FAITHFUL FIDO.
Frank and his little dog Fido were the admiration of all the hamlet. Wherever Frank was seen, Fido was sure to be found by his side; and wherever Fido appeared, Frank was sure to follow.
They took long walks together, over moor and mountain, through woods and lanes; and each was considered the guardian of the other.
Now Frank was a very little fellow; delicate and tender, but brave, and
fond of rambling. When he was absent from home, his parents, however,
never feared for his safety, if Fido was known to be with him. One
fine day, the two friends had wandered farther than usual—they had
chosen the fine sands on the sea-shore, and went on, and on, and on;
Frank picking up shells and weeds, or flinging pebbles into the foamy
waves.
At last, Frank was tired; and, no doubt, Fido was tired too; so, both sat down amid the rocks, and both fell asleep. They slept long, forgetful of times and tides, till the waves began rapidly to close around them.
It was pretty to see these young slumberers. Frank with his red cheek on Fido's nose, and his little arm round Fido's neck—and no one was near—no noise was heard but that of the approaching waves.
They came nearer, nearer, threatening to overflow the sleepers; and all help far distant! Mother making dumplings for Frank's dinner, and Sister Fanny watching the hour of his return! Alas! would either see him again? The water is close upon them; it meets the extended feet of Fido.—Happy chance!—The cold water awakens the dog—he starts up—barks—and his little master is at once on his feet. I said, Frank was a brave boy—his heart did not fail him. He shouted aloud and sent his voice up the cliff. His gentle voice was outsounded by the rushing sea; but Fido, imitating his master, or understanding his peril, barked at the utmost pitch of his voice. Shrill, and prolonged, and repeated—the bark was heard—men saw them from the cliffs—men hastened to their aid,—and little Frank was saved, and saved by Fido.
ETHEL AND PATTY.
Ethel and Patty were neatly dressed, to take their morning walk; but, hearing their Aunt had called to say, she would let them go with her, in her coach, to see grandpapa, they ran down stairs in such a hurry, that they fell, and both tore their frocks.
What a sad disaster! Their Aunt kindly said, she would wait a little; but the poor girls were in sad distress. They went slowly and sorrowfully up stairs, to mend their tattered dresses. "To have no other frocks clean, this day of all the year," cried Ethel sullenly.—"But, sister, see how easily the rents can be mended," said Patty, setting herself to work.—"A pretty business, to be sure, after stitching all the morning; just when all the nasty work was done, to have more to do," said Ethel.—"Oh! so very little! Look, Ethel, it is a mere trifle," exclaimed Patty.—"Yours may be; but mine—" said Ethel. "Yours is less than mine; only measure, sister."
"I shall do no such thing."—"Then stitch away, as I am stitching," cried Patty, smiling, and working with all her might. Ethel slowly stretched out the rent. "It is nonsense to begin," said she; "this horrid hole could never be finished."—"Certainly not, if never begun, sister."—"Do not be pert, Patty. I do not believe even your skilful ladyship will be ready; for I hear some one coming up stairs. I dare say Aunt is sending for us."—"I shall stitch on to the very last moment," said Patty; "and though moments do make themselves wings, and fly away, just when we want them most to stay, mine shall carry some stitches with them, I am determined;" and she worked perseveringly.
The step passed the door. "A reprieve," cried Patty. Ethel began looking for needle, thread and thimble; then listened to hear if any one was coming to them—then looked out of the window, to see if her Aunt's carriage were still there—then thought it was too late to begin—and then began. Patty's busy, unstopping fingers had finished her task. "And now, Ethel, I am ready to help you."—"Two cannot work at once."—"Then let me work." Patty's kindness could not avail. Mamma came up, and sent down the one who was ready. Ethel blamed her fortune. Silly child! She had better have blamed herself!
THE LITTLE BEGGAR.
"Mamma, do pray be so very good as to give me a pair of fine,
open-worked, silk stockings."—"A modest request, Julia, for a little
girl not higher than the table. And might I presume to ask for what
use you want these showy articles?"—"Use! For wearing, to be sure,
Mamma."—"Wearing! For you, Julia! For such a minikin as you!"—"All
my playfellows have them, Mamma."—"A notable reason, certainly, why
you should have them."—"Yes! Miss Montague, Lady Jane Hill, and Miss
Carter."—"All the children of richer parents than yours."—"That
makes no difference."—"Your pardon, little girl; that makes all the
difference."—"How, Mamma!"—"Because, my love, all things should be
done in character. If you wear fine stockings, you must have fine
shoes; and then a carriage is indispensable."—"Now, Mamma, you are
laughing at me. I, who am so stout, and can walk so well."—"In
thin stockings and thin shoes, Julia?"—Julia pondered—her mother
continued: "With these smart shoes and stockings, a smart frock is
necessary, and a sash, and a rich lace, and ear-rings, and a fan,
and——"—"Oh! stop, stop, dear Mamma!" exclaimed Julia, laughing, "I
see, I understand. What a very silly child I am!"—"No, my dear Julia,
you are not silly, you only was so. Young creatures, like you, must
often form foolish wishes, and make absurd requests; however, you shew
your sense, in being convinced of your error."—"Thank you, Mamma, for
excusing me." Julia said this very soberly, and seemed thinking. "And
what are you so grave about?" asked her mother.—"Why, I had another
begging favour—but now—"—"Speak fearlessly, my child."—"I did so
want a little money for poor old sick Kitty!"—"Take it, my dear girl.
It is to give you and myself the means of bestowing money in charity,
that I am loth to spend it in dress."—"Oh! Mamma, Mamma, how I thank
you! Oh! this is better than a thousand stockings! Lucky beggar that I
am!"
THE YOUNG FRIENDS.
Clare and Constance were born in the same village, and brought up together. Their parents were near neighbours, and they went to the same school. In summer, they sat beneath the same tree, conning their lessons; and in winter, they sat on the same bench, working or knitting. Constance preferred using Clare's scissors, and Clare had a secret pleasure in taking thread from the cotton-box of Constance.
I gave Clare a charming spring nosegay, and her little fingers were instantly busy in making two nosegays of it, and the best of every flower was in Constance's share.
My wife picked a basket of cherries for Constance. Constance smiled and curtsied, and was thankful, but did not eat the fruit. "Why is this, Constance?" said my wife, "the cherries are not sour."—"Perhaps not," said I, "but Constance would think them sweeter if shared with her friend;" and away sprang the little maiden to seek Clare, and eat with her the hoarded cherries.
It was a bleak stormy autumn day, Clare could not be found—Constance too was missing—Where could they be?
We searched the gardens, the village lanes, the fields; nothing could be discovered of them. They were not used to wander. Every body became anxious. I joined in the search, and bent my way towards a neighbouring wood. The villagers were sure the little girls were not there. "Well," said I, "no matter; having tried all probable places, it is wise to try the improbable." I hastened on; the evening was closing, the wind blowing, and the rain beginning to fall. I could scarcely discern objects. At last, I saw something white: it approached, and, behold, the two lost girls, Clare carrying Constance.
"How is this," cried I. "Ah!" said the panting Clare, "how glad I am to see you, Sir. Poor Constance fell, and hurt her ankle;—sprained it, I believe;—and so we could move but slowly."—"You could have come more quickly."—"How! And left Constance?"—"Child! you might have both perished."—"We should have been together," answered Clare with a quiet smile.
THE LITTLE DAUGHTER.
The snow had fallen very deep. In the valleys, it had drifted into vast heaps; and one poor little cottage was so covered, that it looked more like a mound than a dwelling; nor door, nor window, nor even wall, could be seen,—all was one pile of cold, shining, white snow.
A sick widow and her little girl lived in this cot; far away from neighbour or hamlet: but they lived there because it was cheap, and the poor widow had no money but what her feeble hands earned.
Jessy was too young to work, yet she was a marvellous help to her
mother; and the pale faced woman said, she did not believe she could
live at all but for her child's services. She was so quick, and neat,
and handy; and then she was always merry, and her gay voice sounded
like music; and then she was always dutiful, doing instantly whatever
she was bid: and tender, often running up to kiss her mother, stroke
her cheek, and press her hand. The poor woman was quite sure, Jessy
kept her alive.
When the snow fell around so thick, of course no daylight could enter the cottage; and Jessy wondered much at the strangely continued darkness. Her mother guessed what had happened, and knew not what to do. Her feeble hands could not remove the heavy snow. What little she could remove, seemed not to benefit them, for no light was let in, and no path made out.
Two, three, many days passed; the small hoard of bread and potatoes was consumed, and the candles too. Happily, there was a tolerable provision of wood, and they contrived to keep up fire for warmth and light, but it was a melancholy light, fitful and uncertain.
"I would not care, were it not for you, my child!" said the widow, with tears in her eyes. "Ah! mamma! I am sure I should not care but for you," said Jessy, smiling, and kissing her mother.
A sportsman, going that way to shoot woodcocks, was surprised to see a tiny curl of smoke issue from the mound of snow. He was not one to wonder and pass by; he stopped and considered. The fact darted on his mind. "Alas! there must be human beings here, perhaps perishing." His strong arms soon made a way into the cottage. What a sight did he see on his entrance! Little Jessy nestled into the bosom of her mother, and both looking as if asleep! It would have been the sleep of death, but for this providential rescue. The sportsman had food and wine in his wallet; and Jessy was soon laughing,—and her mother soon weeping,—safe and alive in his arms!
MONEY.
"What can I do with all this money?" said little Andrew, looking at a shilling his papa had given him. "I never had so much before: it will buy such lots of good things;" and the apparitions of apples, nuts, and gingerbread, flitted before him. No, all these were unworthy the mighty sum;—he must decide on some more important purchase:—so, putting the glittering coin into his pocket, he sallied forth, proud and happy.
Andrew was a very little fellow, but he could reflect and judge; and, scorning all indulgence of appetite, he resolved to buy some handsome useful article. A knife, or a whip.—Lost in consideration of the great question of which of these he should make himself master, he was pacing soberly along, when his eyes were drawn to a little squabble in the street. A rude cross boy was teazing a pale sickly girl; she was carrying a dish full of fine rosy apples, and he was trying to get one from her.
Andrew called out to him to let the child alone. The boy continued his struggles; and, big as the boy was, little Andrew would have attacked him; but, just as he reached the spot, the boy ran away, having first contrived to knock the dish out of the poor girl's hands.
Andrew held up his little threatening fist to the great rude coward, and then hastened to help to pick up the apples. This was soon done; but the dish—it was broken into a hundred pieces!
The poor child cried: "My mammy! Oh my mammy!"—"She will beat you?" said Andrew. "No, no, she never beats me—never; but the dish—it was dame Carter's—she lent it us, for me to carry these apples to our good Curate's—and now it is broken! What shall I do?—What shall I do?"—"Do not cry so, I don't like it," said Andrew, wiping his eyes.
"These apples were all we had this year in our garden," said the sobbing child; "and the Curate liked them: and he was so good to father, before he died, that poor mammy was quite happy to send them to him; and now—what will she say? What will she do?"—"Come, come, do not cry; but let us see what can be done. This dish cost a great deal of money."—"Oh! yes, Sir, a great deal,—we never had such an one of our own; for we are poor, very poor!"
Andrew thought for a minute, and then said—"Come along!" He walked briskly forward; the girl followed, with the apples in her apron. They passed a shop window full of whips and knives. Andrew smiled proudly and passed on. They came to a shop where dishes were sold. One hung at the window, the very picture of the one broken. Andrew feared the price would be beyond his means. It was marked a shilling. Without saying one word, he gave his shilling to the shopkeeper, the dish to the little girl, and ran off.
A GOOD RESOLUTION.
"I am resolved to be happy this day," said young Matthew. "It is a holiday. My lessons for to-morrow are all ready; so I have nothing to do but please myself; and happy I will be."—"Who can be happy such a day as this?" replied Frederick. "What is the matter with the day?"—"You stupid fellow! Can't you see? It is going to rain."—"I see clouds; but clouds are not certain signs of rain; so, till the drops begin to fall, I shall to the field, and fly my kite."
Away went Matthew and his kite. Frederick staid in the house; but, after an hour's sullen murmuring, he followed his brother into the field. Matthew had had a long and joyous sport; and his kite was up, almost out of sight.
Frederick, vexed at the time he had lost, began impatiently to prepare for sport. In his hurry, he entangled the line: fretted at the delay, he cut and slashed away all impediments with his knife. The string, in pieces was disentangled—the kite rose, but had not length of cord to rise high. Frederick fastened on fresh pieces: one of the knots gave way; and the wind bore away the kite, never to return. Frederick abused kites, strings, and weather; and was recalled to patience by a cooling shower.
"Ah!" cried he exultingly, "I told you it would rain."—"But I have had two hours' good fun before it came," said Matthew, drawing in his kite.
The boys ran home. "Now for home amusement!" exclaimed Matthew. "Fred, will you play at chess with me?"—"No, I hate chess."—"Draughts then?"—"Worse and worse—I detest draughts."—"What say you to shuttlecock?"—"You are sure to name something I dislike."—"Well, then, as I like every thing—I mean almost every thing—choose for yourself."-"Oh! I like cards."—"In the morning?"—"Ha, ha! master boaster! Just now, you said, you liked every thing!"—"So I do—I like cards very well: but, you know, mamma does not approve of our playing cards, especially in the morning."—"I know you are precise, Master Matthew."—"Oh! I'll play cards."—"For how much?"—"For money, brother?"—"To be sure; who cares for cards else?"—"Well, have your way." Frederick played and lost—threw the cards into the fire, and vowed there was no fair dealing.
Matthew only said, "I played fair, and that's all I have to do with the affair." The rain continued; so he took up a book. After it became dark, he amused himself with his flute. More than that, he amused with it his little sister. She liked the merry tunes; and she sang, and danced, and was so gay! "You are a precious blockhead," said Frederick, "playing to please that silly baby."—"I please myself in pleasing her," said Matthew; and the smiling child put up her little mouth to "kiss thanks," as she expressed it.
THE FLOWER GIRL.
"Flowers! Fine flowers!" cried Barbara. "Who will buy my beautiful
flowers?"—"What sorts have you got in your basket?" demanded
Caroline. "Violets, Miss—sweet-scented purple violets—and primroses,
fresh and fragrant primroses—and wood sorrel—see, Miss, what lovely
leaves!—and anemones—and—"—"Pshaw! all nasty wild flowers!"
exclaimed Caroline, tossing her head with disdain. The flower girl was
astonished; and, instead of going on with her speech, put aside a bunch
of charming cowslips she was about to exhibit.
"Wild flowers! I love wild flowers!" said a rosy girl, eagerly approaching Barbara: "and these violets! Ah! the dew is yet upon them."—"What can you see to admire in these wild blossoms?" inquired Caroline with a look of ineffable disdain. "Why, my dear Carry, what can be more beautiful?"—"Garden flowers, to be sure. Is there any thing here equal to our sweet graceful snowy lily of the valley?"—"Some people prefer violets; I own I love the lily. But Carry, dear, the lily is wild, you know, in some countries."—"Nonsense, nonsense! Wild, indeed! that tender and delicate flower? You are wild to say so."—"My dear child! all I know is, that when we were travelling on the banks of the Rhine, our servants used to gather us such large and lovely nosegays of lilies from the rocks and hedges." Caroline was silenced.—Her chattering friend continued. "In fact, Carry, dear, all flowers must grow wild, that is, naturally, somewhere, or how should we obtain them? There were not hot-houses and gardeners always, you know;" and she smiled archly. "But art produces varieties, endless varieties."—"True, my dear; but the change is not always for the better. Now, the large lovely wild lily of the Rhine is as superior to our delicate cultivated flower—" "Oh! my dear, don't make me sick, about these nasty flowers."
Caroline was not a person to be convinced; so her friend turned to the flower girl. "You sell these flowers?"—"Yes, my good young lady, because we are a large family, and every little helps, you know; and I am not old enough to work."—"And what will you do with the money?"—"Give it all to mammy, to be sure."—"Then come to this house, and my mammy will buy them," said the young girl, laughing.
THE OLD WOODCUTTER.
Old Jarvis was very fond of his youngest grandson Hubert; and the villagers said he was quite, out and out, spoiling the boy.
"By making him love me?" said Jarvis.
"What will his love do for you?" inquired they. "It will do me no harm, at least," answered Jarvis; "and, at eighty, it is something to be loved, even by a grandson."
Neighbours laughed,—Jarvis did not change his course, and truly did he say Hubert loved him. The old man's goodness and cheerfulness and affection worked upon his young heart, and, next to his parents, the grateful child loved his aged grandfather.
The old man, though grey headed and feeble, continued to work at his old avocation as a woodcutter, and Hubert generally accompanied him to the forest, and played about him as he worked. He was but six years old; too young to labour himself.
One fine summer morning, grandfather and grandson went, as usual, to cut faggots; and the time passed charmingly. Hubert collected the sticks to form the faggots, and thought himself mighty useful in doing so.
Suddenly, the clouds gathered, the thunder growled, and the rain fell. The old man knew the danger of being amidst trees during lightning; therefore, calling his grandson to him, he hastened to quit the wood.
They walked as quickly as they could, when they were stopped by a strange sight: a whole noble tree in flames! The lightning had struck it, and, burning rapidly, it cracked and fell. Jarvis saw it was about to fall, and, turning aside, sought to save the child.
The child was saved, but the old man was struck down by one of the flaming branches. Poor Hubert! he knew not what to do; but the blazing brand still lay upon the poor old man.
At the price of burning both hands, the brave boy dragged aside the burning bough. His aged grandfather arose but little hurt by the shock. "My bold little fellow!" said he; "you have burnt your hands very badly, I am afraid."—"Never mind that, grandfather,—never do you mind that: I have—thank God for it—saved your head!"
THE DISAPPOINTMENT.
"What a mortification! What a vexation! Nobody, surely, in the whole world is so plagued as I am!"—"My dear sister, my dear Bell, what has happened?"—"My white satin shoes are not come,—it is six o'clock, and I must begin presently to dress for the ball." Annie could not resist smiling at the smallness of the mighty calamity; but, never happy when her sister was otherwise, she hastened to soften matters. "You only suffer neighbours' fare, Bell; for I am also disappointed of my dashing shoes."—"Oh! but you don't care for these things."—"I don't care to make myself miserable for such trifles, certainly."—"Trifles! No trifles, I think—one can't dance without shoes."—"But you have others, sister,—your black satin."—"One can't be always wearing black satin shoes."—"Then those lovely grey slippers, which mamma gave you."—"Quite out of fashion, child—obsolete—old as my grandmother."—"Ha! ha! Then grandmamma is a very young old woman; for, if I recollect rightly, those slippers were given you three weeks ago."—"You are a most accurate person, Annie."—"Nay, I cannot fail to remember the day; it was your birthday, dearest Isabel."—"And a miserable day it was."—"Oh! sister!" exclaimed Annie. "Yes, miserable! the dance went off very badly; and the supper was a shame to be seen."—"And poor mamma took such trouble about it! I thought nothing could be better."—"You! Oh! you are contented with any thing."—"And is not that wise, Isabel?"—"Yes; but persons of feeling, of sensibility, are more alive to what is disagreeable."—"The greater feeling must make one also more alive to what is agreeable."
The sight of the shoes stopped the conversation: but there was only one pair. "Not mine, I am sure; I am never so lucky!" said Bell. But they were hers; and Annie pronounced them the sweetest pair that ever were seen.—"Yours are not come, Miss," said the maid.—"Never mind, never mind," cried Annie; "my black shoes will do very well."
The sisters went to the ball: Annie all mirth and good humour; Isabel with the stately dignity of a young lady who expects to be considered the best dressed damsel at the ball: but there were a hundred others thought the same, and had as good a right to think so. Isabel was not exclusive, was not immensely distinguished, and she pronounced the ball detestable. "I do believe these nasty shoes spoilt my dancing. New shoes are always so uncomfortable; and my partners were always admiring your shoes, Annie; always teazing me to be introduced to the charming girl in black shoes."
GIFTS.
Caleb received the present of a handsome gun from his wealthy
godfather. "How happy rich people are!" said his young friend Edward.
"Many and many a time, dear Caleb, have I wished to give you a gun,
knowing how much you longed for one. But, poor dog as I am, I had not
the means."—"And was your wishing to do it, and the motive of your
wish, worth nothing?" said Caleb, kindly: "Why, my dear fellow, you are
a poor accountant, if you cannot discover, that the love which urges
to a gift, is, at least, worth the gift itself."—"But it is pleasant
to have the power of evincing our affection."—"Very pleasant; and I
should think your case hard indeed, if rich gifts were the only mode by
which love could be shewn," replied Caleb. "Name some other mode," said
Edward. "That will I, and easily," answered Caleb: "can you give me any
present more valuable than your time, your advice, your assistance?
When I was ill, how many days and nights did you not bestow on my sick
chamber! When I was in disgrace with my father, how much did not your
counsel and aid promote my restoration to favour! Dear Ned, do not fall
into the too common error, that money constitutes the sole wealth of
mortals."
The friends went out with their dogs and their guns.—The new piece was to be proved.—It looked in excellent order.—Caleb waited for a capital shot, to try its merits.—The game was scarce; and the dogs were long in raising it. Over stubble, and through wood, and brook, and brier, the party passed. Edward, something in advance, had the first chance of a shot. He fired his old double-barrelled gun, and brought down a couple of fine young birds.
"The next chance be yours," cried he, gaily stepping behind Caleb. Caleb prepared to perform wonders. "My worthy godfather must have all my first shot brings down," said he, proudly; as if his first shot must certainly bring down half a dozen birds at least.
There was a pause.—The dogs pointed—a ring pheasant rose majestically—Caleb fired—the gun had some internal defect, and burst in the firing. A moment of delay in the discharge—a delay that shewed something was wrong, sufficed for the wary and quick eye of friendship.
Edward, with an instant powerful thrust, forced the piece from his friend before it burst, and the gun was shattered as it lay on the ground. "See, Edward," said Caleb triumphantly, "the single touch of your hand has saved a life, which this splendid gift had endangered."
CHARITABLE INDUSTRY.
It was a winter's night—but the fire blazed cheerfully in the Rectory parlour. Four little girls were seated, round a table, working with their mother spinning at their side.
"The hum of that wheel is quite musical this evening!" exclaimed Emily, one of the merry little party. "And to me," said Mary, "it seems as if the fire burnt more bright than usual."—"I was just going to say," cried Helen, "that our candles were certainly superior to those we had last night."—"I suppose it is all these pleasant circumstances together," interposed Lucy, "that makes me feel more comfortable than I ever before felt." The attentive mother smiled; and, stopping her busy wheel, said: "My dear children, I readily believe you all feel more than usually happy this evening. But, begging pardon of all your wise heads, I do not think the excellence of the fire, the goodness of the candles, the charm of my humming wheel, or even the united merits of all these, produce your present content."—"What then, dear mother?"—"Your employment, my children."
The whole party paused, and reflected. The table was covered with shreds and patches—silk—ribbons—calico—muslin. The girls were making bags, pincushions, needle-cases, and other trifles. Their worthy old neighbour, Dolly, was too ill to work; and they were too poor to give her as much money as she needed: so they employed their leisure in making such articles as she could readily sell in the village. The things were so neatly made, and so cheaply rated, that old Dolly sold them as fast as she obtained them.
After a short silence, the whole party assented to the truth of their
mother's remark "Yes!" cried they, "it is very true! Our employment
gives a charm to all about us; for we think we are doing good."—"And
thus it is, my dear children," said the tender mother, "that we
ourselves are the sources of our own content, and, in many cases, of
our own happiness."