Instantly her heart began to throb with alarm.

"Is Harry with you?" she called up to Harry's father, who was in his study. But Harry's father said he was not there.

"I'm afraid he's gone to the river with his boat," said the mother.

"To the river!" And Mr Lee dropped his pen, and came quickly down. Taking up his hat, he went hurriedly from the house. Rover was still lying upon the mat, with his head upon his paws and his eyes shut.

"Rover!" said his master, in a quick, excited voice, "where is Harry? Has he gone to the river? Away and see! quick!"

The dog must have understood every word, for he sprang eagerly to his feet, and rushed toward the river. Mr Lee followed as fast as he could run. When he reached the river bank, he saw his little boy in the water, with Rover dragging him toward the shore. He was just in time to receive the half-drowned child in his arms, and carry him home to his mother.

Harry, who remained insensible, was placed in a warm bed. He soon, however, revived, and in an hour or two was running about again. But after this, Rover would never leave the side of his little master, when he wandered beyond the garden gate. Wherever you found Harry, there Rover was sure to be—sometimes walking by his side, and sometimes lying on the grass, with his big eyes watching every movement.

Once Harry found his little vessel, which had been hidden away since he went with it to the river, and, without his mother's seeing him, he started again for the water. Rover, as usual, was with him. On his way to the river, he saw some flowers, and, in order to gather them, put his boat down upon the grass. Instantly Rover picked it up in his mouth, and walked back toward the house with it. After going a little way, he stopped, looked around, and waited until Harry had got his hand full of flowers. The child then saw that Rover had his boat, and tried to get it from him; but Rover played around him, always keeping out of his reach, and retreating toward the house, until he got back within the gate. Then he bounded into the house, and laid the boat at the feet of Harry's mother.

Harry was a little angry with the good old dog, at first, but when his mother explained to him what Rover meant, he hugged him around the neck, and said he would never go down to the river again any more.

Harry is a man now, and Rover has long since been dead; but he often thinks of the dear old dog that saved him from drowning when he was a child; and it gives him great pleasure to remember that he never beat Rover, as some boys beat their dogs, when they are angry, and was never unkind to him. Had it been otherwise, the thought would have given him great pain.



SOMETHING WRONG.



What's the matter here? There is something wrong. It is clear that the little boy in the picture is not receiving kind treatment at the hands of his sister. But what is she doing to him? Not pulling his ear, we hope. Something is wrong; what can it be? We must try and make it out. There is a whip and a top on the floor, and also a chair thrown down, to which a string is tied.

The little boy, we suppose, was whipping his top, while his sister was playing with the chair.

"Take care, now, Johnny," says the sister, as the lash of her brother's whip comes every little while close to her face; "take care, or you will cut me in the eyes."

But Johnny either doesn't hear, or doesn't heed, and keeps on whipping his top.

"There, now!" says Anna, "you came as near as could be to striking me. I wish you would go out into the passage or down into the dining-room with your top."

"John," says mamma, looking up from her work, "you must be careful and not cut your sister with that whip."

"No, ma'am," replies Johnny, and keeps on with his sport as carelessly as ever.

Presently there is a cry, and then an angry exclamation. The lash of Johnny's whip has fallen with a smarting stroke on Anna's neck. The little girl, without waiting to reflect, follows the impulse of her feelings, and seeks to punish her brother by pinching and pulling his ears.

This is the story of the picture, and we are sorry it will not bear a more favorable explanation.

We do not think that any of our young readers will approve the conduct of either of the children. Undoubtedly, Johnny was wrong not to have been more careful how he threw his lash about. Anna had as much right to be in the room as he had, and if Johnny wanted to whip his top, it was his place to do it so cautiously as not in the least to endanger his sister's face and eyes; and he deserved to have his top taken from him as a punishment for his carelessness and indifference; and no doubt this was done by his mother.

And Anna was wrong, likewise, for permitting her angry feelings to so carry her away as to lead her to hurt her brother, in revenge for what he had done to her. So, you see, Johnny's wrong act was the cause of a still greater departure from right in his sister. If Johnny had loved his sister, he would have been much more careful how he used his whip; and if Anna had loved her brother, she would never have been tempted to strike him or pull his ear, even if he had hurt her.

It is a very sad thing for little brothers and sisters to quarrel with each other.

"Birds in their little nests agree, And 'tis a shameful sight, When children of one family, Fall out, and chide, and fight."

We hope, among all our little readers, there is not a brother and sister who have quarreled—who have ever called each other hard names—or, worse, who have ever lifted their tiny hands to hurt each other.



THE FAVORITE CHILD.



In a very pretty little village not many miles from N——, in Connecticut, lived Susan Meredith. She was the youngest of three sisters, the eldest of whom could not be more than twelve or thirteen years of age. A year or two before the period when our history of this little group commences, the mother had gone to her rest.

Weighed down with a sorrow too heavy to be borne, and of a nature too delicate to be confided to others, she sank under it while in the noon of life, and died commending her children to God. Susan—little Sue, as she was frequently called—young as she was, remembered a thousand incidents connected with the departed one, and seemed, so late as the time at which our story begins, to be never happier than when her mother was the theme of conversation.

There was something remarkable in this. One reason for it might have been, that the surviving parent of these sisters, though once a kind and affectionate father, was now so altered by habits of intemperance, that they found very little enjoyment in his society. But there was another reason. Little Sue was an unusually thoughtful, serious child, for one of her years. Was there not another reason, still? I do not know. I cannot tell what words God may whisper to the child that loves him; but this I know, that little Sue talked much of heaven, and seemed to have learned more of the language of heaven than men can teach.

One bright Saturday, in the early spring time, when there was no school, these sisters might have been seen winding their way through the woods, not far from the house where they lived, searching for the first wild flowers. Little Sue, the youngest, was very happy, but, as usual, more grave than the other sisters. By and by, wearied with their walk, they sat down under the shadow, of a tree, and talked a great while. At first, the conversation was about birds and flowers; but Sue soon gave a serious turn to it.

"I wonder," said she, "if dear mother has pretty flowers in heaven. I hope so—she loved them so well. Do you remember the little monthly rose she wanted we should bring into her room, just before she died? How happy she was, when one of us went and brought it to her bed. And she went to heaven so soon after that! Oh, I think there must be flowers up there in the sky, or she would not have thought of them and loved them so, when she was dying. Don't you think so?"

And she was silent. So were her sisters, awhile. Thoughts of heaven made them serious. They were sad, too. When the youngest—their darling Sue—conversed in this strain, a cloud always came over their sunny faces. They could scarcely tell why it was so; for they, too, loved to think of heaven. But the language of their sister seemed to them to belong to another world; and often, in the midst of their brightest hopes, would come the fear, like a thunderbolt, that God would crush that cherished flower, and remove her from their embrace while she was young.

"Sue," at length said Eliza, the eldest sister, "why do you always talk so much about heaven?"

"I don't know," was the reply; "perhaps, because I think a good deal about it. I dreamed last night"——

"Oh, I thought so," said Maria, playfully interrupting her sister; "I should think the little fairies were playing hide and seek all around your pillow every night. I wish they would whisper in my ears as they do in yours. Why, the naughty things hardly ever speak to me, and when they do, they tell a very different story from those they tell you. It is generally about falling down from a church steeple, or something of that kind. Well, what did they say to you this time, dear?"

"I never had such a dream before," said the favorite, her face glowing with a new, almost an unearthly radiance; "I mean I never had one just like it. When dear mother died, you remember I told you a dream about the angels. Last night I thought they came to me again, and I saw mother, too, so clearly!"

She stopped, and her eyes fell. She seemed almost sorry that she had said as much; for she had not forgotten that the former dream to which she alluded had caused her sisters pain, and she thought, that perhaps she should make them unhappy again, if she related her dream of the night before. But her sisters begged her to go on, and she did so.

"When I went to sleep," said she, "I was thinking of—of—what father had said to me"—and she burst into a flood of tears. Her sisters wept, too; for they well remembered that their father had come home intoxicated that night, and that he had spoken very harshly to them all, and especially to the youngest. They could not say much to console her. What could they say? Silently they wept, and by their tears and embraces they told her how deeply they sympathized with her, and how much they would do for her, if they could. When the little dreamer was able to go on, she said,

"I was thinking about this when I went to sleep. I thought I was crying, and wondering why God should let dear mother die, and leave us all alone, when I heard some one say, 'Look up,' I looked up in the sky, and all the stars were windows, and I saw through them. I saw heaven—so beautiful—so beautiful! I saw mother looking out of one of these windows, and she smiled, as she did when we brought the rose to her bed-side. I heard her call my name, and she reached her arms toward me, and said, 'You may come,' Oh, this was not like other dreams"——

"Don't think of it, dear sister; don't think of it any more," said Eliza. "You was not well last night, and I have often heard, that when people are ill, their dreams are more apt to be disturbed. But we will not say any more about it now, dear."

"No," said Maria; "we shall all feel too sad, if we do." And she made an effort to be cheerful; though tears stood in her eyes as she spoke.

"I don't know why it makes others feel sad to think of heaven," said the favorite. "I should love dearly to go there."

"But then it is so dreadful to die!"

"I know it; but mother was so happy when she died!"

"Would you be willing to leave your sisters, dear Sue?"

"No; not unless I could see my mother and Christ. Oh, I do love Christ more than all the rest of my friends! Do you think that is wrong?"

The three sisters slowly and thoughtfully bent their steps homeward, and just as the sun was setting, and the western clouds were spread with the beauty and glory of twilight, they entered that cottage which, though the abode of sorrow, was yet dear and sacred to them, because it was once the home of their mother.

From that time, the gentle, loving, thoughtful little Sue, faded—faded as a flower in the autumn wind. She had not been well for weeks; and soon it was evident that she was rapidly declining. Was her dream a cause or an effect—a cause of her decline, or an effect of an illness already preying upon her frail system? Perhaps we cannot tell. There is something very remarkable about many dreams. It is not easy to account for them all, by what is known of the laws of the mind. But we must not stop now to inquire into this matter.

Step by step, that cherished sister went downward to the grave; and before the summer had come, while the early violet and the pure anemone were still in bloom, God called her home. Peacefully and beautifully her sun went down. "They have come," she said. So died the youngest—the favorite child.



THE MINE.



There are three kingdoms in nature—the Mineral kingdom, the Vegetable kingdom, and the Animal kingdom—the former for the sake of the latter, and all for the sake of man. Without the Vegetable kingdom animals could not exist, and without the Mineral kingdom vegetables could not exist.

It is also worthy of remark, that in all the inferior kingdoms of nature, there is an image of what is superior. The lowest of all the kingdoms is the Mineral kingdom, where every thing takes a fixed form, and where all changes are the work of centuries, instead of days and months, as in the Vegetable and Animal kingdoms. Yet, in this dull, inert kingdom, we find a certain image of the one next above, in the upright or orderly forms into which many of its substances arrange themselves. Under circumstances of more than usual freedom, particles of matter in this kingdom will assume shapes so nearly resembling those of the Vegetable kingdom, that many were at first disposed to conclude that they were mere petrifactions; as in the case of formations at the bottom of the ocean, and those that take place in caverns. But we will not wonder at this, when we remember, that the use of the Mineral kingdom is to sustain the Vegetable kingdom, in order that the latter may sustain the Animal kingdom. Use, it must be remembered, is the great law that pervades, sustains, and holds in harmonious order, the whole universe.

In the Vegetable kingdom we see a still nearer approach to man. There is motion and life—not conscious life, but a kind of insensible existence. Nearly all the members of this kingdom elevate themselves toward heaven, and stand upright, like men.

In the Animal kingdom there is still greater perfection of life and freedom. Beasts move over the earth, birds fly through the air, and fishes change their places, at will, in the sea. This is the highest and most perfect kingdom, and it is for the sake of this that the others exist. And, as was just said, all three are for the sake of man. They go to sustain his natural life, while he remains in this world.

The variety and beauty in the two higher kingdoms are displayed to the eyes of all. But the wonders of the Mineral kingdom are hidden beneath the surface. Mines have to be opened, in order to obtain the metals and precious stones that the earth hides in her bosom; and man can only obtain them through hard and patient labor. Hundreds of feet below the surface of the ground, the miner, with no light to direct his labor but that given him by his dimly burning safety-lamp, toils on, unconscious of the day's opening or decline. The sun does not rise nor set for him. He is not warned by the home-returning bee, the dimly falling shadows of evening, nor the sudden cry of the night-bird, that the hour of rest has come. But the body cannot endure labor beyond a certain number of hours. Tired nature calls for repose, and the call must be obeyed. Even the miner must have his hours of rest; and then he comes forth, it may be, from his gloomy place of labor, once more into the sunlight; or sinks to sleep in the dark chambers where he toils for bread.

When you look at a piece of metal, whether it be gold, silver, copper, or iron, remember that it has been won from its hidden place, deep in the solid earth, by the hard labor of man.

* * * * *



THE MINER.

Down where the daylight never comes Toileth the miner on; He sees not the golden morning break— He sees not the setting sun.

Dimly his lamp in the dark vault burns, And he sits on the miner's hard floor, Toiling, toiling, toiling on; Toiling for precious ore!

The air is wet; for the dew and rain, Drank by the thirsty ground, Have won their way to his dark retreat, And are trickling all around—-

And sickly vapors are near his lips, And close to his wire-net lamp, Unseen, as an evil spirit comes, Up stealeth the dread fire-damp!

But the miner works on, though death is by, And fears not the monster grim; For the wiry gauze, round his steady light, Makes a safety-lamp for him.

Rough and rude, and of little worth, Seems the ore that the miner brings From the hidden places where lie concealed Earth's rare and precious things;

But, tried awhile in the glowing fire, It is rough and rude no more; Art moulds the iron, and forms the gold, And fashions the silver ore.

And useful, rare, and beautiful things, 'Neath the hand of skill arise: Oh! a thousand thousand human wants The miner's toil supplies!



VISIT TO FAIRY LAND.

So, then, you want to hear some stories about the fairies, do you, little girl? Well, I must humor you a little, I suppose; though I should not wonder if my fairy stories were somewhat different from those you have heard before. But have you the least idea that there were ever such beings as the fairies in the world? If you have, let me tell you, you are quite mistaken. The stories that have been told about these fairy people are none of them worthy of belief, though it must be admitted that millions have believed them. Many of the men and women who pretended to have seen the fairies, and who related the stories in the first place, believed all they said, I have no doubt. But they were generally ignorant persons, very superstitious, and easily imposed upon. There are, it is true, invisible inhabitants in this world. Those who believe the Bible, can hardly doubt the presence of angels among us. But angels, as they are represented in the Scriptures, are a very different class of spirits from those called fairies, if we may credit what has been said of this singular race of beings, by those who pretend to have seen them in fairy land.

Not a great while ago, the people of England and Scotland were very superstitious. It is not two centuries since our good forefathers on that island were burning witches by scores. At that time, a great many believed in the existence of fairies, or elves. I have been at some pains to find out at what time this fairy superstition first appeared among the Britons. But it seems not very easy to determine. One thing is certain, that the belief in some kind of spirits—either the same with the fairies, under a different name, or very nearly related to them—dates back to a very early period in British history—earlier, probably, than the Christian era.

The fairies are always represented as very small and very beautiful—generally, as perfect miniatures of the human form. The color of their dress is uniformly pure green. It would seem, according to the accounts of these people, some five or six hundred years ago, that they were kind, amiable, excellent neighbors. Indeed, one of the names they went by was, "the Good Neighbors," and another was, "the Men of Peace." Still, they used to do some mischief in those days, if we may believe their historians, who tell us that the fairies, once in a while, visited the abodes of men, and carried away captives into their invisible haunts, under ground. The reason for this kidnapping of human beings was said to be, that the fairies were obliged occasionally to pay a tribute of this kind to their king or queen.

The fairies were not always cunning enough to keep their victims, after they had caught them. Sometimes people would come back from fairy land, and tell all about what they had seen there. You might suppose that a great deal would be learned of these strange, invisible creatures, from the men and women who had been with them and escaped. Well, so there was. But the worst of it was, the stories did not hang together very well; and there were about as many different and contradictory accounts of fairydom as there were different individuals who pretended to have made a visit to that country. However, all seemed to agree that fairy land was a very merry country. The people there were great lovers of fun, according to the general testimony, and used to dance a great deal by moonlight, in the open air. They are engaged in one of their dances, you see, in the engraving. Every evening, as soon as the moon rose, they assembled at some convenient place, took hold of each other's hands, usually in a ring, I think, and then they had a right merry time of it, you may depend. It did not seem to make any difference, whether the spot selected for the dance was on the land or on the sea. Indeed, they could dance pretty well in the air, without any thing to stand upon. The assemblies held in the palaces of the king and queen of the fairies, were, at times, splendid in the extreme. No poet, in his most lofty flights of fancy, ever dreamed of such beauty and splendor as were exhibited at the fairy court. They rode on milk-white steeds. Their dresses were of brilliant green, and were rich beyond conception. When they mingled in the dance, or moved in procession among the shady groves, or over the delightful meadows, covered with the fairest of flowers, music, such as mortal lips cannot utter, floated on the breeze.

However, these splendors, astonishing as they were, all vanished in a moment, whenever the eye of any one gifted with the power of spiritual communion was turned upon them. Then their treasures of gold and silver became slate-stones, and their stately halls were turned into damp caverns. They themselves, instead of being the beautiful creatures they were before, became ugly as a hedge-fence.

The king of fairy land was called Oberon—the queen, Titania. The king used to wear a crown of jewels on his head, and he always carried a horn in his hand, which set every body around him to dancing, whenever he blew it. Ben Jonson, a poet who flourished a great many years ago, speaks very respectfully of fairies and elves, in his poems. In describing the haunts of his "Sad Shepherd," he says—

"There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell, And span-long elves that dance about a pool."

Shakspeare, too, in several of his plays, makes us quite familiar with the fairy people. Shakspeare, you are aware, wrote in the time of Elizabeth, and as late as that period, there were thousands in England and Scotland in whose creed the existence of such a race of spirits was a very important article. It was not long, however, after this, before the superstition about the fairies—which, at the worst, was a very foolish affair—began to decline. But that decline brought a dark night to thousands of poor, innocent men and women; for then came the era of witchcraft, and persons of every rank, convicted of this imaginary crime, were hurried to the scaffold or the stake.

In the beginning of the seventeenth century, Dr. Corbett, Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, wrote a very humorous satire on the fairy superstition, called "The Fairies' Farewell, a proper new ballad to be sung or whistled to the tune of Meadow Brow." Perhaps I cannot better take leave of these very curious imaginary people, than to employ a couple of stanzas from the bishop's playful ballad:

"Witness those rings and roundelays Of theirs, which yet remain, Were footed in Queen Mary's days, On many a grassy plain; But since of late Elizabeth, And later James came in, They never danced on any heath, As when the time hath been.

"By which we note the fairies Were of the old profession; Their songs were Ave Marias, Their dances were processions; But now, alas! they all are dead, Or gone beyond the seas, Or further for religion fled, Or else they take their ease."



THE HERMIT.

A Traveler was once passing through a great wilderness, in which he supposed no human being dwelt. But, while riding along in its gloomiest part, he was surprised to see a hermit, his face covered with a long beard, that hung down upon his breast, sitting on a stone at the entrance of what seemed a cave.

The hermit arose as the traveler drew up his horse, and speaking kindly to him, invited him to accept such refreshment as it was in his power to offer. The traveler did not refuse, but, dismounting, tied his horse to a tree, and, following the pious man, entered the narrow door of a little cave which nature had formed in the side of a mountain. All the hermit had to set before the traveler, was water from a pure stream that came merrily leaping down the hill side, and some wild fruit and nuts.

"Tell me," said the traveler, after he had eaten, "why a man with a sound body, such as you possess, and a sound mind, should hide away from his fellow-men, in a dreary wild like this?"

"For pious meditation and repentance," replied the hermit. "All is vanity in the world. Its beauties charm but to allure from heaven. And worse than this, it is full of evil. Turn where you will, pain, sorrow, and crime meet your eyes. But here, in the silence of nature, there is nothing to draw the mind from holy thoughts; there is no danger of falling into temptation. By pious meditation and prayer, we are purified and made fit for heaven."

"Not so," answered the traveler; "pious meditation and prayer are of no avail without good be done to our fellow-men. Piety is nothing without charity; and charity consists in willing well and doing well to our neighbors. 'And now abideth faith, hope, and charity,' says the Apostle, 'but the greatest of these is charity,' Hermit, you are not wise thus to retire from the midst of the busy world. Your service cannot be acceptable to God. Go back again among your fellow-men, and faithfully perform your real duties in life. Heal the sick, comfort the mourner, bind up the broken heart, and in the various walks of life do good to friend and enemy. Without this, how can you hope in the judgment to hear the Lord say, 'As much as ye have done it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto me?'"

The hermit, at such unexpected words, bowed his head, and was silent. The traveler went on, and said—

"You have committed a common error, in supposing that in holy meditation, as it is called, there was any thing particularly pleasing to God. But reason will tell you why the widow's mite is more acceptable in heaven than the most pious thoughts of idle self-righteousness. Hermit! go back again into the world, and there act your part as a man in the great social body. Only by this means will you be prepared to live and act in the great body of angels in heaven."

The hermit could not reply, but still sat with his head bowed to his bosom, and his eyes upon the ground. The words of the stranger fell with strokes of reproof upon his heart.

When the traveler returned that way, he sought for the hermit, but found him not at the door of his cave. He entered, but the place had been a long time deserted. The erring man had gone back into the world, and taken his place among his fellows. And he had done right. No man is wise who retires from society, and shuts himself up in the hope of becoming better through prayer and pious thoughts. Only by doing our duty to our fellow-men, in some particular pursuit in life, can we hope to grow better and wiser?



A PICTURE.



What have we here? That kind-looking old gentleman must have something for these children; his hand is in his pocket, and they are all gathering around him. I wonder who he is, and what he is going to give them?

"He's their uncle, may be."

"Or their grandfather."

"Or somebody else that is kind to children."

No doubt of it in the world. He is some one who likes children, you may be sure. And I suppose he's got a pocket full of sugar-plums or nuts for his favorites. The little girl who has seized his cane, I rather think, will get the largest share; but I don't suppose her young companions will be at all displeased at this, for no doubt she is a very good girl, and beloved by all. Indeed, if we may judge by the faces of the children, not one of them will look at what the other receives, to see if he has not obtained the largest share.

This is not always so, however. I know some little boys and girls, who, when their parents, relatives, or friends give them cakes, candies, or playthings, immediately look from what they have themselves to what the others have received, and, if one thinks his share smaller or inferior, becomes dissatisfied, and, from a jealous and envious spirit, sacrifices his own pleasure and that of all the rest. Because there is a square inch more of cake in his brother's piece, that which he has doesn't taste good. If he have one sugar-plum less than the others, they become tasteless, and he throws them all, perhaps, upon the floor.

How bad all this looks, and how very bad it really is! The friends of such children are never encouraged to make them presents. They rather avoid doing so; for they know that their greedy, envious, covetous spirit, will turn the good things they would offer them into causes of strife and unhappiness.



THE BOY AND THE ROBIN.

I.

So now, pretty robin, you've come to my door; I wonder you never have ventured before: 'Tis likely you thought I would do you some harm; But pray, sir, what cause have you seen for alarm?

II.

You seem to be timid—I'd like to know why— Did I ever hurt you? What makes you so shy? You shrewd little rogue, I've a mind, ere you go, To tell you a thing it concerns you to know.

III

You think I have never discovered your nest; 'Tis hid pretty snugly, it must be confessed. Ha! ha! how the boughs are entwined all around! No wonder you thought it would never be found.

IV.

You're as cunning a robin as ever I knew; And yet, ha! ha! ha! I'm as cunning as you! I know all about your nice home on the tree—'Twas nonsense to try to conceal it from me.

V.

I know—for but yesterday I was your guest— How many young robins there are in your nest; And pardon me, sir, if I venture to say, They've had not a morsel of dinner to-day.

VI.

But you look very sad, pretty robin, I see, As you glance o'er the meadow, to yonder green tree; I fear I have thoughtlessly given you pain, And I will not prattle so lightly again.

VII.

Go home, where your mate and your little ones dwell; Though I know where they are, yet I never will tell; Nobody shall injure that leaf-covered nest, For sacred to me is the place of your rest.

VIII.

Adieu! for you want to be flying away, And it would be cruel to ask you to stay; But come in the morning, come early, and sing, For dearly I love you, sweet warbler of spring.



SOMETHING ABOUT CONSCIENCE: OR MR MASON'S STORY.

Two little boys, Robert and Samuel, were one day assisting the gardener about some flower-beds. They were rather young to be of much service to the old man, and gave him some trouble, once in a while, by the clumsy way in which they did their work. Still, they meant to please the gardener, and he ought not to have got out of patience, if they did now and then make a blunder. Well, he was usually very patient and kind; but that day, for some reason or another, things did not go right with him at all. Pianos and violins, though they sometimes make sweet music, get out of tune occasionally, and then, no matter what you try to play on them, nothing sounds well. It is so with men and women too often; and with boys and girls, too, it is to be feared. At any rate, it was so with Mr Mason's gardener, at the time I speak of. He was peevish and fretful, and said some harsh things to Robert, because he accidentally destroyed a fine tulip with his spade. Robert cried, and said he did not mean to do it. Then the old man was sorry, but, probably feeling too proud to confess it, he was silent for a long time. By and by, however, he told Robert that his conscience troubled him on account of his speaking so unkindly, and he hoped the little boy would forgive him. So you see the gardener was a good man, although he was hasty at that time. Robert cheerfully forgave him, and things went on a good deal better. The boys tried to be more careful, and the gardener tried to be more patient.



Robert thought a good deal about the old man's mention of conscience, and when he saw his father, he asked him what the conscience meant.

Robert's father liked to have his children make such inquiries, and did all that he could to encourage them in doing so.

"There are two ways, Robert," said he, "of explaining things. One is by telling what they are, directly, and the other is by telling what they do. I find that my children generally like the last of these methods better than they do the first; and I am not sure but, on the whole, it is quite as good as the other. At any rate, I shall try to describe conscience by pointing out some of its effects. In other words, I shall tell you a story. Some twenty-five years ago—it may be thirty; how time slides away!—I knew a boy who had one of the kindest of mothers, but whose father had died before his recollection. I think—indeed I know—he loved his mother, though he was sometimes thoughtless, and once in a while disobedient. One day, in midsummer, when the blackberries were ripe in the woods, and the trout were sporting merrily in the brook, Charles—for that was the name of the boy—came running to his mother, all out of breath, and said that Joseph Cone and Charley Corson had come with their baskets and fish-lines, and wanted he should go with them. 'Oh, such fine times as they are going to have, mother! Mayn't I go? Blackberries are ripe now, and there are lots of them over in Mr Simpson's woods. And oh! such splendid trout! One of the boys caught a trout last Saturday, so big that he couldn't hardly pull it out of the water! Oh, I do want to go, mother! I'll bring home a fine string of trout—I know I will. Ha! ha! ha!' And Charley danced up and down the room, and clapped his hands, and laughed very loudly at the idea, I suppose, of his outwitting the simple little fish."

Robert laughed, too, when his father came to this part of the story, and said he thought that was something like counting the chickens before they were hatched.

"Yes," continued Mr Mason; "but I am afraid that was not the worst of it, by a good deal; for Charles knew well enough that his mother wanted him at home that day, and he ought not to have urged her so hard. 'My dear,' said that kind, indulgent lady, 'I will let you do just as you choose about going. You know I want you to help me about the house to-day, and I should be very sorry to have you leave me. But I don't wish to govern you by force. I want to see you mind because you love me—not because you are obliged to. So I shall not say any more. Do as you please, this time.'

"Charles thought a moment or two. He saw plainly enough that there were two sides to the question about going a-fishing that day. His mother was not very well. He thought of that; and he thought that if he went, she would have more work to do, and perhaps she would then be quite sick. His conscience was at work, you see. 'Well,' he thought, 'I guess I will let the trout stay where they are to-day,' But just then he heard one of the boys say, 'Halloo, Charley! what do you say? We're tired of waiting. Shall we go without you, or will you come along?'

"Well, what do you think Charley did, Robert?"

"Why, he stayed at home, and helped his mother, of course."

"No, I'm sorry to say that he changed his mind, and started off with the boys. His conscience said no, but his will said yes."

"Then he did very wrong."

"So I think. But the truth must be told. Charley took his fishing apparatus, and whistled for his little dog, Caper, and away the three boys ran, toward the brook.

"'Let's go to the deep hole under the elm tree. That's where Bill Havens caught the big trout, the other day,' said one.

"Bill Havens, as they called him, was one of the most noted fishermen in the place. I knew him well. He was always sure to succeed, wherever and whenever he went out with his hook and line. I have been to this deep hole with Bill Havens, more than once, and have seen him catch half a dozen large pickerel, when I could not, by any of my skill, persuade a single fish to come out of the brook.



"'But we shall have to cross the brook,' said Charley, 'and how in the world are we going to do that? The foot-bridge was swept away by the freshet, you know.'

"'Oh, I'll see about that. I know where there's an old tree that lies clear across the stream. We can get over on that, just as well as we could over the foot-bridge,'

"And so they started for the old tree, which was to serve them for a bridge. It had been blown down by the wind, and had fallen across the stream, so that the large end rested on the side where the boys were, while the upper limbs reached the opposite bank. When the boys got to the tree, they saw that it was not quite so convenient a bridge as they could wish; and Charley Mason, who was not by any means a headstrong lad, and not used to such adventures, said he would rather not attempt to cross it. But the other two boys laughed at him, and told him not to be a coward; and he finally determined he would venture, if the others succeeded. They did succeed, and Charley, not without some trembling—which, of course, made his danger the greater—prepared to follow. 'Take care, Charley! take care! Rather dangerous business, isn't it? Cling closely to the tree. There—so. Don't look down into the water, or you'll be dizzy. That's the way. Come on, now. Don't hang on to that dry limb! It will break and let you fall into the water, if you do. How the poor fellow trembles! Plash! There he goes, I declare!'



"Sure enough, Charles had slipped and fallen into the stream! and his companions, so frightened that they hardly knew what they did, took to their heels, and ran as fast as they could toward home!"

"Poor Charley! he was drowned, then?" said Robert.

"No, he managed to get out of the water; but he had a hard time of it, though. He could not swim very well, at the best; and with all his clothes on, it was as much as he could do to swim at all. If the river had been a little wider, he never could have got out alone. As it was, however, by the help of some rocks there were in the brook, he reached the shore, pretty thoroughly exhausted, and not a little frightened. His zeal for trout-fishing was by this time a good deal cooled off, as you may suppose. The nearest he came to catching any of those cunning little fellows that day, was when he tumbled into the brook; and then he had something else to think of.

"There he was, alone, wet as a drowned rat, and shivering, partly from cold and partly from fright, as if he had the ague. Poor fellow! His conscience began to be heard again, now he had time to think. He hardly knew what to do; he was ashamed to go home to his mother; and there he stood, for a good while, leaning his head on the fence near the water, the tears all the time chasing each other down his cheeks."

"I don't wonder he cried," said Robert; "but I can't help laughing to think what a sorry figure he must have made there, on the bank! And he was going to bring home such a nice string of fish, too! I wonder if his mother did not laugh when she saw him coming. Did he stay there, father, shivering and crying, till some body came after him?"



"No, he started for home before any of the neighbors reached the spot where he fell into the river; and, as they missed him on the way, they supposed he was drowned, and searched for his body half an hour or more, till they learned he was safe at home."

"Well, what did his mother say to him, father?"

"She did not say much, poor woman. She was not well, as I said before, when Charles left her; and as her servant had gone away for a week, and she had no one but him to assist her in her work, she became very much fatigued; and when she heard that Charles had fallen into the river, she fainted immediately. She had hardly recovered when the boy reached the house."

"I think Charles was a very bad boy."

"Not so much worse than many others, perhaps, as you may suppose. You judge of the boy's conduct by the consequences of it. If he had been successful in his trout-fishing, and no accident had happened to his mother, you would not have thought half as much of his guilt in acting contrary to his mother's wishes."

"Certainly not."

"But the boy would have been just as bad, for all that."

"I can't see how, father."

"Why, the boy, when he was thinking what he would do about going on that fishing excursion, could not have foreseen all that would happen if he went. Do you think he could?"

"No, sir, not all, I suppose. But I am sure he was a very bad boy, whether he knew what would happen or not."

"Yes, no doubt. But I want you to see exactly where his guilt lay. It was simply in his not yielding to his mother's wish, when she so kindly left him at liberty to do as he chose; especially as he knew she was ill, and needed his assistance."

"Charley deserved a good whipping."

"Well, he was punished severely."

"Did his mother punish him?"

"No, for weeks she was too ill for that; and if she had been well, probably she would not have punished him."

"How did he get punished?"

"By his own conscience. He felt that he had done wrong, and that made him very unhappy. He saw, then, that he had been very unkind to his mother, and that his unkindness cost her pain and sorrow. He would rather have given all his playthings—every one of his toys—than to feel as he did then. Indeed, I think he would prefer the severest punishment from his mother, to the wound which his conscience inflicted. Do you understand now, my son, what is meant by conscience?"

"I think I do. When we are sorry for any thing we have done, it is the conscience that makes us feel so."

"Not always. Charles was no doubt very sorry he had tried to cross the river on the tree, because he fell into the water, and came near being drowned. But the conscience had nothing to do with this sorrow. When we see that we have carelessly or wilfully injured some one—hurt his feelings, perhaps—or when we reflect that we have disobeyed God, and feel grieved and sorry on this account, then the conscience is the cause of our pain. So you see that it is one of the numerous proofs of the wisdom and the goodness of God, that he has given mankind a conscience. Take care, my son, that you listen to its voice."



OLD NED.

Not many years ago, Farmer Jones had an old horse named "Ned," who appeared to have almost as much sense as some people. Ned was a favorite with his master, who petted him as if he were a child instead of a dumb animal. The horse seemed to understand every word that the farmer said to him, and would obey him quite as readily and with as much intelligence as Rover, the house dog. If his master came into the field where he was grazing, Ned would come galloping up to meet him, and then caper round as playfully, though not, it must be owned, as gracefully, as a kitten.

Farmer Jones, on these occasions, generally had an ear or two of corn in his pocket; and Ned, whose nose had been many a time in that capacious receptacle of odds and ends, after sweeping around his master two or three times, would stop short and come sideling up, half coquetishly, yet with a knowing twinkle in his eye, and commence a search for the little tidbit that he had good reason for knowing lay snugly stored away in the pocket.



If any one besides his master went into the field and tried to catch Ned, he was sure to have a troublesome time of it; and if he succeeded in his object before circling the field a dozen times in pursuit of the horse, he might think himself lucky. But a word or a motion of the hand from Farmer Jones was all-sufficient. Ned would become, instantly, as docile as a child, trot up to his side, and stand perfectly still to receive the saddle and bridle.

When Farmer Jones was on the back of Ned, or sitting behind him in the old chaise, no horse could be more even in his gait, or more orderly in all his movements. But it wasn't safe for any one else to try the experiment of riding or driving him. If he escaped without a broken neck, he might think himself exceedingly fortunate; for the moment any one but his master attempted to govern his actions in any way, he became possessed with a spirit that was sometimes more than mischievous. He would kick up, bite, wheel suddenly around, rear up on his hind feet, and do almost every thing except go ahead in an orderly way, as a respectable horse ought to have done.

Ned was too great a favorite with his master for the latter to think of trying very hard to correct him of these bad practices. He would talk to him, sometimes, about the folly of an old horse like him prancing about, and cutting up as many antics as a young colt; but his words, it was clear, went into one of Ned's ears and out of the other, as people say, for Ned did not in the least mend his manners, although he would nod his head in a knowing and obedient way, while his master was talking to him.

Ned spent at least two thirds of his time, from the period when the grass sprung up, tender and green, until it became pale and crisp with frost, in a three-acre field belonging to his master, where he ate, walked about, rolled himself on the soft sward, or slept away the hours, as happy as a horse could be. Across one corner of this field a little boy and his sister used every day to go to school. The little boy was a namesake of the horse; but he was usually called Neddy. One day Neddy felt rather mischievous, as little boys will feel sometimes. He had a long willow switch in his hand, and was cutting away at every thing that came within his reach. He frightened a brood of chickens, and laughed merrily to see them scamper in every direction; he made an old hog grunt, and a little pig squeal, and was even so thoughtless as to strike with his slender switch a little lamb, that lay close beside its mother on the soft grass.

"Don't, don't, Neddy," Jane, his sister, would say.

But the little fellow gave no heed to her words. At last, in crossing the field, they came to where the old horse lay under the shade of a great walnut tree. The temptation to let him have a taste of the switch was too strong for Neddy to resist; so he passed up close to the horse, and gave him a smart cut across the shoulders.

Now that was an indignity to which the old fellow was not prepared to submit. Why, it was at least ten years since the stroke of a whip had been felt upon his glossy skin. Whip and spur were of the times long since gone by. Springing up as quickly as if he were only a colt instead of a grave old horse, Ned elevated his mane, and swept angrily around the now frightened lad, neighing fiercely, and striking out into the air with his heels at a furious rate. Jane and Neddy ran, but the horse kept up, and by his acts threatening every moment to kill them. But, angry as the old fellow was, he did not really intend to harm the children, who at length reached the fence toward which they were flying. Jane got safely over, but just as Neddy was creeping through the bars, the horse caught hold of his loose coat, with his teeth, and pulled him back into the field, where he turned him over and over on the grass with his nose for half a dozen times, but without harming him in the least, and then let him go, and went trotting back to the cool, shady place under the old walnut tree, from which the switch of the thoughtless boy had aroused him.

Neddy, you may be sure, was dreadfully frightened, and went crying home. On the next day, when they came to the field in which Ned lived at his ease and enjoyed himself, the old horse was grazing in a far-off corner, and the children thought they might safely venture to cross over. But they had only gained half the distance, when Ned espied them, and, with a loud neigh, gave chase at full gallop. The children ran, in great alarm, for the fence, and got through, safely, before the horse came up.

After this, whenever they ventured to cross the field, Ned would interfere. Once he got Neddy's hat in his mouth, and ran off with it. But he didn't harm it any, and after keeping the children waiting at the fence for about half an hour, came and threw it over; after which he kicked up both his heels in a defiant manner, and giving a "horse laugh," scampered away as if a locomotive were after him.

At last Neddy's father complained to Farmer Jones of the way in which his old horse was annoying the children, who had to pass through the field, as they went to school, or else be compelled to go a long distance out of their way. The farmer inquired the cause of Ned's strange conduct, and learned that the little boy cut him across the shoulders with a willow switch.

"Ho! ho!" said he, "that's the trouble, is it? Ned won't bear a stroke from any one. But I will make up the matter between him and the children. So let them stop here on their way from school this evening."

The children stopped accordingly. Ned was standing in the barn-yard, the very picture of demure innocence. But when he saw little Neddy and his sister, he pricked up his ears, shook his head, and neighed.

"Come, come, old boy!" said the farmer, "we've had enough of that. You must learn to forgive and forget. The little fellow was only playing with you."

Ned appeared to understand his master, for he looked a little ashamed of himself, and let his pointed ears fall back again to their old places.

"Now, my little fellows," said Farmer Jones, "take up a handful of that sweet new hay, and call him to the bars."

"I'm afraid," returned Neddy. "He'll bite me."

"Not he. Why the old horse wouldn't harm a hair of your head. He was only trying to frighten you as a punishment for the stroke you gave him. Come. Now's your time to make friends."

Neddy, thus encouraged, gathered a handful of the sweet new hay that was scattered around, and going up to the fence, held it out and called to the horse—

"Here! Ned, Ned, Ned!"

The horse shook his head, and stood still.

"Come along, you old vagabond!" said Farmer Jones, in a voice of reproof. "Don't you see the lad's sorry for the cut he gave you? Now walk up to the bars, and forgive the little fellow, as a sensible horse ought to do."

Ned no longer hesitated, but went up to the bars, where Neddy, half trembling, awaited him, and took the sweet morsel of hay from the child's hand. Jane, encouraged by this evidence of docility, put her hand on the animal's neck, and stroked his long head gently with her hand, while Neddy gathered handful after handful of hay, and stood close by the mouth of the old horse, as he ate it with the air of one who enjoyed himself.

After that, the children could cross the field again as freely as before, and if Ned noticed them at all, it was in a manner so good natured as not to cause them the slightest uneasiness.



THE FREED BUTTERFLY.

Yes, go, little butterfly, Fan the warm air With your soft silken pinions, So brilliant and fair; A poor, fluttering prisoner No longer you'll be; There! Out of the window! You are free—you are free!

Go, rest on the bosom Of some favorite flower; Go, sport in the sunlight Your brief little hour; For your day, at the longest, Is scarcely a span: Then go and enjoy it; Be gay while you can.

As for me, I have something More useful to do: I must work, I must learn— Though I play sometimes, too. All your days with the blossoms, Bright thing, you may spend; They will close with the summer, Mine never shall end.



JULIA AND HER BIRDS.

Little Julia Cornish, a young friend of mine, is very fond of birds. It is no strange thing, I am aware, for children to love birds. Indeed, I do not see how any body can help loving the dear little things, especially those that fill the air with their music. But Julia was unusually fond of them, and her fondness showed itself in a great many ways. She did not shut them up in cages. But she was so kind to those that had their liberty, that many of them became quite as tame as if they had always lived in a cage.

I must tell you about a robin that used to be a pet of hers. You know the robin, do you not, reader? To my mind he is one of the dearest of all our native songsters. His notes are among the first we hear in the spring. And he is a very social and confiding creature. How often he selects a place for his nest on some tree near the house! and when it is built, while his partner is busy with her domestic duties, he will sing for hours together his song of love and tenderness.

Julia resided in the country; and every year the robins built their nests on the trees in her father's orchard, near the house. She fancied that the robins came from the South to her door, year after year, and brought their children with them. She was sure she could distinguish the voices of her old friends, and she used to sit under the shade of the trees where they had their nests, and talk to them kindly, and leave something good for them to eat.

One year there were a pair of robins who made their nest on a tree, the boughs of which hung over the house; and Julia could sit in her window and see all that the little family were doing. She was delighted with such a token of confidence, and she and the robins soon became very intimate. The old ones frequently flew down from their nest, and alighted near the door, when Julia would give them as much food as they wanted, and let them carry some home to their children.

By and by, the young robins were old enough to leave their nests. That was a great day with both parents and children, and all seemed about as merry as they could be when the half-fledged little birds took their first lessons in flying, though Julia laughed a good deal to see their manoeuvres, and said their motions were awkward enough. However, they learned to fly after a while, as well as their parents, though before they left for the season, some cruel boy threw a stone at one of them and broke his wing. Poor fellow! he suffered a great deal of pain, and his parents and brothers and sisters were very sad about it. They seemed for a while hardly to know what to do. Probably there were no surgeons among them, who understood how to manage broken limbs. And they had a long talk together—so Julia said—and finally hit upon this plan. Willy—that was the name my friend gave to the lame bird—was to go into the house, and see if something could not be done for him there.

Accordingly, one bright morning in June, almost as soon as breakfast was over, the little invalid, attended by the rest of the family, came to the door, where Julia was waiting to receive them—for she fed them regularly every day—and then, after they had eaten what they wanted, instead of flying away, as they were accustomed to do, little Willy hopped into the kitchen, while the rest remained near the door. Julia thought that was queer enough, and she ran and told her mother. "I wonder if I can coax the little fellow to stay with me until his wing gets well," she said. "I wish I could. Oh, I should dearly love to take care of him, and I am sure we can make him well soon."



Little Willy did not say—at least he did not say in our language—that he should be happy to place himself awhile under his friend Julia's care. But he seemed very content, and soon made himself quite at home. Though he had perfect liberty to go just where he pleased, and would often venture out of the house, yet he evidently considered himself an inmate of Mr Cornish's family. Under the care especially of Miss Julia, he became so tame that she could take him in her lap and stroke his feathers. Willy was a great favorite in the family, after he had been there a day or two. No one did any thing for his wing. They did not understand setting birds' wings, when they were broken. Still, Willy got better in a very short time, without the assistance of a surgeon. A great many sick people, you know, need the care of a nurse more than that of a doctor. That was the case with Willy, it would seem. In less than three weeks his wing was entirely well, and he was able to take care of himself. So he warbled his adieu to the family under whose roof he had been so kindly treated, and flew away with the other robins who had been waiting for him.



Julia is very kind, too, to the snow-birds in the winter. Many a time, when the snow has been deep, and these hungry birds have come to her father's door, I have seen her feeding them. One winter, I recollect, she had a flock of them that she could call to her, when she wanted to feed them, just as she could the chickens. The snow-bird is an interesting little creature; and though he has not a very sweet voice for singing, he was always a favorite with Julia, and I am not sure but I love the fellow as well as she does. Winter to me would be a great deal more gloomy, were it not for the Winter King, as Miss Gould calls this little bird.

Did you know reader, that the snow-bird is a very affectionate creature? It seems that it is so. Some years ago one of them flew into a house, where, finding itself quite welcome, it remained over night. By accident, however, it was killed in the morning, and one of the servants threw it into the yard. In the course of the day, one of the family witnessed a most affecting scene in connection with the dead body. Its mate was standing beside it, mourning its loss. It placed its beak below the head of its companion, raised it up, and again warbled its song of mourning. By and by it flew away, and returned with a grain or two of wheat, which it dropped before its dead partner. Then it fluttered its wings, and endeavored to call the attention of the dead bird to the food. Again it flew away, again it returned, and used the same efforts as before. At last, it took up a kernel of the wheat, and dropped it into the beak of the dead bird. This was repeated several times. Then the poor bereaved one sang in the same plaintive strain as before. But the scene was too affecting for the lady who witnessed it. She could bear the sight no longer, and turned away. I have loved the snow-bird more than ever since this story was told me, and so has my friend Julia.

Now I think of it, I have in one of the storerooms of my memory, a song about the snow-bird. It is rather simple and childish—possibly too much so for boys and girls of your age. However, as we are somewhat musical just now, after talking so much about birds, and are greatly in want of a song, I will sing this about Emily and the Snow-Bird, and you may join in the chorus, if you like.



SONG OF THE SNOW-BIRD.

I. The ground was all cover'd with snow one day, And two little sisters were busy at play, When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-de, Chick-a-de-de, Chick-a-de-de, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-de.



II.

He had not been singing that tune very long, Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song.— "O sister! look out of the window," said she; "Here's a dear little bird, singing chick-a-de-de. Chick-a-de-de, &c.

III.

"Poor fellow! he walks in the snow and the sleet, And has neither stockings nor shoes on his feet; I pity him so! how cold he must be! And yet he keeps singing his chick-a-de-de. Chick-a-de-de, &c.

IV.

"If I were a barefooted snow-bird, I know I would not stay out in the cold and the snow.— I wonder what makes him so full of his glee; He's all the time singing that chick-a-de-de. Chick-a-de-de, &c.

V.

"O mother! do get him some stockings and shoes, And a nice little frock, and a hat, if he choose; I wish he'd come into the parlor, and see How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-de." Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VI.

The bird had flown down for some pieces of bread, And heard every word little Emily said; "How queer I would look hi that dress!" thought he; And he laughed, as he warbled his chick-a-de-de. Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VII.

"I'm grateful," he said, "for the wish you express, But I've no occasion for such a fine dress; I had rather remain with my limbs all free, Than to hobble about, singing chick-a-de-de. Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VIII.

"There is ONE, my dear child, tho' I cannot tell who, Has clothed me already, and warm enough too— Good morning! O, who are so happy as we?"— And away he went, singing his chick-a-de-de. Chick-a-de-de, &c.



EDGAR AND WILLIAM; OR HOW TO AVOID A QUARREL.

"Here! lend me your knife, Bill; I've left mine in the house," said Edgar Harris to his younger brother. He spoke in a rude voice, and his manner was imperative.

"No, I won't! Go and get your own knife," replied William, in a tone quite as ungracious as that in which the request, or rather command, had been made.

"I don't wish to go into the house. Give me your knife, I say. I only want it for a minute."

"I never lend my knife, nor give it, either," returned William. "Get your own."

"You are the most disobliging fellow I ever saw," retorted Edgar, angrily, rising up and going into the house to get his own knife. "Don't ever ask me for a favor, for I'll never grant it."

This very unbrotherly conversation took place just beneath the window near which Mr Harris, the father of the lads, was seated. He overheard it all, and was grieved, as may be supposed, that his sons should treat each other so unkindly. But he said nothing to them then, nor did he let them know that he heard the language that had passed between them.

In a little while Edgar returned, and as he sat down in the place where he had been seated before, he said,

"No thanks to you for your old knife! Keep it to yourself, in welcome. I wouldn't use it now, if you were to give it to me."

"I'm glad you are so independent," retorted William. "I hope you will always be so."

And the boys fretted each other for some time.



On the next day, Edgar was building a house with sticks, and William was rolling a hoop. By accident the hoop was turned from its right course, and broke down a part of Edgar's house. William was just going to say how sorry he was for the accident, and to offer to repair the damage that was done, when his brother, with his face red with passion, cried out—

"Just see what you have done! If you don't clear out with your hoop, I'll call father. You did it on purpose."

"Do go and call him! I'll go with you," said William, in a sneering, tantalizing tone. "Come, come along now."

For a little while the boys stood and growled at each other like two ill-natured dogs, and then Edgar commenced repairing his house, and William went to rolling his hoop again. The latter was strongly tempted to repeat, in earnest, what he had done at first by accident, by way of retaliation upon his brother for his spiteful manner toward him; but, being naturally of a good disposition, and forgiving in his temper, he soon forgot his bad feelings, and enjoyed his play as much as he had done before.

This little circumstance Mr Harris had also observed.

A day or two afterward, Edgar came to his father with a complaint against his brother.

"I never saw such a boy," he said. "He won't do the least thing to oblige me. If I ask him to lend me his knife, or ball, or any thing he has, he snaps me up short with a refusal."

"Perhaps you don't ask him right," suggested the father. "Perhaps you don't speak kindly to him. I hardly think that William is ill-disposed and disobliging naturally. There must be some fault on your part, I am sure."

"I don't know how I can be in fault, father," said Edgar.

"William refused to let you have his knife, the other day, although he was not using it himself, did he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember how you asked him for it?"

"No, sir, not now, particularly."

"Well, as I happened to overhear you, I can repeat your words, though I hardly think I can get your very tone and manner. Your words were, 'Here, lend me your knife, Bill!' and your voice and manner were exceedingly offensive. I did not at all wonder that William refused your request. If you had spoken to him in a kind manner, I am sure he would have handed you his knife, instantly. But no one likes to be ordered, in a domineering way, to do any thing at all. I know you would resent it in William, as quickly as he resents it in you. Correct your own fault, my son, and in a little while you will have no complaint to make of William."

Edgar felt rebuked. What his father said he saw to be true.

"Whenever you want William to do any thing for you," continued the father, "use kind words instead of harsh ones, and you will find him as obliging as you could wish. I have observed you both a good deal, and I notice that you rarely ever speak to William in a proper manner, but are rude and overbearing. Correct this evil in yourself, and all will be right with him. Kind words are far more powerful than harsh words, and their effect a hundred-fold greater."

On the next day, as Edgar was at work in the garden, and William standing at the gate, looking on, Edgar wanted a rake that was in the summer-house. He was just going to say, "Go and get me that rake, Bill!" but he checked himself, and made his request in a different form, and in a better tone than those words would have been uttered in.

"Won't you get me the small rake that lies in the summer-house, William?" he said. The words and tone involved a request, not a command, and William instantly replied—

"Certainly;" and bounded away to get the rake for his brother.

"Thank you," said Edgar, as he received the rake.

"Don't you want the watering-pot?" asked William.

"Yes, I do; and you may bring it full of water, if you please," was the reply.

Off William went for the watering-pot, and soon returned with it full of water. As he stood near one of Edgar's flower-beds, he forgot himself, and stepped back with his foot upon a bed of pansies.

"There! just look at you!" exclaimed Edgar, thrown off his guard.

William, who had felt drawn toward his brother on account of his kind manner, was hurt at this sudden change in his words and tone. He was tempted to retort harshly, and even to set his foot more roughly upon the pansies. But he checked himself, and, turning away, walked slowly from the garden.

Edgar, who had repented of his rude words and unkind manner the moment he had time to think, was very sorry that he had been thrown off his guard, and resolved to be more careful in the future. And he was more careful. The next time he spoke to his brother, it was in a kind and gentle manner, and he saw its effect. Since then, he has been watchful over himself, and now he finds that William is one of the most obliging boys any where to be found.

"So much for kind words, my son," said his father, on noticing the great change that had taken place. "Never forget, throughout your whole life, that kind words are far more potent than harsh ones. I have found them so, and you have already proved the truth of what I say."

And so will every one who tries them. Make the experiment, young friends, and you will find it to succeed in every case.



PASSING FOR MORE THAN ONE IS WORTH.

The other day I had occasion to pay a man half a dollar, and gave him a dollar bank note, for which he gave me in exchange two silver pieces that I supposed to be worth twenty-five cents each. One of the pieces, however, I found afterward would only go for sixteen or seventeen cents. It was not a quarter of a dollar, though it looked very much like one. It had passed for some eight or nine cents more than it was worth. Well, that was an affair of very little consequence, you say. True enough, but I am going to take hold of something else with this handle, that may be of more consequence.

There are a great many folks in the world who, like this pistareen, pass themselves off, or try to pass themselves off, for more than their real value. It is bad business, though; and they always feel cheap when they get found out, as they are sure to be in the end.

Did you ever see a dandy under a full press of canvas, as the sailors say, showing himself off on one of the principal streets of a city—on Broadway, for instance, in New York? He was trying to pass himself off for more than his worth. And no doubt he succeeded, too, in some instances. By the way, do you know what definition Webster gives of a dandy in his large dictionary? It is worth remembering. Suppose we turn to it. "A dandy," says he, "is one who dresses himself like a doll, and carries his character on his back." It is a most capital definition; but the silly fellow will pass for something else where he is not known. He will make a great swell, and some people will believe he is a gentleman. Indeed, it would not be strange if he should pass himself off, one of these days, upon some young lady who is quite ignorant of this kind of currency, as an Italian count, or, perhaps, the marquis of this or the duke of that. There is no telling. But if she takes him for a cent more than Webster rates him at, she gets cheated, depend upon it. He is not worth the clothes on his back. He has to cross the street sometimes, to get rid of being dunned by his tailor; and he has been two or three hours trying to find a barber who will trust him. He's nothing but a pistareen, and hardly that.

Some people pass themselves off for being very learned, when they are as ignorant as a horse-block. But, oh! such mistakes as they make sometimes; it is enough to set one into a fit of laughter, only to think of some of them. I know a miss, who tries to pass herself off for a great reader, when the truth is, she has only dipped up a spoon-full, here and there, from a score or two of authors, and has not the slightest idea about the merits of any of them. Some one came up with her nicely the other night, at a party. He had suspicions, I suppose, that she was trying to pass for too much; at all events, he asked her a great many roundabout questions, which she was obliged to answer, and in doing so she let out the secret. Every body saw what sort of a coin she was, at once.

What fools some folks make of themselves, by attempting to pass for more than they are worth, in the matter of dollars and cents. It is said, that in the city of New York there are a good many poor fellows that can scarcely get enough money to appear in a respectable suit of clothes, who will buy a dinner in some cheap eating-house for sixpence, and then pick their teeth on the door-steps of the Astor House, to make people think they have dined there. And that is not any worse than some would-be genteel people manage when the warm season comes on, every year. They close their front window blinds, and steal into and out of their houses like thieves, or dogs that have just had a flogging, so that their neighbors will think they have gone to Saratoga, or Rockaway, or some other fashionable summer retreat. They take a good deal of pains to pass for so much more than they are worth—do they not, little friend? They only go for pistareens, though, where they are known.

One sometimes comes across a public speaker—a lawyer—possibly a preacher—who displays his eloquence by using all sorts of long and out-of-the-way words. A man may be listening ever so quietly and innocently, and the first thing he knows, down comes a word about his ears half as long as his arm almost, and half as heavy as a mallet. That is what the orator calls a knock-down argument; and when he wishes to be particularly convincing and eloquent, he throws at you such brick-bats and bars of iron as incomprehensibility—epexegetically—anthropopathically—so fast that you have scarcely a chance to dodge one before another comes whizzing along. Of course, you are confounded with the man's assault and battery, and if you are a thinking person, perhaps fall to musing how such monstrous words can come out of a man's throat whole, without choking him, or themselves splitting to pieces. When I hear a public speaker going on in that way, I generally think that the poor fellow is making up in big words what he lacks in brains, and if I could whisper a small word or two in his ear, I should be apt to say, "That will never do, sir. You can't pass yourself off for a great scholar with this clap-trap. You are nothing but a pistareen, and rather smooth at that. You are, indeed. Those big words that we have to bend up and twist around to get into our coat-pockets, will not go for sense. So pray be quiet, and not attempt to pass for any more than you are honestly worth, which is little enough, to be sure."

I have known boys and girls at school attempt to pass for more than their real value. Whenever I hear a boy asking somebody to write a composition for him, or to help him write one, which he intends to palm off as his own, or see him jog the boy that sits next him in the school-room, to get some help in reciting a bad lesson, I think of the pistareen, and want very much to caution the little fellow not to pass for more than he is worth. And it makes very little difference that I know of, whether it is a boy or a girl. It seems just as bad in one case as it does in the other.

It happens once in a while that a young lady puts on a great many charms that are not natural to her, and uses every kind of deception, just for the sake of being admired, or, perhaps, to get a good husband. It is bad business, though. Sensible men are not often caught with such a trap; and if they are, when they find out how the matter stands—and they will find it out sooner or later—they despise the trick as one of the meanest that was ever invented. I have a notion, too, that this kind of deception is pretty common among young gentlemen, as well as young ladies. But it is a miserable business, whoever may work at it. It never turns out well in the end, if it does after a fashion at first. It is a great deal better to be natural, and to act like one's self. This passing for more than one is worth, to buy a husband or a wife, as the case may be, don't pay, as the merchant says.

Some people work like a horse in a bark-mill, to make every body believe they are most excellent Christians, very nearly as pious as the angel Gabriel, when the truth is, their religion is all sham, and they will lie and cheat as bad as any body, if they think they will not be found out. Whenever I see one of this class, trying with all his might to pass for a saint, with his face as long as a yard-stick, or, perhaps, all lighted up with kindly smiles, I can't help thinking of the pistareen. It will come into my mind in spite of all I can do. Why, all the time the man is putting on these airs, he is plotting some scheme for selfish gain, or some mischief, just as likely as not. "He does not rise toward heaven like the lark, to make music, but like the hawk, to dart down upon his prey. If he goes up the Mount of Olives to kneel in prayer, he is about to build an oil-mill up there. If he weeps by the brook Kedron, he is making ready to fish for eels, or else to drown somebody in the stream." Poor man! he has a hard time of it, trying to keep up appearances. But it will be harder still, by and by, if he does not look out. He cannot carry his mask with him into the other world. There no one will pass for any more than he is worth.



LAMENT OF THE INVALID.

The earth is arrayed in the robes of spring, And by the soft zephyr the green leaves are stirred; With the wood-bird's note the pine forests ring, And the voice of the robin's glad music is heard.

I see my companions abroad on the plain, But the beauties of spring, they are not for me. Oh! when shall I leave my dull prison again? I am pining to roam 'mid the wild flowers free.

O green is the turf in the wildwood now, And my spirit flies from the dwellings of men, Where the wind blows soft through the cedar's bough, And the voice of the streamlet is heard from the glen.

This dim-lighted chamber I long to resign For my cherish'd retreat, 'neath the wide-spreading tree. Through the long, long hours of day I pine For the breath of the flowers and the hum of the bee.

No, not for me are the beauties of spring, Nor the zephyr that sighs in the cedar's bough; The birds of the forest all sweetly may sing, But not for my ear is their music now.

Yet, merciful Father! I will not complain; My hopes are all centred on heaven and Thee; I know that thy grace will my spirit sustain— I ask not for more—'tis sufficient for me.



THE USE OF FLOWERS[1].

[Footnote 1: See the frontispiece.]

Just one moment longer, cousin Mary, I want to put this flower in your hair. Now doesn't it look sweet, sister Aggy?"

"Oh, yes! very sweet. And here is the dearest little bud I ever saw. I took it from the sweet-briar bush in the lane. Put that, too, in cousin Mary's hair."

Little Florence, seeing what was going on, was soon, also, at work upon Mary's hair, that, in a little while, was covered with buds and blossoms.

"Now she is our May Queen," said the children, as they hung fondly around their cousin, who had come out into the country to enjoy a few weeks of rural quiet, in the season of fruits and flowers. "And our May Queen must sing us a song," said Agnes, who was sitting at the feet of her cousin. "Sing us something about flowers."

"Oh, yes!" spoke up Grace, "sing us that beautiful piece by Mrs Howitt, about the use of flowers. You sang it for us, you remember, the last time you were here."

Cousin Mary sang as desired. After she had concluded, she said—

"Flowers, according to these beautiful verses, are only useful as objects to delight our senses. They are only beautiful forms in nature—their highest use, their beauty and fragrance."

"I think that is what Mrs Howitt means," replied Grace. "So I have always understood her. And I cannot see any other use that flowers have. Do you know of any other use, cousin?"

"Oh, yes. Flowers have a more important use than merely giving delight to the senses. Without them, plants could not produce fruit and seed. You notice that the flower always comes before the fruit?"

"Oh, yes. But why is a flower needed? Why does not the fruit push itself directly out from the stem of a plant?" asked Agnes.

"Flowers are the most exquisitely delicate in their texture of all forms in the vegetable kingdom. Look at the petals of this one. Could any thing be softer or finer? The leaf, the bark, and the wood of the plant are all coarse, in comparison to the flower. Now, as nothing is made in vain, there must be some reason for this. The leaves and bark, as well as wood, of plants, all have vessels through which sap flows, and this sap nourishes, sustains, and builds up the plant, as our blood does our bodies. But the whole effort of the plant is to reproduce itself; and to this end it forms seed, which, when cast into the ground, takes root, springs up, and makes a new plant. To form this seed, requires the purest juices of the plant, and these are obtained by means of the flowers, through the exquisitely fine vessels of which these juices are filtered, or strained, and thus separated from all that is gross and impure."

"I never thought of that before," said Agnes. "Flowers, then, are useful, as well as beautiful."

"Nothing is made for mere beauty. All things in nature regard use as an end. To flowers are assigned a high and important use, and exquisite beauty of form and color is at the same time given to them; and with these our senses are delighted. They are, in more respects than one, good gifts from our heavenly Father."

"Oh! how I do love the flowers," said Agnes; "and now, when I look upon them, and think of their use as well as their beauty, I will love them still more. Are they so very beautiful because their use is such an important one, cousin Mary?"

"Yes, dear; I believe this is so. In the seeds of plants there is an image of the infinity of our great Creator; for in seeds resides a power, or an effort, to reproduce the plants, that lie concealed as gems within them, to infinity. We might naturally enough suppose that flowers, whose use it is to refine and prepare the juices of plants, so as to free them from all grosser matters, and make them fit for the important office of developing and maturing seeds, would be exceedingly delicate in their structure, and, as a natural consequence, beautiful to look upon. And we will believe, therefore, that their peculiar beauty depends upon their peculiar use."



SLIDING DOWN HILL.

Say what you will—talk about cold hands, feet, and noses, as much as you please—there are about as fine sports in winter as we get in the whole year. There is something very exciting in snow. A snow storm acts like electricity upon the spirits of the boys—and girls too, for that matter. How busy we used to be, on Saturday afternoon, when there was no school, as soon as the first flakes of snow had whitened the ground, making new sleds, and mending up old ones.

Our southern readers know very little about these sports of winter. I have a good mind to enlighten them a little. Imagine, my young friends—you who live so near the tropics that snow and ice are objects of curiosity—imagine, if you can, the earth covered to the depth of two feet or more with snow. In some places, the drifts are as high as your head, and higher too. When it first falls, the particles are loosely thrown together; but a warm sun or a little shower of rain melts them down a little, and then comes a night cold enough to freeze up your mouth, if you don't look out, and the surface of the snow becomes hard and slippery. Then such a time as the boys have sliding down hill—why, it is worth coming up as far north as New York, and running the risk of having your fingers frozen a little, to see them at it, and take a few trips down the hill.



A sled constructed for this purpose is a very simple thing. I will sketch one for you. Here it is, and a boy carrying it up the hill.

When the boy gets to the top of the hill, he sometimes lies and sometimes sits up on his sled, and lets it go. It finds its way down, without any of the boy's help, you may depend upon it. He has to guide it a little with his feet, though. If he did not, he might come in contact with another boy's sled, or a rock, perhaps; and that would be rather a serious joke, when the sled was going like the cars on a railroad.

Sometimes there are a dozen boys, all or nearly all with a sled of their own, sliding down the same hill at once. In fact, we used to have the whole school at it, now and then, when I was a little boy. It was a merry time then, you may be sure. Occasionally we would have a large sled, which it took three or four boys to draw up the hill. Then half a dozen of us would get on, and slide down in advance of the wind, it seemed to me—for it was so swift that I scarcely could breathe—until we came up all standing in a huge snow bank.

Sometimes, when we were half way down, and our locomotive was under a full pressure of steam, a boy would fall off, and, not being able to check the force he received from the sled, would go down to the bottom of the hill in a manner calculated to raise a very stormy concert of laughter from the rest of the boys. And the poor John Gilpin enjoyed the fun, too, or tried to enjoy it, as much as any of them, though he did not laugh quite so heartily; and he could well be pardoned for not doing that, certainly, until he had got to the end of his ludicrous race.

I can recollect a great many funny adventures connected with sliding down hill. I don't know that I ever laughed more in my life at any one time, than I did once at a feat of Jack Mason's. Jack was a courageous fellow—one of the most daring boys in the whole school. Some thirty or forty of us were one bright Saturday afternoon sliding down a fine hill, with a good level valley at its foot, when Jack challenged the boys to go down the other side, which was a great deal steeper, and which had an immense drift of snow at the bottom. No one dared to do it. We all thought it would be rather too serious business. Jack surveyed the ground for a few minutes, and screwed his courage up to the highest point. "I am going down," said he. We tried to dissuade him, but it was of no use. When Jack had made up his mind, you might as well attempt to turn the course of the north wind as to turn him. The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than down he went, like an arrow. We trembled for him, and held our breath almost, as we watched his sled; for it used to be a proverb with us, that Jack would break his neck one of these days, and we were not without our fears that the day had come.

Down went Jack on his sled, and in a few moments he was plunged in the snow bank out of sight. We all ran down to dig him out, scarcely daring to hope we should find him alive. We worked like beavers for a considerable time, and found nothing of the poor adventurer. At last, more than a rod from where he entered the bank, up popped Jack, as white with snow as if he had been into a flour barrel, tugging his sled after him, and grinning like a right merry fellow, as he was. Take it all in all, it was one of the most laughable sights I ever saw; and now as I write, and a sort of a daguerreotype likeness of Jack, just emerging, like a ghost, from that snow bank, comes up to my mind, I have to stop and laugh almost as heartily as I did at the scene itself, when it occurred.



A GARDEN OVERRUN WITH WEEDS.

"Father, I don't like to go to school," said Harry Williams, one morning. "I wish you would let me always stay at home. Charles Parker's father don't make him go to school."

Mr Williams took his little boy by the hand, and said kindly to him, "Come, my son, I want to show you something in the garden."

Harry walked into the garden with his father, who led him along until they came to a bed in which peas were growing, the vines supported by thin branches that had been placed in the ground. Not a weed was to be seen about their roots, nor even disfiguring the walk around the bed in which they had been planted.

"See how beautifully these peas are growing, my son," said Mr Williams. "How clean and healthy the vines look. We shall have an abundant crop. Now let me show you the vines in Mr Parker's garden. We can look at them through a great hole in his fence."

Mr Williams then led Harry through the garden gate and across the road, to look at Mr Parker's pea vines through the hole in the fence. The bed in which they were growing was near to the road; so they had no difficulty in seeing it. After looking into the garden for a few moments, Mr Williams said—

"Well, my son, what do you think of Mr Parker's pea vines?"

"Oh, father!" replied the little boy; "I never saw such poor looking peas in my life! There are no sticks for them to run upon, and the weeds are nearly as high as the peas themselves. There won't be half a crop!"

"Why are they so much worse than ours, Harry?"

"Because they have been left to grow as they pleased. I suppose Mr Parker just planted them, and never took any care of them afterward. He has neither taken out the weeds, nor helped them to grow right."

"Yes, that is just the truth, my son. A garden will soon be overrun with weeds and briars, if it is not cultivated with the greatest care. And just so it is with the human garden. This precious garden must be trained and watered, and kept free from weeds, or it will run to waste. Children's minds are like garden beds; and they must be as carefully tended, and even more carefully, than the choicest plants. If you, my son, were never to go to school, nor have good seeds of knowledge planted in your mind, it would, when you become a man, resemble the weed-covered, neglected bed we have just been looking at, instead of the beautiful one in my garden. Would you think me right to neglect my garden as Mr Parker neglects his?"

"Oh, no, father; your garden is a good garden, but Mr Parker's is all overrun with weeds and briars. It won't yield half as much as yours will."

"Or, my son, do you think I would be right if I neglected my son as Mr Parker neglects his son, allowing him to run wild, and his mind, uncultivated, to become overgrown with weeds?"

Little Harry made no reply; but he understood pretty clearly what his father meant.

"I send you to school," Mr Williams continued, "in order that the garden of your mind may have good seeds sown in it, and that these seeds may spring up and grow, and produce plentifully. Now which would you prefer, to stay at home from school, and so let the garden of your mind be overrun with weeds, or go to school, and have this garden cultivated?"

"I would rather go to school," said Harry. "But, father, is Charles Parker's mind overrun with weeds?"

"I am afraid that it is. If not, it certainly will be, if his father does not send him to school. For a little boy not to be sent to school, is a great misfortune, and I hope you will think the privilege of going to school a very great one indeed."

Harry Williams listened to all his father said, and, what was better, thought about it, too. He never again asked to stay home from school.



JULIAN PARMELEE; OR DISAPPOINTMENT SOMETIMES A BLESSING.

In a pleasant New England village, several years ago, there was a good deal of excitement produced among the little folks, by the appearance, on the sign-post, and in the tavern and store, of some large placards, with very curious and funny pictures upon them. These placards made known the important fact, that, for the sum of ninepence, (a shilling, according to the currency of New York,) any boy and girl in the vicinity might have the pleasure of seeing some of the most astonishing feats of trained animals ever heard of. On a certain day there was to be a sort of juggler, who would play on some kind of instruments. The music made by this man would have the power of charming the animals—so the advertisement read—and the instant they heard it, they would commence playing their antics. There was a great black bear who would stand on his head; a dog who knew almost as much as his master; a cock that could walk on a pair of high stilts. Then there were learned monkeys, learned pigs, and I know not what besides.



The pictures of these different animals, performing their several exploits, caused a great deal of wonder and admiration among the village boys and girls. In cities, where such exhibitions occur very frequently, such things would not be much thought of. But it is very different in the country, where public exhibitions of every sort are "like angels' visits, few and far between." For nearly a week before the day appointed for this juggling exhibition, there was nothing talked of in this quiet village so much as the "show." Ninepences that had been a twelvemonth in accumulating, were now in great demand; and more than one boy sighed as he reflected that he had spent his pennies in candies and other nice things, so that he had none left for the "show," and secretly resolved that he would be wiser next time, and not allow his money to slip through his fingers so easily.