The novelty, however, of her appearance quite enchanted her. Her eyes, with uncommon eagerness, wandered over every part of her dress, and were seldom removed, unless to take a general survey of the whole in a pier glass. She prevailed on her mamma to let her send cards of invitation to all her acquaintances, in order to enjoy the inexpressible pleasure of being gazed at. As soon as they were met, she would walk backwards and forwards before them, like a peacock, and seemed to consider herself as the empress of the world, and they as her vassals.

All this triumph and consequence, however, met with many mortifying circumstances. The children who lived near her were one day permitted to ramble about the fields, when Caroline accompanied them, and led the way. What first attracted their attention was a beautiful meadow, enamelled with a variety of charming flowers; and butterflies, whose wings were of various colours, hovered over its surface. The little ladies amused themselves with hunting these butterflies, which they dexterously caught without hurting them; and, as soon as they had examined their beauties, let them fly again. Of the flowers that sprung beneath their feet they made nosegays, formed in the prettiest taste.

Though pride would not at first permit Miss Caroline to partake of these mean amusements, yet she at last wanted to share in the diversion; but they told her that the ground might be damp, which would infallibly stain her shoes, and hurt her silk slip. They had discovered her intention in thus bringing them together, which was only to show her fine clothes, and they were therefore resolved to mortify her vanity.

Miss Caroline was of course under the necessity of being solitary and inactive, while her companions sported on the grass, without fear of incommoding themselves. The pleasure she had lately taken in viewing her fine slip and shoes was, at this moment, but a poor compensation for the mirth and merriment she thereby lost.

On one side of the meadow grew a fine grove of trees, which resounded with the various notes of innumerable birds, and which seemed to invite every one that passed that way to retire thither, and partake of the indulgences of the shade. The little maidens entered this grove, jumping and sporting, without fearing any injury to their clothes. Miss Caroline would have followed them, but they advised her not, telling her, that the bushes would certainly tear her fine trimmings. She plainly saw that her friends, who were joyously sporting among the trees, were making themselves merry at her expense, and therefore grew peevish and ill-humoured.

The youngest of her visitors, however, had some sort of compassion on her. She had just discovered a corner, where a quantity of fine wild strawberries grew, when she called to Miss Caroline, and invited her to eat part of them. This she readily attempted; but no sooner had she entered the grove, than she was obliged to call out for help. Hereupon the children all gathered to the spot, and found poor Caroline fastened by the gauze of her hat to a branch of white-thorn, from which she could not disengage herself. They immediately took out the pins that fastened her hat; but, to add to her misfortunes, as her hair, which had been frizzed with so much labour, was also entangled with the branch of white-thorn, it cost her almost a whole lock before she could be set at liberty. Thus, in an instant, was all the boasted superstructure of her head-dress put into a state of confusion.

After what had passed, it cannot be difficult to suppose in what manner her playmates viewed this accident. Instead of consolation, of which Caroline stood in much need, they could not refrain laughing at the odd figure she made, and did actually torment her with a hundred witty jokes. After having put her a little into order, they quitted her in search of new amusements, and were soon seen at the top of a neighbouring hill.

Miss Caroline found it very difficult to reach this hill; for her fine shoes, that were made very tight, in order to set off her feet the better, greatly retarded her speed. Nor was this the only inconvenience; for her stays were drawn so close, that she could not properly breathe. She would very willingly have gone home to change her dress, in order to be more at ease; but she well knew that her friends would not give up their amusements to please her caprice.

Her playmates having reached the summit of the hill, enjoyed the beautiful prospect that surrounded them on all sides. On one hand were seen verdant meadows; on the other the riches of the harvest, with meandering streams that intersected the fields, and country seats and cottages scattered here and there. So grand a prospect could not fail of delighting them, and they danced about with joy; while poor Caroline found herself obliged to remain below, overwhelmed with sorrow, not being able to get up the hill.

In such a situation, she had leisure enough to make the most sorrowful reflections. "To what purpose," said she to herself, "am I dressed in these fine clothes? Of what a deal of pleasure do they debar me; and do not all my present sufferings arise merely from the possession of them?" She was giving up her mind to these distressing thoughts, when she suddenly saw her friends come running down the hill, and all crying out together as they passed her. "Run, run, Caroline! there is a terrible storm behind the hill, and it is coming towards us: if you do not make haste, your fine silk slip will be nicely soused!"

The fear of having her slip spoiled, recalled her strength; she forgot her weariness, pinched feet, and tight-laced waist, and made all the haste she could to get under cover. In spite of all her efforts, however, she could not run so fast as her companions, who were not incommoded by their dresses. Every moment produced some obstacle to her speed; at one time by her hoop and flounces, in the narrow paths she had to pass through; at another, by her train, of which the furzes frequently took hold; and at others by Mons. Pomatum and Powder's fine scaffold work about her head, on which the wind beat down the branches of such trees as she was obliged, in her progress home, to pass under.

At last, down came the storm with great fury, and hail and rain, mixed, fell in torrents. All her companions were safe at home before it began; and none were exposed to its rage but poor Caroline, who, indeed, got home at last, but in a most disastrous condition. She had left one of her fine shoes behind her in a large muddy hole, which in her precipitate flight, she had hurried over without observing; and, to fill up the measure of her misfortunes, just as she had got over the meadow, a sudden gust of wind made free with her hat, and blew it into a pond of stagnated and filthy water.

So completely soaked was every thing she had on, and the heat and rain had so glued her linen to her, that it was with some difficulty they got her undressed; as to her silk slip, it indeed afforded a miserable spectacle of fallen pride and vanity.

Her mother, seeing her in tears, jocosely said to her, "My dear, shall I have another slip made up for you against to-morrow?"—"Oh no, mamma," answered Caroline, kissing her, "I am perfectly convinced, from experience, that fine clothes cannot add to the happiness of the wearer. Let me again have my nice white frock, and no more powder and pomatum till I am at least ten years older; for I am ashamed of my folly and vanity."

Caroline soon appeared in her former dress, and with it she recovered her usual ease and freedom, looking more modest and pleasing than she ever did in her gaudy finery. Her mamma did not regret the loss she had sustained in the wreck of the slip, fine shoes, and hat, since it produced the means of bringing her daughter back to reason and prudence.



ARTHUR AND ADRIAN; OR TWO HEADS

BETTER THAN ONE.



Adrian had frequently heard his father say, that children had but little knowledge with respect to what was the most proper for them; and, that the greatest proof they could give of their wisdom, consisted in following the advice of people who had more age and experience. This was a kind of doctrine Adrian did not understand, or at least would not, and therefore it is no wonder he forgot it.

This wise and good father had allotted him and his brother Arthur a convenient piece of ground, in order that each might be possessed of a little garden, and display his knowledge and industry in the cultivation of it. They had also leave to sow whatever seed they should think proper, and to transplant any tree they liked out of their father's garden into their own.

Arthur remembered those words of his father which his brother Adrian had forgotten, and therefore went to consult their gardener, Rufus. "Pray tell me," said he, "what is now in season to sow in my garden, and in what manner I am to set about my business." The gardener hereupon gave him several roots and seeds, such as were properest for the season. Arthur instantly ran and put them in the ground; and Rufus very kindly not only assisted him in the work, but made him acquainted with many things necessary to be known.

Adrian, on the other hand, shrugged up his shoulders at his brother's industry, thinking he was taking much more pains than was necessary. Rufus, not observing this contemptuous treatment, offered him likewise his assistance and instruction; but he refused it in a manner that sufficiently betrayed his vanity and ignorance. He then went into his father's garden, and took from thence a quantity of flowers, which he immediately transplanted into his own. The gardener took no notice of him, but left him to do as he liked.

When Adrian visited his garden the following morning, all the flowers he had planted hung down their heads, like so many mourners at a funeral, and, as he plainly saw, were in a dying state. He replaced them with others from his father's garden; but, on visiting them the next morning, he found them perishing like the former.

This was a matter of great vexation to Adrian, who consequently became soon disgusted with this kind of business. He had no idea of taking so much pains for the possession of a few flowers, and therefore gave it up as an unprofitable game. Hence his piece of ground soon became a wilderness of weeds and thistles.

As he was looking into his brother's garden, about the beginning of summer, he saw something of a red colour hanging near the ground, which, on examination, he found to be strawberries of a delicious flavour. "Ah!" said he, "I should have planted strawberries in my garden."

Sometime afterwards, walking again in his brother's garden, he saw little berries of a milk-white colour, which hung down in clusters from the branches of a bush. Upon examination, he found they were currants, which even the sight of was a feast. "Ah!" said he, "I should have planted currants in my garden."

The gardener then observed to him, that it was his own fault that his garden was not as productive as his brother's. "Never, for the future," said Rufus, "despise the instruction and assistance of any one, since you will find by experience, that two heads are better than one."



MADAM D'ALLONE AND HER FOUR

PUPILS.



Madam D'Allone was the governess of four young ladies, Emilia, Harriot, Lucy, and Sophia, whom she loved with the tenderness of a mother. Her principal wish was, that her pupils might be virtuous and happy, and that they might enjoy all the comforts of life with tranquillity. They each experienced an equal share of her indulgence, and each received the same treatment, either as to pardon for errors, or rewards, or punishments.

Her endeavours were crowned with the happiest success, and her four little girls became the sweetest children upon earth. They told each other of their faults, and as readily forgave offences; they shared in each other's joys, nor were they ever happy when separated.

An unforeseen event, however, disturbed this happy tranquillity, just at the very moment they began to taste its charms, which served to convince them how necessary it was to be guided by their prudent governess.

Madam D'Allone was obliged to leave her pupils for a little time, a family affair having made it necessary for her to visit France. She left them with much reluctance, even sacrificed her interest, in some measure, to the desire of speedily settling her affairs, and, in the course of a month, returned in safety to her little flock, who received her with the warmest expressions of joy; but the alteration she perceived in her children very much surprised and alarmed her.

She saw it frequently happen, that if one asked the slightest favour of another, it was ill-naturedly refused, and from thence arose tumults and quarrels. That gaiety and cheerfulness, which had used to accompany all their sports and pastimes, were now changed to a gloomy perverseness; and instead of those tender expressions of love and friendship, which had constantly dwelt in all their conversations, nothing was now heard but perpetual jarrings and wranglings. If one proposed a walk in the garden, another would give some reason why she wished to remain in her chamber; and, in short, their only study seemed to be to thwart each other.

It happened one day that, not contented with showing each other how much they delighted in perverseness, they mutually distressed themselves with reciprocal reproaches.

Madam D'Allone beheld this scene with the greatest uneasiness, and could not help shedding tears on the occasion. She did not then think it prudent to say any thing to them, but retired to her chamber, in order there to think of the properest means of restoring peace and harmony among her unhappy pupils.

While she was turning these afflicting thoughts in her mind, all the four young ladies entered her apartment with a peevish and uneasy look, each complaining of the ill-temper of the rest. There was not one but what charged the other three with being the cause of it, and all together begged their governess would, if possible, restore to them that happiness they once possessed.

Their governess put on a very serious countenance, and said, "I have observed, my pupils, that you endeavour to thwart each other, and thereby destroy your pleasures. In order, therefore, that no such thing may happen again, let each take up her corner in this room, if she choose it, and divert herself in what manner she pleases, provided she does not interfere with either of her sisters. You may immediately have recourse to this mode of recreation, as you have leave to play till night; but remember that neither of you stir from the corner in which I shall place you."

The little maidens, who were no way displeased with this proposal, hastened to their different quarters, and began to amuse themselves each in her own way. Sophia commenced a conversation with her doll, or rather told her many pretty little stories; but her doll had not the gift of speech, and consequently was no companion. She could not expect any entertainment from her sisters, as they were playing, each asunder, in their respective corners.

Lucy took her battledore and shuttlecock, but there was none to admire her dexterity; besides, she was not allowed to strike it across the room, as that would have been an invasion on one of her sister's territories. She could not expect that either of them would quit their amusements to oblige her.

Harriot was very fond of her old game of hunt the slipper; but what was she to do with the slipper by herself; she could only shove it from hand to hand. It was in vain to hope for such service from her sisters, as each was amusing herself in her assigned corner.

Emilia, who was a very skilful pretty housewife, was thinking how she might give her friends an entertainment, and of course sent out for many things to market; but there was at present nobody near, with whom she might consult on the occasion, for her sisters were amusing themselves each in her corner.

Every attempt they made to find some new amusement failed, and all supposed that a compromise would be most agreeable; but, as matters were carried so far, who was first to propose it? This each would have considered as a humiliating circumstance; they therefore kept their distance, and disdainfully continued in their solitude. The day at last closing, they returned to Madam D'Allone, and begged her to think of some other amusement for them, than the ineffectual one they had tried.

"I am sorry, my children," said their governess, "to see you all so discontented. I know but of one way to make you happy, with which you yourselves were formerly acquainted, but which, it seems, you have forgotten. Yet, if you wish once more to put it into practice, I can easily bring it to your recollections." They all answered together, as though with one voice, that they heartily wished to recollect it, and stood attentive while their governess was looking at them, in eager expectation to hear what she had to say.

"What you have lost, or at least forgotten," replied Madam D'Allone, "is that mutual love and friendship which you once had for each other, and which every sister ought cheerfully to cherish. O! my dearest little friends, how have you contrived to forget this, and thereby make me and yourselves miserable?"

Having uttered these few words, which were interrupted by sighs, she stopped short, while tears of tenderness stole down her cheeks. The young ladies appeared much disconcerted, and struck dumb with sorrow and confusion. Their governess held out her arms, and they all at once instantly rushed towards her. They sincerely promised that they would tenderly love each other for the future, and perfectly agree as they formerly had done.

From this time, no idle peevishness troubled their harmonious intercourse: and, instead of bickerings and discontents among them, nothing was seen but mutual condescension, which delighted all who had the opportunity of being in their company. May this serve as a useful lesson to my youthful readers, how easy it is for them to promote or disturb their own happiness.



THE BIRD'S EGG.



Master Gregory was fond of walking in a wood, which stood at a short distance from his father's house. The wood being young, the trees were consequently small, and placed very near to each other, with two or three paths between them. As he was one day walking up and down, in order to rest himself a little, he placed his back against a tree, whose stem was quite slender, and therefore all its branches shook as soon as it was touched. This rustling happened to frighten a little bird, who sprang from a neighbouring bush, and flew into another part of the wood.

Gregory was vexed to think he had disturbed the bird, and fixed his eyes upon the bush, in hopes of seeing it return. While he was thus attentively on the watch, he imagined he saw among the twisted branches something like a tuft of hay. As his curiosity was raised to know what it was, he went up close to the hedge, and found this tuft of hay was hollow, like a bowl. On putting aside the branches, he saw something like little balls within it, which were spotted, and of an oval shape. They lay close to each other, on something very soft. "Bless me," said Gregory, "this must be certainly what I have heard some people call a bird's nest, and the balls must be eggs. They are indeed less than our eggs, but then our hens are larger than these birds."

He had some thoughts, at first, of taking away the whole nest; but, upon second consideration, he contented himself with taking only one of the eggs, with which he instantly ran home. In the midst of his haste, he met his sister. "See this little egg," said he to her, "I have just now found it in a nest, in which were five others."

She desired to have it in her hand, examined it attentively, and then returned it to her brother. At last, they began rolling it up and down a table, just as they would a ball. One pushed it one way, and the other a different way, till at last they pushed it off the table, when it fell on the floor and broke. This set them a crying, and each mutually accused the other of being the cause of this sad disaster.

Their mamma, happening to hear them cry, came to inquire into the cause of it, when both began at once telling their sorrows; and, having heard their different stories, she took them affectionately by the hand, and led them to a tree, whose stately boughs afforded a pleasant shade to a verdant bank, on which they all sat down together.

"My dear children," said their mamma, "make yourselves easy. You have broken the egg between you, and that, to be sure, is a misfortune; but it is of too trifling a nature to suffer it to make you unhappy. After all, Gregory, there is some room of complaint against you, as it was an act of injustice to rob the poor bird of its egg. You must have seen how the hen places her eggs in a nest, on which she sits to warm and animate them. In about three weeks, from the eggs proceed chickens, which pierce the shell, and in a few days come and feed out of your hand. This egg, which you have just now broken, had you left it in the nest, would have become a sort of chick. The bird you saw fly out of the bush was probably the mother, who will, very likely, return again to see what mischief you have done her, and perhaps she will forsake it altogether, which they frequently do when disturbed.

"Though the loss is only a single egg, yet that perhaps will inform them that their habitation is discovered, when they have every thing to be afraid of from our violence. They guess, that when their little ones shall be hatched, those that robbed them of an egg, will return and seize upon their infant family. If this nest you have been robbing, for I cannot call it anything less than a robbery, should be on that account forsaken, I think you will be very sorry for it."

Gregory replied that it would indeed give him much uneasiness, and seemed very sorry that he had meddled with the egg. "But," said he to his mamma, "I had not the least thought of what you have been telling me, nor did I suppose there could be any harm in bringing it to my sister, for it was principally on that account that I took it."

His mamma replied, that she readily believed him; for she told him she was sensible that he had too good a heart to wish to do mischief, merely for the sake of tormenting others. Gregory was, indeed, a very good boy, and was as remarkable for his duty to his parents, his tender attachment to his sister, and his universal benevolence to every one.

The little girl observed to her mamma, that the nest which her brother had shown her did not in any degree resemble the swallow's nests that were seen about the corners of the windows of some houses. "My dear," replied her mamma, "every nest is not alike, any more than every bird, some being great, and others little; some are never seen to perch on trees, while others are hardly ever out of them; some are bulky and inactive, others slim, and full of cunning and industry; the plumage of some are beautiful beyond description, with an amazing variety of colours, and others have a plain and homely appearance; some subsist on fruits, some feed upon insects, and many live by making a prey of and of devouring the smaller birds."

Here her little daughter exclaimed, "Oh, what wicked creatures! I am sure I should think it no crime to destroy the nest of such unnatural birds."—"Very true," replied her mamma, and there are many more of your way of thinking; and therefore these great birds, who live upon the smaller class, build their nests in places where they cannot be easily disturbed, such as in woods, in crevices of rocks, and in other places most unfrequented by men, or at heights beyond our reach.

"Since, therefore, my dear children, these birds are greatly different from each other, as well in size as in the mode of living, and in the variety of their plumage, it will naturally follow that their nests must also differ. The lark never perches on a tree, and sings only when mounting in the air, and builds her nest on the ground. The swallow builds about the roofs of houses, under what we call the eaves, and sometimes in the corners of windows. The owl, which flies abroad only in the night, seeks out deserted habitations, or some hollow trees, wherein to deposit her eggs; and the eagles, who soar above the clouds till absolutely out of sight, bring forth their young in the cliffs of craggy rocks. Those birds, which so prettily sport round our houses, and hop from branch to branch, make their nests in the trees and hedges. Those who sport on the water, and find their living therein, build their nests among the rushes that grow on the banks.

"We will, one fine day, take a walk into the little valley that terminates our large meadow, and you will there see a number of these pretty creatures busy in selecting the materials of which they compose their nests. You will observe one employed in carrying off a wheaten straw, another with wool or feathers in its beak, another with a dried leaf, and perhaps with a little moss. You may frequently notice the swallow, on the borders of a limpid stream, moistening in the water a little bit of earth which he holds in his beak, and with this he builds his habitation; and, though the outside of its nest is formed of hard and durable materials, the inside is lined with the softest and warmest. There are even some birds, who pull off their own feathers to make up a comfortable bed, wherein to secure their young from every inclemency of the elements.

"Their nests are made large or small, in proportion to the number of eggs they are to contain. Some birds hang up their nests by a kind of thread, which they have the skill to form of flax, of different sorts of weeds, and of the webs of spiders. Others place it in the middle of a soft and gluey substance, to which they carefully stick many feathers. All birds seek retired and solitary places, and use every endeavour to make their nests strong and solid, to secure them from the attacks of enemies of various species.

"It is in this kind of habitation they lay their eggs, where the mother, and at times the father, sits upon them, puts every thing within them into motion, and at last produce little creatures, who break through their shell, and come forth.

"I doubt not but you have often seen a fly in winter, which appeared to have no life in it: yet, upon taking it into your hand, the warmth proceeding from it has brought it to life. It is nearly the same thing with birds, the perseverance of whose parents, in brooding upon their eggs, converts them into living creatures.

"While the mother is sitting, the cock is her constant attendant, and amuses her with his music. When the young birds are hatched, the old ones endeavour to release them from the confinement of the egg. At this period their diligence is redoubled, they do everything to nourish and defend them, and are constantly employed in that interesting pursuit. No distance deters them from seeking their food, of which they make an equal distribution, every one receiving in his turn what they have been able to procure. So long as they continue young and helpless, they contrive to procure such food as is adapted to their delicacy; but as soon as they are grown stronger by age, they provide for them food of a more solid nature.

"The pelican, which is a very large bird, is obliged to go a great distance for food for its young, and therefore nature has provided it with a sort of bag, which she fills with such food as she knows is most agreeable to the palate of her young ones. She warms what she procures, and by such means makes it fitter for their tender stomachs.

"While they are thus acting the parental part, they seem to be forgetful of themselves, and attentive only to their little family. On the approach of either rain or tempests, they hasten to their nest, and cover it as well as they can with expanded wings, thereby keeping out the wind and water from hurting their infant brood. All their nights are employed in nourishing and keeping them warm. The most timorous among the feathered race, who will fly away on the least noise that approaches them, and tremble at the most trifling apprehensions of danger, become strangers to fear as soon as they have a young family to take care of, and are inspired with courage and intrepidity. We see an instance of this in the common hen, who, though in general a coward, no sooner becomes a parent, than she gives proofs of courage, and boldly stands forth in defence of her young. She will face the largest dog, and will not run even from a man, who shall attempt to rob her of her young.

"In nearly a similar manner, the little birds endeavour to protect their infant family. When an enemy approaches, they will flutter round the nest, will seem to call out for assistance, will attack the invader, and pursue him. The mother will frequently prefer confining herself with them, to the pleasure of rambling through the woods, and will not quit her little progeny."

Here their mamma ended, and her two children promised they never would any more disturb those pretty feathered animals. They promised only to look at their nests, without being so cruel as to do them any harm. They said they would be satisfied with gazing on them, while employed in the delightful task of attending on their young, and comforting and caressing their unprotected offspring.

"My dear children," said their mamma, "this is the conduct you ought to pursue. Keep your resolutions, and I shall love you the more tenderly for it. Do no injury to any creature, for He who made you made them also. Take no delight in giving pain to the most insignificant part of the creation; but endeavour on all occasions to contribute to their happiness."



THE COVETOUS BOY.



Young Samuel was the only son of a capital merchant, and was tenderly beloved by his father. He had by no means a bad heart, his countenance was pleasing, and his friends would all have been very fond of him, had he not shown, in every part of his conduct, a covetous propensity, that eclipsed all his accomplishments.

His covetous disposition made him wish for every thing he saw others possessed of, and, even carried him to so great a length, that he would not share among his playmates any thing that he had, or even let them see it.

It was with little Samuel, as it generally is with every body else, that he lost more than he gained by his avarice. If any body gave him any sweetmeats, he would get into some private corner of the house and there swallow them, for fear any of his acquaintance should want part of them. His father, in order to cure him of this greedy disposition, used, while he was feasting in private, to give a double portion to his companions. He perceived this, and therefore left off hiding himself; but he no sooner fixed his eyes on any nicety, than he appeared ready to devour it at once; and pursued the hand of those that held it, as a vulture does its prey.

From what has been already said, his father may be supposed to be much hurt at this conduct; and, in order to save himself as much vexation as possible, he ceased to give him any more niceties, or even have them within his house, so that they might not, at any rate, be within the reach of his voracious son.

If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he would never show it, but conceal himself in the enjoyment of it, without ever being happy. If he had any sort of fruit, he would not share it with his playmates, but devour it in private, even refusing any to those he happened to love most. Consequently, none of his playmates would ever give him a part of what they had, and seemed always desirous of shunning his company. When he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any one, none appeared ready to take his part, not even when they knew him in the right; and, when he was in the wrong, every one joined against him.

It one day happened, that a little boy observed him with an apple in his hand, and gave him by surprise a knock on the elbow, which made him let the apple fall. However, he picked it up hastily, and, in order to revenge himself on the boy, set off to catch him; but, in running, fell into a hog-pond, and had like to have been suffocated in the soil. He exerted all his power to get out, but to no effect: he endeavoured, but without succeeding, to prevail on his playmates to take hold of his hand and help him out.

Instead of assisting him, they laughed at his distress, and joyously danced about the pond, from which he could not relieve himself. They told him to ask the assistance of those to whom he had done the least kindness; but among all his playmates, there was not one whose help he could demand on that score. At last one of the boys, who took pity on him, came forward and gave him his hand, when he safely got out.

Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, and then to show his gratitude to the little boy who had assisted him, he bit off about a quarter of the apple which caused this disaster, and which he never let go, and desired him to accept of it. But the boy, disgusted with so pitiful a gift, took the morsel, and then flung it in his face; and this served as a signal for all the boys to scout him. They pursued Samuel quite home, hooting him all the way he went.

This was the first time he had ever been hooted, and, as he did not want for feeling, it threw him into a depth of thought. He kept out of his father's presence, and confined himself to his room for some days. There he reasoned with himself on the cause that could produce such treatment from his playfellows. "For what reason," said he to himself, "could my little neighbour, who even lent me his hand to get out of the pond, throw the apple in my face, and set the boys to hoot me? Why has he so many good friends, while I have not a single one?"

On comparing the good boy's behaviour with his own, he soon discovered the reason. To become sensible of our errors is half the work of reformation. He recollected, that he had observed his friend was always ready to help every one; that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary, or the like, he seemed to feel more pleasure in sharing it with his companions, than in eating it himself, and had no kind of amusement in which he did not wish every one to bear a part. On this short review of circumstances, he plainly perceived wherein lay the difference between himself and this little good boy. He at last resolved to imitate him; and the next day, filling his pockets with fruit, he ran up to every boy he met and gave him a part of it; but he could not, on a sudden, give up self, having left a little in his pocket to eat at home in private.

Though it is evident that he had not yet completely conquered his avarice, yet he was not a little pleased with the advances he had made, since his companions were now, on their part, more generous to him; they showed themselves much more satisfied with his company, and admitted him a partner in all their little pastimes; they divided with him whatever they happened to have, and he always went home pleased and satisfied.

Soon after, he made a still greater progress in conquering his selfish disposition; for he pulled out of his pocket every thing he had, and divided it into as many shares as there were mouths to eat it, without reserving any more than an equal part for himself. Indeed, it was the general opinion of the boys, that his own share was the least. This day he was much more satisfied than before, and went home gay and cheerful.

By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a generous habit, and became liberal even to those who had nothing to give in return. He consequently acquired the love and esteem of his companions, who no sooner saw him than they ran to meet him with joyful countenances, and made his pleasure their own. Thus, instead of being miserable and wretched through avarice, he became completely happy in the practice of generosity.

His father was, undoubtedly, highly pleased with this change, and, tenderly embracing him, promised to refuse him nothing in future that might add to his pleasure and delight. Samuel hereby learned in what true happiness consists.



DISSIPATION THE CERTAIN ROAD TO

RUIN.



A young man, whose name was Humphries, was a dull companion, but an excellent workman. Nothing ran in his head so much as the wish to become a master, but he had not money to gratify that wish. A merchant, however, who was well acquainted with his industry, lent him a hundred pounds, in order that he might open a shop in a proper style.

It will from hence naturally follow, that Humphries thought himself one of the happiest men in the world. He supposed his warehouse already filled with goods, he reckoned how many customers would crowd to buy them, and what would be his profits thereon.

In the midst of these extravagant flights of fancy, he perceived an alehouse. "Come," said he, on entering it, "I will indulge myself with spending one sixpence of this money." He hesitated, however, some few moments, about calling for punch, which was his favourite liquor, as his conscience loudly told him that his time for enjoyment ought to be at some distance, and not till he had paid his friend the money he had borrowed; that it would not be honest in him at present to expend a farthing of that money but in absolute necessaries. With these right ideas, he was nearly leaving the alehouse; but, bethinking himself, on the other hand, that, if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should still have a hundred pounds all but that sixpence, that such a sum was fully sufficient to set him up in trade, and that a single half-hour's industry would amply make amends for such a trifling pleasure as he wished then to enjoy; he called for his punch, and the first glass banished all his former qualms, little thinking that such a conduct would, by insensible degrees, open a way to his ruin. The next day he recollected the pleasures of the former glass, and found it easy to reconcile his conscience to the spending of another sixpence. He knew he should still have a hundred pounds left, all but one shilling.

The love of liquor had at last completely conquered him, and every succeeding day he constantly returned to his favourite alehouse, and gradually increased his quantity, till he spent two shillings and sixpence at each sitting. Here he seemed to make a stand; and every time he went he consoled himself, with saying, that he was spending only half-a-crown, and that he need not fear but he should have enough to carry on his trade.

By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced the prudent whispers of conscience, which would sometimes, in spite even of liquor, break in upon him, and remind him, that the proper use of money consisted in prudently applying every part of it to advantageous purposes.

Thus you see how the human mind is led into destructive extravagances by insensible degrees. Industry had no longer any charms to allure him, being blindly persuaded, that the money he had borrowed would prove an inexhaustible source for all its extravagance. He was at last convinced, and his conviction suddenly fell on him like a clap of thunder that he could not recover the effects of his preceding dissipation, and that his generous benefactor would have little inclination to lend another hundred pounds to a man who had so shamefully abused his kindness in the first instance.

Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, his recourse to hard drinking, merely to quiet his conscience and reflections, served only to bring on his ruin the sooner. At last the fatal moment arrived, when, quite disgusted at the thoughts of industry, and becoming an object of horror even to himself, life became insupportable, and nothing presented themselves to him but scenes of poverty, desolation, and remorse.

Overtaken by despair, he fled from his country, and joined a gang of smugglers, whose ravages were dreaded through every town and village on the coast. Heaven, however, did not permit these iniquities to have a long reign, for a disgraceful death soon put a period to the existence of this unhappy wretch.

Alas! had he listened to the first dictates of reason, and been wrought upon by the reproaches of his conscience, he might have been easy and happy in his situation, and have comfortably enjoyed the repose of a reputable old age, instead of coming to that deplorable end, which is the certain reward of vice and folly.



CALUMNY AND SCANDAL GREAT

ENEMIES TO SOCIETY.



Though Maria was of a tolerably good temper, yet she had contracted a most mischievous vice, and that was calumny. Whenever she fancied she saw any thing amiss in others, though they were her most intimate friends, she seemed to take pleasure in publishing it to the world.

The inexperience of her age frequently led her to ascribe indifferent actions to improper motives; and a single word, or volatility of disposition, was sufficient to raise in her breast the worst suspicions, with which, as soon as she had formed them, she would run into company, and there publish them as indubitable facts.

As she was never at a loss for embellishments for her own fancy, in order to make her tales appear the more plausible, it may easily be supposed what mischief such a conduct was capable of producing. In a little time, all the families in the neighbourhood were set together by the ears, and the seeds of discord soon after sprung up amongst individuals; husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, masters and servants, commenced perpetual variance between each other. All on a sudden, mutual confidence seemed to be lost in every place where Maria visited.

Matters at last were carried so far, that every one shut their doors against her, as they would have done against any one tainted with the plague; but neither hatred nor humiliation could reform a vice which custom and prejudice had so deeply rivetted in her heart. This glorious work of reformation was reserved for Angelica, her cousin, who was the only one left that would keep her company, and who lived in hopes that she should in the end be able to convince her of her ruinous conduct.

Maria went one day to see her cousin, and entertained her as usual with a long recital of scandal against their common friends, though she well knew that such tales were disagreeable to Angelica. "And now, my dear," said Maria, having stopped for want of breath, "your turn is come to tell me something. You see such a variety of company, that you surely must be acquainted with a number of anecdotes."

"My dear Maria," answered Angelica, "whenever I visit my friends, it is for the sake of enjoying their company; and I am too sensible of my own interest to forfeit their esteem by exposing their defects. Indeed, I am sensible of so many errors in myself, and find it so difficult to correct them, that I have no leisure to contemplate the imperfections of others. Having every reason to wish for their candour and indulgence, I readily grant them mine; and my attention is constantly turned to discover what is commendable in them, in order that I may make such perfections my own. Before we presume to censure others, we ought to be certain that we have no faults ourselves. I cannot, therefore, but congratulate you on that faultless state, which I am so unhappy as to want. Continue, my dear Maria, this employment of a charitable censor, who would lead the world to virtue by exposing the deformity of vice, and you cannot fail of meeting your deserts."

Maria well knew how much she was the public object of aversion and disgust, and therefore could not help feeling the irony of Angelica. From that day she began very seriously to reflect on the danger of her indiscretion; and, trembling at the recollection of those mischiefs she had caused, determined to prevent their progress.

She found it difficult to throw off the custom she had long indulged of viewing things on the worst side of the question. At last, however, she became so perfectly reformed, that she studied only the pleasing parts of characters, and was never heard to speak ill of any one.

Maria became more and more convinced of the pernicious consequences that arise from exposing the faults of others, and began to feel the pleasing satisfaction of universal charity. My dear children, shun the vice of scandal, and, still more, being the authors of it, as you would plague, pestilence, and famine.



CLARISSA; OR, THE GRATEFUL

ORPHAN.



The amiable Dorinda, soon after the misfortune of losing her husband, was so unhappy as to have a law-suit determined to her disadvantage, and thereby lost great part of her possessions, which were taken from her with the most unrelenting hand. This reduced her to the necessity of selling all her furniture, and the greater part of her jewels. The produce of these she placed in the hands of a banker, and retired to a village, where she could live much cheaper than in the metropolis, and with tolerable decency.

She had not passed more than two months in this retreat, when information was brought her, that her banker had failed in trade, and consequently all her money was lost. Judge what must be the horrors of her situation! Sickness and grief had so debilitated her constitution, that she was unable to do any kind of work, whereby to procure a subsistence; and, after having passed her youth in ease and pleasure, she had no resources left in the evening of her life, but that of a workhouse, or common beggary.

Not one of her acquaintance would see her, nor condescend to take the least interest in her sufferings. Being brought by her husband from a foreign country, she had no friends to cry to for assistance, except a distant relation, whom she had brought with her to England, and who, by her husband's credit, gained great riches; but this man's avarice was greater than his wealth, and there was little charity to be expected from a man who denied himself the common necessaries of life.

Afflicted virtue, however, always finds resource in the bounteous hands of Providence, and she found the means of subsistence where she little expected it. In the former days of her prosperity, she had adopted a female orphan, whose name was Clarissa, who now became her guardian and protector. Clarissa had a grateful heart; she wept for the misfortunes of her friend, but she rejoiced at the thoughts of having an opportunity to show her gratitude.

When Dorinda mentioned her design of seeking refuge in a parish workhouse, "No," said Clarissa, "you shall never leave me. From your tenderness I formerly received the indulgences of a beloved child; and, if in your prosperity I thought myself happy in the idea of being so nearly related to you by adoption, I still think it more so now I see you in adversity. Thank heaven and your adoption for my comfortable situation! your maternal conduct was amply displayed in teaching me all the necessary female arts; and I am happy in the reflection, that I can make use of my knowledge for your sake. With health and courage, I fear not being able to procure for us both at least a comfortable living."

This generous offer exceedingly affected the unhappy widow, who embraced Clarissa, and with joy accepted of her proposal. This amiable girl, in her turn, became the mother, by adoption, of her former benefactress. Not contented with feeding her with the produce of an unremitted labour, she consoled her in affliction, attended her in sickness, and endeavoured, by the tenderest methods, to soften the iron hand of fortune.

For two years did the constancy and ardour of Clarissa continue with unwearied attention, and her only happiness seemed to consist in promoting that of her friend. At the end of that period, when death relieved the unhappy Dorinda from the cares and troubles of this life, she sincerely lamented her death, and bewailed it as a grievous misfortune.

A short time after died also the relation of Dorinda, of whom we have lately spoken, and who had shown himself so shamefully insensible to every claim of gratitude and kindred. As he could not carry his riches with him, he supposed it would be making some atonement for his ungenerous conduct, by leaving the injured Dorinda every thing he possessed. Alas! it came too late, for she was no more.

The amiable Dorinda had not, before her death, the consolation of knowing that such a change happened in her fortune, as in that case she might have easily turned it to the advantage of the generous Clarissa. This large fortune, therefore, for want of an heir, fell to the king; but Providence so directed it, that the generous conduct of the orphan to her benefactress reached the ears of the prince. "Ah! then," said he, "she merits this inheritance! I renounce my right in her favour, and shall be happy in being her father and friend."

This generous act of the king was applauded by the whole nation; and Clarissa, having thus received so glorious a reward for her gratitude, employed it in the maintenance of orphans, such as she herself had been. It was the summit of her delight to inspire them with sentiments similar to those she herself possessed.



RETURNING GOOD FOR EVIL THE

NOBLEST REVENGE.



"I will be revenged of him, that I will, and make him heartily repent it," said little Philip to himself with a countenance quite red with anger. His mind was so engaged, that, as he walked along, he did not see his dear friend Stephen, who happened at that instant to meet him, and consequently heard what he had said.

"Who is that," said Stephen, "that you intend to be revenged on?" Philip, as though awakened from a dream, stopped short, and, looking at his friend, soon resumed the smile that was natural to his countenance. "Ah!" said he, "come with me, my friend, and you shall see whom I will be revenged on. I believe you remember my supple jack, a very pretty little cane, which my father gave me. You see it is now all in pieces. It was farmer Robinson's son, who lives in yonder thatched cottage, that reduced it to this worthless state."

Stephen very coolly asked him what induced the farmer's son to break it. "I was walking very peaceably along," replied Philip, "and was playing with my cane, by twisting it round my body. By some accident or other one of the two ends got out of my hand when I was opposite the gate just by the wooden bridge, and where the little miscreant had put down a pitcher full of water, which he was carrying home from the well. It so happened that my cane, in springing, overset the pitcher, but did not break it. He came up close to me, and began to call me names; when I assured him I did not intend any harm,—what I had done was by accident, and I was very sorry for it. Without paying any regard to what I said, he instantly seized my supple jack, and twisted it here as you see; but I will make him heartily repent it."

"To be sure," said Stephen, "he is a very wicked boy, and he is already very properly punished for it, since nobody likes him, nor will do any thing for him. He finds it very difficult to get any companion to play with him, and, if he attempts to intrude himself into their company, they will all instantly leave him. To consider this properly, I think, should be sufficient revenge for you."

"All this is true," replied Philip, "but he has broken my cane. It was a present from my papa, and a very pretty cane you know it was. My father will perhaps ask me what has become of it; and, as he will suppose I have carelessly lost his present, he will probably be angry with me; of which this little saucy fellow will be the cause. I offered to fill his pitcher again, having knocked it down by accident—I will be revenged."

"My dear friend," said Stephen, "I think you will act better in not minding him, as your contempt will be the best punishment you can inflict upon him. He is not upon a level with you, and you may be assured that he will always be able to do more mischief to you than you would choose to do him. And now I think of it, I will tell you what happened to him not long since.

"Very unluckily for him, he chanced to see a bee hovering about a flower, which he caught, and was going to pull off its wings, out of sport, when the animal found means to sting him, and then flew in safety to the hive. The pain put him into a most furious passion, and, like you, he vowed to take a severe revenge. He accordingly procured a little hazel-stick, and thrust it through the hole into the bee-hive, twisting it about therein. By this means he killed several of the little animals; but, in an instant, all the swarm issued out, and, falling upon him, stung him in a thousand different places. You will naturally suppose that he uttered the most piercing cries, and rolled upon the ground in the excess of his agony. His father ran to him, but could not, without the greatest difficulty, put the bees to flight, after having stung him so severely that he was confined several days to his bed.

"Thus you see, he was not very successful in his pursuit of revenge. I would advise you, therefore, to pass over his insult, and leave others to punish him, without your taking any part of it. Besides, he is a wicked boy, and much stronger than you are; so that your ability to obtain revenge may be doubtful."

"I must own," replied Philip, "that your advice seems very good. So come along with me, and I will go and tell my father the whole matter, and I think he will not be angry with me. It is not the cane that I value on any other consideration than that it was my father's present, and I would wish to convince him that I take care of every thing he gives me." He and his friend then went together, and Philip told his father what had happened, who thanked Stephen for the good advice he had given his son, and gave Philip another cane, exactly like the first.

A few days afterwards, Philip saw this ill-natured boy let fall, as he was carrying home, a very heavy log of wood, which he could not get up again. Philip ran to him, and replaced it on his shoulder.

Young Robinson was quite ashamed at the thought of having received this kind of assistance from a youth he had treated so badly, and heartily repented of his behaviour. Philip went home quite satisfied, to think he had assisted one he did not love, and from pure motives of tenderness and humanity. "This," said he, "is the noblest vengeance I could take, in returning good for evil."



GREY HAIRS MADE HAPPY.



Opposite to the house where Charlotte's parents lived, was a little opening, ornamented with a grass-plot, and overshaded by a venerable tree, commanding an extensive view before it. On this delightful spot Charlotte used frequently to sit in her little chair, while employed in knitting stockings for her mamma.

As she was one day thus employed, she saw a poor old man advancing very slowly towards her. His hair was as white as silver, and his back bent with age; he supported himself by a stick, and seemed to walk with great difficulty. "Poor man," said Charlotte, looking at him most tenderly, "he seems to be very much in pain, and perhaps is very poor, which are two dreadful evils!"

She also saw a number of boys, who were following close behind this poor old man. They passed jokes upon his thread-bare coat, which had very long skirts, and short sleeves, contrary to the fashion of those days. His hat, which was quite rusty, did not escape their notice; his cheeks were hollow, and his body thin. These wicked boys no sooner saw him, than they all burst out a laughing. A stone lay in his way, which he did not perceive, and over it he stumbled, and had like to have fallen. This afforded them sport, and they laughed loudly; but it gave great pain to the poor old man, who uttered a deep sigh.

"I once was as young as you are," said he to the boys, "but I did not laugh at the infirmities of age as you do. The day will come in which you will be old yourselves, and every day is bringing you forward to that period. You will then be sensible of the impropriety of your present conduct." Having thus spoken, he endeavoured to hobble on again, and made a second stumble, when, in struggling to save himself from falling, he dropped his cane, and down he fell. On this, the wicked boys renewed their laugh, and highly enjoyed his misfortune.

Charlotte, who had seen every thing that had passed, could not help pitying the old man's situation, and, therefore, putting down her stockings on the chair, ran towards him, picked up the cane, and gave it to him, and then taking hold of his other arm, as if she had been as strong as a woman, advised him to lean upon her, and not mind any thing the boys might say to him.

The poor old man, looking at her very earnestly, "Sweet child," said he, "how good you are! This kindness makes me in a moment forget all the ill-behaviour of those naughty boys. May you ever be happy!"—They then walked on together; but the boys being probably made ashamed of their conduct by the behaviour of Charlotte, followed the old man no farther.

While the boys were turning about, one of them fell down also, and all the rest began laughing, as they had before done at the old man. He was very angry with them on that account, and, as soon as he got up, ran after his companions, pelting them with stones. He instantly became convinced how unjust it was to laugh at the distress of another, and formed a resolution, for the future, never to laugh at any person's pain. He followed the old man he had been laughing at, though at some distance, wishing for an opportunity to do him some favour, by way of atonement for what he had done.

The good old man, in the mean time, by the kind assistance of Charlotte, proceeded with slow, but sure steps. She asked him to stop and rest himself a little, and told him that her house was that before him. "Pray stay," said she, "and sit a little under that large tree. My parents indeed are not at home, and therefore you will not be so well treated, yet it will be a little rest to you."

The old man accepted Charlotte's offer. She brought him out a chair, and then fetched some bread and cheese, and good small beer, which was all the pretty maid could get at. He thanked her very kindly, and then entered into conversation with her.

"I find, my dear," said he, "you have parents, I doubt not but you love them, and they love you. They must be very happy, and may they always continue to be so!"

"And pray, good old man," said Charlotte, "I suppose you have got children."—"I had a son," replied he, "who lived in London, loved me tenderly, and frequently came to see me; but, alas! he is now dead, and I am left disconsolate. His widow, indeed, is rich; but she assumes the character of a lady, and thinks it beneath her to inquire whether I be dead or living, as she does not wish it to be known that her husband's father is a peasant."

Charlotte was much affected, and could hardly believe that such cruel people existed. "Ah! certain I am," said she, "that my dear mother would not behave so cruelly." He then rose and thanked Charlotte with a blessing; but she was determined not to leave him, till she had accompanied him a little way farther.

As they walked on, they saw the little boy who had been following them; for he ran on some way before, and was then sitting on the grass. When they looked upon him, he cast his eyes downwards, got up after they had passed, and followed them again. Charlotte observed him, but said nothing.

She asked the old man if he lived alone; "No, little lady," answered he, "I have a cottage on the other side of that mead, seated in the middle of a little garden, with an orchard and a small field. An old neighbour, whose cottage fell down through age, lives with me, and cultivates my ground. He is an honest man, and I am perfectly easy in his society; but the loss of my son still bears hard upon me, nor have I the happiness to see any of his children, who must by this time have forgotten me."

These complaints touched the heart of Charlotte, who told him, that she and her mother would come and see him. The sensibility and kindness of this little girl served only to aggravate his grief, by bringing to his mind the loss he had sustained in his son. Tears came in his eyes, when he pulled out his handkerchief to wipe them; and, instead of again putting it into his pocket, in the agitation of his mind, it slipped aside, and fell unnoticed by him or Charlotte.

The little boy, who followed them, saw the handkerchief fall, ran to pick it up, and gave it the old man, saying, "Here, good old man, you dropped your handkerchief, and here it is."—"Thank you, heartily, my little friend," said the old man. "Here is a good natured lad, who does not ridicule old age, nor laugh at the afflictions that attend it. You will certainly become an honest man. Come both of you to my habitation, and I will give you some milk." They had no sooner reached the old man's cottage, than he brought out some milk, and the best bread he had, which, though coarse, was good. They all sat down upon the grass, and made a comfortable repast. However, Charlotte began to be afraid her parents might come home, and be uneasy at her absence; and the little boy was sorry to go, but was sadly afraid, should he stay, of being scolded by his mother.

"This mother of yours," said the old man, "must be very cross to scold you."—"She is not always so," replied the boy; "but though she loves me, she makes me fear her."—"And your father?"—"Oh, I scarcely knew him, he having been dead these four years."—"Dead these four years!" interrupted the old man, and fixing his eyes attentively on the boy. "Is it possible that I have some recollection of your features? Can it be little Francis?"—"Yes, yes, Francis is my name."

For a few moments the old man stood motionless, and, with an altered voice, his eyes swimming with tears, cried out, "My dear Francis, you do not recollect your grandfather! Embrace me! you have got the very features of my son! My dearest child, you were not thinking of me! My son affectionately loved me, and his son will love me also. My old age will not be so miserable as I expected, and the evening of my life will not pass without some joy. I shall depart in peace!—But I forget that by detaining you, I may expose you to your mother's anger. Go, my dear child, for I do not wish that my joy should cost you tears. Go, love your mother, and obey her commands, even though you should not come and see me. Come and see me if you can; but do not disobey or tell a story on any account."

He then turned to Charlotte, and said, though he then did not wish her to stay, for fear of offending her parents, yet he hoped she would come again. He then dismissed them, giving them a hearty blessing, and the two children walked away hand in hand. Charlotte got home safe before her parents, who were not long after her, when she told them every thing that had passed, which furnished an agreeable conversation for the evening.

The next day they all went to see the good old man, and afterwards frequently repeated their visits. Francis also came to see his grandfather, who was rejoiced to hear him speak, and to receive his affectionate caresses. Francis, on his side, was equally rejoiced, excepting when he did not meet with Charlotte, for then he went home sorrowful and sad.

The nearer Francis arrived to manhood, the more his affections for Charlotte increased; and accordingly, when he was old enough to marry, he would think of no other woman, though she was not rich. The old man lived to see them married and happy, and then finally closed his eyes in peace.



Transcriber's Note: In the Contents, page 113 for the chapter titled "Alfred and Dorinda" has been changed to 118. Page 20, double closing quotation mark has been added to the end of the chapter ruin." Page 25, closing quotation mark has been removed munched alive. Page 134, "about gardening. but" has been changed to "about gardening; but" Page 159 punctuation after "contentedly" has been interpreted as a comma Page 215 "Ah!"' said he" has been changed to "Ah!" said he" Page 223 "down her cheeks The" has been changed to "down her cheeks. The" Page 246 "treason, and been" has been changed to "reason, and been" Page 266 "entored into conversation" has been changed to "entered into conversation" Page 269 "and hear it is" has been changed to "and here it is"

THE END