Chapter III: Part 3

While she was thus speaking, the warmth of her arms somewhat revived the lamb, who, opening its eyes a little, made a slight motion, and cried baa, in a very low tone, as if it were calling for its mother. It would be impossible to express little Flora's joy on this occasion. She covered the lamb in her apron, and over that put her stuff petticoat; she then bent her breast down towards her lap, in order to increase the warmth, and blew into its mouth and nostrils with all the force she could. By degrees the poor animal began to stir, and every motion it made conveyed joy to her little heart.

This success encouraged her to proceed; she crumbled some of her bread into her pan, and, taking it up in her fingers, she with no small difficulty forced it between its teeth, which were very firmly closed together. The lamb, whose only disorder was hunger and fatigue, began to feel the effects of this nourishment. It first began to stretch out its limbs, then shake its head, to wag its tail, and at last to prick up its ears. In a little time, it was able to stand upon its legs, and then went of itself to Flora's breakfast pan, who was highly delighted to see it take such pleasing liberties; for she cared not a farthing about losing her own breakfast, since it saved the life of the little lamb. In short, in a little time, it recovered its usual strength, and began to skip and play about its kind deliverer.

It may naturally be supposed, that Flora was greatly pleased at this unexpected success. She took it up in her arms, and ran with it to the cottage to shew it her mother. Her Baba, for so Flora called it, became the first object of her cares, and it constantly shared with her in the little allowance of bread and milk, which she received for her meals. Indeed, so fond was she of it, that she would not have exchanged it for a whole flock. Nor was Baba insensible of the fondness of her little mistress, since she would follow her wherever she went, would come and eat out of her hand, skip, and frisk round her, and would bleat most piteously whenever Flora was obliged to leave her at home.

Baba, however, repaid the services of her little mistress in a more substantial manner than that of merely dancing about her, for she brought forth young lambs: those lambs grew up, and brought forth others; so that, within the space of a few years, Flora had a very capital stock, that furnished the whole family with food and raiment. Such, my little readers, are the rewards which Providence bestows on acts of goodness, tenderness, and humanity.

THE FRUITFUL VINE

It was in the beginning of the spring, when Mr. Jackson went to his country-house, and took with him his little son Junius, in order to treat him with a walk in the garden. The primroses and violets were then displaying all their beauties, and many trees had begun to show what livery they were soon to wear.

After walking some time about the garden, they happened to go into the summer-house, at the foot of which grew the stump of a vine, which twisted wildly, and extended its naked branches in a rude and irregular manner. As soon as little Junius saw this tree, he exclaimed sadly against the ugly appearance it made, and began to exert all his strength to pull it up, but he found his efforts in vain, it being too well rooted to yield to his weak arm. He begged his papa to call the gardener to grub it up, and make firewood of it; but Mr. Jackson desired his son to let the tree alone, telling him that he would in a few months give him his reasons for not complying with his request.

This did not satisfy Junius, who desired his father to look at those lively crocusses and snow-drops, saying, he could not see why that barren stump should be kept, which did not produce a single green leaf. He thought it spoiled and disfigured the garden, and therefore begged his father would permit him to fetch the gardener to pluck it up.

Mr. Jackson, who could not think of granting him his request, told him, that it must stand as it then was, at least for some time to come. Little Junius still persisted in his entreaties, urging how disgraceful it was to the garden; but his father diverted his attention from the vine, by turning the conversation.

It so happened, that Mr. Jackson's affairs called him to a different part of the country, from whence he did not return till the middle of autumn. He no sooner came home, than he paid a visit to his country-house, taking little Junius with him. As the day happened to be exceedingly warm, they retired to enjoy the benefit of the shade, and entered the arbour, in which the vine stump had before so much offended his son Junius.

"Ah! papa," said the young gentleman, "how charming and delightful is this green shade! I am much obliged to you for having that dry and ugly stump plucked up, which I found so much fault with when we were here last, and for putting in its place this beautiful plant; I suppose you did it in order to give me an agreeable surprise. How delightful and tempting the fruit looks! What fine grapes! some purple, and others almost black: I see no tree in the garden that looks in so blooming a state. All have lost their fruit; but this fine one seems in the highest perfection. See how it is loaded! See those wide-spreading leaves that hide the clusters. If the fruit be as good as it appears beautiful, it must be delicious."

Little Junius was in raptures when he tasted one of the grapes, which his father gave him, and still more when he informed him, that from such fruit was made that delicious liquor which he sometimes tasted after dinner. The little fellow was quite astonished on hearing his father talk thus; but he was far more surprised, when Mr. Jackson told him, that all those fine leaves, and delicious fruit grew from that very crooked and misshapen stump, with which he had been so angry in the spring. His father then asked him, if he should now order the gardener to pluck it up, and make firewood of it. Junius was much confused; but, after a short silence, told his papa, that he would rather see every other tree in the garden cut down than that, so beautiful were its leaves, and so delicious its fruit.

As Mr. Jackson was a man of good sense, he thus moralized on this occasion. "You see then, my dear," said he, "how imprudently I should have acted, had I followed your advice, and cut down this tree. Daily experience convinces us, that the same thing happens frequently in the commerce of this world, which has in this instance misled you. When we see a child badly clothed, and of an unpleasing external appearance, we are too apt to despise him, and grow conceited on comparing ourselves with him; and sometimes even go so far as cruelly to address him in haughty and insulting language. But beware, my dear boy, how you run into errors by forming a too hasty judgment. It is possible that in a person so little favoured by nature may dwell an exalted soul, which may one day astonish the world with the greatness of its virtues, or enlighten it with knowledge. The most rugged stem may produce the most delicious fruit, while a straight and stately plant may be worthless and barren."

SIR JOHN DENHAM AND HIS WORTHY

TENANT.

One morning, Sir John Denham having shut himself up in his study, on some particular business, his servant came to inform him, that one of his tenants, Farmer Harris, desired to speak with him. Sir John told him to show the farmer into the drawing-room, and to beg him to stay one moment, until he had finished writing a letter.

Sir John had three children, Robert, Arthur, and Sophia, who were in the drawing-room when the farmer was introduced. As soon as he entered, he saluted them very respectfully, though not with the grace of a dancing-master, nor were his compliments very elegantly turned. The two sons looked at each other with a smile of contempt and disrespect. Indeed, they behaved in such a manner, that the poor farmer blushed, and was quite out of countenance.

Robert was so shamefully impertinent as to walk round him, holding his nose, and asking his brother, if he did not perceive something of the smell of a dung heap. Then he lighted some paper at the fire, and carried it round the room, in order to disperse, as he said, the unpleasant smell. Arthur all the while stood laughing most heartily.

Sophia, however, acted in a very different manner; for, instead of imitating the rudeness of her brothers, she checked them for their behaviour, made apologies for them to the farmer, and approaching him with the most complaisant looks, offered him some wine to refresh him, made him sit down, and took from him his hat and stick to put by.

In a little time, Sir John came out of his study, and approaching the farmer in a friendly manner, took him by the hand, inquired after the health of his family, and asked him what had brought him to town. The farmer replied, that he was come to pay him half a year's rent, and that he hoped he would not be displeased at his not coming sooner, the roads having been so bad that he could not till then carry his corn to market.

Sir John told him he was not displeased at his not coming sooner, because he knew him to be an honest man, who had no occasion to be put in mind of his debts. The farmer then put down the money, and drew out of his great coat pocket a jar of candied fruits. "I have brought something here," said he, "for the young folks. Won't you be so kind, Sir John, as to let them come out one of these days, and take a mouthful of the country air with us? I'd try, as well as I could, to entertain and amuse them. I have two good stout nags, and would come for them myself, and take them down in my four-wheeled chaise, which will carry them very safely, I'll warrant it."

Sir John said, that he would certainly take an opportunity to pay him a visit, and invited him to stay to dinner; but the farmer excused himself, saying, he had a good deal of business to do in town, and wished to get home before night. Sir John filled his pocket with cakes for his children, thanked him for the present he had made to his, and then took leave of him.

No sooner was the farmer gone, than Sophia, in the presence of her brothers, acquainted her papa of the very rude reception they had given the honest farmer. Sir John was exceedingly displeased at their conduct, and much applauded Sophia for her different behaviour.

Sir John, being seated at breakfast with his children, opened the farmer's jar of fruit, and he and his daughter ate some of them, which they thought were very nice; but Robert and Arthur were neither of them invited to a single taste. Their longing eyes were fixed upon them; but their father, instead of taking any notice of them, continued conversing with Sophia, whom he advised never to despise a person merely for the plainness of his dress; "for," said he, "were we to behave politely to those only who are finely clothed, we should appear to direct our attention more to the dress than to the wearer. The most worthy people are frequently found under the plainest dress, and of this we have an example in Farmer Harris. It is this man who helps to clothe you, and also to procure you a proper education, for the money that he and my other tenants bring me, enables me to do these things."

Breakfast being finished, the remainder of the fruit was ordered to be locked up; but Robert and his brother, whose longing eyes followed the jar, clearly saw they were to have none of them. In this they were confirmed by their father, who told them not to expect to taste any of those fruits, either on that or any future day.

Robert endeavoured to excuse himself by saying, that it was not his fault if the farmer did not smell well; and he thought there was no harm in telling him of it. If people will go among dung, they must expect to smell of it. "And yet," said Sir John, "if this man were not to manure his land with dung, his crops would fail him, he would be unable to pay me his rent; and you yourself would perhaps be obliged to follow a dung cart." The two boys saw displeasure in their papa's countenance, and therefore did not presume to say any thing more.

Early on a morning, shortly after, the good farmer came to Sir John Denham's door, and sent up his compliments, kindly inviting him to make a little excursion to his farm. Sir John could not resist the friendly invitation, as a refusal might perhaps have made the honest farmer uneasy. Robert and Arthur begged very hard to go along with them, promising to behave more civilly in future; and Sophia begging for them likewise, Sir John at last consented. They then mounted the four-wheeled chaise with joyful countenances, and, as the farmer had a pair of good horses, they were there in a short time.

On their arrival, Mrs. Harris, the farmer's wife, came to the door to receive them, helped the young gentlefolks out of the chaise, and kissed them. All their little family, dressed in their best clothes, came out to compliment their visitors. Sir John would have stopped a moment to talk with the little ones, and caress them; but Mrs. Harris pressed him to go in, lest the coffee should grow cold, it being already poured out; it was placed on a table, covered with a napkin as white as snow.

Indeed, the coffee-pot was not silver, nor the cups china, yet every thing was in the neatest order. Robert and Arthur, however, looked slily at each other, and would have burst out into a laugh, had not their father been present. Mrs. Harris, who was a sensible woman, guessed by their looks what they thought, and therefore made an apology for the humble style in which her table was set out, which she owned could not be equal to what they met with at their own homes; but hoped they would not be dissatisfied with her homely fare. The cakes she produced were excellent, for she spared no pains in making them.

As soon as breakfast was over, the farmer asked Sir John to look at his orchard and grounds; and Mrs. Harris took all the pains she could to make the walk pleasing to the children. She showed them all her flocks, which covered the fields, and gave them the prettiest lambs to play with. She then conducted them to her pigeon-house, where every thing was clean and wholesome. There were some so young that they were unable to fly; some of the mothers sitting on their eggs, and others employed in feeding their young. From the pigeon-house, they proceeded to the bee-hive: but Mrs. Harris took care that they should not go too near them, for fear of being stung.

Most of these sights being new to the children, they seemed highly pleased with them, and were even going to take a second survey of them, when the farmer's youngest son came to inform them that dinner was ready. They ate off pewter, and drank out of Delft ware; but Robert and Arthur, finding themselves so well pleased with their morning-walk, dared not to indulge themselves in ill-natured observations. Mrs. Harris, indeed, had spared neither pains nor attention to produce every thing in the best manner she was able.

Sir John, after dinner, perceiving two fiddles hang up against the wall, asked who played on those instruments. The farmer answered, he and his son; and, without saying a word more, he made a sign to his son Luke to take down the fiddles. They by turns played some old tunes, with which Sir John seemed highly pleased. As they were going to hang up the instruments, Sir John desired his two sons to play some of their best tunes, putting the fiddles into their hands: but they knew not even how to hold the bow, and their confusion occasioned a general laugh.

Sir John, now thinking it high time to return home, desired the farmer to order the carriage. Farmer Harris strongly pressed Sir John to stay all night, but the farmer was at last obliged to submit to Sir John's excuses.

On his return home, he asked his son Robert how he had liked his entertainment; and what he should have thought of the farmer, if he had taken no pains to entertain them. He replied, that he liked his entertainment; but had he not taken pains to accommodate them, he should have thought him an unmannerly clown. "Ah, Robert! Robert!" said Sir John, "this honest man came to our house, and, instead of offering him any refreshment, you made game of him. Which, then, is the best bred, you or the farmer?"

Robert blushed, and seemed at a loss what answer to make; but at length replied, that it was his duty to receive them well, as he got his living off their lands. "That is true," answered Sir John, "but it may be easily seen who draws the greatest profit from my lands, the farmer or I. He indeed feeds his horses with hay which he gets off my meadows, but his horses in return plough the fields, which otherwise would be overrun with weeds. He also feeds his cows and his sheep with the hay; but their dung is useful in giving fertility to the ground. His wife and children are fed with the harvest corn; but they in return devote the summer to weeding the crops; and afterwards, some in reaping them, and some in threshing. All these labours end in my advantage. The rest of the hay and corn he takes to market to sell, and with the produce thereof he pays his rent. From this, it is evident, who derives the greatest profit from my lands."

Here a long pause ensued; but, at last, Robert confessed that he saw his error. "Remember, then, all your life," said Sir John "what has now been offered to your eyes and ears. This farmer, so homely dressed, whose manners you have considered as so rustic, this man is better bred than you; and, though he knows nothing of Latin, he knows much more than you, and things of much greater use. You see, therefore, how unjust it is to despise any one for the plainness of his dress, and the rusticity of his manners. You may understand a little Latin, but you know not how to plough, sow grain, or reap the harvest, nor even to prune a tree. Sit down with being convinced that you have despised your superior."

ALFRED AND DORINDA.

Mr. Venables, one fine summer day, having promised his two children, Alfred and Dorinda, to treat them with a walk in a fine garden a little way out of town, went up into his dressing-room to prepare himself, leaving the two children in the parlour.

Alfred was so delighted with the thoughts of the pleasure he should receive from his walk, that he jumped about the room, without thinking of any evil consequence that could happen; but unluckily the skirt of his coat brushed against a very valuable flower, which his father was rearing with great pains, and which he had unfortunately just removed from before the window, in order to screen it from the scorching heat of the sun.

"O brother, brother!" said Dorinda, taking up the flower which was broken off from the stalk, "what have you done!" The sweet girl was holding the flower in her hand, when her father, having dressed himself, came into the parlour. "Bless me! Dorinda," said Mr. Venables, in an angry tone, "how could you be so thoughtless as to pluck a flower, which you have seen me take so much care to rear, in order to have taken seed from it?" Poor Dorinda was in such a fright, that she could only beg her papa not to be angry. Mr. Venables, growing more calm, replied he was not angry, but reminded her, that as they were going to a garden where there was a variety of flowers, she might have waited till they got there to indulge her fancy. He therefore hoped she would not take it amiss if he left her at home.

This was a terrible situation for Dorinda, who held her head down, and said, nothing. Little Alfred, however, was of too generous a temper to keep silence any longer. He went up to his papa, with his eyes swimming in tears, and told him, that it was not his sister but himself, who had accidentally beaten off the head of the flower with the flap of his coat. He therefore desired, that his sister might go abroad, and he stay at home.

Mr. Venables was so delighted with the generosity of his children, that he instantly forgave the accident, and tenderly kissed them both, being happy to see them have such an affection for each other. He told them, that he loved them equally alike, and that they should both go with him. Alfred and Dorinda kissed each other, and leaped about for joy.

They all three then walked to the garden, where they saw plants of the most valuable kinds. Mr. Venables observed with pleasure how Dorinda pressed her clothes on each side, and Alfred kept the skirts of his coat under his arms, for fear of doing any damage in their walk among the flowers.

The flower Mr. Venables had lost would have given him some pain had it happened from any other circumstance; but the pleasure he received from seeing such mutual affection and regard subsist between his two children, amply repaid him for the loss of his flower. I cannot omit the opportunity that here presents itself, of reminding my young friends, not only how necessary, but how amiable and praiseworthy it is, for brothers and sisters to live together in harmony. It is not only their most important interest to do so, but what should be a still stronger argument with them, such are the commands of Him who made them.

ROSINA; OR, THE FROWARD GIRL

REFORMED.

I would recommend to all my little readers who have had the misfortune to contract a vicious habit, very attentively to peruse the following historical fragment, in which, if they will but properly reflect, they will see that amendment is no very difficult thing, when once they form a sincere resolution to accomplish it.

Rosina was the joy of her parents until the seventh year of her age, at which period the glowing light of reason begins to unfold itself, and make us sensible of our infantine faults; but this period of life had a different effect on Rosina, who had then contracted an unhappy disposition, which cannot better be described, than by the practices of those snarling curs that grumble incessantly, and seem always ready to run and bite at those that approach them.

If a person touched any of her playthings, though it were by mistake, she would be out of temper for hours, and murmur about the house as though she had been robbed. If any one attempted to correct her, though in the most gentle manner, she would fly into a rage, equalled only by the fury of contending elements, and the uproar of the angry billows of the ocean.

Her father and mother saw this unaccountable change, with inexpressible sorrow; for neither they, nor any in the house, could now bear with her. Indeed, she would sometimes seem sensible of her errors, and would often shed tears in private, on seeing herself thus become the object of contempt to every one, not excepting her parents; but an ill habit had got the better of her temper, and she consequently every day grew worse and worse.

One evening, which happened to be new year's eve, she saw her mother going towards her room with a basket under her cloak. Rosina followed her mother, who ordered her to go back to the parlour immediately. As Rosina went thither, she threw about all the stools and chairs that stood in her way.

About half an hour after, her mamma sent for her; and great indeed was her surprise on seeing the room lighted up with a number of candles and the table covered with the most elegant toys.

Her mother called her to her, and desired her to read, in a bit of paper which she gave her, for whom those toys were intended, on which she read the following words, written in large letters; "For an amiable little girl, in return for her good behaviour." Rosina looked down, and could not say a word. On her mother's asking her for whom those toys were intended, she replied, with tears in her eyes, that they could not be intended for her.

Her parent then showed her another paper, desiring her to see if that did not concern her. Rosina took it, and read as follows: "For a froward little girl, who is sensible of her faults, and in beginning a new year will take pains to amend them." Rosina, instantly throwing herself into her mother's arms, and crying bitterly, said, "O! that is I, that is I." The tears also fell from her parent's eyes, partly for sorrow, on account of her daughter's faults, and partly through joy in the promising hope of her amendment.

"Come, Rosina," said she to her, after a short pause, "and take what was intended for you; and may God, who has heard your resolution, give you ability to fulfil it." Rosina, however, insisted on it, that it belonged to the person described in the first paper, and therefore desired her mamma to keep those things for her till she answered that description. This answer gave her mother a deal of pleasure, and she immediately put all the toys into a drawer, giving the key of it to Rosina, and telling her to open the drawer whenever she should think it proper so to do.

Several weeks passed without the least complaint against Rosina, who had performed wonders on herself. She then went to her mamma, threw her arms round her neck, and asked her if she thought she had then any right to open the drawer. "Yes, my dear," said her mother, clasping her tenderly in her arms, "you may now open the drawer with great propriety. But pray tell me how you have so well managed to get the better of your temper?" Rosina said it had cost her a deal of trouble; but every morning and evening, and indeed almost every hour in the day, she prayed to God to assist her.

Her mother shed tears of delight on this occasion; and Rosina became not only mistress of the toys, but of the affections of all her friends and acquaintances. Her mother related this happy change in the temper of her daughter in the presence of a little miss, who gave way to the same unhappy disposition; when the little girl was so struck with the relation of it, that she immediately determined to set about the work of reformation, in order to become as amiable as Rosina. Her attempt was not made in vain; and Rosina had the satisfaction to find, that, in being useful to herself, she had contributed to make others happy. My youthful readers, if any of you labour under bad habits, set about a reformation immediately, lest you become hardened by time, and thus totally destroy your present and future happiness.

LITTLE ANTHONY.

On one of those fine mornings, which the month of June frequently affords us, little Anthony was busily employed in preparing to set out with his father on a party of pleasure, which, for several days before, had engrossed all his attention. Though, in general, he found it very difficult to rise early, yet this morning he got up soon, without being called, so much was his mind fixed on the intended jaunt.

It often happens, with young people in particular, that, all on a sudden, they lose the object they flattered themselves they were almost in possession of. So it fared with little Anthony; for, just as they were ready to set out, the sky darkened all at once, the clouds grew thick, and a tempestuous wind bent down the trees, and raised a cloud of dust.

Little Anthony was running down the garden every minute to see how the sky looked, and then jumped up-stairs to examine the barometer; but neither the sky nor the barometer seemed to forbode any thing in his favour. Notwithstanding all this, he gave his father the most flattering hopes that it would still be a fair day, and that these unfavourable appearances would soon disperse. He doubted not but that it would be one of the finest days in the world; and he therefore thought, that the sooner they set out the better, as it would be a pity to lose a moment of their time.

His father, however, did not choose to be too hasty in giving credit to his son's predictions, and thought it more advisable to wait a little. While Anthony and his father were reasoning on this matter, the clouds burst, and down came a very heavy shower of rain. Poor Anthony was now doubly disappointed, and vented his grief in tears, refusing to listen to the voice of consolation.

The rain continued, without intermission, till three o'clock in the afternoon, when the clouds began to disperse, the sun resumed its splendour, the element its clearness, and all nature breathed the odours of the spring. As the weather brightened, so did the countenance of little Anthony, and by degrees he recovered his good humour.

His father now thought it necessary to indulge him with a little walk, and off they set. The calmness of the air, the music of the feathered songsters, the lively and enchanting verdure of the fields, and the sweet perfumes that breathed all around them, completely quieted and composed the troubled heart of the disappointed Anthony.

"Do not you observe," said his father to him, "how agreeable the change is of every thing before you? You cannot have yet forgotten how dull every thing appeared to you yesterday; the ground was parched up for want of rain; the flowers had lost their colour, and hung their heads in languor; and, in short, all nature seemed to be in a state of inaction. What can be the reason, that nature has so suddenly put on such a different aspect?"--"That is easily accounted for, Sir," said Anthony, "it undoubtedly is occasioned by the rain that has fallen to-day."

Anthony had no sooner pronounced these words, than he saw his father's motive for asking him the question. He now plainly perceived the impropriety of his late conduct, in being so unhappy about what was evidently so universally serviceable. He blushed, but his father took no notice of it, judging that his own sense would sufficiently teach him another time, without reluctance, to sacrifice selfish pleasure to the general good of the community at large.

THE HISTORY OF JONATHAN, THE

GARDENER.

In the city of Lincoln lived an honest and industrious gardener, whose name was Jonathan, and who was in general considered as the most skilful in his profession of any in that county. His fruits were much larger than any of his neighbours, and were generally supposed to have a more exquisite flavour.

It was the pride of all the neighbouring gentlemen to have Jonathan's fruits to form their desserts, so that he was under no necessity of sending the produce of his garden to market, as he was always sure of meeting with a sale for them at home. His prudence and assiduity increased as his good fortune enlarged, and, instead of riches making him idle, he attended more closely to cultivation.

Such a character and situation could not fail of procuring him a suitable matrimonial mate, and he accordingly married a young woman in the neighbourhood, whose name was Bella, and who was both prudent and handsome. The first year of their marriage was as comfortable as they could wish for; for Bella assisted her husband in his business, and every thing prospered with them.

This happiness, however, was not to last long; for near his house lived another gardener, whose name was Guzzle, and who spent his time, from morning to night, in an alehouse. The merry and thoughtless humour of Guzzle, by degrees, began to be pleasing to Jonathan, who soon fell into the same ruinous error. At first, he only went now and then to drink with him, and talk to him about gardening; but he very soon began to drop the subject of plants, and delight only in the praises of malt.

Bella saw this change in her husband with the utmost grief and consternation. As yet, not having sufficient experience to attend the wall-fruit herself, she was frequently obliged to fetch him home to his work, when she generally found him in a state of intoxication. It would often have been better had he kept out of the garden than gone into it; for his head was generally so muddled with beer, when he went to work on his trees, that his pruning-knife committed the greatest depredations, cutting away those branches which ought to have been left, and leaving those that were useless.

Hence it was not to be wondered at, that the garden fell off in the quality and quantity of its fruit, and the more Jonathan perceived the decay, the more he gave himself up to drinking. As his garden gradually failed in procuring him the means of getting strong liquor, he first parted with his furniture, and then with his linen and clothes.

Bella, in the mean time, did what little she could to keep things together; but all to no purpose. One day, when she was gone to market with some roots she had reared herself, he went and sold his working utensils, and immediately went and spent all with Guzzle. Judge what must be the situation of poor Bella on her return! It was indeed a heart-breaking consideration, to be thus reduced to poverty by the folly of her husband; but yet she loved him, and equally felt for him as for herself, but still more for an infant, as yet but six months old, and which received its nourishment from her breast.

In the evening Jonathan came home drunk, and, swearing at his wife, asked her for something to eat. Bella handed him a knife, and put before him a large basket covered with her apron; Jonathan, in a pet, pulled away the apron; but his astonishment was inexpressible, when he beheld nothing in the basket but his own child fast asleep. "Eat that," said Bella, "for I have nothing else to give you. It is your own child, and if you do not devour it, famine and misery will in a short time."

Jonathan seemed almost petrified into a stone at these words, and for some time remained speechless, with his eyes fixed on his little sleeping son. At last recovering himself, quite sobered, his heart eased itself in tears and lamentations. He rose and embraced his wife, asked her pardon, and promised to amend; and what was still better, he was faithful to his promise.

Though his wife's father had for some time refused to see him, yet, on being made acquainted with his promises of reformation, he advanced money sufficient to enable him to restore his garden to its former state, Jonathan did not deceive him; for his garden put on another appearance, and cut a more splendid figure than ever. After this, neither his prudence nor activity forsook him, but he became at once, and continued so even to old age, the honest man, the indulgent husband, and the tender father. He would sometimes tell this tale of his follies to his son, as a lesson to him, how dangerous it is to get connected with bad company, and how easily human nature is led astray by the poison of example. The son, who thus acquired knowledge at the father's former expense, became a wise and prudent man, and conceived such an aversion to idleness and drinking, that he continued all his life as sober as he was laborious. Thus was an innocent infant the cause of reformation in a deluded father.

THE SPARROW'S NEST.

Billy Jessamy, having one day espied a sparrow's nest under the eves of the house, ran directly to inform his sisters of the important discovery, and they immediately fell into a consultation concerning the manner in which they should take it. It was at last agreed, that they should wait till the young ones were fledged, that Billy should then get a ladder up against the wall, and that his sisters should hold it fast below, while he mounted after the prize.

As soon as they thought these poor little creatures were properly fledged, preparations were made for the execution of their intended plan. The old birds flew backwards and forwards about the nest, and expressed, as well as they were able, the sorrow and affliction they felt on being robbed of their young. Billy and his two sisters, however, paid no regard to their piteous moans; for they took the nest, with three young ones in it.

As they had now got the innocent prisoners in their possession, the next thing to be considered was, what they should do with them. The younger sister, being of a mild and tender-hearted disposition, proposed putting them into a cage, promising to look after them herself, and to see that they wanted for nothing. She reminded her brother and sister how pretty it would be to see and hear those birds when grown up.

Billy, however, was of a very different opinion; for he insisted on it, that it would be better to pluck off their feathers, and then set them down in the middle of the room, as it would be very funny to see how they would hop about without feathers. The elder sister was of the same way of thinking as the younger; but Billy was determined to have the matter entirely his own way.

The two little ladies, finding they were not likely to have things as they wished, gave up the point without much hesitation; for Billy had already begun to strip the poor helpless birds. As fast as he plucked them, he put them down on the floor, and it was not long before the little birds were stripped of all their tender feathers. The poor things cried _Weet!_ _Weet!_ and complained in the most piteous accents; they shook their little wings, and shuddered with cold.

Billy, however, who had not the least kind of feeling for their sufferings, carried his persecutions still further, pushing them with his toe, to make them go on when they stopped, and laughing most heartily whenever they staggered or tumbled down through weakness. Though his two sisters at first setting off had pleaded against this cruel kind of sport, yet, seeing their brother so merry on the occasion, they forgot their former dictates of humanity, and joined in the cruel sport with him. Such, as we saw in the preceding tale, is the influence of bad example!

In the midst of this cruel kind of enjoyment, at a distance they saw their tutor approaching. This put them into some flurry, and each pocketed a bird. They would have avoided their tutor, but he called to them, and asked their reason for wishing to shun him. They approached him very slowly, with their eyes cast downwards, which convinced him that something amiss was going forwards.

On their answering, that they were only playing, their tutor observed to them, that they very well knew he never denied them innocent amusement, but, on the contrary, was always glad to see them cheerful and happy. He took notice that each held one of their hands in their pocket, upon which he insisted on their pulling them out, and letting him see what it was they endeavoured to conceal.

They were obliged to comply, much against their will, when each produced a poor bird, that had been stripped of its feathers. The tutor was filled with pity and indignation, and gave each of them a look, that was more dreadful than any words he could have spoken. After some silence, Billy attempted to justify himself by saying, that it was a droll sight to see sparrows hopping about without feathers, and he could see no harm in it.

"Can you then," said the tutor to Billy, "take pleasure in seeing innocent creatures suffer, and hear their cries without pity?" Billy said he did not see how they could suffer from having a few feathers pulled off. The tutor, to convince him of his error, pulled a few hairs from his head, when he roared out loudly, that he hurt him. "What would your pain be then," said the tutor, "were I thus to pluck all the hair off your head? You are sensible of the pain you now feel, but you were insensible of the torment to which you put those innocent creatures, that never offended you. But that you, ladies, should join in such an act of cruelty, very much surprises me!"

The ladies stood motionless, and then, without being able to say a word, sat down, with their eyes swimming in tears; which their tutor observing, he said no more to them. But Billy still persisted in his opinion, that he did the birds no harm; on the contrary, he said, they showed their pleasure by clapping their wings and chirping.

"They clapped their wings," said the tutor, "from the pain you put them to; and what you call chirping, were cries and lamentations. Could those birds have expressed themselves in your speech, you would have heard them cry, 'Ah, father and mother! save us, for we have fallen into the hands of cruel children, who have robbed us of all our feathers! We are cold and in pain. Come, warm us and cure us, or we shall soon die!'"

The little ladies could no longer refrain from tears, and accused Billy of leading them into this act of cruelty. Billy was himself become sensible of his faults, and had already felt the smart of having a few hairs plucked from his head; but the reproaches of his own heart were now visible on his countenance. It appeared to the tutor, that there was no need of carrying the punishment any further; for the error Billy had committed did not arise from a natural love of cruelty, but merely from want of thought and reflection. From this moment Billy, instead of punishing and tormenting dumb creatures, always felt for their distresses, and did what he could to relieve them.

WILLIAM AND THOMAS;

_Or, the Contrast between Industry and Indolence._

In a village, at no small distance from the metropolis, lived a wealthy husbandman, who had two sons, William and Thomas, of whom the former was exactly a year older than the latter.

On the day that the second son was born, the husbandman set in his orchard two young apple-trees of an equal size, on which he bestowed the same care in cultivating, and they throve so much alike, that it was a difficult matter to say which claimed the preference.

As soon as the children were capable of using garden implements, their father took them, on a fine day, early in the spring, to see the two plants he had reared for them, and called after their names. William and Thomas having admired the beauty of these trees, now filled with blossoms, their father told them that he made them a present of them in good condition, and that they would continue to thrive or decay, in proportion to the labour or neglect they received.

Thomas, though the younger son, turned all his attention to the improvement of his tree, by clearing it of insects as soon as he discovered them, and propping up the stem, that it might grow perfectly upright. He dug all round it, to loosen the earth, that the root might receive nourishment from the warmth of the sun and the moisture of the dews. No mother could nurse a child more tenderly in its infancy, than Thomas did his tree.

His brother William, however, pursued a very different conduct; for he loitered away all his time in the most idle and mischievous manner, one of his principal amusements being to throw stones at people as they passed. He kept company with all the idle boys in the neighbourhood, with whom he was continually fighting, and was seldom without either a black eye or a broken shin. His poor tree was neglected, and never thought of, till one day in the autumn, when, by chance, seeing his brother's tree loaded with the finest apples, and almost ready to break down with the weight, he ran to his own tree, not doubting but he should find it in the same pleasing condition.

Great indeed was his disappointment and surprise, when, instead of finding the tree loaded with excellent fruit, he beheld nothing but a few withered leaves, and branches covered with moss. He instantly went to his father, and complained of his partiality in giving him a tree that was worthless and barren, while his brother's produced the most luxuriant fruit. He therefore thought that his brother should at least give him one half of his apples.

His father told him, that it was by no means reasonable, that the industrious should give up part of their labour to feed the idle. "If your tree," said he, "has produced you nothing, it is but a just reward of your indolence, since you see what the industry of your brother has gained him. Your tree was equally full of blossoms, and grew in the same soil; but you paid no attention to the culture of it. Your brother suffered no visible insect to remain on his tree; but you neglected that caution, and left them even to eat up the very buds. As I cannot bear to see even plants perish through neglect, I must now take this tree from you, and give it to your brother, whose care and attention may possibly restore it to its former vigour. The fruit it shall produce must be his property, and you must no longer consider yourself as having any right therein. However, you may go to my nursery, and there choose any other which you may like better, and try what you can do with it; but, if you neglect to take proper care of it, I shall also take that from you, and give it to your brother, as a reward for his superior industry and attention."

This had the desired effect on William, who clearly perceived the justice and propriety of his father's reasoning, and instantly got into the nursery, to choose the most thriving apple-tree he could there meet with. His brother Thomas assisted him in the culture of his tree, advising him in what manner to proceed; and William made the best use of his time, and the instructions he received from his brother. He left off all his mischievous tricks, forsook the company of idle boys, and applied himself cheerfully to work; and in autumn received the reward of his labour, his tree being then loaded with fruit.

From this happy change in his conduct, he derived the advantage, not only of enriching himself with a plentiful crop of fruit, but also of getting rid of bad and pernicious habits. His father was so perfectly satisfied with his reformation, that the following season he gave him and his brother the produce of a small orchard, which they shared equally between them.

MISCHIEF ITS OWN PUNISHMENT,

EXEMPLIFIED IN THE HISTORY OF

WILLIAM AND HARRY.

Mr. Stevenson and his little son Richard, as they were one fine day walking in the fields together, passed by the side of a garden, in which they saw a beautiful pear-tree loaded with fruit. Richard cast a longing eye at it, and complained to his papa that he was very dry. On Mr. Stevenson's saying that he was dry also, but they must bear it with patience till they got home, Richard pointed to the pear-tree, and begged his papa would let him go and get one; for, as the hedge was not very thick, he said he could easily get through, without being seen by any one.

Richard's father reminded him, that the garden and fruit were private property, and to take any thing from thence, without permission, was nothing less than being guilty of a robbery. He allowed that there might be a possibility of getting into the garden without being seen by the owner of it; but such a wicked action could not be concealed from Him who sees every action of our lives, and who penetrates even to the very secrets of our hearts; and that is God.

His son shook his head, and said, he was sensible of his error, and would no more think of committing what might be called a robbery. He recollected that parson Jackson had told him the same thing before, but he had then forgotten it.

At this instant a man started up from behind the hedge, which had before concealed him from their sight. This was an old man, the owner of the garden, who had heard every thing that had passed between Mr. Stevenson and his son. "Be thankful to God, my child," said the old man, "that your father prevented you from getting into my garden with a view to deprive me of that which does not belong to you. You little thought, that at the foot of each tree is placed a trap to catch thieves, which you could not have escaped, and which might have lamed you for the rest of your life. I am, however, happy to find that you so readily listen to the first admonition of your father, and show such a fear of offending God. As you have behaved in so just and sensible a manner, you shall now, without any danger or trouble, partake of the fruit of my garden." He then went to the finest pear-tree, gave it a shake, and brought down near a hatful of fruit, which he immediately gave to Richard.

This civil old man could not be prevailed on to accept of any thing in return, though Mr. Stevenson pulled out his purse for that purpose. "I am sufficiently satisfied, Sir," said he, "in thus obliging your son, and were I to accept of any thing, that satisfaction would be lost." Mr. Stevenson thanked him very kindly, and having shaken hands over the hedge, they parted; Richard at the same time taking leave of the old man in a polite manner.

Little Richard, having finished several of the pears, began to find himself at leisure to talk to his papa. "This is a very good old man," said he; "but would God have punished me, had I taken these pears without his leave?" "He certainly would," replied Mr. Stevenson; "for he never fails to reward good actions, and chastise those who commit evil. The good old man fully explained to you this matter, in telling you of the traps laid for thieves, into which you must have inevitably fallen, had you entered his garden in a clandestine manner. God orders every thing that passes upon earth, and directs events so as to reward good people for virtuous actions, and to punish the wicked for their crimes. In order to make this more clear to you, I will relate to you an affair which happened when I was a boy, and which I shall never forget." Richard seemed very attentive to his father; and having said he should be very glad to hear his story, Mr. Stevenson thus proceeded:--

"When I lived with my father, and was much about your age, we had two neighbours, between whose houses ours was situated, and their names were Davis and Johnson. Mr. Davis had a son named William, and Mr. Johnson one also of the name of Harry. Our gardens were at that time separated only by quickset hedges, so that it was easy to see into each others grounds.