses, I know, were ordered to be at the door at ten.'

Mr. Stephen, the butler, here interrupted the hurrying young gentleman in his calculations.

'There's a poor lad, sir, below, with a great black patch on his right eye, who is come from Bristol, and wants to speak a word with the young gentlemen, if you please. I told him they were just going out with you, but he says he won't detain them more than half a minute.'

'Show him up—show him up,' said Mr. Gresham.

'But I suppose,' said Hal, with a sigh, 'that Stephen mistook when he said the young gentlemen. He only wants to see Ben, I dare say. I'm sure he has no reason to want to see me. Here he comes. Oh, Ben, he is dressed in the new coat you gave him,' whispered Hal, who was really a good-natured boy, though extravagant. 'How much better he looks than he did in the ragged coat! Ah, he looked at you first, Ben, and well he may!'

The boy bowed, without any cringing civility, but with an open, decent freedom in his manner, which expressed that he had been obliged, but that he knew his young benefactor was not thinking of the obligation. He made as little distinction as possible between his bows to the two cousins.

'As I was sent with a message by the clerk of our parish to Redland Chapel out on the Downs to-day, sir,' said he to Mr. Gresham, 'knowing your house lay in my way, my mother, sir, bid me call, and make bold to offer the young gentlemen two little worsted balls that she has worked for them,' continued the lad, pulling out of his pocket two worsted balls worked in green and orange-coloured stripes. 'They are but poor things, sir, she bid me say, to look at; but, considering she has but one hand to work with, and that her left hand, you'll not despise 'em, we hopes.' He held the balls to Ben and Hal. 'They are both alike, gentlemen,' said he. 'If you'll be pleased to take 'em. They're better than they look, for they bound higher than your head. I cut the cork round for the inside myself, which was all I could do.'

'They are nice balls, indeed. We are much obliged to you,' said the boys as they received them, and they proved them immediately.

The balls struck the floor with a delightful sound, and rebounded higher than Mr. Gresham's head. Little Patty clapped her hands joyfully. But now a thundering double rap at the door was heard.

'The Master Sweepstakes, sir,' said Stephen, 'are come for Master Hal. They say that all the young gentlemen who have archery uniforms are to walk together in a body, I think they say, sir; and they are to parade along the Well Walk, they desired me to say, sir, with a drum and fife, and so up the hill by Prince's Place, and all to go upon the Downs together to the place of meeting. I am not sure I'm right, sir, for both the young gentlemen spoke at once, and the wind is very high at the street door, so that I could not well make out all they said, but I believe this is the sense of it.'

'Yes, yes,' said Hal eagerly, 'it's all right. I know that is just what was settled the day I dined at Lady Diana's, and Lady Diana and a great party of gentlemen are to ride——'

'Well, that is nothing to the purpose,' interrupted Mr. Gresham. 'Don't keep these Master Sweepstakes waiting. Decide. Do you choose to go with them or with us?'

'Sir—uncle—sir, you know, since all the uniforms agreed to go together——'

'Off with you, then, Mr. Uniform, if you mean to go,' said Mr. Gresham.

Hal ran downstairs in such a hurry that he forgot his bow and arrows. Ben discovered this when he went to fetch his own, and the lad from Bristol, who had been ordered by Mr. Gresham to eat his breakfast before he proceeded to Redland Chapel, heard Ben talking about his cousin's bow and arrows.

'I know,' said Ben, 'he will be sorry not to have his bow with him, because here are the green knots tied to it to match his cockade; and he said that the boys were all to carry their bows as part of the show.'

'If you'll give me leave, sir,' said the poor Bristol lad, 'I shall have plenty of time, and I'll run down to the Well Walk after the young gentleman, and take him his bow and arrows.'

'Will you? I shall be much obliged to you,' said Ben; and away went the boy with the bow that was ornamented with green ribands.

The public walk leading to the Wells was full of company. The windows of all the houses in St. Vincent's Parade were crowded with well-dressed ladies, who were looking out in expectation of the archery procession. Parties of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley crowd of spectators, were seen moving backwards and forwards under the rocks on the opposite side of the water. A barge, with coloured streamers flying, was waiting to take up a party who were going upon the water. The bargemen rested upon their oars, and gazed with broad faces of curiosity upon the busy scene that appeared upon the public walk.

The archers and archeresses were now drawn up on the flags under the semicircular piazza just before Mrs. Yearsley's library. A little band of children, who had been mustered by Lady Diana Sweepstakes' spirited exertions, closed the procession. They were now all in readiness. The drummer only waited for her ladyship's signal, and the archers' corps only waited for her ladyship's word of command to march.

'Where are your bow and arrows, my little man?' said her ladyship to Hal, as she reviewed her Lilliputian regiment. 'You can't march, man, without your arms.'

Hal had despatched a messenger for his forgotten bow, but the messenger returned not. He looked from side to side in great distress.

'Oh, there's my bow coming, I declare!' cried he. 'Look, I see the bow and the ribands. Look now, between the trees, Charles Sweepstakes, on the Hotwell Walk—it is coming!'

'But you've kept us all waiting a confounded time!' said his impatient friend.

'It is that good-natured poor fellow from Bristol, I protest, that has brought it me. I'm sure I don't deserve it from him,' said Hal to himself, when he saw the lad with the black patch on his eye running, quite out of breath, towards him with his bow and arrows.

'Fall back, my good friend—fall back,' said the military lady, as soon as he had delivered the bow to Hal; 'I mean, stand out of the way, for your great patch cuts no figure amongst us. Don't follow so close, now, as if you belonged to us, pray.'

The poor boy had no ambition to partake the triumph; he fell back as soon as he understand the meaning of the lady's words. The drum beat, the fife played, the archers marched, the spectators admired. Hal stepped proudly, and felt as if the eyes of the whole universe were upon his epaulettes, or upon the facings of his uniform; whilst all the time he was considered only as part of a show.

The walk appeared much shorter than usual, and he was extremely sorry that Lady Diana, when they were half-way up the hill leading to Prince's Place, mounted her horse because the road was dirty, and all the gentlemen and ladies who accompanied her followed her example.

'We can leave the children to walk, you know,' said she to the gentleman who helped her to mount her horse. 'I must call to some of them, though, and leave orders where they are to join.'

She beckoned, and Hal, who was foremost, and proud to show his alacrity, ran on to receive her ladyship's orders. Now, as we have before observed, it was a sharp and windy day; and though Lady Diana Sweepstakes was actually speaking to him, and looking at him, he could not prevent his nose from wanting to be blowed. He pulled out his handkerchief, and out rolled the new ball which had been given to him just before he left home, and which, according to his usual careless habits, he had stuffed into his pocket in his hurry.

'Oh, my new ball!' cried he, as he ran after it.

As he stopped to pick it up, he let go his hat, which he had hitherto held on with anxious care; for the hat, though it had a fine green and white cockade, had no band or string round it. The string, as we may recollect, our wasteful hero had used in spinning his top. The hat was too large for his head without this band; a sudden gust of wind blew it off. Lady Diana's horse started and reared. She was a famous horsewoman, and sat him to the admiration of all beholders; but there was a puddle of red clay and water in this spot, and her ladyship's uniform habit was a sufferer by the accident.

'Careless brat!' said she; 'why can't he keep his hat upon his head?'

In the meantime, the wind blew the hat down the hill, and Hal ran after it amidst the laughter of his kind friends, the young Sweepstakes, and the rest of the little regiment. The hat was lodged at length upon a bank. Hal pursued it; he thought this bank was hard, but, alas! the moment he set his foot upon it the foot sank. He tried to draw it back; his other foot slipped, and he fell prostrate, in his green and white uniform, into the treacherous bed of red mud. His companions, who had halted upon the top of the hill, stood laughing spectators of his misfortune.

It happened that the poor boy with the black patch upon his eye, who had been ordered by Lady Diana to 'fall back,' and to 'keep at a distance,' was now coming up the hill, and the moment he saw our fallen hero he hastened to his assistance. He dragged poor Hal, who was a deplorable spectacle, out of the red mud. The obliging mistress of a lodging-house, as soon as she understood that the young gentleman was nephew to Mr. Gresham, to whom she had formerly let her house, received Hal, covered as he was with dirt.

The poor Bristol lad hastened to Mr. Gresham's for clean stockings and shoes for Hal. He was willing to give up his uniform. It was rubbed and rubbed, and a spot here and there was washed out; and he kept continually repeating: 'When it's dry it will all brush off; when it's dry it will all brush off, won't it?' But soon the fear of being too late at the archery meeting began to balance the dread of appearing in his stained habiliments; and now he as anxiously repeated, whilst the woman held the wet coat to the fire: 'Oh, I shall be too late! indeed, I shall be too late! Make haste; it will never dry! Hold it nearer—nearer to the fire. I shall lose my turn to shoot. Oh, give me the coat! I don't mind how it is, if I can but get it on.'

Holding it nearer and nearer to the fire dried it quickly, to be sure; but it shrank it also, so that it was no easy matter to get the coat on again. However, Hal, who did not see the red splashes which, in spite of all these operations, were too visible upon his shoulders and upon the skirts of his white coat behind, was pretty well satisfied to observe that there was not one spot upon the facings.

'Nobody,' said he, 'will take notice of my coat behind, I dare say. I think it looks as smart almost as ever!' and under this persuasion our young archer resumed his bow—his bow with green ribands now no more—and he pursued his way to the Downs.

All his companions were far out of sight.

'I suppose,' said he to his friend with the black patch—'I suppose my uncle and Ben had left home before you went for the shoes and stockings for me?'

'Oh, yes, sir; the butler said they had been gone to the Downs the matter of a good half-hour or more.'

Hal trudged on as fast as he possibly could. When he got upon the Downs, he saw numbers of carriages and crowds of people all going towards the place of meeting at the Ostrich. He pressed forwards. He was at first so much afraid of being late that he did not take notice of the mirth his motley appearance excited in all beholders. At length he reached the appointed spot. There was a great crowd of people. In the midst he heard Lady Diana's loud voice betting upon some one who was just going to shoot at the mark.

'So then the shooting is begun, is it?' said Hal. 'Oh, let me in! pray let me in to the circle! I'm one of the archers—I am indeed; don't you see my green and white uniform?'

'Your red and white uniform, you mean,' said the man to whom he addressed himself; and the people, as they opened a passage for him, could not refrain laughing at the mixture of dirt and finery which it exhibited. In vain, when he got into the midst of the formidable circle, he looked to his friends, the young Sweepstakes, for their countenance and support. They were amongst the most unmerciful of the laughers. Lady Diana also seemed more to enjoy than to pity his confusion.

'Why could you not keep your hat upon your head, man?' said she in her masculine tone. 'You have been almost the ruin of my poor uniform habit; but I've escaped rather better than you have. Don't stand there, in the middle of the circle, or you'll have an arrow in your eyes just now, I've a notion.'

Hal looked round in search of better friends.

'Oh, where's my uncle? Where's Ben?' said he.

He was in such confusion that, amongst the number of faces, he could scarcely distinguish one from another; but he felt somebody at this moment pull his elbow, and, to his great relief, he heard the friendly voice and saw the good-natured face of his cousin Ben.

'Come back—come behind these people,' said Ben, 'and put on my greatcoat; here it is for you.'

Right glad was Hal to cover his disgraced uniform with the rough greatcoat which he had formerly despised. He pulled the stained, drooping cockade out of his unfortunate hat; and he was now sufficiently recovered from his vexation to give an intelligible account of his accident to his uncle and Patty, who anxiously inquired what had detained him so long, and what had been the matter. In the midst of the history of his disaster, he was just proving to Patty that his taking the hatband to spin his top had nothing to do with his misfortune, and he was at the same time endeavouring to refute his uncle's opinion that the waste of the whipcord that tied the parcel was the original cause of all his evils, when he was summoned to try his skill with his famous bow.

'My hands are benumbed; I can scarcely feel,' said he, rubbing them and blowing upon the ends of his fingers.

'Come, come,' cried young Sweepstakes, 'I'm within one inch of the mark; who'll go nearer? I shall like to see. Shoot away, Hal! But first understand our laws; we settled them before you came upon the green. You are to have three shots with your own bow and your own arrows; and nobody's to borrow or lend under pretence of other's bows being better or worse, or under under any pretence. Do you hear, Hal?'

This young gentleman had good reasons for being so strict in these laws, as he had observed that none of his companions had such an excellent bow as he had provided for himself. Some of the boys had forgotten to bring more than one arrow with them, and by his cunning regulation that each person should shoot with his own arrows, many had lost one or two of their shots.

'You are a lucky fellow; you have your three arrows,' said young Sweepstakes. 'Come, we can't wait whilst you rub your fingers, man; shoot away.'

Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke. He little knew how easily acquaintance who call themselves friends can change when their interest comes in the slightest degree in competition with their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and with his hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes' mark, which was the nearest that had yet been hit. Hal seized his second arrow.

'If I have any luck——' said he.

But just as he pronounced the word luck, and as he bent his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands.

'There, it's all over with you!' cried Master Sweepstakes, with a triumphant laugh.

'Here's my bow for him, and welcome,' said Ben.

'No, no, sir,' said Master Sweepstakes, 'that is not fair; that's against the regulations. You may shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must not lend it, sir.'

It was now Ben's turn to make his trial. His first arrow was not successful. His second was exactly as near as Hal's first.

'You have but one more,' said Master Sweepstakes; 'now for it!'



Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string of his bow; and, as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked. Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands, with loud exultations and insulting laughter. But his laughter ceased when our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whipcord.

'The everlasting whipcord, I declare!' exclaimed Hal, when he saw that it was the very same that had tied up the parcel.

'Yes,' said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, 'I put it into my pocket to-day on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it.'

He drew his bow the third and last time.

'Oh, father,' cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, 'it's the nearest! Is it not the nearest?'

Master Sweepstakes with anxiety examined the hit. There could be no doubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to him; and Hal, as he looked at the whipcord, exclaimed:

'How lucky this whipcord has been to you, Ben!'

'It is lucky, perhaps, you mean, that he took care of it,' said Mr. Gresham.

'Ay,' said Hal, 'very true; he might well say, "Waste not, want not." It is a good thing to have two strings to one's bow.'

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Vide Priestley's 'History of Vision,' chapter on coloured shadows.



The Bunch of Cherries

On the first day of May, Madame de Clinville, the widow of a Notary of Paris, conducted her daughter, fourteen years of age, to the delightful garden of the Tuileries, there to breathe the pure air of spring and the sweet perfumes from its flowers. In passing through the walks leading to the royal palace, the young lady's attention was attracted by one of the shops, supplied with the choicest and most rare fruits; among which was a bunch of cherries, arranged with so much taste, and so prettily intermixed with fresh green leaves, that she could not forbear expressing to her mother her anxious desire to have those cherries, notwithstanding she could foresee at that season they must be extravagantly dear. Madame de Clinville, who never denied her daughter anything, and who was in general very plain and moderate in her inclinations, purchased the bunch of cherries, although dear, and proceeded with her dear Emmelina—her daughter's name—to the Tuileries.

Having surveyed the beautiful walks of this truly enchanted place, they seated themselves on chairs under the shade of a large chestnut tree. It was scarcely ten o'clock in the morning, the hour most agreeable for walking, and frequently the most retired, as the fashionables of Paris seldom make their appearance before three or four o'clock, and in a deshabille that bespeaks them just arisen from their beds, as if to behold the sun for the first time. As such, Madame de Clinville and her daughter met with very little company.