Chapter V: Part 5

They turned to retrace their steps and hastened on. "Surely," said Henry, "this is not the way we came; the trees are closer together, and I do not see the big chestnut we said we would have for a landmark." "Oh," cried Bessie, "that is farther on; it was just where the two roads met;--we shall soon be there--don't you think so?" The poor boy did not answer; he felt that they had lost their way, and he feared to tell his cousin, for timid as a fawn she had always been.

"Are you tired, Bessie?" He looked into her face; the flush of hope had disappeared, and her faltering steps could scarce support her. He placed his arm around her slender waist; "Lean upon me, cousin; you are fatigued."

"Oh, Henry!" she exclaimed, bursting into tears; "we are lost; and my poor mother, how will she feel? We shall never see her again; we shall have to stay in this dark place all night--and the bears and lions--oh, what shall we do?"

"Do not cry, dear cousin; there are no wild animals here now; there is nothing to hurt us here. The woods in this part are free; and don't you know what we read this morning,--there were no lions in this country?"

And so he tried to comfort her, and poor Bessie dried her eyes and tried to smile. "We are like the 'Babes in the Wood,' Harry; only I am afraid there are no pretty robins who will cover us up with leaves, and watch over us."

The last rays of the sun faded away, and the golden-fringed clouds melted into blue. The full moon rose high in the heavens, and the bright stars shone calmly down on the lost ones. Exhausted, the cousins sank upon the grass, under an old tree, whose friendly branches stretched far and wide to shelter them.

"I can go no farther," cried Bessie; "my head aches, and I feel so tired. Oh, if I could only see mother,--she will be so frightened. Do you think any one will come to find us?"

"Do not feel so bad," said Henry; "nothing will hurt us. God will take care of us, and it will soon be morning, and then we can easily find our way out of the woods. Your father will send some one for us, or he may come himself, who knows?"

"Hark!" cried Bessie, springing to her feet; "did you not hear a noise? Something rustled in the grass; I am sure it was a snake." She clung closer and closer to Harry, and it was with difficulty he could soothe her. He told her how groundless were her fears; that a protecting Providence watched over them, and they would not be harmed.

He wrapped her shawl closer around her, for the night air was chilly to her tender frame. "The soft grass shall be your bed, Bessie, and I will watch over you; but first let us say our evening prayer, just as if we were at home." Together the cousins knelt down and offered their humble petition to the Most High, and then they lay down on their mossy bed to sleep,--Bessie, with her head pillowed on the breast of Harry; his arm supported her, and so they slept. Sweet visions of home haunted their dreams, and their parents' loved faces smiled upon and blessed them.

It was morning; the sun was just rising, and a faint light was diffused through the trees, and the birds were carolling forth their matin songs. Bessie still slept--the innocent sleep of childhood. Henry lay in the same position, for he would not disturb her. For hours he had lain listening to every sound.

At length Bessie awoke; she looked around,--"Where am I?" were the first words that escaped her lips. She looked at Henry. "Oh! I remember now; we have been here all night. Do you think we shall get home to-day?"

"Oh, yes;" said her cousin, gaily. "I am so glad you have rested so well. We will soon set out, and perhaps we shall get home to breakfast. But eat some of the berries, Bessie, and then we will try to find our way out of the wood."

She tasted the berries, but pushed them aside. "I cannot eat; I feel, Harry, if we do not soon get home, I shall never eat again."

"Oh! do not grieve so, dear, dear Bessie. Look, the sun is shining brightly through the trees; so _that is_ east, and you know the woods lie west of the school-house; so we will walk towards the sun, and then we will soon see dear home." He placed his arm carefully around her, and they set out, her steps still faltering.

Mile after mile they thus walked, for they had wandered far the preceding night. At times the trees grew thinner, and they would congratulate themselves they were almost home; but then again they could hardly find their way through the overgrown path.

"I cannot go much farther, Harry; for my head throbs almost to bursting, and I am so dizzy, I can hardly see." Bessie stopped and leaned for support against a tree; her hat fell back and revealed her face deadly pale. Poor Harry gazed upon her in despair. What if she should die there in the wood, away from all that loved her? The thought was agony,--the scalding tears started to his eyes. He took hold of her hand; "Bessie, speak to me; lean upon me--we will soon be home, only think so."

At that instant, a plunge was heard in a neighbouring bush. Bessie, too, heard it; it recalled her fleeting senses. She looked up,--a beautiful dog came bounding towards her. She stretched out her arms; "'Tis Carlo; dear, dear Carlo!" The dog crouched at her feet. She stooped to embrace the animal--the tear-drops glistened in her eyes and fell warm upon the faithful creature. "Oh, Harry! he has come to save us; we shall see home once more."

But she was too weak to walk, and how was he to bear her home? Delicately formed himself, and worn out with fatigue and watching nearly the whole night, he could scarce bear his own weight. Carlo bounded gaily on, inviting them to follow. A voice was heard in the distance, calling on their names,--"Bessie! Harry!" He tried to answer, but his voice was low and feeble. "Bessie, let me help you; I hear voices; let us try to meet them; I will support you." He raised her from the ground and tried to bear her on. The voices approached nearer and nearer; again he essayed to answer,--this time he was heard. They saw some one coming rapidly towards them, and recognised Bessie's father. He hurried on, and received the almost insensible form of his child in his arms. He was accompanied by some of his neighbours, who supported Harry home. Scarce half an hour elapsed, ere Bessie was laid in her mother's arms. Carlo, half maddened with joy, frisked and gambolled round them. In vain poor Bessie tried to tell her story, but tears and sobs choked her voice.

They had wandered very far into the woods. On the return of their schoolmates without them, the anxious father, accompanied by some kind neighbours, had spent the night in search of them; but had been unable to trace them, and returned wearied and alone. Another party had immediately formed, and the bereaved father had insisted on again accompanying them. Carlo, Bessie's little favourite, had followed, and it was the instinct of the faithful animal that led the father to his children. And now they were safe in their own loved home; and many a fervent prayer of thanksgiving for the recovery of the lost ones ascended that night to heaven, from the humble dwelling of Pastor Lee.

THE STARS.--ORION.

"O Father," said Rollo, looking up; "look at the sky; see how full of stars it is."

The sky was indeed very full of stars. The galaxy, or the milky way, as it is sometimes called, was very bright. Rollo looked at the stars a moment, and then he got into the sleigh. His father advised him to take a seat with him, behind; but Rollo said he wanted to sit with Jonas, and see the pond, when they came to it.

"I am afraid you will be cold," said his father.

"No, sir," said Rollo; "I don't think it is cold."

So Rollo took his place, by the side of Jonas, on the front seat, and they rode along. After going at a brisk pace for a few miles, they came to the top of a hill, where the pond first appeared in sight. It looked like a great level field covered with snow. They could see a dark line winding along in a gently-serpentine direction across the surface of it. Jonas said that this was the road they were to take in crossing the pond.

The horse went rapidly down the hill, and before long they were upon the pond. There was not much wind, but a light breeze blew keenly towards Rollo's face, and made his nose and cheeks cold. So he said he meant to turn round towards his father.

His father proposed to him to come and sit upon the back seat; but he said he should be warm upon the front seat, if he only turned round. So he put his feet over the seat, and enveloped them in the buffalo skins which were down in front of the back seat, and the buffalo skin which had been before him, he threw over his shoulders, so that now he had a very good place indeed. He could see, all around him, the shores of the pond, with the lights in the farm houses on the land, and all the constellations which were spread out before him in that quarter of the heavens at which he was looking.

"O father," said Rollo, "I see three stars all in a row. I wish I knew the names of them. Could you look round and see, father?"

"Why, not very well," said his father. "I cannot look round, I am so muffled up."

Rollo, being seated on the front seat, with his back to the horse, of course was looking at that part of the sky which was behind the sleigh, so that his father could not see the constellation in that quarter of the heavens.

"Let me see," said his father; "we must be going nearly west, so that that part of the sky is the eastern part. Orion must be rising about this time. Perhaps the stars which you see are the stars in the belt of Orion."

"In the belt of Orion?" repeated Rollo.

"Yes," said his father. "The most beautiful constellation in the sky is Orion; and early in the winter it rises in the evening. Orion was a hunter, and he has a belt: and in his belt are three beautiful stars, all in a row."

"Well, father," said Rollo, "tell me some other stars that ought to be near, if it is really the belt of Orion that I see, and then I will tell you if they are there."

"Very well," said his father. "If they are the three stars in the belt of Orion, they lie in a line one above the other, not one by the side of the other. I mean by that, that, if there was a line drawn through them, and continued each way, it would be a line running up and down in the sky, not a line extending from one side to the other."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo; "this row of stars is in a line up and down."

"And off on each side of the little row of stars are two other bright stars, on each side."

"How far off, sir?" said Rollo.

"About twice as far, I should think, as the little row of stars."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo; "I see one of them. Yes, I see them both. One is on one side, and the other is on the other side."

"Yes: then I have no doubt it is Orion that you see. One of the stars that you last found is in his foot, and the other is in his shoulder."

"I wish I could see his shape," said Rollo, "all drawn out in the sky."

"It would be very convenient, I have no doubt," replied his father. "Pretty near the lowest of the three stars in the row, there is a faint cluster of stars, towards the south."

"Yes, sir," said Rollo; "I see them."

"They are in Orion's sword," said his father.

"I see them," said Rollo.

"Now, look at all the stars in the constellation again, and notice how they lie in respect to each other, so that you will know the constellation when you see it again."

THE APPLE.

Little Anna bent over a quiet brook, and smiled with pleasure at what she saw there. A beautiful living picture was reflected from the clear water. There, bright clouds seemed to sail slowly along, through the clear blue sky, and the leaves of the trees seemed to flutter in the soft summer air. In the midst of these pleasant appearances stood the image of a beautiful little girl, with laughing blue eyes and brown curled hair, which hung down over her white frock, as she stooped forward, as if to look back upon Anna, with a good-natured smile.

While Anna was looking and wondering at the beauty of this picture, an apple fell with a rush into the water, and spattered her face with small water-drops.

"What is that?" said she, wiping her eye-lashes with her little hand. "Oh, it is an apple, covered with bright red cheeks. It is swimming off down the brook, but I will see whether I cannot stop it." She broke off a blue iris, with a long stem, and after trying many times, she at length drew the apple to the shore, and taking it up with a smile, she turned it round and round, to look at its red streaks.

"Little apple!" said she, with a soft voice, "little red striped apple. I should never have dared to break you from the tree, because the tree does not belong to my father, but to good neighbour Ackerman; but a kind wind has blown you down, into the brook, and now that I have drawn you out with the flag blossom, would it not be best for me to try whether you are as good as you are pretty?"

She sat down on the grass, under the tree, and after she had wiped the apple, she ate it with a very good relish.

Before she had finished, another apple fell directly into her lap. She wondered very much at this last wind-fall, but was much pleased, and thought it still more beautiful than the first. Soon after, a twig fell into her lap, with three apples upon it. Much astonished, she looked up to the tree, and among the thick boughs she saw little Fritz looking down upon her with roguish eyes. He was a bright boy, but he loved mischief better than work or study. He had gone to the garden of neighbour Ackerman a little before Anna, not to look into the brook, but to climb the tree where the sweet red apples grew. He saw Anna looking into the brook, and mischievously threw an apple to disturb the water. He was very much amused to observe Anna's surprise, and her innocent belief that the wind had broken off the apple, although it was a calm summer day, and no air was stirring.

When Anna saw Fritz in the tree, she understood what made the apples fall. She grew almost as red as the apples, and cast down her eyes.

Fritz longed to talk with her, but did not know how to begin. At length he said,--

"Was it good, Anna?"

Then he slid down the smooth stem of the tree and stood close beside her, but he did not know how to begin a conversation there, any better than he did in the tree.

Suddenly, farmer Ackerman appeared from behind a clump of bushes, and looked earnestly at them. He was an old man, and was much loved and respected by all his neighbours.

Anna and Fritz coloured and looked frightened. They would have slipped away, but he called to them,--

"What disturbs you so, my little ones? What must I understand from those eyes, which turn away from mine, the sudden colour of your cheeks, and these unquiet doubtful looks? Did you come under my apple tree to enjoy the cool shade, or were you enticed by the apples?

"I am not surprised to see Fritz here, but you, Anna, whom I have always considered so innocent, how could you encourage this little rogue to rob my tree, and receive the apples after he had stole them?"

Anna made no answer, but the tears rolled down her cheeks, and her bosom swelled with grief. Fritz could not bear the sight of her distress.

"She has done nothing wrong," said he; "I am the only one to blame."

He then told the farmer how it had all happened, and confessed his dishonest intentions in climbing the tree. The farmer kindly said, "A fault confessed is half amended." He then wiped little Anna's eyes, with the corner of her apron, and gave her the handsomest apple he could find on his tree. Anna thanked him, with a sobbing voice and said, "If I see another apple in the brook, or in the road, I will not touch it till I know whose it is, and how it came there!"

THE NEW SINGING SCHOOL.

Do re mi fa sol la si do,
Do si la sol fa mi re do.
Come, begin and follow me,
'Tis down upon the board, you see;
Young ladies turn your heads this way,
Look on the board, the board, I say!

PUPILS.

Do mi re fa sol si la do,--

MASTER.

Stop! now is that the way you'd go?
Where are your eyes and ears to-night?
Cannot you sing two notes aright?

A SWALLOW ON THE EAVES.

What is the matter down below?
What dreadful clatter, do you know?

SWALLOW'S MATE.

It is a singing school, my dear,
There's do re mi, pray don't you hear?

SWALLOW.

Is that the way folks learn to sing?
I ne'er imagined such a thing.
Ah me! why what a time they make!
They really make my ear-drums ache;
Why, what a dreadful noise they keep--
They waked me from a nice sound sleep.

MASTER.

Beat! beat your time, and mind the board,
Was such a discord ever heard?
Put up your chestnuts, boys, and beat,--
You did not come to school to eat.
Come, if you can't sing do re mi,
Follow as I sing one, two, three.

BOYS.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,--
He! he! he!--eight, nine, ten, 'leven.

MASTER.

Boys! mind your manners, or go home,
And learn them ere again you come.

PUPILS.

One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight.

MASTER.

Why, really, now you've sung it straight;
Now answer, if you can, and tell,
What is the first note in the scale?

FIRST BOY.

Don't know,--b'lieve 'tis h or i.

MASTER.

Shame! I should think the seats would cry,
"Shame on you!"

FIRST BOY.

Well, I know that I
Was, am, and will be, number one;
And 'tis by that the scale's begun.

MASTER.

And now the third?

SECOND BOY.

The third is mi.

FIRST BOY.

It is not me then,--He! he! he!--
'Tis you, not me, I'm third to none,
I'll be always number one.

MASTER.

Take care, boy, how you jest with me;
Again, what note is number three?
Now do the best that you can do.

FIRST BOY.

I rather think 'tis w.

MASTER.

Sirrah! you know, and know full well,
There's no such letter in the scale.
The third note is the letter e,
And, mind, the syllable is mi.

FIRST BOY.

_Me_, is it? Oh, if that be true,
Then, I am sure 'tis double _you_.

PUPILS.

Ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! he! he!

MASTER.

Oh, Apollo, pity me!--
Young Miss, I've not yet heard you sing,
Have you a cold, or anything?
"Don't know?" Oh, you feel bashful; boys!
Look on your notes, and stop that noise.
Do mi sol do, do sol mi do.

PUPILS.

Do mi sol do, do sol mi do.

MASTER.

Out of tune is the way we go;
I'll sing, and in Apollo's name,
Now try if you can do the same.

SWALLOW.

Oh, were it day, and I on wing,
I would teach them how to sing;
But this is shocking; even twitter,
Twit, twit, twit, were surely better.

CHORUS OF YOUNG SWALLOWS.

Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit!
Boys and girls have little wit.

SWALLOW.

Do hear our young ones, how they sing!
They find it quite an easy thing.
They ne'er beat down, up, hither, thither,
And never saw the blackboard, neither.

MASTER.

And now you have sung one, two, three,
Perhaps you'll say your a b c;
Come, say it,--c d e f g,--

BOYS.

H i j k l m n.--

SWALLOWS.

Oh, defend us! what a din?
How hard they try to learn to sing
'Tis really an amusing thing.

MASTER.

Enough! enough! you may sing now
"Old Hundred" once, then you may go.

CHORUS OF SWALLOWS.

That's pretty well, but might be better;
Not so good as twitter! twitter!
Twitter! twitter! twit! twit! twit!
Boys and girls have little wit.

THE BALLOON.

"Oh! brother, what is that?" exclaimed little Mary to her brother James.

"What do you mean, sister?"

"Why, that thing, away up in the sky,--what is it?" And Mary pulled her brother by the arm as she looked up at the strange-looking object.

"Oh, that thing so far up in the sky; well, it is an odd looking creature. I wonder if it is a bird; let us ask John the gardener; perhaps _he_ knows."

"John! John!" cried both children at once, "what is that wonderful-looking object, up there?"

John looked up very wise, shook his head, and looked again,--"Oh! it is a _balloon_."

"Well, pray, sir, will you tell us what a balloon is made of," said James, "and how it enables one to go up into the air so great a distance?"

"The balloon is made of oiled silk, or of silk prepared with a solution of India-rubber, made perfectly air tight, and is filled with air, lighter than the common air we breathe."

"But where can this air be obtained?" said James.

"There are many ways of obtaining it, but the easiest is to go to the gaslight company, and purchase as many gallons as may be wanted to make the balloon rise."

"This is, indeed, curious," said Mary; "I never thought air was bought and sold."

"What is the _use_ of a balloon?" asked James, who was very fond of asking questions about everything.

"I don't know that it is of _any_ use, at present," replied John, "but it may possibly be made of use at some future time."

"I should like to go up in it," said James; "it must be so beautiful to sail through the air, and look down on the cities and villages, and green fields, and woods."

"Oh, dear!" cried Mary; "_I_ should not like to go;--only think, we might fall out."

"Well, sister, I don't think there is much chance of our ever trying it, though I should not be afraid. But let us go and inquire further about the matter, for it is certainly a very wonderful affair. I dare say father will be able to tell us a great deal more than John can, and we may meet with some one who has been above the clouds in one of these ærial cars or baskets."

CURIOUS LITTLE PAINTERS.

The next afternoon, when Catherine found her mother at leisure, she came and stood close by her, and looked in her face for some time.

"What are you looking at me for, so steadily?" said Mrs. Nelson.

"I am trying to see the pictures in your eyes, mother; and don't you remember, that you said you would tell me more about these curious little painters, as you call them? Is it only that small dark spot in the middle of your eye that sees?"

"That little place, my dear, is a sort of window, which lets in the light that makes the picture upon the back part of the eye. It is called the _pupil_, and it is what is meant by 'the apple,' which you recollect being puzzled with in the Psalm that you read for your Sunday lesson. Do you remember it?" After a while, Catherine said, "Oh, yes;" and repeated this verse, "Keep me under the apple of thine eye, hide me under the shadow of thy wings."

"By this little round window the light enters the eye, and passes through to the back part of it, and represents there, upon what is called the retina, everything that we see. So you perceive that if anything happens to the pupil of the eye, no light can enter it, and we should see nothing of all this beautiful and glorious world around us; we should be in perpetual darkness."--"And now, mother, I understand the Psalm; for it is necessary that these two little windows should be kept very safe, as safe as we pray that God would keep us. But is that a little hole in the eye, mother?"

"No, my dear, this precious part of the eye has a covering over it like the chrystal of a watch; this is properly called the _cornea_, a Latin word that means _like horn_, because it resembles thin horn that the light can shine through,--as you may ascertain by asking the cook to show you a fish's eye, and looking at this part."

"And is the eye all hollow, mother? or what is between the pupil and the place on the back part of the eye where the picture is painted, that you called--I forget what you called it, mother?"

"The _retina_, my dear, from a Latin word that means anything by which another thing is _held_ or _retained_, as this part of the eye holds or retains the picture of things. You ask me what is between the pupil and the retina. There are in the eye three different substances, called humours, all transparent. A transparent substance means anything that can be seen through. The first one, directly back of the pupil, is called the _acqueous_, from a Latin word, that means _watery_: it is a thin liquid, like water. The second, behind that, is called the _crystalline_ humour, from its clearness and brightness. It is formed like the glasses they use in telescopes, and is fastened at the edge by the delicate transparent substance that covers it, called a _membrane_. The one beyond this, and next the retina, is called the _vitreous_ humour, from its resemblance to glass. All these substances assist in forming the images of objects on the back of the eye; but you are not old enough to understand how, at present, my child."

"Then, mother," said Catherine, "our eyes are as curious as grandfather's telescope, or as the camera obscura, that he gave us to see pictures with."

"They are far more curious my dear; and it is by imitating the eye that they can make them so well. I remember, Catherine, when your grandfather sent that camera obscura to you the other day, and your father showed you the pictures in it, that you and Lucy and James capered about the room with joy, saying, 'Oh, how good grandfather is to give us such a beautiful thing!'--and now, my dear, when you go into a garden and dance with joy at the sight of the flowers; when you look up with so much wonder and delight at the beautiful moon sailing through the clouds, and at the bright twinkling stars; when, after having been even one day away from your father and mother, you feel so happy at looking in our faces, and reading in them our love for you,--of whose goodness ought you to think? Who has given you eyes to see all these delightful things? Whom should you then love? Of whom then should you speak, and say, 'Oh, how good He is?'"

Catherine felt and understood what her mother said, and answered her, that it was God.

"I have yet much more, my dear," said her mother, "to tell you about the eyes, that is very wonderful. This beautiful little round window grows larger and smaller as you want more or less light. When there is a great light, it contracts so as to take in but little; and when the light is faint, it becomes nearly twice as large, so as to take in more."

"Why, mother," said Catherine, "how can that be?"

"Shut the shutter," said Mrs. Nelson, "and then look in my eye." She did so; and she saw the pupil of her mother's eye grow larger and larger. "Now open it," said her mother. She did so, and it gradually became smaller. "Oh, it is very curious," said Catherine. "But, mother, is not that pretty rim round the pupil of any use?"

"That is what it called the iris," answered her mother, "which is the latin name for _rainbow_, I suppose from some fancied resemblance to it. It is thought that by means of it the pupil of the eye is enlarged or contracted. If you remember, my child, the pain you feel in your eyes when you come from the dark suddenly into the light, you will understand the use of this, and see what a beautiful contrivance it is. In the dark your pupils become very large, so as to catch all the light they can. When the light comes before they have time to grow smaller, they take in more light than they can bear without pain.

"There is another thing that you never thought of. You know that if your eyes were fixed fast, as your ears and nose are, you could only see straight forward, or you would have to keep your head twirling about continually. But the eye is set loose in the head, and surrounded with little muscles, things with which we can turn it up, or down, or in any way, just as we wish. You know how long it takes grandfather to fix his telescope; but our eyes are ready, quicker than we think.

"You perceive, my dear, that this beautiful and curious thing, the eye, is very delicate, and easily injured, and if anything destroys our sight, it is a great calamity, and that the eye ought to be carefully protected. And so you will find that it is. It is placed in a deep socket, surrounded by bone, and lined with something very soft. It shelves over on the upper part, so as to form the eye-bow, which is a great protection to it. It is important that it should be kept clear and bright, and there is a little vessel close to it, full of salt water, called tears, to wash it clean, whenever we open or shut the eye; and there is a little hole in the bone of the nose to carry off the water after it has washed the eye. Then it has a nice cover, which we call the eyelid, with a beautiful fringe on the edge of it to shut the eye up tight, away from the dust and air when we do not want to use it: and which, moves so quick, that it shuts up in an instant if anything touches or alarms the eye. Indeed, it seems to be always employed in watching over and protecting this precious instrument of knowledge.

"There is still another thing, my dear, to be remembered about the eye. It is so made that sight is pleasant to it. The blue sky, the green grass, the flowers, the rainbow, all give it pleasure.

"A baby, you know, loves to look about, though it knows nothing. Our Father in Heaven has made it a great happiness to us merely to open our eyes upon the beautiful world he has made."

After a short silence, Catherine said to her mother, "You told me that these curious painters, as you call them, drew the pictures of everything in that wonderful book that you described. How is that done, mother?"

"All we know," answered Mrs. Nelson, "is, that the back part of the eye, where the pictures are painted is connected with the brain, and that by this means we become acquainted with the appearance of things."

WELL SPENT HOUR.

THE UPAS, OR POISON TREE.

This curious and wonderful tree is found in the forests of Java; the gum which it yields is a rank poison, and, indeed, so strong and powerful is the poison of this tree, that the effluvia from it prevents any tree, plant, or shrub, from growing within ten or twelve miles of it. The country is perfectly barren; not a living thing, or even a blade of grass, is to be seen. The chiefs and grandees of the country poison the points of their arrows and daggers with the poison of this tree; but as it is certain death to approach the tree, the task of collecting the gum is given to people who have committed some very wicked act, and are condemned to suffer death. After sentence of death has been passed on them, they are allowed to choose whether they will be executed, or go to the upas tree for a quantity of the gum.

"If they were to ask me, mamma, I would go to the tree."

"Many of them do go, Henry; but I believe not more than two out of twenty escape death. Before the criminals commence their journey, they are furnished with a box for the gum, a pair of very thick leather gloves, and a kind of leather cap, which is drawn over the face and reaches down to the waist. They wear this cap to prevent them as much as possible from inhaling the air, which, as I mentioned before, is poisonous for some miles round the tree; there are two glasses fixed in the cap, to enable them to see without removing it; they are usually accompanied by a priest for the first three miles of their journey, who, when he takes leave of them, blesses them, and informs them in which direction they are to travel, and also advises them to proceed as speedily as they can, as that is the only chance they have of saving their lives."

"I should think, mamma, it would be much better to do without poison, as it is only used to kill people."

"You are mistaken, Henry, in imagining that poisons are only used for so bad a purpose. Some of our most valuable medicines are poisons; but mixed with other drugs, and properly administered, they cure many painful diseases. Many poisonous herbs are also used in dying different colours. There is another poison tree, which grows in this country; it is found in damp, marshy places, and resembles the ash. It never grows very large. The wood of this tree is poisonous, if you either touch or smell it, but it is not fatal; the effects of the poison go off in a day or two. If a piece of the wood is put into the fire, the smell of it will poison some persons, and cause them to swell and itch all over, whilst others are not in the least affected by it, and can even taste the wood without being hurt by it. It is as cold as ice to the feel, so that if you take up a piece with a handful of other sticks, you would discover it immediately. Little children should be very careful never to pick or eat the berries of any tree. I have often heard of little boys being very ill, and even dying, from having eaten the berries of trees growing in the hedges, mistaking them for fruit."

DISOBEDIENCE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.

"I want you to come over to our house, after dinner, and play with me," said Alfred Barlow, one Saturday morning, to a little fellow, named Wilson Green. "Father has just put us up a swing. It is made with two ropes tied to a limb of the great oak tree, and has a basket at the bottom, big enough to hold two. And then we have got a good many other things to play with. Won't you ask your father to let you come?"

"Oh, yes! And I'll come right away after dinner," said Wilson, full of delight at the thought of spending an afternoon with Alfred.

When Wilson went home, he asked his father to let him go over to Mr. Barlow's, and play with Alfred. But his father told him that he did not wish him to go there.

This was a sore disappointment to the little boy. He did not ask his reason why he refused to let him go; for this he knew would be of no use. But he was so very desirous of going, that he soon began to think about disobedience.

"He'll never know it," he said to himself, as he saw his father leave the house. "He never comes home from the mill until night, and I can be back long before that time."

Something whispered to Wilson that to disobey his father would be to do a very wicked thing; but he quickly turned from the warning thought, and in a little while determined that he would run over to Alfred Barlow's for a short time.

Wrong as this was, Wilson so far forgot his duty to his parents, as actually to go over to Mr. Barlow's very soon after his father had gone away. Instead, however, of spending the delightful afternoon as he had anticipated, he found all the family in much alarm for Alfred's little sister, who had been taken very ill since morning. Of course, all thoughts of play were banished from the mind of Alfred, who loved little Anna very much, and could not be persuaded to leave her bed-side a moment.

As soon as Mrs. Barlow found Wilson in the chamber of her sick child, she told him that he had better run home, as the doctor feared that Anna had the scarlet fever, and she did not wish any of her neighbours' children to be exposed to the danger of taking it.

Slowly did Wilson Green leave the house in which he promised himself so much delight, and turn his steps homeward with no very happy feelings. He had disobeyed his father, deliberately, and got nothing for that disobedience but an exposure to a terrible disease, of which he might die.

When his father came home at night, he felt almost afraid to look at him in the face. It seemed as if he must know all about what he had done.

"Wilson, come here, my son;" he said, in a serious voice.

And Wilson went up to him with a sinking heart.

"When I told you, at dinner time, that I did not wish you to go and see Alfred Barlow," the father began, "I neglected to say, as a reason for denying your request, that Doctor Ayres had mentioned to me that little Anna was very sick, with all the symptoms of a dangerous attack of scarlet fever. This dreadful disease is thought by many contagious, and it was for this reason that I denied your request."

Wilson said nothing, but he was very unhappy. A frank confession of his fault arose to his tongue; but, before he could make it, his heart failed him. Not that he dreaded his father's displeasure so much as the distress his act of disobedience would give him.

For more than an hour that night, did the unhappy boy lie awake, after he had retired to bed, vainly regretting his act of wickedness and folly. It is said, "of wickedness," for deliberate acts of disobedience to parents are wicked. He was likewise troubled, lest he, too, should be attacked with scarlet fever, and die--and all because he had not obeyed his father.

On the next day, when he learned that the doctor had declared Anna Barlow's disease to be really the scarlet fever, and her case a very bad one, Wilson was more troubled than ever. How often did he wish that he had been an obedient boy. But no sorrow could recall the act.

It was several days afterwards, when the boy's fears had nearly all subsided, that he awoke one morning with a violent headache, a sore throat, and a general uneasiness, with considerable fever. The day afterwards, his skin became dry and burning, and his throat so sore that he could swallow only with great difficulty. On the third day the physician pronounced the case one of decided scarletina, or scarlet fever, accompanied by some very alarming symptoms.

From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of saving his life.

About a week after the crisis of the disease had passed, when Wilson could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:

"I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I have been so sick."

"How so, my child?" asked Mr. Green, in surprise.

"You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick--so sick that Alfred could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna's bed, she told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did."

"Severely, indeed, my dear boy!" Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came to his eye. "But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents, is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years, you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient to GOD. And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun--and much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence."

"Indeed, father, I can never forget it," Wilson replied, with much feeling. "No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should never again have been happy."

"Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a wrong act," the father said.

THE GAME OF WEATHERCOCKS.

The company arrange themselves, and give to the four corners of the room, or the part of the park where they are playing, the names of the four cardinal points. To avoid disputes, it is best to place the words east, west, north, south, in writing, at the points agreed upon. One of the players, and it should be a lively, gay person accustomed to the game, takes the part of EOLUS. All the other players arrange themselves in one or more rows. When it is possible, a lady should have a gentleman on each side, and a gentleman, a lady. After having ordered silence, Eolus points to one of the corners designated by name, it is no matter which, and from which he means to have the wind blow. When the god of the winds points one way, the company must all turn in the opposite direction.

It is a party of WEATHERCOCKS, and consequently each one must turn his back upon the wind, to show which way it blows. When Eolus cries _south_, everybody faces north, and in the same way at all the points. When he says _tempest_, everybody must whirl round three times, and come back to the same place. At the word _variable_, they must balance them, first on one foot, then on the other, until the god of the winds names one of the four points. If he says _variable west_, then they vacillate towards the east, but not rapidly, as most of the motions of the game are made, for the wind is changeable, and often, as soon as they have got round to a certain point, Eolus gives a shout which sends them all round to another.

When the capricious deity is pleased to name a point directly opposite to the one where the company is placed, they must all remain motionless.

It may easily be imagined that this opposition of order and motion, the variety, the multiplicity of movements, must give occasion for forfeits to be paid whenever a mistake is made. The game affords a great deal of sport.

JAMES CARTIER.

AN EARLY TRAVELLER IN AMERICA.

James, or as he is commonly called, Jacques Cartier, was the first who explored the shores of Canada to any extent, and the first to discover the existence of that great river, communicating between the Atlantic Ocean and the great North American lakes, the St. Lawrence. The Indians called the river Hochelega, and told him that they had never heard of any one who had reached its source.

Cartier sailed up the river, and anchored his vessels near the island of Orleans, below the place where Quebec now stands. It was in the summer of 1535, when he sailed up the river, and he found Orleans island nearly covered with loaded grape-vines, from which circumstance, as well as from the beauty, variety, and luxuriance of its vegetation, he named it the Island of Bacchus.

All the early navigators to this continent were in search of a north-west passage to India, by which they thought they might reach the East Indian islands by a shorter voyage than that in use. They were formerly obliged to sail along the coast of Africa, and around the Cape of Good Hope, when they had still another, the Indian Ocean, to cross before they reached China. This was a very long and a very dangerous voyage, and they wished for a shorter one; and the learned men of those days were of opinion that there existed a passage somewhere in North America, which joined the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans together.

When Henry Hudson discovered the bay which bears his name, he thought that he had found the desired object, and Cartier indulged the same hopes, when sailing up the noble river Hochelega, which he called the St. Lawrence, because he had discovered it on the day of the festival in honour of the saint of that name, the 10th day of August. On the 15th, he discovered the island now known by the name of Anticosti. At Bacchus island he was visited by the principal chief of the neighbouring tribes, whose name was Donnacona. The chief and his attendants were very hospitable to the navigators, and in a solemn assembly he welcomed them, in the name of five hundred of his warriors, to the shores of the Hochelega. Donnacona had his residence and chief town at Stadacona, which occupied part of the place where Quebec now stands.

Cartier had already made numerous and surprising discoveries; but the great object of his expedition had not been certainly attained, although he had strong hopes of ultimate success. Stadacona neither satisfied his curiosity, nor limited his progress. The Indians informed him that there was a town of much greater importance farther up the river; but when he intimated his intention of visiting it, they were displeased, and resorted to every artifice to divert him from his project. One of them was very curious. The savages were themselves superstitious, and imagined their visitors to be so likewise. They dressed up three men in black masks and white dog-skins, with their faces blackened and great horns on their heads. They were put into a canoe, with oars, in such a situation as to be carried near the ships by the flowing of the tide. Their appearance was awaited by the Indians, who lay concealed in the woods. When the canoe neared the ships, the white men were harangued by one of the three ugly creatures, who stood up in the boat; and as soon as they reached the land, they fell down, as if dead, and were carried off by the Indians into concealment. Some of the Indians immediately came on board to Cartier, and, feigning the greatest consternation, explained to him the meaning of what he had seen. Their god had sent these three emissaries to signify that there was so much ice and snow, in the far country, that whoever ventured there would surely perish.

Notwithstanding their predictions, Cartier determined to explore the river farther, and, equipping two long-boats for the purpose, he commenced his voyage. He was delighted with the scenery on both sides of the river, and the natives cheerfully furnished him with what they could procure to supply his necessities. At Lake St. Peter, the French were much perplexed by the shallowness of the water, and their ignorance of the channel. On the 2nd of October, 1535, Cartier effected a landing, six miles from the town, below the rapids of St. Mary's, which were becoming difficult and dangerous. Here they were met by more than a thousand of the natives, who received them with every demonstration of joy and hospitality, in return for which Cartier made them many simple presents.

The next day, having engaged three Indians as guides, Cartier, with a number of his own people, entered for the first time the Indian village of Hochelega, which stood on the site of the present city of Montreal. Cartier remained among these people for a short time, when the cold of a Canadian winter began to approach, and he returned in his boats to St. Croix, and afterwards to France. He came again to Canada, in the course of a few years, with Roberval, but did not stay long, and returned to France, where he soon after died.

ANSELMO'S ESCAPE;

OR, THE DOG SAINT BERNARD.

In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young, he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St. Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre's own son, Anselmo.