{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_11435/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_11435","id":"gutenberg_11435","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/11435","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Children & Young Adult Reading","Category: Religion/Spirituality","Children -- Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction","Children's poetry","Children's stories","Christian life -- Juvenile fiction","Conduct of life -- Juvenile fiction"],"text":"[Illustration: THE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL.]\n\nSMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS.\n\nEDITED BY MRS. M.H. ADAMS\n\n   Word of Truth, and Gift of Love,\n     Waiting hearts now need thee;\n   Faithful in thy mission prove,\n     On that mission speed thee.\n\n\n\n\n1851.\n\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nFrom the encouragement extended to our worthy publisher on the\npresentation of the first and second volumes of the Annual, we conclude\nthat the experiment of 1845 may be regarded as a successful one, and the\npreparation of a little work of this kind an acceptable offering to the\nyoung.\n\nThe present year, our kind contributors have afforded us a much more\nample supply of interesting articles than could possibly appear. We\nregret that any who have so generously labored for us and our young\nfriends, should be denied the pleasure of greeting their articles on the\npages of the Annual. Let them not suspect that it is from any\ndisapproval or rejection of their labors. Be assured, dear friends, we\nare more grateful than can properly be expressed in a brief preface. Our\nwarmest thanks are due our old friends, who, in the midst of other\narduous duties, have willingly given us assistance. Let our new\ncorrespondents be assured they are gratefully remembered, although we\nhave not the pleasure or opportunity to present their articles to our\nreaders in the present volume. They are at the publisher's disposal for\nanother year.\n\nMay the blessing of our Father in heaven rest upon the little book and\nall its mends.\n\nM.H.A.\n\n\n\n   CONTENTS.\n\n          *       *       *       *       *\n\n   Small Means and Great Ends\n\n   Mary Ellen\n\n   The Dead Child to its Mother\n\n   Hope\n\n   The Young Soldier\n\n   The Stolen Children\n\n   My Grandmother's Cottage\n\n   The First Oath\n\n   The Fairy's Gift\n\n   A Lesson taught by Nature\n\n   Florence Drew\n\n   Shechem\n\n   The Little Candle\n\n   \"Are we not all Brothers and Sisters?\"\n\n   Fortune-Telling\n\n   The Boy who Stole the Nails\n\n   The Childless Mother\n\n   The Motherless Child\n\n   Faith\n\n\n\nSMALL MEANS AND GREAT ENDS;\n\nOR,\n\nTHE WIDOW'S POT OF OIL.\n\nBY JULIA A. FLETCHER.\n\n\"Oh! how I do wish I was rich!\" said Eliza Melvyn, dropping her work in\nher lap, and looking up discontentedly to her mother; \"why should not I\nbe rich as well as Clara Payson? There she passes in her father's\ncarriage, with her fine clothes, and haughty ways; while I sit\nhere--sew--sewing--all day long. I don't see what use I am in the world!\n\n\"Why should it be so? Why should one person have bread to waste, while\nanother is starving? Why should one sit idle all day, while another\ntoils all night? Why should one have so many blessings, and another so\nfew?\"\n\n\"Eliza!\" said Mrs. Melvyn, taking her daughter's hand gently within her\nown, and pushing back the curls from her flushed brow, \"my daughter, why\nis this? why is your usual contentment gone, and why are you so sinfully\ncomplaining? Have you forgotten to think that 'God is ever good?'\"\n\n\"No, mother,\" replied the young girl, \"but it sometimes appears strange\nto me, why he allows all these things.\"\n\n\"Wiser people than either you or I have been led to wonder at these\nthings,\" said Mrs. Melvyn; \"but the Christian sees in all the wisdom of\nGod, who allows us to be tried here, and will overrule all for our good.\nThe very person who is envied for one blessing perhaps envies another\nfor one he does not possess. But why would you be rich, my child?\"\n\n\"Mother, I went this morning through a narrow, dirty street in another\npart of the city. A group of ragged children were collected round one\nwho was crying bitterly. I made my way through them and spoke to the\nlittle boy. He told me his little sister was dead, his father was sick,\nand he was hungry. Here was sorrow enough for any one; but the little\nboy stood there with his bare feet, his sunbleached hair and tattered\nclothes, and smiled almost cheerfully through the tears which washed\nwhite streaks amid the darkness of his dirty face. He led me to his\n_home_. Oh, mother! if you had been with me up those broken stairs, and\nseen the helpless beings in that dismal, dirty room you would have\nwished, like me, for the means to help them. The dead body lay there\nunburied, for the man said, they had no money to pay for a coffin. He\nwas dying himself, and they might as well be buried together.\"\n\n\"Are you sure, Eliza, that you have not the means to help them?\" asked\nMrs. Melvyn. \"Put on your bonnet, my dear, and go to our sexton. Tell\nhim to go and do what should be done. The charitable society of which I\nam a member will pay the expense. Then call on Dr. ---- the dispensary\nphysician, and send him to the relief of the sick one. Then go to those\nof your acquaintance who have, as you say, 'bread to waste,' and mention\nto them this hungry little boy. If you have no money to give these\nsufferers, you have a voice to plead with those who have; and thus you\nmay bless the poor, while you doubly bless the rich, for 'It is more\nblessed to give than to receive.'\"\n\nEliza obeyed, and when she returned several hours after, her face\nglowing with animation, and eagerly recounted how much had been done for\nthe poor family; how their dead had been humanely borne from their\nsight; how the sick man was visited by the physician, and his bitterness\nof spirit removed by the sympathy which was sent him; how the room was\nto be cleaned and ventilated, and how she left the little boy eating a\nhuge slice of bread, while others of the family were half devouring the\nremainder of the loaf; her mother listened with the same gentleness. \"It\nis well, my daughter,\" said she; \"I preferred to send you on this errand\nof sympathy, that you might see how much you could do with small means.\"\n\n\"I have a picture here,\" she continued, \"which I wish you to keep as a\ntoken of this day's feelings and actions. It is called 'The Widow's Pot\nof Oil.' Will you read me the story which belongs to it?\"\n\nEliza took her little pocket Bible, the one that she always carried to\nthe Sabbath school, and, turning to the fourth chapter of the second\nbook of Kings, read the first seven verses. Turn to them now, children,\nand read them.\n\n\"You can see in this picture,\" said her mother, \"how small was the 'pot\nof oil,' and how large were some of the vessels to be filled. Yet still\nit flowed on, a little stream; still knelt the widow in her faith,\npatiently supporting it; still brought her little sons the empty\nvessels; the blessing of God was upon it, and they were all filled. She\nfeared not that the oil would cease to flow; she stopped not when one\nvessel was filled; she still believed, and labored, and waited, until\nher work was done.\n\n\"Take this picture, my daughter, and when you think that you cannot do\ngood with small means, remember 'the widow's pot of oil,' and\nperseveringly use the means you have; when one labor is done, begin\nanother; stitch by stitch you have made this beautiful garment; very\nlarge houses are built of little bricks patiently joined together one by\none; and 'the widow's small pot of oil' filled many large vessels.\"\n\n\"Oh, mother,\" said Eliza, \"I hope I shall never be so wicked again. I\nwill keep the picture always. But, mother, do you not think Mr. Usher\nwould like this picture to put in the 'Sabbath School Annual?' He might\nhave a smaller one engraved from this, you know, and perhaps cousin\nJulia will write something about it. I mean to ask them.\"\n\n\n\n\nMARY ELLEN;\n\nA SKETCH FROM LIFE.\n\nBY MRS. MARGARET M. MASON.\n\n   \"O, lightly, lightly tread!\n   A holy thing is sleep\n   On the worn spirit shed,\n   And eyes that wake to weep;\n   Ye know not what ye do,\n   That call the slumberer back\n   From the world unseen by you,\n   Unto life's dim faded track.\"\n\nHow beautiful, calm, and peaceful is sleep! Often, when I have laid my\nhead upon my pillow happy and healthful, I have asked myself, to what\nshall I awaken? What changes may come ere again my head shall press this\npillow? Ah, little do we know what a day may unfold to us! We know not\nto what we shall awaken; what joy or sorrow. I do not know when I was\nawakened to more painful intelligence, than when aroused one morning\nfrom pleasant dreams by the voice of a neighbor, saying that Mary Ellen,\nthe only daughter of a near neighbor, was dying. She was a beautiful\nlittle girl, about three years of age, unlike most other children. She\nwas more serious and thoughtful; and many predicted that her friends\nwould not have her long. She would often ask strange questions about\nheaven and her heavenly Father; and many of her expressions were very\nbeautiful.\n\nOne day she asked permission of her mother to go and gather her some\nflowers. Her mother gave her permission, but requested her not to go out\nof the field. After searching in vain for flowers, she returned with\nsome clover leaves and blades of grass. \"Mother,\" said she, \"I could\nfind you no flowers, but here are some spires of grass and clover\nleaves. Say that they are some pretty, mother. GOD made them.\" Often,\nwhen she woke in the morning, she would ask her mother if it was the\nSabbath day. If told it was, \"Then,\" she would say, \"we will read the\nBible and keep the day holy.\" Her mother always strove to render the\nSabbath interesting to her, and to have her spend it in a profitable\nmanner. Nor did she fail; for little Mary Ellen was always happy when\nthe Sabbath morning came. The interest she took in the reading of the\nScriptures, in explanations given of the plates in the Bible, and the\naccuracy with which she would remember all that was told her, were truly\npleasing. Her kind and affectionate disposition, her love for all that\nwas pure and holy, and her readiness to forgive and excuse all that she\nsaw wrong in others, made her beloved by all who knew her. If she saw\nchildren at play on the Sabbath, or roaming about, she would notice it,\nand speak of it as being very wrong, and it would appear to wound her\nfeelings; yet she would try to excuse them. \"It may be,\" she would say,\n\"that they do not know that it is the holy Sabbath day. Perhaps no one\nhas told them.\" She could not bear to think of any one doing wrong\nintentionally.\n\nWhenever she heard her little associates make use of any language that\nshe was not quite sure was right, she would ask her mother if it was\nwrong to speak thus; and if wrong, she would say, \"Then, I will never\nspeak so, and I shall be your own dear little girl, and my heavenly\nFather will love me.\" We often ask children whom they love best. Such\nwas the question often put to Mary Ellen. She would always say, \"I love\nmy heavenly Father best, and my dear father and mother next.\" Her first\nand best affections were freely given to her Maker, not from a sense of\nduty alone did it seem, but from a heart overflowing with love and\ngratitude; and never, at the hour of retiring, would she forget to kneel\nand offer up her evening prayer. Thus she lived.\n\nNow I will lead you to her dying pillow Many friends were around her.\nNo one had told her that she was dying; yet she herself felt conscious\nof it. She wished to have the window raised, that she might see the\nocean and trees once more. \"Oh!\" said her mother, bending over her, \"is\nmy dear little girl dying?\" \"I want to go,\" said Mary Ellen; \"I want my\nfather and mother to go with me.\" \"Will you not stay with us?\" said the\nstricken father; \"will you not stay with us?\" She raised her little\nhands and eyes--\"Oh no,\" said she; \"I see them! I see them! 't is\nlighter there; I want to go; get a coffin and go with me, father. 'T is\nlighter there!\" She died soon after she ceased speaking. Her pure spirit\nwinged its way to the blest home where we shall _all_ have more light,\nwhere the mortal shall put on immortality.\n\nShe died when flowers were fading; fit season for one of so gentle and\npure a nature to depart.\n\n   \"In the cold, moist earth they laid her\n     When the forest cast the leaf,\n   And we wept that one so beautiful\n     Should have a life so brief.\n   And yet 't was not unmeet that one,\n     Like that young friend of ours,\n   So gentle and so beautiful,\n     Should perish with the flowers.\"\n\nBut Oh! when that little form was laid in the cold grave,--when the\nchildless parents returned to their lonely home, once made so happy by\nthe smile of their departed child,--Oh! who can express or describe\ntheir anguish! In her they had all they could ask in a child; she was\ntheir only one. Everything speaks to their hearts of _her_; but her\nlight step and happy voice fall not upon their ears; to them the flowers\nthat she loved have a mournful language. The voice of the wind sighing\nin the trees has to them a melancholy tone. The light laugh of little\nchildren, coming in at the open window,--the singing of birds which she\ndelighted to hear,--but speak to their hearts of utter loneliness. They\nfeel that the little form they had nursed with so much care and\ntenderness, so often pressed to their bosoms, is laid beneath the sod.\nYet the sweet consolation which religion affords, cheered and sustained\nthe afflicted parents in their hours of deepest sorrow. They would not\ncall their child back. They feel that she has reached her heavenly home.\nHappy must they have been in yielding up to its Maker a spirit so pure.\n\nTwo years Mary Ellen has been sleeping in the little grave-yard. Since\nthen another little daughter has been given her parents,--a promising\nlittle bud, that came with the spring flowers, to bless and cheer the\nhome which was made so desolate. The best wish I have for the parents,\nand all I ask for the child, is, that it may be like little Mary Ellen.\nI have an earnest wish, too that all little children who read this\nsketch may be led to love and obey God as much as Mary Ellen.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE DEAD CHILD TO ITS MOTHER.\n\nBY MRS. E.R.B. WALDO.\n\n        Mother, mourn not for me;\n        No more I need of thee;\n   Call back the yearning which would follow where\n        No mortal grief can go;\n        All thine affection throw\n   Around thy living ones; they need thy care.\n\n        Let not my name still be\n        A word of grief to thee,\n   But let it bring a thought of peace and rest;\n        Shed for me no sad tear,\n        Remember, mother dear!\n   That I am with the perfect and the blest.\n\n        Yes, let my memory still\n        With joy thy bosom fill;\n   For, though thou dost along life's desert roam,\n        My spirit, like a star,\n        Bright burning and afar,\n   Shall guide thee, through the darkness, to thy home\n\n\n\n\nHOPE.\n\nBY REV. H.B. NYE.\n\nExpectation is not desire, nor desire hope. We may _expect_ misfortune,\nsickness, poverty, while from these evils we would fain escape. Bending\nover the couches of the sick and suffering, we may _desire_ their\nrestoration to health, while the hectic flush and the rapid beating of\nthe heart assure us that no effort of kindness or skill can prolong\ntheir days upon the earth. _Hope_ is directed to some future good, and\nit implies not only an ardent desire that our future may be fair and\nunclouded, but an expectation that our wishes will, at length, be\ngranted, and our plans be crowned with large success. Hence hope\nanimates us to exertion and diligence, and always imparts pleasure and\ngladness, while our fondest wishes cost us anxiety and tears.\n\nThere are _false_ and _delusive_ hopes, which bring us, at last, to\nshame. There are those who expect to gain riches by fraud and deceit, in\npursuits and traffics on which the laws of truth, love, and justice,\nmust ever darkly frown. They forget that wealth, with all its splendor,\ncan only be deemed a good and desirable gift when sought as an\ninstrument to advance noble and beneficent aims,--when we are the\nalmoners of God's bounty to the lonely children of sorrow and want.\n\nIf we seek wealth, let us not forget that pure hearts gentle affections,\nlofty purposes, and generous deeds, can alone secure the peace and\nblessedness of the spiritual kingdom of God.\n\nThere are some who have a strong desire for the praise and stations of\nmen, yet are often careless of the means by which they accomplish their\nends. Remember, my young friends, that no station, no crown, or honor,\nwill occupy the attention of a good and noble heart, except it opens a\nbetter opportunity for philanthropic labor, and is conferred as the free\noffering of an intelligent and grateful people.\n\nThere are many, especially among the young, who seek _present_ pleasure\nin foolish and sinful deeds, vainly believing the wicked may flourish\nand receive the blessing of the good. Believe me, young friend, such\nhopes are delusive, and such expectations will suddenly perish. Let\nfools laugh and mock at sin, and live as if God were not; but consider\nwell the path of _your_ feet! When your weak arm can hold back the\nglobes which circle in space above us in solemn grandeur and beauty\nforever, then may you hope to arrest the operation of those laws which\npreserve an everlasting connection between obedience and blessedness,\nsin and sorrow.\n\nIn the spring-season of life, how beautiful are the visions which Hope\nspreads out to our admiring view, as we go forth, with gladsome heart\nand step, amid the duties of life, its trials and temptations. It begets\nmanly effort by its promises of success, and leads us to virtue and\nself-denial, in our weakness and sin. When our heads are bowed to the\nearth in despondency and gloom, hope putteth forth her hand, scattereth\nafar the clouds, dispelleth our sorrow; and again, with a firmer step\nand a more trustful heart, we go forth on the solemn march of life! It\nis our solace and strength in the hours of woe and grief, when those in\nwhose smile we have rejoiced pass from our presence and homes to the\nvalley and shadow of death. And if we weep that they are not, and can\nnever return,\n\n   \"Hope, like the rainbow, a creature of light,\n   Is born, like the rainbow, in tears,\"\n\nand we rest in the calm and blest assurance that we shall ultimately go\nto them, and with them dwell forever in a land without sorrow.\n\nIt may be said that we scarcely live in the present. =Memory=, in\nwhose mysterious cells are treasured the records of the past, carries\nus back to our earlier years, and all our pursuits, and sports, and\njoys, and griefs, pass rapidly in review before us; and =Hope= leads\nus onward, investing future years with charms, and bidding us strive\nwith brave and manly hearts in the conflicts and duties that remain. The\nformer years--sorrowful remembrance!--may have been passed in luxury,\nindolence, or flagrant sin; the fruits of our industry and skill may\nhave wasted away; friends, whose love once cast a golden sunshine on the\npath of life, may have proved false and treacherous; our fondest\ndesires, perchance, have faded, and sorrows may encompass us about;--yet\nabove us the voice of Hope crieth aloud, \"_Press on_!\"--through tears\nand the cross must thou win the crown; be patient, trustful, in every\nduty and grief; \"_press on_,\" and falter not; and its words linger like\nthe music of a remembered dream in our ear, until, at the borders of the\ngrave, we lay down the burden of our sinfulness and care, and, through\nthe open gate of death, pass onward to that world where hope shall be\nexchanged for sight, and we, with unveiled eye, shall look upon the\nwondrous ways and works of God.\n\n\n\n\nTHE YOUNG SOLDIER\n\nBY REV. J.G. ADAMS.\n\n   A soldier! a soldier!\n     I'm longing to be;\n   The name and the life\n     Of a soldier for me!\n   I would not be living\n     At ease and at play:\n   True honor and glory\n     I'd win in my day!\n\n   A soldier! a soldier!\n     In armor arrayed;\n   My weapons in hand,\n     Of no contest afraid;\n   I'd ever be ready\n     To strike the first blow,\n   And to fight my good way\n     Through the ranks of the foe.\n\n   But then, let me tell you,\n     No blood would I shed,\n   No victory seek o'er\n     The dying and dead;\n   A far braver soldier\n     Than this would I be;\n   A warrior of Truth,\n    In the ranks of the free!\n\n   My helmet Salvation,\n     Strong Faith my good shield.\n   The sword of the Spirit\n     I'd learn how to wield.\n   And then against evil\n     And sin would I fight,\n   Assured of my triumph,\n     Because in the right.\n\n   A soldier! a soldier!\n     O, then, let me be!\n   Young friends, I invite you--\n     Enlist now with me.\n   Truth's bands will be mustered--\n     Love's foes shall give way!\n   Let's up, and be clad\n     In our battle array!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE STOLEN CHILDREN.\n\nBY MRS. M.A. LIVERMORE.\n\n\nNot many years ago, the beautiful hills and valleys of New England gave\nto the wild Indian a home, and its bright waters and quiet forests\nfurnished him with food. Rude wigwams stood where now ascends the hum of\nthe populous city, and council-fires blazed amid the giant trees which\nhave since bowed before the axe of the settler. Between that rude age\nand the refinement of the present day, many and fearful were the strifes\nof the red owner of the land with the invading white man, who, having\ncrossed the waters of the Atlantic, sought to drive him from his\nhitherto undisputed possessions. The recital of deeds of inhuman cruelty\nwhich characterized that period; the rehearsal of bloody massacres of\ninoffensive women and innocent children, which those cruel savages\ndelighted in, would even now curdle the blood with horror, and make one\nsick at heart.\n\nIt was in this period of fearful warfare that the events occurred which\nform the foundation of the following story.\n\nNot far from the year 1680, a small colony was planted on the banks of\nthe beautiful Connecticut. A little company from the sea-side found\ntheir way, through the tangled and pathless woods, to the meadows that\nlay sleeping on the banks of this bright river; and here, after having\nfelled the mighty trees whose brows had long been kissed by the pure\nheavens, they erected their humble cottages; and began to till the rich\nalluvial soil. The colonists were persevering and industrious; and soon\na little village grew up beside the shining stream, fields of Indian\ncorn waved their wealth of tasselled heads in the breezes, the\nrudely-constructed school-house echoed with the cheerful hum of the\nlittle students, and a rustic church was dedicated to the God of the\nPilgrims. He who officiated as the spiritual teacher of this new parish,\nalso instructed the children during the week. A man he was of no\ninferior mind, or neglected education; of fervent, but austere piety,\npossessing a bold spirit and a benevolent heart. His family consisted of\na wife and two daughters; Emma, the elder, was a girl of eight summers,\nand Anna, the younger, was about five.\n\nNever were children so frolicsome and mirth-loving as were Emma and Anna\nWilson, the daughters of the minister. Not the grave admonitions of\ntheir mother, or the severe reproofs of their stern father; not their\nmany confinements in dark and windowless closets, or the memory of\nafternoons, when, supperless, they had been sent to bed while the sun\nwas yet high in the heavens; not the fear of certain punishment, or the\nsuasion of kindness, could tame their wild natures, or force them into\nanything like woman-like sobriety. Hand in hand, they would wander amid\nthe aisles of mossy-trunked trees, plucking the flowers that carpeted\nthe earth; now digging for ground-nuts, now turning over the leaves for\nacorns; sometimes they would watch the nibbling squirrel as he nimbly\nsprang from tree to tree, or overpower, with their boisterous laughter,\nthe gushing melody of the bobolink; they mocked the querulous cat-bird\nand the cawing crow, started at the swift winging of the shy blackbird,\nand stood still to listen to the sweet song of the clear-throated\nthrush; now they bathed their feet in the streamlets that went singing\non their way to the Connecticut, and then, throwing up handfuls of the\nrunning water, which fell again upon their heads, they laughed right\nmerrily at their self-baptism. They were happy as the days were long;\nbut wild as their playfellows, the birds, the streams, and the\nsquirrels.\n\nOne beautiful Sabbath morning in July, their mother dressed them tidily\nin their best frocks, and tying on their snow-white sun-bonnets, she\nsent them to church nearly an hour before she started with their father,\nthat they might walk leisurely, and have opportunity to get rested\nbefore the commencement of services. But it was not until near the\nmiddle of the sermon that the little rogues made their appearance. With\nglowing faces, hair that had strayed from its ungraceful confinement to\nfloat in golden curls over their necks and shoulders,--with bonnets,\nshoes and stockings tied together and swinging over each arm,--with\ndresses rent, ripped, soiled and stained, and up-gathered aprons filled\nwith berries, blossoms, pebbles, fresh-water shells and bright sand,\nthey stole softly to where their mother was sitting, much to her\nmortification, and greatly to the horror of their pious father.\n\nFor this offence, they were forbidden to accompany their parents, on the\nnext Sabbath, to church, but were condemned to close confinement in the\nhouse during the long, bright, summer day--a severer punishment than\nwhich, could not have been inflicted. When the hour of assembling for\nworship was announced by the old English clock that stood in the corner,\nthe curtains were drawn before the windows; two bowls of bread and milk\nwere placed on the dresser for their dinner; a lesson in the Testament\nwas assigned to Emma, and one in the Catechism to Anna; a strict\ninjunction to remain all day in the house was laid upon both, and Mr.\nand Mrs. Wilson departed, locking the door, and taking the key. The\nchildren soon wiped away the tears that their hard fate had gathered in\ntheir eyes, and applied themselves to their tasks, which were speedily\ncommitted. Then the forenoon wore slowly away; they dared not get their\nplaythings,--they were forbidden to go out doors,--and the only books in\nthe room were the Bible, Watts' Hymns, and the Pilgrim's Progress, which\nlay on the highest shelf in the room, far beyond their reach. Noon came\nat last; the sun shone fully in at the south window, betokening the\ndinner hour, and then their dinner of bread and milk was eaten. What\nwere they next to do? Sorrowfully they gazed on the smiling river, the\ngreen corn-fields, the large potato-plats, the grazing cattle, the\nblooming flower-beds, and the shady walks which led far into the cool\nrecesses of the forest; and earnestly did they long for liberty to\nramble out in the glorious sunshine. As they were gazing wistfully\nthrough the window, they saw their playful little kitten, Fanny, dart\nlike lightning from her hiding-place in the garden, where she had long\nlain in ambush, and fasten her sharp claws in the back of a poor little\nground-bird, which had been hopping from twig to twig, chirping and\ntwittering very cheerfully. The little bird fluttered, gasped, and\nuttered wailing cries, as it ineffectually labored to free itself from\nthe power of its captor, until Emma and Anna, unable longer to witness\nits distress, sprang out the window, and, rushing down the garden,\nliberated the little prisoner, and with delight saw it fly away towards\nthe woods.\n\nDelighted to find themselves once more in the open air, the joyful\nchildren forgot the prohibition of their parents, and leaping over the\ndear little brook with which they loved to run races, they filled their\naprons with the blue-eyed violets that grew on its margin. On they\nbounded, further and further, and a few moments more found them in the\ndense wood, where not a sunbeam could reach the ground. But suddenly the\nleaves rustled behind them, and the twigs cracked, and there sprung,\nfrom an ambuscade in the thicket, the tall figure of an Indian, who laid\na strong hand on the arm of each little girl, and, despite the cries,\ntears, and entreaties of the poor children, hurried them deeper into the\nforest, where they found a large body of these cruel savages, clad in\nmoose and deer skins, armed with bows and arrows, tomahawks, and\nmuskets. The children were questioned concerning the village, the\noccupation of the inhabitants on that day, and the number of men at\nhome, and they replied correctly and intelligibly. A consultation was\nthen held among the Indians, which resulted in a determination to attack\nthe village; and forthwith, leaving but one behind to guard the little\nprisoners, they made a descent on the quiet settlement, burning and\nravaging buildings on their way to the church. But they did not find the\nbody of worshippers unarmed, as they doubtless expected; for, in those\ndays of peril and savage warfare, men worshipped God armed with musket\nand bayonet, and the hand that was lifted in prayer to heaven would\noften, at the next moment, draw the gleaming sword from its sheath. At\nthe meeting-house, the savages met with a warm repulse; and were so\nsurprised and affrighted that they retreated back into the wild woods,\nafter wounding but one or two colonists, among whom was Mr. Wilson,\nEmma's and Anna's father.\n\nThe Indians commenced, about dark, a journey to the settlement where\nthey belonged, taking the stolen children with them; they reached their\ndestination early on the second day of their travel. Rough, indeed,\nseemed the Indian village to the white children: the houses were only\nwigwams, made by placing poles obliquely in the ground, and fastening\nthem at the top, covered on the outside with bark, and lined on the\ninside with mats; some containing but one family, others a great many.\nThe furniture consisted of mats for beds, curiously wrought baskets to\nhold corn, and strings of wampum which served for ornaments. Into one of\nthe smallest of these wigwams Emma and Anna were carried, and were given\nto the wife of one of the chief warriors, who had but one child of her\nown,--Winona was her name, which signifies the first-born,--a\nbright-eyed, pleasant, winning little girl of two years of age. The\nmother scrutinized them closely, but the child appeared overjoyed to see\nthem, and wiped away their tears with her little hand, and, jabbering in\nher unknown language, seemed begging them not to cry. This interested\nthe mother, and she soon looked more kindly upon them, and set before\nthem food. But they were too sorrowful to eat, and were glad to be shown\na mat, where they were to sleep. Locked in each others' arms, cheek\npressed to cheek, they lay and wept as if their hearts were broken.\n\n\"Let us pray to God,\" whispered Emma, after the inmates of the wigwam\nwere reposing in slumber, \"and ask Him to bring us again to our father\nand mother.\"\n\nSo they rose, and knelt in the dark wigwam, with their arms about one\nanother's necks, and their tears flowing together, and offered to God\ntheir childish prayer:\n\n\"Our Father in Heaven, love us poor children; take care of us; forgive\nus for doing wrong, and help us be good; take care of our dear parents;\ncomfort them, and bring us again to meet them.\"\n\nThen, more composed, and trusting in the blessed Father of us all, they\nfell asleep, and sweet were their slumbers, though far from their dear\nparents and home, for angels watched over them, and gave to them happy\ndreams.\n\nA few days' residence among these untutored red men made Emma and Anna\ngreat favorites among them; their pleasant dispositions, their good\nnature, and, above all, their love for the little Winona, which was\nfully reciprocated, endeared them to the father and mother of the Indian\ngirl. Though sad at being separated from their parents, and though they\noften wept until they could weep no longer when they thought of home,\nyet their hearts, like those of all children, were easily consoled, and\ntheir spirits were so elastic that they could not long be depressed.\nWinona loved them tenderly; at night she slept between them, and during\nthe day she would never leave them. She wore garlands of their\nwreathing, listened to their English songs, stroked their rosy cheeks,\nand frolicked with them in the woods, and beside the running brooks.\n\nTwo months passed away; all the Indian women in the village were\nspeaking of the love that had sprung up between the little white girls\nand the copper-colored Winona; and many a hard hand smoothed the golden\ncurls of the little captives in token of affection. Then Winona was\ntaken sick; her body glowed with the fever-heat, her bright eyes became\ndull, and day and night she moaned with pain. With surprising care and\ntenderness, Emma and Anna nursed the suffering child,--for to them were\nher glowing and burning hands extended for relief, rather than to her\nmother. They held her throbbing head, lulled her to sleep, bathed her\nhot temples, moistened her parched lips, and soothed her distresses; but\nthey could not win her from the power of death--and she died!\n\nOh, it was a sorrowful thing to them to part with their little\nplaymate,--to see the damp earth heaped upon her lovely form, and to\nfeel that she was forever hidden from their sight! They wept, and, with\nthe almost frantic mother, laid their faces on the tiny grave, and\nmoistened it with their tears. Hither they often came to scatter the\nfreshest flowers, and to weep for the home they feared they would never\nagain see; and here they often kneeled in united prayer to that God, who\nbends on prayerful children a loving eye, and spreads over them a\nshadowing wing.\n\nThe childless Indian woman now loved them more than ever; but the death\nof Winona had opened afresh the fountains of their grief, and often did\nshe find them weeping so bitterly that she could not comfort them. She\nwould draw them to her bosom, and tenderly caress them; but it all\navailed not, and when the month of October came, with its sere foliage\nand fading flowers, Emma and Anna had grown so thin, and pale, and\nfeeble, from their wearing home-sickness, that they stayed all day in\nthe wigwam, going out only to visit Winona's grave. They drooped and\ndrooped, and those who saw them said, \"The white children will die, and\nlie down with Winona.\"\n\nThe Indian mother gazed on their pallid faces, and wept; she loved them,\nand could not bear to part with them; but she saw they would die, and\ncalling her husband, she bade him convey them to the home of their\nfather. Many were the tears she shed at parting with them; and when they\ndisappeared among the thick trees, she threw herself, in an agony of\ngrief, upon the mats within the wigwam.\n\nIt was Sabbath noon when the children arrived in sight of their\nfather's house; here the Indian left them, and plunged again into the\ndepths of the forest. They could gain no admittance into the house, and\nthey hastened to the meeting-house, where they hoped to find their\nparents. They reached the church; the congregation was singing;\nsilently, and unobserved, they entered, and seated themselves at the\nremotest part of the building. The singing ceased; there was a momentary\npause, and their father rose before them. Oh, how he was changed! Pale,\nvery pale, thin and sad was his dear face; and Emma's and Anna's hearts\nsmote them, as being the cause of this change. They leaned forward to\ncatch a glimpse of their mother, but in her accustomed seat sat a lady\ndressed in black, and this, they thought, could not be her; they little\nsupposed that their parents mourned for them as for the dead, believing\nthey should see them no more.\n\nMr. Wilson took his text from Psalms: \"It is good for me that I have\nbeen afflicted.\" With a tremulous voice, he spoke of their recent\nafflictions; of the sudden invasion of the colony, the burning of their\ndwellings, the wounding of some of their number, and then his tones\nbecame more deeply tremulous, for he spoke of his children. The sobs of\nhis sympathizing people filled the house, and the anguish of the\nfather's feelings became so intense, that he bowed his head upon the\nBible and wept aloud. The hearts of the children palpitated with\nemotion; their sobs arose above all others; and, taking each other by\nthe hand, the wan, emaciated, badly-dressed little girls hastened to the\npulpit, where stood their father, with his face bowed upon the leaves of\nthe Holy Book, and laying their hand upon his passive arm, they sobbed\nforth, \"Father! Father!\" He raised his head, gazed eagerly and wildly\nupon the children, and comprehending at once the whole scene, the\nrevulsion of feeling that came over him was so great,--the sorrow for\nthe dead being instantly changed into joy for the living,--that he\nstaggered backwards, and would have fallen but for the timely support of\na chair.\n\nThe whole house was in instant confusion; in a moment they were clasped\nin their mother's arms, and kisses and tears and blessings were mingled\ntogether upon their white, thin cheeks. \"Let us thank God for the return\nof our children,\" said the pastor; and all kneeling reverently, he\nthanked our merciful heavenly Father, in the warm and glowing language\nof a deeply grateful heart, for restoring to his arms those whom he had\nwept as lost to him forever.\n\nOh, there was joy in that village that night again and again the\nchildren told their interesting story, and those who listened forgot to\nchide their disobedience, or to harshly reprove. Need I tell you how\nthey were pressed to the bosoms of the villagers; how tears were shed\nfor their sufferings, and those of the little lost Winona, whom they did\nnot forget; how caresses were lavished upon them, and prayers offered to\nGod, that their lives, which he had so wonderfully preserved, might be\nspent in usefulness and piety? No, I need not, for you can imagine it\nall.\n\nThe sermon which was so happily interrupted by the return of the\nchildren was the first Mr. Wilson had attempted to preach since the day\nthey were stolen; the wounds he that day received, and the illness that\nimmediately afterwards ensued, with his unutterable grief for the loss\nof his children, had confined him mostly to his bed during their\nabsence. On the next Sabbath, Emma and Anna accompanied their father and\nmother once more to church, when Mr. Wilson preached from these words:\n\"Oh, give thanks unto the Lord, for he is good, and his mercy endureth\nforever.\"\n\n[Illustration: My Grandmother's Cottage]\n\n\n\n\nMY GRANDMOTHER'S COTTAGE.\n\nBY REV. J.G. ADAMS.\n\nOf all places in the wide world, my own early home excepted, none seem\nto me more pleasing in memory than my grandmother's cottage. Very often\ndid I visit it in my boyhood, and well acquainted with its appearance\nwithin, and with almost every object around it, did I become. It stood\nin a quiet nook in the midst of the woods, about five miles from the\npleasant seaport where I was born. The cottage was not a spacious one.\nIt had but few rooms in it; but it was amply large for my aged\ngrandparents, I remember. They lived happily there. My grandfather was\nsomewhat infirm; my grandmother was a very vigorous person for one of\nseventy-five; this was her age at the time of my first recollection of\nher. She used to walk from her cottage to our home; and once I walked\nwith her, but was exceedingly mortified that I could not endure the walk\nso well as she did.\n\nI used to love this cottage home, because it was so quiet, and in the\nsummer time so delighting to me. I believe I received some of my very\nfirst lessons in the love of nature in this place. It was a charming\nsummer or winter retreat. If the sun shone warmly down anywhere, it was\nhere. If the wind blew kindly anywhere, it was around the snug cottage,\nsheltered as it was on every side by the tall old pines. If the robin's\nnote came earliest anywhere in the spring-time, it was from the large\nspreading apple-tree just at the foot of the little garden lot. How\noften has my young heart been delighted with his song there! And then,\nwhat sweet chanting I have heard in those woods all the day from the\nthrush and sparrow, yellow-bird and oriole! How their mellow voices\nwould seem to echo in the noon-silence, or at the sunset hour, as though\nthey were singing anthems in some vast cathedral! They were; and what\nanthems of nature's harmony and praise! God heard them, and was\nglorified.\n\nIt seemed to me that every animate thing was made to be happy. I loved\nto stand beneath a tall old hemlock in a certain part of the wood, and\nwatch the squirrels as they skipped and ran so swiftly along the wall,\nor from branch to branch, or up and down the trees. Their chattering\nmade a fine accompaniment to the bird-songs. And here I learned to\nindulge a fondness for the very crows, which to this day I have never\noutgrown. Though they have been denounced as mischievous, and bounties\nhave been set upon them, I never could find it in my heart to indulge in\nthe warring propensity against them. They always seemed to me such\nsocial company--issuing from some edge of the woodland, and slowly\nflapping their black wings, and flocking out into the clearing, huddling\noverhead, and sailing away, chatting so loudly and heartily all the\nwhile, and reminding the whole neighborhood that when we have life, it\nis best to let others know it! Yes--the cawing crows have been company\nfor me in many a solitary ramble; and whenever I hear them, I inwardly\npay my respects to them. All these, and other familiar sights and\nsounds, did I richly enjoy at the old cottage in the woods.\n\nI loved to sit at the shed-door, and watch my grandfather at his slow\nwork; for he had been a mechanic in his day, and was able to do a little\nvery moderately at his trade now. He would tell me the history of the\nold people in the neighborhood, and of the customs and fashions when\nthey were boys and girls; and my eyes and ears were open to hear him. I\nused to wish I could see them just as they looked when they were\nchildren. It was very difficult then for me to imagine how those who\nhad become so wrinkled could ever have had the smooth faces of infants\nand children. But my grandfather could remember when he was a boy; and\nhis father had told him what things were done when he, too, was a boy.\nAnd so I concluded that wrinkles were no disgrace, nor the fairest faces\nof the young any protection against them.\n\nMy grandmother was very fond of me, and took great pleasure in having me\nread to her, as her eyesight had become somewhat dim. And so I used to\nload myself with story-books and newspapers, when I became older, to\ncarry and read to her. And such times as we had with them! Voyages,\ntravels, discoveries, adventures, perils,--the wonders of the world, the\nwonders of science, the wonders of history,--all came in for their share\nof reading. Though I should read myself tired and sleepy, my grandmother\nwould still be an interested listener. Since I have been a minister, I\nhave often wished that many hearers would as eagerly listen to what I\nhad to say especially to them, as did my aged grandmother to my young\nwords then.\n\nThose sunny days have departed. The old cottage is not there now. Years\nago it was taken down. My grandfather died when I was yet a boy, and I\nfollowed him to the grave with a heavy heart. My grandmother lived to\nbe almost a hundred years old,--her powers all gone, and she helpless.\nIt would sometimes, even in my manhood, deeply affect me to have her\nlook into my face with no sign in hers that she knew me, when she had\nonce loved her talkative and delighted grandchild so fondly. But she,\ntoo, found her resting-place at last beside her companion. Peace to\nthem! They blest me with their kindly, cheering words when most I needed\nthem, and I will bless their memories. And peace to the spot where once\nstood their quiet home! Wherever in life I may be,--however brightly its\npleasures may shine, or heavily its cares and afflictions press upon\nme--never would I outgrow the inspiration of these early enjoyments;\nnever forget, that, however the great, proud, and contentious world may\ndistract and dishearten, there will yet be peace to the humble and\nvirtuous soul in many a nook like that which sheltered and blest my\ngrand mother's cottage.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIRST OATH\n\nBY REV. EBEN FRANCIS.\n\nIt is now many years since a near friend of mine uttered his first oath.\nWe were very intimate in our youthful days. I have thought that I would\nwrite a little story about him, for some of the little folks of these\ntimes to read, hoping that it will not only be interesting, but do them\ngood; for I am indeed sorry to know that swearing is a very common sin\namong the boys of our times.\n\nThe parents of my young playfellow were of the humbler class in society;\nthey were industrious and prudent, and took great pains to teach him\nwhat was right. They lived in the metropolis of New England, where my\nschoolmate was born. His father wrought with the saw, the plane, the\nhammer, and such tools as carpenters use about their business. His home\nwas a neat, wooden two-story house, in one of the streets of that part\nof Boston which was generally known, when we were boys, by the name of\nthe MILL-POND. I suppose that most of my little readers who live in the\ncity can tell where it is. Many changes have taken place there since my\nchildhood. When I was a small boy it was called the _town_,--now we\nnever hear of it but as the _city_ of Boston. Its population has\nincreased rapidly; its territory has been extended; it has grown in\nwealth, in splendor, in its means for mental and moral improvement; in\nthe number and convenience of its public schools,--the pride and\nornament, or the disgrace, of any place. Yes, Boston is not, in\nappearance or in fact, what it once was.\n\nBut I am getting off from my story. I was saying that my young friend\nresided on the \"new-land\"--no; the \"Mill-Pond;\"--well, it's all the\nsame--for when they dug down old Beacon Hill, they threw the dirt into\nthe Mill-Pond, and when it was filled up, or made land, the spot was\nstill known as the Mill-Pond, and oftentimes was called the new-land. In\nlater years, there have been other portions added to the city, by making\nwharves, and filling up where the tide used to ebb and flow, and where\nlarge vessels could float.\n\nBut again I am digressing too far from the story.\n\nSo soon as my friend was old enough, he was sent to one of the primary\nschools, and was a pretty constant scholar at that, and afterwards at a\ngrammar school, till he was about twelve years old. He was, of course,\nmuch with other lads of his own age, and some who were older and\nyounger than himself. He was, also, often in the streets, and as there\nwere a great many people who used profane language in those days,--as\nthere are at the present time,--he heard much of it; yet he had been so\ncarefully trained that he did not for years utter wicked words.\n\nIt is always painful to most persons, old as well as young, to hear\nprofanity, even though it be very common in their hearing, if they are\nnever accustomed to its use.\n\nMy young friend had been taught to reverence the name of that great\nBeing who made heaven and earth and all things. He was a member of a\nSabbath school, and thus had much valuable advice from his faithful\nteacher to govern his conduct in word and deed. For a while he heeded\nthis, and was careful of his moral character. But by-and-by, he\noverstepped the bounds of right.\n\nIt is very true that \"evil communications corrupt good manners;\" and\nthat if one would not be bad, one means of safety is to keep out of bad\ncompany.\n\nMy friend was, in a few years, placed in a store, where there was a\nlarge business carried on. He came in contact with persons who were not\nso carefully instructed as he had been. They made no hesitation in\npronouncing the names of God and Jesus Christ in a blasphemous and\nprofane manner. He resisted the pernicious influence of their example\nfor a while, but at last it became so familiar to his ears, that he\ncould hear wicked words spoken without even a thrill of horror in his\nbosom.\n\nHe, however, had not the disposition to speak them, till one day, when\nsome little thing in the store did not suit him, his passion was\naroused, and, in the angry excitement of the moment, he spoke out,--and\nin that unguarded expression there was profanity,--a miserable,\nblasphemous, wicked word. He had uttered his _first oath._ The\ndisposition had been lurking in his heart for several days to do this;\nbut he had not been able to so far lower his moral sense as to do it\nbefore. Now he felt as though he had done a brave act,--that he had\nachieved something very grand. But soon, very soon, conscience whispered\nher gentle yet severe rebuke. She complained sadly of the wickedness\nthat was done. The blush of shame mantled his cheek. Remorse took hold\non his spirit. He looked about to see who was upbraiding him; but none\nseemed to notice it. He resolved that he would not again give occasion\nfor such feelings of regret and sorrow to himself as he then felt.\n\nCould you have then looked into his heart, you would have pitied him.\nThis resolution he kept a few weeks, when, being a little irritated, he\na second time profaned the holy name of Deity. This time he felt some\ncompunctions of conscience, but they were not as powerful as before; the\nfirst step had been already taken, and a second was much easier.\n\nI need not go on to tell you how he, not long after, broke a second\nresolution, and so on, till, ere many months, he had become really a\nswearing young man.\n\nIt all sprang from the first sinful act; and when at last he did break\nhimself of the habit, it was not done without a serious struggle.\n\nI have told you this story, my young readers, because I thought it might\nbe, not only interesting to you, but because I hoped it might be the\nmeans of leading you to reflect upon the uselessness and wickedness of\nPROFANITY; and that it might aid in impressing on your minds the\nimportance of governing your passions and keeping your tongues free from\nevil speaking.\n\nI see my friend, about whom I have written, quite often. He is now a\nparent, and occupies an eminent position in the community; but he often\nthinks of his former life, and says he has not yet ceased to lament his\nFIRST OATH. Let this fact, then, teach you how a recollection of the\nsins of boyhood, even though you may call them little sins, will be\ncherished through life, and poison many moments that would otherwise be\nhappy ones. How important that childhood be pure and righteous in the\nsight of God, and to our own consciences, in order to insure a happy\nmanhood and old age!\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FAIRY'S GIFT.\n\nBY REV. J. WESLEY HANSON.\n\n   It was a quiet summer's day,\n     The breeze blew cool and fair,\n   And blest ten thousand happy things\n     Of land, and sea, and air,\n   And played a thousand merry pranks\n     With MARY'S golden hair.\n\n   MARY was not a happy girl;\n     Her face was sad and sour,\n   And on her little pretty brow\n     Dark frowns did often lower,--\n   And she would scold, and fret, and cry,\n     Full fifty times an hour.\n\n   She sat and wept with grief and pain,\n     And did not smile at all,--\n   And when her friends and mates came near\n     She shunned them, great and small,--\n   And then upon the Fairy Queen\n     She earnestly did call.\n\n   \"Oh, hither, hither, good Fairy,\n     I pray thee come to me!\n   And point me out the Path of Peace,\n     That I may happy be,\n   For I cannot, in all the world,\n     A moment's pleasure see!\n\n   \"I try my work, my play I try,\n     My little playmates, too;\n   Help me to find true happiness,\n     I sadly, humbly sue;--\n   Oh! my lot is a darksome one,--\n     Fairy! what shall I do?\"\n\n   A humble-bee comes riding by,\n     No bigger than my thumb,\n   And on his browny, gold-striped back,\n     Behold the Fairy come!\n   One look upon her loveliness\n     Makes little MARY dumb.\n\n   She wore a veil of gossamer,\n     Her tunic was of blue,\n   A golden sunbeam was her belt,\n     And bonnet of crimson hue,\n   And through the net of her purple shawl\n     Clear silver stars looked through.\n\n   Her slippers were of sunflower seeds,\n     And tied with spider's thread,\n   A rein of silkworm's finest yarn\n     Passed round the bee's brown head;\n   An oaten straw was her riding whip,--\n     Oh how her courser sped!\n\n   She beckoned to the sighing maid,\n     And led her a little way,\n   And showed a hundred fountains bright\n     That bubbled night and day,\n   And flashed their waves in the glad sunlight,\n     And showers of crystal spray.\n\n   She said: \"Each stream has secret power\n     Upon the human heart,\n   And, as you drink, the mystic draught\n     Shall joy or woe impart;\n   'T will give you pleasant happiness,\n     Or sorrow's painful smart.\"\n\n   The founts were labelled every one,\n     With titles plainly seen,--\n   The fountains _Pride_, and _Sin_, and _Wrong_,\n     And _Hate_, and _Scorn_, and _Spleen,\n   Goodness_ and _Love_, and many more,\n     Sparkled along the green.\n\n   And MARY drank at each bright fount,\n     To draw her grief away;\n   But, spite of all the water's power,\n     Her sorrows they would stay.\n   And still she mourned, and still was sad,\n     Through all the livelong day.\n\n   One morn she saw a little spring\n     She never saw before,\n   Down in a still and shady vale,\n     Covered with blossoms o'er,--\n   And when she 'd drunk, and still would drink\n     She thirsted still for more.\n\n   She gladly quaffed its cooling draught,\n     And found what she had sought;\n   No more her heart with sorrow grieved.\n     She thirsted now for nought;\n   She'd found a blessed happiness,\n     Beyond her highest thought.\n\n   And when she moved the vines aside\n     That hid the fount from sight,\n   In loveliest, brightest characters,\n     Like stars of silver light,--\n   _Goodness of heart, and speech, and life_,\n     She read in letters bright.\n\n   And MARY drank the liquid waves,\n     And soon her little brow\n   Became as pure, and clear, and white,\n     As bank of whitest snow;\n   And when she drank of that blest fount,\n     She purest joy did know.\n\n   Then MARY learned this highest truth.\n     Beyond all human art,--\n   That there are many things in life\n     Can pain and woe impart;--\n   But Goodness alone of act and deed\n     Can make a happy heart.\n\n\n\n\nA LESSON TAUGHT BY NATURE.\n\nBY MISS LOUISA M. BARKER.\n\nWhen I was a little child, younger than those for whom this book is\nwritten, my home was in a valley. The usual appendages to a farm-house,\nthe garden, orchard and small pasture grounds, lay very near it; and I\nwas as familiar with these enclosures as with the rooms of the house. A\nlittle further off there was a mimic river, which, as it wound about,\ndivided itself into different streams, and surrounded little islands,\nshaded with the tall plane tree and the flexible willow. Here, too, with\nthose who were old enough to be careful in crossing the rustic bridges,\nI sometimes played on summer afternoons;--gathered the prettiest flowers\nin the sweetest little woods, and dipped my feet into the clear running\nwater.\n\nBeyond these there lay less frequented fields, which rose gradually, at\nno very great distance, into a range of hills as green as the valley\nbelow. One of them was covered all over its summit, and a little way\ndown its sides, with some dark old woods. The trees which grew there\nwere very tall, and so large that their thick and heavy tops seemed to\ncrowd together, so that you might have walked on them almost as well as\nupon the hill itself. I loved sometimes, when the air was full of the\nbright sunshine, to look at the rich shades of green upon those\ntree-tops; but if ever my eye rested, for a moment only, upon the dark\nand mysterious avenues which led into the depths of the wood beneath\nthem, there would creep such a chill to my heart,--such a feeling of\ndread would come over me,--that I turned quickly to the glad-looking\nhomestead, that I might again grow warm and happy.\n\nAt first it was probably no more than the idea that those woods formed a\nlimit to the world of light and gladness in which I lived. My eye could\nnot penetrate their dimness, and with a childish, human feeling I shrank\nfrom the undiscovered and unknown. But as I grew older, and read the\nstories in the small books which were given to me for presents, or lent\nby my little friends, I had other and plainer reasons for the\napprehensive feeling with which I looked at the woods. I found that\nchildren had been so lost among their thickets as hardly to be found\nagain; and that two poor little orphans, left there on purpose, had lain\ndown and died of hunger and weariness; and the birds covered them over\nwith leaves. Strange birds I thought there were in the woods. Then the\nfairies that dwelt there, and the strange elfin creatures, and the\nperils that travellers fell into with robbers and wild beasts; and still\nI referred the scene of every story I read directly to those very woods\nupon the hill-side, although they were so near that I could see them\nplainly enough from the windows of the cheerful rooms at home.\n\nTime passed along in its usual way; but before I had acquired knowledge\nor strength of mind enough to correct my early impressions of the woods,\nI had permission, one bright afternoon in June, to go with an older\nsister to a strawberry meadow across the creek. We were accompanied by\nsome little maidens, who were older and more adventurous than me; and so\nit happened that when we did not find the fruit so abundant as we could\nwish, they persuaded us to go into another field, and then into another,\nI little thought where, until I became suddenly sensible of a shaded\nlight around me, of a breeze a little cooler than that which tempered\nthe warm air of the valley, and a low, wild music that I had never heard\nbefore; and looking up, I saw that we were actually upon the ascent of\nthe hill which led up to the dreaded woods.\n\nStrange and almost horror-struck as I felt, I did not scream out,\n(perhaps I should not have had breath to do so,) but I gathered up all\nthe wisdom that my little heart could boast, into the resolution not to\nlook at the woods, not to think of them; for we should soon go back\nagain, I thought, and nothing would happen. And my young friends can\njudge how terrified I must have grown, when I heard one of the girls\nbegin to talk of the beautiful flowers her brother had brought her from\nthe woods, and end by proposing that we should go there, and get some\nfor ourselves. I waited breathlessly to hear the objections which I\ndoubted not would be urged against this plan, but none were offered; and\nwhen I ventured to remonstrate, they paid so little attention to me,\nthat my pride was hurt at the thought of saying any more.\n\nThere was another way in which my pride was at work. I was ashamed,\namong those who were so brave, to own that I was afraid; so, though I\nheld the hands of those who led me pretty tight, and gave them some\nlittle trouble to pull me along, they knew nothing more of my reluctance\nto go with them.\n\nWe got up the hill very fast; so at least it seemed to me. Here and\nthere a solitary tree, a few feet in advance, looked as if it had\nstepped out to welcome and encourage us to pass on; and I cannot say\nthat my strength did not revive a little as I passed under the heavy\nbranches, and out again into the freer air. Be that as it may, it was\nterrible enough to me, the approach to those woods. My companions were\neager and gay, and shouted out, as we entered them. They little thought\nhow overpowering were my feelings. And I little thought, myself, that I\nwas then and there to receive a lesson that I should never forget; one,\nperhaps, that would do me more good than any other that I should ever\nlearn.\n\nAt first, I was so frightened that my senses were all in confusion; but\nas I gradually recovered the use of them, I took notice of the coolness\nand the shade, and the dimness away in the distance; I heard the leafy\nmurmur above my head, the sweet notes that the birds were singing, and\nthe loud echoes. All these things seemed to blend together into\nsomething so solemn and so magnificent, that I began to feel for the\nfirst time what it was to be a little child. With that, soon came a\nfeeling of confidence and even love. I thought that the majestic\npresence that filled the woods, whatever it was, would not hurt me, and\nmy heart grew so light at the thought, that I began to gather flowers\nwith the rest. How pretty they were! and what clean, shining leaves! And\nhere and there, wherever a little sunshine found an opening in the\nbranches and streamed down upon the bright green moss, it seemed so\ngolden, so clear, and so real, just as if I might clasp it in my hands!\n\nI grew so much affected, at length, that I sobbed myself into tears, and\nmy sister said that I had never been in the woods before, and she would\ntake me home. I did not like to say that I wanted to stay longer, but\nheld to my flowers; and after I reached home, was washed and rested, I\nwent to the window, and remained there a long time, looking at the\nwoods. I did not quite comprehend all I had thought and felt, but it\nseemed to me that a great truth, one that would do me good, had dawned\nupon my mind.\n\nIt was a long time before I fully understood the lesson. In a few weeks\nI caught one of those contagious diseases which children must have once;\nand it went so hard with me, that, before I was able to walk about, and\ngo out of the house, the leaves were all gone, and the snow had covered\nthe ground. When spring returned I thought often of the woods, but I was\ntoo sickly to go there; and when I grew strong again, my thoughts were\nall occupied with an approaching event. Several changes had occurred in\nthe family, and others were expected, to which my friends though\ndiscontented at first, had grown quite reconciled. It was not so with\nme. There was one circumstance which affected me more than it did\nothers, and from that I prophesied a continual succession of evils. It\nseemed to me that my life was to be wholly changed, and all the joy and\nbeauty left behind. It was childish, I know. I knew it then, for I would\nnot for the world have told any one how I felt. Still I was as much\naffected by it as I have ever been since at any real grief.\n\nLate one afternoon, when my thoughts were busy with my fears, I went to\nthe window, and looked up at the woods. The sunshine was very bright on\ntheir tops, and the shadow very dark on the hill-side below. Very\nvividly then came back to me the memory of my visit to them the year\nbefore. I thought of the evils which I expected to meet, and of the\nbeauty which I found there. It was some good angel which whispered then\nin my thoughts, that, just as I went to the woods, full of fears and\nforebodings, I was approaching the expected misfortune; that I might be\nas happily disappointed in this as I had been in that.\n\nI cannot tell how delighted I was with this suggestion, nor how\ncompletely it took possession of my mind. I was gloomy and fearful no\nlonger. I did not, indeed, when the change came, resign what I lost by\nit without regret; but I was so certain of finding new enjoyments, that\nI resigned it cheerfully. And when, after a few weeks' experience had\ntaught me that many advantages and many pleasures had come to me in\nconsequence of those very circumstances which I had dreaded so much, I\nbound the lesson of the woods to my heart so firmly that there it still\nremains.\n\nAnd let me say to you, for whom I have related this little incident of\nmy childhood:--do not tremble at the disappointments and trials which\nawait you. Do not seek to throw upon others any part of them which you\nmay more becomingly bear yourself. If you live always in the open\nsunshine, you will never know what beauty there is in the woods. You\nwill find the sentiment in your books, that it is the night-time only\nthat shows us the stars; and in the gloom which must sometimes fall upon\nthis uncertain and mortal life of ours, you may find, if you will, as\nmuch to rejoice in as to dread. You will form plans, and indulge in\nhopes, which cannot be realized, and disappointment will look frowningly\nupon you; but if you will submit yourself to the trial like a little\nchild, the hand that will lead you through it will point you to happier\nscenes than those of your own imagining.\n\nYou will have friends to love, that death may take away from you--and,\noh! then, the shadow of the woodland, as it lies against the sunny\nmeadow, will be less dark than your life. But do not despair. The few\nrays of light that reach you will be richer, the flowers will be purer,\nand the music will be softer and sweeter; for you will be nearer heaven\nthan you were before.\n\nThere is another shadow which you and I, and all of us, are\napproaching,--\"the shadow of death.\" But will not \"the lesson\" brighten\nour approach even to that? Certain I am, that if _that_ hour of my\nchildhood, when, with a fearful heart, I went into the solemn woods, and\nheard the sweet singing of the bird and the breeze, shall be remembered\nthen, even though the light of life be fading away, \"I shall fear no\nevil.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n[Illustration: FLORENCE DREW.]\n\n\n\n\nFLORENCE DREW.\n\n\"I will not go to Sabbath school to-morrow,\" said Florence Drew, as she\nthrew aside her catechism and sat herself sullenly by the window.\n\n\"Florence!\" said her mother; \"I am astonished to hear you speak so\nrashly.\"\n\n\"I don't care,--I will not go,--my lesson is so hard I can't get it;\"\nsaying which, she burst into tears. Mrs. Drew cast a look of sorrow upon\nher only child as she left her to regain her good humor.\n\nNo sooner had the door closed after her mother than the rustling of\nleaves beneath the window drew the attention of Florence. Thinking it\nher favorite Carlo, and being in no mood for a frolic, without lifting\nher eyes she bid him \"begone;\" but she was soon undeceived by a shrill\nvoice pronouncing her name, at the same time finding her arm tightly\ngrasped by the thin, bony fingers of Crazy Nell, the terror of all the\ntruant children in the village. The terrified child vainly tried to\ndisengage herself from the maniac's hold; and, finding her calls for\nhelp all unheeded, she gave up in despair.\n\nThe wild, searching eyes of Crazy Nell detected her terror, and her\nstern features relaxed into a smile as she said, \"Poor child! I will not\nharm you; you fear me, and think me mad; yes, I have been mad, but I'm\nnot now; and I have come to save you from being as I have been. Nay,\nFlorence, 't is useless for you to try to escape me; I will detain you\nbut a short time. I heard your angry words as I was gathering herbs, and\nsaw you fling your book away. I heard all. Listen to me, Florence Drew,\nand I will tell you a story by which I hope you will profit.\n\n\"I was once young, gay, and happy, as you, and, like you, an only and\nindulged, but wilful child, with a quick and ungoverned temper.\n\n\"One day, I was studying my Sabbath school lesson, and finding it, as I\nthought, rather hard, I threw it away, as you did yours, saying that I\nwould not go to school at all. My poor mother's entreaties were all\nunheeded by me, and I grew up in idleness and ignorance. My mother's\nhealth daily declined, partly through my ill-treatment and wickedness.\nOften did she plead with me, with tears streaming down her cheeks, to\nalter my conduct; but I rudely repulsed her.\"\n\nNell paused, and seemed very much agitated; her eyes glared wildly, and\nbending close to Florence, she continued in a whisper: \"We became very\npoor, in consequence of my extravagance; I then thought my mother a\nburden; she was too ill to work, and I left her to starve; she did not,\nhowever; she died of a broken heart. _I was her murderer_! 'T was that\nwhich drove me mad. Look! see you not that black cloud which darkens the\nsunshine of my life?\"\n\n\"I cannot see a cloud,\" sobbed poor Florence, who was now tasting the\nbitter cup of repentance.\n\n\"I know it, poor child!\" continued Nell; \"the cloud I mean is such as\nyou just felt,--=Temper=. _It is within us_! Conquer your temper,\nFlorence Drew, and you may yet be good and happy. Go, now, and seek\nmother, who is at this moment shedding tears of sorrow for her little\ngirl's ill-temper. Go to her and--\" But, ere she could finish, Florence\nhad glided into her mother's room, and was kneeling humbly at her feet\nTears of sorrow were changed to those of joy and repentance, as Mrs.\nDrew folded her little girl to her breast in a long and affectionate\nembrace.\n\nFlorence has never been unkind to her mother, or given freedom to her\ntemper, since that day. She is now the teacher of a class in a Sabbath\nschool, and she often relates to her little scholars the story I have\njust related to you.\n\nCrazy Nell continues to gather herbs, an object of pity to the\nbenevolent, and of sport to the unfeeling. And now, my dear little\nreaders, I must repeat Crazy Nell's expression: \"Conquer your temper,\nand you will be happy;\" or, in the words of the sacred Scriptures, \"He\nthat ruleth his own spirit is greater than he that taketh a city.\"\n\nMAY.\n\n[Illustration: SHECHEM.]\n\n\n\n\nSHECHEM.\n\nBY REV. J.G. ADAMS.\n\nIn the picture opposite, the reader will see represented a part of the\ncity of Shechem, at the foot of Mount Gerizim. It is a very noted place\nin history. It is called Sychar in the Gospel, John 4:5. It was here, at\nJacob's well, that Jesus met the woman of Samaria. The account of the\nconversation which they held together is one of the most interesting\nrecords in the New Testament. I wish all our young readers would make\nthemselves acquainted with it. Jesus was a Jew; and the Jews had no\ndealings with the Samaritans. Weary with travelling in the heat of the\nday, our Lord sat down to rest by that ancient well, when the stranger\nwoman came to draw water from it. Jesus said unto her, \"Give me to\ndrink.\" She was surprised that he, being a Jew, should ask water of her,\na Samaritan. This very surprise which she expressed led to a most\ninstructive conversation. Read it, and see how plainly Jesus teaches us\nthe nature of true worship. The Jews had their temple at Jerusalem; the\nSamaritans had theirs on Mount Gerizim. The woman said to Jesus, \"Our\nfathers worshipped in this mountain, and ye say that Jerusalem is the\nplace where men ought to worship.\" She would ask which was the true\nplace. Jesus declared to her that it was not so much the place, as it\nwas the heart, which made worship what it should be. Read the answer of\nJesus as the New Testament gives it, and then see if the Quaker poet,\nBarton, has not beautifully expressed it thus:\n\n   \"Woman, believe me, the hour is near\n     When He, if ye rightly would hail him,\n   Will neither be worshipped exclusively here.\n     Nor yet at the altar of Salem.\n\n   For God is a spirit, and they, who aright\n     Would perform the pure worship he loveth\n   In the heart's holy temple will seek with delight\n     That spirit the Father approveth.\"\n\nThrough the knowledge of Christ obtained by the Samaritan woman in this\nconversation, many of her sect were induced to believe on him.\n\nShechem, or Sichem, is a very ancient place; though we do not find it\nmentioned as a city until the time of Jacob, who purchased a piece of\nland, and dug the well of which we have just spoken. The city lay\nbetween the two mountains Ebal and Gerizim. It was made a city of\nrefuge. Joshua 20: 7. 21. 20, 21. Quite a number of events mentioned in\nthe Old Testament occurred here. It was at Shechem Joshua met the\nassembled people for the last time. It was here that Rehoboam was made\nking, and the ten tribes rebelled.\n\nIn after time Shechem became the chief seat of the people who\nthenceforth bore the name of Samaritans. They were made up in part of\nemigrants from other eastern nations. When the Jews returned from their\nlong captivity in Babylon, and began to rebuild Jerusalem and their\ntemple, the Samaritans desired to aid them in their work. \"Let us build\nwith you,\" was their request. The Jews refused to admit them to this\nprivilege; hence a strong hatred between the two sects arose. The\nSamaritans erected their temple on Mount Gerizim.\n\nShechem received the new name of Neapolis from the Greeks--a name which\nit retains to the present day. The city has passed through many changes,\nwhich, had we time to recount them, might be of deep interest to the\nreader. But it would take a larger space to do this than we can now\noccupy. The Samaritans are still here; but their number now is small,\nnot exceeding one hundred and fifty. They have a synagogue, where they\npreserve several ancient copies of the books of Moses, and among them\none ancient manuscript which they believe to be three thousand four\nhundred and sixty-five years old, saying it was written by Abishua, the\nson of Phinehas (1 Chron. 6: 3, 4.) The manuscript, so travellers who\nhave seen it say, is very ancient; but they do not all think it so old\nas the Samaritans pretend it is.\n\nMount Gerizim is still held in great veneration by the Samaritans. Four\ntimes a year they ascend it in solemn procession, to worship. The old\nfeeling of hostility between them and the Jews is still existing.\n\nThe city of Neapolis, or, as the Arabs call it, Nablous, is long and\nnarrow, stretching close along the northeast base of Mount Gerizim. The\npopulation is about eight thousand souls, all Mohammedans, with the\nexception of about five hundred Greek Christians, and the one hundred\nand fifty Samaritans already mentioned. Those who have taken part in its\neventful past history are gone. But never shall be heard there a more\nglorious voice than that which uttered those sublime words of heavenly\ntruth to the woman at Jacob's well.\n\n\n\n\n\"ARE WE NOT ALL BROTHERS AND SISTERS?\"\n\nBY REV. W.R.G. MELLEN.\n\nThat the human race is one, bound together by the strongest and holiest\nties, is one of the sublimest truths announced by the Master. Indeed, so\nclose and intimate is the connection subsisting between the various\nmembers of the common family, that to tear one from the body would be\nlike following the direction of Solomon to his servant, and dividing the\nliving child in two, leaving life's purple current to spout forth from\neither half. An appreciation of this truth is what the world, heart-sick\nand weary as it is, now needs above all things else. And to illustrate\nand enforce the fact that it is not a vain shadow, but a solid reality,\ntoo solemn to be trifled with, and too important to be neglected,--to\nillustrate this by deeds which bear joy to the joyless and hope to the\nhopeless,--is _the_ work which Christians, the young as well as old, are\nnow called to perform. Will it need the voice of duty, which speaketh as\nfrom the skies? This is the great truth, also, which, with all its\nrelations to life and duty, is to be impressed by the present, upon the\nminds of the rising, generation. This is what my young readers are to\nlearn,--and not simply to learn, but to practise:--that we are all\nbrothers and sisters, no matter in what clime or country we may have\nbeen born, or with what complexion we may be clothed.\n\nA little girl, some five years of age, whom the writer of this has often\nfondled in his arms, had well learned this most important lesson. By\npious parents and earnest Sabbath school teachers had she been taught,\nthat to be like Jesus, who took little children in his arms and blessed\nthem, she must love and do good unto all, as brothers and sisters. This\nhad sunk deep into her young and tender mind; and when, on a visit at\nthe house of a friend, she was asked that familiar question, which is so\noften put to children,--whom she loved,--\n\nAfter a moment's hesitation she replied, that she loved everybody.\n\"Indeed!\" said the querist; \"how can that be? You certainly do not love\nme as well as you do your own brothers and sisters; do you?\"\n\nAfter another short pause she replied, \"Yes, I think I do; for _you_,\ntoo, are my sister.\" \"_I_ your sister?\" said the lady, in surprise; \"how\ncan that be possible?\" Looking up with a countenance in which all\nheaven's innocence and purity were mirrored, she exclaimed, \"Is not God\nour Father? and are we not all brothers and sisters? and should we not\nlove each other as such?\"\n\nThere was no further argument to be used. Though hid from many wise and\nprudent, yet the truth was thus revealed to babes.\n\nYes, we _are_ all brethren and sisters, having a common origin, a common\ndestination, and a common home. And may all those children who read this\nshort article ever recollect this important truth. When you behold a\npoor, unfortunate man, with torn and filthy garments, and perhaps\nintoxicated, reeling through the streets, do not hoot after, and throw\nstones at him, as I have known many boys do, but think within\nyourselves, \"He is our brother.\"\n\nWhen one of your number abuses the rest, and you are tempted to injure\nand beat him, wait till you have said to yourselves, \"He is still our\nbrother; and though he has done us wrong, why should we strike or injure\nhim?\"\n\nWhen you see a companion in trouble, and one to whom your assistance can\ndo much good, recollect he is a brother, or she is a sister, and fly to\nhelp him. And oh! if all, both old and young, would act upon this\nprinciple, how different would be the aspect of affairs from what it\nnow is! Then the kingdom of God would dawn upon us. Then the wolf and\nthe lamb would lie down together, and the lion eat straw like an ox.\nThen we should be like _little children_, and the blessing-smile of\nJehovah would shed upon us choicest benediction.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nFORTUNE-TELLING.\n\nA DIALOGUE FOR EXHIBITIONS.\n\nBY JULIA A. FLETCHER.\n\n\n_Sophronia_. Come, girls, let us go and have our fortunes told.\n\n_Eveline_. Oh! I should like it of all things; where shall we go?\n\n_Sarah_. Let us go to old Kate Merrill's. They say she can read the\nfuture as we do the past, by hand, tea-cups, or cards. Come, Mary Ann.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Excuse me, girls, if I do not go with you. I do not think it\nis right to have our fortunes told.\n\n_Sophronia_. Not right? why not?\n\n_Mary Ann_. Because, if it had been best for us to know the future, I\nthink God would have revealed it to us.\n\n_Sarah_. Oh, but you know this is only for amusement.\n\n_Eveline_. Of course, we shall not believe a word she says.\n\n_Mary Ann_. If it is only for amusement, I think we can find others far\nmore rational and innocent. But depend upon it, girls, you would not\nwish to go, if there were not in your minds a little of credulous\nfeeling?\n\n_Sophronia_. Well, I am sure I am not credulous.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Do not be offended, Sophronia; I only meant that we are all\nof us more inclined to believe these things than we at first imagine.\n\n_Sarah_. I think that Mary Ann is right in this respect. I am sure I\nwould not go if I did not think her predictions would come to pass.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Certainly; I could not suppose you would spend your time and\nmoney to hear an old woman tell you things you did not believe.\n\n_Eveline_. Well, I am sure I do not see any harm in having a little fun\nonce in a while.\n\n_Sophronia_. No; and I think it is very unkind in Mary Ann to spoil all\nour pleasures with her whims. She is always preaching to us about giving\nup our own way for the comfort of others, and I think she ought to give\nup now, and go with us.\n\n_Sarah_. Now, really, Sophronia, I think you are the one that is unkind.\nIf Mary Ann is wrong, it is better to convince her of it kindly, and I\nam sure she will acknowledge it.\n\n_Mary Ann_. I hope I should be willing to give up a mere whim for the\npleasure of those I love so well. But this is not a whim; it is a\nserious conviction of duty.\n\n_Sophronia_. Well, I thought you always pretended to be very obliging.\n\n_Mary Ann_. I have no right to be obliging at the expense of what I deem\nduty. Our own inclinations we should often sacrifice, our prejudices\nalways, but our sense of duty never.\n\n_Eveline_. I think, girls, we have done wrong to urge Mary Ann to go,\nafter she had told us her reasons.\n\n_Sophronia_. Well, then, don't spend any more time in urging her to go,\nagainst her will. You know the old proverb \"The least said is soonest\nmended.\"\n\n_Eveline_. Well, do not let us go away angry or ill-natured. You asked\nMary Ann to say why she thought it was wrong, and we should receive her\nreasons kindly.\n\n_Sarah_. So I think; but I wish she would tell us what harm she thinks\nit would do to go.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Well, girls, I think, by trying to look into the future, we\nare apt to grow discontented and restless, and to forget that we have\nduties to perform in the present. Then, if we do not believe in it, it\nis a waste of time and money, which might be better employed in\nrelieving the suffering of the poor around us. But the greatest evil of\nall is, that we should believe even a part; she would of course tell us\nmany little circumstances which would be true of any one; thus we might\nbe led to believe all she said; the prediction would probably work out\nits own fulfilment, and perhaps render us miserable for life.\n\n_Sophronia_. Oh, fudge! Mary Ann. This is altogether too bad and\nungenerous in you. In the first place, the few cents we give, bestowed\nas they are on a poor old widow woman, are not wasted, in my opinion,\nbut well spent;--and if I spend an evening, granted to me by my father\nand mother for recreation, in listening to Old Kate, it is no more\nwasted than if I spend it with the girls in any other social way. And\nwhen you connect fortune-telling and our duties in the present, you make\nit too serious an affair. _Remember, this is all for sport_.\n\n_Mary Ann_. It may be so with you, Sophronia; but there are those who\nseriously believe every word of a fortune-teller, and actually live more\nin the unseen but expected events of the future, than in faithfully\nperforming their duties in the present. This is true, Sophronia. The\ncontentment and peace of many young minds have been utterly lost, _sold_\nfor the absurd jabbering of old, ignorant, low-bred women, who pretend\nto read the future. [_In a livelier tone of voice_.] But just say,\ngirls, do you believe there is any connection between tea-leaves and\nyour future lives?\n\n_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Why, no!\n\n_Mary Ann_. Do you believe God has marked the fortunes of thousands of\nhis creatures on the face of cards?\n\n_Eveline, Sarah, Sophronia_. Certainly not.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Well, do you believe, if God should intrust the secret\nevents of the future with any of our race, in this age, it would be with\nthose who have neither intellectual, moral, nor religious education--who\ncan be bribed by dollars and cents to say anything?\n\n_Sarah, Eveline_. No, indeed!\n\n_Mary Ann. (Turns to Sophronia,)_ You do not answer, Sophronia. Let me\nask you one or two more questions. Do you suppose Kate Merrill believes\nthat she has a revelation from God?\n\n_Sophronia_. No, Mary Ann.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Do you suppose she thinks you believe so?\n\n_Sophronia_. Why, yes, I do.\n\n_Mary Ann_. Then, is it benevolent to bestow money to encourage an old\nwoman in telling for truth what she knows to be false?\n\n_Sophronia_. I doubt whether it is really benevolent.\n\n_Mary Ann_. And if Old Kate speaks falsely and knows she does so, and\nyou know it, yet spend your time in listening to what she has to say,\nwhat good can come of it to head or heart?\n\n_Sophronia_. None at all, Mary Ann. It is time wasted, and I am\nconvinced that I have been doubly wrong in wishing to go, and in being\nangry with you. Will you forgive me?\n\n_Mary Ann_. Certainly, Sophronia. And now, if you wish for amusement, I\nwill be a witch myself, and tell your fortunes for you.\n\n_Sophronia_. Oh, do tell mine; and be sure you tell it truly. What lines\nof fate do you see in my hand?\n\n_Mary Ann. (Takes her hand and looks at it intently.)\n\n(To Sophronia_.)\n\n   Passions strong my art doth see.\n   Thou must rule them, or they rule thee.\n   If the first, you peace will know;\n   If the last, woe followeth woe.\n\n_Sarah_. Now tell mine next.\n\n_(To Sarah_.)\n\n   Too believing, too believing,\n   Thou hast learned not of deceiving.\n   Closely scan what seemeth fair,\n   And of flattering words beware.\n\n_Eveline_. Now tell me a pleasant fortune, Mary Ann.\n\n_(To Eveline_.)\n\n   Lively and loving, I would not chide thee,\n   Do thou thy duty, and joy shall betide thee.\n\n_Sophronia_. Thank you, Mary Ann, for the lessons you have given us. We\ncan now, in turn, tell your fortune, and that is, Always be amiable and\nsensible as now, and you will always be loved.\n\n[Illustration.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOY WHO STOLE THE NAILS.\n\nBY REV. MOSES BALLOU.\n\n\nI remember well, that, when I was quite a little boy, a circumstance\noccurred which I shall probably never forget, and which, no doubt, has\nhad some little influence on my life at many different periods since. I\nwill relate it; and I wish all my young readers would remember the\nstory.\n\nMy father was somewhat poor. He had no salary for preaching, except for\na few months, perhaps not five hundred dollars for forty years of pulpit\nlabor. He maintained his family chiefly from a small farm, and, there\nbeing several children, we were deprived of many little things that\nwealthier parents are accustomed to furnish for theirs. We had few\npresents, and those chiefly of necessary articles,--school-books, or\nsomething of the kind; while toys, playthings, and instruments of\namusement, we were left to go without, or take up with such rude and\nsimple ones as we could manufacture for ourselves.\n\nI wanted a small box very much. A handsome little trunk, such as most of\nmy young readers probably have, was too much to hope for, and a plain\nwooden box, even, I had no means to purchase.\n\nI went without for a long time, and at last determined that I would try\nto make one. But the materials,--where was I to obtain them? True, my\nfather had pieces of thin boards that would answer, but there were\nnails, and hinges, and a lock wanting. Where were these to come from?\n\nAfter trying a variety of methods, I invented a plan for fastening it\nwithout a lock, and leather made a very good substitute for hinges, as\nit was to be out of sight. Still, I wanted nails. There were some old\nones about the house, but they were crooked, and broken, and rusty.\nThese would not answer if anything better could be obtained.\n\nMy uncle, who at this time lived but a short distance from us, was\nengaged in building, and I watched the barrel of bright new nails his\nworkmen were using, with a longing eye. O, how I coveted them!\n\nThe temptation was too great. I sought the opportunity while the hands\nwere at dinner, and, after cautiously looking about to see that no one\nwas near to observe me, with trembling hands seized upon them, _and\nstole enough to make my box_. O! how my heart beat as I hurried away\nacross the fields home. I almost expected to see some one start up from\nevery stump and bush on the way, to accuse me of the theft. I hardly\ndared to look behind me. It seemed as though my old uncle, with frowning\nbrow, was at my very heels. And then, too, the workmen;--were they not\nsuspicious from my hanging about them, and had not some of them watched\nme? So horrid images began to dance about my brain. Dim visions of\ncourt-rooms, and lawyers, and judges, and prisons, and sorrowing\nparents, and frightened brothers and sisters, rose in awful terror\nbefore me. I began to grow dizzy and faint. I had laid up, for a long\ntime, all the pennies I could obtain, which, at that time, amounted to\nthe vast sum of twenty cents, contained in an old-fashioned pistareen;\nand the hope sprung up in my heart, that, possibly, by paying this to\nthe officers, they would not carry me to jail.\n\nThought was busy in laying plans for escape, and I reached home in the\ngreatest excitement imaginable.\n\nWell, the deed was now done, and I could not undo it. I was really a\nthief; and now, as I had got the nails, I thought I might as well use\nthem. I was too anxious about the crime, however, to do this at once.\nSo I hid them away for a week or more, before I ventured to make my box.\n\nTaking such leisure hours as I had,--for I was obliged to work most of\nthe time on the farm,--I crept away in the loft of an old building, and\nfinally succeeded in finishing my task. But, now that the box was done,\nmy troubles were by no means ended. It would be seen. I could not always\nkeep it out of sight. My brothers, and sisters, and playmates, would\nexamine it, and possibly my father would get his eye upon it! Suppose he\nshould, and ask me where those nails came from?\n\nO, how my poor brain was racked to invent some false story by which I\ncould escape detection! I thought of saying that they were old ones\nwhich I had polished up so as to appear new, and I even filed down the\nrust on the head of an old nail to see if they would look sufficiently\nalike. But nothing of this kind would answer. The cheat, I thought,\nwould be detected; and so I was obliged, after all my trouble and\nsuffering, to keep my box hidden away when it was done. Every time I\nwent to look at it, those bright new nail-heads were staring out at me,\nready to reveal my crime to any one who saw them.\n\nFor a long time, I did not dare to go to my uncles again. True, he knew\nnothing of my wrong; but I felt guilty, and did not care to see him.\nFinally, after some time had passed away, though I had by no means\nforgotten the theft, and still suffered much every time it was thought\nof, I ventured to call and see him. I could hardly avoid the impression\nthat he must know what I had done, and would accuse me of it; and when\nhe met me in the yard at his door; patted my cheek with a half-laughing,\nhalf-reproving look; asked why I had stayed away from him so long; and\nsaid, that, to punish me, he should go and get me some very nice apples\nfrom the garden;--I could bear it no longer. It seemed as though my\nheart would break. What I said, I have now forgotten. I remember that I\ncried very heartily, and, as soon as my tears would allow it, told him\nthe whole story!\n\nI can still see, fresh in my memory, the sad look that came over him as\nI confessed my crime; but not a single harsh or unkind word did he\nutter. He told me that it was very wrong; that I had acted nobly in\nconfessing it; and that, if I had only asked him in the first place, he\nwould gladly have given me all I wanted.\n\nThinking I had suffered enough already, he promised not to tell my\nparents, in case I continued a good boy, and advised me to destroy the\nbox and bring him back the nails, as no one could then suspect what had\nbeen done but ourselves.\n\nHis kindness, I confess, pained me very much. I think nothing could have\ntempted me to do him any wrong again.\n\nI loved him better than ever before. He never alluded to the subject\nafterwards, but I always thought of it when I saw him. He died in a\nshort time; and, twenty years after, as I stood by his grave, the\ncircumstance came up, clear and distinct, to my recollection. I have\nnot, indeed, from that to the present hour, felt the least temptation to\ncommit any wrong of the kind without recalling it; and, if all my young\nreaders will think seriously how much suffering that one act cost me,\nand how much happier I should otherwise have been, I am confident that\nthey will never commit a similar offence so long as they remember the\nstory of _the boy who stole the nails_.\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHILDLESS MOTHER.\n\nBY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.\n\n\nThere are many childless mothers in our land. In some homes there never\nlived a little child to make them happy; but in others the spirits of\nthe little ones have departed. They dwell in another home--the \"dear\nheavenly home.\" Their mothers, those childless mothers, weep day and\nnight in their loneliness and sadness. This sketch is of a mother who\nhad buried all her little babes--four precious children--all her little\nfamily. The mother's name was Ellen Moore.\n\nFor many months after the birth of her first child, Ellen was free from\nsorrow as a bird in the morning. She never thought affliction might come\nto her blessed home. It was not surprising, for she had never known what\nbereavement and bitter disappointment were. She was educated to be a\nchild of sunshine. She had always lived amid smiles and tenderness, and\nwhen the fearful cloud of sorrow broke, in an unexpected moment, upon\nher head, she seemed bowed down, never to rise again in health and\nbeauty.\n\nIt was a sad day in our neighborhood when Ellen's first little babe\ndied; we all wept. Not so much because he was dead, for we all felt that\n_he_ was at rest; but his dear mother was so sorely troubled, her heart\nached so grievously, it seemed as if she too would die. Days and nights\nEllen wept, and moaned, and walked her house. The tears seemed to burn\ntheir way down her cheeks. She spoke but seldom, yet that pitiful moan\nshe so often breathed out pierced our souls and made us all very sad.\n\nAfter a few weeks, the consolation we offered her quieted her feelings,\nand she became calm. She went to church, called on her friends, and\nattended to her duties at home. But there was ever a sadness in her\nvoice and manners. Her home was so lonely, so strangely still and\nvacant, and Ellen so silent, that the voice of gladness was not heard in\nit again until a second beautiful boy was born under its roof.\n\nWe were all happy then. Even Ellen smiled as she kissed her dear\nbabe--but a tear followed the smile and the kiss so soon, we knew her\nwounded heart was not _then_ healed. She was very sad, and felt that\nthis babe, too, might only be loaned her for a short time. It was not\nlong before we all felt so. That little face, so pale, so sad, so\nbeautiful, evidently bore the seal of death upon it. He refused all\nnourishment, and pined slowly away. Ellen knew he must die, but could\nnot say so. She could not shed one tear to relieve her sorrowful heart.\nShe neither spoke nor wept, until her infant was laid in its coffin.\n\nA friend had woven a wreath of beautiful flowers, and laid it on the\nsatin pillow of the coffin, and placed a delicate rose-bud in the little\nhand of the babe. Ellen went alone to take her last kiss, when, seeing\nher babe so beautiful in death, she seated herself on the floor and wept\nfreely.\n\n\"Who loved my babe so fondly?\" said she, when she came from the room.\n\"Who has been so kind and thoughtful of me? It has unsealed my tears;\nnow let me weep alone.\" We left her. She came out of that room a changed\nwoman. She assisted us in our preparations for the burial of the dead,\nspoke cheerfully to her husband, conversed freely about her children in\nheaven, and remarked that henceforth her life should be worthy of a\nChristian. We buried the sweet babe by the side of his brother, and\nplanted a rose-tree over his grave. Then our thoughts turned to Ellen,\nwhose whole manner indicated resignation and peace.\n\nWe were not surprised at the effect of grief upon Ellen, for I have told\nyou she was not educated to bear human misery with much composure. Yet\nwhat her parents had left undone seemed to be effected by those severe\ndispensations of God. Our Father in heaven often educates us by his\nchastisements, giving us wisdom, patience, hope, trustfulness and\nresignation, according to the severity with which he afflicts us.\n\nEllen maintained the same cheerful manner from the time of the burial of\nher second babe to the birth of her third child. Her friends hoped many\nblessings for Ellen in the life of this child. It was a daughter,\napparently healthy; and as its mother had endured so severe a trial we\nhoped the Lord would deal mercifully with her in sparing this one to\nher. For one short year we had reason to hope for the life of the child.\nBut it was too frail a creature for this world, and, like its little\nbrothers, died in early infancy. And its mother--we found her to be a\npractical Christian indeed.\n\nInstead of moaning and violent grief, she held her babe as it breathed\nits latest breath, and was first to break the awful silence in the room\nthat succeeded the final struggle, with these words: \"She is with her\nlittle brothers now, and I have reason to bless the Lord.\" She could say\nno more then; and a few large tears fell on the cheek of her babe as it\nstill lay on her lap. Once only did she freely yield to tears. It was\nwhen her husband first heard of the death of his babe. His anguish\novercame her composure. Soon recovered however, she maintained a truly\nChristian deportment. The third little grave was opened in the burial\nlot of Mr. Moore, and the body of this babe laid by its little brothers.\n\nA fourth babe was born in the lonely home of Ellen, and fresh hopes\ncherished for the long life of her child. The burden of every prayer\noffered at that family altar was, \"Lord, if it be thy will, suffer us to\nrear this tender child!\"\n\n\"Yet though I pray thus,\" said Ellen, \"my heart is strong to meet its\nearly death; and if it dies, I shall not mourn as for my first-born. God\nhas afflicted me, but I am profited thereby.\"\n\n\"Very true, Ellen, but if this fourth dear babe is taken from us, we\nshall almost doubt the mercy of God. How can you, in your present\ndelicate health, endure to lay this last dear babe by the side of the\ndeparted ones, and again find your home desolate and silent?\"\n\n\"My body is weak, Mary, but my spirit is well instructed in resignation,\nand can calmly bear whatever new affliction God pleases to send. You\nhave called me changed since Alfred died, and sometimes too silent and\nsad. I am changed and often silent, but not sad. _My_ treasures are in\nheaven, and my communings are more with the spirits of my children in\nheaven than with the friends who are with me here. And if this child\ndies, Mary,----if he dies--his death will prepare me for the duties of\nall the rest of my life.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe beautiful boy passed away just as his little lips had learned to\npronounce his mother's name--suddenly, unexpectedly to us all, and all\nyielded to our grief but Ellen. We greatly feared his father would\nbecome insane.\n\nBut Ellen--believe me, she was transformed from a child of sunshine to\nan angel and minister of light in darkness. She sat by her husband as\nserene and collected as if her babe only slept; not a tear swept her\ncheek, not a tremulous word fell from her lips, as she soothed her\nstricken companion; her pale face wore no look of despair, and she\ndirected every funeral preparation with as much composure as if _her_\nheart had not felt the awful wound. The world called her heartless,--but\nChrist must have owned her as one of his brightest jewels, almost a\nperfect disciple. When she spoke, we felt as if some mysterious power\nfrom heaven was in our midst. We thought as much of the saint-like\nfortitude and resignation of our feeble Ellen, and wept as much to\nwitness her calmness and spiritual strength, as for the loss of our\ninteresting little friend.\n\nOur pastor called to offer gospel consolations to the sorrowing mother,\nbut he wept as Ellen greeted him, saying, \"God hath much love for us,\nBrother Ellis, for he chasteneth much. Now, my only prayer is, that\nHenry may be led to perceive it and be at peace. If you have words of\ncomfort, go to him and still his troubled spirit.\"\n\nThe aged came to console her, but went back to their dwellings feeling\nthat she was as well instructed in the wisdom of heaven as the oldest\nservant among them. The young and happy came to mingle tears of sympathy\nwith her, but returned to dwell upon her words as upon communications\nfrom the spirit-land, rather than from a creature like themselves. Her\nwords found a way to the soul of the most thoughtless, fixing their\nminds upon heaven, and revealing the unseen glories of a better home,\nand the beauty of Christian faith in an earthly one.\n\nShe was a Christian mother. When she put on Christ, she was \"_a new\ncreature_\" She believed her first grief was almost a murmuring against\nheaven. Surely we know she bore an equal love for all her children, but\nwhen her last one died, she loved God and her Saviour more, believing\nfully that God would not do her wrong,--that he only sought the good of\nhis creatures in his dispensations,--that although they seemed grievous\nand inscrutable to them, he saw the end from the beginning, and\nchastized whom he loved.\n\n\n\n\nTHE MOTHERLESS CHILD.\n\nBY MRS. M.H. ADAMS.\n\n\nTo become a childless mother is indeed one of the most severe\nafflictions which woman can be called to endure; yet it may be, it is\noften met with noble, Christian fortitude, with Christian humility and\nresignation, that soothe the acute pains of the mother's heart, and\ncarry her thoughts away from earth and above its sorrows; so that we\nfeel that she can and has found a balm, and has still left her\nconsolation and happiness. But when we see a little child, whose mother\nGod has taken, as fully realizing its bereavement, its loneliness, its\nabsolute misfortune, as a child can do, we feel that to be a motherless\nchild in this unchristian world, is indeed an affliction for which there\nseldom appears a balm; though we doubt not our Father hath the balm for\nthis as for every other wound.\n\nA young man sat by the corpse of his faithful wife, the mother of all\nhis little babes. One child was gazing silently and inquiringly at her\nfather, as he held his head weeping and groaning in anguish of spirit.\nA tender infant of a few weeks lay asleep in the cradle at his side. The\nyoung man's mother entered the room, and with tenderness of tone and\nmanner, endeavored to calm his grief; with words of gospel love and\nfaith to comfort him.\n\n\"Abby has been to you a kind, faithful and devoted wife, David; an\nagreeable companion and constant friend. Before God she was a humble\nchild, and before the world a worthy disciple of Christ. You doubtless\nfeel all this, and more. Few can speak evil of her, and very many will\nsincerely mourn her early death, and sympathize with you in this\ndreadful hour. But remember, David, you have, before this, professed\ntrust and belief in the promises and love of God. Now is the time to\nmake manifest your Christian faith, your hope in God, your belief in the\ngospel. Try not to be utterly disconsolate in your loneliness. God is\nvery near to us, although this heavy cloud of sorrow lies between him\nand us.\"\n\nThey were interrupted by the entrance of the oldest child of the\ndeparted one, a sensitive, intelligent boy of six or seven years. Tears\nwere in his eyes as he opened the door, and fell fast into the lap of\nhis father as he tried to speak to him.\n\n\"Father,\" said he, \"I have been down in the sitting-room, trying to read\nmy little books; but I think so much of my dear dead mother, I can't\nread; and the tears come into my eyes so fast, that I can't see the\npictures. I went to rock in my little chair, but I saw my mother's empty\nchair, and my little heart aches very much. It will be very lonesome and\nsad here, if I don't see mother anywhere. And who will take care of this\nlittle baby brother?\"\n\nNo word was spoken by those present, but their tears and sobs told\nplainly that they too felt how lonely and sad that home would be without\nthe gentle voice and cheerful song of that \"dear mother.\" As no one\nchecked him, Willie again spoke, and, as well as he could amid sobs and\ntears, told the bitterness of his young spirit.\n\n\"I love you some, father, but not as I did my mother; and now my mother\nis in heaven, who shall I have to take care of me and kiss me, father;\nwho will say a prayer to me every night? Aunt Susan's prayers are not\nlike mother's; and your voice doesn't sound so sweet by the side of my\nbed as my mother's did. Oh dear! what did my mother die for, and leave\nme a poor little motherless boy?\"\n\nHis father then took him upon his knee, wiped his tears, and soothed him\nto sleep with gentle caresses. No word could David utter. For a long\ntime he sat with his sleeping boy, beside his dead. The paleness of his\ncheek, and the frequent sigh, expressed his sorrow. His mother again\ntried to draw from him an expression of his Christian fidelity, fearing\nthat he was untrue to his God and his Master under a trial so severe.\nWhen at length he did speak, a hardened heart might have been moved by\nhis broken sentences and choking words, as he made an effort to assure\nhis anxious parent.\n\n\"Mother, I have the utmost confidence in the mercy and goodness of\nGod--even now that he has taken to himself one so very dear. I feel sure\nthere is some great and important lesson which he would have me learn\nfrom this sorrowful event. I have all faith that Abby is at rest, and\nwill still love those of us who are left on the earth to mourn. I\nbelieve we shall meet each other in the future, that we shall recognize\nand love each other, with a far more perfect and a purer love than we\nhave cherished here. I shall be lonely, and miss from my hours at home\nthe counsel, the aid, the cheerfulness, sympathy and attentive love of\none of the best of women. Her beautiful example in the service of her\nMaster will often be remembered with deep and sincere grief.\n\n\"All this I could bear calmly; if it were more bitter, I could bear it\nand not weep. But to think of my children--as motherless babes; to hear\nWillie tell his sorrow, and mourn so bitterly in his tender years for a\nmother--so dear; to feel that with his susceptibility and keen\nsensitiveness he realizes so fully his loss; to hear him sob on his\npillow at night, and, when alone, call himself 'little motherless\nWillie;'--oh, mother! what man or Christian would not bow beneath a\nburden like this?--It is the contemplation of _four motherless children_\nthat wounds me most. It seems to me Abby herself would not reprove me,\ncould those cold lips now bring me a message from her spirit in heaven.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nWith expressions like those in the chamber of the dead was every hour in\nthe home of David embittered, for weeks and months, by the little\nmourning child. He gathered flowers and laid them before his father,\nsaying, \"I don't suppose you care about them, father; but my mother\nisn't here to take them. I pick them because they look up into my face\nas if mother was somewhere near them. But they wither on my hand, and\nhold down their heads, just as I want to do now my mother is dead.\"\n\nEvery object at home seemed to remind Willie of his mother, and keep his\nbereavement uppermost in his thoughts. He did not weep as much after a\nfew weeks, but through all his boyhood there rested a sadness on his\ncountenance, that indicated a mournful recollection of that dear mother.\nThrough his whole life he felt that he was like a tender branch lopped\nfrom the parent-tree; like a lamb sent out from the fold while too young\nto meet the storms and travel the dangerous paths of which he often\nheard from his mother. This idea seemed ever present, and served many\ntimes to hold him back from adventurous pursuits and untried schemes. \"I\ndon't know--but I should have known had my dear mother lived,\" was the\nexpression of his general course in life.\n\nAs long as he was a child he spoke often and tenderly of his mother. He\ncherished a remembrance of her faithful admonitions and precepts, as\nvivid as might have been expected from a child bereaved at the age of\neight or ten. When older, he realized more fully his loss, especially\nwhen he met one whom he believed to be _a good mother._ He then seldom\nspoke of his mother; but his visits to the grave-yard, his sadness on\nthe anniversary of the day of her death, his conversations about her\nwith his brothers and sister, the value he attached to every token of\nher love to him, convinced us that he remembered her with deep\naffection.\n\nWhen a young man, he was several times beguiled by the tempter into\nforbidden paths, and his eyes were not opened to behold the danger\nuntil the fangs of the serpent pierced deeply into his heart. Then most\nfully did he realize that he was _poor motherless William_; that he was\nabroad in the world without those most effectual safeguards against sin,\na good mother's counsels and a mother's daily prayers; that while others\ncould express unreservedly to their mothers their hopes or fears, their\nsuccess or misfortune, their faithfulness in the hour of temptation or\nweakness under its power, and be counselled, encouraged, urged or\nentreated anew,--he could only go to his mother's grave and shed bitter\ntears of repentance in loneliness, or withdraw himself from all around\nhim, and, _a poor motherless child,_ call up the dim remembrance of that\nyoung and cheerful being who once called him her precious son, her\ntreasured child,--and weep the more bitterly that no answering voice or\nsmile, or look of encouragement or hope, met _him_ in this sinful world!\n\nOh ye who have hearts to feel, who profess Christian principles to guide\nyou, and the holy love of our Master for your example, seek out the\n_motherless child_ of the poor, the ignorant, the vicious, and by the\npower of Christ which is within you, according to the measure of that\npower, strive to be like fond mothers to the thousands who cry \"We have\nno dear mother--our mother is in heaven--is dead--and we know not what\nis right or what is wrong!\" Help and pity them. Rescue them from that\nheart-breaking loneliness and sorrow that prey incessantly on the\nfeelings of a sensitive, intelligent, _motherless child_.\n\n\n\n\nFAITH.\n\nBY MRS. E.R.B. WALDO.\n\n   Upon the peaceful breast of Faith\n     My troubled soul hath found repose,\n   Free from the sad and starless gloom\n     That doubting scepticism knows.\n\n   Though disappointment, care, and pain,\n     Have bent my heart to their decree,\n   One thought hath ever led me on,\n     It is, _that it was so to be_.\n\n   Oft would my weary spirit faint,\n     My heart yield almost to despair,\n   Did not \"a still small voice\" exclaim,\n     \"There is no change, but God is there.\"\n\n   That mighty power which points the shaft,\n     And forms the spirit to endure,\n   Will, in its own peculiar way\n     And time, perform the wondrous cure.\n\n   Still may my soul, through faith, rely\n     Upon the promises of God;\n   His mercy see in every change,\n     And learn to bless his chastening rod.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOW-BIRDS.\n\nA DIALOGUE.\n\nBY MRS. C. HIGHBORN.\n\n\n_Clarissa_. Pray, Mary, what are you going to do with those crumbs which\nyou hold in your hand?\n\n_Mary_. I am going to feed my snow-birds with them; and I should be very\nhappy to have you go with me. I know you will enjoy seeing how merrily\nthey hop about and flutter their wings, and seem to chirp out their\nthanks as they pick up the food I throw them.\n\n_C_. Thank you for your invitation; but I beg you will excuse me; it may\nbe pretty sport for you, but, for my part, I can enjoy myself much\nbetter to stay here and arrange my baby-things, for I expect some girls\nto see me this afternoon. I cannot conceive what there is in those\nugly-looking snow-birds to interest you; they are not handsome, surely;\nthey have not a single bright feather; and, as for their songs, they\nsound like the squeak of a sick chicken.\n\n_M_. I am sorry to hear you speak so of my favorites; for, though they\nare not so brilliant in their colors as many that flutter around us in\nthe summer, yet to me they tire dearer than any others, and far more\nbeautiful than those of a gaudier hue.\n\n_C_. Well, you have a queer taste, I must confess; you remind me of the\nphilosopher I read of in the story-book, who thought a toad the most\nbeautiful of God's creatures. Come, perhaps you can show me why they are\nentitled to your regard, and point out their beauties.\n\n_M_. I will cheerfully comply with your request, for nothing gives me\nmore pleasure than to speak of the good qualities of my friends. Examine\nthem for a moment and see how exquisitely they are formed, and, though\nnot gaudy in their colors, yet their feathers are soft and glossy. But\nthese are trifles comparatively; what most endears them to me is their\nconstancy.\n\n_C._ That is a new idea, indeed. Constancy in snow-birds! Please explain\nyourself, Mary.\n\n_M_. Well, they seem to me like those rare friends that love us best in\nadversity, when the bright summer of prosperity, with its attendant\njoys, has fled, and the winter of sorrow and misfortune shuts out, with\nits dark clouds, the light of life, and withers, with its frosts, the\nfew flowers which bloom along its pathway. There are summer friends,\nClara, as well as summer birds, and they both wear brilliant colors, and\nsing enchanting songs, but they depart with the sunshine; the first\nleave us to battle the storms of adversity, and the others, the cold and\nbarren prospect of winter; these little snow-birds, however, remain, and\nthrough all its dark hours they cheer us by their presence. They seem to\ntell us that we are not entirely destitute of pleasure, but that the\ndarkest hours have something of beauty; and, while they serve to awaken\nin our minds a remembrance of the bright days that have gone, they bid\nus look forward to the end of our sorrows, and welcome the bright spring\ndays, which shall return to us the joys that departed.\n\n_C._ I declare! you have preached quite a sermon, and from a funny text;\nI confess there is both truth and poetry in what you say. I do not\nwonder that you love the snow-birds, if they awaken such pleasant and\npretty thoughts in your mind. Henceforth I will love them myself, for\nthe good lesson that, through you, they have imparted. I trust you will\nforgive me the rudeness of laughing at you.\n\n_M_. Cheerfully, Clara; but learn from this never to despise any of\nGod's creatures; they can all teach us some important and beautiful\nlesson which we should be happy to heed. And now, if you please, we will\ngo and feed the snow-birds.\n\n_C_. With all my heart!\n\n[Illustration: MOUNT CARMEL.]\n\n\n\n\nMOUNT CARMEL.\n\nSELECTED.\n\n\nMount Carmel is a high promontory, forming the termination of a range of\nhills running northwest from the plain of Esdraelon. Mount Carmel is the\nsouthern boundary of the Bay of Acre, on Acca, as it is called by the\nTurks; its height is about fifteen hundred feet, and at its foot, north,\nruns the brook Kishon, and a little further north the river Belus.\n\nMount Carmel is celebrated in Scripture history as the place where\nElijah went up when he told his servant to look forth to the sea yet\nseven times, and the seventh time he saw a little cloud coming up from\nthe sea \"like a man's hand,\" when the prophet knew that the promised\nrain was at hand, and girded up his loins, and ran before Ahab's chariot\neven to the gates of Jezreel. (1 Kings xviii. 44-46.)\n\nTowards the sea is a cave, where it has been supposed that Elijah\ndesired Ahab to bring Baal's false prophets, and where fire from heaven\ndescended on the altar he erected. The present appearance of Carmel is\nthus described by Dr. Hogg, who visited it in 1833. \"The convent on\nMount Carmel was destroyed by the Turks in the early part of the Greek\nrevolution. Abdallah, the Turkish pasha, who commanded the district in\nwhich Carmel is situated, not only razed their convent to the ground,\nbut blew up the foundations, and carried the materials to Acre for his\nown use. The convent is now being rebuilt, or probably is now completely\nfinished, the funds having been supplied by subscriptions solicited all\nover Europe, and a great part of the East, by one of the brethren,\nGiovanni Battista, who has travelled far and wide for that purpose.\" Dr.\nHogg gives the following account of the condition of the place at the\ntime of his visit.\n\n\"The whole fabric is of stone, and, when completed, will possess the\nsolidity of a fortress. The first story only is at present finished, and\nhereafter will be solely appropriated to the accommodation of\ntravellers, when another, to be raised above, will be exclusively\ndevoted to permanent inmates. In the centre a spacious church has been\ncommenced, and already promises to be a fine building. The principal\naltar will be placed over the cave so long held sacred as the retreat of\nthe prophet. This natural cavern exhibits at its farther extremity some\nsigns of having been enlarged by art. When the edifice above is\ncomplete, it will be converted into a chapel; and a projecting ledge of\nrock, believed to have been the sleeping-place of the prophet, will then\nbe the altar. The superior himself kindly conducted me to see one of the\ncelebrated caves which everywhere abound in the district of Mount\nCarmel. Descending two thirds of the mountain by a narrow path, scooped\nin the rock, we entered an enclosure of fig-trees and vines, where\nseveral caverns, that of old belonged to the Carmelites, are now\ninhabited by a Mohammedan saint and his numerous progeny. We first\nentered a lofty excavation of beautiful proportions, at least fifty feet\nlong, with a large recess on one side,--every part chiselled with the\nnicest care, and inscribed with numerous Greek initials, names, and\nsentences. Here Elijah is believed to have taught his disciples, and\nhence its name, 'the school of the prophets.' Some smaller adjoining\ncaverns, fronted with masonry, now form the residence of the saint and\nhis family. A deep cistern for the preservation of water has been hewn\nin the rock, and the entrance is closed by a gate shaded inside by\nvines.\n\n\"The memory of Elijah is equally venerated by Christians and Moslems;\nand the votaries of each faith are liberally allowed access to the\nseveral caves. At the time of our visit the general appearance of Mount\nCarmel was dry and sterile; but the superior assured us that in spring\nit was clothed in verdure and beauty.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHILOSOPHY OF LIFE.\n\nBY MISS ELIZABETH DOTEN\n\n   \"Daily striving, though so lonely,\n     Every day reward shall give,\n   Thou shalt find by striving only,\n     And in loving, thou canst live.\"\n                              Miss Edwards.\n\n\"On dear!\" said Annie Burton, as she sat down under the old apple-tree\nby the spring; \"I wonder what ails me; there's been such a choking\nfeeling in my throat all this afternoon, and though I winked and\nswallowed with all my might, the tears would come in spite of myself.\nHere I've been wandering for more than three hours, up hill and down,\nthrough brambles and brier-bushes; my hands are scratched and bloody,\nand the sun has burnt me as brown as a berry. Three long precious hours\nin the sunny month of August! and what does it all amount to? Why, I\nhave picked a basket of berries that can be eaten in half an hour; and\nhere is a bunch of flowers for little Katie, that she will take and\nadmire, and then tear to pieces; that will be the end of them. But that\nisn't the worst of all; no, not by a great deal; there is a great rent\nin my frock, gaping and staring at me, waiting to be mended; and nobody\nknows how long 't will take me to do that. Oh dear! how I hate to work!\nI don't see how it is; there's mother takes care of the children, sews,\nmakes bread and washes the dishes, just as willingly and cheerfully as\nif she were playing on the piano or reading a pleasant book. They say\nthat good people are always happy; but I _never_ am. Oh, I believe I am\nthe worst creature that ever lived!\" and she bent her head upon her lap\nand burst into tears.\n\nIt was not long before she was roused by the sound of footsteps; she\nraised her head, and saw an old woman coming down the road with a large\nbasket on her arm. She looked tired and weary, as well she might be, for\nshe had travelled a long distance; it was a hot, sultry afternoon, and\nevery footstep stirred a cloud of dust. She came towards the spring; but\nbefore she reached it, she struck her foot against a stone and fell.\n\n\"Have you hurt you?\" exclaimed Annie, as she sprung to her side.\n\n\"Not a bit, not a bit,\" she replied, as she shook the dust from her\napron, and replaced the things that had fallen from her basket.\n\n\"Oh, yes, you have!\" said Annie; \"see, the blood is streaming down your\narm!\"\n\n\"Oh that's nothing; only a scratch. Blessings on the good Father that\nwatches over me! I might have broken my arm, and that would have been a\ndeal worse! How fortunate I happened to fall just by the spring here!\nI've been longing for a drink of cold water, and I sha'n't need it any\nthe less for getting such a mouthful of this hot dust.\"\n\n\"Heart's dearest!\" she exclaimed, as she put down the iron dipper that\nalways hung by the spring, after having satisfied her thirst, \"what is\nit troubles you? Such sorrowful eyes and a tearful face belong only to\nolder heads and more sinful hearts; and God forbid it even to them,\nunless it is wrung out of the agony of their very souls; for though his\nprovidences are just and wise, yet nature must have its way sometimes.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" she replied, as the tears filled her eyes again, \"I have been\ncrying to think how wicked I am.\"\n\n\"Well-a-day!\" said the old woman, looking rather droll; \"it's very\nstrange such a young creature as you should come down here to weep on\naccount of great wickedness. You don't look much like a Salem witch, or\na runaway from the house of correction.\"\n\nAnnie could not help laughing at such an idea; but as the smile passed\naway, the troubled waters of her heart seemed to burst forth in a\nflood, and she wept violently.\n\n\"Ah,\" said the old woman, shaking her head sorrowfully: \"I ought not to\nhave spoken thus; I see how it is. Poor lamb! she hears the voice of the\nShepherd calling her, but she is bewildered and knows not the way to the\nfold; and may the Lord Jesus look upon me, as he did upon his sinful\nservant Peter when he denied him, if I fail to point out to this dear\nchild the path wherein he himself has taught me to tread.\"\n\nShe sat down beside Annie and laid her arm gently around her. \"There's a\ndear girl,\" said she, raising her head, and putting back the locks of\nmoist hair; \"listen to me a little while, and I will tell you what will\nmake you happier.\" She took the cool waters of the spring, and bathed\nher burning forehead, and washed away all traces of dust and tears. The\nwater had a cooling and soothing effect upon Annie's troubled brain.\n\n\"There now,\" said the good dame; \"don't you feel better?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Annie, almost cheerfully.\n\n\"Well,\" she continued, \"God's love is just like this spring; it is full\nand free to all. Now don't you suppose, if you could cleanse and purify\nyour heart from all traces of sin and sorrow in its blessed waters, just\nas you bathe your face in this spring, that you would feel happier and\nbetter.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Annie, slowly and thoughtfully, as if a new idea was passing\nthrough her mind.\n\n\"Well then, I will tell you how. I have felt just as you do now. When I\nwas a girl I was a restless, idle creature; useless to others, and a\nburden to myself. Of course I was unhappy, miserable. It was in vain\nthat I went to school with such a discontented mind. I had a harder\nlesson to learn than any that my teacher could learn me. God grant you\nmay not have to learn it in the same way that I did! I learned it by\nexperience; a sorrowful way that is to learn anything, although it is\nslow and sure; you may be pretty certain that you never will forget it.\nI have found out, by experience, that the only way that we can live and\nbe happy, is by loving and serving others, just as the blessed Jesus\ndid; and if you will try it you will find it so.\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said Annie, \"I am a little girl. What good can I do? If I was the\nLord Jesus, I would go about doing good; then I would cast out devils,\nand heal the sick, and raise the dead.\"\n\n\"Yes, yes; I know you are yet but a 'wee thing,' and have much to learn;\nbut 'the race is not always to the swift and the battle to the strong;'\nit isn't the tallest men and the oldest heads that do the most good in\nthe world. But I'll tell you what _you can_ do, if you can't work\nmiracles; though there's many a devil cast out in these days of sin and\nsorrow, that men know not of; those who struggle and strive with the\nEvil One, and thrust him out of the doors of their heart, do not sound a\ntrumpet before them in the streets, for they are true followers of the\ndear Lamb of God. That same old spirit of selfishness that tempted Eve\nin the garden of Eden has gone through the world like a creeping, wily\nserpent ever since. It has wound itself round and round our hearts, coil\nupon coil, until we scarce seem to have any heart at all. It is this\nthat troubles you, and you must cast it out; you must forget your own\ninterest, and learn everybody to love you; then you can't help loving\neverybody, and you will be happy. Oh, it will be hard, very hard, to do\nthis; you will stop, and perhaps turn back; but when it is the darkest\nyou must take the gentle hand that our dear brother, the Lord Jesus,\nstretches out to you, and he will lead you safely to the very bosom of\nthe Father.\n\n\"But look up, dear one, the sun has gone down behind the hill, and you\nmust hasten homeward. The mother bird must needs feel anxious when her\nnestlings are away. But don't forget what I have told you.\"\n\n\"No,\" said Annie, raising her head, for she had been thinking\nearnestly; every word that her kind friend had spoken went with a\npowerful influence to her heart; \"I will _try_ and _do what I can,\"_\nsaid she.\n\n\"Ay,\" said the old woman, \"that's right! not even an angel can do more.\nBut stop,\" she added; \"do you remember what day it is?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said Annie.\n\n\"Well then, just a year from this time, if the Lord permits, we will\nmeet again by this spring. Now good night, and may the blessing of the\nGreat Father go with you.\"\n\n\"Good night,\" said Annie, and with a cheerful heart and light footstep,\nshe hastened homeward.\n\nNo sooner did she come in sight of her home, than she perceived a horse\nand carriage standing by the gate. She recognized it in a moment; it was\nthe doctor's. A cold shudder passed over her, and an indefinable fear\nentered her mind. She hastened onward and entered the house.\n\nUpon the bed lay little Katie; her eyes fixed upon the wall, seemingly\nunconscious of all that passed around her, sending forth low moans, as\nif in great pain. Beside her sat the doctor, counting the beatings of\nher pulse, and closely observing the alterations of her countenance.\n\n\"I cannot give you much encouragement,\" said he. \"It is a disease of\nthe brain. All shall be done for her that is possible, but I fear there\nis not much hope.\"\n\nAlas! it was even so; all was done in vain. She laid day after day, a\nhelpless sufferer. It was long before the vital energy was spent; but\nthrough all this weary time, there was one constant watcher by her\nbed-side.\n\nAnnie, with the impression of a deep truth upon her soul, felt that\n_now_ was the time to act, and most faithfully did she perform her duty.\nAnd when, at last, sweet Katie died, with a warm gush of tears she laid\none of the flowers that she had gathered from the hill-side upon her\nbosom, and clasping her arms around her mother's neck, she said:\n\"Mother, dear sister is gone, and now I must be both Annie and Katie to\nyou; and if God will help me, I shall be more of a blessing to you than\nI ever yet have been.\"\n\nOh, it was like a ray of sunshine to that weeping mother's heart, to\nhear her once wayward child speak thus! and though it was like taking\naway the life-drops from her heart to give up her cherished little one,\nyet she felt there was still a great blessing remaining for her.\n\nTime passed on. Autumn came with its ripened fruits and golden foliage;\nwinter laid his glittering mantle upon the streams and hill-tops, and\nspring brought blossoms for little Katie's grave.\n\nAnnie, the gentle Annie, where was she?\n\nFirm to her purpose, she had gone onward. At times the struggle was hard\nindeed. Then she would go to the spring, and kneel down, and talk with\nher Good Father, until the evil feelings had left her heart, and the\ncheerful smile came again to her countenance.\n\nAt length summer, bright, beautiful summer, beamed over the land once\nmore, and as it drew to a close it brought the day on which Annie was to\nmeet her friend at the spring.\n\nIt was the close of the Sabbath, and the last rays of the setting sun\nstreamed through the branches of the trees that surrounded the spring,\nand tinged its waters with a rosy light. There sat the old lady, looking\nanxiously up the road.\n\n\"I wonder why she don't come,\" said she. \"Perhaps the young thing has\nforgotten me. Sure 'twould be a sorrow to me if I thought she had.\"\n\n\"No indeed,\" said a pleasant voice. A light form sprang from a clump of\nbushes close by, and she felt a warm kiss upon her cheek. \"No, I have\nnot forgotten you, but I have come to tell you how happy I am. Oh, I\nhave seen trouble and sorrow _enough_, since I saw you; but for all\nthat, I am much happier than I was then. You told me that I must learn\nto love everybody, and so I did; and now it seems as if everybody and\neverything loved me, even our old cat and dog. Strange, isn't it?\"\n\n\"Heart's dearest!\" said the old woman, as soon as she could speak,\nwiping away the tears from her eyes with the corner of her apron;\n\"there's a philosophy in all things, even in baking bread and washing\ndishes; but the true philosophy of life consists in loving and doing;\nand, blessed be God! that is so plain, that the least of his children\ncan understand it.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE STARVING POOR OF IRELAND.\n\n\nBY REV. J.G. ADAMS.\n\n   A wail comes o'er the ocean,\n     Though faint, yet deep with woe!\n   A nation's poor are falling\n     Before the direst foe!\n   Grim Famine there hath seized them,\n     And over Erin's land\n   The multitudes are perishing\n     Beneath his blasting hand!\n\n   The father gives his morsel\n     To his imploring child,\n   Himself imploring mercy, too,\n     With voice and visage wild.\n   The ever-faithful mother\n     Her portion, too, will share\n   With those who lean upon her,\n     And plead her dying care.\n\n   Then father, mother, children,\n     Must listen, one and all,\n   To Famine's surer, sterner voice--\n     To Death's relentless call.\n   For means are all exhausted;\n     Bread! bread! There is no more!\n   And in that once glad cabin\n     The conflict now is o'er.\n\n   Fond, faithful hearts there perished;\n     Affections deep and true\n   As other homes and loved ones\n     Now know, or ever knew.\n   And why this visitation\n     So sweeping and so sore?\n   Why? why? Repeat the question\n     The wide world o'er and o'er!\n\n   In that same land is plenty,\n     Profusion, wealth, and power,\n   Enough to stay the famine-plague\n     This very day and hour.\n   Yes, while the poor are starving\n     By scores and hundreds even,\n   Riches and luxury send up\n     Their impious laugh to heaven!\n\n   Wrong! wrong! this destitution,\n     While there are means to save\n   A nation of strong-hearted men\n     From famine and the grave.\n   Thanks, thanks for riches! but a woe\n     To this our earth they bring,\n   So long as they shall fail to save\n     God's poor from suffering!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SABBATH SCHOOL FESTIVAL.\n\nBY REV. HENRY BACON.\n\n\nIn these days of \"exhibitions\" and \"excursions\" which give such rich\npleasure to our Sabbath school children, it may be well to turn back\nsomething over twenty years, and see what used to be \"great things\" to\nthe pupils of the Sunday schools. The only festival I ever knew while in\na Sabbath school, in my youth, was at Dr. Baldwin's church, Boston. As I\nwas cradled in a different faith, I ought to tell how I came to be a\nscholar in a Baptist school; and I will do so, as it may give a good\nhint to some teachers to be impartial.\n\nAt the school I attended a decision was made to give a silver medal to\nthe best scholar. A good many of us worked hard for it, especially the\nboys in the round pews near the pulpit, who had reason to think that the\nprize would fall to one of their number. A right good feeling prevailed\namongst them; all were willing to acquiesce in whatever should be the\ndecision of the superintendent or committee. When the time for decision\ncame, a lad, the son of a deacon, and who had left school and had not\nbeen at school for six months, was sent for, and _to him_ the silver\nmedal was given! We all felt outraged, but did not dare to say much. I\nbegged my parents, with good reasoning, to let me go to another school,\nwhere I had many friends; and I went to Dr. Winchell's, in Salem street,\nwhere Mr. John Gear was superintendent.\n\nWhat lessons I did get! Whole chapters were recited from the New\nTestament, because so many verses brought me a reward, so many rewards a\nmark, and so many marks _a book_! We had no libraries then. Well, the\nannual meeting came round, and one evening the school met and marched\ndown to Dr. Baldwin's church. I remember the children did the singing,\nand while they were singing, of course, I sung; and I have not forgotten\nhow crest-fallen I felt when Mr. Gear came along, and whispered to me,\n\"Don't sing _so loud_;\" but he might just as well have said, \"Don't\nsing,\" because I knew he did not want me to sing, for I could not keep\ntime. But it was festival-night, and he was extremely good-natured, and\ndid not wish to cut short the privileges of any. A prayer was offered,\nand then we sung again. A big man, in a large black silk gown, got up,\nand delivered a sermon; but we did not heed it as we ought to have done,\nbecause some _tea-chests_ were ranged along at the base of the pulpit.\nIt was not the _tea-chests_ that attracted our attention, but the sweets\nthat we knew were _in_ them.\n\nAfter the sermon was over, and the scholars were ranged in order, in\nsingle file, they marched up to the table near the chests, and each one\nreceived _a quarter of a sheet of gingerbread!_ How rich we were! How\nsweet the cake tasted! We were in perfect ecstasies at the \"great piece\"\ngiven to each of us! Such rows of happy children are seldom seen, and\nall because two cents worth of gingerbread was given to them all alike!\nWe had thought of it for weeks, and it was delightful to anticipate the\noccasion. We felt paid for all the trouble we had met in learning\nlessons, in getting to school on rainy days, and keeping still and\norderly when we got there. And why all this happiness from so slight a\ncause? Because we all felt loving and happy; we loved our teachers and\nour school; and it seemed _so odd_ to get gingerbread in the church and\nfrom the Sabbath school superintendent.\n\nBut how is it now? A long ride or sail; swings, music, cakes, pies,\nfruit, lemonade, and a vast variety of \"good things,\" must be had, or\nelse the Sabbath school children do not have \"a good time!\" After all\nthis is had and enjoyed, I do not believe it is any better than our\nsimple quarter of a sheet of gingerbread, unless the scholars love each\nother more, and their schools better, than we did. Do _you_, reader?\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nNELLY GREY.\n\n\"Nelly! Nelly! Where can the child be? Nelly! Nelly!\" But Nelly Grey was\naway off in dreamland, and the cheerful tones of her mother's voice fell\nall unheeded upon her ear, as did the impatient touch of her little dog\nFrisk's cold nose upon her hand. She was sitting on the last step of the\nvine-covered portico in front of the cottage,--the warm June sun smiling\ndown lovingly upon her, and the soft wind kissing the little rings of\nchestnut-colored hair that clustered about her temples.\n\nWhat could make the child so quiet? It must be some weighty matter that\nwould still _her_ joyous laugh. Why, she was the merriest little body\nthat ever hunted for violets. There was a laugh lodged in every dimple\nof her sunny face, and her busy little tongue was all the day long\ncarolling some happy ditty.\n\n\"Nelly, what are you dreaming about? I've been calling you this long\ntime, and here you are in this warm sun, almost asleep.\"\n\n\"No, no! mother dear, I've only been thinking, and haven't heard you\ncall once. Only to think that you couldn't find me mother! how funny!\"\n\n\"And what has my little girl been thinking of?\" said Mrs. Grey, as she\nlifted Nelly into her lap, and smoothed hack the silky curls from her\nbrow. Nelly laid her rosy cheek close to her mother's, and wound her\nsmall arms about her neck, and told her simple thoughts in a low, sweet\nvoice.\n\n\"You know it's strawberry time, mother, don't you?\"\n\n\"Yes, darling.\"\n\n\"Well, I was thinking, if you would let me, I could pick a big basket\nfull, they are so thick over in our meadow; and maybe Mrs. Preston would\nbuy them of me, for she gives Mr. Jones a heap of money every year for\nthem.\"\n\n\"And what does Nelly want of a heap of money?\"\n\n\"Why, mother, little Frisk wants a brass collar,--don't you, Frisk?\"\nFrisk barked and played all sorts of antics to show his young mistress\nhe was very much in need of one. \"Think how pretty it would be, mother,\nround Frisk's glossy neck. Oh, say that I may--do, do, mother!\"\n\nNelly's pleading proved irresistible, and her mother tied her little\nsunbonnet under her chin, gave the \"big basket\" into her hands, and the\nlittle girl trudged merrily off, with Frisk jumping and barking by her\nside to see his young mistress so happy.\n\nShall I tell how the long summer afternoon wore away, dear little\nreader, and how the big basket was filled to the tip-top and covered\nwith wild flowers and oak leaves? Shall I tell, or shall I leave you to\nguess, my little bright eyes? You say, yes? Well, I will tell you about\nher walk to Mrs. Preston's after the sun had gone down and the azure\nblue sky had become changed to a soft, golden hue.\n\nIt was a pleasant walk under the drooping trees, and Nelly Grey,\nswinging her basket carefully on her arm, tripped lightly on her way.\nOh, how her blue eyes danced with joy as she looked down upon the little\nmerry Frisk trotting by her side; her bright lips parted as she\nmurmured, \"Yes, yes, Frisk shall have a nice new collar, with 'Nelly\nGrey's dog, Frisk,' written upon it;\" then Frisk played all sorts of\nfunny antics again, probably by way of thanks.\n\nAh! but what calls that sudden blush and smile to Nelly's face?--and she\nhad well nigh stumbled, too, and spilt all her strawberries. No wonder\nshe started, for, emerging from under the shadow of the trees, was a\nhandsome lad some half a head taller than Nelly. He was gazing, too,\nwith a witching smile into her face, waiting till it should be the\nlittle maiden's pleasure to notice him. She nodded her pretty little\nhead as demurely as a city belle, laid her small hand lovingly upon\nFrisk's curly coat, and walked with a slower and less bounding step than\nbefore. But Phil Morton was not to be abashed at this; so he stepped\nlightly up to Nelly, saying,\n\n\"Let me carry your basket; it is too heavy for you.\"\n\nThe little girl, with many injunctions to be careful and not tip it\nover, delivered the basket to him; she then told him her project of\nbuying Frisk a collar with the money got by the selling of the\nstrawberries, which young Phil approved of very much, and offered to go\nwith her to buy it, for he knew somebody, he said, that kept them for\nsale. Nelly joyfully assented to his offer, and thanked him heartily,\ntoo, for his kindness.\n\n\"There, Phil, we are almost there. I can see the long study window; we\nhave only to pass the widow Mason's cottage, up the green lane, and we\nshall be there.\"\n\nOn they walked, laughing merrily for very lightness of heart, till they\nwere close beside the poor widow's low cottage window. Suddenly Nelly\nstopped, and the laugh was hushed upon her bright lips. \"Did you hear\nit, Phil?\" she said softly. \"Hear what, Nell?\" and Phil turned his black\neyes slowly round, as if he expected to see some fairy issue from the\ngrove of trees near by. \"Why, Lucy Mason's cough. Mother says she will\nnot live to see the little snow-birds come again. Poor, dear Lucy!\" The\ngreat tear-drops rolled fast over Nelly's red cheeks, and fell like rain\nupon her little hand. \"Oh, Phil, I'll tell you what;--I'll give these\nstrawberries to Lucy. She used to love them dearly.\"\n\n\"Poh! poh! Nelly; what a silly girl! to give them away when Mrs. Preston\nwill give you such a deal of money for them!\"\n\n\"But, Phil, Lucy's mother is poor; she can't buy them for her, and you\ncan't think how well Lucy loves them.\"\n\n\"Well, what if she does, and what if she is poor? can't her mother pick\nthem over in the fields, if she wants them so bad? I wouldn't give them\naway.\"\n\n\"For shame, Phil Morton! To think of poor old Mrs. Mason's going over in\nthe fields to pick strawberries, leaving Lucy all alone, and so sick! I\nshouldn't have thought it of you, Phil. No, indeed I shouldn't. Give me\nthe basket,\" said Nelly sorrowfully; \"I shall give them to Lucy.\" Phil\nsilently handed the basket to her, and, without speaking, he followed\nNelly as she went round to the cottage door.\n\nThe tears ran silently down the poor widow's cheek as she led the\nchildren to her sick child's room, for it touched her heart to see young\nand thoughtless children so attentive to her poor Lucy. \"And did you\ncome all this way, you and Phil, Nelly, to bring me these nice\nstrawberries?\" without waiting for her to reply, she turned to a little\nchoice tea-rose that stood beside her, and, breaking off two half-blown\nbuds, she gave them to Phil and Nelly, saying as she did so, \"It's all I\nhave to give you, darlings, for your kindness to me, but I know that you\nwill like them as coming from your sick friend.\"\n\nThe bright blood flashed over Phil's dark brow and crimsoned even his\nears. Poor Phil! The shame and remorse of those few minutes washed away\nhis unthinking sin, and Nelly forgave him, and tried with all her power\nto make him forget it. But the kind though thoughtless boy was not\nsatisfied until he had sent Lucy a pretty little basket filled with rare\nand beautiful flowers, gathered from his father's large garden. Then,\nand not till then, did he look with pleasure upon the rose Lucy had\ngiven him.\n\nSome time after the above occurrence, perhaps a week, Nelly was sitting\nin her low rocking-chair, under the shadow of the portico, sewing as\nbusily as her nimble little fingers would let her, when a shadow\ndarkened the sunlit walk leading to the house. Nelly saw it, and knew\nwell enough who it was; but there she sat, her pretty little mouth\npursed up, and her merry blue eyes almost closed, working faster than\never.\n\n\"Oh! is it you, Phil?\" she exclaimed, as Phil Morton bounded lightly\nover the railing beside her, (for he disdained the sober process of\nwalking up the steps;) \"how you frightened me!\" _He_ frighten _her!_\nThough he was naughty sometimes, and scared the little birds, he would\nnot think of frightening Nelly Grey. No, not he.\n\n\"Oh! Phil, I have something to show you,\" said the little girl, after a\nwhile, and then she raised her voice and called, \"Frisk! Frisk!\" Frisk\nwas not far away from Nelly, and presently he came lazily along, shaking\nhis silky coat as if he did not quite relish being waked from his nap so\nabruptly.\n\n\"But what is that shining so brightly around his neck--can it be a\ncollar? Well, it is, sure enough. But where _did_ you get it, Nell?\"\nsaid Phil, turning to her in amazement.\n\n\"Mrs. Preston, the minister's wife, gave it to me; how she came to know\nI wanted it, I can't think.\"\n\n\"But I can, Nell. She heard us when we were talking, I'll bet; for you\nknow she came in just after we did, and she gave it to you for being so\ngood.\"\n\n\"Oh no, Phil! I only did what anybody else would have done.\"\n\n\"_Anybody_? You know _I_ didn't want to Nelly,\" said Phil sadly.\n\n\"Oh, never mind _that_, Phil; you did afterward, you know.\"\n\n\"Well, but, Nell, I _know_ she gave it to you for being so good. Isn't\nthere something on the collar?\"\n\n\"No, only Frisk's name;\" and she turned to examine it with Phil.\n\n\"There, Nell! what do you call this?\" and Phil triumphantly held up the\nedge of the collar, on which was written, \"_Nelly's reward for\nself-denial.\"_\n\n\"Why, Phil, I never saw it before; isn't it queer?\"\n\n\"Queer, that you didn't _see_ it before? Yes; but it isn't queer that\nshe gave it to you No, not at all; I should have thought she would.\"\n\n\"Oh, Phil, how you praise me! you mustn't,\" said Nelly, her pink cheeks\ndeepening into scarlet.\n\nShe deserved praise, did not she? for she was a very good little girl.\nBut I will not tire you with any more about her now. So good-by, my\nsweet little reader.\n\nNORA.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FOUR EVANGELISTS.\n\nBY REV. H.R. NYE.\n\n\nMy Young Friends:\n\nI love to hear and to tell stories nearly as well as when I was a child;\nbut I cannot write them for others to read. Even _small_ children are\nsometimes _great_ critics. At any rate, I shall not venture at\nstory-telling here.\n\nYou have all read some portions of the book we call the Bible. But do\nyou know who wrote the Bible? at what time it was written? or anything\nof the men by whom it was composed? It was not written by any one man,\nat one time, and by him sent out to all men in every part of the world;\nbut by various persons, in different ages, and first addressed to\nparticular churches or people. I will not attempt, in this article, to\nfurnish you with an account of all the individuals, Moses, David,\nIsaiah, Paul, John, and others, who wrote portions of the sacred volume;\nbut I will try to give you some sketches of _the four Evangelists,_\nMatthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who wrote the four _gospels_, or Lives of\nJesus, to which their names are now attached. And,\n\n1st, of MATTHEW, by whom the _first_ gospel was composed. He was\ncalled, also, Levi. He was a Jew, born in the province of Galilee. We\nsuppose that from his youth he was familiar with the worship of the\nsynagogue and temple, and educated strictly in the religion of Moses. He\nfilled the office of a publican, was a collector of taxes from the Jews,\nto which place he was appointed by the Romans, who, in his day, ruled\nover Judea. While engaged in these duties, he became acquainted with the\npreaching, miracles, and character of Jesus, the despised Nazarene, and\nleft all,--his business, friends, home,--to follow him. He journeyed\nwith Jesus in his ministry, and, after his Master went up to heaven, he\nleft his own land to preach the gospel among the Gentiles. Some people\nsuppose that he was a martyr, but this is not well established. Matthew\nwrote his gospel either in Hebrew or Greek, (some say both,) about 1800\nyears since,--very soon after his Master had finished the labors of his\nmission, and returned unto his Father. I said, I think, that this man\nleft all; made many sacrifices to become Jesus' disciple. But we do not\nfind this in _his_ book. With other virtues, he was an _humble_ man,\nquite too modest to praise himself. Luke, in his narrative, mentions\nthis fact concerning Matthew. Modesty is a rare virtue; an ornament to\nthe aged, and very beautiful in the young. But I will tell you,\n\n2d, of Mark, sometimes called John, and once, John Mark, in the New\nTestament. Very little is known concerning this man. He was probably\nborn in Judea, and, it is supposed, was converted to Christianity by the\npreaching of the ardent, zealous Peter. At one time, he was the\ncompanion of Paul and Barnabas; but, when a quarrel sprang up between\nthese men, each went his way. Christians quarrelled then sometimes as\nwell, or as bad, as in our days. Chiefly, Mark travelled with Peter, as\nhe went forth among Jews and Gentiles, and aided him in his arduous\ntoils. He went, at last, to Egypt, where he planted churches, and where,\nalso, he died. Mark was not an apostle; neither did he attend on the\nministry of Jesus. Do you ask, how, then, could he write a correct\naccount of our Saviour's life? Here is one fact worth remembering. Mark\nwas the companion of Peter, who was an apostle, who saw the miracles and\nheard the discourses of Christ. He examined the account which Mark had\nwritten, and gave it his approval, as being correct,--true. Very few men\nwho write histories have vouchers like his. So, did we not regard the\nBible-writers as inspired men, we should place the utmost confidence in\nthe truth of Mark's gospel. He composed it about A.D. 65. We come now,\n\n3d, to LUKE. He was a Gentile,--all people not born in Judea were called\nGentiles,--born in Antioch, the capital of Syria, where the disciples of\nJesus first were called Christians. Luke was a learned man, we are told,\nhaving studied in the famous schools of his own land, also of Greece and\nEgypt. He was a physician by profession; and physicians assure us, that,\nin his gospel, he has given a more accurate account of the diseases\nwhich Jesus cured than any other New Testament writer: that he often\nuses medical terms in his description of the miracles which were\nwrought. He was a good and careful thinker, not at all credulous, but\ndisposed to prove all things, holding fast only to the good and true. He\nwrote his gospel (perhaps you know that he was the author of the book of\nActs, also) in Greece, about 35 years after the ascension of Jesus. He\nwas associated with Paul in his travels, went with him to Rome, and\ncontinued there during the imprisonment of the apostle. Historians are\nnot agreed in regard to the time or manner of his death. Some affirm\nthat he suffered as a martyr; others, simply, that, in due time, he\n\"fell asleep,\" or died a natural death. We are sure that his talents,\nlearning, and time were given to the diffusion of the Christian faith.\nLastly, and\n\n4th, of JOHN, the beloved disciple, so termed because of his mild and\ngentle spirit, and because he most resembled his and our Master. He was\nborn in Judea, near the sea, or lake, of Galilee. Zebedee, his father,\nwas a fisherman; and John, probably, engaged in his father's business\nuntil he became a preacher of glad tidings. You must not, from this\nfact, conclude that they were certainly poor men, for then, at least,\nmen of wealth were engaged in the business, and I suppose many now are.\nJohn was the youngest apostle, and \"the disciple whom Jesus loved;\" you\nmay recollect that he leaned on the bosom of Christ at the \"Last\nSupper.\" He, only, was present, of all the apostles, when Jesus was\ncrucified,--and Jesus commended his mother to this disciple's care.\nAfter the resurrection of Jesus, John preached \"the gospel\" in various\nparts of Asia.\n\nHe wrote his gospel at Ephesus, and, by his labors, the truths of\nChristianity spread everywhere among men. The story sometimes told, that\nhe was put into a caldron of burning oil, by a Roman emperor, and came\nout unharmed, is not true. He lived to a very advanced age, and died\nwhen not far from 100 years old. Late in life, when too feeble to\npreach, he was often carried into the meetings of the disciples, at his\nown request, and, stretching out his hands, as he sat in his chair, was\nwont to say, \"Little children, _love_ one another.\" And, when asked why\nhe so often gave this precept, he would say, \"If this be obeyed, it is\nthe Lord's command, and it sufficeth.\"\n\nChildren, will you think of that precept?\n\nConversing with two lads once, I asked one, Who wrote the Bible, good\nmen, or bad men? \"Good men, of course,\" was the response. \"But how do\nyou know they were _good_ men?\" I rejoined. And he said, \"Because,\"--a\nvery common and very foolish answer,--and was silent. \"I think,\" said\nthe other lad, the younger of the two, \"that good men wrote the Bible,\nbecause _good_ men _love_ the Bible, and _wicked_ men don't.\"\n\nCan you give another reason as good?\n\nNow I have told you, briefly, of the four evangelists. They were good\nmen, honest-minded and sincere. Wicked men, all men, act from motives.\nBut _they_ could have had no motive to deceive. They lost friends, and\nwealth, and honor, and ease, and gained contempt, persecution, and\nsuffering, by preaching the gospel. Their conduct is full evidence that\nthey were pure and good men. And, if they were good men, they wrote\n_the truth_; and, by their labors we have a correct and faithful account\nof the life of Jesus. Study these books, and by them be made wise. Above\nall, remember the precept of John, \"Little children, love one another.\"\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nMAY-DAY.\n\nBY MRS. NANCY T. MUNROE.\n\n\nIt is spring,--a backward spring, it is true, for now it is the first\nweek in May, and not a flower to be seen except the yellow dandelion,\nnot a blossom even on a cherry tree; nothing is green but the grass, and\nthat--yes, that is very green, especially this piece before my window;\nit seems a relief to look upon it.\n\nPoor May-day revellers! May-day this year was pleasant; that is, the sun\nshone, the sky was blue, and the grass was green, in spots at least; but\nthe cold north wind was blowing, and one needed to be told it was the\nfirst of May.\n\nThe sun was higher than usual on such occasions, when the children came\nupon our hill;--yet they did come with wreaths and May-poles, but, ah!\nthe flowers were artificial. Some of the children had on sun-bonnets and\nthin shawls; they should have worn hoods and cloaks, and then they might\nhave been comfortable. But it takes a great deal to discourage children\nfrom going \"Maying.\"\n\nOur hill is a famous place for children on May-day, for it is green and\npleasant; it is glorious to run down its sides, and pleasant to sit on\nits banks, which once were forts, and behind which, in less peaceful\ndays, lurked soldiers with weapons of war. Ah, those children were a\npleasant sight, and as I heard their glad laughter, and saw them chase\neach other down those green banks, I said, Peace is better than war.\n\n\"Please, ma'am, will you tell me what time it is?\" said a little girl,\ncoming forward from one group of children.\n\n\"Quarter of nine,\" was the reply.\n\n\"I didn't think it was so late; did you?\" said she, turning to her\ncompanions. They had been out perhaps two hours, and thought it was most\nnoon, and back they went to their sports.\n\nSoon I heard a sound of weeping. I went to the door, where stood a group\nof children around the pump; one poor shivering child, looking blue and\ncold, was having her hands and face washed by another, with water cold\nfrom the pump, the tears streaming down her cheeks, and she sobbing\npiteously.\n\n\"What is the matter, little girl?\"\n\n\"Oh,\" said the one who was performing the washing operation, \"she fell\nfrom the top of the hill to the bottom, and made her nose bleed and hurt\nher dreadfully.\"\n\nThe poor child still sobbed and shivered. We carried her in, set her\ndown before a hot coal fire, and tried to warm her red hands. Her little\ncompanions came and stood beside her, and told her not to cry; but, oh!\nshe was so cold, and \"the tops of her fingers did ache so!\"\n\nAnd this was going a Maying! But yet, next year, these very girls, I\ndoubt not, will start with just as buoyant hearts for May-day sports,\nforgetful of the fall, the cold, and all inconveniences. Ah, childhood's\nhopeful heart is a blessed thing!\n\nI well remember now a May-day of by-gone years. Then we had a queen, a\ntent, and a table set with numberless delicacies. We had rare sport that\nday. The weather was not as cold as the day of which I have been\nspeaking; we had a few _real_ flowers, and some hardy girls even\nappeared in white dresses. The forenoon passed pleasantly; numerous\nvisitors thronged to see us, and we were the happiest of all May-day\nrevellers. But all pleasure must have an end. Soon word came that we\nmust surrender the sails of our tent, for the owner had need thereof.\nThis caused a general _strike_, and, in the confusion which ensued, a\nboy had the misfortune to sit or fall upon the queen's straw bonnet,\nwhich had been laid aside for her flowery crown. It was literally\nsmashed, unfit for further use. \"Ah what will mother say?\" was all the\ndisappointed queen could say. Some few laughed at the queer, misshapen\nthing, but more looked on with sad countenances, for it was the queen's\nbest bonnet.\n\nWe separated, tired, and, it may be, a little out of humor; but yet, a\nfew days made everything bright again; we remembered the pleasure with\npleasure, and thought of the disappointments only to laugh over them.\n\nAnd that bent, spoiled bonnet! When the ex-queen appeared in a fine new\none, with gay ribbons, many looked on, and almost wished that they had\nbeen so fortunate as to have had their bonnets spoiled.\n\nAs I look back, other May-days throng upon my mind. The memories of some\nof these are sad, yea, very sad! One was the birth-day of a little one\nwho now rests beneath the green sod. And well do I remember another\nbright May morning, when I wandered out over the hill, holding the hand\nof a little fair-haired child within my own. Her tiny basket was filled\nwith flowers the children had given her, and her bright, sunny face was\nradiant with smiles. That was her first May-day walk, and much did the\nlittle being enjoy it.\n\nIt was her last! Ere the spring breezes came again, she lay within her\nlittle shroud. The snows of winter fell silently upon her little grave,\nby the side of him who had gone before, and, ere another May-day, the\nsod was green above them.\n\nThese are the memories that come over me when I look out upon the\nrevellers; yet just as well do I love to see them at their sports, and I\ncan look upon their light, graceful forms, and hear their merry\nlaughter; and, though my heart goes to the grave-yard and mine eyes rest\nupon the spot, yet I can smile upon the gay, living creatures before me,\nfor I know that childhood is a glad and joyous thing, and that these\nbeings are the light and joy of some homes, and I pray that these homes\nmay be never darkened by Death's shadow crossing the threshold.\n\nThese my May-day reveries have begun lightly, and ended, as May-days\nthemselves have done, in sad thoughts. But sad thoughts and life's\ntroubles are, or ought to be, the heart's discipline. For this purpose\ndo they come to us, and we should go forth from them purer and better.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOW-DROP.\n\nBY MRS. M.A. LIVERMORE.\n\n   The gentle, laughing, spring had come\n     With eye and cheek so bright;\n   The bird glanced through the clear, blue air,\n     On wing of golden light;\n   And earth, in gladness, lay and smiled,\n     To see the beauteous sight.\n\n   The streams went singing to the sea,\n     And dancing to their song;\n   Its carpet, had the young grass spread\n     The hills and vales among;\n   Yet not a flower its bloom had shed,\n     The fresh green earth along.\n\n   Not yet the violet had unsealed\n     Its blue and loving eye;\n   Nor had the primrose dared unfold,\n     For fear that it might die;\n   And on the tree-tops shook the leaves,\n     Which oped to kiss the sky.\n\n   But so it chanced, one gentle day,\n     While softly wept the rain,\n   And sadly sighed the mourning breeze,\n     The flowers to see again;\n   A silvery snow-flake fell to earth,\n     Escaped from winter's chain.\n\n   And daintily it laid itself\n     Where greenest grass was spread,\n   And where the bland and warm south-wind,\n     Soft-footed, loved to tread,\n   And here the white-robed fugitive\n     Made for itself a bed.\n\n   The flower-goddess smiled to see\n     This new-born snow that fell;\n   \"I'll change it to a flower,\" said she\n     \"By magic touch, and spell;\n   For 'twill be long ere blossoms ope,\n     That spring doth love so well.\"\n\n   Then with a wand of living light,\n     She touched the feathery snow;\n   And on it, radiant from her cheek,\n     There streamed a sunny glow.\n   Forth from the tiny, crystal flake,\n     The pearly petals came;\n   The stem sprang up--there waved a flower,--\n   The SNOW-DROP was its name!\n\n\n\n\nCAGING BIRDS.\n\n\nI never liked the idea of rearing birds in cages; of confining those\nlittle creatures, that seem to enjoy liberty most of all God's vast\nfamily, in the little, stinted prison-house of a cage. Girls seldom\nincline to keep them caged; I wish, fewer women did; but boys seem\nalmost to possess a different nature. Many really enjoy taking the\nlittle helpless fledglings from the nest, hid away so slyly among the\nthick boughs of the forest-tree; crowding two, three, or even four, into\none cage, oftentimes not eighteen inches square. They are even so\nheartless as to laugh at the fluttering, slapping, and beating of the\npoor prisoner against the wiry walls of his gloomy, unnatural home.\n\nTo be sure, I once owned a caged bird. It was a robin. A dear brother\nhad kept him several years, and, on leaving home for a residence in\nBoston, where he could not take care of the bird, he gave him to me. It\nwas not at a season of the year when we could safely release him from\nconfinement; and, besides that, our oldest brother had taught him to\nwhistle parts of several tunes, and we feared, moreover, that he might\nsuffer even in the best season of the year, from the fact of his having\nbeen taken when so young from other robins. Confinement, probably, does\nnot destroy the instinct of birds, so that they would starve if\nreleased. After having been an inmate of our family nine years, having\nsuffered countless frights and manglings from the many kittens we had\nkept in the time, he at last died by the claws of the family cat, when\nreleased one fine afternoon for an airing, and to have his cage cleaned.\n\nI never since have wished to own a caged bird. The song of a canary\nbird, born and reared in a cage, never pleases me like the cheerful\nwarbling or merry whistle of the wild, free birds of our woodlands. The\none seems but the expression of a cheerful forgiveness of unkind\ntreatment, the bursting forth of a happy nature in spite of man's\ncruelty; while the other seems a free outpouring of perfect happiness,\nand the choicest notes of a grateful little being directed to the good\nGOD of nature.\n\nI know we often hear of happy, contented little pet birds; yet I never\nsaw one that did not seem to prefer the freedom of an out-of-door\nexcursion on the strong, free wing, to the hopping, swinging, perching,\nand fluttering, within a narrow cage. The taming and petting of\nsparrows, robins, yellow-birds, snow-birds, and swallows, round the\ndoors or windows of one's house, I admire. There is nothing inhuman in\nthis practice. It rather calls forth some of the better feelings of the\nheart--gives pleasure to us and the birds, yet violates no law of\nnature.\n\nI here give you a little story of a pet swallow that I met with in a\nlittle English book, which, perhaps, few of you have read. The children\nnamed in the story were certainly kind-hearted towards their little pet,\nand very indulgent. Mark well their reward! Some of you may be induced\nto imitate them; at least, I hope you will not again be so selfish as to\ncage a bird for his song, while, with the exercise of a little patience\nand kindly attention, you can tame them so easily at your door.\n\n\n\nTHE PET SWALLOW.\n\n\nOne day we had been out gathering primroses, and, to put the pretty pale\nflowers neatly into baskets, we had sat down under one of the windows in\nthe old church tower. Mary was sitting next the wall, when something\ntouched her shoulder, and fell on her knee. It was a young swallow,\nwithout any feathers, that had fallen, or perhaps had been thrown, out\nof the nest, by some quarrelsome brother or sister.\n\nThe poor primroses were cast away, and every little hand was ready to\nseize the prize. When we found it was not killed, or even hurt, by its\nfall, some called for a cage; others said, \"Let us put it back in the\nnest; we do not know what to give it to eat; we may be sure it will\ndie.\" And this seemed so very true that we were all obliged to agree;\nbut, alas! the poor swallow having built in a false window of the tower,\nthere was no way of getting to the nest, and so the cage was brought,\nand the little bird did not die, but grew bigger and prettier every day,\nuntil at last it could skim through the room on its pretty, soft wings,\nand would dive down to us, and light upon our shoulders, or let itself\nfall into our hands. How we did love that little bird! and oh, how sorry\nwe were one day, when it flew out at the window! We all ran down to the\nlawn; we were quite sure it would never come back to us again, for it\nseemed so happy to be free; and we watched it flying here and there--now\nhigh in the air, now close down to the ground. We had called our pretty\nbird Fairy, and it really seemed like a fairy now; one moment it was\nquite out of sight, the next so near it almost touched us. At last, Fred\ngave a long, loud whistle; when he began, it was up in the air, high,\nhigh above our heads, but, before the sound passed away, it was\nfluttering its pretty dark wings upon his face. From this time Fairy was\nallowed to go free; and it would skim about before our windows all day\nlong, coming in from time to time to pay us visits, and to sleep at\nnights in its old post on the top of one of our little beds in the\nnursery.\n\nAt last August came, and then our pretty Fairy skimmed through the air,\nfar, far beyond the reach of Fred's whistle, for it had set out, with\nall the other swallows, on its long voyage across the seas.\n\nWe had never thought of this,--never thought that our faithful Fairy\nwould so leave us,--and it was many days before the hope of its coming\nback next year could make us feel at all happy again.\n\nBut Fairy, our own dear little Fairy, _did_ come back, and it remembered\nus all, as if it had been away only for a few hours, instead of nearly\neight whole months.\n\nIt was a very happy day, the day that Fairy came back, and it seemed to\nfeel as much joy as we did; first it flew to Mary, and then to Fred, and\nthen to one after the other, twittering its wings, and rubbing its\npretty black head on our hands or faces, as we see dogs and cats do\nwhen they want to show great kindness.\n\nIt flew to the top of the little bed at night, pecked at the window when\nit wished to get out in the morning, and would dart down at Fred's\nwhistle as readily as it had been used to do the year before. In short,\nnotwithstanding the long voyage it had made, Fairy seemed to have\nforgotten neither its old friends nor its old ways.\n\nWhen it came near the time for the swallows to fly away again, we grew\nvery sad at the idea of losing our pretty Fairy: some thought it would\nbe wise to put it into a cage, and keep it there until all the others\nwere gone; while some, who were wiser, said it was Fairy's nature to go\naway, and that Fairy must go. But what do you think was our joy to find,\nthat, of its own good will, Fairy stayed with us? All the others went\naway; and, whether it had grown fonder of us, or that it had not liked\nthe long voyage it had been led into by the example of others, I cannot\nsay; but for four winters it stayed always with us, taking a flight now\nand then in the open air, but spending the greatest part of the day in\nthe school-room, till summer came, when it would again join its friends,\nand always build its nest in the very window from which it had fallen\ninto Mary's lap.\n\nSix years had passed since then, but what now became of it we could\nnever learn. For a long time we hoped it had gone again over sea and\nland, to visit far countries with all the others, but whether it had or\nnot we never knew, for we saw our pretty Fairy no more.\n\n\n\nLAST PAGE.\n\n   The last bright page before you,\n     Kind reader and good friend,\n   Is of another Annual\n     The very pleasant end.\n\n   Our Book's communication\n     To goodly themes applied,\n   None of its pages would we wish\n     To change, expunge, or hide.\n\n   With us be Life's brief pages,\n     When looking back to youth,\n   So filled with kindly words of love,\n     And timely Christian truth,\n\n   That with an honest confidence\n     In what our deeds shall say,\n   With steady and firm hand we write\n     Our \"last page,\" and away!","title":"Small Means and Great Ends","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":30316}