Chapter III (2)

I could not tell, when a great many weeks had gone by, how she learned to love her little brother, how dearly she loved to help wash him and dress him, and smooth his soft silky hair; how patiently she picked up his playthings when he grew bigger, and gave him all her own too; and how pretty she looked as she sat in her little chair, holding him and peeping into his bright blue eyes. Oh Katy’s mamma knew better about her own little girl than the strange woman, Mrs. Smith, did. She knew how badly a little child’s heart may sometimes ache, and how a few kind words, said at the right time, may cure it and make it happy.

Love your mother, little ones.

OUR NEW DOG DASH.

Dash! go away! how do you suppose I can write when you are jumping at my elbow, playing with my robe-tassels, and cutting up such antics, as you have been this last half hour? I know it is a pleasant morning, as well as you do; I should like a ramble as well as you would; but business is business, Dash, and neither you nor those great fleecy-white clouds, sailing so lazily over the blue sky; neither the twitting birds, nor the sweet soft air, every breath of which makes my blood leap; neither the fresh green grass, nor the pretty morning-glories which have opened their blue eyes under my window, can get me out of this chair till my work is done. So, go away, Dash; you need not sniff, and bark, and jump up on the window-sill that way; you don’t know me, or you would know that, in my dictionary, won’t _means_ won’t. Beside, what is to hinder you from going out by yourself, I’d like to know? Dog-days are over, no policeman or covetous boy, in want of half a dollar, will knock you on the head. Why not go out by yourself till I get ready to come, if you are in such a mortal hurry? What are you afraid of? That solemn flock of geese? those hens and roosters? or that great Newfoundland dog, who looks big enough to swallow you at a mouthful? or that steady old brown cow? A pretty fellow you are to be afraid! you who fell upon poor puss, shook her, and chased her up-stairs and down, and in my lady’s chamber, till her back had a hump as big as any camel’s, and her eyes looked like two great emeralds; oh, you blustering little coward! Suppose that great Newfoundland dog should serve you in that fashion! That’s why you are afraid to go out of doors without me, sir, is it? Ah ha!—none of us so big but we can find our match, let me tell you. Remember that, next time you shake a poor harmless pussy, because you were jealous of a saucer of milk I gave her. Let me tell you, sir, ladies first, after that the gentlemen. Where were you brought up, I would like to know, that you have not learned that? Let me see you ruffle one hair of my little Maltese pussy, sir, and I will—no I won’t, for here comes my husband, your master. I like to have forgotten what I told you just now, that none of us are so big but we can find our match. Never fear, Dash, I won’t touch you; for I’ve found mine.

FUN AND FOLLY;
A STORY FOR THOUGHTLESS BOYS.

Halloo! there’s old John coming down the street, top of a load of straw, in that crazy old cart, with that old skeleton of a horse. Gemini! what a turn out, isn’t it Bob? what fun it would be to step up behind the cart, and set that straw on fire with a match; I say, Bob, wouldn’t the old fellow jump down quicker? Let’s do it.

Bob, always ready for “fun,” took a match, and applying it to the dry straw, in an instant set it all of a blaze; then they both ran off, and hid behind a wall to see what would come of it.

Down scrambled old John, head first, and rolled off into the road; the horse feeling the heat, started, and the wheel of the cart passing over old John’s head, left him bleeding and almost lifeless, on the ground.

“Think he’s dead?” whispered Bob with white lips. “I didn’t mean to hurt him, I only wanted a little fun Sam.”

“They’ll put us in jail if they find us,” said Sam, “oh what shall we do; old John will die, he don’t move a bit;” and the naughty boys crept still more closely together behind the wall.

Old John was not dead; only stunned and bleeding; a farmer who came by, seeing him, took him up in his cart, and carried him to the almshouse: and there we will leave him groaning on his small bed, while I tell you his story.

John was once Teller in a bank. Do you know what a teller does? He counts over all the money that is brought into the bank, and gives an account of it to the president of the bank, and the directors. Of course he has to be very careful never to make a mistake in counting; or to mislay even a sixpence; lest the president and the directors of the bank might think he had stolen it. John was very careful and very honest; and all the people who had dealings with him, liked him very much; thousands and thousands of dollars passed through his fingers every day, but he never had a wish to steal a cent; although there were a great many things he could think of, which he wished to buy. At last John got married. His wife was a young girl, named Ellen Norris; she had bright black eyes, rosy lips and two very pretty dimples in her cheeks; John thought he had never seen any thing half so bewitching as those dancing dimples: he was half crazy, when Ellen said yes, to his question, “Will you marry me;” he thought Ellen loved him as well as he loved her, and that they could be as happy together as two robins in one nest. But I am sorry to say, that Ellen did not really love John; she was as poor as she was pretty, and had married him because she supposed he would buy her beautiful dresses, ribbons, and things, to set off her beauty; so after they were married, she kept coaxing for this thing, and coaxing for that, and coaxing for the other; and how could poor John bear to say no, to those two pretty dimples? So he bought one piece of furniture after another, that he knew he could not afford to buy; and silks and satins for Ellen, and hired carriages for her to ride in; and bought every thing which she took it into her foolish head, and selfish heart, to fancy. By-and-by, he found that he had used up all the money which belonged to him; but still Ellen kept coaxing and teazing; and one day when John, for the first time, ventured to say he could not buy something she wanted, Ellen burst into tears, and told John that he did not love her. John could not bear that; so he kissed her, and told her she should have it; but as he went down to the bank, his lips were very white, and there was a strange troubled look in his face, which was never seen there before. That night he put a roll of bills in Ellen’s hand, but long after she was sleeping, dreaming I suppose, of all the fine things money would buy, John might be seen pacing up and down the floor, and now and then striking his forehead with his clenched fist.

Many times after this, Ellen had rolls of bills, and many nights John walked the floor, in the way I have told you.

At last there came a day when Ellen waited for John to come home to dinner—waited—waited—waited—but he did not come. Instead, there came the messenger of the bank, and told her that John was put in jail to be tried for taking money from the bank that was not his. The messenger pitied Ellen, because she was so young, and because he believed her to be a good and loving wife; and he would have rather given a great deal of money, than to have told her such bad news, if he had had it to give. Every body was so astonished when they heard about John; every body had thought him “such a good fellow;” nobody knew how that foolish, selfish woman, had led him on to steal with her dimples and her tears. No—for John never told of it; not even to excuse himself; not even when his heartless wife refused to go and see him in jail; and when she packed up the silks, and ribbons, which had sent John to State Prison, and went off without saying good-by, after she found that he could not buy her any more. Not a word did poor John say against his wife; not a word would he hear any body else say, because she had deserted him in his trouble.

Poor John! he was sentenced to State Prison for several years; the best years of his life; when he was young, strong, and hearty; they shaved off his brown hair, put on the prison dress, and set him to work cutting stone. John made no complaint, he said it was just, that he had deserved his punishment: he did just as he was bid, but the light died out from his fine bright eye, his head drooped upon his breast, and when the day’s toil was over and the officer had locked him up for the long lonely night, into his narrow dark cell, could you have passed in, you would have seen him tossing on his straw bed, and now and then you might have heard him groan, “Oh, Ellen! Ellen!”

When he had staid his time out in prison, the officers took off his prison clothes, and gave him a new suit to go away with. John stood looking at them; the light fell from the window upon the face of the same man, who stood in that spot five years before, to have that prison uniform put on. Oh, how changed. Now his brown hair, was snow-white with sorrow; his eye dim, and his frame bent like an old man of fourscore. John looked at the new clothes they brought him; why should he put them on? where should he go? who on the wide earth would befriend the poor convict?

So poor John went staggering out through the heavy gate, as the warden unlocked it with his huge key, and slouched his hat over his eyes, as if he could not bear that even the sun should see his face, and wandered forth—he knew not whither. At last he came to a little village, and there in the woods, away from the curious gaze, away from the scornful finger, he built him a little cabin of boughs and logs; and now and then he wandered down to the village, and the farmers would give him a basket of potatoes, or a little meat, or corn.

This was the old man whom Bob thought it would be fun to tease; whose straw he set on fire, and who lay mangled and bleeding by the way-side, with none to care for him.

It is a pleasant afternoon, the warm sun shines on the sweet flowers, and the birds sing on, as if grief, and care, and sorrow had never entered this bright and beautiful world of ours. A hearse winds slowly down beneath the waving trees; no carriages follow it, and there are no mourners on foot; only the sexton stands at the grave, waiting to lay old John’s head on its last peaceful pillow. Poor John—death has knocked off his last fetter. He who forgave the thief on the cross, will surely show him mercy.

HISTORY OF A FAMILY OF CATS.

Mrs. Tabby Grimalkin, a highly respectable gray cat, had lived for several years with a maiden lady by the name of Stevens, in whose house she had lately reared five interesting young Grimalkins, of various sorts and sizes.

She was a most watchful and affectionate mother, and had endeavored, to the best of her ability, to bring up her kittens in the manner best approved by all sensible and well-bred cats.

They were allowed to remain with their mother, until the critical period of weaning was past, when Miss Stevens declared one day, in Mrs. Grimalkin’s hearing, that such a scampering round her kitchen was not to be endured, and that she intended the next day to distribute them round the neighborhood among her friends.

This was sad news for their mother, as you may suppose; but after turning it over in her mind several times, she concluded it was better than having them strangled or drowned, and forthwith began to give them advice as to their conduct when away from her.

They all set up a piteous mewing at their hard fate, but with one shake of her paw she shut up their mouths and went on with her speech. She especially forbade their associating promiscuously with all the cats in the neighborhood, or attending any moonlight concerts without her leave. She told them any time when they needed exercise, they could call for each other, and come down to the maternal wood-shed, when she would be most happy to see them; and she would occasionally, when mousing was scarce, and there was nothing going on, return their call.

So Muff, and Jet, and Brindle, and Tabby, and Spot lay down by their mother’s side for the last time, and purred themselves to sleep; as for their mother, she wandered up and down the yard half the night, in a very unquiet frame of mind, occasionally returning, to look at her kittens, who lay cuddled up in a bunch in blissful unconsciousness.

About a month after this, I was one day passing through the yard, and who should I spy but Mrs. Grimalkin, surrounded by her family, the happiest cat in all Pussdom. I stepped softly behind the door, determined for once to play eaves-dropper, and hear what was going on.

Muff “had the floor,” and was giving her mother an account of the treatment she met in the family she lived with. She said there were four ungovernable children, who amused themselves when out of school in trying to see whether her tail and ears were really fastened on tight or not. Then they had stroked her back the wrong way, till every hair stood up, as if it was frightened; had shut her up in a shower-bath, and turned water on her till she had fits, and never found her comfortably snoozing in a warm corner, that they did not rouse her up to make her run round after a ball, till she was as crazy as a fly in a drum. In short, mother, said she, I’ve heard people say such a one “leads a dog’s life of it.” I say, let them try a cat’s life once.

As soon as she had finished, up jumped her brother Jet. He was as black as a little negro, with the exception of four little milk-white paws; he had little shining black eyes, and whiskers as trim as any modern dandy’s. He had no such misfortune to relate, not he. He slept on a rug, in the corner of his mistress’s parlor, and had a nice chicken-bone to pick, and a saucer of milk to drink, when he wanted it. His mistress was an old lady, and she had such nice little parties to tea, and they all made a pet of him, and it was so amusing to lie curled up on the rug, and hear them talk over all the gossip of the village. So, with a very complacent look, as if he had quite fulfilled his destiny, he trimmed his whiskers, and sat down on his hind paws, to hear what his sister Brindle had to say.

Poor Brindle was very bashful, and it was a long time before she could speak at all. She looked thin and bony, as if the world in general, and her mistress in particular, had snubbed her; indeed she acknowledged that she was half starved, and beaten every day beside, for stealing food enough to keep her bones together. Here she was seized with a horrid fit of coughing, which so distressed her mother, that she forbade her talking any more, and told her to stay and spend the night with her, and she would give her some supper, and some catnip, to cure her cough.

It was now Spot’s turn. She said she had her story all “cut and dried,” but really she had been so shocked at the idea that Brindle had been stealing, that she thought it was a chance if she could recollect any of it. She said, for her part, she should be ashamed to have any cat in the neighborhood know that she was related to her. Here her mother sprang at her and gave her a box on the ear; and told her, that her grandmother, Mrs. Mouser, who was as correct a cat as ever mewed, brought her (Mrs. Grimalkin) up, to find her living when and where she could, and that every cat that had been born since Adam’s cat (if he had any), had done the same, and she never could find out that they were expected to do any differently. Spot looked a little ashamed, for in fact she had taken many a sly nibble herself, and her mother knew it.

Just then she seemed to be looking at the opposite corner of the wood-shed; her mother’s eyes following the direction of hers, espied a strange cat looking very intently at Spot. Mrs. Grimalkin walked up to him, and with a scratch gave him to understand that his room was better than his company; and though he protested he had only come in a quiet way, to wait upon Miss Spot home, another scratch from her mother settled the matter without any useless words.

As soon as quiet was restored, little Tabby jumped up, in a state of great excitement, and said, she had that day caught her first mouse, which she brought forward and laid as a trophy at her mother’s feet. Tabby evidently had not recovered from the excitement of the capture, for her little eyes snapped, like two fire coals, and she kept moving her tongue about her mouth, as if she just longed to eat him up herself. She told her mother, it made her feel bad when he first began to squeal, and she was so little, she thought it rather doubtful, at first, whether the mouse would eat her, or she should eat the mouse; and as for squealing, she concluded, there must be a first time for every thing, and she had got to get used to that.

It was getting late, and Mrs. Grimalkin rose, and put it to vote, who should have the mouse for supper, and without a dissenting voice, even from Spot, it was unanimously awarded to poor starved Brindle. So bidding her and their mother good-night, the rest walked home by the light of the moon, Spot occasionally looking round, to see if she could see any thing of her discarded lover.

For my own part, I came out of my hiding-place deeply interested in the welfare of Mrs. Grimalkin’s family, and fully determined that I would treat my kitty kindly, and feed her so well that she should never complain.

THE POOR-RICH CHILD.

“I never saw such a little torment as that child, never; he’s just the mischievousest little monkey that ever was made; nothing in the house will stand before him. I wish his mother would take a little care of him, and make him behave. I should like to whip him an hour without stopping. I do believe he is the worst boy who ever lived.”

No—Eddy was not the worst boy who ever lived; I am sure he does not look like it. He hears what Betty says, about wanting “to whip him an hour without stopping:” but he does not pout, or kick out his foot, or throw his ball after her; he picks up a bit of string, and begins to play horse with a chair, as good-humoredly as if Betty had said he was the best boy in the world. No—Eddy was not a bad boy; but, like a great many other children who did not deserve it, he got that name. I will tell you about it. Eddy’s mother did not like the care of children; she liked to go shopping, and buy handsome dresses, and spend a great deal of time in talking with dressmakers about trimming them; and after she got them finished, she liked to sit down in her handsome parlors, and fold her white hands, and admire herself, till somebody or other called to admire her; or else she liked to walk out in the street, and hear people say—“Splendid! beautiful! what taste Mrs. Van Wyck always shows in her dress!” Then she was happy! that repaid her for all the pains she had taken to make a doll of herself; but when she came home, and her little boy, whom perhaps she had not seen before that day, ran into the hall and said, “Mamma!” Mrs. Van Wyck caught her beautiful dress quickly up in her hand, and said, “Martha! do take that child away; I am sure he will ruin my dress.” Then Martha would take Eddy up into the nursery, and shut the door, and call him a little plague; and Eddy would stand at the nursery window, and look out into the neighbors’ yards; and see, for the hundredth time, a long row of wooden sheds, with clothes dangling on the lines, and a long row of tall brick houses and tall brick chimneys; and then he would turn away and take up his top, and then his cart, and then his marbles; and then he would look at Betty, who had thrown herself down on the bed to read a novel; and then Eddy would say, timidly, “Betty?” and Betty would answer, “Be quiet, can’t you?” and then Eddy would wander round the small, hot nursery again; and then he would say, “Betty, won’t you please take me out to walk? I am so tired and hot, Betty;” and Betty would say, “No, there’s no need of your walking; go draw your cart, and let me alone; what a plague you are!” and then Eddy would pick up a pair of scissors on the floor, and seeing a piece of white cloth lying on the table, he would begin to cut it—because the poor tired child didn’t know what else to do; and by-and-by Betty would get through with her novel, and the first thing Eddy knew she would shake him half out of his jacket, and scream out, “You little torment! you have cut my night-cap into inch pieces;” and when Eddy said, “I did not know that piece of cloth was a night-cap, Betty,” she would say, “Don’t you tell me that, you little fibber; you did it on purpose, I know you did.”

After a while Eddy’s father would come home, and Eddy would run out in the hall, and say, “Papa, here’s Eddy;” and his father would say, “So I see, and I suppose you want a top or a ball, don’t you?” and Eddy would say, “No, I want you, papa;” and then his father would say, “Not now, Eddy, by-and-by.” But “by-and-by” never came to poor Eddy, for his father was a very long time eating dinner, and then came wine, and then came cigars, and then came company; and Eddy was hurried off to bed, only to begin another day just like it, on the morrow. You see how it was; he was an active little fellow; he could not keep still; nobody talked to him, they gave him nothing to do; and when he got into what they called “mischief,” then they said he was a bad boy. Oh how many such little suffering, rich people’s children I have seen; a thousand times more to be pitied than the children of poor parents.

One night Eddy awoke and said, “Betty!” Betty wanted to sleep, so she pretended she did not hear him; Eddy tossed about his little bed, a while longer; and then his throat felt so bad he said again, “Betty!” but Betty never spoke, and it was all dark; so little patient Eddy lay back again on his pillow—lay there all night without any one to take care of him. In the morning, Betty roused up and said, “Get up, Eddy;” but Eddy did not move; then Betty went to his little bed, and shook his arm; then she peeped into his face; she had never seen Eddy look that way before. Every body in the house now came to look at Eddy; then the doctor came and looked at him; but death had stepped in before him; that poor little throat was filling, filling; the doctor could do nothing. He said Eddy died of croup. You and I know he was murdered. Died as hundreds of children die every year, of wicked neglect. Oh, there is room for children in Heaven; they are never “in the way” there—that’s one comfort.

THE HOD-CARRIER.

Your name is George, eh? well that is a good name: I will tell you a story about a little boy of that name. He was the son of a farmer, in the town of Jackson, Washington county, State of New York, who was called “Butter John,” on account of his keeping a large dairy in that place. Little George, the son of “Butter John,” was about six years old when war was declared between England and the United States. He was lying one evening in his little bed, when his Uncle Robert came in and told his father the news. Little George did not say any thing, but he lay very still and listened, and thought a great deal about the coming war with the British. Not long after this, one afternoon, his mother took him with her to gather some fruit in the orchard. It was a beautiful day; the sun shone very brightly, when suddenly little George heard something which sounded like distant thunder, and yet it could not be thunder, because there was not a single cloud in the blue sky. Hark! there it is again! what can it be? thought George. At last George put his ear to the ground and heard—what do you think? the low booming of artillery. George jumped up with his face all aglow and his eyes sparkling, and said, “Mother, our folks are certainly whipping the British, on the lake.” “Sure enough,” said his mother, “I shouldn’t wonder if you were right, George.” And the very next day they heard of Commodore McDonough’s victory over the British, on Lake Champlain. Little George was all excitement about the battle; he could think and talk of nothing else. A few days afterward, the British prisoners were to be brought along the road, and to pass within a mile of George’s father’s house. George ran to his father and mother and said, “Oh, do let me go and see them, won’t you, father? won’t you, mother?” They both said no, thinking it best for such a little fellow to stay at home. This was a dreadful disappointment to George, who had the greatest desire to look at those British prisoners; he sat down on the door-step of his father’s farm-house and thought over it, and thought over it, and wondered why he _couldn’t_ go, just to take one peep and see what those British fellows looked like, and, for the first time in his life, he made up his mind not to obey his father and mother, whom he loved so much, but to go. So he looked all about to see if any body was watching him; no, the coast was clear, off he started across the fields, as fast as his little legs could carry him, to see the British, never stopping to get his hat, to cover his little bare head: hats might be had any day, but the British were a rarity.

By-and-by he reached the road, where he had heard people say they were to pass, and seating himself by the side of it, he waited with great round eyes of wonder to see them come along; and as they came, he counted three hundred prisoners and sixty guards to take care of them, lest they should run away. By-and-by they all halted in the pleasant green fields to eat their dinner. George wanted dreadfully to go close up to them, but he was a little afraid; he did not know but they might want to dine off of him; but his curiosity got the better of his fears, and after watching them for a while, he climbed over the fence. The soldiers spied him, and beckoned to him to come see them. He was in for it then, Master George! however, he went boldly up to them, and they began talking and laughing with him very pleasantly, and by-and-by they liked him so well, that they coaxed him to eat dinner with them; so George who had never eaten with the British, thought he would try that too, and so down he sat with them to dinner. One of the soldiers said to him, “You will make a capital soldier when you get bigger.” This pleased Master George hugely, and made him feel as grand as a corporal; he held up his head, when—lo and behold, who should he see but his father, who had come to catch the little bare-headed runaway. _Then_ George was afraid in good earnest, for he expected a tremendous spanking; but luckily for him, his father, old “Butter John,” became so interested hearing the soldiers tell about the battle, that he forgot all about spanking George, and did not even scold him.

I told you George’s father was a farmer, and farmers in those days had very few books; but as soon as George learned to read, he got hold of those few, and every evening he would read so long as his candle would burn, and before he was twelve years old, he had read all those books, “Life of Washington,” “Cook’s Voyages,” “Carver’s Travels,” “Plutarch’s Lives,” “Josephus’s Works,” and “Hume and Smollett’s History of England.” Pretty well that, for a little farmer boy only twelve years old. Sunday he was not allowed to read these books, but on that day he read the Bible with his mother, and what Mr. Scott, a minister, had written about the Bible. George used to get up very early in the morning, just as all boys have who ever became any thing in the world; your lie-a-beds are always drones in the hive. I dare say he used to do some of his reading then; I know he did not get time during the day, because he had to do “chores,” as they call it, on the farm of his father “Butter John,” and as this farm had five hundred acres in it, and plenty of cattle on it to be taken care of, you may be sure Master George had no extra time for reading; but somehow he managed to read a book called “Life of William Ray,” which told all about a boy who left his father’s farm, and went off to seek his fortune in the world. This book bewitched George who was tired of farm-work, and was quite as anxious now when he was a big boy, to see what the world was made of, as he was when six years old, to see what the British were made of. He spoke to his father about it, when he was seventeen, but the sturdy old farmer shook his head and said no. He wanted George at home to do farm-work.

About this time there was a great talk in the neighborhood about the Erie Canal, and George began thinking about that; for you must know that, when he was a little fellow, he used to be very fond of building all sorts of things; he would get boys together and build miniature bridges and dams, and every chance he could get, he would go among mechanics and watch them at their work. The truth was, nature did not cut him out for a farmer, but his father, good old man, did not see it, perhaps because he was so busy with his dairy and his cattle, perhaps because, like almost all fathers, he wished him to follow the same profession which he followed, and this is natural enough; but if a boy will make a better architect or builder than he will a farmer, I think it is a pity he should not be one; mothers see quicker than fathers generally, what their boys are cut out for, and George’s mother, as she watched him build the little bridges with the boys, said, “You never will be a farmer, George!” and she said right.

At last George said to his father, “Father, I have made up my mind to go away from home to see what I can do.” The cautious old farmer shook his head again, told George that he would regret it, that he did not know what it was to be away from home. But George was a young man now, and he felt restless and unhappy on the farm, where his old father was so contented to stay year after year, and dig, and plant, and plow, and reap, and make butter and cheese. I suppose he thought George was so safe there, and comfortable, that it was a pity for him to trudge off like a peddler with his pack on his back to seek his fortune. He knew the world was a tough place to make fortunes, and he had an idea that George, his boy George, was not the fellow to find one, at any rate away from the farm; but George’s heart was set upon going, and go he did, though he had no money to start with, and nothing in the world but the clothes on his back. He went straight to an uncle of his and worked for him till he had earned forty dollars, and then started for Troy, New York, where he hired himself out as a day laborer, at one dollar a day, to wait on some stone masons, who were engaged in building. George knew that to learn a trade thoroughly it is necessary to begin at the beginning, and not to be above doing the smallest job; he wanted to learn every thing from brick-laying to stone cutting, and so he went afterward to a man who was going to build a house, and worked for him all that season, laying brick, cutting stone, and learning every thing he could learn at the mason’s trade, as diligently as he knew how. Poor industrious George: after working so hard all summer, the man he worked for could not pay his workmen in the fall, what he owed them; was not that too bad? I expect when “Butter John” heard of that he said, “I told him so; I told George he would regret going away from the farm.” But George was not discouraged; he went in a straight-forward manly way to the man with whom he had boarded while he was at work, and said: “Mr. Noel, my master, Mr. Galt, has not paid me the money he owed me, and so I can not pay my board bill as I expected to do, but I am going to get some more work to do, and just as soon as I get paid for it, you shall have your money.” Did Mr. Noel bluster and scold, and put him in jail? No, he had sense enough to know that if a man has no money to pay his debts, he surely can not earn any, when he is shut up in jail; beside he trusted in George, and saw he was a good fellow, who meant to be honest, so he said pleasantly, “Time enough George,” and then George walked twenty-two miles, to hire himself out to lay brick until cold weather, and this time he got his pay for it. Now did he forget his promise to Mr. Noel, who was twenty-two miles off? Did he run farther off with what he had earned, and say that good Mr. Noel might whistle for his pay, as many a dishonest man has done, who wears a finer coat than honest George did then? No—that’s what he didn’t. He started for Hoosack Four Corners at very short notice, where he paid every single cent he owed Mr. Noel. What do you think of that? forty-four miles to walk in one day to pay an old debt, twenty-two miles there, and twenty-two back. I call that an honest deed, and the young man who did it, a young man to be honored and believed in.

Well, George trudged back again, as I told you, with a light heart, and a light pocket too, for not a cent had he left in it; but what of that? he was young, healthy and hopeful. What could Misfortune do to him? She knew it was no use, so she left George for some poor whining wretch, who sniveled at the first discouragement he met with and spent his breath, not in working, but in saying “I can’t.”

Well, George kept on working and studying too; every chance he got he bought a few books and read them thoroughly and well, and when he had mastered them, he would look about for more, for he was anxious to lay up something better than money, a good education, which is in fact, always a fortune to its possessor; better than bank stock, because nobody can swindle or cheat you out of it. By the time he was twenty George had saved one hundred and fifty dollars; perhaps you may think that was not a great deal of money. Ah, you don’t know what it is to be poor, and earn every cent by hard labor, or you would not think so. You don’t know how delicious it is, after a tough struggle, to become independent and eat bread of your own earning. Part of the money George had earned he spent in books again and with the remainder of it, and the little library he had collected, he started for Pennsylvania. George now understood thoroughly the building of locks, bridges and all sorts of mason work. All this time he had hired himself out to do work for other people.

It occurred to George now, that he was fit to become a master-workman himself; _i.e._ agree to build a bridge or some such thing, and hire men to work under him; he was certain that he knew quite as much as a great many other men who did this; in fact, a master-workman who employed George, told him one day, that he was a great fool to be working for him, when he (George) knew more than he did. But just then he was taken with fever and ague, and had to lie by a while; he thought he would then to go home to his native place, and perhaps that might help him, but he did not go to his father’s and live on the old man, not he; he was too proud, now that he was a grown man, to live on his parents, and hear the neighbors say that he “had come to sponge them out of their money;” no, he paid his own board at a tavern near, till he got better; then he worked again perseveringly—worked—worked—though still troubled with an ague chill every day; and now he had earned $2,350—hurrah for George! Then he thought it was about time to treat himself to a gold watch. George always thought it the cheapest in the end to buy a _thoroughly good article_, even should it cost more at first; and there’s where he was right; so he went to Marquand, a jeweler in Broadway, and purchased a watch worth $300—what do you think of that? Well—after he had treated himself to a watch, what does the fellow do but treat himself to a wife. I don’t know what she cost him; a few blushes I dare say, a gold ring I know; to say nothing of the fee for the minister who married them; but I rather think it paid. After his marriage, as he had plenty of money, he thought he would live a while without working; but he was too good a fellow to relish an idle life; he did not believe we were made only to enjoy ourselves. So, like a sensible man he engaged to make part of the famous “Croton-water Works,” which all New York boys have heard of. His part of the work was in “Sleepy Hollow,” which Washington Irving has made so famous. Well, there he lived peaceably and happily with his wife; there he had two dear little children, named Josephine and Mary Alice, and there little Mary closed her bright eyes, and went away with “The Good Shepherd,” who loveth the little lambs. I could tell you a great deal more about George, how he, after a while went to Europe, and visited all the great foreign cities; how, when he came back, he found that his old father had got into debt, and how George, like the good fellow he was, paid all the old man’s debts, with his own earnings; How happy he must have been to do that for Butter John! How he built “the High Bridge;” how he built a great thumping steamer, called the _Oregon_; how he launched her (that was a splendid sight, I know); and how he bought another steamer, called the _Neptune_, for I tell you this, George couldn’t be idle to save him—it was not in him; how, afterward he built steamers to carry the United States Mail to California viâ New Orleans and Chagres; and that was a great benefit to his country, greater than I can tell you; how he purchased the Staten Island ferry; how he purchased property in Fifth Avenue, one of the finest streets in New York, and how he went there to live; how there is every thing elegant and comfortable in his house, but what he most values, a splendid library; how he preserves and shows to this day in that library, the old thumbed, dog’s-eared arithmetic, and other books, which he used to pore over when he was a poor boy; and how he can look around his beautiful home and think that it was all honestly and hardly earned, “beginning at the foot of the ladder” (sure enough), as a hod-carrier. Can you wonder that such a man, of such honesty, and energy, and intelligence, should be put up for the highest office our country has to give? Can you wonder that thousands of his fellow-citizens said, in September, 1855, “Give us George—GEORGE LAW—for President of the United States!”

THE TOM-BOY.

“For shame, Maria!”

I turned my head. A little girl was just clambering down from a pile of boards in a vacant lot near the house. It was Saturday afternoon; and all the long week “Maria” had been shut up in a school, from nine o’clock till two, although she was only seven years old; and every afternoon, when she should have been playing, she was trying to cram her poor bewildered head with great long lessons, which some stupid person had made for little children, full of great big words, which it was impossible for her to understand, even if she could manage to commit them to memory. No wonder Maria was glad when Saturday afternoon came and lessons and school were over for one week at least; no wonder she skipped off into “the vacant lot,” and climbed up and down the pile of boards, to stretch her poor little cramped limbs, and to see if there was really any life left in them; and a very good time she had been having of it, too; jumping off of one end of the pile down on the soft grass, then making a “teeter,” by pulling out one of the boards and balancing it on the others; she on one end, now sailing up so high! and Sarah Jane Clarke on the other, going down so low! and now and then both would roll off into the grass and laugh so merrily; then they would pelt each other with handfuls of grass, and chase each other round the pile of boards, till their pale cheeks were as red as fresh-blown roses; to be sure Maria had torn a hole in a shilling calico apron; but that is easily repaired, much more easily than a crooked spine, much more easily than a diseased brain; but I suppose Mrs. Mott did not think of this when she frowned on her little daughter, and said, “For shame, Maria, what a tom-boy.” She never had heard, as I have, a poor worn-out little girl, tossing from side to side in her bed, at night, repeating parts of her grammar and geography _in her sleep_, and dreaming that she was being punished for not getting them more perfectly. She never stood over a little girl who was dying—dying because her little brain had been worked at school harder than her little feeble growing body could bear. Ah, if she had, she would have been so glad to have seen the rose bloom on the pale cheeks of her little daughter, that Saturday afternoon, that she would never have minded the torn apron, or made the child ashamed of what was really proper and good for her to do; what it would have been well for Maria had she done every afternoon of her life.

“Tom-boy?” no, a girl is not a tom-boy for playing “teeter” and climbing boards; no more than her brother is a girl, because he sometimes sits on a chair. I say romp; I say shout; I say fly kites; play ball; drive hoop; climb sheds and fences, tear your aprons (mind you learn to mend them yourself), soil your hands and faces, tangle your hair, do any thing that’s innocent, but _don’t_ grow up with crooked backs, flat chests, sallow faces, dull eyes and diseased brains; _your_ mother, and yours, and yours, I hope, think as I do about these things. Ask them.

Maria’s mother did not think so. So she went on frowning at her little daughter, every time she saw her using her limbs, and reproved her as severely for tearing her apron as she would had she told a lie, and perhaps more so. So Maria studied and grew crooked, grew crooked and studied until she was sixteen years old; then her mother sent her to Professor Cram-all’s school “_to be finished_.” This gentleman used to give his young ladies longer and harder lessons than their brothers had in college, and was very proud of his scholars and his school. So Maria used to sit up every night till eleven and twelve o’clock, getting her lessons, beside being in school from nine in the morning till three; and Maria’s mother thought it was a grand school, and Professor Cram-all, the very king of teachers. Well, Maria staid there two years, and “_got finished_,” and when she came from there, she went straight to a “water-cure establishment” (your mother will tell you what that is), and there she is now, trying to get her poor crooked back straightened. Poor sick girl, what good does all her Greek and Latin do her now? Ah! had her mother only let her play as well as study, study less and play more, until her limbs grew stronger. I know she thinks so now, when she drives out to the water-cure establishment, to see her dying daughter. And yet her mother _meant_ to do right—when she was young, she never was taught at all, and so she grew up very ignorant; this often made her ashamed when she was a lady, and so she determined that her daughter, Maria, should know every thing; and in her hurry to do this she forgot her poor little childish body altogether. So I say, again, to all of you, don’t mind being called “a tom-boy”—run, jump, shout, fly kites, climb boards, tangle your hair, soil your hands and tear your aprons, and Nature will reward you with strong straight backs, full chests, bright eyes, rosy cheeks, and a long life.

THE LITTLE MUSICIAN.

“Little nuisance!”

So said a young school-girl who sat next me in the city cars. She was out of humor; perhaps she had an imperfect lesson at school; perhaps she was weary of sitting in a close room so many hours; perhaps her head ached badly, and she was faint for her dinner.

“Little nuisance!” Who was a little nuisance? It was a poor boy, who had first paid his five pennies to the conductor, and had commenced playing on an accordeon, in the hope of getting some money from the gentlemen and ladies in the car. Some scowled, some pouted, and some, like the young lady I have mentioned, loudly called him “a nuisance.” Still the boy played on, though with a weary, spiritless look in his young face, as if to say, “I know it is poor music, very poor, to ears which are used to opera or concert singing; but have pity on a poor boy, who would earn a few honest pence for his bread, who will not steal, and dislikes to beg.” It was of no use. The gentlemen were busy reading their newspapers, the ladies in taking care of their hooped skirts and flounces. “Lily Dale” charmed them not, nor “Auld Lang Syne.” There were diamond pins flashing in the sunlight from gentlemen’s shirt bosoms, rubies and emeralds from ladies’ fingers, and a massive gold bracelet clasped a snowy arm that was never pinched by cruel want. Little parcels, too, the ladies had, from which peeped costly purchases in embroidered lace and muslins. Little boys were with them, so unlike the little musician, in their silk-velvet jackets, frilled collars, and plump rosy faces, that one could hardly believe both to belong to the same human family.

Still the boy played on, with the old, weary, spiritless look, with his soft eyes fixed upon those unsympathizing faces: silver and gold glistened through the net-work of dainty purses, but not for him. One more tune the child played; then, folding his accordeon up under his arm, he stepped from the car, and was out of sight.

Where? In the great busy city? Did he sink down fainting from hunger and fatigue, feeling that God and his good angels had left him? Did he stand before some broker’s shop-window, as I have seen many a little ragged child stand, counting the shining piles of dollars, half-dollars, and quarters, and the great round gold pieces—only one of which would make his weary feet to leap for joy? God help the lad! Did he look at them, with hungry eyes, and count them over and over, till wrong seemed to him to be right, and the little hand that never was stained by dishonesty became foul with crime? No—it were sad to be hungry and houseless; but it were sadder yet to be shut up in a prison—a bad conscience keeping him tormenting company.

Where did he go?—the “little nuisance”—where? The papers told me the next morning. Listen:

“A little boy who is accustomed to play the accordeon in the street-cars, in stepping from the Fulton ferry-boat to the pier, last evening, accidentally lost his footing, and was drowned.”

No more fault-finding voices to ask why don’t the lad earn his living, or call him “a nuisance” when he tried the only thing he could do, and failed; no more returns at nightfall with leaden feet, and empty pockets. The boats plough on just as merrily; the water dances and sparkles all the same as if the light in his blue eyes were not quenched forever.

Where is the little nuisance? where?

Ask them who, through much tribulation, have washed their robes white, who neither thirst nor hunger any more, and in whose song is no jarring discord. Of such is the little musician!

LIONS.

Did you ever see a live lion?

Yes, at the menagerie.

Pooh! that was no more a lion than your little baby-sister is a full-grown woman; to be sure this lion had a stout old lion for its father, and a lioness for its mother; but that does not make it a lion, though the keeper of the menagerie might tell you so till he is black in the face.

Why?