Chapter VIII

_Youth a happy period.--My young days.--A summer morning.--A
day’s adventures._

It is a common remark that youth is the happiest portion of life, but, like many other wise and deep sayings, it passes by us unheeded, till, at some late period in the great journey, we look back upon our track, and, by a comparison of the past with the present, are forced to feel and confess the truth, which we have before doubted. Mankind are ever tempted to think that there is something better before them; if they are not happy yet, they still indulge bright expectations. They are reluctant, even when advanced in years, to believe that the noon of life’s joys is past; that the chill of evening is already mingling in every breeze that feeds the breath; that there is no returning morn to them; that the course of the sun is now only downward; and that sunset is the final close of that day that has dawned upon them, and lighted up a world full of hopes, and wishes, and anticipations. It is not till the shadows, dark and defined, are creeping around us, and forcing us to deal honestly with ourselves, that we admit the truth--that life is made up of a series of illusions; that we are constantly pursuing bubbles, which seem bright at a distance and allure us on to the chase, but which fly from our pursuit, or, if reached, burst in the hand that grasps them. It is not till we are already at the landing and about to step into the bark that is to bear us from the shore, that we come to the conclusion that human life is a chase, in which the game is nothing, and the pursuit everything; and that the brightest and best portion of this chase is found in the spring morning, when the faculties are fresh, the fancy pure, and all nature robed in dew, and chiming with the music of birds, and bees, and waterfalls.

It is something to have enjoyed life, even if that enjoyment may not come again, for memory can revive the past, and at least bring back its echoes. It is a pleasure to me, now that I am crippled and gray--a sort of hulk driven a-wreck upon the shore, and if incapable of further adventures upon the main, at least inaccessible to the surges that rise and rave upon its bosom--to look out to sea--to mark the sails that still glide over its surface--and, above all, to busy my fancy with the incidents of my own voyage upon the great ocean of life.

I love particularly to go back to that period at which my last chapter closed. I was then full of health, animation, and hope. As yet, my life was tarnished with no other vices or follies than those that belong to an ungoverned and passionate boy. My health was perfect. I can hardly describe the elation of my heart of a spring morning. Everything gave me delight. The adjacent mountains, robed in mist, or wreathed with clouds, seemed like the regions of the blest. The landscape around, tame and commonplace as it might be, was superior to the pictures of any artist that ever laid his colors upon canvass, to my vision. Every sound was music. The idle but joyous gabble of the geese at the brook--the far-off cawing of the crows that skimmed the slopes of the mountains--the multitudinous notes of jays, robins, and blackbirds in the orchard--the lowing of cattle--the cackle of the fowls in the barnyard--the gobble of the ostentatious turkey--were all melody to me. No burst of harmony from an Italian orchestra, even though Rossini composed and Paganini performed, ever touched the heart as those humble melodies of morn, in the little village of Salem, touched mine at the age of fifteen. At such times my bosom actually overflowed with joy. I would sometimes shout aloud from mere pleasure; and then I would run for no other object than the excitement of the race. At such times it seemed almost that I could fly. There was an elasticity in my limbs like that of a mountain deer. So exuberant was this buoyant feeling, that in my dreams, which were then always blissful, I often dreamed of setting out to run, and after a brief space of stepping upward into the air, where I floated like some feather upon the breeze.

At evening, I used again to experience the same joyous gust of emotion; and during the day, I seldom felt otherwise than happy. Considering the quiet nature of the place in which I dwelt, my life was marked with numerous incidents and adventures--of little moment to the world at large, but important to a boy of my years. Saturday was, in that golden age, a day always given up to amusement, for there was no school kept then. A description of a single day will give a sufficient idea of my way of life at this period.

The day we will suppose to be fine--and in fact it now seems to me that there was no dull weather when I was a boy. Bill Keeler and myself rose with the sun--and we must, of course, go to the mountain. For what? Like knights of the olden time, in search of adventures. Bound to no place, guided by no other power than our own will, we set out to see what we could see, and find what we could find.

We took our course through a narrow vale at the foot of the mountain, crossed by a whimpling brook, which wound with many a mazy turn amid bordering hills, the slopes of which were covered with trees, or consisted of smooth, open pastures. The brook was famous for trout, and as Bill usually carried his hooks and lines, we often stopped for a time and amused ourselves in fishing. On the present occasion, as we were passing a basin of still water, where the gush of the rivulet was stayed by a projecting bank, Bill saw an uncommonly large trout. He lay in the shadow of the knoll, perfectly still, except that the feathery fins beneath his gills fanned the water with a breath-like undulation. I saw Bill at the instant he marked the monster of the pool. In a moment he lifted up and waved his hand as a sign to me, and uttered a long, low she-e-e-e! He then stepped softly backwards, and at a little distance knelt down, to hide himself from the view of the trout. All this time Bill was fumbling with a nervous quickness for his hook and line. First he ran his hands into the pockets of his trowsers, seeming to turn over a great variety of articles there; then he felt in his coat pockets; and then he uttered two or three awkward words, which signified much vexation.

There was Bill on his knees--it seems as if I could see him now--evidently disappointed at not finding his hook and line. At last he began very deliberately to unlade his pockets. First came out a stout buck-handled knife, with one large blade, and the stump of a smaller one. Then came a large bunch of tow, several bits of rope, a gimblet, four or five flints, and a chestnut whistle. From the other pocket of the trowsers he disclosed three or four bits of lead, a screwdriver, a dough-nut, and something rolled into a wad that might have been suspected of being a pocket-handkerchief, if Bill had ever been seen to use one. The trowsers pockets being thus emptied, our hero applied himself to those in the flaps of his coat. He first took out a ball covered with deerskin, then a powder-flask and tinder-box, two or three corks, and sundry articles difficult to name. From the other pocket he took his stockings and shoes, for it was May, and we were both indulging ourselves in the luxury of going barefoot--a luxury which those only can know who have tried it.

Nothing could exceed the pitch of vexation to which Bill was worked up, when, turning the last pocket inside out, and shaking it as if it had been a viper, he found that he had not a hook or line about him. Gathering up his merchandise, and thrusting the articles back into their places, he cast about, and picking up a stone, approached the place where the trout lay, and hurled it at him with spiteful vengeance, exclaiming--“If I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin--I hope I may be shot!”

“Stop, stop, Bill!” said I; “don’t be rash.”

“I say I hope I may be shot if I’m ever ketched without a fishhook agin!--so there!” said he, hurling another stone into the brook.

“Remember what you say now, Bill!” said I.

“I will remember it,” said my companion; and though nothing more was said of it at the time, I may as well observe now that the fellow kept his word; for ever after I remarked that he carried a fishhook in his hat-band, and, as he said, in fulfilment of his vow. Such was the eccentric humor of my friend, and such the real depth of his character and feelings, that a speech, uttered in momentary passion and seeming thoughtlessness, clung to his mind, and never parted from him till death. Could that poor boy have had the advantages of wise cultivation, what a noble heart had now beat in his breast! But, alas! he was bound to a briefer and more inglorious destiny!

We pursued our way up the valley, though loth to leave the rivulet; for there is a fascination about running water that few can resist--there is a beauty in it which enchants the eye--a companionship like that of life, and which no other inanimate thing affords. And of all brooks, this that I now describe was to me the sweetest.

After proceeding a considerable distance, the valley became narrowed down to a rocky ravine, and the shrunken stream fretted and foamed its way over a rugged and devious channel. At last, about half way up the mountain, and at a considerable elevation, we reached the source of the rivulet, which consisted of a small lake of as pure water as ever reflected the face of heaven. It was surrounded on three sides by tall cliffs, whose dark, shaggy forms, in contrast, gave a silver brilliancy and beauty to the mirror-like water that lay at their feet. The other side of the lake was bounded by a sandy lawn, of small extent, but in the centre of which stood a lofty white-wood tree.

The objects that first presented themselves, as we approached the lake, was a kingfisher, running over his watchman’s rattle from the dry limb of a tree that projected over the water, by way of warning to the tenants of the mountain that danger was near; a heron, standing half-leg deep in the margin of the water, and seeming to be lost in a lazy dream; a pair of harlequin ducks that were swimming near the opposite shore; and a bald eagle, that stood upon the point of a rock that projected a few feet out of the water near the centre of the lake. This object particularly attracted our attention, but as we moved toward it, it heavily unfolded its wings, pitched forward, and with a labored beating of the air gained an elevation and sailed gloriously away beyond the reach of sight.

Those were days of feeling, rather than speech. Neither my companion nor myself spoke of the beauty of that scene at the time; but we felt it deeply, and memory, to me, has kept a faithful transcript of the scene. When the kingfisher had sounded the alarm, he slunk away, and all was still. The morning overture of the birds had passed, for it was now near ten o’clock. The mournful metallic note of the wood-thrush was perchance faintly heard at intervals--the cooing of a pigeon, the amorous wooings of the high-hole, the hollow roll of the woodpecker at his work, might occasionally salute the ear, but all at such distance of time and place as to give effect to the silence and repose that marked the scene. I had my gun, but I felt no disposition to break the spell that nature had cast on all around. The harsh noise of gunpowder had been out of tune there and then. Bill and myself sauntered along the border of the lake, musing and stepping lightly, as if not to crumple a leaf or crush a twig, that might break the peace, over which nature, like a magistrate, seemed to preside.

But as we were slowly proceeding, Bill’s piercing eye discovered a dark object upon the white-wood or tulip tree, that stood in the sandy lawn at some distance. He pointed to it, and both quickened our steps in that direction. As we approached it, we perceived it to be an enormous nest, and concluded it must be that of an eagle. As we came nearer, the nest seemed roughly composed of large sticks, and occupying a circumference equal to a cart-wheel. It was at the very top of the tree, which rose to the height of sixty or seventy feet, and at least half of that elevation was a smooth trunk without a single limb. But Bill was an excellent climber, and it was resolved, without a council of war, that he should ascend and see what was in the nest.

Accordingly, stripping off his coat, and clinging to the tree as if by suction, he began to ascend. It was “hitchety hatchety up I go!” By a process difficult to describe--a sort of insinuation, the propelling power and working machinery of which were invisible--he soon cleared the smooth part of the trunk, and taking hold of the branches, rose limb by limb, till, with breathless interest, I saw him lift his head above the nest and peer into its recess. The best expression of his wonder was his silence. I waited, but no reply. “What is it?” said I, incapable of enduring the suspense. No answer. “What is it, Bill--why don’t you speak?” said I, once more. “Look!” said he, holding up a featherless little monster, about as large as a barn-door fowl--kicking and flapping its wings, and squealing with all its might. “Look! there’s a pair on ’em. They’re young eagles, I’ll be bound, but I never see such critters afore! The nest is as big as a trundle-bed, and there’s a heap of snake-skins, and feathers, and fishes’ tails in it; and there’s a lamb’s head here, that looks in the face like an acquaintance--and I shouldn’t wonder if it belonged to Squire Kellogg’s little cosset that he lost last week--the varmint!”

As Bill uttered these last words, his attention, as well my own, was attracted by a rushing sound above, and looking up, we saw an eagle, about a hundred yards in the air, descending like a thunderbolt directly toward Bill’s head. The bird’s wings were close to its body, its tail above and its head beneath, its beak open and its talons half displayed for the blow. Entirely forgetting my gun, in my agony of fear, I exclaimed, “Jump, Bill! for Heaven’s sake jump!” But such was the suddenness of the proceeding, that ere I could fairly utter the words, the formidable bird, with a fearful and vengeful scream, swept down upon his mark. I shut my eyes in very horror. But not so Bill Keeler; there was no taking him by surprise. As the eagle came down, he dodged his head beneath the nest, exposing only a portion of his person, together with the seat of his trowsers. The clash of the eagle’s beak as he swept by, though it seemed like the clangor of a tailor’s shears when forcibly shut, did no harm; but we cannot say as much of the creature’s talons. One of the claws struck the part exposed, and made an incision in the trowsers as well as the skin, of about two inches in length.

The rent, however, was too superficial to prove mortal, nor did it deprive Bill of his presence of mind. Taking no manner of notice of the damage done, he cocked his eye up at the eagle, and seeing that he was already preparing for another descent, he slid down between the limbs of the tree with amazing dexterity, and had approached the lowest of the branches, when again we heard the rushing sound, and saw the infuriate bird falling like an iron wedge almost perpendicularly upon him. Although he was full five and thirty feet from the ground, such was my agony, that again I cried out, “Jump, Bill--for Heaven’s sake, jump!”

Bill was a fellow to go on his own hook--particularly in a time of imminent peril, like the present. Evidently paying no attention to me, he cast one glance at the eagle, and leaping from the branch, came down upon the wind. The eagle swept over him as he fell, and striking his talons into his brimless beaver, bore it away in triumph--dropping it however at a short distance. As Bill struck the ground on his feet, I immediately saw that he was safe. After sitting a moment to recover his breath, he put his hand to his head, and finding that his hat was gone, exclaimed, “There, the critter’s got my clamshell--why didn’t you fire, Bob?”

The hat was soon found, and after a little while Bill discovered the success of the eagle’s first attack upon his person; but although some blood was shed, the incident was not considered serious, and we proceeded in our ramble.

We had not advanced far, when, on passing through some bushes near a heap of rocks, I heard a rustling in the leaves. Turning my eye in the direction of the sound, I saw a black snake, covered by leaves except his head and about two feet of his body. He was directly in my path, and, brandishing his tongue, seemed determined to oppose my progress. Bill had my gun, but I called to him, and he soon appeared. I pointed out the snake, but, refusing to fire, he approached the creature with a bold front; who, seeing that he could gain nothing by his threats, turned and fled through the leaves with amazing speed. Bill followed upon his trail, and came up with him just as he was seeking shelter in the crevice of a rock. He had buried about two feet of his length, when Bill seized his tail, and, holding fast, prevented his farther progress. We then both of us took hold and tried to pull him out--but as he had coiled himself around the protuberances of the rock within, he resisted all our efforts.

Bill now directed me to bend down to him a pretty stout walnut sapling that was growing near. I complied with the command, and my companion, taking a piece of rope from his pocket, doubled the tail of the snake, and firmly lashed it to the top of the young tree. This being done--“We’ll let go now,” said Bill, “and see which will hold on the longest.” So, loosing our hold of the tree and serpent, we stood by to see the result. The snake was so firmly tied as to render it impossible for him to escape, and the sapling pulled with a vigor and patience that were likely to prevail at last. We waited at the place for nearly an hour, when the serpent slowly yielded, and the sapling jerked him into the air. There he hung, dangling and writhing, and thrusting out his tongue, but all to no purpose. Taking a fair aim with the gun, Bill now fired, and cut the reptile in twain.

We pursued our ramble until late in the day, when, on our return, we saw a gray squirrel leaping about upon the ground at some distance. The appearance of this animal in its native woods is singularly imposing. Its long, bushy tail imparts to it an appearance of extraordinary size, and renders its wonderful agility a matter of surprise. In the present instance, as the squirrel saw us from a distance, he ran to a tree, ascended the trunk, and flew along its branches. From these it leaped to those of another tree, seeming actually to move like a spirit of the air. At last it reached a large oak, and disappeared in a hole in the trunk.

Bill’s jacket was off in an instant, and almost as nimbly as the squirrel himself he ascended to its retreat. I stood below with my gun, ready to fire if the creature should attempt to escape. At last Bill, peeping into the hole, and saying, in a subdued voice, “I see the varmint!” thrust his hand into the place. It was but a moment before he hauled him out, and holding him forth with one hand, while he held on to the tree with the other, he exclaimed, “Fire, Bob--fire--he bites like--like a sarpent!” Accustomed to obey orders, I immediately fired, and the squirrel dropped dead to the ground. At the same time I saw Bill snapping his fingers, as if some stray shot had peppered them. He soon descended, and showed me that one of the little leaden missiles had passed through the ball of his thumb; he only remarked, however, “I should think, Bob, you might kill a squirrel without shooting a friend!”

Such are the adventures of a day in my youth; and such, or similar, no doubt, have been the experiences of many a Yankee youth before. I record them here, partly for the satisfaction of reviewing the sweet memories of the past, and partly to point the moral of this chapter--that youth is a portion of life to which, in after years, we usually look back with fond regard, as the happiest, if not the most useful, part of our existence. Let my youthful friends mark the observation, and not be unmindful of their present privileges. Let them enjoy their young days, with thankfulness and moderation, and not be too sanguine of that future, which will disclose the melancholy truth that life is a journey, which affords the cares and toils and dangers of travel, without a resting-place. A resting-place is indeed found, but it is only given as life ceases. While we live we are journeying; there is no fixed habitation for man on the earth: he is an emigrant to another country, and not a settler here. Let us, in attempting to make our journey as cheerful as we may, still be careful that the place to which we migrate, and where we must abide, be in a happy country.

The Humming-Birds.

These little fairies of the feathered race--the smallest of birds, and perhaps the most brilliant--belong exclusively to our American continent and the adjacent islands. Most of them dwell in the warm climates, where flowers are ever in bloom, and where spring or summer hold perpetual sway. One species alone visits our chill New England climate--the little fellow of the ruby throat. He comes to us in May, and makes himself familiar with our gardens and trellices, sports amid the flowers, and holds companionship only with the “flush and the fair.” His stay is short, for early in September he is gone to more genial lands.

It is only in tropical countries that the several species of humming-birds are seen in their abundance, variety, and glory. The islands that stud the ocean between Florida and the main land of South America, literally swarm with them. In the wild and uncultivated parts they inhabit the magnificent forests overhung with parasitical plants, whose blossoms hardly yield in beauty to the sparkling tints of these tenants of the air. In the cultivated portions, they abound in the gardens, and seem to delight in society, becoming familiar and destitute of fear, hovering often on one side of a shrub or plant while the fruit is plucked on the other.

Lively and full of energy, these winged gems are almost incessantly in the air, darting from one object to another, and displaying their gorgeous hues in the sunbeams. When performing a lengthened flight, as during migration, they pass through the air in long undulations, raising themselves to a considerable height and then falling in a curve. When feeding on a flower, they keep themselves poised in one position, as steadily as if suspended on a bough--making a humming noise by the rapid motion of their wings.

In disposition, these creatures are intrepid, but, like some other little people, they are very quarrelsome. In defending their nests, they attack birds five times their size, and drive them off with ease. When angry, their motions are very violent and their flight as swift as an arrow. Often the eye is incapable of following them, and their shrill, piercing shriek alone announces their presence.

Among the most dazzling of this brilliant tribe is the bar-tailed humming-bird of Brazil. The tail is forked to the base, and consists of five feathers, graduated one above another at almost equal distances. Their color is of the richest flame, or orange red, with a dazzling metallic burnish. The upper part of the body of the bird is golden green; the rump is red, and the under surface of emerald green.

Stokes’ humming-bird may perhaps be cited as a rival of this little gem of beauty. The head and whole of the back is covered with scale-shaped feathers, those on the head being brilliant blue and changing to violet, those on the back being bright emerald green. The cheeks are purplish green, with small pink spots. Was there ever any lass of a fancy ball more gaily decked?

Such are a few of the species of this famous race. There are more than a hundred kinds, all noted for their littleness and their surpassing beauty. What a beautiful conception in the Author of nature were these little fairies! It is as if the flowers had taken wings, and life, and intelligence, and shared in the sports of animal life. And if we regard their beauty--the delicacy of their feathers--their energy and power compared with their size--if we consider the ingenious mechanism of their structure--can we sufficiently admire the Architect who made them and bade them go forth to add life, and beauty, and brilliancy to the landscape, while sharing themselves in the joys of existence?

Madagascar.

On the eastern coast of Africa is one of the largest islands in the world, called Madagascar. It is 900 miles long, and contains about twice as much land as England, Wales, and Scotland, or three times as much as New England. It is some five or six thousand miles southeast of the United States, and 1800 miles northeast of the Cape of Good Hope.

It is separated from the continent of Africa by the channel of Mozambique, through which vessels often pass in going to China. A long chain of mountains, some of which are 11,000 feet or two miles high, runs north and south through the island. In these mountains are volcanoes, though they are not so terrible as in South America.

Madagascar is a pleasant country, and produces many fine things, among which are sugar, honey, various fruit-trees, valuable gums, silver, copper, and tin ore; also precious stones, together with other more useful things, as cattle, corn, poultry, &c. The people are numerous, and consist of several tribes or races, some resembling negroes, others appearing like Arabs, but the greater part bearing an affinity to the people who inhabit the islands of the Pacific Ocean. The whole population of the island is estimated at about four millions and a half, or about twice as much as all New England.

About twelve or fifteen years ago, a king by the name of Radama had subjected to his sway nearly all the tribes. He encouraged the Christian missionaries from England, by whose means a good deal of useful knowledge was diffused, and various arts were introduced among the people. Had his reign continued, it is probable that all the tribes would have been formed into one well organized and well governed nation, among whom civilization might have made rapid advances. But, unfortunately, Radama was poisoned by his queen, and since that time, though the people are considered as forming one kingdom, they are in a very disturbed and dismembered state. Many of them are little better than savages, and indeed all the people are slaves of the most degrading superstitions. One of the most remarkable customs is that of trial by the _Tangena_, a poisonous nut, that is given to persons suspected of any crime. The people are great believers in witchcraft, and if any one in a family is taken sick, it frequently happens that some of the members are accused of causing the illness by witchcraft, and the tangena is therefore given to them. It appears that the poison, when thoroughly administered, causes the most excruciating pains, and is almost certain death. If the person has a very strong constitution, or if he can bribe the officer who administers it to give a weak dose, he sometimes escapes; but in most cases it is fatal. There is a vast deal of pompous ceremony attending these trials: there is a sort of prayer or incantation before the dose is given, and during its operation, an appeal to the invisible power to punish crime, or vindicate innocence, as the case may be--though, in point of fact, the whole system seems to be one of trick, practised by a few artful and designing men.

If the person resists the effect of the poison, which rarely happens, he is taken to his house in great state, a procession being formed like that which is represented in the engraving. It appears from the accounts of the missionaries who have visited the island, that the practice of the tangena is so extensive as actually to diminish the population of the island; and what is remarkable is this, that the people seem to take a great interest in these trials, and actually encourage them, seeming to have great delight in them. It is indeed a fact that cannot be disputed, that in all nations not softened and civilized by the influence of Christianity, mercy seems to be unknown, and cruelty affords only a pleasing excitement.

* * * * *

“The clock upbraids us with the waste of time.”

A Philosophical Tea-pot.

_Anne._ Mother, why do you not use that pretty tea-pot that grandmother gave you?

_Mother._ Why, my dear, do you not remember that the nose is half burnt off?

_A._ Well, mamma, suppose it is--it does not look very badly, and you have always told me that as long as things were useful, we must not put them aside.

_M._ But it is not useful, Anne; that is the only reason why I have set it up on the high shelf.

_A._ I do not see why it is not useful, I am sure. I think, mamma, you might as well put away my little spade because the handle is broken off at the top, or John’s kite because the wind has taken off a piece of the tail!

_M._ Well, my dear, this sounds very well; but let us consider the matter a little. Of what use is a tea-pot?

_A._ Why, to hold tea, I suppose!

_M._ Well, what is tea--a solid body?

_A._ Oh no; it is what my book of natural philosophy would call a liquid. Oh, that book is very interesting; wait a minute while I get it, mamma--here it is!

_M._ What is one of the properties of liquids?

_A._ Let me see--oh, here I have it. Liquids always tend to an equilibrium.

_M._ Do you understand what that means, my dear?

_A._ Yes; my mistress explained it to me the other morning. Water or any other liquid always seeks a level; that is, if water is put into a bowl, it will be equally as high on one side as on the other. If the bowl stands uneven, the liquid will still be perfectly level.

_M._ A very good explanation, Anne. But now to the proof. Can you tell me why, on this principle, my tea-pot is of no use now the spout is broken?

_A._ Let me see--no, I cannot understand why it is so. The tea-pot itself is good, and you can fill it just the same as ever!

_M._ Ah! but can you fill it? that is the question.

_A._ Why, mamma, how absurd it would be to suppose I could not fill it! But let me try; there is nothing like trying, after all. (_She brings the tea-pot._) Here it is, poor neglected thing. Indeed, I do not see why I cannot fill it, unless there are holes in the bottom or sides.

_M._ No, I believe it is sound in those respects. But come, here is some water; try it. But first get the waiter--I do not want my table wet.

_A._ Oh! never fear, mamma; I will not spill it. (_Pouring the water into the tea-pot._) There, there, mamma, you see I have got it half full already. But dear me, how’s this? I declare, the water is running out of the nose as fast as I pour it in! Why, what does it mean?

_M._ Just think, my dear, of what your philosophy says about liquids, and you will immediately see why the water runs out of the nose. How high does the water remain in the tea-pot?

_A._ Just as high as the top of the nose. Ah! I see now; that is the level of the water, and it can go no higher in the body of the tea-pot than it does in the nose. Wonderful! Then, mamma, it must be that it is necessary to have the nose as high as the top of the tea-pot. Oh! now I understand perfectly why this is of no use. Thank you, mamma; I like these practical lessons in philosophy. But I am ashamed that I did not understand it at once.

_M._ This shows you, my dear Anne, that it is not only necessary to have knowledge, but that it is nearly useless when it is not applied properly. Hereafter, I hope you will think a little when you study.

_A._ Ah, mamma, I think I shall come to you when I am puzzled; you explain things so charmingly--better than all the philosophy books in the world!

_M._ Well, my dear, come to me after you have tried hard yourself to understand the subject you are studying, and I shall think my time well spent in simplifying the matter to you. I used to be very fond of philosophy when I was of your age, because my aunt kindly illustrated some of the most difficult principles in such a manner as to make me perfectly understand them. The lesson I have just given you is one she taught me thirty years ago.

Astonishing Powers of the Horse.

The following story, showing what exertion the horse is capable of undergoing, would be almost incredible, were it not well authenticated.

Many years ago, a violent gale of wind setting in from north-northwest, a vessel in the road at the Cape of Good Hope dragged her anchors, was forced on the rocks, and bilged; and while the greater part of the crew fell an immediate sacrifice to the waves, the remainder were seen from the shore, struggling for their lives, by clinging to the different pieces of the wreck. The sea ran dreadfully high, and broke over the sailors with such amazing fury, that no boat whatever could venture off to their assistance.

Meanwhile, a planter, considerably advanced in life, had come on horseback from his farm to be a spectator of the shipwreck. His heart was melted at the sight of the unhappy seamen, and knowing the bold and enterprising spirit of his horse, and his particular excellence as a swimmer, he instantly determined to make a desperate effort for their deliverance.

He alighted and blew a little brandy into his horse’s nostrils, when, again seating himself in the saddle, he instantly pushed into the midst of the breakers. At first both disappeared, but it was not long before they floated on the surface and swam up to the wreck; when, taking with him two men, each of whom held by one of his boots, the planter brought them safe to shore.

This perilous expedition he repeated seven times, and saved fourteen lives. But on his return the eighth time, his horse being much fatigued, and meeting a most formidable wave, he lost his balance, and was overwhelmed in a moment. The horse swam safely to the shore, but his gallant rider was no more!

The Moon.

It is night! The stars are so distant that they seem to be very small; but the moon, though really less than the stars, is nearer, and therefore appears to be larger.

It is a very interesting object, and is even more talked about than the sun. At one time it seems like a silver bow, hung in the west It increases in size, till it looks like a large bowl. It grows larger and larger, till it is quite round, and is then fancied by some people to resemble a mighty green cheese.

The moon does not shine at all times. Even when it is in the sky above us, it gives no light during the day, for the sun is so much brighter, that it appears quite dim. And often at night it is hidden behind the earth, and gives us no light.

But when it does shine at night, it is indeed beautiful. We cannot look at the sun with the naked eye, for it is too bright. But we can look at the moon, and though it seems almost like a ball of melted metal, yet we can see figures upon it.

Some persons imagine, that they can see the face of a man in the moon, and others that they can spy the figure of a crooked old woman. But those who have looked at it with telescopes, tell us, that it is a world, with mountains, and rivers, and valleys upon its surface. There is very little doubt that animals and people live upon it.

Would it not be pleasant, if we could sail through the air, and go up to the moon, and come back and tell the people of this world what sort of place the moon is, and what kind of folks the _moonites_ are?

But this cannot be. We may travel by railroads over the land, and by ships across the waters of this world, but we have no ladder long enough to reach to other worlds. We must therefore, for the present, stay where we are and be content.

But I was talking of the moon. Can you tell me why a dog will often bark at it almost all night? If you can, you can do more than any one else.

But you may ask what good the moon does to us. In the first place, it is very beautiful, and gives us great pleasure. It is also useful, as it frequently shines at night, and seems to relieve us partly from the darkness. The landscape is often charming when viewed by moonlight, and water never looks so lovely as when the moon is shining upon it.

Beside this, the moon causes that ebbing and flowing of the ocean called the tides. These keep it from being stagnant and prevent its becoming putrid. Were it not for the moon, the whole ocean would be unfit for the fishes that live in it, and they would all die. Men and beasts, too, would also perish from the unhealthiness of the land, were not the sea kept pure by the tides.

Importance of Attention:

A DIALOGUE.

_Charles sitting with his book in his hand; his mother at
work._

_Charles._ Mother! is it almost school-time?

_Mother._ No; you have full half an hour.

_Charles._ Only half an hour? Will you hear me try to say this lesson again?

_Mother._ No, for I am sure you will say it no better than before.

_Charles._ Why, mother?

_Mother._ Because you have not been studying. I have been looking at you from time to time, and have scarcely seen your eyes fixed once on your book.

_Charles._ I was only watching Jerry, for fear he would weed up my young balsams.

_Mother._ I fancy Jerry knows what he is about.

_Charles._ Well; I _will_ study now.

_Mother._ Do you generally whistle when you study, Charles?

_Charles._ Was I whistling?

_Mother._ Yes, and with your eyes fixed on my canary bird.

_Charles._ Well, mother, I can’t help it. This is the hardest and stupidest lesson that ever was.

_Mother._ And yet you told me your cousin Richard learned it, yesterday, in twenty minutes.

_Charles._ Then it is I that am stupid, I suppose.

_Mother._ I rather think not. I believe your memory is as good as Richard’s.

_Charles._ Oh, mother! he always learns his lessons quicker than I do.

_Mother._ And does that prove that his memory is better?

_Charles._ To be sure it does.

_Mother._ When you are at play, does he remember things better than you do?

_Charles._ Why, no, I believe not.

_Mother._ Did not you tell us as much about the lecture the other night, when you came home, as he did?

_Charles._ Yes, and more too; father said I did.

_Mother._ That required memory certainly. I do not think you have any right to lay blame on any natural defect.

_Charles._ Oh, I did not mean to say that; but all I know is that Richard gets his lessons quicker than I do; and what can the reason be? He is not three weeks older than I am, and don’t seem a bit cleverer than I am about other things.

_Mother._ Did you ever happen to sit near him, when he was studying?

_Charles._ Yes, that I have, and I would rather sit next any boy in school.

_Mother._ Why?

_Charles._ Oh, I don’t know; there’s no comfort in it. He is as dumpy and cross over his books as a dog with a bone. He won’t let anybody speak to him.

_Mother._ What, not to ask a reasonable question?

_Charles._ Oh! as to that, he helps me sometimes, when I get stuck; he is always good-natured enough about that; but what I mean is, if I ask him to look at anything funny, or want to talk to him about any of our plays, a minute, he says I disturb him, and take off his attention; and if I go on, just to fidget him a little, he takes up his books and marches off somewhere else.

_Mother._ He complains that you take off his attention, does he?

_Charles._ Yes, mother; is not that cross in him?

_Mother._ Richard has learned a very important secret, I see.

_Charles._ A secret? What? one that helps him get his lessons?

_Mother._ Yes.

_Charles._ I wish poor _I_ could find it out.

_Mother._ I can tell it to you in one word which you used just now. It is as good as “Open Sesame” in the play of the Forty Thieves which you read the other day.

_Charles._ What can it be?

_Mother._ Attention--Charles--attention! that will open the door of your mind and let the lesson in.

_Charles._ Oh dear! I wish bawling the word out aloud would answer the purpose.

_Mother._ I cannot say that it will, so my comparison is not a good one; but I wished to fix your _attention_, so I referred to something that had amused you. But, in good earnest, Charles, the only reason why Richard learns quicker than you do is, that he never allows himself to think of anything else while he is getting his lesson. You speak of yourself as studying as long as you are holding the book in your hand, though in fact you are not studying one quarter of the time. What is studying, Charles?

_Charles._ Trying to fix something in my mind.

_Mother._ Very good; a better answer than I expected. Now, were you trying to fix your lesson in your mind while you were watching Jerry? or while you were scratching with your pencil on that window-seat? or whistling to my canary bird?

_Charles._ No, indeed.

_Mother._ Yet during the three quarters of an hour you have sat at the window, with a book in your hand, these have been your principal employments. Once or twice you began to read the lesson over to yourself, but something would draw off your _attention_ in the midst; your thoughts were gone from it in an instant; the slight impression it had made was effaced; and when you returned to your task, you were just where you had been ten minutes before. Yet at nine o’clock you would jump up in dismay, exclaiming, “There, I have been studying this plaguy lesson more than an hour, and I can’t say it yet. Is it not enough to discourage a body, mother?”

_Charles_, (_laughing._) That’s just my whine, mother; but the plain truth of the matter is, I do get discouraged. I don’t see any use in working so hard.

_Mother._ But you would not have to work so hard--or at least not near so long, if you would go to work in the right way.

_Charles._ But it is the working at all that I object to, mother. I don’t know but I might like study better if I could see any use in it; but as long as I can read and write, I shan’t look like a fool; and what is the use of cracking my brains about anything more?

_Mother._ I should be very sorry to have you crack your brains with study, Charles. Do you feel as if there were any danger of it?

_Charles._ Why no, not exactly. But why need I study?

_Mother._ You cannot conceive of any pleasure in acquiring knowledge, then?

_Charles._ Oh, yes; I like to know all I can by reading interesting books; I like to read some histories, and biographies, and travels. That all comes very easy; that is amusement.

_Mother._ Are you sure that while skimming books in this manner, for amusement, you are really laying up much knowledge that you can make useful? Do you ever stop to reflect upon it and arrange it?--or is it all jumbled together in your mind? Have you never made strange blunders in talking about the very books you had read?

_Charles._ Why, yes, I must own that I have; and I have got laughed at, sometimes.

_Mother._ That is only one of the evils to which you will be exposed by being superficial. My dear, you cannot get along even respectably in well-informed society without disciplining your mind to habits of attention and reflection; and one great advantage of youthful study is, that it does so discipline the mind.

_Charles._ Well, you and father talk about “habits of the mind,” and “disciplining the mind,” and tell me to leave off this habit of thinking, and that habit of not thinking, just as you tell me to cure myself of twirling this button on my jacket!

_Mother._ And don’t you understand what we mean?

_Charles._ Oh yes, I see the sense of it.

_Mother._ And do not you think that with perseverance you can accomplish what we wish? You do not mean to tell us that you cannot manage your own mind?

_Charles._ But it is so hard! And to go back to this matter of study, mother; when I talked to sister Ellen about it, yesterday, she said that if I did not study I never could be a lawyer, or a minister, or a doctor, or a merchant, or anything of the sort. Now why need I be either?

_Mother._ What would you like to be?

_Charles._ Just a gentleman.

_Mother._ An idle gentleman?

_Charles._ No, not an idle one. I should like to pass my time in reading and accomplishments.

_Mother._ What accomplishments do you mean?

_Charles._ Music and drawing; is not that what people mean by accomplishments?

_Mother._ But are you not aware that it requires study and close attention to master these little matters of music and drawing, particularly for those who have not an uncommon taste for them?

_Charles._ Does it? Well, then I would let the music and drawing alone. I dare say I should find some way of passing my time.

_Mother._ My son, I fear you would indeed, if we could cruelly permit you to enter on life devoid of some of its best resources against the temptations that beset the idle. A young man, in the situation which you have just described, would be almost certain to seek occupation and excitement from drinking and cards. The strongest religious principles might save him, but the conflict would be terrible,--the result doubtful; and I cannot think of the danger without tears.

_Charles._ Dear mother, you do not think I should ever be a wicked man, do you?

_Mother._ I cannot tell. I cannot bear to think of it. We will talk of another part of this subject; for it is very necessary that I should. All this while, you have said nothing of the way in which you are to be supported in the easy life you propose.

_Charles._ Supported? what am I to live on? On my fortune.

_Mother._ And where is it?

_Charles._ Ah, I have none now; but then there is father so rich, and only Ellen and I. Of course, he won’t leave his money to anybody else, will he?

_Mother._ How can you be sure that he will not leave it to an hospital? You know he has given much to public charities.

_Charles._ Ah, mother, you know he will not neglect _us_!

_Mother._ Stranger things have happened; but, however, I do not think it at all likely that you will lose your fortune in that way. But why should you so entirely forget the passage of scripture--“Riches take to themselves wings?” Ought you not to be prepared with some way of supporting yourself, supposing that text should be verified in your case?

_Charles._ But, somehow or other, I don’t believe it will be.

_Mother._ That is a blind, boyish belief to rest upon. How do you know that your father is now rich?

_Charles._ Why, all the boys in school say he is one of the richest men in the city. And then, mother, have we not always lived like rich people?

_Mother._ That may be a sign that we always have been rich, but not that we shall be--not that we are, Charles!

_Charles._ I don’t understand you, mother.

_Mother._ I must make you comprehend me, my dear boy. Your father told me I must talk with you to-day, and I intended to wait till you returned, at night; but this is a better opportunity. Have you not seen that your father has been more taken up with his business than usual, for some weeks past? Have you not observed that he was very thoughtful?

_Charles._ Yes, mother; at least, I did after Ellen mentioned it to me, for she observes more than I do. What is the matter?

_Mother._ Your father will fail to-morrow, Charles.

_Charles._ Fail! and what is failing, mother? I hear people talk about failing, and say “such a man has failed,” and I know it is something bad; but what is it?

_Mother._ It is when a man owes more money than he can pay, and gives up all his property to be divided among his creditors.

_Charles._ And is that what has happened to father? And will he give up everything he has in the world? That is very bad.

_Mother._ Certainly. He would not have any man lose a cent of money on his account. Would you wish that he should wrong those who trusted him?

_Charles._ Oh no! I should rather study from morning till night, if that would do any good.

_Mother._ You perceive, Charles, that it will be necessary for you to get your mind into right habits of attention; for you will have to support yourself, at least. It is even possible that your parents, in their old age, may require some assistance from you. Your father can hardly hope to acquire even a moderate fortune again, before he will be an old man.

_Charles._ Oh, mother! it almost makes my head ache to think of all this, for I don’t seem to understand yet that it is really so, though I try with all my might to--to--

_Mother._ Realize it?

_Charles._ Yes, that is the word I was after. And what did you do, when father told you about it, mother? Did you not cry?

_Mother._ I did, when I was alone, Charles; for I have lived in this house ever since I was married, and I love it; and I love the furniture, which my parents gave me;--but it must all be sold.

_Charles._ Why, where shall we live?

_Mother._ In a small house of mine at the south-end, where your nurse used to live. But I shed more tears at first about you and Ellen. We cannot afford to educate you as we intended.

_Charles._ And there was I complaining this very morning about having to study!

_Mother._ Your thoughtless words made my heart ache, Charles!

_Charles._ If I have to get my living, why cannot I be a lawyer?

_Mother._ Your father cannot send you to college; your studies must all be directed towards preparing to enter a counting-room as soon as possible. Your father’s mercantile friends respect him, for striving to pay all his debts, and they will help you. But, Charles, you will find it necessary to give your most earnest _attention_ to your new pursuits.

_Charles._ That I will, mother! I will find out how cousin Richard manages his mind. Attention! yes, indeed I will. I shall think of nothing now but what I ought. I shall never waste my time again.

_Mother._ You promise confidently, Charles; and in truth I shall shed fewer tears, if I find this change in our situation may benefit my beloved son’s character. It was too plain that the expectation of a fortune from your father was injuring you. Wipe your eyes, Charles, and go to school. Your quarter will close next Saturday, and then we must take you from that expensive school. But wherever you go, I think you will find that study--real study--will make difficult things soon become easy; and there will be a pleasure in it you have never known, while holding your book indolently with a wandering mind.

The Horse and the Bells,

A FABLE.

A wagoner, whose business it was to transport goods from one town to another, had a fine horse, upon whose saddle he was accustomed to carry several bells, which kept up a cheerful jingling as he trudged along the road. The horse got used to these bells, and was so much pleased with them, that he seemed dull and out of spirits when, for some reason, they were left off. The wagoner, perceiving that his horse did not work so well without the bells, restored them to their place, remarking, that his horse was like himself--he liked music and merriment, and even hard work came more easy for a little recreation by the way.

There was much truth and good sense in the observation of the wagoner. “All work and no play,” says the proverb, “makes Jack a dull boy.” It is right and proper that we should devote some part of our time to amusement, for by this means we are cheered and enlivened, and qualified to engage in our severer duties with good effect. But we should be careful of two points: first, that we choose innocent amusements, and second, that we do not permit our recreations so far to engross our thoughts or our time, as to interfere with the sober business of life.

The Crane Family.

I am not going to talk of Ichabod Crane, or Jeremiah Crane, or of their wives or families. I shall leave these respectable people for the present, and say a few words about certain long-legged birds which are very interesting, though not very familiarly known to most of us. The storks and cranes are so nearly alike that they might seem to be cousins. They have both enormously long legs and bills, and seem particularly well fitted to wading in the water--a thing they can do without rolling up their pantaloons. Look at this tall fellow at the head of this article, and tell me if he need be afraid of wetting his clothes by taking a ramble in a brook.

The engraving represents a crane. Let me first say a few words of his cousin stork. This bird, that is spoken of in the Bible as one that “knoweth her appointed time,” is not found among us, but it is well known in some parts of Europe. In Holland, it arrives in small bands or flocks, about the first of April, and universally meets with a kind and welcome reception from the inhabitants. Returning year after year to the same town, and the same chimney-top, it reoccupies its deserted nest; and the gladness these birds manifest in again taking possession of their dwelling, and the attachment they testify towards their benevolent hosts, are familiar in the mouths of every one. Nor is the stork less remarkable for its affection towards its young; and the story is well known of a female bird, which, during the conflagration at Delft, chose rather to perish with her young than abandon them to their fate. Incubation and the rearing of the young being over by August, the stork, in the early part of that month, prepares for its departure. The north of Africa, and especially Egypt, are the places of its winter sojourning, for there the marshes are unfrozen, its food is in abundance, and the climate is congenial. Previous to setting out on their airy journey, multitudes assemble from the surrounding districts, chattering with their bills as if in consultation. On the appointed night, a period which appears to be universally chosen by the migratory tribes, they mount into the higher regions of the air, and sail away southwards to their destined haven.

The nest of the stork is formed of twigs and sticks, and the eggs, from three to five in number, and nearly as large as those of a goose, are of a yellowish white. Of the countless multitudes in which the stork assembles in order to perform its periodical migrations, some idea may be entertained from Dr. Shaw’s account of the flocks which he witnessed leaving Egypt and passing over Mount Carmel, each of which was half a mile in breadth, and occupied a space of three hours in passing. When reposing, the stork stands upon one leg, with the neck bent backwards, and the head resting between the shoulders. Such also is its attitude when watching for its prey. Its motions are stately, and it stalks along with slow and measured steps. Its plumage is pure white.

The cranes bear a close resemblance to the white stork, which we have been describing, but become even more familiar in some of the countries they inhabit, and, in consequence of their larger size, render more essential service in the removal of carrion, offal, and other nuisances. This important office they share with the vultures, and, like those birds, are universally privileged from all annoyance, in return for so meritorious an exertion of their natural propensities. They seem to be constantly attracted by the heaps of offensive substances collected in the villages and towns, which they devour without scruple, and in immense quantities.

The adjutant arrives in Bengal, in India, before the rainy season. Its gape is enormous, and its voracity astonishing; not that it is ferocious towards man; quite the contrary, for it is peaceable, and even timid; but small quadrupeds are swallowed without any scruple. In the stomach of one, as Latham states, were found a land tortoise ten inches long, and a large black cat entire.

Of the African Marabou Crane, the voracious and omniverous propensities are attested by Major Denham; carrion, reptiles, and small quadrupeds are swallowed at a bolt, with indiscriminate voracity. Smeatham, who resided at Sierra Leone, has given an interesting account of this bird. He observes that the adult bird will often measure seven feet; and that the head, covered with white down thinly dispersed, is not unlike that of a gray-headed man. It associates in flocks, which, when seen at a distance, near the mouths of rivers, coming towards an observer, with their wings extended, as they often do, may readily be mistaken for canoes on a smooth sea. “One of these, a young bird, about five feet high, was brought up tame, and presented to the chief of the Bananas, where Mr. Smeatham lived; and being accustomed to be fed in the great hall, soon became familiar; duly attending that place at dinner-time, and placing itself behind its master’s chair, frequently before the guests entered. The servants were obliged to watch narrowly and to defend the provisions with switches, but, notwithstanding, it would frequently snatch something or other, and once purloined a whole boiled fowl, which it swallowed in an instant. Its courage is not equal to its voracity; for a child of ten years soon puts it to flight with a switch, though it seems at first to stand on its defence, by threatening with its enormous bill widely extended, and roaring with a loud voice, like a bear or tiger. It is an enemy to small quadrupeds, as well as birds and reptiles, and slyly destroys fowls and chickens. Everything is swallowed whole, and so accommodating is its throat, that not only an animal as big as a cat is gulped down, but a shin of beef broken asunder serves it but for two morsels. It has been known to swallow a leg of mutton of five or six pounds, a hare, and also a small fox.”

Sketches of the Manners, Customs, and
History of the Indians of America.

(_Continued from page 144._)