Chapter II: Part 2

“Think, my son,” continued Mrs. Maylie, “how innocent, like gentle lambs, were your feelings until now. When you thought of William, it was with kindness. When you played by his side, it was with a warm, even tender regard. But it is not so now. Some beast of prey has devoured these lambs--these innocent creatures that sported in your bosom. If the angry, raging wolf has not eaten them up, where are they? Before you permitted yourself to feel anger against William, gentle creatures leaped about happily in your breast; but you feel them no longer--only the wolf is there. Will you let him still rage, and devour your lambs, or will you drive him out?”

“I will drive him out, mother, if I can. How shall I do it?” Alfred said earnestly, and with a troubled look.

“By resisting him even unto the death. You have the power. You have weapons that will prevail. Try to forget the fault of William; try to excuse him; think of his good qualities; and assure yourself of what I know to be true--that he never meant to offend you. If the angry wolf growl in your bosom, thrust bravely at him, as you would, were you, weapon in hand, defending a sheepfold; and he will and must retire, or die at your feet. Then innocent lambs will again be seen, and their sports delight your heart. Then you will feel no more anger towards your young friend, but love instead.”

“I don’t think I am angry with William, mother,” Alfred said.

“But you were just now.”

“Yes; but the wolf is no longer in my heart,” the boy replied smiling. “He has been driven out.”

“And innocent creatures can now sport there unharmed. I am glad of it. Do not again, Alfred, do not any of you, my children, permit ravenous beasts to prey upon the lambs of your flocks. Fly from them in as much terror as you would fly from the presence of a wolf, a tiger, or a lion, were one to meet you in a forest. They are equally hurtful--one injures the body, the other the soul.”

“Tell us now, mother, about the wolf that had nearly killed uncle Harper when he was a little boy no bigger than me,” spoke up Charley, the youngest of Mrs. Maylie’s treasures.

“Oh yes, mother, tell us all about it,” said Alfred.

“I’ve told you that very often,” the mother returned.

“But we want to hear it again. Tell it to us; won’t you, mother?”

“Oh, certainly. Many years ago, when I was a little girl not bigger than Emily, we lived at the foot of a high mountain, in a wild, unsettled country. There were but few neighbours, and they were at great distances from us. At that time bears, wolves, and panthers were in the region where we lived, and often destroyed the sheep of the settlers, and otherwise annoyed them. The men used frequently to go out and hunt them, and kill off these their forest enemies in great numbers.

“One day, when your uncle Harper was about five years old, our father took us in his waggon to visit a neighbour about six miles up among the mountains. This neighbour had a little boy just Harper’s age, and they were together in the garden and about the house all the morning. After dinner, they were dressed up nicely, and again went out to play.

“‘Come,’ said Harper’s companion, ‘let us go and see brother Allen’s bird-trap. He caught three pheasants yesterday. Maybe we’ll find one in it to-day.’

“Harper was very willing to go. And so they started right into the woods; for the forest came up close to the house, and went off quite out of sight. They had not been gone long before a neighbour, who lived about a mile off, came over to say that a very large wolf had been seen a few hours before.

“‘Where is Harper?’ my mother asked quickly, going to the door and looking out.

“‘I saw him a little while ago, playing about here with Johnny,’ some one replied.

“‘But where is he now?’ and our mother went out of doors, looking all around the house and in the garden.

“‘They’ve gone off to my bird-trap, without doubt,’ said Allen, a stout boy about sixteen years of age. ‘Johnny has been there several times within a day or two.’

“‘Do run and see,’ urged our mother. Allen took up his gun and started off quickly towards the place where he had set his bird-trap. Two or three took other directions; for, now that it was known a wolf had been seen, all were alarmed at the absence of the children. In about five minutes after Allen had left the house, we were startled by the sharp crack of a rifle in the direction he had taken. For the next five minutes we waited in dreadful suspense; then we were gladdened by the sight of Allen, bringing home the two children. But when we heard all that had occurred, we trembled from head to foot. Allen had gone quickly towards the place where he expected to find the little truants. When he came in sight of the trap, he saw them on the ground close to it, and was just going to call out to them to take care or they would spring it, when the dark body of a large wolf came quickly in between him and the children. There was not a moment to be lost; if the cruel beast reached them, destruction would be inevitable. Quickly presenting his rifle, he took a steady aim and fired. A fierce howl answered the report: as the smoke arose from before his eyes, he saw the ‘gaunt gray robber’ of the wilderness rolling upon the ground. The bullet had sped with unerring certainty.

“How thankful we were,” added Mrs. Maylie, “when, knowing how great had been the danger, we saw the children safe from all harm!”

“Does uncle Harper remember it?” asked Charley.

“Yes; he says he can just remember something about it; but he was a very little boy then.”

“That was a _real_ wolf,” remarked Emily; “but the wolves, and tigers, and lambs you have been telling us about are not real, are they? Real animals can’t live in us.”

“If there was nothing real about them, could they hurt you, dear?”

“No.”

“But the wolves I spoke about do hurt you. Must they not be real then?”

“Not real like the big hairy wolf I saw at the show?”

“Oh no; not real like that; not clothed in flesh; but still real, so far as power to harm you is concerned: and surely that is reality enough. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes, real that way. But still,” Alfred said, “I can’t understand how a real wolf can be in me; for a wolf is much bigger than I am.”

“But I don’t mean a flesh and blood wolf, but something in you that partakes of the wolf’s cruel nature, and, like the wolf, seeks to destroy all in you that is good, and harmless, and innocent. There may be in you something that corresponds to the fierce nature of the wolf, and something that corresponds to the gentle nature of the lamb. Both of these cannot be active at the same time. If you let the wolf rule, your gentle lambs, as I before told you, will be destroyed.”

The children now understood their mother better, though they could not clearly comprehend all that was meant by the wild beasts and innocent creatures of the human heart.

The Double Fault.

“Why, Arthur,” exclaimed Mrs. Mason, on coming into the room where she had left her two boys playing, and finding one of them there with a bunch of flowers in his hand; “how came you to pull my flowers? Haven’t I positively forbidden you to do so?”

“I did not do it, mother. I did not do it. It was John.”

“Where is John?”

“He’s in the yard.”

“Call him in,” said Mrs. Mason.

While Arthur was at the window calling to his brother, Mr. Mason, the father, came into the room.

“John has been pulling my flowers. Isn’t it too bad that a boy as big as he is should have so little consideration? They were coming out into bloom beautifully.”

Just then John entered, with a bunch of flowers also in his hand.

“John, how came you to pull my flowers?” said Mrs. Mason. “You knew it was wrong.”

“I did not think, when I pulled off a rosebud and two or three larkspurs,” replied John.

“Two or three larkspurs and a rosebud! Why, your hand is full of flowers.”

“Oh, but William Jones gave me all but the larkspurs and the rosebud. Indeed, mother, I didn’t touch any more; and I am sorry I took them; but I forgot that it was wrong when I did so.”

“But Arthur says you pulled that large bunch in his hand.”

“Arthur knows I didn’t. He knows he pulled them himself, and that I told him he’d better not do it; but he said he’d as much right to the flowers as I had.”

Mr. and Mrs. Mason both looked at Arthur in surprise and displeasure. His countenance showed that he had been guilty of wrongly accusing his brother.

“Is it true that you did pull the flowers, Arthur?” asked his mother.

But Arthur was silent.

“Speak, sir!” said the father sternly. “Did you pull the flowers?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And then falsely accused your brother of the wrong you had done. That my boy should be guilty of an evil act like this! I could not have believed it. It is a wicked thing to tell a lie to hide a fault, simply; but falsely to accuse another of what we have ourselves done, is still more wicked. Can it be possible that a son of mine has fallen so low? It grieves me to the heart.”

Mr. Mason spoke as he felt. He was deeply grieved. Nothing had occurred for a long time that so hurt him. He loved honesty and truth; but how opposite to both had been the conduct of his boy!

“Go up to your chamber, and stay there until I see you or send for you,” he said; and Arthur retired in shame from the presence of his parents, and the brother he had so meanly attempted to injure. Of course he felt very unhappy. How could he feel otherwise? The rebuking words of his father fell like heavy blows upon his heart, and the pain they occasioned was for a long time severely felt.

What punishment the parents thought it right to inflict upon Arthur we do not know; but, no doubt, he was punished in some way, as he deserved. And besides this, he had the still severer punishment which always follows that meanest fault of which any one can be guilty--that of accusing another and innocent person of what we have ourselves done.

Bad as this fault is, it is, alas! too common. But no manly, honest-minded, truthful boy will be betrayed into it. To the better impulses of our young readers who have been so wicked as to fall into this sin, either from sudden impulse or deliberate purpose, we would earnestly appeal, and beg of them to think more wisely and act more justly in the future. No cause is ever made better, but always worse, by a falsehood. Even where detection does not follow, suspicion is almost always created; for it is impossible for a boy to tell a lie without betraying it in the face or voice, and causing a doubt to pass through the minds of his parents, and set them to making inquiry into the truth or falsehood of what he has stated.

Truth--the open, bold, honest truth--is always the best, always the wisest, always the safest for every one, in any and all circumstances. Let no boy deviate from it, even though he have been guilty of a fault. Better--a thousand times better--is it to own to the wrong, and keep a clear conscience.

A Story about a Dog.

“Tell us a story, father, before we go to bed,” said a little boy, who spoke for two brothers as well as for himself.

“What shall it be about?” asked Mr. Melville, their father.

“Oh, about a dog. I love to hear stories about dogs.”

“Oh yes! let it be about a dog.”

“Yes, papa, let it be about a dog,” ran through the circle of children.

“Wouldn’t you rather hear a story about the innocent lamb; the pure, snow-white lamb that sports in the green meadows?” said the father. “Dogs are evil animals.”

“Oh no, father! dogs are not evil animals. You don’t call our Carlo an evil animal? He’s a good, kind, generous dog. Didn’t he save the life of Mr. Graham’s little Harry, when he fell into the river? And doesn’t he love us, and go with us everywhere? And didn’t he jump on Mr. Parker’s Nero and beat him, when he flew out at us as we were passing, and was going to bite us? I am sure Carlo is a good dog. He watches our house at night, and keeps all the robbers away.”

“Carlo is one of the better class of dogs,” said Mr. Melville. “Many of these animals have generous qualities, and can be taught by man to perform many good acts; but I hardly think the dog can be called a good animal, like the noble horse or the useful cow and sheep. These serve man in a great variety of ways, and do not, even in their wild state, prey upon other animals, or attack and injure man as the dog will. The only use of the dog is for a protection against evil; and he is able to do this from something in him that is cruel and destructive. But I own that in some dogs there are to be found many noble and generous qualities; but these they derive from long association with man, and from being employed by him from one generation to another in doing useful things. The dogs of St. Bernard, of which you have so often read, are noble specimens of this improved race. So are the Newfoundland dogs. But still they are not good and innocent,--like sheep, for instance, or cows, or like the gentle dove. Those are truly innocent animals, and correspond in nature to certain good affections in our minds.”

But the children still thought that Carlo must be a good animal, and insisted that it was so, and upon having a story about a dog instead of a lamb.

“Very well,” said Mr. Melville: “I will tell you a story about a dog, and a very interesting one it is too. I heard it or read about it somewhere recently, but I cannot now tell where.”

“Tell it, father, do tell it,” urged the children.

Mr. Melville then told the following story:--

“There was a boy,--we will call his name Thomas,--whose father bought him a fine horse, upon which he used to ride out almost every day, accompanied by a large Newfoundland dog named Bruno. One day Thomas had his horse brought out for a ride, and after he had mounted the animal, he whistled for Bruno, who was lying on a mat in front of the house. But Bruno only wagged his tail. He did not even lift his head from between his fore paws, although his dark bright eyes were fixed upon his young master. ‘Come, Bruno, come!’ called Thomas. But the dog only wagged his tail more quickly. ‘You are a lazy fellow, Bruno,’ said Thomas, in a half-chiding, disappointed tone. ‘I shan’t half enjoy my ride unless you come.’ And he whistled loud for Bruno, as he gave his horse the rein and trotted off. Although he looked back and called for Bruno many times, as he rode away, the dog evinced no disposition to follow him.

“It was near sunset, and the father and mother of Thomas were sitting in front of their door, enjoying the cool refreshing air. Bruno still lay upon the mat, and seemed to be sleeping.

“‘I wonder why that dog didn’t go with Thomas?’ said the father, looking at Bruno.

“‘He’s lazy to-day,’ replied the mother. ‘Thomas called him, and tried his best to get him off with him, as usual, but Bruno never stirred.’

“On hearing his name, the dog rose up, and came and rubbed himself against his master, who patted him kindly upon the head. While standing thus by his master’s side, Bruno all at once pricked up his ears and rose, and seemed all attention. Almost at the same instant the father of Thomas heard the distant clattering of a horse’s hoofs, which drew nearer every moment. He arose quickly; as he did so, Bruno gave a short, uneasy bark, and went a few steps towards the road, holding his head very high, and looking first in one direction and then in another. This suspense did not continue long. In less than a minute from the time the first distant sound was heard, they saw the horse of Thomas come dashing down the road at a fearful speed, with his little rider clinging to his neck. The house stood nearly a hundred yards from the road, and the horse approaching at such a rapid rate, that, although the father sprang forward to catch him, if possible, at the moment of passing, yet he was instantly conscious that before he could possibly reach the road the frightened animal would be beyond his reach. Just as his mind felt this painful certainty, Bruno went past him like an arrow, cleared the fence at a bound, and at the moment the horse was passing the gate caught him by the bridle. To this he held on, checking the animal’s speed so much that his master found it easy to come up with and stop him.”

“Oh, what a noble dog!” cried the children. “How Thomas must have loved him!”

“But how,” said one, “did Bruno know that the horse was going to run away?”

“He did not know it,” said Mr. Melville.

“Then why didn’t he go with Thomas? He must have known it, father.”

“Oh no; that doesn’t follow, my son, at all. But the Lord, in his omnipotence and providence, knew what would take place, and provided just the means that were needed to save Thomas from being killed.”

“Then he made Bruno stay at home that he might be ready to save his young master’s life?” said one of the children.

“The Lord’s protecting Spirit is everywhere,” replied Mr. Melville, “and governs in all circumstances by which we are preserved from harm. Without doubt, it was an influence from Heaven that produced in the dog an indisposition to go with Thomas.”

“How good the Lord is!” said the child who had last spoken, in a thoughtful tone.

“Yes, my dear,” returned Mr. Melville; “the Lord is good to all, and kind even to the unthankful. He maketh his sun to shine upon the evil and the good, and sendeth his rain upon the just and the unjust.”

The Discontented Shepherd.

In a quiet valley there once dwelt a shepherd, who led a peaceful, happy life. He had large flocks, from whose fleecy backs the wool was regularly shorn, and sold to the merchants; and the merchants paid him money, with which he bought all things needful for health and bodily comfort.

One day the shepherd drove his flocks to the sea-side, and as he looked abroad upon the great expanse of water, and saw the ships moving over its surface, he felt, for the first time, discontented with his lot. A desire to see the world took possession of his mind.

“I will no longer shut myself up in this narrow valley,” he said. “I will become a merchant. I will pass over the wide sea, and go among the people of many lands.”

So the shepherd sold his flocks, and with the money bought merchandise, which he placed in a ship, and started for a distant country. During the first day after leaving the land, he could do little else but admire the wonderful ocean upon whose surface he was sailing, and think how happy he was at having escaped the dull life of a shepherd in an unknown vale. But on the second day after leaving the land, the motion of the ship made him very sick. He could no longer enjoy the great expanse of ocean and sky spread out above and around him, but had to remain in the cabin, unable even to lift his head from his pillow. As he lay sick in the dark, narrow cabin, filled with polluted air, he thought of the green shady places, cool refreshing streams, and pure air of his native valley, and, for the first time, he repented of what he had done.

It was more than a week before the shepherd could go upon deck, and feel pleasure in the sky and ocean as he had done at first.

At last the vessel arrived at its destined place: the shepherd landed his goods and offered them for sale. He soon found a merchant willing to buy them. The price was agreed upon, the merchandise delivered, and the money demanded. But it happened, as it almost always happens when men get dissatisfied with the business or calling with which they are perfectly familiar, and enter into one they know nothing about, the shepherd fell into dishonest hands. The merchant refused to pay him his money.

In order to get this wrong redressed, the shepherd called upon a magistrate of the country, who promised to see that justice was done to him. But the merchant knew the magistrate to be as unfitted for his calling as he was for his, and so he offered him a bribe, which the wicked magistrate accepted. In vain did the shepherd seek for justice at his hands; no justice could he get. His importunities at last became so great, that the magistrate threatened to have him put into prison if he troubled him any more.

In his own peaceful valley there was no wrong and oppression like this. The merchants who came for his fleece were good and true men, and paid the prices agreed upon. The ignorant shepherd had not dreamed that there were such wicked men in the world as this merchant and this magistrate, into whose hands he had fallen.

In a strange land, among strange people, thousands of miles away from his home, and all his money and property gone, the poor shepherd was about giving up in despair. But he bethought him that he would go to the king of the country, and ask justice at his hands.

The king, when he heard the shepherd’s story, was very angry at the wrong that had been done in his kingdom. He sent immediately, and had the magistrate and the merchant brought before him and confronted with their accuser. On seeing the shepherd, their hearts became filled with alarm, and their faces betrayed what was in their hearts. When accused they could answer nothing. So the king caused the merchant to pay the shepherd for his goods; and besides, imposed upon him a heavy fine. From the magistrate he took away his office, and had him cast into prison.

As soon as the shepherd had received his money, he returned in the first ship that sailed for his native country, and buying more flocks, was ever after contented to follow them in the peaceful valley where no wrong, oppression, or dishonesty had yet come.

The Shilling.

George Hanson’s uncle had given him a shilling; and George, like most boys, felt very anxious to spend it. But, among his many wants, he found it a hard matter to decide upon which to gratify. If it had been a half-crown instead of a shilling, the difficulty would have been lessened, for then George could have supplied at least half a dozen wants. But it was only a shilling.

He stood at the window, looking out upon the passengers who were going quickly by, the frosty air of December giving lightness to many a step that, in a milder day, would have been less hurriedly taken. While standing here, his mind half made up to gratify his love of cakes and oranges by a whole shilling’s worth, a man went by with some pretty little glass toys in a box, which he held up to the window, and asked if he did not want to buy some.

George beckoned to the man to stop, and then ran to the front door. The man was a glass-blower, and had manufactured some handsome birds, and sheep, and deer, from white glass, which looked, certainly, curious and beautiful.

“How much is this?” asked George, pointing to a bird of paradise.

“Eighteen-pence.”

“But I’ve only got a shilling,” returned George.

“Well, here’s a robin redbreast for a shilling; and here’s a deer, and a sheep. All these on this side are a shilling.”

But George liked the bird of paradise best of all, and couldn’t think of taking anything else.

While the man stood trying to persuade him to buy one of the birds that were sold for a shilling, George looked up and saw going by a poor old man, who was bent with age. He led a little girl by the hand, who appeared to shrink in the cold. The old man looked sick and feeble, and very poor.

“They shall have my shilling!” exclaimed George, speaking from a sudden impulse; and he stepped forward, and placing the coin in the old man’s hand, said, as he did so,--

“I was just going to spend this for a little glass toy that would be broken in a day. But I want it put to a better use. Take it, and buy something for your little girl.”

The poor old man stopped, and said, with a look of surprise and pleasure as he received the coin,--

“Thank you, my young master! This will give my little Alice a nice bowl of bread and milk for her supper and breakfast. She will think of you with a grateful heart while she eats them.”

“Well done, my good boy!” said the glass-blower, as the old man went on his way. “That poor little girl’s bread and milk will taste sweet to her to-night. And as a reward for your generous self-denial, here is the bird of paradise that has pleased you so much: take it.”

But George drew back, and said he hardly thought that would be right.

“Why not, I wonder?” returned the man. “Am I to be outdone in generosity by a boy? Take it, and whenever you look upon it let it teach you this lesson--that it is more blessed to give than to receive; for I am sure the thought of the good done to the old man and the little girl will be more pleasant to you than the thought of possessing this pretty toy.”

And so it was. The toy pleased for a short time only, but the thought of the little girl who had been made happy by his shilling never passed through his mind without giving him pleasure.

The Wounded Bird.

“Father,” said Henry Thompson, a boy just eleven years old, “won’t you buy me a gun?”

“A gun! Oh no; I can’t buy you a gun,” Mr. Thompson replied in a decided voice.

Henry turned away disappointed, and went out of his father’s warehouse, into which he had come specially to ask for a gun. He was not pleased at the refusal he had met with, and felt much inclined, as are too many children, to indulge hard thoughts against his kind father for not gratifying his wish. As he walked along, he met Alfred Lyon, a lad about his own age, whose father had given him a gun, and who then had it on his shoulder.

“Come, Henry,” said Alfred, “I’m going out a-shooting. Won’t you go with me?”

Henry at once said “Yes.” It was a holiday, and his mother had told him that he might go out and spend the morning as he liked, only that he must not go into danger, nor harm anything. So he did not hesitate to go with Alfred. He had seen the little boy the day before, and then learned that he had received from his father the present of a gun, and this was what had made him desire to have one also.

The two little boys then took their way to the woods. It was a bright day in early summer. The trees were all covered with tender foliage, the fields bright and green, and the singing birds made the air thrill with delicious melody. To mar this scene of innocence, beauty, and peace, came these two thoughtless boys. They saw the woods mantled in their dark, rich drapery, that moved gracefully in the light breeze; but all their majestic beauty was lost to their eyes. They thought only whether the thick, green masses of leaves contained a robin or harmless red-bird, as a victim to their murderous gun. The green fields, too, were pleasant to their eyes only so far as they might conceal, in their blossoming hedgerows, a victim wren or sparrow. And the sweet trilling of the lovely songsters, as it floated from wood and field, though it gladdened their ears, affected them not with a pure and innocent pleasure. I grieve to make such a record of these two lads, but it is, alas! too true. Both together, were they to labour over their task from this hour of their boyhood until threescore and ten years had been numbered to them, could not make even a little yellow bird,--nay, not so much as a feather like one shed from its downy wing; and yet they were eager to destroy the lovely creature made by God’s own hand, and all from an idle love of sport.

Well, Alfred and Henry soon arrived at the woods.

“Hark!” said Alfred, “there is a robin singing in that maple! Be still, and I will shoot him.”

Henry stood very still, while Alfred moved stealthily along, with his gun in his hand, until he stood nearly under the maple-tree. The robin, all unconscious of danger, was singing his song of gladness--a tribute of praise to Him who had fashioned him curiously, and with inconceivable wisdom and skill--when the boy raised his gun, took a deadly aim, and fired. The breast of the robin was still heaving, and his throat trembling with the song, when the swift-winged shot entered his side, and pierced his little heart. He fell at the feet of his murderer. One would have thought, that when Alfred and Henry saw the bleeding bird, lying dead on the ground, their hearts would have been filled with sorrow. But not so. A shout of joy followed this cruel exploit. The bird was picked up, and a string tied about its neck, and borne along with them, as the triumphant evidence of Alfred’s skill with his weapon.

Next an oriole was discovered, flying from a bush near them, and alighting upon the branch of a tree, high up in the air.

“Now, let me shoot,” said Henry; and Alfred suffered his companion to take the gun. He proved to be not quite so good a marksman as Alfred. But he struck the oriole, and wounded him. The bird fluttered to another tree, upon a limb of which he alighted. Here he clung, with his tiny feet, until these cruel boys had again loaded their gun. Then Henry took a truer aim, and brought him to the ground. But he was not dead. Henry seized the trembling creature, that tried in vain to escape, and held him fast in his hands.

“Wring off his neck,” said Alfred; “that’s the way.”

“No, no,” returned Henry; “I’ll take him home just as he is: perhaps he’ll get well, and then I’ll put him in a cage, and keep him.”

And so Henry kept the bird, that must have been suffering great pain, carefully in his hand, while Alfred loaded his gun once more. But we will not follow these boys further in their cruel employment, which was continued for several hours, when they grew tired, and returned home. It was past the dinner hour when Henry got back, with four birds for his share of the morning’s sport. One of these was the oriole, still alive. Another was a sparrow, another a robin, and the fourth a blue-bird. These last three were all dead.

“Just see, mother, what I’ve got; and I killed them all myself,” cried Henry, as he came in and displayed his birds. “Won’t you ask father to buy me a gun? Alfred Lyon has got one, and I think I ought to have one too. I asked father to-day to buy me one, but he said _No_. Won’t you ask him to buy me a gun, mother? for I can shoot; I shot all these with Alfred’s gun, myself.”

Henry’s mother listened to her son with surprise and pain. “Poor bird!” said she, taking from Henry the wounded oriole, and handling it with great tenderness. “Can it be possible that my son has done this?--that his hand has committed so cruel a deed?” and the tears dimmed her eyes.

The words, tone, and manner of his mother touched the heart of Henry in an instant. New thoughts were awakened, and with these thoughts came new feelings. His mind had a glimpse of the truth, that it was wrong to sport with the life of any creature.

“Can you make a pretty bird like this?” his mother asked, pointing to the drooping bird in her hand. Her son was silent.

“Then why seek, wantonly, to take its life?” she continued. “Were you envious of its happiness? Like an evil spirit, did a sight of innocent delights inflame you with a desire to destroy it? Can you restore health to its wounded body? No! Can you ever assuage its present agonies? No--you cannot. Cruel boy! what could you have been dreaming about? Think, how terrible it would be, if there were a race of beings stronger than we are, who, with the power, had the will to destroy us for mere sport. Some day I might be walking out, and become the victim of one of these, and then my children would have no mother. Perhaps Henry might leave me, and while on his way to school might be shot at, as he shot at the birds, and be killed like this pretty blue-bird, or fatally wounded like this oriole. Would you think such sport innocent? I think not. Poor bird! See how it trembles! See how it flutters its wings in pain! See how it gasps! Now it has fallen over upon its side--and now it is dead! Alas, that my son should have done this cruel deed--that my son should have caused all this pain!”

The words of Henry’s mother touched him deeply. They caused him to see how cruel he had indeed been. They made him conscious that it was most wicked to hurt or kill any one of God’s creatures in mere sport. So moved was he, that he could not refrain from bursting into tears and sobbing bitterly.

“O mother!” he said, after he had gained some little command over his feelings, “I never thought how wicked and cruel it was to take pleasure in hunting the pretty birds. I don’t want a gun. I wouldn’t have a gun now, if father would buy me the handsomest one in town.”

Henry’s mother was glad to hear him say this, for it showed that he felt all she wished him to feel--sorrow at having indulged in a cruel sport. It showed, also, that he had determined in his own mind, from seeing how wicked it was, never to do so again. From this determination Henry never swerved. He was never known afterwards to hurt any animal in sport. And more than this, by talking to his little friend Alfred, he caused him to see how wrong it was to shoot the birds; and Alfred gave his gun back to his father, who sold it for him, and with the money bought him a number of good and useful books.

The Holiday.

“How are you going to spend your holiday?” asked Edgar Williams of Charles Manly.

“I don’t know; how are you going to spend yours?”

“I’m going a-fishing; won’t you go with me?”

“No, I think not,” replied Manly.

“Why? It will be fine sport.”

But Manly shook his head, and replied,--

“I don’t think it such fine sport to hunt the little fishes. I’m sure I shouldn’t like a sharp hook in my mouth. Ugh! To think of being lifted up by a hook fastened in your tongue, or in the roof of your mouth!”

“You’re very tender-hearted all at once,” replied Edgar Williams. “I’ve seen you fishing, many a time.”

“No doubt of it. But I hardly think I shall go again. Father says it is cruel sport; and so it is. Suppose you don’t go, Edgar.”

“Oh yes, but I will. It’s delightful. I’m fond of it above everything.”

“I’ll tell you what I should like to do, if you would go with me,” said Charles Manly.

“Well?”

“I should like to go out into the woods and fields, to look for specimens for my cabinet.”

“A fig for specimens!” returned Williams. “No, indeed! I’m going a-fishing.”

The two lads had each some money given to him by his parents to spend. With his money, Edgar Williams bought a fishing-line, a rod, and some bait; and taking his dinner in a basket, started off alone to spend his day in fishing from the river-bank. During the morning the fish would not bite. Hour after hour he threw his line in vain. He did not get so much as a nibble. About mid-day, tired and disappointed, Edgar threw his rod upon the grass, and now beginning to feel hungry, he opened his lunch-basket and took therefrom his dinner, the eating of which he enjoyed much more than he had enjoyed his fishing. After this, he lay down under the shade of a tree and slept for an hour. When he awoke, he felt dull and heavy, and wished himself at home. But he had caught nothing, and did not want to go back with so poor an account of his doings. So he took up his rod and line, and again sought to take the life, for mere sport, of some fish, tempted, in the hope of obtaining food, to seize upon the murderous hook. But his red cork lay, as before, immovable upon the smooth surface of the river for a very long time. At last it suddenly disappeared, and Edgar gave his line a quick jerk, which brought up a bright little sunfish, that had hoped to get a good dinner, but was, alas! sadly disappointed. It was not more than three inches long, and beautiful to look upon as a fish could be, so thin, so delicately made, and so purely golden in its hue. Edgar caught the fluttering little creature in his hand, and tore the cruel hook from its bleeding mouth. Just at that moment he thought of what Charles Manly had said, about having a sharp hook in his tongue or tearing into the roof of his mouth, and for the first time in his life he felt pity for a fish. The quivering little animal was still in his hand, and he held it up and looked at its torn mouth, with the blood oozing therefrom, and sorrow for the pain he had occasioned touched his heart.

“It is cruel sport, as Charles said, sure enough,” he murmured to himself. “This little fish never did me any harm. And even if I were in want of food, which I am not, it is too small to eat. So I have no excuse for doing it this sad injury. Go, little fish!” he added, throwing it back again into the river. “I will not rob you of life, though I have seriously injured you.”

But the fish, instead of diving down out of sight into the deep water, turned upon its side and swam about unevenly upon the surface of the water. Edgar felt grieved when he saw this.

“Poor little sunfish,” he said; “I hope you will not die.”

Just then he observed a sudden rippling motion of the water, a short distance from where the sunfish was swimming about, and in an instant afterwards the little sufferer was seized by some larger fish and devoured.

“I’ll never fish again for sport!” said Edgar, throwing his rod and line into the water, and turning sadly away from the river-side.

It was nearly night when he arrived at home, tired and altogether dissatisfied with himself. More than an hour elapsed after he went to bed before he could close his eyes in sleep. The image of that beautiful little sunfish, with its torn and bleeding mouth, was too vividly present to his mind. During the night, he dreamed that he fell into the river, and was seized by some monster, as he had seen the sunfish seized. He awoke in terror, with the perspiration starting from every pore, and it was a long time before sleep visited his eyes again.

Sweeter far, and more peaceful, were the dreams of Charles Manly, who had gone with his sister to the museum, and spent his holiday there, examining the many curious and wonderful things in art and nature that it contained. His enjoyment had been innocent, and it had left his mind tranquil and peaceful.

Rover and his Little Master.

“Come, Rover!” said Harry, as he passed a fine old Newfoundland dog that lay on a mat at the door; “come, Rover! I am going down to the river to sail my boat, and I want you to go with me.”

Rover opened his large eyes, and looked lazily at his little master.

“Come, Rover!--Rover!”

But the dog didn’t care to move, and so Harry went off to the river-side alone. He had not been gone a great while, before a thought of her boy came suddenly into the mother’s mind. Remembering that he had a little vessel, and that the river was near, it occurred to her that he might have gone there.

Instantly her heart began to throb with alarm.

“Is Harry with you?” she called up to Harry’s father, who was in his study. But Harry’s father said he was not there.

“I’m afraid he’s gone to the river with his boat,” said the mother.

“To the river!” And Mr. Lee dropped his pen, and came quickly down. Taking up his hat, he went hurriedly from the house. Rover was still lying upon the mat, with his head upon his paws and his eyes shut.

“Rover!” said his master, in a quick, excited voice, “where is Harry? Has he gone to the river? Away and see! quick!”

The dog must have understood every word, for he sprang eagerly to his feet, and rushed toward the river. Mr. Lee followed as fast as he could run. When he reached the river-bank, he saw his little boy in the water, with Rover dragging him towards the shore. He was just in time to receive the half-drowned child in his arms, and carry him home to his mother.

Harry, who remained insensible, was placed in a warm bed. He soon, however, revived, and in an hour or two was running about again. But after this, Rover would never leave the side of his little master, when he wandered beyond the garden gate. Wherever you found Harry, there Rover was sure to be--sometimes walking by his side, and sometimes lying on the grass, with his big eyes watching every movement.

Once Harry found his little vessel, which had been hidden away since he went with it to the river, and, without his mother seeing him, he started again for the water. Rover, as usual, was with him. On his way to the river he saw some flowers, and, in order to gather them, put his boat down upon the grass. Instantly Rover picked it up in his mouth, and walked back towards the house with it. After going a little way, he stopped, looked round, and waited until Harry had got his hand full of flowers. The child then saw that Rover had his boat, and tried to get it from him; but Rover played round him, always keeping out of his reach, and retreating towards the house, until he got back within the gate. Then he bounded into the house, and laid the boat at the feet of Harry’s mother.

Harry was a little angry with the good old dog, at first; but when his mother explained to him what Rover meant, he hugged him round the neck, and said he would never go down to the river any more.

Harry is a man now, and Rover has long since been dead; but he often thinks of the dear old dog that saved him from drowning when he was a child; and it gives him great pleasure to remember that he never beat Rover, as some boys beat their dogs, when they are angry, and was never unkind to him. Had it been otherwise, the thought would have given him great pain.

James and Henry; OR, “TWO WRONGS NEVER MAKE A RIGHT.”

A mother, who loved her children very much, sat reading a good book one day, while her two little boys were playing in the next room. All at once loud cries and angry words fell upon her ears, and gave her great pain. She rose up quickly, and went in to the children, and there she saw a sad sight indeed. James, her eldest boy, whose eighth birthday had just been passed, was standing over his younger brother, Henry, with his hand raised, and his face red with anger; and Henry had doubled his little fist, and was ready to strike again.

“James! Henry!” cried their mother, as soon as her eyes fell upon them.

“Mother! mother! Henry knocked over my house, and he did it on purpose,” said the eldest boy, a blush of shame covering his face, and hiding the red anger that was on it an instant before.

“No, mother, I didn’t do it on purpose,” spoke up little Henry. “It was an accident; and he struck me.”

“And then what did you do?” asked the mother, taking the little boy by the hand, and looking him in the face.

Henry held down his head, and replied, “I struck him again.”

“Oh, how wrong that was!”

“But I didn’t mean to knock over his house.”

“How was it, James?” the mother asked, appealing to the eldest boy.

“He did knock over my house.”

“But, do you believe it was done on purpose?”

“He kept pushing his foot against it all the while, and I told him not to do it,” said James.

“Why, Henry?”

Henry again hung down his head, and was silent.

“And so you did it on purpose, Henry?”

“Oh no, no, mother, I didn’t do it on purpose,” cried Henry, bursting into tears and burying his face in his mother’s lap. “It was an accident. I did put my foot against the house, _just to plague him_; but I didn’t mean to push it over. _Something made my foot go hard against it._ But I am sorry.”

And Henry sobbed aloud.

“Henry is sorry for what he has done, James; he did not do it on purpose. But you were angry and struck him on purpose. Are you not sorry?”

“But he was trying to plague me; and he is always trying to plague me.”

“That was wrong, James. But, you know that I have often said to you--_two wrongs never make a right_. Do you feel any happier now, because you struck your brother?”

James was silent.

“Tell me, my son, do you think you are happier for what you have done?”

The little boy said, “No.”

“But you feel very unhappy?”

“Yes, mother.”

“That is a sign that you have done wrong. When we do right it makes us happy. Are you not always sorry after you have done wrong?”

“Yes, mother.”

“You are sorry that you struck Henry?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And Henry is sorry for having tried to plague you; ain’t you, Henry?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then give James your hand, my son. He is sorry for having struck you.”

The little boys took hold of each other’s hands, and looked into each other’s faces. But tears were in both their eyes, and on their cheeks.

“Now kiss each other with the kiss of forgiveness.”

The children put their arms round each other’s necks, and kissed each other with a warm kiss of love and forgiveness.

“Now bring me that little book lying on the table, James,” said the mother.

James brought the book, and the mother opened it, and read:--

“‘Whatever brawls disturb the street,
There should be peace at home;
Where sisters dwell, and brothers meet,
Quarrels should never come.

“‘Birds in their little nests agree,
And ’tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family
Fall out, and chide, and fight.

“‘Hard names at first, and angry words,
Which are but noisy breath,
May come to clubs and naked swords,
To murder and to death.’

“Think of that, my dear children! ‘To murder and to death!’ If you quarrel with each other now, instead of growing up and loving each other, you may grow up to hate each other. I remember two brothers that were once no older than you are. They were always quarrelling with each other, and they kept on quarrelling as they grew up. One day, after they had become men, they got into a dispute about something, when one of them struck the other a dreadful blow with a stick and killed him. Was not that a terrible thing? And who knows but that you, if you keep on quarrelling as you do now, may grow up to hate one another.”

“Henry, do you know why it is that you so often try to tease your brother James?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why is it, my son?”

“I let evil spirits come into me, and do what they wish me to do.”

“Yes, that is the reason. But can’t you keep them out.”

“Yes, ma’am, if I try.”

“Do you like to have evil spirits in you, instead of good angels.”

“Oh no. I love the good angels, and I hate the wicked spirits that make me do wrong.”

“How can you keep the wicked spirits out?”

“By not doing the wrong things they want me to do, and then the good angels will drive them all away.”

“I hope, my dear children, as you know so well what is right, that you will never again let wicked spirits from hell have anything to do with you. When they again tempt you to plague your brother, Henry, you must not do it, and then they will go away; and you, James, if Henry should again be so weak and foolish as to let the evil spirits come into him, must not let them come into you at the same time. If, instead of letting them tempt you to strike him, you permit the good angels to govern you, you will speak kindly to him, and say, ‘Don’t, brother, please.’ I am sure he will do so no longer. By doing this, you will help him to cast out the evil spirits who are seeking to destroy him.”

“How destroy him, mother?”

“All evil spirits seek to destroy children by making them wicked like themselves, so that they may be cast into hell. They hate children so much, that, if they were not restrained by the Lord, they would do them all manner of harm--would utterly destroy them; for they burn with hatred towards little children.”

“But the Lord won’t let them hurt us.”

“Not if we will keep them out of our hearts. But if we let them come in, he cannot save us. And, whenever you are angry with each other, they come into your little hearts. Oh! my dear children, keep out these dreadful enemies, or they will utterly destroy you.”

The children burst into tears, kissed each other and their mother again and again, and promised that they would try and never speak or act unkindly to one another as long as they lived. We hope they will not; and that all our little readers will try, like them, to keep evil spirits far away, that good angels may be round about them and dwell in their young hearts.

The Use of Flowers.

“Just one moment longer, cousin Mary; I want to put this flower in your hair. Now doesn’t it look sweet, sister Aggy?”

“Oh yes! very sweet. And here is the dearest little bud I ever saw. I took it from the sweet-brier bush in the lane. Put that, too, in cousin Mary’s hair.”