Among those who had the permission of their parents to visit the exhibition, and who were anxiously longing for the day to come, were Julian Parmelee and his sister. Julian, especially—a boy of about nine years of age—was almost crazy with delight, when his mother told him he might go. He jumped, danced, clapped his hands, shouted, and went through so many strange manoeuvres, that his elder brother George, who was rather more sober on the occasion, said he guessed he should not go to the court-house and pay ninepence to see the show, for he was in a fair way to get the exhibition at home, for nothing.

"Oh, mother!" said Julian, "do you really believe the bear will stand on his head? What a funny sight it must be! I wonder if they keep the bear chained. I shall take care I do not get within reach of his paws, I guess. Charley Staples said he didn't believe it was half so big as the one he saw when he was up in Vermont. How big is it, mother? as big as our Carlo? Oh, I wish it was time to go now! I should think monkeys were very funny creatures. They say there is one in the show that rides a horse, just like a man. Ha! ha! ha!" And he laughed so loudly that he waked up the baby in the cradle.

I do not wonder at all that little Julian was so much delighted with the idea of going to this exhibition. It was something entirely new to him; and to children, especially, such singular feats as these animals were to perform, are always entertaining. It may, however, admit of a question, whether it is right, just for our amusement, to inflict so much pain upon these poor creatures as is necessary to teach them their several parts. It seems rather cruel. You know what the frogs once said to the boys, according to the fable, in the matter of stoning: "Young gentlemen, you do not consider, that while this is sport to you, it is death to us." These poor bears, and monkeys, and other animals, while they are going through their education, might use some such language to their teachers, perhaps, if they had the same faculty that the fable ascribes to the frogs. But, however that may be, it was very natural that Julian should be half frantic at the thought of seeing the show, and quite as natural that Julian's father and mother should consent to let him go.

Well, some two days before the exhibition was to take place, Julian was taken sick. There is a class of diseases—such as the measles and the whooping-cough—which, you know, almost every boy and girl must have some time or another; and it is not always left with the children to decide precisely when they shall take their turn. One of these diseases had made Julian a call, and insisted on staying with him a week or two. It was the whooping-cough. Julian wanted to be excused for a few days; but the old fellow told him, in his wheezing way, that he could not think of letting him off so long. Julian was disappointed, and cried a good deal. It did seem rather hard that he must be caged up in his chamber just at this time. He was not so sick as to make it necessary to stay at home; but his mother thought it would be wrong to allow him to go where there were to be so many other children, because they would be in danger of taking the disease from him. So it was decided that he could not see the "show;" and he fretted and stormed, and made himself very unhappy. He was usually a good-natured boy, but it must be confessed, that he was now quite out of humor.

"I don't see what I'm sick for, just when I wanted to go to the 'show.' I declare, it is too bad. And the whooping-cough, too! If it was any thing else, I could go. What under the sun—"

"There, Julian, that will do, I think," said his mother, kindly.

Julian checked himself, but he could hardly help muttering something about its being "very provoking."

Mrs Parmelee was silent for a while, until the peevishness of her child had a little time to subside, and then she said—

"My dear child, I am sorry that you should feel so; for you not only make yourself unhappy, but you are finding fault with God, and you know that is very wrong. God had something to do with your sickness. He could very easily have prevented it, if he had chosen to do so. But he did not choose to prevent it, and—"

"Well, why didn't he prevent it, mother?"

"Hear me through, my child. If he allowed you to be sick, when he could have kept you well, then it is certain that, on the whole, he would rather you would be sick. You see this, don't you, Julian?"

"Yes, ma'am. God made me sick, didn't he?"

"There's no doubt that all diseases are under his control."

"Then, mama, I am sure that God—"

"Not quite so fast. I want you to see what you was doing, when you was so peevish a little while ago. You was very much out of humor. Indeed, I think you showed some anger."

"Oh, no, mother, I was not angry."

"Perhaps not, my child; but what would you call that spirit, if it was not anger?"

"I was—I was—provoked—I mean vexed, mama."

"Well, who vexed you?"

"Nobody; it was the whooping-cough."

"I'm very sorry that my child should get into such a passion—or vexation, whichever it may be—with the whooping-cough; for you say that you suppose the disease was under the control of God, so that it must have been rather an innocent sort of thing, after all. If you should fall into the mill-pond, and a man standing on the shore should let you struggle a while before he helped you out, you would get vexed, wouldn't you?"

"I guess I should."

"You would certainly have as much reason for vexation as you have had this morning. But would you be likely to get vexed with the water?"

"Why, no, mama. I should be provoked with the man, because he didn't help me out."

"I thought so. Well, then, don't you think you found fault with God, in this matter of the whooping-cough?"

"It may be so."

"It must be so."

Little Julian was a thoughtful child. He saw that this spirit of peevishness was very wrong, and that he had murmured against God. He told his mother that he hoped he should not do so any more. He was silent for some minutes, and then said—

"There is one thing I would like to know about, mother; but it may be I ought not to ask."

"What is it, Julian?" asked his mother.

"If God is kind, and if he loves us, why does he let us get sick? I am sure you would keep me well all the time, if you could, because you love me, and because you are good and kind."

"I am glad you asked that question, Julian. There are a great many things which we cannot understand about the government of God. But I think I can explain this to you. God, it is true, often disappoints us, and gives us pain, and makes us weep. This would all seem very strange, and almost unkind, if we did not know that God has some other end in view besides making us happy in this life. He is training us for another world; and if you live to be a man, you will see that such disappointments as this of yours, for a part of God's plan of fitting his children for heaven."

"But I think we should be just as good, if he did not make us feel bad and cry."

"That is your mistake. Do you think you would be just as good a child, if your parents always humored you, and gave you every plaything you asked for? Are you quite sure that you would now mind your father and mother as well, if you had always been allowed to have your own way?"

"But you don't make me sick, mother."

"True. We correct you in another way. But we sometimes give you pain, and make you cry. Did you ever think, when your father reproved you and punished you, that it was because he did not love you?"

"Oh, no, mother."

"You can see how your father can be kind and affectionate, and still give you pain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then cannot you see how God may disappoint his children, and even make them unhappy for a time, and love them tenderly, too?"

"Oh, mother, I see it all now! I wonder I never thought of this before! Well, the whooping-cough is not so bad, after all. I've learned something by it, at any rate."

"Yes, and it may be worth a great deal more to you than the 'show' would have been."



THE OLD MAN AT THE COTTAGE DOOR.

Come, faint old man! and sit awhile Beside our cottage door; A cup of water from the spring, A loaf to bless the poor, We give with cheerful hearts, for God Hath given us of his store.

Too feeble, thou, for daily toil, Too weak to earn thy bread— For th' weight of many, many years, Lies heavy on thy head— A wanderer, want, thy weary feet, Hath to our cottage led.

Come rest awhile. 'Twill not be long, Ere thy faint head shall know A deeper, calmer, better rest, Than cometh here below; When He, who loveth every one, Shall call thee hence to go.

God bless thee in thy wanderings! Wherever they may be, And make the ears of every one Attentive to thy plea; A double blessing will be theirs, Who kindly turn to thee.



STORY OF A STOLEN PEN. WRITTEN BY ITSELF.

My friend, Theodore Thinker, who is an odd sort of a genius, and frequently takes up things after a singular fashion, has put into my hands a paper with this caption: "Story of a Stolen Pen, written by itself." It seems, from a somewhat lengthy introduction—too lengthy to be here quoted—that the pen once belonged to some editor or another; and as Theodore has something to do with editorial matters himself, I should not wonder if he is the one. Some curious readers may be disposed to inquire how the pen was made to talk so fluently, and perhaps some others would like to know how it was found in the first place. I can't answer these reasonable inquiries. The manuscript is entirely silent on both points. I have my conjectures in relation to the thing—pretty strong conjectures, too. I guess the whole story is a fable, to tell the truth. But never mind. There is a great deal of sense in fables sometimes; and who knows but there may be some in this? At all events, we must have

THE STORY.



I wish you could have seen the thief in the act of stealing me. What a sorry face he had on! I send you a rough sketch of him—for I have a little talent at drawing—taken from memory. I was lying on the desk, close by a manuscript which I had commenced. He snatched me as soon as the editor's back was turned, and ran out of the office. I wonder the people did not notice that he was a rogue as he passed along the street. Why, he stared at every body he met, as if he was afraid they were going to give him an invitation to walk to the police office. The first thing he did was to call at several pawnbroker's offices, where he tried to sell me. No one would give him what he asked. He wanted ten or twelve dollars, I believe. Well, he gave up that project before night, and I heard him mutter to himself, "If I only had the money for it!" After supper he took me into his room, and when he had locked the door fast, he began to examine me carefully. "It is a beautiful pen," said he, and then he tried to see how I would write. I should think he was a pretty good penman. He made a great many flourishes with me, and wrote his name several times. His name was John Smith, by the way, or at any rate, that was the signature he made. "What a fine pen this is," said he; "I never wrote with a better pen in my life. But it won't do for me to keep it. I shall be found out, if I do. Oh, dear! I wish I had got it without stealing it. I wonder where I can sell the troublesome thing."

Just then somebody knocked at the door. It was a long time before he let the person in. He had to think what he would do with me first, and it took him a good while to put away the paper he had been scribbling on. "Why, John!" said the man, when he came in, "what makes you look so frightened? I should think you took me for a tiger, or some such animal." "I've got the toothache," said the thief, "and I have sent for the doctor to pull it out. I thought he had come when you knocked. Dear me! how I dread it! Did you ever have a tooth drawn?"

So you see the fellow told a lie. Those who break one of God's commandments, are pretty likely to break more before they get through. My new owner seemed to find it difficult to get to sleep that night, and after he did get to sleep, he muttered a good deal in his dreams. Once I heard him say, "No; I bought it of Mr Bagley, in Broadway." I could not help thinking that he ought to be content with telling lies when he was awake.

One day he left me on the table when he went out. It was unfortunate for him. That night I overheard the chambermaid talking with him about it, and I saw him turn very red in the face. It was evident she did not believe his story about buying the pen of Mr Bagley, though he told it over and over again, and made use of a terrible oath, which I dare not repeat. Poor man! I pitied him. He was certainly very unhappy. He wanted to sell me very much indeed; but some how or other, no one would give the price he asked. Perhaps they remembered the saying, "The buyer is as bad as the thief." He offered me to one man in Pearl street, who seemed a little disposed to buy. "Wait a minute," said he; and he went into a back room to speak to somebody. But John Smith thought it would be safer for him not to wait. I guess he had his mind on the subject of police officers at that time.

He never went to church with me but once; and then, strange enough, the minister preached from this text: "The way of transgressors is hard." I could feel the poor man's heart throb, as the clergyman slowly read the words. When he went home, he was in great distress—for the sermon was a very solemn one—and he took down from a shelf a small Bible, all covered with dust, and looked at some words which were written on the first leaf. I don't wonder he wept, as he read them—"A mother's gift." He remembered where the text was, and he turned to it, and read it again and again. "Yes," said he, "it is true—too true. But what shall I do? I have been to the theatre so much now, that I can't be happy unless I go; and where am I to get the money? I wish I had never begun to steal. Oh! that was a sad day for me, when I listened to wicked boys, and robbed that old man's pear tree." I saw then how he first became a thief; and I thought I should like to have every body know that when boys are stealing apples, and pears, and peaches, they are serving an apprenticeship to the business of stealing on a larger scale. I myself have heard of many a highway robber, who began his career in the orchard of his neighbor.

Mr Smith did not reform. About three months ago, he stole a horse from a stable in the upper part of the city, and immediately left for some place in New Jersey. It was a beautiful horse, but he could not sell him. People were suspicious. At last he was arrested, and had to go to Sing Sing prison. I hope he will make up his mind to be an honest man now; for he has certainly learned, by pretty dear experience, that "honesty is the best policy." I can't think he would steal any more if they should let him out. Still, I am not sure. The habit was very strong.

THE END