Chapter III: Preface (3)

"You shall see," answered her sister, and immediately she called "Croppy! Croppy!" and in an instant, Croppy, though he had been almost out of sight at the moment of her calling, was again at her side. Sally hung the wreath round his neck, but was obliged to tie it so tight that he could not reach it with his mouth, or the display of Sally's taste would soon have been in vain. "Now keep quiet, Croppy, and do not spoil your garland before George comes home from the field, because I have dressed you up in honour of his birth-day. Now be quiet, good Croppy," continued she, as the little creature, less gratified by being so ornamented, than worried by the unusual incumbrance, tried, by rolling himself on the grass, to disengage himself from it.

"Oh! here comes George," cried Peggy. "I'll run and meet him, and bring him to see Croppy before his birth-day dress is spoiled." But at the same moment a voice was heard, calling in an angry tone, "Sally! Sally! how can you think of setting there on the damp grass, when you have been so sick all day! I know well enough how it will be--you will get cold, and will be laid up instead of helping me to-morrow with the washing." Poor Sally rose in an instant with a feeling of self-condemnation at her own carelessness, but her heart and eyes, at the same time, filling at the manner in which her mother had upbraided her. As she returned to the house, she met George hastening to admire Croppy's finery; but he had heard his mother's rebuke, and seeing the large tears standing in his sister's eyes, Croppy was immediately forgotten, and turning round with Sally, he devoted himself the rest of the evening to cheering and amusing her. "It only wants a few days now, Sally," said he, seeking, in the subject the most interesting to himself, the most probable means of amusing his sister, "it only wants a few days now to the time of my going to school. Father has promised me a month's schooling before the harvest begins, and another when it is over; and if I am diligent, I can learn a great deal in that time. Oh, how I long to begin! I dream about being at school every night; and I always think that I am learning something that compels me to study very hard, and I am always so glad, because I think then I am learning the way to be a wise and good man. Franklin had very little more schooling than I shall have had by that time, and as to money, he was as poor as I am, every bit; for when he first came to Philadelphia, he had only a single dollar in his pocket, and yet you see he got to be a very great man."

"Yes," said Sally, "but he had to study and work very hard for a great many years first."

"To be sure he had," returned the brother with animation; "but then so can I work, and so can I study; I am not afraid of either. Did not I walk ten miles yesterday, when I went that errand for the squire, because he said he would give me a quarter of a dollar? and here it is," he added, taking the money out of his pocket, and looking at it with great complacency, "and I mean to get up by day break in the morning, and go to buy a book with it that I saw the other day, and that I want to read; I can get it, I think, for a quarter of a dollar. And I'll tell you another thing, Sally; I expect by the time I have finished my month of schooling, you will be a great deal stronger than you are now, and then I can teach you every thing that I have learnt, and we shall be so happy--shan't we, Sally?" Sally smiled assent, but it was a languid smile, for the ardour of her youthful mind was checked by the enfeebling influence of disease.

The next morning Sally felt very forcibly the ill effects of her imprudence in sitting on the damp grass the night before; and though she still recollected the severe manner in which her mother had reproved her, she could not but be conscious that the reproof was deserved. This made her very unwilling to complain, though she rose with a severe pain in her side, a burning fever in her veins, and a cough which was always troublesome, but was now more than usually distressing. Determined, however, not to complain, and anxious, if possible, to conceal her indisposition, she prepared to assist her mother in every way in her power; and though she felt it would be impossible for her to stand at the washing tub, she washed and dressed her little sisters, prepared the breakfast, and did a variety of offices equally useful, and was in hopes it would escape the observation of every one, that what she did was performed under the pressure of more pain and debility than usual. She was assisted in this concealment by the absence of George, who had not, at breakfast time, returned from the town to which he had gone for the purchase of the book of which he had spoken the evening before; for had he been present, his watchful eye, she well knew, would soon have discovered the oppression under which she laboured. Breakfast, however, was entirely over before he returned, and when he did come, he only stayed to eat a piece of dry bread and take a drink of water, a kind of fare which would at any time have been sufficient to satisfy him, but which he had now become extremely fond of, since he found that Franklin ascribed so much of his alacrity in business, and his facility in study, to his adherence to that simple diet; and then hastened to assist his father in the field. Sally sometimes almost persuaded herself that her little pet Croppy saw and understood that all was not right with his young mistress; for instead of frisking about the common as usual with the little girls, he kept almost constantly trotting by her side, every now and then rubbing his little head tenderly against her, and appearing quite happy when she stooped down to pat his head and speak to him in a tone of kindness. Yet even this slight indulgence seemed almost more than she had either time or spirits to bestow, and the continual repetition of Sally do this, and Sally do that, kept her incessantly occupied till late in the afternoon, when the chief of the business being over, and she too much exhausted to support herself any longer on her feet, had just sunk upon a seat, and was patting the head which Croppy had come and laid on her lap, when her father and brothers returned from the field. "Sally," said the farmer, in a tone of reproach, "you sit patting that lamb as if there was nothing else to be done. Come, girl," he continued, taking up a milking bucket as he spoke, "get your bucket, and let us go and milk the cows." George, who, at the moment his father spoke, had taken up his newly purchased treasure, and had got half across the room on the way to his private retreat, cast a glance at his sister, and perceiving in an instant that she was ill, he threw down his book, and saying, "Sit still, Sally, for I am going to milk this evening," he took the bucket and hastened after his father. Sally's heart glowed with affection and gratitude. She had always loved her brother, but never had he been half so dear to her as at this moment. "Croppy, you must love George for being so kind to your mistress," said she, addressing herself to the lamb for want of a more sympathizing auditor, "you must love George for my sake;" and she watched for his return, impatient to let him know that she understood and felt his kindness.

At length, the business of milking over, George again appeared, but no longer with the glow of animation on his countenance with which he had returned from his day's labour, nor yet with the spirit and alacrity with which he had left the house on his office of kindness. "Is he sorry now, that he went?" thought Sally, as she examined his countenance. "Has he begun to think what a great deal he might have read in the time that he has been milking?" "Why don't you go to your book now, George?" asked she, as she saw that, after disposing of the milk bucket, her brother placed himself at the end of the large table, on which he put up his arm, and rested his head upon it with a look of great distress. "Why don't you go and read now?" again she inquired; "there is nothing to hinder you now."

"Because I don't want to," answered George, in a tone very different from his usual cheerful, good tempered voice.

"George, come here beside me," said Sally, tenderly, for she began to feel alarmed at the expression of her brother's countenance.

"Oh! I can't," returned the boy; "do let me alone, I don't want to speak."

Sally's eyes filled with tears. "He is vexed at me," thought she, "for he thinks I am always in the way of his improving himself." George got up and moved towards the stairs. "You are leaving your book behind you, George," said Sally, glad to think that he was going at last to his favourite employment.

"I don't want it," he replied; "I am going to bed."

"George, do tell me what is the matter before you go; are you sick?"

"No, I am not sick, but I don't want to talk; so do let me alone." So saying, he went to bed, and Sally soon after retired also, but not to sleep. Uneasiness at the sudden and unaccountable change in her brother's manner, added double violence to the disease which was throbbing in her veins; and after a restless and sleepless night, she attempted to rise in the morning, but finding herself entirely unable to do so, she was obliged to lay her head again upon her pillow. "Aye, this is just what I thought would be the case," said her mother, who coming up to see why Sally had not made her appearance, found her too ill to sit up; "I told you what you would bring upon yourself by playing and idling your time away with that little useless pet lamb of yours." Mrs. Early did not mean to be an unkind mother, but she, like many other people, had an unfortunate manner of showing her affection, and generally vented the uneasiness which the sight of her daughter's indisposition occasioned, in a tone of reproach, for which she had not always so much cause as on the present occasion.

"I know I was wrong, mother, for sitting upon the grass," said Sally, mildly, "but say no more about it, for it cannot be helped; and ask George to come up and see me."

"George has been out at work these two hours," replied her mother, "and here am I with all the ironing to do, and every thing else to attend to, and to nurse you into the bargain."

"No, indeed, mother, I don't need any nursing," returned the poor girl, who, though convinced her mother did not mean any unkindness by this manner of speaking, was yet unable to repress the tears which filled her eyes and forced themselves down her cheek as she spoke. "Only tell Peggy to bring me up some water to drink, and I want nothing else."

"Aye, it's fine talking. But do you think I can have you lying sick in bed, without coming to look after you? And I'm sure I don't know how I'm to find time to do it, and to do all the work besides. But I will send Peggy up with a drink for you, and will come up myself as often as I can," added the mother, as she closed the door after her.

When left to herself, Sally's mind dwelt continually on the thought of George's melancholy the night before, which she was sure was still unremoved, or he would never have thought of going to work without first coming to inquire after her. Anxiety to know the cause only increased the longer she dwelt upon the subject. In vain did her little sisters try their utmost efforts to amuse her, for which purpose, even little Croppy was brought up stairs, and introduced into the bed room; she looked at it with pleasure, and gave the little girls strict injunctions to be kind and attentive to it whilst she was unable to be so herself; but again her mind recurred to the recollection that something was amiss with her favourite brother; and this idea, much more than the bodily pain that she suffered, made every hour appear like two, till he came home to his dinner. At length she heard her father's voice below, and knowing that George was in all probability there also, she knocked down for her little attendant Peggy, and desired her to ask George to come up and see her. He came immediately, and the moment Sally saw him, she perceived that the same expression of melancholy remained on his countenance.

"George," said she, in a gentle, affectionate voice, as he came toward her bed-side, "I wanted to see you, to know if you have forgiven me."

"Forgiven, you, Sally! what had I to forgive?" asked he, in a tone of surprise.

"For being the means of keeping you from going up stairs to read last night."

"Oh! Sally, you surely do not think that I was angry at you for being sick?"

"No, not angry at me for being sick, but angry at me for having made myself sick by my own imprudence, and so keeping you from the only enjoyment you have."

"And don't you think, Sally, that I would rather help you than read any book whatever?"

"I know you have always been very kind in helping me, but still what made you so sorrowful when you came in from milking, if it was not that?"

"It was not that, at any rate," answered George.

"Then what was it? Do tell me, George, for I know there is something amiss, and I cannot tell what it is."

"It is nothing that you can help, Sally, so keep yourself easy, and get well again, for that will sooner bring back my spirits than any thing else."

"George, do tell me what is the matter. I am very sick, and it only makes me worse to think of your being so sorrowful, and I not know the cause."

"Oh! I am not sorrowful," returned George, endeavouring to speak cheerfully, "I am only disappointed, but I shall soon get over it; for my father told me last night whilst we were milking, that he has had so many losses this season, both in sheep, and cows, and horses, that he will not be able to send me to school as he had promised to do."

But though George began his speech with an assumed cheerfulness, he was unable to keep it up; and as he pronounced the last words, the tears, in spite of his utmost efforts, filled his eyes, and were about to force themselves down his cheeks, when the voice of his mother calling him from below, checked their course, and he hastened down stairs to obey the summons.

"Tom, Sally wants you to go up stairs to her," said Peggy, in the evening, when the family were all assembled to supper.

"Wants me!" said Tom, in surprise. "What does she want me for? She surely does not expect that I can read to her, or talk to her about books, as George does."

"I don't know, but she said I must tell you to come up and speak to her."

Tom went up stairs, but when he came down again, though questioned by all around about the business for which he had been sent, he refused to gratify their curiosity; but after eating his supper in silence, a very uncommon circumstance for him, for he generally had some exploit to recount that he had achieved with his gun, his horse, or his dog, he took his hat and went out, without making any remark about whither he was going, or what he was going to do; nor on his return was he any more communicative, though the curiosity of all was considerably excited about the nature of the business he had been upon.

In the mean time, Sally's illness increased in so alarming a manner, that even her mother ceased to talk about herself, and was anxious only for the health of her child.

The poor girl, as if conscious that her sufferings were only a just penance for the imprudence of which she had been guilty, uttered no complaints, though she tossed about the whole night in all the restlessness of a burning fever, and was, by the time that day-light arrived, so ill, that George was despatched in haste for the physician from the neighbouring town, whose arrival was waited for with an impatience that only those can understand who have known what it is to watch by the side of a beloved one, and count the minutes till the sufferer is relieved, and strength is given to their sinking hopes.

"What can George be about?" said the mother, looking out of the window, and straining her anxious eyes in hopes of catching a glimpse of him as he came across the common; "he never was so long on an errand before. He surely might have managed to come back himself before this time, whether the doctor could come with him or not."

"Keep yourself easy, mother," said Sally, gently, who was the only one that was not impatient, "I am sure he will come back as soon as he possibly can."

"Peggy, run along as far as the stable yonder, and try if you can see any thing of him," added her mother, "and come back directly and tell me if you do."

Away went Peggy, followed by the little Kitty, and having caught a sight of her elder brother, was about to do as she had been ordered, and hasten to the house to announce the intelligence, when her curiosity was excited, and her steps arrested, by the sight of another object, for whose presence she was unable to account. "Why, who can that be that is coming along the road with Tom? I declare it is Ben, the butcher's boy. What can he want here, I wonder?" At that moment Tom was heard calling Croppy! Croppy! and in an instant Croppy came bounding across the common to meet him. George, too, had arrived at the same time from an opposite direction, and eagerly inquired what he wanted with Croppy; but the next moment, like a stroke of lightning, the truth flashed across his mind, and, throwing himself down by the side of the lamb, he clasped his arms around its neck. "I know what is the matter--I know it all," he exclaimed. "Sally is going to sell Croppy, for the sake of paying for my schooling; but its innocent life shall not be taken away for any such thing. I can read and teach myself, and Croppy shall not be killed."

"Hush, George, give over making that noise, man. Don't you hear mother calling you? Get up, I tell you, and don't make such a rout about a lamb; it's not the first lamb that has been killed, I am sure."

Peggy now caught the alarm, and bursting into tears, she ran to the butcher's boy. "You must not take Croppy away. Oh! you shall not kill our dear little Croppy," she exclaimed, pushing the boy back with her little hands as she spoke, while Kitty, scarcely able to understand the meaning of what was going forward, and anxious only to show kindness to their little favourite, had got some water from a bucket that stood near her, and was trying to coax the little creature to drink. But Croppy, as if conscious of the fate that awaited him, was insensible to all her solicitations. At this moment, the sound of horses' feet was heard, and the next, the doctor rode up to them, and struck with the expression of grief on George's countenance, and with Peggy's distress, inquired what was the matter. The story was soon told. "Oh, cheer up, my good boy," said he, addressing himself to George, whose sensibility and anxiety for improvement struck him with equal admiration, "keep yourself easy, for the lamb shall live, and you shall go to school into the bargain." So saying, he gave the butcher's boy a piece of money to reconcile him to going back without the lamb; then turning to George, he assured him that he would take the expense of his schooling upon himself, and that instead of a month, he should stay a year, or more, if he found that he continued to set as high a value as he at present did upon being furnished with the means of improvement. "And now," added he, "I must go and see after this kind sister of yours, whose health I shall be doubly anxious to restore after this proof of her amiable and affectionate disposition." But though he was on horseback, George was at the house before him, and was making his way immediately to Sally's room, when he was stopped by his mother, who met him, and, in an agony of tears, told him that Sally was too ill to be spoken to. Disappointed at not being able either to express his gratitude for the proof of affection which she had given, or to make her a sharer of his own happiness, he sunk down on a seat, and waited the return of the doctor, whom his mother now conducted to the sick chamber. After waiting a long time, he at length heard the sound of his footsteps on the stairs, and his voice, as he spoke in a soft tone to his mother. George fixed his eyes on the face of the physician as he entered the room where he was, and endeavoured to read in it what he thought of his patient, but felt afraid to inquire.

"May I go up now?" asked he, in a timid voice.

"Yes. Go up, she is anxious to have you with her, and I am sure I need not tell you to pay her all the attention in your power."

George did not wait to make any reply, but was, in an instant, by Sally's bed-side. But how great, how alarming, was the change that he saw in her from the time that he had last left her!

"Sally! dear Sally, I am come to thank you," said he. Sally raised her eyes and smiled on him affectionately. "How kind it was to give up your little pet to pay for my schooling. But, though I am going to school, you will still have Croppy to be kind to."

"Croppy will not be taken from me, but I shall soon be taken away from him. George, I am going to leave you all very soon."

"Oh! Sally, don't talk that way," said George, in a tone of extreme agitation. "What has the doctor been doing to frighten you so?"

"The doctor has not frightened me. He told me that he hoped he should make me well again, but I know better; I know that I am dying; but I am not frightened, for I know that I am going to a kind father. I am sorry to part with you all, especially you, George, but it must be, and we shall meet again soon."

"Oh, don't talk about dying, Sally," cried the afflicted boy, the tears streaming down his cheeks as he spoke, "don't talk about leaving us. I cannot bear to think of parting with you."

"George," said Sally, and an almost heavenly expression brightened her countenance as she spoke, "you have read a great deal, but your reading will be of little use if you have not learnt to know that it is our duty to submit with patience to the will of our Heavenly Father. I like to be with you, and am sorry to think of leaving you, but I know we shall meet again, and then there will be no more parting. But we will talk no more about it now. Mother is coming, and I don't want to distress her."

George looked at Sally, and tried to persuade himself that she was mistaken in imagining herself so ill. But the more he examined her countenance on which the indelible stamp of death was already impressed, the more he was convinced that she was right. From that moment, he scarcely quitted her bed-side, but watched over her, read portions of the scriptures to her whenever she was able to listen, and even prayed with her. Her composure and benignity were gradually communicated to his mind, so that though the one of all the family who was the most fondly attached to her, he was the only one who could view her approaching death with sufficient calmness to be able to listen to her when she talked about it. Short was the time, however, that he was called upon to exercise this self-command, for the vital torch was nearly extinguished, and her short, but innocent life, was nearly drawn to a close. George, whose affectionate offices seemed to become more and more grateful to her as the time approached nearer when she must resign them altogether, had sat up with her all night; and her mother, toward morning, was prevailed upon to go and take a little rest, under the assurance from Sally, that she did not need any thing that her brother could not do for her. Just as her mother left the room, the first beam of the morning sun glanced through the window. "Put out the lamp, George," said she, "and draw back the window curtain, that I may see the sun rise. It is the last time that I shall ever see it rise, and oh! it is a glorious sight. I should have been glad, if I had been permitted to live longer, for this world is beautiful, and I wanted to see you a wise and good man, but that I hope you will be, though I am not here to see it; and always remember me, George, and think how dearly I loved you. Raise me up a little, and put the pillows under my shoulders--there, that will do. Oh! George, I can't see! Take hold of my hand." George took her hand, she pressed his gently; and he watched, scarcely venturing to breathe, lest it should prevent him from hearing her words when she should next speak. But gradually he felt her hand relax from the pressure of his; he looked at her lips, but they were still; he put his face to her mouth, but no breath escaped from it; all was motionless. He was conscious that she was dead, but so sweet, so placid was the repose into which she was sunk, that he was unwilling to stir, lest he should destroy the heavenly feeling. How long he thus hung over her, he was himself unconscious; but when, at length, he was interrupted by the entrance of some of the family, he left the room, and hastened into the open air, as if unwilling to mingle the hallowed feelings which pervaded his mind with the more boisterous grief of the other members of the family.

Violent grief, for such a death, George felt to be impossible; and though he never ceased to think of her loss but with the most affectionate regret, his sorrow was so blended with the conviction that the change was a happy one for her, that it soon softened down to a holy and tender remembrance, which served only to stimulate his mind to virtue and piety; and the sweet proof that she had given so short a time before her death of her affection for him, made him cherish with grateful pleasure the recollection of the Pet Lamb.

THE CLEAN FACE;

or,

THE BOY WASHED BY HIS ELDER SISTER.

Oh! why must my face be wash'd so clean,
And scrubb'd and drench'd for Sunday,
When you know very well (as you've always seen)
'Twill be dirty again on Monday?

My hair is stiff with the lathery soap
That behind my ears is dripping;
And my smarting eyes I'm afraid to ope;
And my lip the suds is sipping.

They're down my throat, and up my nose--
And to choke me you seem to be trying.
That I'll shut my mouth you needn't suppose,
For how can I keep from crying?

And you rub as hard as ever you can--
And your hands are hard--to my sorrow;
No woman shall wash me when I'm a man--
And I wish I was one to-morrow.

E. LESLIE.

THE CLEAN FACE.]

LE LOUP ET L'AGNEAU.

BY THE AUTHOR OF LIGHTS OF EDUCATION.

Soon after the dreadful massacre of the white inhabitants of St. Domingo many years ago, a French family came to settle in Baltimore. With a small sum of money, saved from the wreck of a large fortune, they purchased an acre of ground, about a mile from town, with a stone house built on it; over which they contrived to spread a foreign appearance, by thatching the slanting roof of the porch in front--latticing the small windows--and hanging out a nightingale in a wicker cage. The family consisted of a gentleman and lady, a nephew, and an infant daughter, with the domestics, the faithful adherents of their master's adverse fortune. After some time, Mr. Leroy obtained a small salary in the French consul's office; Madame Leroy worked stays; the servant woman (Pauline) made cakes, and sold them at market, or in the park on _field-days_, to the followers of the military assembled there. The man (Antoine) cultivated West India vegetables; but when Pauline was away, he added all the work of the house to his own occupation; and could cook, wash, and iron, better than herself, though he never scolded half so loud. Little Susette was a sweet creature; with bright laughing black eyes, and of a lively, courageous temper. Her cousin was not so; whether the horrid scenes he indistinctly remembered in his own country, or the little sympathy he found in another, tended the most to depression and fear, I know not; but Louis was pensive even to sadness, and timid almost to feminine weakness. These qualities, so injurious to his future prospects, might have been overcome, since they did not appear in the feelings of his early childhood, had he been left either with his family, in the peaceful enjoyment of his own little pleasures, or found associates, who would have enlivened and encouraged by kindness and protection. But the only boy who sought his society, was the least likely to benefit him in this respect. He was the son of a wealthy brewer, whose residence was near Mr. Leroy's, and his name was Michael Redman; commonly called Mike, and sometimes Red Mike. This boy was the usual companion of Louis, from beyond the Falls to school, and back again. Strange, that nothing should grow out of such constant intercourse, in a free country, but wanton oppression and slavish fear; because the ready invention and quick perception of the little Frenchman excited the envy of his unintellectual companion, though he affected to despise all the delicate endowments of that mind, which he kept in bondage by the exercise of his savage strength alone; but this reduced Louis to the most degraded state of slavery, till at length he became subservient to his tyrant's purposes on every occasion; would I could say of good _or_ evil, where all was evil. On Michael's youthful countenance already were impressed the marks of fatal passions; and every day the traces deepened, the shadows darkened. This was more perceptible, whenever his forbidding face appeared in opposition to the lovely, innocent countenance of Louis Leroy; and then so remarkable was the contrast exhibited, that any one would have been struck with the truth of the application, when an old French gentleman, who usually came on an evening to share Mr. Leroy's frugal supper, of bread and salad, exclaimed on seeing the two boys together--"Voila, le loup et l'agneau." (Behold, the wolf and the lamb.) Well might he say so, and the transactions of two days will prove it sufficiently to the reader. Little Susette had been ill, and was ordered regular exposure in the open air. This was not so easy, considering the constant occupation of the family; but Louis carried her in his arms all about the place, whenever he was at home, till she recovered, and then she soon grew too stout for his nursing; so one day, when Pauline was gone to attend a parade in the park, Antoine was spreading out beans and okras at the back of the house to dry, and Madame Leroy was finishing a pair of stays, Louis took the baby in his arms, and carried her under a shady tree; when sitting down beside her, he began to contrive in his thoughts a proper coach for her.

THE WOLF & THE LAMB]

As soon as he had drawn out the plan in his head, he set about the execution of it with his hands; and by the labour of a few Saturdays, and the sacrifice of a little money that his teacher had given him for some service in the school, he made her an elegant carriage, which he painted with yellow ochre, and emblazoned with his uncle's coat of arms, as he thought he remembered it on the old family coach, belonging to three generations of noblesse in St. Domingo. He had put the infant in her fairy vehicle, and was drawing her toward the house, to show it to his aunt, when Mike Redman appeared. "Hurra, Louy, what have you got there? It looks like a frog in a pumpkin shell." The comparison was not unapt, when he only saw a small head, and two little fat hands, peeping out of a yellow box. "Come, tumble it out here, I want you to go a-fishing, and this wagon will do to carry them home in." "Oh, no, Michael, that is little Susette's." "Oh, never mind, she's able to trot about well enough on her own stumpy legs; but the fish have no feet to walk." "I will bring Antoine's basket." "No, you needn't, this thing here is a great deal better; and we'll keep it for that always. So hurra, Miss Susan, clear out, and run as fast as you can." Saying this, he took the baby from the carriage, and stood her on the ground; upon which she did not cry, but remained looking in his face, with a mixed expression of surprise and dislike, and never offered to stir; Louis, who at the moment was more afraid for Susette than himself, agreed to go with Mike, if he would wait till he carried the child in. Satisfied with his conquest so far, Redman remained; and when Louis returned, they set off,--but this poor boy could not recover the mortification of sacrificing the toy he had made, with such ingenuity, for the use of his little cousin, and with which he thought he should delight her parents, for the portage of Mike Redman's fish: yet, even this was not so painful a sensation, as he felt, when forced by his companion to catch worms, and bait the hooks with them. At the commencement, indeed, he was so much overcome, that he sickened to faintishness, upon which Michael showed so much feeling, as to throw a hat-full of water in his face; from which it descended in streams to his breast, and making his clothes thoroughly wet, promised to add ill-health to the other evils of his constitution. When the boys were returning home, Mike said, "This is a prime thing, Louy--this here wagon, I'm going to keep it, to carry things always; you can easily get another for yourself, if you want." "No, Michael, I cannot, I have not more money." "Oh! well then, you can do without--as you did before you made it." "But, little Susette, she cannot do without it, because she is sick." "Sick--not she, I tell you--she's as stout as any little pig, so you must make her walk." "Oh, no, Michael, she is too little, she cannot walk such a great deal." "To be sure she can--it is the very thing for her; why, she'll grow as round as one of them tubs yonder in our yard, if you let her ride; so, I'll keep the carriage for that; and, look here, Louy, since you're so clever at these sort o' notions, I want you to make me some arrows. You must get me a dozen done by Saturday--that's the last of our holidays, you know--and then, if I shoot any birds a _Sunday_, I'll give you one or two for your supper." "I do not want them, Michael, I would prefer you let them sing on Sunday."--"Well, I don't want to give you any birds, if you prefer _go without_--but you must make me the arrows at any rate, and if you don't have them ready, when I call for them, you'll be sorry." What Mike Redman wanted with a dozen arrows and a baby's carriage, I leave to the consideration of those young people, who have witnessed in their companions a premature acuteness in ways of traffic; which discovers itself in the sale, or barter, of all the small wares they can beg or borrow: I omit the other word, so commonly united with these two, because, I trust, that at this period, when education has extended moral influence so far, there is not one, in the whole circle of boyish transgressions, to whom the application of such a word would not be a false and shocking libel. The characters of children then, perhaps, were less attended to; and certainly Mike Redman's parents, though they fed him plentifully, and clothed him fashionably, could never have instructed him in the slightest principle; since he did not give without reluctance, to the poor boy who assisted him materially, a few little fishes to help out his miserable dinner, or scruple to take from him a toy that had cost him three days' labour, and the money that otherwise should have purchased him a new jacket, (which he sadly wanted,) to procure pleasure for his infant relative.

When Louis entered the room, where the family usually assembled, he found the old French gentleman had come to dine with them; though there was nothing on the table, but a dish of okra or gumbo soup, a salad, and an omelette; to which, however, were soon added, through the quick hands of Antoine, Louis's contribution of fish; and surely round any richer board, there was not then assembled a more striking picture of "the sublime and beautiful:" a Christian philosopher cheerfully resigned to the changes of fortune, and his lovely companion, with faithful affection, smiling while she shared his fate. There was so striking a resemblance between Madame Leroy and her nephew, that many persons supposed they were mother and son; and as he was the only child of a beloved sister, that escaped the general death, she loved him as if he had been her own. Mr. Leroy was also related to him in the same degree; his brother having married the mother of Louis,--had this not been the case, however, he would have been fond of him for his wife's sake. He loved every one that she loved, and herself more than all. Little Susette had forgotten her coach, or resigned to its loss, was making smiling faces over her soup as she drafted it from her plate to her mouth, by half spoonfuls at a time. Poor Louis almost forgot his hardships, under a cruel task-master, when he sat down to his temperate meal, with so good an appetite; while the pleasant jests of the gay old gentleman were relished by all the party, with that better philosophy of the French school, which teaches to make the most of the simplest pleasures, and which, I am afraid, few but her own scholars have learned. The next morning Louis arose early, to perform his allotted task, which would have been easy enough, even had he been less expert. His aunt, whom he did not inform that this labour was involuntary, and from whom he had constantly concealed all the other impositions of Mike Redman, gave him a dozen large pins to tip the arrows with, and Antoine cut him the most suitable wood. But light as the task was, his spirit now rebelled at this slavery, and whispered "Be free," so with a revolting soul he finished the arrows. But Michael, whose father had taken him to the country on Saturday, could not call for them before Monday, when they were to go to school. Louis had a satchel made, ready to carry his books neatly; but Mike, whose mother never thought of making him one, was obliged to carry his as well as he could without, and he now threw them down with his cap and gloves, to examine the arrows; little Susette, who was playing in the yard, with a tin cup, and with which she had been making music on the stones, now began to look at the books, and with the usual destructiveness of infancy to the works of literature, she tore some of the leaves out. When Mike had put all the arrows in the quiver, except one, he turned round, and seeing the condition of his books, he flew at the little creature in a rage, as if he would tear her in pieces; and so verify his title to the name of a wolf. The cowardice of Louis at that instant vanished; he sprang forward, and seized the young savage by the collar, while his faithful little dog caught hold of one of the straps of Mike's trowsers. This gave the infant some time to escape, and with terrifying cries she ran toward the house. Her mother came to the door in dreadful alarm, when seeing her nephew closed up against the garden gate, by the powerful shoulders of Mike Redman, (who had his hands clenched,) and the little dog howling at his feet, in extreme pain, she called, in the agony of fear, upon two men, who were looking out from the brewery yard, at the boys' affray, to separate them. "Be aisy, Casper," said one, "and let the boys fight it out, I'll jist step over and see the Frenchman clear o' the fence." "Put I'll see de Frenchman clear o' Mike, Patrick; mine hearts, de poy wouldn't stant no chance at all mit him." With these separate intentions, they both sallied forth, and approached the combatants. Pat released the Frenchman, but Mike, resisting the interference of such authority, was knocked down by the German; who, as an excuse for himself, when he was called upon by Mr. Redman to relate the whole transaction, offered this:--"In my country, de poys are prought up to mind the sayins o' pigger people." Mr. Redman, who was not himself an unjust man, admitted the apology, and soon after, considering, perhaps, though it was then too late, that he did not properly control his vicious propensities, while he exposed them to continual increase in the contaminating sphere around him, he sent Michael to school at a distance from home, and recompensed his little neighbour, by many acts of kindness, for the cruel oppression of his son. When I asked the person, who told me this story, what became of the two boys in after life, he said, Michael Redman inherited a large property, which he soon spent; after this he went to sea; and I would, probably, never have learned his final fate, had he not been announced in the newspapers, some years after, with an _alias_ to his name, among a number of men who were executed for piracy. In process of time, Louis Leroy married his young cousin Susette; and proved, through a long course of years, his filial affection to her parents. He contrived to add to his small patrimony by several useful inventions, which were patented in the state. He reared up a numerous family, with the same frugal and temperate habits that he had been taught, and under the same roof which had sheltered his own boyhood; while all the other habitations that had risen around him were constantly changing their owners and inmates. Behold the just end of "Le Loup et L'Agneau."

THE CHRISTMAS VISIT.

"Come hither, Emily," said Mrs. Osman to her daughter, a little girl about six years old, who had just returned from school; "Come hither, for I have something to tell you."

"What is it, mamma? Have you had a letter from papa? and is he coming home soon?"

"No, that is not it, though I hope your papa will now very soon be home again; but it is that your friend, Mrs. Cassy, has just been here, to invite you to spend the day with her on Christmas day, to meet your friend Julia."

"Oh! delightful, how very kind Mrs. Cassy is!" said the little girl with great animation.

"She is, indeed! And though the object of this invitation is to give Julia a treat before she leaves the country, which you know she will now soon do, as her mamma has sent for her, to return home with her uncle who is to set off in a few days: yet it will, I am sure, be quite as great a pleasure to yourself; for though Mrs. Cassy has no children of her own, you know how much pains she always takes to make her house pleasant to her little visiters."

"Oh, yes! I remember the last time we were there, she had a large baby for us, that she had dressed herself. And it had a beautiful frock and cap, and a pair of socks, just like those that my little sister Emma wears; and we played at its being sick; and then Mrs. Cassy made a scramble of raisins and sugarplums, and a great many other good things, and we had such fun in picking them up! Oh! it was delightful. I hope you will let me go, mamma!"

"Yes! upon one condition."

"Oh! I know what that condition will be. It will be about my tickets for good conduct."

"Yes, you are quite right. You know, Emily, your great fault is idling. You are apt to spend your time idling when you ought to be attending to your lessons. But if you get----"

"A ticket every day for good conduct," interrupted the little girl.

"Yes! I am sure you will not receive a ticket for good conduct unless your lessons have been properly attended to, and your behaviour in school has been such as it ought to be; and therefore your going to Mrs. Cassy's must depend upon your tickets for good conduct. It only wants two days to Christmas day, and if you can bring me a ticket each day for good conduct you shall go: but if not, you must be content to stay at home. It is a very short time for you to keep watch over yourself, so that if you fail, I am sure even your friend Mrs. Cassy herself will not think that you deserve to partake of her kindness."

"Oh! if it only depends upon my getting two tickets for good conduct, I am sure I shall go," returned the little Emily, clapping her hands with pleasure. "Let me see! This is Monday evening; there is only Tuesday and Wednesday; and on Wednesday we shall have school only half the day; so that I shall have to watch myself only a very short time."

"True, Emily, it will only be a very short time, and therefore the terms on which your going depends are not, you see, very severe; but yet that time, short as it is, may be of great service to you, as every time you try, you do something toward forming a habit of attention; and besides, if you succeed, you will both please me, and prove to your friend Mrs. Cassy that you know how to value her kindness."