Chapter V

_About Bill Keeler.--The Fox-Trap, and Mistress Sally St.
John.--A Hunting Excursion.--Extraordinary large Game!--A
remarkable Story to come._

The little town of Salem was situated at the foot of a mountain, consisting of wild and broken ridges, forming the boundary between the states of New York and Connecticut. Being now almost entirely at liberty, I spent a great part of my time in rambling among the mountains. In these excursions, Bill Keeler was my almost constant attendant. My uncle, disposed to humor me in everything, allowed me to dispose of my time as I chose, and permitted Bill to leave his work or school, whenever I desired his company, and this was almost every day.

This boy was, in general, very good-natured. He was ingenious in making whistles, and setting snares and traps for quails, partridges, and rabbits; in cutting fish-poles, attaching the hook to the line, digging worms for bait, and putting the bait on the hook. He had also a knack of putting the hook and line into the water in such an insinuating manner, that he always caught more and bigger fish than any one else. He was a dexterous swimmer, expert in strapping skates, formed the best flying kites in the village, made bows and arrows to perfection, and could gather more chestnuts, butternuts, and shagbarks, than any boy in the town.

All these various accomplishments rendered Bill Keeler a delightful companion to me, who, having been brought up in the city, had little acquaintance with those arts, so well understood by boys in the country. He was particularly devoted to me, partly because of his good nature, and partly because my uncle was so indulgent to me, that all around had caught his habit of yielding to my wishes.

But although Bill was thus clever, and thus obliging to me, he was so restless and enterprising, as always to be in some scrape or other. One day, he had seen the burrow of a woodchuck in a field behind the house of Mistress Sally St. John. So he took a large fox-trap, and sunk it to the level of the ground, in the very path where the woodchuck was accustomed to go. He then sprinkled it over with earth, so as to make it appear as if no trap was there. Next morning, pretty early, Bill went to see his trap, expecting of course to find that he had caught the woodchuck. But what was his dismay, on approaching the place, to find Sally St. John herself, standing bolt upright, screaming and piping with all her might, and throwing up her hands in despair! Bill went near enough to see that she had one foot fast in the trap. He then turned about, and left the poor school-mistress to be extricated by her neighbors. For this Bill got a sound flogging from my uncle, but he felt well compensated by being released from school for a month; for, during that period, poor Sally was too lame to resume her duties at the schoolhouse.

My companion’s next exploit was equally serious. If there was anything on earth that he loved better than another, it was gunpowder. Why he had such a fancy for it, I cannot tell, unless because it was a noisy, tearing, dangerous thing, like himself. But be this as it may, he spent more than half the little money he could get in buying it. Every day he was touching off some old pistol-barrel, rammed full of powder; or he was trying to split a pepperidge log with it, by filling some knot-hole, and exploding it. But his greatest delight was to get my uncle’s gun, one of the real old “King’s arms,” taken at the battle of Princeton, and go forth with as big a feeling in him as that which inspired Nimrod, the first hunter that history tells about.

Well, one afternoon he got the gun, and he and I went among the mountains to hunt for something. Pretty soon we saw a squirrel, but Bill was so intent on killing a bear, a raccoon, or some large animal, that he scorned to shoot a squirrel. So we went on, and met with various kinds of small game, but none worthy of the attention of my heroic friend. We proceeded for some time, and finding no large game, Bill determined to shoot a squirrel if he could meet with one. But no squirrel was now to be seen. He gradually lowered his pretensions, until, at length, he was so anxious to shoot something, that he drew up at a wren, and was on the point of discharging his piece at it, when the bird flew away, and we saw no more of it.

It was now evening, and we were at a considerable distance from home. We walked along as fast as we could, and Bill, who was never out of spirits, beguiled the time by telling what he would have done, if something had fallen in his way. “If a wolf had come along in the woods,” said Bill, drawing up the old piece, and taking aim at a mullen stalk, “and if he had come near enough, how I would have peppered him!”

Just at that instant we heard a rustling sound in a meadow, that we were passing. It was too dark to see distinctly, but Bill peeped through the rail-fence, and, saying to me with an emphatic whisper, “Be still; I see one!” he cocked the gun and brought the heavy old piece to a level with his eye. After a long, portentous aim, during which I winked so hard as nearly to put my eye out--whang! it went, and Bill was stretched backward upon the grass in an instant, by the kicking of the gun! He very soon got up, however, and jumped over the fence to pick up his game. He was gone but a minute, and when he came back he only said, “Well, I peppered him!” “Peppered what?” said I. “No matter,” said he; and that was all I could get out of him. But the next morning one of Deacon Kellogg’s cows was found in a thicket, shot through the head, and dead as a hatchet! Bill was obliged to confess, and my uncle settled the affair by paying thirteen dollars and forty-two cents. It was not till several years after, that Bill would tell me what he took the cow for when he fired at her. He then said, that his fancy was so full of shooting a wolf, and he was so ravenous to shoot something, that he really took the poor old cow to be a wolf, or a creature very like one.

The next event of my life, that seems worth recording, was very interesting to me. But I must reserve this story for another chapter.

(_To be continued._)

Origin of Words and Phrases.

A tailor of Samarcand, a city of the East, chanced to live near a gate that led to the public burying-place; and, being a fanciful fellow, he hung up by his shopboard a little earthen pot, into which he dropped a small stone, whenever a corpse was carried by. At the end of every moon, he counted the contents of the pot, and so knew the number of the deceased. At length, the tailor died himself, and, some time after, a person unacquainted with his decease, observing his shop to be deserted, inquired what had become of him. “Oh,” said a neighbor, “the tailor has _gone to pot_, as well as the rest!” And this is the origin of the phrase, “to go to pot.”

Few words have so remarkable a history as the familiar word “_bankrupt_.” The money-changers of Italy had, it is said, benches or stalls in the burse or exchange, in former times, and at these they conducted their ordinary business. When any of them fell back in the world, and became insolvent, his bench was broken, and the name of broken bench, or _banco rotto_, was given him. When the word was first adopted into the English, it was nearer the Italian than it now is; being _bankerout_, instead of _bankrupt_.

Though any man can put his pony to the _canter_, few are able, in general, to explain the word by which they designate the animal’s pace. The term _canter_ is a corruption, or rather an abbreviation, of a Canterbury gallop, which signifies the hand-gallop of an ambling horse. The origin of the phrase is as old as the days of the Canterbury pilgrims, when votaries came at certain seasons to the shrine of Thomas à Becket in that city, from all parts of the nation. Mail-coaches and railroads being then unknown, the pilgrims travelled on horseback, and from their generally using easy, ambling nags, the pace at which they got over the ground came to be called _a Canterbury gallop_, and afterwards _a canter_.

The word _dun_ first came in use, it is said, during the reign of Henry the Seventh of England. It owes its birth to an English bailiff, by the name of _Joe Dun_, who was so indefatigable and skilful at his business of collecting debts, that it became a proverb when a person did not pay his debts, “Why don’t you _Dun_ him?” that is, “Why don’t you send _Dun_ after him?” Hence originated the word, which has so long been in universal use.

The Pelican.

There is nothing more interesting than to study into the works of nature, and remark their infinite variety. It is also pleasing to discover in all this variety, that each individual thing is adapted to fill a particular place in the scale of creation, and that it is often adapted to its end with wonderful ingenuity. The pelican affords a striking instance of this. It is made to live the life of a fisherman, and, being endowed with a strong appetite, we shall see how well he is fitted to his vocation, and how curiously he is provided with the means of securing and storing his prey.

This bird, of which there are several kinds, all being about the size of the swan, is found in almost every part of the globe. Its neck somewhat resembles that of the swan, but its bill, and the pouch beneath, render it entirely different from all other birds. This bill is fifteen inches long, and at its lower edges hangs a bag, which, it is said, will hold fifteen quarts of water. When this is not in use, the bird wrinkles it up under his bill. The upper mandible is of a dull yellow in the middle, with a reddish tinge towards the edges, and a blood-red spot at the extremity. From this color of the bill, resembling blood, arose the idea, formerly entertained, that the bird fed its young with its blood. In disgorging the food, the full pouch is pressed against the chest, and the red spot on the bill comes against the delicate plumage of the breast, giving the bird an appearance of tearing away its feathers and drawing own blood.

Some years ago, there were a male and female pelican in the menagerie at the Tower of London. The female built herself a nest, in which she laid three eggs. She then commenced sitting with the utmost patience, never leaving her eggs for a moment. When the male was fed, following the plan dictated by nature, even in confinement, he crammed his pouch in the first place with double the portion of the food offered to him, and then emptied half the quantity into the female’s pouch. This process over, they disgorged and devoured their food at leisure.

In his natural state, the pelican is very inactive, sitting for hours in the same posture. When he feels the calls of hunger, he raises himself over the surface of the sea, and holding one eye downwards, watches with keenness for the appearance of his finny prey. When a fish approaches near the surface, he darts downwards with great swiftness, and never fails in securing his prize. In this way, he continues his labors, ascending and descending, putting one fish after another into his pouch, until he has laid up enough for a meal. Being a large and clumsy bird, he rises in the air with great difficulty; and we may suppose that the long repose in which he indulges, and which has gained him a sad character for indolence and inactivity, is really rendered necessary by the toilsome nature of his fishing.

Pelicans are said sometimes to assemble in large numbers, and, rising in the air, hover about in a circle, gradually drawing nearer and nearer, thus driving the fish in the water beneath into a narrow space. They then plunge into the water suddenly, pick up their victims with great rapidity, and store them in their pouches. If this be true, it is certainly a very judicious plan, adopted probably by the oldest and most experienced fishermen among them.

The pelican is capable of domestication, and some degree of instruction. The natives in some parts of South America are said to turn their fishing powers to good account, as the Chinese do those of the cormorant. They train them to go out on the water and fill their pouches with fish; and, on their return, they are made to disgorge their contents for the benefit of their masters, receiving a part only for their share.

There is one instance on record of a pelican which possessed a strong taste for music, evincing great pleasure in singing and in the sound of the trumpet. When thus excited, it stretched out its neck, and turned its ear to the musician, remaining perfectly attentive and motionless as long as the music lasted.

We are told of one also which belonged to the ancient Roman emperor, Maximilian, which actually attended the army when on its march, and lived to the age of eighty years.

The voice of the pelican is harsh and discordant, and is said to resemble that of a man in deep complaint. David speaks of it thus: “By reason of my groanings my bones cleave to my skin; I am like a pelican in the wilderness.”--Psa. cii. 6.

* * * * *

PEACH SEEDS.--A gentleman having given a quantity of peaches to some foreign laborers on a railroad, in the vicinity of one of our cities, one of them was asked how he liked them. He said the fruit was very good, but the seeds scratched his throat a little when he swallowed them.

John Steady and Peter Sly.

A DIALOGUE.

_Peter._ Ho, John, don’t stumble over that log! I don’t think it a good plan to study my lessons as I go to school.

_John._ Nor I; but I am in such a scrape!

_Peter._ What’s the matter?

_John._ Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson.

_Peter._ I guess not. Let me see; where did you begin?

_John._ Here, at the top of the page; and I learned over three leaves, down to the end of the chapter.

_Peter._ Well, that’s all right.

_John._ Are you sure?

_Peter._ Certain, as can be.

_John._ Well, now! I am half glad and half sorry. Only think; there is poor George Gracie has been getting the wrong lesson. I came by his window, and there he was, fagging away; and, when we came to talk about it, we found we had been studying in different places. But he was so sure he was right that I thought I must be wrong.

_Peter._ I know it; I know all about it.

_John._ Why! did you tell him wrong?

_Peter._ No, no; I never tell a lie, you know. But yesterday, when the master gave out the lesson, George was helping little Timothy Dummy to do a sum; so he only listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he misunderstood what the master said; and then he began groaning about such a hard lesson, as we were going home; I laughing to myself all the time!

_John._ What! did you find out his blunder and not set him right?

_Peter._ Set him right! Not I. I scolded about the hard lesson, too.

_John._ There, that’s the reason he was so positive. He said you had got the same lesson he had.

_Peter._ But I never told him so; I only let him think so.

_John._ Ah, Peter, do you think that is right?

_Peter._ To be sure it is. Don’t you know he is at the head of the class, and I am next, and if I get him down to-day, I am sure of the medal? A poor chance I should have had, if he had not made such a blunder.

_John._ Lucky for you, but very unlucky for him; and I must say, I don’t call it fair behavior in you, Peter Sly!

_Peter._ I don’t care what you call it, John. It is none of your affair, as I see; let every fellow look out for himself, and the sharpest one will be the best off.

_John._ Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great end of the horn, now; for, by one trick or another, you are almost always above the rest of us. But if you don’t come out at the little end, and come out pretty small too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, and I shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter.

_Peter._ That you may, now, as soon as you please. If he can get the right lesson decently in half an hour, he is the eighth wonder of the world. I shall have him down, I am sure of that.

(_Enter George Gracie._)

_John._ Here, George, stop a minute; here’s bad news for you.

_George._ What’s the matter?--no school to-day?

_John._ School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong lesson, after all.

_George._ O, John, John! don’t tell me so!

_John._ It’s true; and that sneaking fellow that sits whittling a stick, so mighty easy, he knew it yesterday, and would not tell you.

_George._ Oh, Peter! how could you do so?

_Peter._ Easily enough. I don’t see that I was under any obligation to help you to keep at the head of the class, when I am the next.

_George._ But you know you deceived me, Peter. I think it would have been but kind and fair to tell me my mistake, as soon as you found it out; but, instead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I was right about the lesson.

_Peter._ But I did not tell you so; you can’t say I told you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie.

_John._ But you _will_ lie;--you will come to that yet, if you go on so.

_Peter._ Take care what you say, sir!

_George._ Come, come, John; don’t quarrel with him. He will get the medal now; and it is a cruel thing too; for I sat up till eleven o’clock, last night, studying; and he knew that my father was coming home from Washington to-night, and how anxious I was to have the medal. But it can’t be helped now.

_Peter._ Poor fellow! don’t cry! I declare there are great tears in his eyes. Now it is a pity, really.

_John._ For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him! You are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks so.

_George._ Come, John; I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. I would rather be at the foot of the class, than take such an advantage of anybody.

(_Exit George._)

_Peter._ The more fool you! Now, he will be in such a fluster, that he will be sure to miss in the very first sentence.

_John._ There is the master, coming over the hill; now if I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole story!

_Peter._ You know better than to do that. You know he never encourages tale-bearers.

_John._ I know that, very well; and I would almost as soon be a cheat as a tell-tale; but the master will find you out, yet, without anybody’s help; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the whole school. There is not a fellow in it that don’t scorn you, Peter Sly.

_Peter._ And who cares, so long as the master----

_John._ Don’t be quite so sure about the master, either; he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch you up one of these days, when you little think of it. I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Sly. You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (_Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune._)

_Peter._ Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class; but there’s the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dummy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that, too.

(_Enter master, taking out his watch._)

_Master._ It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school.

_Peter._ Yes, sir.--What now? he looks rather black.

(_Aside._)

_Master._ For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars?

_Peter._ To make the boys study, I believe, sir.

_Master._ And why do I wish them to study?

_Peter._ Why,--to please their parents, I suppose, sir.

_Master._ I wish them to study for the very same reason that their parents do;--that they may get knowledge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor under a considerable mistake about these matters. You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that piece of silver, hanging round your neck; and your mother takes pleasure in seeing it.

_Peter._ Yes, sir; she does.

_Master._ And why? What does the medal say to her? Of what is it a sign?

_Peter._ Why, that I am the best scholar in my class.

_Master._ Is that what it says? I think it only shows, that you have been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other boy.

_Peter._ Well, sir; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar.

_Master._ She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you know, Peter Sly, and _I_ know, that a boy who has no sense of honor, no generous feelings, no strictness of principle, may get to the head of his class, and get medals for a time, _without_ being the best scholar. You know how such a thing can be accomplished, do you not? and how the medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home? (_Peter hangs his head in silence._) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done? By base tricks; by purposely leading others into mistakes; by taking advantage of every slip of the tongue; by trying to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy who does these things, is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to get medals, instead of being sent to gain knowledge to prepare him for active life; and, under this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead of the thing itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object, as to care not by what unjustifiable means he obtains it. That shows wickedness,--want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this description?

_Peter._ Yes, sir; but, forgive me. I did not think you ever observed it.

_Master._ The artful are very apt to believe themselves more successful than they really are. So you concluded you had deceived me, as well as wronged your companions! Your tears are unavailing, if, by them, you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be publicly disgraced.

_Peter._ What, sir! when I have not told a lie!

_Master._ You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I have watched you in silence and closely for the last month, and I am satisfied, that you have not merely yielded occasionally to a sudden temptation, but that deception is an habitual thing with you; that, through life, you will endeavor to make your way by low knavery, if I do not root the mean vice out of you, and so save you from the contempt of men, and the anger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your heart as that of a liar. Go into school; and as I am convinced, from reflecting on several circumstances which took place, that you had no just claim to the very medal you now wear, take your place at the foot of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall be explained in presence of all the scholars. I use the principle of emulation in my school, to rouse up talent and encourage industry; but I watch against its abuse. I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and unwavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feelings; and am happy to say, that, except yourself, I have no cause of doubt of having succeeded. I know not one of your companions, who would not spurn from his heart the base man[oe]uvres which you adopt; and, before this day is over, they shall have fresh motives to value fair dealing. You must be made an example of; I will no longer permit you to treat your schoolmates with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in!

The Three Friends.

Two sisters, named Amy and Anna, were once sitting together upon a grassy bank, when a large dog came between them, and thrusting his nose familiarly into their hands, snugged down, as if desirous of making one of the party. The two girls caressed him fondly, and called him “good Dash” and “pretty Dash”--and many other titles of affection they bestowed upon him. At length the younger of the girls said, “Amy, I have heard that Dash once saved my life: will you tell me how it happened?” “With pleasure,” said Amy; and accordingly she proceeded as follows:

“About five years ago, Anna, when you were not more than two years old, we were living in Vermont, near one of the streams that empties into Connecticut river. The snow was very deep that winter, and when it came to go away in the spring, it made a great freshet. The melted snow came down the hills and mountains, and filled the rivers, which overflowed their banks, and overspread the valleys and swept everything before them.

“The little river near our house suddenly rose above its borders, and came thundering along, tearing away trees and bridges and mills and houses. At last it seemed to threaten our dwelling, and father and mother began to prepare to leave it and fly to the neighboring hills for security. In the preparation for flight, you was put into a large basket with some clothes stuffed round you, and set down upon a little bridge of planks near the house, while our parents and myself were gathering together a few things to take with us. As father put you on the bridge, he noticed that Dash seemed to look on with interest and anxiety, for the waters made a terrible roaring all around us; and he observed also, on looking back, that Dash had taken his seat on the bridge by your side.

“You had not been left more than ten minutes, when we heard a frightful noise, and going to the door, we saw, with terror and amazement, that the water had suddenly risen and surrounded the house. Nothing could save us but instant flight. Father took me in his arms, and with mother clinging to him, he started for the bridge where you had been placed; but he soon perceived that the bridge had been carried away by the rush of the waters, and neither you nor Dash was to be seen. It was no time for delay or search, for the waves were rising rapidly, and it was with the utmost difficulty that father was able to take mother and me to the hill. There at length we arrived, and leaving us to take care of ourselves, father went in search of you. He was absent nearly four hours--and I never shall forget the anxiety with which we waited his return. We were without shelter; the earth was damp and the air chill; but we were so absorbed in fear for you that we thought not of our own sufferings. At last we saw father coming, at a considerable distance. He had you in his arms, and Dash was leaping and frolicking at his side. I was never so happy; I shall never, never be so happy again, as I was when I saw father coming, and saw that you was safe!

“At length father reached us; though it was a matter of some difficulty, on account of the water, which had choked up the valley. I need not tell how heartily mother and myself kissed you when we got hold of you. We shed a great many tears, but you only laughed, and seemed to think it all a pleasant frolic. When we could compose our feelings, father told us the story of your escape. It seems that the waters rose suddenly while we were in the house, and lifting the planks of the bridge, carried you and Dash and the basket upon them, down the stream. The current was very swift, and you must have sailed along at a terrible rate; but faithful Dash kept his place at your side. You had gone about two miles, when the dog and basket were seen by some people standing on the shore. Dash saw them at the same moment, and he set up a very piteous howl, but they did not understand him. When he saw that there was no relief to be had from them, he leaped into the water, and seizing one end of one of the planks in his mouth, began to swim with all his might, and push the planks toward the land. He was so powerful and so skilful, that he very soon gave them a direction toward a little island, which was not distant, and in a few moments they struck against the shore, and were held fast by running between some small trees. The dog again set up a howl, and the people before mentioned, now thinking something was the matter, entered a boat and went to the island, where they found you fast asleep in the basket, and dry as a biscuit!”

When Amy had reached this point of her story, Anna put her arms around the dog’s neck, and with her eyes swimming in tears, kissed him over and over again. She said nothing, however, for her heart was too full. Her sister then went on to tell the rest of the story--but as the reader will easily guess it all, I need not repeat it here. If any of my young readers are curious to know all about it, I shall be at their service, whenever they will give me a call.

* * * * *

ATTACHMENT TO OUR COUNTRY.--When Gulliver was in Lilliput, he lay down to sleep. In the morning he found himself fastened down to the earth by a thousand little cords which the Lilliputians had thrown over him. Every man is thus attached to some spot on earth by the thousand small threads which habit and association are continually throwing around him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is that which makes us love the place where our fathers are entombed. When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, “What!” they replied, “shall we say to the bones of our fathers, ‘Arise, and go with us into a foreign land?’”

The Fox and the Tortoise;

A FABLE, TO SHOW THE ADVANTAGES OF HONESTY.

A fox that had been robbing some hen-roosts, and had therefore excited the indignation of the people, was one day pursued by a party of hunters, and sorely pressed by their hounds. At last he came to a secluded spot, and having for the time eluded his enemies, he sat down to take breath. Near by there chanced to be a tortoise, and as birds and beasts always talk in fables, it was a matter of course that the two animals on the present occasion should fall into conversation.

“You seem,” said the tortoise, “to be very much out of breath: pray let me ask you what is the matter?”

“Matter enough!” replied the fox. “I occasionally slip into the farmers’ hen-roosts, and take away a few of their fowls, or now and then I carry off a fat goose or a stray lamb; and behold, I am hunted by all people with all their hounds, as if I was the greatest rascal on the face of the earth! Whew! how hot I am. These villanous hounds put me in a terrible tremor. One of them came so close as to snap at my throat with his long ugly teeth, and I really thought my last hour was come. What a terrible life it is I lead: I cannot stir abroad but some hound is on my track, or some bullet whistles near my heart. Even in my den of rocks I have no peace, for I am ever dreaming of the sound of muskets or the baying of hounds.”

As the fox said this, the cry of the hunters and their hounds came near, and to save his life, he was again obliged to take to flight. The humble tortoise, observing all this, remarked very wisely, as follows: “How much better it is to be honest and content with what we can call our own, than to be forever running after forbidden pleasures, thus drawing down upon ourselves the enmity of mankind, and all the disquietude of a guilty conscience.”

* * * * *

THE INSINCERITY OF FLATTERY.--“What little, ugly-looking, red-headed monster is that, playing among those children?” “That, madam, is my eldest son!” “Indeed! you don’t say so; what a beautiful little cherub it is!”

The Travels, Adventures and Experiences
of Thomas Trotter.