Chapter V. Bears, Monkeys, Rats.

Now, I think, you are laughing at the heading of this chapter, and wondering what I can have to say about such creatures; but wait a little, and you will find I am not afraid to put in a good word for them. You must know that I once had a young bear, a mere cub, which was given to me by one of the wild Indians, as they are called. These Indians, by the way, are not half so wild as some boys of my acquaintance, who are a great deal better taught; and they were very fond of me—merely because it pleased God to keep me mindful of a gracious command which he has given us. You will find it in the first Epistle of Peter, chap. ii., verse 17: “Honour all men.” Man, whether he be black, or white, or tawny; whether he be rich or poor, bond or free; man was at first made in the image of God, and would have kept the image if Adam had not sinned and lost it; so that none of his posterity are now born in that holy, happy state in which Adam was created. But then, lost as man is, and deprived of all honour, it pleased the eternal Son of God to take upon Him the name and the nature of man, free from all its sinfulness, though deprived of its first glory, and this he did that he might, by suffering death, atone for the sin of the world. So now, as there is no person so miserable, so despised, or even so sinful, that by coming to the Lord Jesus Christ, and believing in Him alone, he may not have his sins blotted out, and himself made an inheritor of the kingdom of heaven, I am sure that every man ought to be treated with some respect, as one of that race whom God created, and for whom Christ died. Indeed, it would be enough for me, if only the Bible said, “Honour all men,” without my being able to see why I ought to do so. It is my duty to obey every one of my Lord’s commands: but it is very pleasant to think about his gracious commandments, and to see, as we must then do, how very lovely they are. Now you know why I treated the wild Indians of the woods with gentle, kind respect; and they felt it, and loved me greatly, and used to bring me their little gifts. One day, two rough Indian men came to me, in their very strange dresses, with their stiff black hair hanging down, never having been combed in their lives, I should think. They each brought a young bear into my large kitchen; and while I told them to sit down and eat something, the two cubs began to examine the place for themselves. It was a funny sight, so I will tell you about it.

Under a table, there lay a good long barrel on its side, and two very friendly cats had each got some kittens in it. They had made themselves little beds in the straw, one near the mouth of the barrel, the other farther in. So one young bear, (they were but a few weeks old, poor little animals!) in the course of his travels about the kitchen, poked his nose into this barrel, and out flew the old gray cat, in a great rage, or fright, I hardly know which, and began to spit most furiously at the cub, who ran away as fast as he could, into a distant corner, followed by puss. She did not choose to go too near such an odd-looking creature; but sat watching him, to prevent his leaving that corner.

Meantime, the other cub, thinking, I suppose, that, “as the cat was away, the bear might play”—at least with the kittens, went boldly close to the barrel, when lo! out sprang the tortoise-shell cat from the farther end, and this master Bruin was not slower than his brother in scampering away, the cat following him also. No harm was done; none of them had any wish to fight, and the scene was so droll that the servants were in fits of laughter; while the Indians, who I must tell you are very grave, and even sad-looking people, and seldom seen to smile, for once laughed heartily too. I took pity upon the frightened cub, at whom the gray cat was still growling and spitting, and took him up my arms; for which he seemed so thankful, that I continued to stroke his shaggy coat, until one of the Indians, with a grin, offered to give him to me. I accepted him, making a present in return; and for some days I took delight in my bargain; for he was a most innocent little creature, and played merrily with a puppy dog: but those who understood the nature of a bear better than I did, persuaded me to give him up; because they had known a young lady who was killed by a tame bear in a sudden passion.

But I want to convince you how wrong we are in treating any animal as if it could not feel attachment to us. Some soldiers’ wives used to pet my little cub, even with tears in their eyes; and they told me the reason. They said, that a short time before, the regiment to which they belonged was quartered in Canada, and the soldiers had a bear, which they brought up tame. This creature had a strange office—he was nurse to all the babies in the barrack. So great was his love for them, that whenever the mothers wanted to have their infants well taken care of, they would place them under this animal’s charge, who was delighted to smooth for them the clean soft straw that they gave him; and whose tender care over the babes was, they told me, the most beautiful thing ever seen. The poor bear was always trying to help and oblige his friends; and on washing days he had plenty of babies to mind, when the weather was mild enough to have them out of doors; but one cold day they were all left within, and the bear had nothing to do. So, seeing a woman leave her washing-tub, which she had just filled with boiling water, he thought he would do some of her work, and put his paws into it: the pain made him snatch them out, and in so doing he upset the tub—all the scalding water fell over him—and his agonies were such that, in mercy, some soldier shot him dead at once. The women, when they told me this, sobbed with grief, saying, “He was so kind to our babies! he would have died in their defence, poor fellow!” I assure you, that when I see a poor bear led through the streets, chained, beaten, and made to dance, as they call it, which it is taught to do by cruel tortures, I always remember this story; and think, how much love and gratitude might that miserable sufferer feel, and how happy he might be made, if those who have taken him from his native woods, and made a slave of him, would only show mercy now instead of such barbarity! We often hear the expression, “As savage as a bear;” but, I fear, in general, the man is the greater savage of the two.

Monkeys are diverting creatures; and if you saw their fun and frolic where they have liberty among the boughs of a tree, you would not know how to leave off laughing. It is a different thing, however, to see them also chained, and beaten, and with their limbs confined in unnatural clothing, forced by fear, and hunger, and pain, to play the antics which they would do of their own accord if treated differently. I never could understand how people can be amused by any thing that causes pain to the creature doing it. They must either be very stupid, or very hard-hearted. Want of thought is a great cause of needless cruelty, I know; and I am trying to put some kind thoughts into your heads, which you may be thankful for when you are older. I can tell you one thing, which is, that it is impossible for a cruel man to be happy: it is entirely impossible. He may laugh and shout, and sing, and dance, and tell you that he is very happy; but it is not so. There is in his heart something always whispering, “Your turn will come. The great God, the holy, just, merciful God, whose creatures you now torment, sees it all, knows it all; and he will punish you. Every one of us must appear before the judgment-seat of Christ, to give an account of the things done in the body; and you will be forced to own all your cruelties, before angels and men: and then what follows? ‘He shall have judgment without mercy who hath shown no mercy!’” A bad man will never confess to you that such is his feeling: for bad men always will try to make you as bad as themselves: but now, mind, after what I have told you, if you have not the same terror of God’s vengeance coming over you when you do a cruel thing. If not, it is because you are already hardened by Satan; but I should grieve to think it was so with you. Oh! remember that the blessed Jesus came to destroy the works of the devil; and pray to him now to deliver you from the power of that evil one. He will hear, and help, and save.

Even as to animals that we may destroy when they injure us, we should not forget the good they also do: as an instance, the rat may be mentioned. It is, indeed, a very troublesome and sometimes dangerous creature: it will kill and carry off young chickens, pigeons, and other defenceless things; besides making sad havoc among the grain and eatables of every sort. It is often more than a match for a grown kitten, or even a weak cat: and where they are in numbers, they have been known to overpower a man. I confess, the rat is a very disagreeable enemy, whom we may fairly get rid of when we can. But when it is necessary to kill them, we should do it mercifully; do not put them to needless pain. Why should you? Is it manly? Is it generous? Is it what you think God will approve? Will it make you wiser, or better, or happier to feel that you are giving pain to a poor creature?

Chapter VI. Birds.

Having now, I think, mentioned all the “four-footed beasts” about which I had any thing particular to say, I will pass on to another and still more beautiful portion of God’s handy-work—the birds. The account of their creation is thus given: “And God said, Let the waters bring forth abundantly the moving creature that hath life, and fowl that may fly above the earth in the open firmament of heaven. And God created great whales, and every living creature that moveth, which the waters brought forth abundantly, after their kind, and every winged fowl after his kind: and God saw that it was good. And God blessed them, saying, Be fruitful, and multiply, and fill the waters in the seas, and let fowl multiply in the earth. And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.” The beasts were not made until the sixth day; so that, if I had been writing a history of the creation, I should have put the birds and fishes first. Notice these expressions, “God saw that it was good; and God blessed them.” Every thing when it came from his glorious hand was very good; and man was the only being who became bad by his own fault, despised the blessing, and brought the curse on himself, with all its sad consequences to the whole earth and every creature. “God blessed them;” and what right have we to make their little lives miserable? This thought has often come over me when I have seen any cruel thing done. God said, that the fowl were to “fly above the earth, in the open firmament of heaven;” but he has made some fowls that are very useful to man, willing to stay upon the earth. If hens and ducks were to lay their eggs in high trees, and among rocks, as many birds do, we should get very few of them; and as they lay many more than they can hatch, it would be a great and wasteful loss. By this we are sure that poultry was intended for our use; and if you take care not to frighten or tease them, you may bring up chickens to be as tame and familiar as dogs or cats. I remember a droll proof of this. Once, out of a great many fowls, belonging to a dear friend in whose house I lived, there was only one that would not be friends with me. She was a fine old speckled black and white hen, very wild; and her running away from me vexed me; for I cannot bear that any one of God’s creatures should think I would be so cruel as to hurt it. Well, I set myself to wheedle this hen into being on better terms; taking crumbs to her, and persuading her by degrees to feed from my hand, like the rest. This was very good: but it did not stop here. Whether Mrs. Hen was flattered by so much attention, or whether she was desirous of making up for her former rudeness, or how it was, I don’t know; but she became so unreasonably fond of me, that if a door or window were opened she would pop in to look for her friend, running up and down stairs, into the parlour, the drawing-room, the bed-rooms, and making no little work for the servants. At first, every body was amused at it; but, after a time, the poor hen became so troublesome that we were obliged to give her away. Jack, the dumb boy, would put his hands to his sides, and laugh till he lost his breath, to see “my fat hen,” as he called her, waddling after me, without minding either dogs or strangers, and he was in great trouble when she was sent away. Jack’s care of the poultry, and his anxiety to prevent their being hunted, or hurt, would have delighted you. Nothing pleased him better than to see that fine fellow, the cock, when he had scratched up or found any nice thing, calling the hens and chickens about him, bidding them take it, and never seeming even to wish for it himself. Jack used to say, “Good; beautiful! God made poor bird.” When he was a little boy, he had seen some cock-fighting; and he used to tell me of it, in his way, with so much grief and anger. He said, “God see bad man hurt poor birds—make birds fight.” The tears would come into his eyes, when he thought how the birds were tortured; but he always ended by pitying the men and boys who suffered Satan to tempt them into such wickedness, for which they would be dreadfully punished at last.

Jack was very fond of small birds: I suppose you think, then, that he had some in a cage; and that he caught them in traps, for he was very ingenious. No; Jack would as soon, and sooner, have gone to prison himself. He could not bear the idea of imprisoning a bird. Canaries, indeed, and such others as could not live in our cold climate, and which, having been hatched in a cage, would not have known how to use their liberty, he did not object to, but took great pleasure in giving them pans or saucers of clean water, to bathe themselves in; and plenty of fresh sand, and nice food: but most birds he could not bear to see within the bars of a prison. The robin, the thrush, the blackbird, the linnet, the sparrow, he knew it was a sin to deprive of their liberty. I have seen him persuade other boys to break their traps, or to let the poor frightened captives go: and I have seen him clap his hands with joy as they spread out their pretty wings, and flew “above the earth, in the open firmament of heaven,” as they were made to do; but I do not believe that a whole pocket full of silver and gold would have tempted Jack to catch and sell a bird. Indeed, I am sure it would not; for he knew that neither silver nor gold, nor any thing that is to be bought with them, would make a person’s heart feel happy; and that the commission of a sin would make him feel very unhappy; for nothing was so dreadful to Jack as the idea of offending his gracious God, or grieving the Holy Spirit, who dwells in the heart of every true believer. Now, perhaps, you will say, “I would not catch and sell birds to put money in my own pocket; but may I not do it to earn a little for those who really want it?” But robbing is not earning. If you catch a bird, or a fish, not belonging to another person, to kill and eat it, or to sell or to give it to others for food, you do what God has permitted; and if it is done for this purpose, and not for sport, nobody can blame you. But, though the Lord has given you the bodies of his creatures for food, he has never given you their natural liberty, either for your amusement or profit.

As for keeping birds in a cage to sing, if you look at the hundred and fourth Psalm, you will find that they were made to “sing among the branches.” Go into the fields, and listen to their happy little songs of liberty, and take from them a lesson of thankful joy: or, if you want them at home, put crumbs and grains of corn on the windows, and they will learn to come and pick them up, and thank you with their merry notes. Only do not be so mean and treacherous as to draw a snare or close a trap over the poor things when they come, as they think, to be fed by your bounty. People who love music so well as to make an innocent creature miserable that they may enjoy its songs will wish, some day, that they had been born deaf.

But there is one thing that I am sorry to see many boys doing every spring, and which they cannot defend by any such excuses. I often wonder who was the first to begin such a disgraceful custom, the most cruel, senseless, and babyish piece of folly: I mean what is called bird-nesting. God said to the creatures, “Be fruitful and multiply,”—“let fowl multiply in the earth.” At the same time, He gave them a wonderful instinct and skill, such as man’s reason cannot imitate. The birds must keep their eggs very warm for a certain number of days, to bring to life the little creatures that are forming within them; and the eggs being so very delicate and brittle, they must also have a soft place to lie in, close enough for the bird’s body to cover them all; and be out of reach of rats, and other enemies. So, when the bird is going to lay, she and her mate set to work, and what wonderful work it is! These little creatures, without any hands, or even paws like four-footed animals, to help them, and with only the bits of stick, hay, grass, dead leaves, wool, hairs, and moss, that they can pick up with their bills, presently form a soft, snug, warm, strong apartment, as round as a tea-cup, and exactly of the proper size; placed, too, where it will be little seen, sheltered above from the wet, yet airy enough to keep it fresh and wholesome, and so smooth on the inside that even the delicate naked body of a bird just hatched cannot be made uneasy by a rough point. It costs the parent-birds a great deal of trouble; and if you leave a nest untouched from one year to another, neither disturbing the eggs nor the nestings, you will find it the next spring nicely repaired and new lined, and a new family in it. Oh! I do wish that boys, remembering how, by the goodness of our equal laws, a poor man’s house is his castle, would let a poor bird’s little nest be its castle too! He is the bravest boy who will defend the weak from the strong; and he is the best boy who loves and is kind to the least of God’s creatures for the sake of the glorious Creator.

But perhaps you may say, “Well, I will not spoil the nest; I will only take the eggs.” No, pray do not take the eggs. What pleasure in the world can a parcel of little eggs afford you, compared with the delight that the poor harmless mother takes in them as she sits in her warm house, of her own making, listening for the first faint chirp of the tiny creature within? Birds only bring up one family in a year; and if you take from them the eggs that are to produce that one, you rob them of all the happiness for which they took so much trouble. You are not enough of a hen to hatch the eggs, though you may be enough of a goose to try: then think, and be too much of a man to do such a silly, cruel thing. You like, perhaps, to blow the inside out, and string the shells in a row. Oh you thoughtless child! You must certainly be a very little child to take pleasure in such a babyish thing; and you are very, very thoughtless and wrong to do it at the expense of a poor innocent bird which never injured or wished to injure you, though you can rob it of all its delight, to please such a silly fancy. If you want a pretty thing to ornament your room, go and pick up some round, clear pebbles, of different colours, and give one side of them a polish at the grindstone; then get some pieces of brick, and join them together in the shape of an arch, or any thing you fancy, with a little mortar; spread more mortar, thick and rough, over the front, and, while it is wet, stick in your pebbles, with the shining side outmost, with bits of glass, moss, sealing-wax, and any gay thing that comes in your way. I have seen such pretty contrivances, and have said to myself, “The boy who made this is skilful, and may come to be a good builder, or other artisan, some day;” but when I see bird’s eggshells hung up, I turn away with a feeling of pain, because I know that somebody must be there, either idle and cruel, or encouraging their children to be so.

But there is something far worse than this. When the mother bird has made her nest, and sat long days and nights on her eggs, and heard the little ones chirp within, and helped them to break the thin shell, and felt their little warm bodies cuddling themselves among her soft feathers, and seen their yellow beaks open to ask her for the food that it gives such joy to her affectionate heart to put into them; oh, THEN, can you turn all her honest happiness into misery and mourning, and kill those baby-birds with a miserable death, by cold and hunger, if not by other tortures. If ever you have done this, pray to the Lord God to forgive your sin, for Jesus Christ’s sake. Do you think He will forgive you? Yes, you say, because he is very merciful. Indeed he is and for that very reason he hates cruelty: but while you look to the Lord’s mercy for pardon, you must steadily resolve to offend no more by doing what he hates; else you only mock him.

I do not myself understand how anybody can bear to hurt little birds, they are such endearing creatures; but I have seen it with my own eyes, and am obliged to believe it. Bad example will go a great way. Boys, and men too, will do what they see others do, without stopping to think of the great truth that God sees them too. But, then, good example goes far also; and the person who is careful not to do wrong has the comfort of knowing that he is showing others the right way. While I write this little book, I am praying to the Lord to make it the means of persuading many young readers to be merciful; and that their good example will persuade many more, who may not see the book; and so good will be done, greater than you now think.

I have a cockatoo. A friend brought him from India, and a funny bird he is, but terribly noisy. He soon began to bark like Fid, and to growl like Bronti; to cackle like the hens, and to imitate every loud noise that he heard. We hoped, if he had a good teacher, he would learn to sing, instead of making such a riot, as he whistles uncommonly well after his master. So we went to buy a Canary bird, and you may be sure we bought two; for it is very cruel to shut up a bird alone in a cage. The cockatoo is not in a cage, but on a stand, dancing and chattering all day. We put our canaries into a very large cage, with a good-sized pan of fresh water every day, clean gravel, and plenty of seed. Nothing could be happier, or tamer, than these little things; but one day the hen got at some green paper, which she pecked at through the wires, and the stuff that coloured it killed her at once. We got another directly in her place, and there they are in the sunshine, on a table close by me, splashing the paper on which I write with the water; for they delight to plunge into it, till they are wet in every feather. Nothing is more necessary to animals and birds than plenty of fresh water. My pigeons have a pan of it to wash in, and it wants changing several times a day; and you do not know how much birds in confinement suffer if that is neglected. A glass hung outside, if always kept full, is good to drink out of; but a bath in the cage is the great luxury.

Perhaps you will ask, Has the cockatoo learned to sing? No, I am sorry to say, he is as noisy as ever, and not at all musical. We keep him quiet by giving him sticks to break, and knotted cord to untie; and when he has been good I take him on my lap, and rub his head and wings, which he greatly likes. I never yet saw the animal, down to a little mouse, that would not be fond of those who treated it tenderly; and the pleasure of being loved is so great, that I only wonder how anybody can neglect to win the love of the creatures which were made for man’s use and benefit. There is a wonderful deal of happiness among them, showing how, as the Psalm says, the Lord’s “tender mercies are over all his works;” and a little kindness makes them so familiar, that we are always reminded how sociable they were with Adam in the garden of Eden; and how happy they and we should all be together now, if sin had not entered into the world to destroy the beauty and blessedness that were upon every thing when God first made them, and saw that they were all “very good.”

Chapter VII. Fishes—Insects.

A story about Jack. When he was a little fellow, soon after he came to me, and before he knew many words, he made me understand that he wanted a very long, slender stick. I asked a gardener of a friend, and he cut him a fine one from a particular sort of tree. Then Jack laid out a penny, all that he had, on a coarse bit of line, such as fishermen use; and, lastly, he came to me for some large pins: one of which he bent like a hook; explaining to me that he was going to dig for worms to put upon it, that he might fish. I shook my head, saying, “No.” Jack nodded his head, and said “Yes.” I said “bad;” Jack said “good;” and then I took up his little red hand, and pretended I was going to run the hook through the flesh. He snatched it away in a fright, saying “Bad, bad!” but I nodded, and said “Good, good!” He said, “Bad Mam, hurt Jack!” and I answered, “Bad Jack, hurt worm: God made Jack—God made worm.” He shook his head, and said, “No;” and what do you think was the reason he gave? He reminded me that God is high up above, and that the worms come from below, under the ground. The little fellow did not know that the world is round; he thought it was flat: still less did he then understand that God is everywhere, and made all things, above and beneath. Then I told him that the Lord did so; and that worms and other things were put into the earth by him, even as we were made to walk upon its surface. Jack considered a little; and then said the worms were rolled up in the world as apples were in a dumpling, and that they eat their way through the crust. It was an odd idea, and made me smile; on which he said, “Good,” and told me he would fish with a piece of meat or bread for a bait.

Next morning, Jack came to me, and after reminding me of this, he asked me if God also made the little newts, tadpoles, and frogs, and other things that he had seen in the muddy ditches? I replied, “Yes, all.” “Did God make fishes?” “Oh yes,” I answered, “he made fishes and every thing.” Then, in a very lively manner, he made me understand, that if God did not like to have him hurt the worms, neither would he like to have him hurt the fish. “Poor fish!” he said, showing me how its mouth would be torn by the hook; and then, to my surprise, he got a small hatchet, and chopped up his fine fishing-rod into walking-sticks; and from that day he could never bear to see anybody angling. He used to tell him, if they wanted to fish to eat or sell, to catch them with a net, and to kill them at once; and I believe that the sight of the deaf and dumb boy, taking such pains to plead for the creatures which are not only dumb, but have no way of pleading for themselves, was the means of checking many persons in cruel practices. He knew very little compared with what you, perhaps, know; but he knew one blessed truth—he knew that “God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life;” and by always thinking on this great mercy of God to man, and the exceeding love of our Lord Jesus Christ, in dying for poor sinners like us, Jack came to hate whatever he knew to be displeasing to that gracious Lord and heavenly Father; and the happiness that he felt in his own soul made him delight in seeking the happiness of every creature around him.

Jack died of a slow decline. He had much pain, but I never saw him look impatient or unhappy. He felt what David so beautifully describes in the twenty-third Psalm: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me.” He knew quite well that he was going to die; but it never made him uneasy. He knew that God was at peace with him, through the merits of the Redeemer; and he was at peace with all the world. His dying pillow was not made a pillow of thorns by the remembrance of having made any living thing suffer torment; nor were his short sleeps disturbed by terrible dreams of what he had forgotten until the time drew near to appear before God. I could tell fearful stories of some who died as young as Jack, and whose death-beds can never be forgotten by those who saw them. They had been cruel to God’s dumb creatures, and never gave a thought to what they had done; but when death was near, when the poor weak body could not rise from the bed, nor the soul be any longer deceived with the thought of years to come, it was horrible to hear the cries they uttered, and the wild things that they said about beasts, and birds, and insects tortured by them in the days of their health and strength. There was one in particular, a butcher’s boy, who could not be comforted: he said, the calves, the sheep, and the lambs, had provoked him by their unwillingness to be caught and driven into the slaughter-yard, and he had revenged himself by making their deaths as painful as he could; and that he saw them then—whether his eyes were open or shut, he always saw them—all bleeding, and torn, and struggling, as they used to do: and whatever was said to him, or whatever noise was made, he heard their cries of agony louder than all. When he was told that God was merciful, he answered, “Yes; but I had no mercy, and there is no mercy for me.” I wish I could tell you that he died praying for pardon; but, alas! he died shrieking out that he must go to hell. At that time, I was asked to write a book about it, to warn others; but I was so much shocked that I could not write about it. I mention it now, to show you that sometimes, even in this world, the dreadful work of judgment is begun—judgment without mercy, to those who show no mercy.

But you must not suppose that Jack’s happiness and peace, and confidence in God, came from any thing that he had done, or any thing that he had refrained from doing. No, it was all from believing with his whole heart that God loved him for the sake of his dear son, the Lord Jesus Christ. Now, if Jack has said, or fancied, that he loved God, and had at the same time been cruel, or lived in any other sin, it would have proved that he was mistaken, and he would have had no real peace. If you pass by a garden and see clusters of fine ripe grapes hanging from the boughs of a tree, and anybody should say to you, “That’s a fine vine,” you would agree with him at once; but if he pointed to a tree where horse-chestnuts were growing, and called it a vine, you would laugh at him; you know the difference between a sweet juicy grape, and a hard, bitter, uneatable horse-chestnut. Yet you would not say that the grapes made the vine, would you? No, they did not make it a vine, but they proved it to be one. If a boy were to tie bunches of grapes to a horse-chestnut tree, and tell you it was a vine, you would say no, it is not a real vine—the fruit did not grow upon it.

In this way, I may say that I knew Jack to be a true child of God: because the fruit of good works grew upon him. It was not in look only, but really and indeed, that he was the character I have described; and if you read carefully, very carefully, the fifteenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel, you will see what I mean. In that beautiful chapter, our Lord Jesus Christ compares himself to a vine, his people to the branches, and the good works that they do to the grapes; and he shows us that if we do not really belong to him, and keep close to him, (which we can only do by believing and praying,) then we are like the branches cut off from the vine, which cannot possibly bring forth any grapes. You may think little of this now; but you must think of it, whether you will or no, when you come to die. Perhaps you say to yourself, “Ay, but when I come to die, I will pray, and make my peace with God.” Do not deceive yourself with such a vain hope: there is a very terrible warning given in the first chapter of Proverbs, which you must not forget. The Lord is addressing such as mean to put off repenting and praying, and serving him, to another time, when sickness or some other calamity shall frighten them into calling on him for pardon and help. These are the words: “Because I have called, and ye refused; I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded; but ye have set at nought all my counsel, and would none of my reproof; I also will laugh at your calamity; I will mock when your fear cometh, when your fear cometh as desolation, and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when distress and anguish cometh upon you. Then shall they call upon me, but I will not answer; they shall seek me early, but they shall not find me: for that they hate knowledge, and did not choose the fear of the Lord: they would none of my counsel: they despised all my reproof.” Does not this alarm you? Then do not be found a day longer among those who refuse to hear the gracious voice of the Lord Jesus, who invites you to come to him for eternal life; and who will, if you ask it in his name, send the Holy Spirit to guide you in the good way, and make you real branches of the good Vine, as he made the dumb boy. When Jack was eleven years old, he became a true servant of the Lord; and he died at nineteen, and went to live in heaven with the blessed Master whom he had delighted to serve upon earth.

His religion made him so happy, there was not a merrier boy to be found. Some people will tell you that being religious makes a boy feel dull and melancholy. Ask them if they think you so silly as to believe that walking in the summer sunshine will make you feel dark and cold? True religion is to man what the bright sunshine is to the little insects that sport upon the wing, and who find in it not only their light but their life.

Does any boy’s conscience smite him at my naming the insects? I hope not. I hope you have not been tempted by Satan to do any harm to the little harmless, and often useful, creatures that cross your path. A butterfly, a cockchaffer, a house-fly, a snail, a caterpillar, a worm—these, and all others, are God’s handy-work; and if you could see them through a glass that magnifies very much indeed, you would be more astonished than I can tell you. The small powder, scarcely seen on your finger’s end, from the wing of a butterfly, is a lump of the most beautiful feathers, so delicate that the gentlest touch will rub some of them off: the wing itself is made of lovely net-work, like silver threads, stretched on strong wires; and all the skill of all the most skilful men in the world could make nothing to equal the coarsest part of the plainest insect. But it is not their beauty—though we ought to see and to glorify the Creator’s hand in that—it is their delicate sense of feeling that should keep us from hurting them. The common worm is very useful in dividing the clods of earth, which would otherwise become so hard as to prevent the fine fibres of the roots of plants from forcing their way, and then the plants would die. Man has not discovered all the uses of the different insects; but God has made nothing in vain: and though, for our own safety and comfort, we must destroy some sorts, still we are bound to do it in the quickest and most complete manner, or else we must give an account to their Creator and ours for the cruelty we commit. I have killed insects myself, for no reason but because I saw that they must fall into the hands of boys, or others, whom I knew to be so dreadfully wicked as to take pleasure in torturing them; but I did it sorrowfully; feeling that I could not give life to the meanest reptile, and that I must be able to render to God a reason for taking it away. I have found poor harmless insects alive, most cruelly maimed, with their wings or legs torn off, or their bodies pierced through; and I shuddered to think how the eye of God was fixed on those who did it, never losing sight of them; and I have prayed that he would change their wicked hearts before it was too late.

And now I have finished my book. While I was writing it, more than a few funerals passed my window, the coffins being those of very young people; and this made me more anxious to go on; for I thought to myself, “Perhaps some boy or girl will read it who has never thought rightly about these things, and will presently determine not to go on in sin, but to become merciful and obedient, and all that they ought to be.” If they try to do this of themselves, they will soon find that the sinful nature of Adam is too strong in them; and the more they try to mend themselves, they will find Satan is the more busy, leading them into more wickedness. Then, perhaps, they will mind what I have said about the need not only of pardon, but of help from the Lord Jesus Christ. They will pray to God, for his sake, to give them a new heart, holy, humble, obedient, and merciful. This prayer will be heard; for our gracious God hears and answers the prayer of the poorest child as readily as that of the mightiest king. Then they will know what it really is to love God, and to keep his commandments, because they love him; and what a sweet example they will set to others, and how happy they will be themselves, and what a blessing to all belonging to them! Perhaps, too, they will make a little party among the kindest-hearted of their playmates, all giving a promise to each other not willingly to hurt any of God’s creatures; but to do the best they can to persuade every one to be merciful to the dumb animals, birds, fishes, and insects. If they live, they will grow up to be such men and women as we want, to bring a blessing on this land; and in their own children they will reap the reward of having shown tenderness to the helpless. If they die young, they will be like my happy boy Jack, not afraid of death; but willing and rejoiced to go to the Saviour, whom they sought and found so early. Oh, may the Lord grant this blessing to my little book, that at the great day of judgment I may meet with some happy spirits to tell me that it was not written in vain! “Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy.” Matt. v. 7.