The olive branch, and other stories

By A. L. O. E.

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Title: The olive branch, and other stories

Author: A. L. O. E.

Release date: October 29, 2025 [eBook #77151]

Language: English

Original publication: London: T. Nelson and Sons, 1885


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE OLIVE BRANCH, AND OTHER STORIES ***
Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.



[Illustration: THE OLIVE BRANCH.]



                          THE OLIVE-BRANCH


                         And Other Stories.


                                  BY

                              _A.L.O.E._

         AUTHOR OF "EXILES IN BABYLON," "TRIUMPH OVER MIDIAN,"
                      "THE YOUNG PILGRIM," ETC.



                            [Illustration]



                                London:
                 T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW.
                        EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
                              ——————————
                                 1885.



                               Contents.

                            [Illustration]

    I. THE OLIVE-BRANCH

   II. THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN

  III. NEVER MIND SCOFFS

   IV. A PEEP INTO A BACK-KITCHEN

    V. THE TWO PATIENTS

   VI. IT'S VERY HARD

  VII. THE PIC-NIC

 VIII. CATCHING AT A SHADOW

   IX. GO AND DO LIKEWISE

    X. THE BEST FRIEND

   XI. THE THICKET OF FURZE

  XII. THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST

 XIII. SENDING HORSES TO TRAVELLERS

  XIV. THORNS AND FLOWERS

   XV. HEIR TO SOMETHING BETTER

  XVI. THE TWO PETS

 XVII. THE TWO STANDARD MEASURES



                           THE OLIVE-BRANCH

                              ——————————

I.

THE OLIVE-BRANCH.

[Illustration]

"IF you are going for the fodder for our cow, Carlo, what say you to
taking our little Rosina with you? It is long since she has been beyond
our village, and a ride upon our trusty old Duchessa will do her good."

It was Bice, the wife of an Italian peasant, who spoke these words to
her husband, as she stood at her cottage door, with her bright little
girl at her side.

"What say you, Rosina?" asked the smiling father. "Have you a mind for
a ride?"

The little girl clapped her hands for joy. "Oh, if we are going to
the farmer's for the fodder," she cried, "then we will pass by Aunt
Barbara's cottage. May I go in and see her, father, and carry her one
of mother's little goat-milk cheeses that she always likes so much?"

Rosina saw with surprise a shade of sadness gathering upon her father's
sunburnt face. And when she turned to look at her mother, Bice was
brushing a tear from her eye.

"You cannot go to your aunt, Rosina," said Carlo; and his voice sounded
almost stern to his child.

"Is poor aunt ill?" asked the little girl; for she saw that her mother
was greatly distressed.

"Ask no questions, my child," said Carlo. Then, turning to his wife, he
went on: "She cannot understand, poor lamb, why a woman should quarrel
with an only sister, who never meant to give her cause of offence."

Rosina heard her father's words with increasing wonder. She knew that
her Aunt Barbara had a peevish and angry temper, but she could not
think how she, or any one else, could possibly quarrel with that gentle
mother who had always taught Rosina to love and forgive. The child did
not, however, venture to ask any more questions, though her heart was
sad at the idea that any one could by unkindness bring a tear to her
mother's eye.

"Perhaps, after all, Carlo," said Bice, looking up earnestly into the
face of her husband, "it might be as well for you to let our little
one run in and see her aunt, as you are passing her very door. Barbara
has always been kind to Rosina; it might—" Bice's voice dropped to a
whisper as she added, "it might do good—it could scarcely do harm."

"It would look like an attempt to make up with her," said Carlo, rather
proudly; "and after her insolent conduct to you, I would not choose to
take the first step."

"I would take not the first step only, but go the whole way, if I could
but win back my sister to love me," said Bice, clasping her hands.
"O Carlo, 'Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the
children of God.'"

"I never knew any one more ready to forget and forgive than you are,
Bice," said her husband; "it is all the greater shame to Barbara that
she quarrels with such a sister. But she is a woman who would snap at
any one who chanced to stand in her light. However, as you wish it, our
little Rosina shall run in and wish her aunt good-day; a child should
never be mixed up with the disputes of older people."

"And may I carry aunt one of your nice cheeses?" whispered Rosina,
standing on tip-toe, and drawing down her mother towards her that she
might breathe the words in her ear.

"Alas! Rosina, my darling, she would now accept nothing from me!"

"Not even a 'kiss?'" whispered Rosina.

The mother's heart was too full for reply; for, notwithstanding
Barbara's unkindness, she was dear to her only sister. Bice could only
lift her darling up in her arms, and half cover her rosy face with
kisses.

"Half of these are for your own little girl, half are for auntie," said
simple Rosina; and she resolved to be a trusty messenger, and deliver
faithfully what she considered to be tokens of love and forgiveness.

Carlo started on his way to the farm, leading the patient and trusty
Duchessa, while Fidele, the dog, ran by his side. The day was warm and
bright, sunshine lay on the valley and gilded the distant hills, but
Rosina sat on her ass more quiet and silent than usual—she had scarcely
a word even for her old friend Fidele. Carlo might have missed her
merry prattle had not his own thoughts been painfully occupied with the
family quarrel. He little guessed what was passing through the mind of
the child scarcely four years of age.

Barbara, it is true, had hitherto been always kind to Rosina; the child
had seen her angry with others, but had never had a harsh word herself.
Yet Barbara's temper was such that Rosina's love for her had always
been mixed with some fear. What the child had just heard and seen
had increased that feeling of fear to a painful degree. Rosina quite
dreaded having to go alone into the presence of her aunt, the stern
black-eyed woman, whose unkindness had made even her mother cry. Rosina
would far rather have quietly passed the door on her ass; and she knew
that a word to her father would be enough to make him spare her what
she now felt to be a very great trial of courage. But then her mother's
tears and her mother's kisses! Rosina could not forget these, and she
ought to deliver them. Besides, her mother had said such beautiful
words from Scripture; oh, if Aunt Barbara could but have heard them,
surely she would become a peacemaker too, and never be angry or cross
any more!

So, while the ass went on at her slow, steady pace, little Rosina
was repeating to herself over and over again, "'Blessed are the
peacemakers.'"

Her young heart beat faster as Duchessa stopped, as she often had done
before, at the vine-covered porch of Barbara's door, over which hung
clusters of ripe dark grapes. Rosina felt almost inclined to cling to
her father's arm, and beg him to drive on Duchessa, for she dared not
go in by herself. But even one as young as Rosina may be guided by
conscience, and conscience was whispering to the child that her mother
wished her to go, that it was right to go, and that the great God of
peace could put kind thoughts into the heart of her aunt.

Barbara was sitting alone in a darkened room: it was dark because she
had made it so; she had so choked up her window with thick-growing
plants that the light which shone so brightly outside could hardly
creep in through the leaves. And so poor Barbara was shutting out the
sunshine of love from her home and her heart, and making them both
dull and cheerless when they might have been so bright. Do you think
that the proud, quarrelsome woman was happy? Ah, no, dear reader; for
there never is true happiness with sin. It has been truly said that a
little sin disturbs our peace more than a great deal of sorrow. Barbara
was in her secret soul vexed at having quarrelled with her sister; she
was vexed, but she would not own it, for her heart was full of pride.
Barbara had resolved never to confess herself wrong, and rather to live
all her life unloving and unloved than to bend her haughty spirit to
make friends with her younger sister.

There sat unhappy Barbara, with no companion but bitter thoughts.
She felt terribly alone in the world, but it was her own pride and
temper that had made a desert around her. She could not help thinking
of the happy days of childhood, when she and her sister had been
merry playmates together. Barbara's eyes chanced to rest on a little
olive-plant in her window; and the sight of that plant had brought
back to her memory days of old. She recollected how Bice, then a
rosy-cheeked child, had once asked her what shrub or tree she would
choose for her own especial favourite.

"I would choose the laurel," had been Barbara's proud reply; "for that
is the plant of which wreaths are made for those who conquer in war."

"I would choose the olive," little Bice had said; "for it was the leaf
of the olive that was brought by the dove to Noah; and it always seems
as if the plant, with its juicy fruit and silvery hue, made one think
of gentle peace."

So from that day the olive had always been connected in the mind of
Barbara with the thought of her gentle sister.

"I'll throw that plant away; I'll pull it up," muttered Barbara; "I
don't care to keep anything now to remind me of her."

The proud woman had hardly uttered the words when a soft—a very
soft—knock was heard at the door.

At Barbara's rough "Come in," the door slowly opened, and a little
child appeared, so like to what Bice had been at her age that Barbara
could almost fancy that she was looking again at her earliest playmate.

Rosina crept in timidly at first, for she thought that her aunt looked
terribly stern.

"Why do you come here?" asked Barbara, with a little softening,
however, in her tone.

"I have something to give you from mother," said the child.

"I will take nothing from her," replied Barbara; "I'll return it,
whatever it be."

"Will you?" cried Rosina, suddenly running up to her aunt, and opening
wide her little arms. The next moment the arms were clasped tightly
round Barbara's neck, and the soft little lips were printing kisses on
her cheek.

Barbara was a proud, ill-tempered woman, but she still had a heart, and
a heart that might be conquered by love. She would have spurned a gift,
but she could not refuse a kiss. Barbara could not help pressing her
sister's child to her bosom, and a strange choking sensation appeared
to rise in her throat.

"Those are mother's kisses—dear mother's kisses—and you promised to
return whatever she sent," cried Rosina. "Give me the kisses back for
my mother!"

And if Barbara did give the kisses, and if her proud eyes were moist as
she did so, who can wonder? She would have mocked at words of reproach;
she would have retorted insult or scorn; but the kiss, the fond kiss,
sent through the little child, subdued both her anger and pride.

Barbara rose from her seat, and slowly walked to the window; perhaps
it was partly to hide her eyes that she did so. She broke off a large
branch from the olive, and suddenly turning round, held it out to her
little niece.

"Take this to your mother from me, Rosina," she said, "and tell her
to remember our early choice. The laurel, I have found, bears but a
poisonous berry; the fruit of the olive is good—I will cultivate it
from this day."

If Rosina did not fully understand the message, she understood the
smile which followed it, which looked so pleasant on a face so lately
furrowed with gloomy frowns.

And when Rosina, bearing the olive-branch in her little hand, ran out
to her father, and told him all that had passed, his look of amusement
and pleasure more than rewarded the child for the effort she had made.

"Brava, my brave little messenger!" exclaimed Carlo, giving Rosina a
hearty kiss as he lifted her up to Duchessa's back. "Brava, little
peacemaker! So you made her give back the kisses again! That bit of
olive will bring as much joy to your mother's heart as if it were made
of silver, with blossoms of pearl and leaves of gold."

Very joyful was the return of Rosina to her home. The fodder which
Carlo procured from the farm, and heaped high on the patient Duchessa,
looked like a little throne for the child, who, as she saw her mother
standing at her door to welcome her, merrily waved her branch of olive,
the token of joy and success.

Carlo planted the olive-twig in his garden, where it took root, and in
time grew up to be a goodly tree with blossoms and fruit. Barbara, who
was often a guest at her sister's cottage, watched the growth of the
olive with peculiar interest; and Rosina always on her aunt's birth-day
bore to her a little spray from the tree.

And when Rosina herself had grown up to be a woman, and married, and
had little children of her own, their favourite spot for play was under
the shadow of what was called "the peacemaker's tree."

Dear children, plant in the gardens of your own little hearts the
olive-branch of peace.



II.

THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN.

[Illustration]

AN ass finding the skin of a lion, put it on, and in the disguise of
the king of beasts soon sent the more timid animals scampering in
terror before her. The fox alone showed no fear.

"What!" brayed the ass. "Are you not frightened? Do you not dread the
lion's terrible jaws?"

"Ah, my good friend," said the fox, "creatures at a distance may be
alarmed at sight of the tawny hide of the lion, but I have come near
enough to hear the bray and spy the long ears of the ass!"

[Illustration: THE ASS IN THE LION'S SKIN.]

Those who try to inspire respect by false pretences are sure to betray
themselves in the end.

                               ————————

FALSE PRETENCES.

"You say that your father keeps a butler and footman, why that's
nothing!" exclaimed Master Tom Talkaway in a pompous tone to one of the
group of schoolfellows amongst whom he had come for the first time.
"'My' father keeps six men and two boys," added the young boaster,
looking round him with an air of triumph.

"I say!" exclaimed Jack, one of the boys whose mother could only afford
to have one general servant.

"Oh, you should see how we go on in London!" cried Tom. "You've not a
notion of real high life in a poor little village like this. Why," he
continued in his swaggering way, sticking his thumbs into the pockets
of his waistcoat, "I've seen five, six, seven carriages waiting before
father's door, and the most of them had coronets on them."

"I say!" repeated poor Jack; while the other boys exchanged looks of
surprise, scarcely knowing whether to believe their companion or not.

Mr. Gilbert, the usher, who had been sitting by the window reading,
raised his eyes from his book.

"Tom Talkaway," he quietly said, "I happen to know about your father:
he is a respectable haberdasher in London, and, for aught that I know,
may keep six men in his shop and two boys to carry his parcels; nor
should I be surprised if some of his customers came in carriages even
with coronets on them."

Tom was thunderstruck at these words; his thumbs were pulled out of his
pockets, he flushed up to the roots of his hair. There was a general
roar of laughter from his schoolfellows, and cries of "Look at the
great son and heir of the haberdasher!" which increased the boy's
confusion.

"Hush!" cried the usher, raising his hand to command silence. "There is
'nothing' to be ashamed of in 'honest' trade, but 'a great deal' to be
ashamed of in 'dishonest pretence.' And," he added, looking sternly at
Tom, "it is only the 'ass' that puts on the skin of the lion, and he is
sure soon to be found out, and to meet the scorn which he merits."



III.

NEVER MIND SCOFFS.

[Illustration]

"I'LL splash that duck all over! I'll make it as wet as a sponge in the
water! I'll soon take out all the shine from its green and glittering
neck!"

So cried little Guy, as with both hands he flung water at the beautiful
bird. But calmly the duck swam on; its rich plumage was dry, not a drop
would rest upon it, and bright as ever in the sunlight shone its green
and glittering neck.

"I shall pelt it with water from my squirt!" cried Guy. "I shall
certainly wet it at last, and make its feathers like those of the dead
pigeon which I found yesterday in the brook!"

[Illustration: THE BOY AND THE DUCK.]

Yet calmly the duck swam on; its rich plumage was dry, not a drop would
rest upon it, and bright as ever in the sunlight shone its green and
glittering neck.

Why was the duck never wet, though the boy in his malice threw so
much water upon it? Because Nature has given it oil on its feathers
that throws off the moisture at once. Even when the bird dives in the
stream, it rises unwetted and unstained.

When we are pelted with scoffs and words of unkindness, let the "oil
of patience" keep our temper unruffled, and then they have no more
real power to harm us than water to injure a duck. There are those who
laugh and mock at others for refusing to join them in evil: they pelt
them with bitter jests, and try to throw shame upon them. Are not such
acting the part of Guy? Let all who are laughed at for doing right
go steadily on their way; shame cannot rest upon them, nor dim the
brightness of a character that will shine but the more clearly for such
vain attempts to blot it.



IV.

A PEEP INTO A BACK-KITCHEN.

[Illustration]

"WHAT can a little boy of seven years of age do?" I would ask of my
young readers. Perhaps they will answer, "He can read, perhaps write in
a very big round hand; he can bowl a hoop, toss a ball, spin a top, and
fly a kite."

"But can such a child be of any 'real use' in the world?"

Let me answer this question by giving a truthful account of a visit
which I paid a few days ago to a family in one of the poorer streets of
London.

My ring at the door of a lodging-house for the poor was answered by
little Ben, a boy of about seven years of age. The sound of a baby's
cry was heard from the back-kitchen, from which he had just come, and
which was the dwelling-place of the family.

No wonder was it that the poor baby cried, for I found, on descending
the pitch-dark staircase, that Ben was the sole nurse for the time
of the sickly infant. That scene in the dark dull kitchen was a
strange picture of life amongst the poor. There was Ben, after he had
followed me down-stairs, hushing the baby in his little arms, and soon
succeeding in quieting it, for he was evidently an experienced and
skilful nurse. There were two other children under his care—Polly,
about four years old, and Annie, not two. One might almost have said
that Ben had "three" babies to look after, but I soon found that Polly
was already to be reckoned as his little assistant.

Annie began to cry; Polly went up to her sister, put her hands on
either side of her face, and tried, as well as she could, to soothe
her. Annie, however, cried still. Ben said a word or two to Polly,
and the little nursemaid, "four years of age," hastened to get a cup,
into which she poured water from a jar which stood on the ground, and
she then brought the drink to her thirsty little sister. The boy had
guessed the cause of the crying, and Polly having thus removed it, we
had again quietness in the back-kitchen.

Ben, a very intelligent little fellow, entered freely into conversation
with me, while he nursed the baby in his arms. That boy had been
in sole charge of the three children for two hours, while his poor
half-blind mother was out, procuring necessaries for the family.

"Are you happy?" I inquired. The question seemed a strange one to be
asked in so gloomy an abode.

"Yes, I'm happy," replied the boy, with an honest smile on his face.

What a lesson for many a pampered, peevish child, grumbling and
discontented in a comfortable home!

"Does Polly ever go out?" I inquired, for the low dark room looked
something like a prison.

"Yes; I sometimes take her out."

"And does Annie go out?"

[Illustration: BEN NURSING THE BABY.]

"Yes, when Polly goes, she goes; I take them in the 'chay.'"

This "chay" was twice mentioned by Ben, which rather surprised me,
for I certainly did not suspect that the family kept a carriage. My
attention was, however, directed at last to a substantial-looking
perambulator, which in the dim light I had not noticed before.

"Father made that," said Ben.

This was almost too much for me to believe. I questioned the boy
closely, but he was sure of the fact. I found afterwards, from the
mother's account, that the father had bought the wheels and other iron
parts, the wreck of a former perambulator, for "ninepence," as they
were to be sold as old iron. He had actually made all the rest of the
carriage for his little ones, stuffing the cushion with hay. It was a
striking proof of the father's ingenuity, that labour of love!

B— must be a very industrious man. He goes to the docks in hope of
getting a day's job there, and then, after his return, "cleans his
potatoes," as little Ben told me; for when the labours of the day are
over, B— is glad to go out at night to sell baked potatoes, that he may
thus help by double work to support his almost blind wife, and four
little children.

"What do you get for breakfast, Ben?" I asked.

"Bread and butter—no," said the child, correcting himself; "father gets
bread and butter, I get bread and drippings. But 'I like the drippings
best,'" he added, with a nice feeling which pleased me.

The poor mother soon came in, half exhausted from wandering about for
two hours, for in her blindness she could hardly find her way. She was,
however, calm and contented.

When I asked her what message she had for a lady who had sent her a
present by me, "Tell her that I am in better circumstances," was the
pale, thin woman's reply.

As her husband had succeeded in getting four and a half days' work that
week, Mrs. B— seemed to feel that she had nothing to complain of. Her
greatest trouble was the illness of her babe, as she feared that the
little one might die. Very thin and wasted the poor infant looked, but
the other three children appeared plump and well-fed. Mrs. B— must be
an excellent manager, notwithstanding her blindness, and it is clear
that her husband's earnings do not go to the ale-house.

I have reason to hope that she is a God-fearing woman, and that she
and her husband pray as well as labour. Ben is to attend the Sunday
school. He would go to the weekday school also, which he used to enjoy
attending, but so useful a child cannot be spared from his home.

I left that dark back-kitchen with a feeling rather of respect than of
pity. Little Ben, brought up in the midst of poverty, with three young
children to care for, and an almost blind mother to help, may lead a
life of happiness, as he certainly does of usefulness, with hope before
him, and love around, and the blessing of God upon him!



V.

THE TWO PATIENTS.

[Illustration]

NAY, little Tommy, do not shrink away, as if I meant to do you harm. If
a thorn has been left in your finger for days, and if the poor finger
is swelled and sore, and cannot get well till the thorn is out, is it
wise to cry, and pull back your hand, and not let your mother look at
the place? There, hold it out now, like a brave little man; and while I
am doing all that I can to relieve you, I'll tell you a tale of a poor
dog that was much more hurt than you are.

A doctor found in the street a poor spaniel that had broken one of its
legs. The man had a kindly heart, so he took the dog to his home, set
its bone, put splinters round it, and wrapped it up in bandages, in
hopes that the leg might be healed. I do not think that the spaniel
struggled and howled as you did two minutes ago, though the doctor,
kind as he was, must have given a good deal of pain.

There, Tommy, the thorn is out; you can see it on the point of my
needle, and like a good brave boy you never uttered a cry when you felt
the prick. Now, while I bathe and bandage the finger, I will tell you
more of the dog.

The spaniel's leg grew quite strong and well. The doctor sent the dog
home, as he knew to whom he belonged. But he had not seen the last of
his patient.

Some time afterwards the doctor heard a whining and scraping at his
door, and when he opened it, who should be there but his old friend the
spaniel, and with him a poor lame dog that could hardly limp along. The
spaniel jumped and wagged his tail, rubbed his nose against the doctor,
and looked up in his face, asking him, as plainly as dog could ask, to
do the same kind office for his friend as he had done for himself.

[Illustration: THE SECOND PATIENT.]

The doctor could not resist the sensible creature's appeal. He bound up
the leg of the second dog both with kindness and skill, and the poor
creature, much relieved, limped slowly away with the friend who had so
wisely brought him to the place where he himself had found a cure.

Now your finger is bandaged up, Tommy. I have played the doctor's part,
and hope in a few days to see that all is as well as ever. And if Mary
or Lucy, when gathering blackberries in the wood, manage to run a thorn
into a poor little finger, do not let her wait till it fester and swell
like your own, but play the part of the wise little dog, and bring her
here to the doctor at once.



VI.

IT'S VERY HARD.

[Illustration]

"IT'S very hard to have nothing to eat but porridge, when others have
every sort of dainty," muttered Charlie, as he sat with his wooden bowl
before him. "It's very hard to have to get up so early on these bitter
cold mornings, and work hard all day, when others can enjoy themselves
without an hour of labour. It's very hard to have to trudge along
through the snow while others roll about in their coaches."

"It's a great blessing," said his grandmother, as she sat at her
knitting—"it's a great blessing to have food, when so many are hungry;
to have a roof over one's head, when so many are homeless. It's a great
blessing to have sight, and hearing, and strength for daily labour,
when so many are blind, deaf, or suffering."

[Illustration: CHARLES AND HIS GRANDMOTHER.]

"Why, grandmother, you seem to think that nothing is hard," said the
boy, still in a grumbling tone.

"No, Charlie. There is one thing that I think very hard."

"What's that?" cried Charlie, who thought that at last his grandmother
had found some cause for complaint.

"Why, boy, I think 'that heart is very hard' that is not thankful for
so many blessings."



VII.

THE PIC-NIC.

[Illustration]

"WHAT a delightful morning for a ride!" exclaimed Mina, as she patted
the pretty black pony which her brother Felix was about to saddle for
her. "I almost wish that the place fixed on for the pic-nic were three
times as far away, that I might have a longer gallop over the common,
gay with golden furze, and along the green shady lanes."

"You forget," said Felix with a smile, "that if you have to ride, we
have to walk; and that two miles each way is enough to give us an
appetite for the chicken-pie and cold tongue which are stowed away in
the basket."

[Illustration: BEFORE THE PIC-NIC.]

"This is just the day for a pic-nic!" cried Mina. "I am sure that we
shall enjoy ourselves much in the wood. There is only one thing that
may damp our pleasure," she added; "I almost wish that mamma had not
invited Priscilla Grey, and yet it is unkind to say so. It would have
been hard on the poor girl to have left her behind."

"She's as ill-tempered a wasp as ever I met with!" cried Felix. "And it
seems as if she had an especial spite against you, for no reason that I
can think of, except that our parents being richer than hers, you ride
on Frisky, while she has to go upon foot."

"I have never willingly done anything to vex her," said Mina.

"You would never vex any creature living!" exclaimed Felix, who was
very fond of his sister. "But Priscilla is always on the lookout for
some cause of offence, and those who do so can always manage to find
one. If you only heard how she was speaking of you the other day! It
made me so angry, that if she had not been a girl, I think that I
really should have struck her. She said—"

"I don't want to hear what she said, dear Felix," observed Mina, who
was a peace-loving girl.

"But I've a bit of good news to give you. Priscilla, after all, will
not be at the pic-nic to-day. She slipped her foot yesterday going
down-stairs, and has sprained her ankle—not badly enough to lay her up,
but enough to make it quite out of the question for her to walk four
miles."

It must be owned that Mina's first feeling was one of relief at being
rid of the company of so disagreeable a girl. But at that moment the
sun, which had been hiding behind a cloud, darted out his glorious
beams, lighting up the landscape around, smiling on the weedy waste as
well as the beautiful garden. Those rays brought to the mind of Mina
part of a verse from the Bible, "'He maketh his sun to rise on the evil
and on the good.'"

Mina remembered what she should do as one of the children of Him who
bade us love our enemies, and do good to them that hate us.

"Felix," said the gentle girl, "if Priscilla cannot walk, she can ride."

"Of course, if she has anything to ride upon better than a dog or a
cat!" laughed Felix.

"I could lend her my pretty Frisky, and walk with you to the wood."

Felix gave a loud whistle of surprise. "Lend her your pony, and lose
your ride! How can you dream of doing such a thing!"

"Indeed, Felix, I feel that I must do it. As you have kindly saddled
Frisky, we will go together—it is but a step—and lead him to the door
of Priscilla."

"Well, you are wondrously kind," cried Felix. "I could understand your
giving up your ride for a sister, or a friend, but to think of your
doing so for the sake of such a girl as Priscilla!"

"It is not just for her sake," said Mina; and she thought to herself,
it is for the sake of Him who is kind to the unthankful and to the evil.

With a little difficulty, Mina persuaded her brother to yield to her
wishes, and they led the black pony to the door of the small house in
which Priscilla lived with her mother. Priscilla, who was in worse
temper than usual, from being disappointed of her expected treat,
caught sight of them through the window.

"Ah, there's that girl Mina!" she exclaimed, with a burst of spiteful
passion. "She's bringing that ugly beast that she is so proud of, just
to let me see how much better off she is than I am. I wish that it
would rain. I wish that a thunderstorm would come and spoil the fun of
the pic-nic."

But very different were Priscilla's feelings when Mina ran into the
room, inquired kindly after her ankle, and then offered to lend her
Frisky that she might ride to the wood. Shame and something like
gratitude mingled with pleasure and surprise, and Priscilla owned to
herself, what she never had owned before, that it was not only in
worldly wealth that Mina was richer than she.

No rain fell, no thunderstorm came to spoil the pleasure of the
pic-nic. There were few clouds in the sky, and none over the spirit of
Mina. She enjoyed her walk, she enjoyed her feast, she enjoyed seeing
and adding to the pleasure of all; but her richest enjoyment came from
the whisper of an approving conscience, that she had not been overcome
of evil, but had overcome evil with good.



VIII.

CATCHING AT A SHADOW.

[Illustration]

"OH, Alice dear, won't it be fine fun to drive into London and spend
the day with grandmamma to-morrow!" cried little Minnie Davis to her
sister.

"I hope that you may find it so," was Alice's reply. "As for me, I will
not be with you."

"Not go to London!" exclaimed her brother Charlie, looking up in
surprise from his book.

"No; I hope to go somewhere further than to London, and have better fun
still. What say you to the Crystal Palace?" asked Alice, with a beaming
smile.

"You don't mean to say that the Brownes have asked you to drive down
there in their carriage to-morrow?" said Charlie eagerly.

"Well, no, not exactly 'asked' me, but I think that they will call for
me on the way. Indeed I'm almost sure of it, for when Lizzie told me
that they were all going, she smiled and squeezed my hand, just as much
as to say, 'I hope you'll be one of the party.'"

"Oh, if you've nothing better to go upon than a smile and a squeeze
of the hand," laughed Charlie, "I should advise you to come with us
to grandmamma, and not give up a certain pleasure for one so very
uncertain!"

"But I 'have' something more to go upon," said Alice, who was not
pleased at her brother's laugh. "Mrs. Browne knows that I have never
been to the Crystal Palace, and that I long above all things to see it;
and a month ago she said to me, 'We must take you there with us some
day.'"

Charlie smiled and shook his head. "Alice," said he, "don't you be like
the dog in the fable, that when crossing a brook with a bone in his
mouth, saw his own reflection in the stream, and was so eager to snatch
at what he thought another bone in the jaws of another dog that in the
attempt to get it, he dropped his own bone into the water."

[Illustration: THE DOG AND ITS SHADOW.]

Alice was a little out of humour at being compared to so foolish a dog,
and coldly replied, "If I choose to take my chance of a treat, I don't
see that it matters to you."

"Oh, but, Alice dear," said gentle little Minnie, "won't grandmamma
be disappointed not to see you, and wouldn't papa like to have you
with him, and wouldn't it be such a pleasure for us all to drive up
together?"

Minnie was a loving, coaxing little girl, and Alice was very fond of
her. Besides, there was reason in what she said, so that it was in a
hesitating tone that her sister replied,—

"I don't think—at least I hope that dear grandmamma won't much mind
my staying away just this once; I daresay that I'll have another
opportunity of seeing her before the winter sets in. You will take her
my love, and tell her that nothing but a visit to the Crystal Palace—"
("The 'shadow' of a visit," interrupted Charlie)—"would prevent my
enjoying the pleasure of going to her," continued Alice, without
appearing to notice the interruption. "As for papa, I have his leave
to remain behind if I wish it, and he has allowed me to go with the
Brownes."

"That is to say, if they wish to have you," laughed Charlie; "remember
the dog and the bone, Alice, remember the dog!"


The morning came, sunshiny and bright: all breakfast-time the children
were talking of the coming pleasures of the day. The chaise drove up to
the door. Charlie and Minnie were eager to start for London, the only
damp on their enjoyment being that their sister was not going with them.

"Oh, Alice darling, do come!" pleaded Minnie. "We shall miss you so
sadly, and so will grandmamma: we should all be so happy together!"

"We'll be happy together this evening, dear, when I tell you about all
the wonderful things that I shall have seen—the stuffed beasts and the
living birds, the huge tree, and the splendid Alhambra court."

"Alice, my girl, I hope that we are to have you with us," said Mr.
Davis, coming out of his room with his driving-whip in his hand.

"Dear papa—if you don't mind—I think I'd rather stop behind just this
once."

"Well, do as you please," said the father.

But Alice thought that she saw a little shade of displeasure on his
face, and she felt much inclined to run after him, and beg to be taken
with him in the chaise.

"Alice is changing her mind!" cried Charlie.

It was an unfortunate observation; Alice was foolish enough to pride
herself upon never changing her mind, even when she had made a mistake,
and she did not choose that Charlie should be able to laugh at her for
so doing. She therefore stayed within the gate of her father's pretty
little garden at Hampstead, bade good-bye to the party, and saw them
drive off towards London.

Alice could not help a feeling of misgiving as the chaise rattled away
down the road, but she turned from the gate with the remark, "They will
have a pleasant visit, I hope, but nothing to be compared to my treat.
I will run and put on my best hat and my new kid gloves, and be all
ready to start; for the Brownes are likely to set off at ten, and I
wouldn't keep them waiting—no, not for one minute."

But if Alice would not keep the Brownes waiting, it was out of her
power to prevent being kept waiting herself. Very impatient she grew as
she watched by the gate, counting up to a hundred again and again, to
make time appear to pass less slowly.

"Dear me! What can be delaying them so long? What if they should not be
going to the Crystal Palace after all—if I should have to stay here the
whole day all alone, after disappointing Minnie, and running the risk
of vexing dear kind grandmamma, who always gives such an affectionate
welcome? There's the sound of wheels—they're coming at last! Oh no, it
is only the butcher's cart! What a dust it stirs up! And here comes the
great lumbering omnibus."

Alice drew back a little from the gate, to be out of the way of the
dust. The omnibus was crowded with passengers within and without—it
seemed to Alice as if all the world were going pleasuring except
herself, and it was her own fault that she was not at that moment
driving through London. Had she been less selfish and self-willed,
she would have given up for the sake of others her chance of the
much-desired treat.

Scarcely had Alice returned to her post close behind the gate, when
she uttered an exclamation of joy, clapped her hands, and could hardly
refrain from jumping.

"Oh! Here they are coming at last—I know the blue liveries and the
spanking gray horses. There is Mrs. Browne's green bonnet, and there is
Lizzie leaning out from the carriage; she sees me—she is smiling—she is
kissing her hand—and—"

Poor Alice stopped short in the middle of her joyful sentence, for,
alas! the carriage did not stop, the spanking grays did not slacken
their pace as they dashed along the road in front of the gate! The
smile of eager delight on the face of the poor child changed to a look
of blank dismay when the carriage had actually passed, and no one
had called to the coachman to pull up, and Lizzie and her party had
actually disappeared from view, hastening on their way to the Crystal
Palace!

When carriage, blue liveries, and all, could be no more seen, and
even the rumble of the wheels could be heard no longer, Alice burst
out crying. She could not help it, so bitter was her disappointment,
so great her regret at her own folly. She ran into the house, threw
herself down on a sofa, and sobbed. She had dropped the pleasure which
she might have enjoyed, trying, like the dog, to snatch at another; she
had disregarded advice, she had acted a selfish as well as a foolish
part, and now all her delightful hopes had ended in disappointment!

Alice cried violently, but she did not cry long. Presently she lifted
her head, dried her wet eyes, and began to try to bear her misfortune
more bravely.

"This has been a sad lesson for me," said Alice to herself with a sigh.
"I should not have minded the disappointment so much if it had been
through no fault of my own. What a miserably dull day I shall spend!
Papa and the children will not be back till the evening,—I have nothing
to amuse me, or take up my thoughts. Oh, that I had gone up to London!"

But Alice was, after all, too sensible a child to give herself up for
hours to vain regrets. "What can't be cured must be endured." She had
made one mistake which could not be repaired, but to have remained all
the day long in dull idleness, fretting over her disappointment, would
have been to make another.

"I had better occupy myself about something," thought Alice, rising up
from the sofa. "Charlie's garden wants weeding, it is half covered with
groundsel and chickweed; shall I give him a surprise by clearing it
all nicely before he comes back? Dear little Minnie has her stockings
to mend, and I know that she finds darning so difficult; shall I save
her the trouble by doing the work myself? Papa asked me yesterday to
put his papers in order; here is leisure time in which I can arrange
everything as he likes. If I cannot be happy to-day, I may at least be
useful: I'll weed, I'll work, I'll sort the papers, and so pass the
wearisome hours!"

Alice had this time made a wise resolution, and she found that while
her little fingers were so busy, her mind had less time to dwell upon
the sad disappointment of the morning. She had almost regained her
cheerfulness at last, before she heard the sound of the returning
chaise, and ran out to meet the party from London at the gate of the
garden.

"Well, Alice, where have you been?" cried Charlie, as he jumped down
from the chaise.

"What have you seen?" asked Minnie eagerly, as she followed her brother.

Alice tried to give a good-humoured smile as she made reply—"When
you go to your garden, Charlie, and you to your workbasket, Minnie,
you will easily find out where I have 'been.' And as for what I have
'seen,' I have seen that it is best to be contented with pleasures
within our reach, and that he was a foolish dog indeed that dropped his
bone to catch at a shadow!"



IX.

GO AND DO LIKEWISE.

[Illustration]

"MAKE haste, make haste, or I do believe that the train will be off!"
exclaimed Arthur, hurrying with his two brothers along the highroad,
towards a small station at which the train was to call at ten.

"I really can hardly keep up with you, Arthur," said Peter. "You rush
on like a steam-engine yourself."

"If any of us had only a watch to tell us the exact time. But the train
comes so fast, and gives so little notice; and only think, if we were
to miss it!"

"What a splendid day we have for our trip!" cried Mark. "Not a cloud to
be seen in the sky! I do long to see the Crystal Palace. They say that
it is the most beautiful thing in the world!"

"How kind it is in uncle to give us such a treat!" said Arthur, his
rosy face beaming with pleasure. "We have never had such a holiday
before. Oh, let's make haste—come on, come on!"

"What's that sound?" exclaimed Mark, stopping short.

"Not the railway whistle, I hope," cried Arthur.

"It's a loud cry of distress from the end of that field," said Peter,
looking alarmed.

"There it is again," cried Arthur. "Some one is in terror or in pain."

"I daresay," said Mark impatiently; "but you know we've no time for
delay."

"I suspect that it is some one hurt by the bull that is kept in that
field," cried Peter. "I can see the creature through the hedge."

"Can you see any human being?" said Arthur.

"No, no one; but the voice shows where the person must be."

"We cannot wait any longer," said Mark. "Remember that if we are late
for this train we must give up the treat altogether."

"I cannot bear to go with those shrieks in my ears," replied Arthur.

"Then I will go on without you," said Mark. And he ran on, as if to
make up for lost time.

"Peter, we should get over that stile, and go to see what is the
matter," said Arthur.

"Perhaps we ought; but—but you know that there is the bull in the
field."

"He is a very quiet one."

"Yes, generally; but he may be in a savage mood now. I feel sure,"
added the boy, grasping his brother's arm, "that he must have gored the
poor child whose screams we hear."

Arthur looked grave and anxious. His brother was older than he, and
Arthur had been accustomed to lean upon his opinion.

"Will you go, Peter?" he said, at last.

"Not I—it would be folly—we will send some one from the station."

"Ah, if they would attend to us boys; and even if they would, help
might not arrive for half an hour, and then it might come too late. O
Peter, that is a terrible cry."

"I can't bear to stay and hear it!" exclaimed Peter. And so saying, he
turned and ran along the road as fast as Mark had done before him.

And did Arthur follow his brothers? No, he did not. He went back to the
stile, hastily clambered over it, and with many an uneasy glance at
the bull, that was cropping the grass at no great distance—fearful of
running, lest it should draw him after him—Arthur made his way to the
spot whence the cries proceeded.

Was Arthur less eager than the other boys to enjoy his treat? Was he
less afraid of being gored by a bull? By no means, for Arthur was
the youngest of the three. He had hardly slept the night before from
thought of the coming pleasure, and he was by no means particularly
courageous by nature. Why, then, did he turn back and cross the
field? It was that the love of God was shed abroad in his heart that
he had learned in the Bible to forget self, and that he sought every
opportunity, by kindness and compassion to his fellow-creatures, to
show his love and gratitude to his heavenly Master.

Resolute, therefore, neither to let fear nor pleasure stop him in the
course of duty, Arthur proceeded on his way, though I cannot say that
his ears were not anxiously listening for the sound of the railway
whistle, or that he did not often fearfully turn to see if the bull
were running after him. He neither heard the whistle, however, nor was
pursued by the bull, but reached in safety the other end of the field,
where he found, lying in a dry ditch, just beneath the hedge, a poor
girl of about his own age.

"What is the matter with you?" said Arthur, stooping to help her to
rise. "I am afraid that you are very much hurt."

The girl was crying so violently that it was some time before Arthur
could make out the cause of her distress. It appeared that she had
fallen in getting over the hedge, and had sprained her ankle so
severely as to be unable to rise.

"I thought that no one would ever come," sobbed the girl, "though I
screamed as loud as I could."

[Illustration: HELP IN NEED.]

"But what can I do for you?" said Arthur. "I am not strong enough to
carry you away."

"Oh, do you see that little white cottage there, just on the side of
the hill? My father lives there. If you would only go and tell him, I
am sure that he would come and help me."

"If I go all that distance," thought poor Arthur, "I shall be quite
certain to miss the train."

But he looked again at the suffering girl, and thought of the holy
history of one who had compassion on a poor injured traveller. He
remembered the words, "Go, and do thou likewise"; and determined to
give up his own pleasure for the comfort of another. Perhaps only a
child can tell how great was the sacrifice to the child!

Arthur ran in the direction of the cottage, arrived there breathless
and heated, and found the girl's father standing at his door talking
to a baker, who, in his light cart, was going his daily round. A few
words from the panting boy explained to the man the accident that had
happened to his daughter.

"I am much obliged to you," said the cottager. "I will go to poor Joan
directly."

The eye of Arthur fell upon the Dutch clock hanging up near the
fireplace. The hour was not quite so late as his fears had imagined,
but still it wanted only eight minutes to ten.

"I cannot be in time for the train," said the tired boy sadly, half to
himself. "My brothers will be off without me."

"Did you want to meet the train? And have you been delayed by your
kindness?" said the baker, leaning from his cart, with a look of
interest. "Jump up here beside me. You've a chance of it yet. The train
may not be punctual to a minute, and Dobbin trots as fast as any horse
in the county."

In a moment the eager boy was up in the cart, and the baker seemed as
eager. You might have thought, too, that the horse knew the state of
the case, he dashed on at such a fine rate! And the train was five
minutes beyond its time. Not till Arthur had sprung down from the cart
at the station, and stood thanking the kind baker who had helped him in
his need, was the long shrill scream of the whistle heard, and the dark
rattling line of carriages appeared. He was in time! Oh yes, he was in
time!

Mark and Peter enjoyed their visit to the Crystal Palace, but their
pleasure was as nothing compared to that of Arthur. His whole soul was
overflowing with pure delight. He felt inclined to go springing and
bounding along, his heart was so free from a care! As a good man once
said, "How pleasant it is when the bird in the bosom sings sweetly."

If my reader would know what is real happiness, real delight, let him
seek it in forgetting self, and following the steps of his Lord. Where
there is sorrow which you can cheer, or distress which you can relieve,
remember the Samaritan who beheld a wounded stranger and would not pass
by on the other side. Do not turn a deaf ear to the voice of pity, but
oh, Christian child! "Go and do likewise!"



X.

THE BEST FRIEND.

[Illustration]

"HA! Carl Von Orlich; well met!" exclaimed the veteran Strasse, as, on
the night after one of the fiercest fights in the Seven Years' War, he
suddenly came upon his comrade, and recognized his features by the red
light of the watch-fire, over which he was bending.

Von Orlich started up, and wrung the hand of his friend.

"I little thought a few hours since," said he, "to see you or any other
man in the land of the living."

"You have much cause to thank Him who has covered your head in the day
of battle," observed Strasse, who was one who, in a godless age, did
not shrink from openly confessing his faith, and by so doing had drawn
upon himself many a scoff, some even from his friend Von Orlich.

"It was hot work," said the officer, wiping his brow.

"When I saw you from a distance dash into the midst of what seemed a
circle of smoke and fire, through which one could scarcely catch a
glimpse of the flashing swords, I never expected, Von Orlich, to see
you come forth alive."

"It was to rescue him—the gallant Helden," said Von Orlich. "I saw him
sorely beset; and if I had had a thousand lives, I'd have ventured them
all for his sake. I bore him safe out of it all," added the officer,
with a proud smile of triumph on his lip.

"Helden is a man who deserves a friend," observed Strasse.

"He does—better than any other man in Prussia!" exclaimed Von Orlich.
"Did you never hear what he did when he was a gay young page in the
service of our last king, Frederick William?"

[Illustration: THE TWO COMRADES.]

"Not I," replied Strasse, seating himself; for he was weary with the
struggle of the day, and glad to warm himself for awhile beside the red
glowing fagots. "Tell me the tale of his youth. It may serve to while
away a few weary minutes; for as my turn for duty will soon come, it is
not worth while to lie down and sleep."

"Helden, like most of our Prussian youth of gentle blood, was brought
up at a military academy. There he formed a warm friendship with a
lad of somewhat lower rank and much poorer family than his own. They
were never separated, Carl and he—studies, sports, hopes, pleasures,
everything they had in common. Never did brothers cling more closely
together than they. When the youths left the academy, their paths
divided. Helden, who had relatives of rank, became a page at the court
of the king; Carl, who had neither money nor interest, entered the
ranks of the army. But the tie was not broken between them, as with
most men it would have been. The page, midst the splendours of a court,
remained true to the friendship of his boyhood.

"Carl was of a somewhat wild and reckless nature. Perhaps it stung
his pride to find himself in a position so much below that of his
late companions. Be that as it may, he had not been a month in the
army before he got into serious disgrace—overstayed leave, was out of
barracks till midnight, and was sentenced to receive a public flogging.
You know, Strasse, with what terrible severity that punishment is
inflicted in the army. To many it is equal to a sentence of death—to
Carl it was far worse than death! The agony might be great, but it was
the shame that was intolerable! The very horror of the idea of a public
flogging threw the young soldier into a fever, and threatened to turn
his brain."

"I do not marvel at that," observed Strasse, as he stretched his hands
to the warming blaze.

"Helden heard of the sentence passed upon his friend, and resolved
to make every effort to save him. He drew out a simple but touching
petition to the king, and ventured himself to present it—a task
requiring some courage, for you know the character of Frederick
William, and his excessive severity in whatever related to the
discipline of his army."

"It was something like presenting a petition to a lion to spare the
prey under his paw," observed Strasse, with a smile.

"And the king received it much as the lion might have done," rejoined
Von Orlich. "He was roused to one of his storms of fury, tore the
petition in pieces, and Helden was fortunate enough to escape with
nothing worse than a torrent of abuse."

"So Carl underwent his sentence, of course?" asked Strasse.

"Hear to the end," replied his comrade. "Any one but Helden would have
given up in despair all further attempt to rescue his friend, but, true
as steel as he was, he resolved to make yet another. Helden drew out
a second petition; and on the night before the morning on which the
flogging was to take place, he went to the antechamber with it in his
pocket, with the intention of presenting it to the monarch."

"He was a bold youth," remarked Strasse. "When we recall how nearly our
late king put to death his own son and heir for a very trifling cause,
one cannot but marvel at the perseverance of Helden."

"The king," continued Von Orlich, "was engaged, till far into the
night, in secret conference with one of his ministers. Helden, full
of deep anxiety, remained in the ante-room waiting. So long had he to
wait, so weary he grew, less perhaps from the lateness of the hour than
the wear upon his own spirits, that sleep overcame the poor youth.
The king, happening to come out of his cabinet, found his page in
deep slumber in an arm-chair, with what looked like a second petition
sticking half out of his pocket.

"'If that audacious young scapegrace dare to pester me again with his
petitions, he shall get something sharper than words.' Such, I suspect,
was his majesty's thought when, without awakening the page, curiosity
made him draw forth the scroll. Perhaps, however, his countenance
changed when his eye glanced over the strange petition which it
contained. It was very brief, but to the purpose; and was, as well as
I can remember, in these words: 'Sire, if the sentence passed on Carl
must be executed, I entreat your majesty's permission to suffer instead
of my friend.'"

[Illustration: THE KING TAKING THE PETITION.]

"A strange petition, indeed," exclaimed Strasse. "What said the king to
the offer?"

"Stern and rigid as he was," replied Von Orlich, "such generous
friendship, such brave self-devotion, could not but touch his heart. I
know not how long Helden slumbered. He was startled from his sleep by
the sound of the bell rung by the king in his cabinet.

"'Now for the effort!' thought Helden, as he sprang forward with a
beating heart to obey the desired and yet dreaded summons.

"He found the king sitting alone, looking more than usually stern.
Helden received some trifling order from the monarch, who then motioned
to him to retire.

"'Now, or never!' said Helden to himself. 'The day will soon dawn, and
at sunrise poor Carl is to suffer.'

"'Why do you delay?' asked the king very harshly, fixing his freezing
gaze on the page.

"'Sire, pardon!' exclaimed Helden, and bending his knee, he drew forth
a scroll, and presented it to his sovereign.

"'Will you stand by the consequences?' demanded the king, without
touching the paper.

"'I will, sire,' replied the generous friend.

"'Read the contents, then, young man!' said the king.

"Helden opened the scroll, and started to his feet with an exclamation
of joyful surprise. The paper contained, not his own generous offer,
but a full free pardon for his friend, drawn out and signed by the
monarch himself!"

"God had touched the king's heart," observed Strasse.

"Be that as it may," said Von Orlich, "Carl was saved from a punishment
which would have driven him mad. And he lived to pay back this day part
of the debt of gratitude which he owed to the best of friends!"

"What!" exclaimed Strasse in surprise. "You yourself are the Carl of
whom you speak?"

"Ay; I have struggled upwards in life, won honours—" a star was
glittering on his breast—"I have gained the wealth and position which
are the prizes held out by war. But were the king to make me a duke,"
continued Von Orlich with emotion, "the pleasure and the honour would
be small compared to what I felt to-day in proving my gratitude to the
man who once offered to suffer in my stead!"

"It is strange," observed Strasse with a thoughtful sigh, as he looked
into the flickering fire, "how apt we are to reserve all our gratitude
for our fellow-man, forgetful of the Friend who not only offered to
suffer, but actually did suffer in our stead! You braved fire and
sword for one who had loved and saved you; shall our love be cold, and
our courage faint, only when our debt is infinite, and our benefactor
divine?"

Von Orlich made no reply; but as he silently gazed up into the blue
starry heavens, almost for the first time in his life, the heart of the
war-worn veteran rose in thanksgiving to God!



XI.

THE THICKET OF FURZE.

[Illustration]

"WHAT a plague lessons are?" exclaimed Rosey, with a long weary yawn,
as she bent over her French exercises, wishing from her heart that
grammar had never been invented.

"Work on, little one!" said her brother George, who had overheard the
exclamation. "Remember that it is doubly your duty to be steady and
industrious while mamma is away."

"It is so difficult!" sighed the child.

"Many a duty is difficult," answered the elder brother, "but that is
no reason for shirking it. Attending to little duties while we are
young helps us to perform great ones when we are old. Do your lessons
bravely, dear Rosey, and if they be finished by twelve, you shall have
a little story to reward your diligence."

The word "story" called up a dimple upon Rosey's round cheek. She
turned with more resolution to her tiresome lesson, and the task was
ended by twelve.

"Now for my story," cried the child, bringing her little chair close to
her brother, and resting her arm on his knee, as—looking up gaily into
his face—she claimed the fulfilment of his promise.

George looked into the fire for a few moments, as if to draw some ideas
from the cheerful blaze, stirred it, and then leaning back on his
chair, began the following little tale:—

"Methought I lay down and slept, and dreamed; and in my dream I beheld
a path through a verdant meadow, along which many a child gaily
tripped, gathering the lovely wild flowers that grew on either side.
But at one end of the meadow the path was crossed by a thicket of sharp
prickly furze, and the name of the thicket was Difficulty. The bushes
grew so thick and close, that I wondered whether any child would be
able to pass them; and I sat me down to watch how the little travellers
would get through the Difficulty in their way."

"I suppose that I was one of the little travellers," laughed Rosey,
"and the furze-bushes were my horrid French verbs!"

"There are a great many 'Difficulties' in a child's life," replied
George with a smile: "some find it difficult to rise early, some to be
punctual or neat, some to control their tempers, others to be generous
and kind. There are plenty of furze-bushes in our path, but we must
not, like lazy cowards, suffer them to stop us in our onward course."

"Please tell me about the children in your dream," said Rosey.

"The first who reached the thicket was a little girl, with ruddy
cheek and curly hair, who had been one of the gayest of the gay, as
she went dancing through the flowery mead. But as soon as she came to
Difficulty, all the cheerfulness fled from her face, she shrank from
the first touch of the prickles as if she had expected that life was to
be all sunshine and flowers, and sitting down on the grass by the side
of the path, she burst into a flood of tears."

"Oh, the cowardly little creature!" cried Rosey.

"Then there came up to the spot a young boy, whose appearance to me
was not pleasing. He never looked straight before him, but had a kind
of cunning side glance, which made me fancy him less open and frank
than a Christian boy ought to be. He made no attempt to push through
the thicket, but went creeping along the edge of it, hoping to 'creep
round' Difficulty instead of passing straight onwards. I watched him
to see if he would succeed in his aim, but he had not gone many steps
before his feet stuck fast in a bog, and it was only by violent and
painful efforts that he could struggle out again, to return to the
point whence he had started, with his shoes all clogged with clay, his
time lost, and his object not gained."

"I suppose that he was a lazy boy," remarked Rosey; "putting off does
not help us over our difficulties. I have sometimes tried that plan of
creeping round, and I always stuck in the bog!"

"Then," pursued George, "a boy with firm step and resolute air came up
to the thicket. I saw something like a smile on his face as he looked
at the Difficulty before him. He set his teeth hard together, clenched
his hands, and then with bold determination made a dash at the thicket.
On he went, that stout-hearted lad, dashing aside the prickles, pushing
forward as if he scarcely felt the scratches upon his bleeding hands.
Trampling down, struggling through Difficulty, he was soon safe and
triumphant on the opposite side!"

Little Rosey clapped her hands. "He was a fine fellow!" cried she. "I
think that Nelson and Wellington went dashing through difficulties like
that. But I can't do so," added the child more gravely; "I have not
that bold, strong spirit. I am afraid that I am most like the little
cowardly girl who cried when she saw the thicket."

"Is not that because you do not look upon your childish troubles as a
means of testing your patience and obedience; is it not because you do
not seek for help from above, even in the little trials of your life?"

"They seem such trifles to look at in that way," said Rosey, gazing
thoughtfully into the fire.

"A writer has said that 'trifles form the sum of human things;' and
the life of a child, more especially, is made up of what we call
trifles. Yet children, as well as those who are old, are required to
glorify God; and as they can do no 'great' thing for him, it is by
their cheerful obedience, diligence, and sweet temper, that they must
show their gratitude and love. And does not this thought, dear Rosey,
make the performance of simple daily duties a bright and a holy thing?
If what we do, we do as 'unto the Lord,' feeling that His eye is upon
us, and seeking in all things to please Him, we find pleasure even in
irksome tasks, sweetness in what otherwise would be bitter."

Rosey looked as if she scarcely understood the words of her brother,
so, to make their meaning clearer, George went on with his tale:—

"There was one other child whom I saw in my dream advancing towards
the thicket Difficulty. I felt sorry for the little girl, for she was
feeble and pale, and as she moved over the grass, I saw that she was
both lame and barefoot!

"'Alas!' thought I. 'If she can scarcely make her way along the smooth
and pleasant path, how will she ever struggle through the prickly furze
before her!'"

[Illustration: THE LAME GIRL.]

"Perhaps the same thought was in the mind of the little traveller, for
she paused before the thicket, and looked forwards with a scared and
troubled air. Then she clasped her hands, and raised her eyes towards
the soft blue sky above her, and all trace of fear or care left her
smiling face. What was my surprise to see two beautiful little wings,
glittering like gold in the sunlight, and bright with the rainbow's
tints, gradually unfold from her shoulders! The child shook them
for a few moments, as if to try their powers, and then rising above
earth, and all its thorns, she gently flew over the painful place, and
alighting safely on the ground beyond, looked back with a bright and
thankful smile on the Difficulty which she had passed."

"Oh!" exclaimed Rosey. "What would I not give to have such beautiful
wings!"

"Those wings, dear Rosey, are 'faith' and 'love,' which lift us above
the world, which bear us onward in a heavenly course, which make us
find our chief delight in doing the will of our heavenly Father."

"I have not these wings!"

George drew his little sister closer to him, and bending down his head
towards her, whispered, "'Ask and ye shall receive.' God only can cause
those wings to grow, by the power of his Holy Spirit; He can give them
strength to bear us unharmed over all the rough places of life; and the
waters of the river of death shall not wet even the soles of the feet
of those who pass their depths, buoyed up on the glorious pinions of
'faith' and 'love!'"



XII.

THE BOY AND THE BIRD'S NEST.

[Illustration]

"MARY, my love, all is ready; we must not be late for the train," said
Mr. Miles, as, in his travelling dress, he entered the room where sat
his pale, weeping wife, ready to start on the long, long journey, which
would only end in India.

The gentleman looked flushed and excited; it was a painful moment for
him, for he had to part from his sister, and the one little boy whom he
was leaving under her care. But Mr. Miles's chief anxiety was for his
wife; for the trial, which was bitter to him, was almost heart-breaking
to her.

The carriage was at the door, all packed, the last band-box and shawl
had been put in.

Eddy could hear the sound of the horses pawing the ground in their
impatience to start. But the clinging arms of his mother were round
him—she held him close to her embrace, as if she would press him into
her heart, and the ruddy cheeks of the boy were wet with her falling
tears.

"O Eddy!—my child—God bless you!" she could hardly speak through her
sobs.

"My love, we must not prolong this," said the husband, gently trying to
draw her away. "Good-bye, Lucy—good-bye, my boy—you shall hear from us
both from Southampton."

The father embraced his sister and his son, and then hurried his wife
to the door.

Eddy rushed after them through the hall, on to the steps, and Mrs.
Miles, before entering the carriage, turned again to take her only son
into her fond arms once more.

Never could Eddy forget that embrace—the fervent pressure of the lips,
the heaving of his mother's bosom, the sound of his mother's sobs.
Light-hearted boy as he was, Eddy never had realized what parting
was till that time, though he had watched the preparations made for
the voyage for weeks—the packing of those big black boxes that had
almost blocked up the hall. Now he felt in a dream as he stood on the
steps, and through tear-dimmed eyes saw the carriage driven off which
held those who loved him so dearly. He caught a glimpse of his mother
bending forward to have a last look of her boy before a turn in the
road hid the carriage from view; and Eddy knew that long, long years
must pass before he should see that sweet face again.

"Don't grieve so, dear Eddy," said Aunt Lucy, kindly laying her hand on
his shoulder; "you and I must comfort each other."

But at that bitter moment Eddy was little disposed either to comfort
any one or to receive comfort himself. His heart seemed rising into
his throat; he could not utter a word. He rushed away into the woods
behind the house, with a longing to be quite alone. He could scarcely
think of anything but his mother; and the poor boy spent nearly an hour
under a tree, recalling her looks, her parting words, and grieving over
the recollection of how often his temper and his pride had given her
sorrow. He felt, in the words of the touching lament,—

   "And now I recollect with pain
      How many times I grieved her sore;
    Oh, if she would but come again,
      I think I would do so no more!

   "How I would watch her gentle eye
     'Twould be my joy to do her will;
    And she should never have to sigh
      Again for my behaving ill!"

But boys of eight years of age are seldom long unhappy. Before an
hour had passed, Eddy's thoughts were turned from the parting by his
chancing to glance upwards into the tree whose long green branches
waved above him. Eddy espied there a pretty little nest, almost hidden
by the foliage. Up jumped Eddy, eager for the prize; and in another
minute he was climbing the tree like a squirrel. Soon he grasped and
safely brought down the nest, in which he found, to his joy, three
beautiful eggs!

"Ah! I'll take them home to—" Eddy stopped short; the word "mother"
had been on his lips; it gave a pang to the boy to remember that the
presence of his gentle mother no longer brightened that home—that she
already was far, far away. Eddy seated himself on a rough bench, and
put down the nest by his side; he had less pleasure in his prize since
he could not show it to her whom he loved.

[Illustration: EDDY AND THE NEST.]

While Eddy sat thinking of his parent, as he had last seen her, with
her eyes red and swollen with weeping, his attention was attracted by a
loud pitiful chirping, which sounded quite near. Though the voice was
only the voice of a bird, it expressed such anxious distress, that Eddy
instantly guessed that it came from the poor little mother whose nest
he had carried away. Ah! What pains she had taken to form that delicate
nest!—How often must her wing have been wearied as she flew to and fro
on her labour of love! All her little home and all her fond hopes had
been torn from her at once to give a little amusement to a careless but
not heartless boy.

No; Eddy was not heartless. He was too full of his own mother's sorrow
when parting from her loved child to have no pity for the poor little
bird, chirping and fluttering over the treasure which she had lost.

"How selfish I have been!—How cruel!" cried Eddy, jumping up from his
seat. "Never fear, little bird! I will not break up your home; I will
not rob you of your young. I never will give any mother the sorrow felt
by my darling mamma."

Gently he took up the nest. It was no easy matter to climb the tree
again with it in his hand, but Eddy never stopped until he had replaced
the nest in its own snug place, wedged in the fork of a branch. Eddy's
heart felt lighter when he clambered down again to his seat, and heard
the joyful twitter of the little mother, perched on a branch of a tree.

And from that day it was Edith's delight to take a daily ramble to that
quiet part of the wood, and have a peep at the nest, half hidden in its
bower of leaves. He knew when the small birds were hatched; he watched
the happy mother when she fed her little brood; he looked on when she
taught her nestlings to take their first airy flight. This gave him
more enjoyment than the possession of fifty eggs could have done. Never
did Eddy regret that he had showed mercy and kindness, and denied
himself a pleasure to save another a pang.



XIII.

SENDING HORSES TO TRAVELLERS.

[Illustration]

"POOR old Matthew!" said Lucy. "I hear that he is almost dying with
cold!"

Ben was amusing himself with spinning on the table four bright
half-crowns, with which his grandfather had presented him that morning,
but he stopped for a moment to listen to his sister's account of the
sufferings of his aged neighbour, and in a tone of pity said, "I'm sure
that I wish that he were better off, he is such a good old man!"

"He had nothing but a crust all yesterday," said Lucy.

"Dear me!" exclaimed Ben, balancing his coin between his finger and
thumb. "I wish that he had had as good a dinner as I!" Twirl, twirl,
went the half-crown, looking like a half transparent ball, as it spun
rapidly round; then gradually its shape altered, it sank lower and
lower, then rattled down to its old position on the table.

[Illustration: BEN AND THE HALF-CROWNS.]

"I wish that some one would help him!" said Lucy, glancing at the money.

"So do I, with all my heart!" replied Ben, in a manner that told pretty
clearly that his charity would not go beyond his good wishes.

There was a pause, which was first broken by Lucy. "I read such a funny
account, in a book about Thibet," said she, "of a curious piece of
superstition, that I put mark in the place, just that I might read it
to you; I thought that it would make you laugh."

"Let's have it!" cried Ben, pocketing his half-crowns, for he dearly
loved anything funny.

So Lucy opened a volume of Huc's "Travels," and read the following
account of the strange ideas of a young student of medicine at
Kounboum:—

   "One day," writes the missionary Huc, "he proposed to us a service of
devotion in favour of all the travellers throughout the whole world.
'We are not acquainted with this devotion,' said we; 'will you explain
it to us?' 'This is it: You know that a good many travellers find
themselves from time to time on rugged toilsome roads, and it often
happens that they cannot proceed by reason of their being altogether
exhausted. In this case we aid them by sending horses to them.' 'That,'
said we, 'is a most admirable custom; but you must consider that poor
travellers such as we are not in a condition to share in the good work.
You know that we possess only a horse and a little mule, which require
rest in order that they may carry us to Thibet.' He clapped his hands
together, and burst into a loud laugh. 'What are you laughing at? What
we have said is the simple truth; we have only a horse and a little
mule.' When his laughter at last subsided, 'It was not that which I
was laughing at,' said he; 'I laughed at your mistaking the sort of
devotion I mean. What we send to the travellers are paper horses.' And
therewith he ran off to his cell, and presently returned, his hands
filled with bits of paper, on each of which was printed the figure of
a horse, saddled and bridled, and going at full gallop. 'Here, these
are the horses we send to the travellers! To-morrow we shall ascend
a high mountain, and there we shall pass the day, saying prayers and
sending off horses.' 'How do you send them to the travellers?' 'Oh, the
means are very easy. After a certain form of prayer, we take a packet
of horses, which we throw up into the air; the wind carries them away,
and by the power of Buddha they are then changed to real horses, which
offer themselves to travellers.'"

"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Ben, when she had finished. "I never heard
anything so odd in my life. We have nothing in England like these paper
horses."

"Well, I could not quite say that," observed Lucy; "there was something
that reminded me of them just now."

"What was that?" said Ben, glancing up at his sister.

"Sending only 'good wishes' to those to whom we are able to send real
help," Lucy replied with a smile. "They go just as far, and are exactly
as useful to the poor, as the paper horses to the travellers in the
deserts of Thibet."



XIV.

THORNS AND FLOWERS.

[Illustration]

"WHAT can be the difference between Martha and Susan Williamson?" said
old Dame Phillips. "They are as like as two cherries—the same rosy
cheeks, the same height, the same hair, you could hardly know one from
the other."

"No wonder, for they are twins," replied Widow Green.

"And yet, how is it that when one of them comes in, it seems as if a
sunbeam were shining into the room; yet, when the other is near, you
would think that she brought the cold east wind with her?"

"One lives for others, and one for herself; that's the difference
between Martha and Susan," said Mrs. Green, as she poured out her cup
of tea.

"Ah! I often think that they are like two travellers, walking through
the world with baskets on their arms. Susan has filled her basket
with roses, and wherever she goes there's the sweet smell and the
pretty flowers to make every one round her glad. Martha has filled her
basket with thorns; you fear to come near her for the prickles; she
is scattering thorns wherever she passes, and leaves pain behind her
wherever she has been!"

"I pity the children when they are left to her care," said the widow.

"Poor little lambs, they have their full share of the thorns. It is
a word and a blow with her; and as for poor Albert, with his weak
ankles, he may walk on till he drops afore she will take the trouble
of carrying him one step.—Why, here she is!" added the old woman, as
Martha entered the house with a bold, careless air.

"Good-day, Mrs. Phillips: I've come to borrow your warm new shawl.
You see," added she, seeing a look of reluctance on the face of the
rheumatic invalid, "I'm going to-morrow in the steamer to Greenwich,
and it will be so cold on the water."

"Come to-morrow, then," said the good-natured dame; "why should I be
all this cold evening without it?"

"Oh, it is not convenient to come to-morrow!" cried Martha. "I'm off
early, so please for it now." And as she stepped carelessly forward to
take the shawl from the shoulders of her shivering friend, she knocked
down the cup which Mrs. Phillips had just filled. But Martha never said
that she was sorry for the mischief done; she never even stopped to
pick up the broken pieces; her only thought was ever "self!"

Having got all she wanted, Martha turned to depart, but lingered for a
few minutes to talk.

"Ah! Mrs. Green, so your son has gone to sea, I hear. How the wind is
blowing, to be sure! I could hardly get up the street. They say there
has been a dreadful shipwreck off the Irish coast—every one lost!"

Mrs. Green clasped her hands with a look of terror.

"I hope that the wind will have gone down before I start for
Greenwich," said Martha, as she bounced out of the room, forgetting, of
course, to close the door. She was gone, but she had left the thorns
behind her.

In a few minutes a gentle tap was heard.

"Come in," said Mrs. Phillips; and the bright kind face of Susan
appeared.

"Good evening, Mrs. Phillips; I hope that you are feeling better. I
have brought you a pair of mittens, which I have knit for you, to keep
your poor hands warm in this cold weather.—Mrs. Green, I'm so glad to
see you; and will not you be glad to see 'this?'" she added, holding
up a letter, and then placing it in the mother's trembling hand, with
pleasure almost equal to her own.

"My son's handwriting!" exclaimed Mrs. Green. "How did you come by it,
my dear?"

"I knew that you were anxious for letters, so I stepped round by the
post-office to ask if there were any for you."

"Bless you!" cried Mrs. Green. "You are always thinking of others."

[Illustration: THE LETTER.]

When Susan entered the house, she had found gloom and anxiety there.
Before she left it, there were bright looks and smiles of hope and
gratitude. She had left the roses behind her.

And can you guess the secret cause of her kindness, of the constant,
cheerful benevolence which made her welcome to all? Why did she seem
to live for others?—Because she "lived to God!" One sentence spoken by
the blessed Saviour seemed ever present to her mind: "'Love one another
as I have loved you.'" She knew that the Lord Jesus had "died for all,
that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but
unto Him which died for them" (2 Cor. v. 15).

Oh! dear reader, have "you" lived for yourself, or for your Lord; are
you scattering roses or thorns?

On her way home Susan overtook an aged woman, bent down with years,
and yet more with trouble, to judge from her sad, hopeless face.
She carried a large bundle, which seemed too much for her strength.
Cold as was the weather, she walked on but slowly, with a feeble,
half-tottering step, often pausing, as though to take breath.

Susan paused; and her kind, pitying look seemed to encourage the poor
old woman to address her.

"Could you, please, tell me the way to John Street, my dear? I am a
stranger in London."

"With pleasure," replied Susan; "let me see—the third turn to the left,
then walk on till you come to a baker's shop, then—"

"I shall never make it out," said the old woman, with a hopeless air.

"Well, then, I'll go with you, and show you the way. Don't hurry
yourself, you look feeble, and your bundle is heavy; let me carry it
for you, it would be a pleasure to me!" And she relieved the poor
stranger of her burden, as they passed through the cold, silent streets.

"You are good, very good!" sighed the old woman. "Too good for this
cold, heartless, miserable world!"

"I am sorry that you find it so miserable."

"Miserable enough! Here am I, a lone widow—I who have had a good
husband, and three as fine boys as ever the sun shone upon. There is no
comfort on earth for me!"

"But there is comfort in heaven! Do you not hope to see again those
whom you have loved, never more to part? Do you not hope that they are
happy now?"

"Ay, they are happy; for my husband feared God, and my boys were taken
before they knew evil. But here am I, a feeble old woman, without a
friend on earth."

"But you have a Friend in heaven; there is comfort again!"

"Ay, if I could take it, my dear; but my heart is low, and my spirit
weary, and everything looks dark around and above!"

Susan rather whispered than spoke, "'Why art thou cast down, O my soul?
and why art thou disquieted within me? hope thou in God: for I shall
yet praise Him, who is the health of my countenance, and my God.'" (Ps.
xlii. 11).

A tear rolled down the pale cheek of the stranger, but her heart felt
lighter: she had met with one who could feel for her.

"I wish," said she, after a pause, "that I had thought more of these
things when I was young like you. It doesn't do to put off, one's heart
grows cold and hard. And, oh! it's a weary, weary thing, old age like
mine, no comforts around one, nothing but troubles to look back upon,
nothing but death to look forward to!" and she sighed heavily.

"And heaven beyond!" said Susan.

"Ah! If I were sure of 'that,' but maybe heaven is not for a poor,
ignorant, sinful creature like me!"

"I thought," said Susan timidly, "that heaven was for those who
believe, who repent, who love the Lord Jesus and one another."

Not another word was spoken till they reached the house, when the aged
stranger laid her trembling hand on the shoulder of her young guide.

"God Almighty bless you!" she murmured. "You've spoken the first word
of comfort that I've heard for many a long day. God will bless you, and
make you an angel above, as you love to do angels' work below!"

Reader! May you thus pass through life, blessing and blessed, the roses
which you scatter on the paths of others throwing sweetness over your
own, and making soft your death-bed at the last!



XV.

HEIR TO SOMETHING BETTER.

[Illustration]

"WELL, he's a beauty, he is!" cried Betsy Bonser. "But fine feathers
make fine birds, and his mother dresses him up as if he were Prince of
Wales at least."

"Who is it, neighbour?" asked the feeble voice of Mary Blane, a sick
woman who was lying in bed in the little cottage out of the window of
which Betsy Bonser was looking as she spoke.

"Why, it's Squire Knight's little boy, to be sure—hat, feather, and
all—sitting in his little carriage, with his dog on his knee. How
unequal things are in this world! There were you with your dozen
children, scarce able to put shoes on their feet, or bread in their
mouths, and a thirteenth baby must come—" she glanced at a little
creature asleep in its cradle—"just to be a burden and a trouble!"

[Illustration: THE YOUNG SQUIRE.]

"He's welcome—bless him!" whispered the mother.

"Welcome! Well, mothers have an odd way of taking these things," said
Betsy. "I know the squire's baby was welcome, for he was heir to ten
thousand a year!"

"And I hope that my baby is heir to something better," said Mary with a
gentle smile. "If he be God's child, he'll have an inheritance one day
in heaven!"

"Well," began Betsy—but she started with surprise, for she saw that the
squire's lady now stood in the cottage!

Mrs. Knight had knocked so gently, and Betsy had talked so loudly, that
the knock had not been heard, nor the soft step of the lady as she
entered the poor woman's cottage.

"Oh! Beg your pardon, ma'am, I didn't see you," cried Betsy, dropping
half-a-dozen courtesies.

Mrs. Knight had brought many nice things for the sick mother, and some
little pieces of dress for Mary's baby, which her own boy had long
outgrown. The lady took, I say, many things to the cottage; she took
one thing away with her—the remembrance of the poor woman's words,
which she had chanced to overhear: "I hope that my baby is heir to
something better."

When Mrs. Knight returned to her boy, whom she had left outside with
his nurse, she thought again and again of what Mary Blane had said.

"Ah!" reflected the lady, "my boy will have everything that money can
give him, but, after all, the 'best' things are as free to the poor
as to the rich. My child would be poor indeed if he were not heir to
something better."

When a few months had passed away, the squire's little son fell ill.
The groom mounted a horse and rode off at full speed for a doctor;
another was sent for from London; everything was procured that could
possibly help to save the child from dying. But if God wills to take a
little lamb to His fold above, doctors and medicine and mother's fond
care cannot keep him on earth. The squire's little darling was taken
early to heaven.

Then people said, "What a grievous thing it was that the heir of such
an estate should die!"

If one of Mary Blane's thirteen children had been taken, the world
would have thought less about it, though every one was as dear to her
as Victor Knight had been to his mother. And friends wondered how
poor Mrs. Knight could bear her grief so meekly, and never murmur
when called to part with the child whom she loved so well. It was the
thought of her little one's happiness that soothed her sorrowing heart;
she looked round on the splendid dwelling that might one day have been
her son's, and repeated the poor woman's words, "My baby is heir to
something better."

After some time, God comforted the poor lady by giving her another
child. There were great rejoicings in the squire's house when a second
heir was born; bonfires were lighted, tenants were feasted, and an ox
was roasted whole. Mrs. Knight was again a happy and thankful mother.
But she never forgot her first little treasure, whose picture with his
dog on his knee, hung just opposite to the seat in her own quiet room
where the lady used often to read the Bible. And when in her reading
she came to an account of "an inheritance incorruptible, undefiled,
and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven," she would lift up her
tearful eyes to the picture, and with a grateful heart would say, "Yes,
earth's wealth and honours must pass away; thank God, through Christ,
my baby was heir to something better!"



XVI.

THE TWO PETS.

A FABLE.

[Illustration]

"AH, Poll! Poll!" cried the little spaniel Fidele to the new favourite
of the family. "How every one likes you and pets you!"

"No wonder," replied the parrot, cocking her head on one side with
a very conceited air. "Just see how pretty I am! With your rough
hairy coat, and your turned-up nose, who would look at you beside me!
Just observe my plumage of crimson and green, and the fine feather
head-dress which I wear!"

"Yes, you are a beauty," said Fidele, "that I'm only an ugly little
dog."

[Illustration: FIDELE AND POLL.]

"Then how clever I am," continued Miss Parrot, after a nibble at her
biscuit. "No human beings are likely to care for you, for you can't
speak one word of their language."

"I wish that I could learn it," said Fidele.

"You've only to copy me." And then in her harsh grating voice the
parrot cried, "What's o'clock?"

"Bow-wow!" barked Fidele.

"Do your duty!" screamed the bird.

"Bow-wow!" barked the dog.

"There's not a chance that any one will ever care for you, ugly stupid
spaniel," cried Miss Poll. "You may just creep off to your kennel, you
are not fit company for a learned beauty like me."

Poor Fidele made no complaint, but he felt sad as he trotted off to his
corner. Before Poll's arrival at the Hall, the spaniel had been the
favourite playmate of all Mrs. Donathorn's children. They had taught
him to fetch and carry, to toss up a biscuit placed on his nose and
catch it cleverly in his mouth, or to jump into the water and bring a
stick that had been flung to ever so great a distance.

But as soon as pretty Poll came, no one seemed to care for Fidele
any more. To teach the parrot to speak was the great delight of the
children. They shouted and clapped their hands when she screamed out
"Pretty Poll," "What's o'clock?" or, "Do your duty." Stupid Fidele!
He could not be taught to speak. Ugly Fidele! Who could for a moment
compare him to a beautiful parrot? So all the kind words, and soft
pats, and sweet biscuits, were given to Poll. It is true that she made
little Tommy once cry out with pain from a bite from her sharp beak—and
that the least thing that displeased her would make her ruffle up her
feathers in a very ill-tempered way, but still she was petted and
praised for her cleverness and her beauty; and she quite despised poor
Fidele, who was nothing but an ugly hairy dog.

One fine summer's day, the children carried the stand of their
favourite to the bank of the pretty little river which flowed through
their mother's grounds. Bessy and Jemmy amused themselves by feeding
and chatting with the parrot, while little Tommy gathered daisies and
buttercups, or rolled about on the grass. No one cared for Fidele; no
one noticed what he was doing.

Presently Bessy and Jemmy were startled by a scream, and then a
sudden splashing noise in the water. Poor little Tommy, eager to pull
some blue forget-me-nots which grew quite close to the brink, had
overbalanced himself and tumbled right into the stream. Oh, what was
the terror of the children when they heard the splash, and saw the wide
circles on the water where their poor little brother was sinking.

"Do your duty!" screamed the parrot, merely talking by rote, and not
caring a feather for the danger of the child, or the distress of his
brother and sister.

At that moment, there was heard another splash in the water, and then
the brown nose and hairy back of Fidele were seen in the stream, as
the little dog swam with all his might to save the drowning child. He
caught little Tommy by his clothes; he pulled—he tugged—he dragged him
towards the shore, just within reach of the eagerly stretched-out hands
of Jemmy.

"Oh, he is saved! He is saved!" cried Bessy, as Tommy was dragged out
of the river, dripping, choking, spluttering, crying, but not seriously
hurt.

He was instantly carried back to the house, undressed, and put into a
warm bed; and the little one was soon none the worse for his terrible
ducking and fright.

"Oh, you dear—you darling dog!" cried Bessy, as she caught up Fidele,
all wet as he was, and hugged him with grateful affection. "I will
always love you, and care for you, for you were a true friend in need."

"Pretty Poll!" screamed the parrot, who did not like any one to be
noticed but herself.

"Fidele is better than pretty; he is brave, and useful, and good,"
cried Bessy.

"Do your duty!" screamed out Miss Poll.

"Ah, Poll, Poll, it is one thing to prate about duty, and another thing
to 'do it,'" said Bessy. "Fine words are good, to be sure, but 'fine
acts' are a great deal better."

                              MORAL.

Beauty and cleverness may win much notice for a time, but it is he who
is faithful, good, and true, who is valued and loved at the end.



XVII.

THE TWO STANDARD MEASURES.

[Illustration]

"MAMMA, how tall was that great giant of whom papa was telling us?"
said Harry, who, after standing with his back to the door, a pencil in
one hand, and a ruler in the other, was busily engaged in examining
some marks which he had made on the panel.

"He was nearly seven feet high, I believe," replied Mrs. Prince,
without raising her eyes from her work.

"And how tall do you think that I am?" said the little boy, with a look
of conscious pride.

"You? I should say about four feet, my dear."

"I am 'eight' feet high!" cried Harry, with exultation.

"Impossible!"

"I have just measured myself, mamma."

"You must have measured wrong."

"Oh I have been very careful; see, here is the mark for each foot up
the door—one, two, four, six, eight."

"But what is your standard measure, Harry?" said his mother with a
smile.

"This pretty little ruler, 'that I made for myself,'" cried the child,
exhibiting his pasteboard measure, neatly marked with divisions for the
inches, "but only half the proper length!" "You see, dear mamma, that I
am taller than the giant!"

"Foolish child!" you say, and I should say so too, did I not fear that
half the world act exactly as he did. We are all too apt to make our
standard measures for ourselves, laying aside "the only true one,"
which we find in the Bible; and thus we often deem ourselves sensible
and good, when our wisdom is folly, our actions full of sin.

The Bible tells us that "holiness" is absolutely necessary. "There is
no need to be so very particular," cries the world. The Bible declares
that we shall be judged for "every idle word." "My words are my own!"
says the trifler.

It is clear that there are "two standard measures" before us: one
short and easy, the other long and trying; one that makes us seem like
giants, the other like dwarfs. Thus we are too ready to choose the
standard "of our own making," and wilfully to deceive our own hearts.
But oh! Let us ask ourselves one solemn question—"By which standard
shall we be measured at the last day?"







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