Chapter III: Part 3

_Samuel._ Recollect, Fanny, that these things seem so insignificant to you, because they are less than you; and appear to be of no use to you. But look at the web which the spider is weaving upon that bush; examine carefully what this skilful artist is about; what skill, what regularity, and attention is shewn, in its net made from that slender thread. In the first place observe the three or four cords which support the whole; they are fastened to the branches, and are much stronger than the rest of the web; then notice these more slender threads which are fixed to the others and meet together in the centre: upon these threads, which remind us of the spokes of a wheel, the spider fixes finer threads in circles, which are smaller and smaller from the outside to the middle. Observe how this little insect has placed each circle at exactly the same distance from the others, and how these circles are tighter as they are nearer the centre. There, now it is finished. The spider has completed her beautiful work. Now she has taken her post in the middle of her web, her eight feet are placed upon its threads, and she watches for the slightest motion which is made by any insect that touches her web.--Now, my girl, can we suppose that God who made this insect, and gave her this surprising skill, will forget her, and leave her so that all her labour and pains will be useless! Surely not; let us wait a little and see. There, now, watch that little fly. Ah, he is caught. See, the spider is upon him in a moment; observe, she has entangled him in some threads, and now she has killed him, and is feeding upon him. She has food enough for to-day. God has provided for her.

_F._ Father, don’t you hear a little noise, as if somebody was filing or sawing very gently?

_S._ That is a little animal which God remembers as well as the spider. Don’t stir, and you will see him presently. There,--there he is.

_F._ What that pretty, very, very little mouse? Did he make that noise?

_S._ Yes, look here, I will shew you what it was. See under this leaf two pieces of nut shell. The little field mouse held this nut in his two fore paws, and with his long sharp teeth gnawed, or, as it were, filed away the shell; he then ate away the kernel and is now gone to look for something else.

_F._ Oh, father, how kind all this is. How well it is planned. Then there is food for every little animal and insect. How great and how good God must be, who orders all things!

By conversations like this, Samuel instructed his children. He took every opportunity to draw their attention towards the eternal God, who, although he does not converse with men upon earth, as before the fall, yet shews his presence by many striking instances of love and mercy.

As Samuel and his daughter continued their walk, they came to the skirt of a wood, where they found a young woman sitting by the side of a spring, with an infant in her arms. The poor little child was crying very bitterly, its mother wept also, and appeared quite overcome with grief.

_S._ Poor child, how sadly you are crying. My good woman, be more calm; tell me what is the matter?

_The Mother._ O, Sir, my child is dying; my child, my dear child.

_S._ No, I do not think so; it is in great pain, but it does not seem likely to die; God has sent this trouble, and he can remove it. Trust in him; take courage and exert yourself, and all will be well. Tell me what is to be done.

_M._ Ah, Sir, you do not know what has happened. The birds yonder have food for their young, but my little one is dying with hunger--with hunger! I have no milk for it, and have walked all day across the mountains without meeting any help. Oh, my boy, my dear boy, don’t cry so sadly. If you did but know how unhappy it makes your mother.--

Samuel was silent, and deeply grieved. “My God,” said he, “be pleased to hear the cries of this poor creature, and shew us what we should do.”

Fanny said to her father, “Our neighbour Nanny weaned little Charles yesterday, I am sure she would be glad to take this little child.”

_S._ That is a good thought, my dear; I trust God has reminded you of it. Let us make haste homewards; this poor woman and her child need our help much more than the person we were going to see. Come, my good woman, take courage; try and follow us, and your child will soon be comforted. Fanny, let us go the path-way by the willows, that is the nearest.

As Fanny walked along, she thought about the woman and her child, and felt in some doubt and difficulty. “How is it,” said she to herself; “how is it that God, who is so great, so powerful, and so good, should provide for the spider and the little mouse, but should neglect that little child, so weak and so helpless as not to be able even to ask for what it wants, and should let it be in such a state that it must very soon die! Why did God take away its mother’s milk? It is very strange!” These last words she said aloud.

_S._ What is so very strange?

Fanny hesitated, and was afraid to tell what had passed in her mind, lest it should be displeasing to God. So she said, “It was something, father, which I do not quite understand; but I will think again about it.”

_S._ You had better tell me, Fanny; do not be afraid of letting me know what it was. Were you thinking about that little child, and wondering why God appeared to have forgotten it, while He takes care of mice and spiders?

_F._ (_colouring_.) I was afraid to say so; but I could not help wondering at it. But I did not think that God was unjust, only I did not understand his ways.

_S._ There is Nanny coming this way; we will talk again about this subject by and by. Run to her, for you can run faster than I.

Fanny ran like a deer, and told their neighbour all that had happened. Nanny hastened to Samuel, rejoicing that she could be of use. “This is, indeed, providential,” said she; “give me the child, I will treat it as if it was my own. Thank God, my good woman,” said she to the mother: “he who made your child has directed it here; see, it is as well pleased with my milk as if it were your own.”

Rebecca who was the mother of the child, fell upon her knees and clasped her hands together. She wept, but her tears were not tears of bitterness or grief; she was struck with a sense of the unexpected succour she had so providentially received, and she felt pained that she had for a moment doubted the faithfulness of the Lord.

“My friend,” said Samuel, kindly raising her up, “you see that He, who feeds even the young ravens, has not forgotten your child.”

“I have sinned,” replied the mother; “I feel that I have sinned; may God pardon my evil complaints. But it is a long day for a mother. Yes it is a very long day, when every moment is marked by a cry of pain from her child! I looked to heaven, but saw not the Lord; I was like Hagar in the desert, (Gen. xxi. 15.) and forgot him.”

_S._ The Lord directed you to find succour, and has many other blessings in store for you, of which you are not now aware.

Fanny was struck with the words of the young mother. She came to her father, and whispered to him, “I also forgot the Lord; will he forgive me?”

Samuel kissed his daughter. “My child,” said he, “remember, that although our Lord sees our faults and evil deeds, he is ready to pardon those who seek forgiveness through Christ. He has said. ‘Ask, and ye shall receive;’ and him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out. Turn to him with your whole heart, he is full of mercy, and his compassions fail not.”

While thus conversing, they arrived at Nanny’s cottage. The little child had fallen asleep in the nurse’s arms, and she put it safely into the cradle of her own child, who was gone to a friend to be weaned.

She then prepared some food for the poor mother, who was quite exhausted with anxiety and fatigue. While thus employed, she repeated, “The Lord is good to all, and his tender mercies are over all his works. The Lord upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth up all those that be bowed down. The eyes of all wait upon thee, and thou givest them their meat in due season. The Lord is righteous in all his ways, and holy in all his works. The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him, to all that call upon him in truth. He will fulfil the desires of them that fear him; he also will hear their cry, and will save them. The Lord preserveth all them that love him, but all the wicked will he destroy.”

_S._ Yes, neighbour, let us praise the providence of God who has been pleased to send you another infant, for a short period deprived of its mother, instead of your own.

_N._ Oh, Samuel, when you learn the whole of this instance of providence, you will indeed adore him with wonder: I will tell you presently, when this good woman has taken something to eat, and has laid down to rest herself. My husband is away for three or four days, so she may stay here till he returns, and, if God pleases, we shall be able to think what had best be done for her.

The mother appeared very thoughtful, and took no notice of what was said. Her hunger was soon satisfied; she then arose, and taking Samuel by the hand, said, “God will bless you; for he has this day shewn, by your means, that he will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the burning flax. I am a bruised reed, but I now feel strengthened; and as to the flax, oil has been poured upon it, and the flame again shines forth.--This is from God.”

Samuel sent his daughter home, and then being left alone with Nanny, he said, “What is this peculiar instance of God’s providence which you have discovered in the misfortunes and succour of that poor woman?”

_N._ I will tell you. Last week, my friend who has taken little Charles to wean, and who lives about twelve miles beyond the mountains, came to see me: among other inquiries, I asked respecting the state of her family as to religion. She shook her head, and unwillingly told me that she suffered a good deal of trouble from her brother-in-law, a profane and irreligious character, who has lately returned home from a foreign country, where he had acquired many bad habits, and among other things had learned to scoff at religion. ‘But what grieves me most of all,’ added she, ‘is his ill treatment to his poor wife, an excellent young woman, whom he married in a foreign country, and who has a child only a few months old.’

_S._ What is she the woman we found?

_N._ I have no doubt of it, and for this reason: my friend told me that this cruel hard-hearted man more than once threatened to kill her and her child, if she continued to read her Bible, and attend a prayer-meeting which is held in their village.

_S._ Do you suppose that she is acquainted with the truth as it is in Jesus, and that her heart is really devoted to the Lord?

_N._ I understood she was a serious character and I now recollect that she was the daughter of a schoolmaster, a good man, who brought up his children in the fear of the Lord and the knowledge of the Saviour. You heard her refer to a passage in the Bible?

_S._ Yes; I noticed it.

_N._ My friend told me she often conversed with her sister-in-law upon serious subjects, and had no doubt God had blessed her soul.

_S._ But how came you so soon to think it was her?

_N._ When my friend spoke of her troubles, I felt deeply affected for her unpleasant situation, and I have since then frequently wished that I could be of use to her. This evening I sadly missed my little Charles, and I took a walk to divert my thoughts. She came again into my mind, and I could not help thinking of the painful situation of a serious young woman, far from her home and her relations, and married to a wicked man who treats her with the greatest unkindness.

_S._ It must indeed be a painful situation, and how deplorable such a union.

_N._ While I was thinking about her, I saw you by the willows with a young woman in a foreign dress, and an infant in her arms, it at once struck me that she must be the poor woman of whom I was thinking, for my friend, among other things, spoke of the dress she usually wore; and as we were walking along, I heard her say to herself, ‘If I stop here, will not he find me?’ I then felt sure that I was right in my conjecture.

_S._ Poor thing! it is _that_ makes her so thoughtful. I recollect when I spoke to her, she said she had been all day travelling among the mountains.

_N._ I am sure it is her, and I hope the Lord has brought her here for some good.

_S._ O, the depth of the riches, both of the wisdom and knowledge of God! How unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out! I will tell my wife what has happened, and we will come in the morning and see what can be done for the young woman. Good night; may the peace of God be with you!

In the morning Samuel and his wife came to Nanny’s cottage, and found her sitting before the door with the stranger, and suckling her child.

_N._ It is, as I supposed, it is Rebecca, my friend’s sister-in-law. Samuel’s wife spoke kindly to the young woman, and after a short conversation led her aside.

_S._ My wife is going to speak seriously to her. We do not think she has acted quite as the word of God directs.

_N._ Neighbour Samuel, remember the bad character and ill behaviour of her husband.

_S._ Do you not recollect I told you the other day that the faults of others did not excuse us for neglecting our own duty.

_N._ But would you have this woman and her child exposed to such barbarous treatment?

_S._ If she had continued enduring these things for the sake of God, and because he has said, “If when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it patiently; this is acceptable with God,” 1 Pet. ii. 20. can you for a moment suppose that he would not have sustained her under her trials? Remember the words of St. Paul, “The woman that hath a husband which believeth not, and if he be pleased to live with her, _let her not leave him_.” 1 Cor. vii. 13.

Nanny felt convinced that Samuel was right.

His wife returned with Rebecca, whose eyes were full of tears.

_S._ My good Rebecca, I hope you feel that we desire to act as your parents, and only wish to speak for your good.

_R._ Yes, I feel it, my good friends; you have spoken to me from the Lord, and I needed your advice. I have done wrong, I have sinned against God by my impatience, He chastened me yesterday, but he did it as a tender father, and in mercy has, I trust, turned the evil I planned into good.

_S’s wife._ I do hope that what has passed will prove an occasion of good, both to you and your husband.

Rebecca shook her head, and sighed as she looked at her child.

_S._ Do not limit the power of God. Have more faith; cast all your care upon him, for he careth for you. I intend to go to your husband to-day, and I hope my visit will not be without effect.

In the course of the day Samuel set out. He was absent three days, during which time his wife conversed a good deal with Rebecca; they also read the Bible, and prayed together. The young wife was deeply affected, and said, that as soon as Samuel returned she would ask him to take her home to her husband; adding, “I will endeavour to win him by my conduct, as the apostle directs, and how do I know but I may be the means of saving my husband.” 1 Cor. vii. 16. 1 Pet. iii. 1.

In the afternoon of the third day, while they were conversing upon the duties of a Christian, as a wife and a mother, they heard some one coming. “Here he is,” said Rebecca, running to the door; “here is good Samuel.”

_S._ Yes, Rebecca, and I have brought somebody with me; I am not alone, but am accompanied by a man, who I trust will in future endeavour to walk according to the will of Him who has protected you. Here, Dennis, (said he, raising his voice,) come in; Rebecca is waiting for you.

Dennis was her husband. He ran in, saying, “O, my dear Rebecca, forgive your unkind husband; I have prayed to God to pardon me. O forgive me for all the injury I have done to you and our child.”

Rebecca was deeply affected, and unable to speak for some time. At length she said, “The Lord is good. Dennis, I was coming home to ask your pardon, for while sinning against the Lord, I have sinned against you also; I forgot that I was bound to obey you, and that I ought to have waited patiently, praying that the Lord would turn your heart.”

_D._ I trust I shall now be an altered man; God sent this good man to me, and I feel convinced of my sin. We have both of us much reason to be thankful; these are the wonderful dealings of his providence.

Fanny just then came to call her mother, and heard what Rebecca and her husband said about the providence of God. She remembered what she thought a few evenings before, and what she had said to her father. She watched for an opportunity of speaking to him, and said, “Father, you have not yet spoken to me about what I said the other evening; but I have thought about it a great deal, and I now clearly see that God had not forgotten the little baby and his mother, any more than the field mouse or the spider.”

_S._ You perceive these things, my girl, but as yet you know very little of what the Saviour has done. Consider further, that it was Rebecca’s grief, when she saw the suffering of her child, that made you think of Nanny, and it was from her I learned Rebecca’s hardships, and the evil conduct of her husband. That God, who is all powerful, all wise, and full of goodness, whose providence orders even the smallest events, I trust has been pleased to direct that these occurrences should lead me to be the means of directing Dennis to his Saviour, and of reconciling him to his wife and child. Thus you now see that God has shewed his kindness to Rebecca, to her child, and to her husband, much more than to the spiders and animals of the field. He gives them their food in due season; but for his children he has provided a better gift, even “the gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord!” My girl, the providence of God is indeed wonderful, and his ways past finding out.

Fanny perceived the truth of what her father said. She felt in her heart that the ways of the Lord are above our ways, and his thoughts above our thoughts, and she determined in his strength never more to doubt the power, nor the tender mercies, of Him who does all things for the good of his children.

LUCY;

OR,

“_I will not be Naughty again, Papa_.”

One day, Lucy’s father was obliged to find fault with her for something she had done wrong. “I will not be naughty again, papa,” said she; “I promise you, I will not be so foolish again.”

I am sorry to say, that Lucy had been a very naughty girl; she was not so in general, but somehow she often forgot herself. Her most frequent fault was pride, for she thought herself much wiser, and much more clever than she really was, and this led her sometimes to disobey her parents and teachers, and to answer rather pertly. Lucy’s mother was dead, but her aunt took care of her father’s family. She was an excellent woman, and was very kind to Lucy, and tried always to teach her what was right. One morning she said, “Lucy, my dear, bring your work; leave off playing with the cat, the clock has just struck ten.”

Lucy was so silly as not to mind what her aunt said, and disobeyed; first in actions, and then in words; for she continued to play with her cat, and spoke in a cross manner, “You are always telling me, ‘Come, bring your work;’ you never let me play a minute.” “Lucy,” said her aunt, “you forget what you ought to do, and that God hears you. Is it not your duty to mind what I say?” Lucy put down the cat, and walked very slowly across the room to fetch her work; and, as soon as she was seated, muttered to herself, “How tiresome it is to be obliged always to do as one is bid.”

In the evening, her father asked whether Lucy had been a good girl, and was very sorry to hear what had happened; presently it was time for family prayer, he rang the bell, and the children and servants all came in.

Lucy did not know that her father was acquainted with what had happened, and I regret to add, that she had not shewn any sorrow at having been so naughty.

Her father opened the Bible, and read the sixth chapter of St. Paul’s Epistle to the Ephesians. If you look at your Testament, you will find it begins thus, “_Children, obey your Parents in the Lord: for this is right._”

When he had finished the chapter, he said a few words about what he had read, and observed that God desired to see a teachable spirit in children; and that they should do as the hymn reminded them,

“Whenever I’m saying my prayer,
I’ll ask for a teachable heart.”

He also spoke of the sinfulness of pride and self-conceit, which led to disobedience to the will of the Lord.

“Children often suppose,” said he, “that they need not mind what they are told, unless they please; and then they sometimes murmur against those whom they ought to obey. A child who acts thus, in reality disobeys God, and refuses to take up the yoke of Christ. This is very plain, for if our Lord was to appear as he did when upon earth, and should enter the room while little boys or girls acted in this manner, I am sure they would hide their faces before the blessed Son of God. It would be quite clear, then, that they were doing wrong, and that they had forgotten that God sees them, although they do not see Him, and that he is not pleased with their conduct.

“Children should also remember that they are to obey their teachers, and those who are set over them, just the same as their parents; for as God gave this power to their parents, and they have placed them with their teachers, so children are to obey their teachers just the same as their parents.

“It is then necessary,” added he, speaking slowly and in an impressive manner, “that all children should be convinced that it is their duty to be obedient to all who are set over them. They must also remember, that in refusing to do what they are told, they disobey the commands of God.”

The family then knelt down, and the father prayed, that all who were then present, and especially the children, might humbly submit to the will of God, as set forth in his holy word.

Lucy’s conscience told her, that her father had said this on her account; when she rose from her knees, she felt very unhappy, and was afraid to go and kiss him as usual.

I hardly need remark, that when she felt that she had done wrong, she ought to have humbled herself and asked pardon of God, and then intreated her aunt to forgive her. But her pride would not let her do so, and she did not try to subdue it. Pride not only leads people to do wrong, but also causes them to persist in evil.

It was bed-time, and Lucy went to bed in this stubborn humour; I need not say she was very unhappy. She did not venture to repeat her prayer, and that is a _very_ bad sign indeed; for when children dare not pray to God, it is a proof that their consciences tell them they have done wrong, and that they do not feel really sorry for what they have done.

The next morning, when Lucy awoke, she felt still more unhappy, and did not like the thought of meeting her father and her aunt. But ought not she to have been more unhappy because God saw her? Is it not strange that a naughty child is afraid of being seen by a father, or a mother, or a teacher, but does not fear being seen by God? for “the eyes of the Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.” It is very easy for a child to _say_ this, but how few there are who shew by their actions that they _believe_ it.

When Lucy was dressed, she ought to have said her prayers before she went down stairs. She felt troubled just as she had done the evening before. The voice of God whispered in her heart, “Acknowledge your fault, and pray to be forgiven.” She also remembered our Lord’s kind invitation: “Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.” But poor Lucy tried to put away these thoughts, and instead of kneeling down, she employed herself in other things; she was a long while washing her hands, then she folded up her clothes very neatly, and set the room to rights, and she recollected to feed her bird that morning, although at other times she frequently forgot it. I have often seen little folks act in this manner. When they know they have done wrong, their pride will not allow them to acknowledge their fault, but they are very careful to do _other_ things right. They forget that they ought to do _all things_ properly, so that if one is done wrong, the doing a great many other things right will not make up for it. But they try to escape from Him who is greater than our hearts, who knows all the thoughts, and discovers to us the evil that is in them.

All these little employments served to pass away the time, and to keep away thought; and Lucy was so silly as to wish for this. At last, she heard her father’s voice, calling the family to come in to prayers. Lucy then began to go down stairs; she went down very slowly. When she came down to the parlour-door, she stopped a minute, and then entered the room; but she hung down her head, and looked very unhappy. Her father began to read as usual; it was the parable of the Prodigal Son. Lucy listened till he came to the verse, “I will arise, and go unto my father, and say, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.” She was struck with these words, tears came into her eyes, and she hastily drew out her handkerchief to hide them.

Her father perceived what was passing in her heart, and when the chapter was finished, he added a few words on the relief which we may find by humbling ourselves before God, and lamenting our offenses like the prodigal.

“God is love,” said he; “his tender mercies are over all his works; he takes no pleasure in punishing us; but, on the contrary, in his mercy warns us against offending him; and when we have done wrong, he desireth not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from the error of his ways; and, like a kind shepherd, He brings us back to himself.

“Let us remember that the Saviour, yes, the Son of God, gave himself for his sinful and wretched creatures. Why, then, should we doubt his love, and suppose that he will refuse to listen to us willingly? He does not take pleasure in seeing us in a state of enmity with him. No; his love is soon felt by a poor sinner, when he is convinced of his fault, and believes in the pardon which God the Father offers, through Jesus Christ, his Son.”

These words went to Lucy’s heart. As soon as prayer was over, she hastened to her room, and kneeling down, prayed for pardon through the blood of Jesus Christ. God, who is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to grant those things which are asked in the name of Jesus Christ, (John xvi. 23.) was pleased to hear her prayer, and send an answer of peace.

Lucy now felt relieved from the heavy burden which oppressed her mind. She ran to her father’s room, and opening the door, threw herself into his arms, exclaiming, “O, my dear papa, do forgive me; I wish I had not been naughty.”

“My dear Lucy,” said he, “then I trust God has been pleased to touch your heart, and has humbled your spirit before him. Poor girl! you refused the tender offers of mercy of our kind Saviour for a long time. O, Lucy, how could you harden your heart against a God so full of loving-kindness and tender mercies? Were you happy, when your mind was in that state? Were you able to pray, and read your Bible?”

_Lucy._ No, papa; I did not like to think about God, and I was afraid to read his word.

_Father._ Poor girl! so you avoided all thoughts of your heavenly Father and Redeemer. Were you really afraid to read God’s holy word?

_L._ But I am not afraid now, papa; I have prayed to God in my own room, and I feel now as if he had pardoned me; I feel happier now, and I will not be naughty again; I promise you I will not.

_F._ Lucy, tell me the truth; have you not often told your aunt and me that you would not be naughty again?

_L._ Why, yes, papa, I have said so before; several times.

_F._ Then you have several times broken your promise; although, I believe, you intended to have kept it. How has this happened?

_L._ Why, somehow, I was naughty again; I forgot my promise.

_F._ But, my dear, how came you to forget it so easily, since you promised it of your own accord, and wished to keep your word?

_L._ Perhaps, papa, it was because I did not pray to God to keep me from evil.

_F._ Yes; it was because you made the promise in your own strength, trusting only to your own good resolutions. I will tell you something of which it reminds me.

One day, a gardener had planted two trees; they were both of them very weak, and during the night, the wind loosened one of them. When the gardener came in the morning, he took a stake, and fixing it firmly in the ground, tied the tree to it. “Now,” said he, “it is quite safe.”

In the evening the wind was higher than before. The tree which was tied to the stake remained firm in its place; but the other was blown quite down, and the gardener found, the next day, that it was broken and quite spoiled.

“This is a sad business,” said he; “I forgot that if one of these trees needed a stake to support it, the other would want one also.” He then looked round the garden very carefully, and wherever he found a tree that was weak, he placed a stake to secure it.

_L._ Oh, papa, I have found out what you mean;--I was like the tree without a support, when I promised of myself, and without looking to God for strength to enable me to perform what I had promised; and as I have always forgot this, I have so often done wrong.

_F._ My dear girl, remember this: we are sinners by nature; and when we give way to anger, pride, envy, or any other sins, which are called the works of the flesh, we act in the manner to which we are most inclined. Then if we wish to do the will of God,--I mean those things which are called the “fruits of the Spirit,”--we must look for a power to enable us to do them, different from that which is in our own hearts. So, when you said, just now, “I will not be naughty again, papa; I promise you I will not,” it was just as if that crab-tree which grows in the hedge should say, “I am determined that I will bear as good fruit as the golden pippin in the orchard.” You know that an apple-tree must be grafted with a good sort before it can bring forth good fruit. Suppose, now, that the crab-tree could speak, and really desired to bear nice apples, what would it say?

_L._ It must ask the gardener to graft it with some good sort, or else it would continue to bear just the same as usual.

_F._ Then what must my dear Lucy do, if she desires to bring forth the good fruits of the Spirit--love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness, goodness, faith, meekness, temperance?

_L._ Then, dear papa, (as you said the other day,) I must ask the Saviour to cleanse me from my sins by his precious blood, that I may be sanctified by the Holy Spirit, so that I may learn to do His will.

_F._ Yes, my dear, and if you earnestly seek the Saviour’s grace, even a few days will shew a change in your behaviour.

Lucy kissed her father, and said, “Papa, will you pray for me?” “Yes,” said he, “my dear, I trust God will enable me always to remember you in my prayers.” Lucy then went to her aunt, and in a modest humble manner really and sincerely asked her to forgive what she had done wrong.

Perhaps, some day, you may read another story about Lucy, and learn whether she remembered her father’s advice, and how God was pleased to bless her desire to do his will.

See page 107. ]

A LESSON OF MERCY.

It was the month of January; the fields and houses were covered with snow, and the skaiters and sliders were gliding on the ice; the streets of the towns were covered with snow, and the poor people crowded to the wood merchants,[A] some to buy faggots, while others could only afford to purchase a few billets, just enough to make a little fire in their humble cottages.

Among them was a girl named Margaret, not quite ten years old. She was but poorly dressed, and she shivered with cold.

The little girl stood near a shed where a great many faggots were piled. She looked first at the wood and then at the money in her hand, yet did not enter the shed, but stood shivering in the street.

On the opposite side of the way lived Mr. Basil. His eldest son, Joseph, happened to be at the window and saw this little girl examining the bundles of wood.

After looking at her for a few minutes, he thought she was some workman’s daughter, and might not have money enough to buy the wood she was sent for. He was very sorry for this, and crossed over the road to her.

_Joseph._ It is very cold, my little girl, and you have neither bonnet nor gloves.

_Margaret._ I never had any, Sir; but I am not very cold.

_J._ What are you doing here; do you wish to buy one of these bundles of wood?

_M._ I should like to do so, but I am afraid that I have not got money enough.

_J._ For whom do you wish to buy the wood?

The little girl looked down and seemed rather troubled at this question.

_J._ Did your father or your mother send you for it?

_M._ No, Sir, I wanted to give it to Old Thomas?

_J._ Who is Old Thomas?

_M._ He is our neighbour. He is a mason, and he hurt his leg a fortnight ago, while removing some stones. He is unable to work, and is confined to his bed, and must be very cold.

_J._ Does he know that you intend to give him a bundle of wood?

_M._ I have not told him, Sir.

_J._ My little girl, how did you get this money?

_M._ It was paid me this morning for a pair of socks which I knit last week.

_J._ Is that your regular employment?

_M._ No, Sir, I work at the cotton factory; and my father, and mother, and little brother, work there also.

_J._ How could you find time to make the socks?

_M._ They were only small ones; I knit them last week, very early in the morning and during the dinner hour.

_J._ Then you have worked very hard to help your poor neighbour?

_M._ Was it not my duty, Sir? has not God told us to do so? [added she, modestly, and not in the boasting way in which some children talk about any good they have done.]

_J._ Did you buy any wood for Thomas before to-day?

_M._ No, Sir; last Saturday I had earned three-halfpence, but I lost them while I was running to the shop.

_J._ I suppose you were very sorry?

_M._ Why, Sir, I could not help it when they were gone. I hoped God would enable me to be more careful next time.

_J._ How much money have you now?

_M._ I have again got three-halfpence, and here they are, quite safe.

_J._ Well; let us ask what the bundles cost.

The price of each faggot was two-pence, and the wood-merchant said he could not afford to sell them for less. Poor Margaret was very sorrowful when she heard this, and she was going to depart, when Joseph said he would pay the other half-penny.

The little girl was filled with joy. She put down her three-halfpence, then caught up a bundle of wood and ran down the street as fast as her burden would let her. Joseph looked after her, and saw her turn into a court at some distance. He at first thought he would follow her, and go to see Old Thomas, but he recollected it was the time for his drawing lesson, and besides, he saw his father at the window beckoning to him.

“Who was that little girl?” said Mr. Basil.

Joseph told his father what had passed, and went to his drawing. When his lesson was over, he asked his father if he might go and see Old Thomas.

“We will go together, after dinner,” said Mr. Basil.

In the afternoon they went. The poor mason lodged in a small house at the further end of the court. The pavement was covered with snow, except one small space, which had been swept very carefully, and on which a number of birds were picking up some food. Just then little Margaret came out of the house carrying a few crumbs in her hands, which she threw upon the place from which she had swept the snow. The birds flew to a wall just by, and when she was gone they returned to pick up the crumbs.

“I am glad to see you are so kind to these birds,” said Mr. Basil to the little girl.

_M._ They are such pretty creatures, and now they cannot find any thing to eat in the gardens and fields.

_Mr. B._ But God takes care of them, he sends you to give them some food. God does not forget even the meanest of his creatures, and it is a pleasure to be of use even to these little birds. But where is the poor mason you spoke about this morning?

The little girl recollected Joseph, and blushed as she opened the door where Thomas lived. Mr. Basil and his son entered, and, after a kind visit to the old man, they returned home.

As they entered the house, Mr. Basil heard a noise in the garden, and looking over the pales, he saw a lark with its foot caught in a trap of bricks. The poor bird made a noise as if in pain, and tried in vain to get released.

Mr. Basil went to the place, and found that a brick had caught the poor lark by the leg, and crushed its foot.

“How cruel,” said he; and, calling the servant, asked who had set the trap. He was very sorry to hear that Joseph had made it that morning.--He then took the lark, went into the house, and called his children.

“See,” said he to Joseph, shewing him how the poor lark was hurt, “see the effects of your cruelty. This poor little creature was hungry, it came to our house to pick up something which was of no use to us, and you have been the means of breaking its leg, and causing it to suffer as you see.”

The children were all very sorry, when they saw how the poor lark had its leg crushed, and how much pain it suffered.

“It shall suffer no more pain;” said Mr. Basil, killing the poor bird. “It is lawful for us to take the life of animals when we need them for food, but we are to be very careful not to put them to more pain than can be avoided. There was no occasion to catch this lark, and still less to set a trap for it, in which it might suffer much pain, for a very long time. Here,” added he, giving the bird to Joseph, “look at it; think how much it suffered; this is your work to-day; compare it with what the little girl has done! My boy, you were right in being kind to her: but how inconsistent your cruel conduct towards the poor birds!”

Joseph could not reply. He felt how cruelly he had acted, when he saw how the poor bird’s leg was crushed, and he determined never to set such a trap again. I hope all my readers will form the same resolution. In the evening, his father spoke again respecting the bird. “Please, Sir, not to say any more about it,” said Joseph; “I see how wrong I acted, and have been quite ashamed when I compared my conduct with that of the little girl.”

_Mr. B._ Tell me how you could be so cruel.

_J._ I had no idea the trap would have made a poor bird suffer so much; I thought it would have been killed at once.

_Mr. B._ But why should you desire to take away the life of a poor bird? It is true, that God has given power to man over all animals, and that we may deprive them of life when we need them for food. But you did not want to satisfy your hunger, nor was it your means of getting a livelihood, as is the case with some persons: how could you be so thoughtless?

_J._ Papa, I forgot myself this morning.

_Mr. B._ How so?

_J._ I was cross when I got up, and then felt uncomfortable, and did not like to pray and read my Bible; and I began to quarrel with William, who wished to learn his lesson. I threw down my book on the floor, and spun my humming top. After breakfast, I went into the garden, where I saw some birds, and as I had nothing to do, I made the trap to catch them.

_Mr. B._ Well, Joseph, I am glad to find you are sensible you have done amiss. When the day begins badly it seldom passes without something wrong. What has happened to-day should be a lesson to you; remember to watch over your heart. Think of Christ; he was “gentle, meek, and mild:” let your conduct be in all things as becometh the gospel of Jesus Christ, who suffered for our sins, to purify our hearts, and to fill us with love to him and all around us.

Joseph did not forget his father’s words, and at night he prayed that he might be made more like the blessed Son of God while upon earth.

He began the next day in a very different manner, and after breakfast, asked his father to let him go and see poor Old Thomas.

_Mr. B._ Willingly; and here is a bundle of things your mother was going to send to the little girl; you may take them, and some tracts, and tell her to ask her parents to let her come to see your mother to-morrow morning.

As Joseph passed along the court, he saw that the place was again cleared from the snow, and the birds were hopping about it. He thought of the poor lark.

Thomas was better, and able to stand. He told Joseph how kind Margaret had been. “You cannot think,” said he, “what a good girl she is. She is so attentive, so gentle, and so patient, that it is very plain her chief delight is in doing good to others.”

_J._ I suppose her parents have instructed her carefully?

_T._ They have nothing but their own labour to depend upon, but they have the fear of the Lord, and that is better than riches. They have brought up their children in his ways. If God had not sent them to be my neighbours, what would have become of me?

_J._ Margaret brought you some wood yesterday, did not she?

_T._ Yes, Sir; and her mother has told me how hard she worked to earn this money. Good girl! out she is always the same: she cannot see others in trouble without trying to do something to comfort them. Even dumb creatures share her kindness. She collects every crumb for “the dear pretty birds,” as she calls them.

_J._ It is very happy for a child to be born with such a kind disposition.

_T._ Oh, Sir, it is not by nature that she has this kind disposition. I knew her from a baby; and, till she was seven years old, she was just as thoughtless as other children: but since that time she has, by the grace of God, become very different.

_J._ Do you suppose she really loves Christ?

_T._ I am as sure of it as one person can be respecting another. I fully trust that Margaret is a child of God, and that her heart has been changed by his grace. Our Lord said, “by their fruits ye shall know them;” and an evil tree cannot bring forth those good fruits which God requires.

Joseph was struck with this account of Margaret. He could not help again comparing her conduct during the day before with his own, and he felt humbled by the comparison, but he determined to pray more earnestly for divine grace than he had ever yet done.

As Margaret was at the factory, Joseph left the bundle with Thomas, gave him some books suited for the afflicted, desired him to deliver the message, and returned home.

As he passed along the court, he looked at the birds once more, and took from them another _lesson of mercy_. “Ah,” said he, “it is very true that we are naturally cruel and hard-hearted. Real love to the bodies and souls of our fellow-creatures, can only be found in a heart which ‘has been changed by divine grace, and which has felt love for the Saviour;’ and those who love him will not be cruel, even to birds and beasts.”

Joseph did not forget _the lessons_ he had received; he was more earnest in his prayers at the throne of grace. His conduct soon shewed that his prayers had been heard and answered: even as our Lord promised,

“ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE.”

MOUNTAIN JOHN AND THE BEAR.

It was the evening, and the moon was shining above the trees, when the family of Andrew the smith, heard a dreadful noise like the howling of a wolf, or some wild animal which is wounded.

The smith’s children, who were sitting with their mother in the chimney corner, helping her to wind some thread, trembled, and cried out, “The wolf! the wolf! O mother, mother, shut the door and call father.”

Their mother told them to be quiet; but as the howlings continued and seemed to approach nearer to the house, she called her husband, who was busy working at his forge, hammering a piece of iron, so that he had not heard the noise.

“What is the matter?” said he.

_The Children._ O father, dear father, save us from the wolf. O, he is coming, he is coming.

So saying they ran to hide themselves. One crept under the bed, another got behind the tubs in the wash-house. The smith snatched up a club-stick and his bill-hook, and went out.

In a minute they heard the sound of heavy blows; the animal cried out still more dreadfully, and something very heavy fell against the door with great force, as if it would have beaten it in. Afterwards all was quiet, no sound was heard except the ticking of the clock, and the crackling of the wood fire.

Neither the mother nor her children stirred; they hardly ventured to breathe. Presently there was a knocking on the window shutter. The poor children were ready to die with fear, and hid their faces with their hands. Tap, tap, was heard still more plainly, but no one dared to answer.

“Are you all dead?” cried some one; “and must I break open the window?”

“Who are you?” said the mother, quite frightened.

“Who am I?” said the person, laughing; “that is an odd question to ask _me_: come, open the window directly.”

“Mother,” said one of the children, “I think it is father’s voice.”

“Andrew, is it _you?_” said she.

_Andrew._ Yes, it is _me_, sure enough; we cannot get in by the door, for the bear is lying there, and we are not sure that he is quite dead.

The mother then opened the window and the shutter. The smith and another man jumped in at the window. Their clothes were torn and covered with blood; their hands and faces also were bloody.

“Andrew, my dear Andrew,” exclaimed the wife, “are you hurt? say, are you hurt?”

_Andrew._ Neither I nor my companion are hurt; but let us thank God, for the bear was very furious. Come, quick, let us have something warm and comfortable; the battle was sharp, and we have got some severe bruises. Children, where are you?--you need not be afraid; the bear is too large to get through the key-hole, and I don’t think he is very likely to stir again.

“I am of your opinion,” said the stranger, closing the shutter of the window. “I think God has taken away his breath; let us be thankful: we may say, with David, ‘He has delivered us from the bear. His deliverance is for his children.’”

The two children then made their appearance from under the bed, and from behind the washing tub: one was covered with dust and feathers, the other was all over cobwebs. They came up to their father, but cried out when they saw that his arm was bloody.

_The Father._ Why, you little cowards; are you frightened at the sight of blood? It is not mine, it came from the bear, and a little water will wash it away. Wife, give us a pail of water.