A merry Christmas and a happy New Year to you,
dear children! This little volume comes to you as a
holiday gift, and in its pages we have endeavored to
show you that true and lasting happiness can be found
only in doing good to others. Let the lesson sink deep
into your hearts. Even the least among you can do
much good. Look around you. Do not wait for
some great opportunity to offer, but with willing hearts
and busy hands perform the most trifling acts of usefulness
to others. Continue to do this throughout the
year, and we will promise you that when another New
Year dawns upon the earth, you will look back with
rejoicing, giving thanks to your Heavenly Father that
you have found that true happiness which can never
be taken from you.

“Wake up, wake up, Emma!” said little Caroline
Meredith, as she gently shook her sister very early
one winter’s morning; “I have something very pleasant
to tell you.”

“What is it, Carrie?” answered the sleepy little
girl, as she rubbed her eyes, and tried to comply with
her sister’s request to “wake up.”

“Do you remember what day it is, Emma? To-morrow
will be Christmas; and this evening will be
Christmas Eve.”

“O Carrie, so it will!” exclaimed Emma, now
fully awake; “and we shall hang up our stockings;
and, oh, what beautiful things Santa Claus will bring
us!”

“And what fine times we shall have to-morrow!”
continued Caroline. “Aunt Margaret and all our
cousins are coming to dine with us.”

“Oh, it will be delightful!” replied Emma. “We
can show them our presents, and perhaps they will
8bring theirs to show to us; and we shall play so happily
together!”

“And, you know, I have made a needle-book to
give Aunt Margaret; and you have a work-bag for
her,” added Caroline. “I am sure she will be
pleased.”

“I know she will,” said Emma; “and father and
mother will be pleased with the little presents we
have got for them. I like to give things away; don’t
you, Carrie?”

“Yes, very much,” replied Carrie. “I should like
to be Santa Claus.”

“O Carrie! what a funny Santa Claus you would
make!” exclaimed Emma; and both of the little
girls laughed heartily at the idea.

“How I would come tumbling down the chimney,
with my bag full of toys!” continued Caroline. “I
would fill your stocking just as full as it could be,
Emma.”

Emma laughed again; and then she was silent for
a few moments, and looked very thoughtful.

“Do you think Santa Claus fills the poor children’s
stockings, Carrie?” she asked.

Carrie looked grave also, as she replied,—

“I don’t know, Emma. I would fill their stockings
if I were Santa Claus. But, Emma,” she continued,
after a short pause, “you know there is not really any
9such person as Santa Claus. It is our father and
mother, and other kind friends, who fill our stockings.”

“I know that, Carrie; and this makes me afraid
that the poor children do not have their stockings
filled; because, you know, their friends have no money
to spend for toys and pretty presents. Don’t you think
it would be a good plan for every rich child to be a
Santa Claus to some poor child?”

“O, yes, Emma!” exclaimed Carrie; “I think it
would be a beautiful plan. How came you to think
of it?”

“I do not know, Carrie; but I suppose the good
angels whispered it to me. You know mother says
that all our good thoughts are from the angels.”

“Well, that is a good thought, I am sure,” replied
Carrie; “and I am very glad that our father is rich,
so that we can play Santa Claus. And then it is very
pleasant to live in such a handsome house, and have
such nice clothes and playthings; don’t you think so,
Emma?”

“Yes, I do,” answered Emma; “and I always feel
sorry for poor little children, who have none of these
good things. You know little Mary and Ellen Drayton?
Their mother is very poor.”

“I know she is, Emma; but she always seems
cheerful, and the little girls look very happy. How
neat and clean they always look!”

10“Yes, Carrie: but their clothes are very old and
patched; and they have very few books, and no playthings
but one rag baby. When mother sent me there,
the other day, to ask Mrs. Drayton about doing some
work for her, I stopped a few moments to talk to the
little girls.”

“Let us be their Santa Claus, if mamma is willing,”
said Carrie. “I have got two little gold dollars that I
will spend for them.”

“And I have two more,” added Emma. “I meant
to have bought a large doll; but I would rather give
the money to Mary and Ellen.”

The little girls now hastened to dress themselves,
that they might go to their mother, and tell her of
their plan, and ask her consent to spend their money
in the way that they proposed.

Mrs. Meredith was quite willing, and, indeed, she
was much pleased that her little daughters had thought
of a way in which they might do good and give pleasure
to others; and she said that she would add two
more gold dollars to theirs, and would go with them to
buy the gifts for Mary and Ellen.

After breakfast was over, she talked a little more
with them on the subject, and told them that it would
not be best to spend all the money for books and toys,
because the little girls were much in need of warm
clothing, and it would be doing them more good to buy
some things of that kind.

11Caroline and Emma were willing to do as their
mother thought best; but they begged her to buy a
few books and toys, because they thought it would
make the little girls so happy. They felt very happy
to find that six dollars would buy so many things.
There was not only a pretty dress for each little girl,
and some warm stockings and shoes, but also a dress
for Mrs. Drayton; and there was still money enough
left for two pretty books, two dolls, and some other
toys. To these, Mrs. Meredith proposed that Caroline
and Emma should add some of their own books
and playthings, which they could well spare; and she
said that she had several articles, which would be useful
to Mrs. Drayton, which she would put with those
they had bought.

The little girls could hardly contain their delight
when they saw all these nice presents packed in one
large basket, and another one filled with tea, sugar,
pies, cakes, a roasted chicken, and some other articles
of food, that Mrs. Drayton and her children might
have a good Christmas-dinner.

Carrie and Emma were so happy that they could
hardly wait for evening, that they might play “Santa
Claus,” as they called it; and they quite forgot to
think about the pretty presents which they hoped to
receive themselves, because they were so busy in
thinking of the joy that Mary and Ellen would feel
when the baskets should be unpacked.

12“Let us try to be patient, and wait until the girls
have gone to bed,” said Carrie. “Mrs. Drayton sits
up very late to sew; and, if mother will let John carry
the baskets for us, we will go and knock softly at the
door, and give her the things, and ask her to put some
of the toys into Mary’s and Ellen’s stockings. How
surprised they will be in the morning!”

Emma readily agreed to this plan; and, as the
house was very near, Mrs. Meredith was quite willing
that they should do so.

We will now leave them to pass a happy afternoon
in assisting their mother in some preparations which
she wished to make for the entertainment of the young
friends whom they expected to spend Christmas with
them, while we take a peep into Mrs. Drayton’s neat
but humble dwelling.

Mary and Ellen were seated close by the side of
their mother, who was sewing busily on a pair of
coarse overalls,—the last of a dozen pairs which she
had engaged to make. Mary had learned to sew
neatly enough to be of some assistance, and her mother
had just given her leave to hem the bottom of one of
the legs of the overalls; while little Ellen was reading
aloud from a story-book, which had been given to her
at school as a reward for her good behavior. The
story which she was reading was a Christmas-tale;
and it told of a happy family of children who gathered
around the beautiful Christmas-tree.

13When Ellen had finished her story, she laid down
the book, and seemed very thoughtful for a few
minutes. Presently she looked up in her mother’s
face, and said, very gently,—

“Will you please to let us hang up our stockings
to-night, dear mother? This is Christmas Eve. I
should like a pretty tree like the one in the story; but
it will be just as pleasant to hang up our stockings.
Don’t you remember the pretty things that we found
in them one year, Mary, a good while ago, when
father lived in this world with us?”

Mrs. Drayton’s eyes filled with tears; and Mary
whispered,—

“Hush, Ellen! you grieve poor mother.”

“No, dear, she does not grieve me,” replied Mrs.
Drayton, making an effort to speak calmly and cheerfully.
“You may hang up your stockings, my children;
but you must remember that mother has no
‘pretty things’ to put in them. The weather is now
becoming very cold, and you are in need of many
articles of clothing, which I am working hard to try
to procure for you. I shall take these overalls home
this evening; and, if I get the money which I have
earned by making them, I will try to put something
useful into each stocking: but you must not expect to
find toys or candies.”

Mary’s countenance brightened as she exclaimed,
14“O mother! I shall like a new apron better than a
toy; for I have worn mine so long, and it looks so
very shabby.”

But little Ellen looked sorrowful as she said, “I
wish you could buy just one stick of candy, mother,—only
one; half for Mary, and half for me.”

“Well, dear, I will try to do so, as it is for Christmas,”
answered Mrs. Drayton; and, at this reply,
Ellen’s face was also bright with smiles.

Evening soon came: and, as their mother was
obliged to leave them alone while she carried home
the work which she had finished, the little girls concluded
to hang up their stockings, and go to bed early,
so that they need not feel lonely while she was gone.
They were soon fast asleep, and dreaming of the new
aprons and the stick of candy which they were to
receive the next morning.

When Mrs. Drayton promised her children these
things, she did not feel the least doubt that she should
be able to keep her promise; for the man for whom
she had been working always paid her very punctually,
and on this night he would owe her nearly two dollars.
Of this sum, a large portion must be spent for food
and fuel; but there would be enough left to buy an
apron for each of the little girls, and the stick of candy
which Ellen so much desired.

“Poor children! it is not often that I can spend
15even one penny for them, except to purchase what
is really necessary,” thought Mrs. Drayton, as she
entered the shop where she was to leave the work.
To her great disappointment, there was no one there
but a young lad, who told her that his employer had
gone away for the evening.

“You can leave the work,” he added, “and call
again any day after Christmas. Mr. Williams will
settle with you.”

Mrs. Drayton’s heart was very sad as she silently
placed her bundle upon the counter and left the shop.
She had but six cents in the world; and this must be
spent for a loaf of bread, or her little ones would
suffer for food on Christmas Day, when they expected
to be so happy.

Her eyes filled with tears as she passed the groups
of merry children, and heard them talking so eagerly
of the expected pleasures of the next day, and thought
of the empty stockings which her own darlings would
find when they awoke in the morning. But she was a
good woman; and she tried hard to put away these
sad feelings, and to believe that the Lord would do
what was best for her and for her children.

“I cannot buy the aprons,” she said: “but I will
take a loaf of bread which was baked yesterday,—that
will cost but five cents; and, with the penny
which remains, I will buy the stick of candy. That
will comfort them a little.”

16She went into the baker’s shop for the loaf; and
the woman in attendance, who had often seen her
before with her two little girls, handed her two cakes,
saying kindly,—

“Your children will like a cake for Christmas.”

Mrs. Drayton thanked her, and walked homeward
with a lighter step; for this would be such a treat to
the little ones, that they would almost forget the
promised aprons.

The last penny was spent for the candy; and she
gently opened her own door, and entered noiselessly,
lest she should disturb the sleeping children.

“It will be but a poor Christmas,” she said, as she
opened a small cupboard, and, placing the bread in its
accustomed place, looked around upon the scanty portion
of food which it contained; “but we shall not
really suffer from cold or hunger, and this should
make us very thankful.”

As she said this, she heard a low knock at the door;
and, hastening to open it, she was surprised to find
Caroline and Emma Meredith, accompanied by John
bearing two large baskets.

“Have Mary and Ellen gone to bed?” inquired
Carrie, eagerly.

“Yes, they are both asleep, miss; but I can awaken
them, if you wish.”

“Oh, no!” was the reply; “we wanted them to be
17asleep, and so we waited as long as we could. We
are playing Santa Claus; and we have brought some
things for you and the girls.”

“And we want you to put some in their stockings,”
continued Emma. “Did they hang them up?”

“They did, indeed, my dear young lady; but I
little thought that they would be filled. I spent my
last penny for one stick of candy to divide between
them.”

“Oh! there is plenty of candy, and toys also, in the
baskets,” replied Emma. “Fill the stockings full;
and tell Mary and Ellen that Santa Claus sent them.”

Mrs. Drayton’s heart was almost too full to speak
as they wished her good-night; and she could not help
weeping with joy as she unpacked the baskets, and
saw all the good and useful things which they contained.

The stockings were soon loaded with toys and books,
and papers of cakes and candies; the cupboard was
well filled with articles of food; while the new clothes
were spread upon a chair, where the children could
see them when they awoke.

You may be sure it was a merry Christmas morning
both at Mrs. Meredith’s and Mrs. Drayton’s.

Carrie and Emma were full of joy, not only from
receiving a variety of beautiful presents, but from the
thought of the pleasure which Mary and Ellen would
18feel when they found their stockings so well filled.
And breakfast had not long been over, when the two
little girls came hand in hand, with sparkling eyes and
hearts full of gratitude, to thank the young ladies for
their kindness.

“Oh, we never saw so many pretty things!” exclaimed
Ellen. “Mary and I are so glad, and we
thank you so much! Mamma cried when she saw us
jump and laugh so much when we awoke this morning;
but she said she cried because she was glad too,
and not because she was sorry.”

“Yes, she was very, very glad,” said Mary. “We
needed all the things very much; and poor mamma
had no money.”

Mrs. Meredith and Carrie and Emma felt very
happy as they listened to these expressions of the children’s
gratitude and joy; and, when Mr. Meredith
heard the story, he said he would send a load of wood
and coal to Mrs. Drayton, that he might have his
share in “playing Santa Claus.”

“A happy New Year to you, Lottie!” exclaimed a
bright-eyed and neatly dressed little girl, as she tapped
at the door of a small apartment in the second story
of a large dwelling-house which was occupied by a
number of poor families.

The summons was answered, and the greeting returned,
by Lottie herself, who proved to be a pleasant-looking
little girl of about the same age as the visitor.

“A happy New Year to you, Miss Emily!” she
replied; “and thank you for calling to see me so early
in the morning. Will you walk in?”

“No, thank you, Lottie: for I have several places
to go to; and I must be at home in good season.
Mamma says that this is the day for the gentlemen to
make calls, and the ladies must stay at home; but she
gave me leave to call upon you, and three or four
other little girls who go to sabbath school with me.
Here is a New-Year’s gift for you, Lottie. Is your
mother well?”

20“Oh! thank you, Miss Emily. Yes, my mother is
quite well. She will be here in a few moments.”

“I will call and see her another time. Good morning,
Lottie!” And, with a kind smile, Emily ran
quickly down the steep stairs; and, in another moment,
Lottie heard the street-door close after her.

The “New-Year’s gift” which she had handed to
Lottie was contained in quite a large and neatly folded
parcel; and the little girl hastened to close the door
of the room, that she might examine it at her leisure.

She placed it upon the table, and untied the string;
but still she did not feel quite willing to unfold the
paper until her mother returned to share her pleasure.

She had not long to wait: for, just then, a step was
heard in the entry; and her mother entered, with a
small basket on her arm, containing a few articles of
daily food which she had been purchasing.

The paper was quickly unfolded now; and a neat
hood and shawl, with a pair of warm mittens, soon
appeared.

Lottie clapped her hands with delight. “Miss
Emily brought them to me, mother!” she exclaimed.
“Is she not very kind? Now I can go to sabbath
school all winter; for my frock and shoes are quite
good yet: but my thin cape and my straw hat were
very cold.”

“They were indeed, my child,” replied Mrs. Wilton
21(Lottie’s mother); “and I am very grateful to the
young lady and her mother for their kindness in sending
you these warm garments. This is a happy New-Year’s
Day for you.”

Very happy did Lottie feel, and bright as the sunshine
was her face, for some minutes: but then a
shadow seemed to come over her glad spirit; and,
after a little thought, she said, almost sadly, “How
very happy Miss Emily must be to be able to give
such nice presents to poor people, mother! How I
wish I had something to give!”

“And have you nothing, Lottie?” asked Mrs. Wilton,
kindly.

“Nothing at all, mother. You know we are so
poor, that we need everything we have for ourselves.”

“We are, indeed, quite poor, Lottie; but that need
not prevent us from giving to others. You cannot go,
as Miss Emily does, and carry warm garments to
those who are poorer than yourself; but still you may
do much for their happiness and comfort. Give them
the love that is in your little heart; and you will soon
find that you have no reason to say that you have
nothing to give.”

“But love will not do them any good, mother,” persisted
the little girl. “I want to be able to make
New-Year’s gifts to those who are in want.”

“Give them your love, and you will often find that
22the gifts will come of themselves, Lottie,” replied her
mother. And, as she spoke, Lottie’s countenance
brightened; and she exclaimed,—

“O mother! I know what I can do, if you are
willing. I can give a part of my breakfast to those
two little children up in the third story; for you know
they are a great deal poorer than we are.”

“I think they are, Lottie; and you may divide your
breakfast with them, if you please. And here is a
New-Year’s cake that the baker gave me for you when
I went for the loaf of bread.”

“Such a nice large one! and so pretty!” said Lottie,
as she looked admiringly at the figures upon the cake.
“I can give a part of this to the children, mother.”

“Very well: now eat your own bread, and then
you may go with theirs. So you will have the pleasure
of making one New-Year’s gift this pleasant
morning; and if you keep your heart filled with love,
and all your servants busy in helping you to make this
love useful to others, you will find many opportunities
to make gifts before the day passes away.”

“My servants, mother!” exclaimed Lottie. “Who
are they?”

Mrs. Wilton smiled, as she replied, “You have two
bright eyes, Lottie; and, with these, you can look
around for those who are in need of your assistance.
You have two quick ears with which to hear their
23wants; and you have hands and feet which will cheerfully
work at your bidding.”

The shadow had quite gone from Lottie’s heart and
from her face: for she now began to see clearly what
her mother meant; and she had already formed many
little plans for doing good.

A large portion of her own breakfast and of the
tempting cake were given to the hungry little children;
and their joy, and the eagerness with which they ate
the food, showed that the gift was a most acceptable
one.

The next hour was passed in assisting her mother:
for, as Lottie justly observed, “Mother ought to have
a New-Year’s gift as well as other people;” and the
only thing she could give her would be a little more
help than usual.

Mrs. Wilton was glad to find her room in neat
order, and to be able to sit down to her sewing at an
early hour: for she was making some garments, which
she had promised to have completed within a few days;
and, if they were ready at the promised time, she was
to receive extra pay.

“And now, mother,” said Lottie, “I will take the
basket, and try to find some bits of wood around the
new buildings. Perhaps I shall find some one to
whom I can make a New-Year’s gift while I am
gone.”

24“I have no doubt you will, dear,” replied Mrs. Wilton;
and Lottie ran merrily away, while her mother
employed her hands very busily, and her thoughts no
less so: for New-Year’s Day brings many recollections,—both
sad and pleasant memories of years gone
by. Mrs. Wilton thought of the time when she had
a kind husband to love and care for her, and when a
fine manly boy, some two or three years older than
Lottie, was among her household treasures. Both
husband and son had long since passed to the spiritual
world; and the poor widow was now obliged to work
hard for the support of herself and her little girl. But
she had a cheerful, uncomplaining spirit; and she
trusted with full faith in our heavenly Father, who
never forsakes the widow and the fatherless.

The little that she could earn with her needle was
not always sufficient to supply them with necessary
comforts; but, as yet, they had never suffered from
cold or hunger. Often their most pressing wants, as
in the case of Lottie’s hood and shawl, had been unexpectedly
supplied; and, thankfully acknowledging the
Providence which watched over them, the widow
worked away steadily and cheerfully, with little anxiety
for the future.

But we must accompany little Lottie, as she bounded
merrily along, with her basket in her hand. The first
object which attracted her attention, when she reached
25the new buildings, was an old woman, bent nearly
double with infirmity and age, slowly endeavoring to
gather a few of the chips which lay scattered upon the
ground.

“Poor old creature!” thought Lottie, pityingly,
“I have a great mind to fill her basket before I do
my own. There are not many children picking up
chips this morning: and I shall find enough, I dare
say.”

“I will fill your basket for you,” she said kindly,
as she drew near to the woman; “and you can sit on
these boards, and rest.”

The old woman looked surprised, and, at first,
seemed a little afraid to let Lottie take the basket.
Perhaps she thought she might run away with the
pieces she had already collected; for some children
are wicked enough to do such things. But, when she
looked in the little girl’s pleasant face, all her fear
went away; and she gladly rested herself upon the
boards, while Lottie’s busy hands and feet worked
briskly until the basket was well loaded with the nice
dry chips.

“Have you far to go? Shall I help you to carry
it?” asked Lottie, as she placed the load at the old
woman’s feet.

“You are a good child; and I thank you,” was the
reply. “But I am well rested now, and can get home
26by myself. Make haste, and fill your own basket.
Good-by! and may God bless you!”

Lottie’s heart was very glad, as she watched the
old woman moving quickly along with the basket.

“She walks quite fast,” she said to herself. “I am
so glad that I helped her, and gave her time to rest!
Those chips were a nice New-Year’s gift for her.”

After half an hour of patient labor, Lottie succeeded
in filling her own basket, and set out on her return
home.

As she turned into the street which led to her own
dwelling, she saw a richly dressed lady upon the sidewalk,
a little in advance of her. Lottie looked admiringly
at her velvet hat, and the soft, warm furs,
and splendid silk dress.

“What a happy lady!” she said to herself. “What
beautiful New-Year’s gifts she can make!”

As Lottie said this, a rich lace-veil, which had been
lightly thrown over the lady’s hat, fell upon the sidewalk;
and the owner passed on without observing her
loss.

“Stop, ma’am! please stop!” called the little girl,
as she placed her basket upon the stones, and ran
quickly along, with the veil in her hand.

“Thank you, my child,” said the lady, as she turned
around in answer to Lottie’s repeated calls. “I should
have been very sorry to have lost my veil. Here is a
quarter of a dollar for you.”

27“No, thank you, ma’am,” returned Lottie, blushing
deeply. “I do not want any pay. I am glad that I
found your veil. It is New-Year’s Day; and I like to
have something to give people.”

“Well, you have made me a beautiful present,”
replied the lady, smiling; “for I should certainly have
lost my veil if it had not been for you. But why may
I not make you a little gift in return?”

Lottie still shrunk from taking the money; and,
after a moment’s thought, the lady ceased to urge her,
and, after inquiring the number of her residence, bade
her “Good-morning!” and walked on; while the little
girl took up her basket of wood, and hastened to her
mother.

Mrs. Wilton listened with delight to her account of
the adventures of the morning, and sympathized with
her pleasure in having already made three or four
New-Year’s gifts.

“And now, mother,” said Lottie, “I will help you
to sew; and by and by, if you will give me leave, I
will go and read one of my pretty books, that the
teacher gave me, to that little sick girl in the next
street. Don’t you remember I told you about her?
She used to come to sabbath school.”

“Yes, I remember what you told me, Lottie. You
may go to see her this afternoon. And now I have a
long seam for you to sew.”

28“I am glad that I can sew neatly enough to help
you, mother,” said Lottie; and in a few moments she
was seated at her mother’s side, sewing away as busily
as Mrs. Wilton herself.

The afternoon visit to the little sick girl proved a
very pleasant one; and Lottie came home with the
delightful consciousness that she had done much good,
and almost made the little sufferer forget her pain.

“This has been a happy, happy day,” she said. “I
wish every New-Year’s Day would be like it.”

“All days may be much like it, my dear child,”
replied her mother, “if you continue to find happiness
in doing good to others. You will not again complain
that you have ‘nothing to give.’”

“No, indeed, mother; for I have found that even
poor people like us have many things to give which
make others happy. And you know, mother, I gave
something even to that rich lady.”

“You did, indeed, dear,” answered Mrs. Wilton,
smiling. “And now go to sleep, and dream of your
happy day.”

Lottie’s dreams were very pleasant, you may be
sure; and her mother saw her smile many times in
her sleep, as if the angels were whispering to her in
their words of love.

The next day brought a visit from the lady who
had lost the veil. She had not forgotten little Lottie;
29and now came to inquire into Mrs. Wilton’s circumstances,
and to offer her assistance if she was in need.
A kind friend she proved to the widow and her child;
and they often thought with thankfulness of the day
when Lottie picked up the veil, rejoicing, in her simplicity,
that she had something to give.

“Such beautiful toys! such beautiful toys!” exclaimed
little Willie Duncan, as he clapped his hands, and
capered about the room with delight.

It was a bright, frosty, Christmas morning; and
Willie had just taken down the stocking, which he had
carefully hung in the chimney-corner the evening before,
in the hope that some kind friend would play the
part of Santa Claus for him.

His hope was not disappointed: for the stocking
was found most bountifully filled; and Willie eagerly
hastened to examine its contents. It was fortunate
that he had borrowed his grandfather’s long stocking
for the occasion; for his own little sock could never
have contained the beautiful, large humming-top, and
the pretty Noah’s ark, which now met his eyes. And
then the large, soft ball, just right for playing in the
house in stormy weather; and the nice transparent
slate, with which Willie could amuse himself when
the older folks wished him to be quiet. All these
31things, and many more, were safely packed away in
grandpa’s great stocking. Papers of candy, stores of
nuts and almonds, and pretty little lady-apples, came
to light as Willie continued his search; and last of all,
in a tiny wooden box, was found a bright gold dollar.

“I am sure grandpa must have put that in himself,”
said Willie; “for I saw a gold dollar in his desk-drawer
yesterday. But oh, mother! did you ever see
so many pretty things? Am I not very happy?”

“I hope so, indeed, my dear boy,” answered Mrs.
Duncan, smiling; “but pretty things do not always
make us happy.”

“Not unless we are good, you mean, mother. But
I will try to be good. Only look at this humming-top!”

“It is a fine one, Willie. Here is a cord. Try if
you can spin it.”

The top was soon whirling merrily upon the floor,
and humming so loudly that Willie had to clap his
hands once more; and even baby, who was pillowed
up in his crib, unpacking his own wee little stocking,
dropped the china pussy-cat, which he had just taken
out, and stretched his little hands toward the top,
crowing with delight.

But now mother said that both Willie and baby
must put by their toys, and be dressed for breakfast;
and she gave Willie a basket to put all his new treasures
32into, that he might carry them down stairs easily,
and exhibit them to his father.

“And what will you buy with the gold dollar,
Willie?” asked Mr. Duncan, after he had examined
and admired all the pretty gifts.

Willie looked very thoughtful as he replied, “I
should like to do some good with it, father. I think
I ought to,—do not you?”

“We ought always to try to do good, Willie; but I
am not sure that I quite understand what you mean.”

“I heard you say the other day, father, that we
should love to share with others the blessings which
the Lord gives to us.”

“That is right, my son: I did say something of the
kind.”

“Well, father, I have a great many blessings this
morning,—all these pretty toys; and so I think I ought
to spend the gold dollar for other people.”

“I am glad you think so, Willie. And who would
you like to spend it for?”

“If you are willing, father, I should like to give it
to lame Georgie to buy a book. He told me, a few
days ago, that he wanted very much to buy a book
called ‘Rollo at Work,’ because there is a story in it
about a lame boy named Georgie, just like him. You
know Georgie’s father is poor; and I do not think he
can spare the money to buy a book. May I give him
my dollar, father?”

33“Certainly, Willie: you may take it to him as soon
as you have eaten your breakfast.”

Willie’s eyes sparkled with delight. His breakfast
was quickly eaten, and his warm comforter and mittens
put on.

“May I go to the bookstore and buy the book for
Georgie, if he wishes me to, mother?” he asked; “and
may I stay with him a little while?”

Mrs. Duncan readily granted her permission; for
although Georgie’s father and mother were poor, yet
they were very worthy people, and had taught him to
be an obedient, good boy, so that Willie’s parents were
quite willing that he should sometimes go to play with
him.

Willie found Georgie sitting in his usual seat by the
fireside, with a small stand placed near him, on which
were a little box and a new gimlet.

“O Willie,” he exclaimed joyfully, as Willie entered,
“I am so glad you have come! Only see what nice
Christmas-gifts I have got! Father bought me this
new gimlet; and a kind lady, who comes to see my
mother sometimes, sent me this pretty dissected map.
I have been playing with it all the morning.”

As Georgie spoke, he opened the box which stood
upon the stand, and showed Willie that it contained a
map of the world, cut into small pieces, which could
all be neatly fitted together. Willie had several maps
34of this kind at home; and he was just going to say
that he did not think this was much of a present, and
to tell Georgie how many pretty toys he had received,
when he remembered that it would not be kind to do
so; and he said, pleasantly,—

“It is a very pretty map, Georgie: I am glad the
lady gave it to you. And what a nice gimlet! You
can bore large holes with this.”

“Yes,” replied Georgie: “you know I have a small
one; and I have wanted a large one for a long time.
But tell me about your presents, Willie; for I am sure
you have had a great many.”

“Yes, I have had a good many,” answered Willie;
“and I have brought one of them to you.”

So saying, Willie took out the little box, which contained
the gold dollar, and handed it to Georgie.

“What a pretty little box!” said Georgie: “I never
saw so small a one in my life. Thank you, Willie!”

“Open it, Georgie!” exclaimed Willie, laughing:
“it has got your new book in it.”

“My new book!” said Georgie: “it must be a
very small one, then. O Willie, what a beautiful gold
dollar!” he exclaimed, as he took off the cover. “Do
you mean to give all this to me?”

“Yes, Georgie: it is to buy the book that you want
so much.”

“You are very kind, Willie! I shall be so happy
35to have that book! I wish I could walk to the bookstore,
and I would go for it this minute.”

“I can go,” replied Willie. “Mother gave me
leave; and, when I come back, we will read the book,
Georgie, and I will tell you all about my presents; for
I can stay with you a while.”

Georgie was very glad to hear this; and Willie
took the gold dollar, and ran joyfully away.

He very soon returned, with the much-wished-for
book in his hand.

“Here it is, Georgie,” he said; “and here is a half-dollar
in change: that is enough to buy another book,
if you wish.“

“But I think you ought to keep the half-dollar,
Willie. This book is enough for you to give me. I
am sure I am very much obliged to you.”

“Oh, no, Georgie! I meant to give you the whole
dollar. Shall I run back to the bookstore, and buy
another Rollo book? There are a great many different
kinds.”

Georgie thought for a moment; and then he said,—

“No, Willie: I think it would not be right. I
have my new map, my gimlet, and this pretty book: I
am very happy to have such beautiful presents. And
now, if you are so kind as to give me this half-dollar,
I should like to buy something to give to some one
who is not so happy as I am.”

36“That is right, Georgie,” said Willie. “Father
says we should always be willing to share our blessings
with others. But what will you buy, Georgie?”

“There is a little girl in the other part of this house,”
replied Georgie, “who has been ill for a long time.
Her mother is poor, and cannot buy her many nice
things, such as sick people need. I think I should like
to buy some nice grapes with the half-dollar, and give
them to her for Christmas.”

“Oh, yes, Georgie!” exclaimed Willie. “She will
like them, I am sure: for once, when I was ill, my
mother bought a bunch of grapes for me; and they
tasted so good!”

Georgie’s mother now came into the room; and
Georgie showed her the book, and asked her if he
could buy grapes for the sick girl with the half-dollar.
She was quite willing, and said that she was going out
for a little while, and would take the money, and buy
the grapes.

“And please come home before Willie goes away,
mother,” said Georgie; “for I want him to go with
me to give Mary the grapes.”

Georgie’s mother said she would not stay long; and
then she put on her bonnet and shawl, and went away,
while the two little boys amused themselves very
pleasantly with the new book and the map. Willie
also told Georgie about his Christmas-gifts, and
37promised to bring the humming-top to show him the
next time that he came.

Very soon Georgie’s mother came, with a paper containing
some beautiful bunches of white grapes; and
Georgie took his crutches, which he was obliged to use
in walking, and, asking Willie to bring the grapes, he
led the way to the part of the house where little Mary
and her mother lived.

They found the little sick girl lying upon a small
cot-bed. Every thing was very neat and clean about
her; and although she looked very pale and sick, yet
her countenance was cheerful and pleasant; and she
smiled sweetly when she saw the little boys.

“I wish you a merry Christmas, Georgie,” she
said; “and I am very glad you have come to see me;
for I have something so beautiful to show you! Please,
mother, bring it to me.”

Her mother brought a tumbler containing a pretty
little bunch of flowers, and held it close to Mary.

“Only look, Georgie!” continued the little girl, as
she stretched out her small, white hand, and gently
touched the flowers; “are they not beautiful? The
kind doctor who comes to see me sometimes sent them
to me for Christmas. They smell so sweet!”

“They are beautiful, Mary,” said Georgie. “I am
very glad that you have got them; and Willie and I
have brought you something for Christmas, too.”

38As he spoke, he took the paper of grapes from
Willie’s hands, and gave it to Mary’s mother, saying,—

“Will you please to put a bunch upon a plate, and
give them to Mary?”

“O Mary! this is just what I have wanted to give
you when your mouth is so hot and parched,” exclaimed
her mother. “I am sure we thank you very much,
Georgie.”

“Willie gave me the money,” replied Georgie.
“He gave me a gold dollar to buy a book: but it cost
only half a dollar; and so we could buy grapes for
Mary.”

“They are very nice,” said the little girl, as her
mother carefully removed the skin from one of the
grapes, and placed it in her mouth. “I thank you,
Georgie; and I thank Willie, too: I am glad he came
to see me.”

“I will come again, Mary,” said Willie, going up
to the bedside: “and I will bring you one of my boxes
of guava jelly; for I had two in my Christmas stocking.
Sick people can eat guava jelly; and you will
like it, I am sure.”

Mary’s mother did not like to have the little girl
talk long at one time: so Georgie and Willie bade her
good-by, and went away; and very soon it was time
for Willie to go home.

39His mother was much pleased to hear about his
visit; and she said, “Your gold dollar has made several
people happy,—has it not Willie?”

“Yes, mother. It made grandpa happy to give it
to me; and it made me happy to give it to Georgie;
and then Georgie was happy to give the grapes to the
little girl; and she and her mother were both happy
to have them. I am glad that my gold dollar has
given so many people pleasure, mother.”

“And I am glad also, Willie. It is good to love to
share with others the blessings which the Lord gives
to us.”

“Oh, mother, mother!” exclaimed Lucy Welford,
as she bounded into her mother’s room, one bright,
frosty morning in November, “Uncle John is in the
parlor, and he has come to ask you if he may take
Mary and me home with him to pass Thanksgiving.
O, please, mother, let us go. Thanksgiving in the
country is so delightful, much more so than in the
city. Such fine sleigh-rides, and such grand slides on
the pond.”

“And the delicious pumpkin pies, and the roast turkeys,
and the bowls of sweet milk and cream,” continued
Mary, who had followed her sister to hear their
mother’s decision. “Oh, it will be so pleasant. And
only think, mother, Uncle John is going to have a
large party—a regular feast—he says; and Aunt Clara
thinks that Lucy and I can assist her very much if you
will be so kind as to let us go.”

“Very well,” replied their mother, smiling; “we
will go and talk with Uncle John about it, and see if
41father thinks he can spare both of his girls for a few
days.”

To the great joy of Mary and Lucy, father and
mother at length gave their consent; and, warmly
wrapped in hoods and cloaks, with a large carpet-bag
to contain such articles as would be necessary for them
during their stay, they sprang lightly into Uncle John’s
comfortable sleigh, and with many a kind good-by to
the dear ones at home, were soon riding swiftly away,
leaving far behind the various sights and sounds of the
busy city.

A pleasant ride of fifteen miles brought them to the
old-fashioned farm house, where the sound of the
merry bells soon called Aunt Clara to the door, and
with a most affectionate welcome, she embraced her
young nieces, and expressed her joy that their parents
had consented to spare them to her for a short time.

The ride in the fresh air had given the girls fine
rosy cheeks and excellent appetites, and they were
quite ready to accept Aunt Clara’s invitation to take
a luncheon of bread and milk, and some of her nice
doughnuts.

“And now, dear aunt, do tell us all about the
party,” exclaimed Lucy. “Will there be any young
folks, or is it only for grown up people like you and
Uncle John? We tried to make him tell us about it
42as we rode along; but he only laughed, and said we
should find out when the day came.”

“There will be both young and old,” replied their
aunt, smiling, “about fifty in all; so you see I shall
be much in need of your assistance in entertaining so
large a company.”

“We will do everything we can to help you,” said
Mary, “and we have brought our new winter frocks
to wear, and new ribbons for our hair; and mother
said, if anything else was needed, we could send her
word to-morrow, as Uncle John said he should be
obliged to go into town.”

“Oh, your dress will do very well, I have no doubt,”
replied her aunt. “Our friends are not very showy
people, and will come in plain attire. But I must
leave you and Lucy to entertain yourselves for a short
time, as a part of my morning work is unfinished. I
suppose you will not be at a loss for amusement.”

“Not at all,” answered both of the girls. “We
will go to the barn, and find Uncle John, and see if
our old pets among the sheep and the cows have forgotten
us.”

The remainder of the day passed pleasantly away,
and the girls were so much fatigued with the unusual
exercise they had taken in running about the farm,
that they were quite glad when bed-time came, and
43slept soundly until the bright rays of the morning sun
were beaming in at their window.

“To-morrow will be the day for the party,” exclaimed
Lucy, as she and her sister hastened to dress
for breakfast, fearful that they had already kept their
aunt waiting. “I expect to enjoy it so much.”

“So do I,” replied Mary. “I am very glad that
there are young people coming. There are some
sweet little girls in the neighborhood. I hope Aunt
Clara has invited Mrs. Carlton’s family. They live
in the great white house on the hill, and are very genteel,
pleasant people.”

“No doubt they will be here,” returned Lucy, “and
the Wilsons and Smiths, and, perhaps, Mr. Marion’s
family. There must be many others coming whom
we do not know, for aunt said there would be about
fifty guests. O, I am sure it will be delightful!”

Breakfast over, Aunt Clara soon found abundance
of work for her two young assistants. There were
nutmegs to grate, eggs to beat, apples to pare, meat to
mince, and various other employments, which the girls
found very interesting. The tables were soon loaded
with pies, cakes, warm bread, and every variety of
eatables, while turkeys and chickens by the dozen were
in a state of preparation, and the large pots over the
fire were filled with the nice hams which Uncle John
had provided for the occasion. Everything showed
44that there was to be a bountiful feast, and our young
friends danced for joy, as they thought of the pleasure
in store for them.

The much wished for day came at length, and a
bright and beautiful day it was. The guests were
expected to assemble about noon, and by eleven o’clock,
Lucy and Mary, having assisted their aunt in preparing
the long table in the dining-room, hastened to their
own apartment to dress, that they might be in readiness
to receive them.

The great double sleigh with the pretty gray ponies
was already harnessed, for some of the visitors, as
Uncle John observed, lived at quite a distance from
the farm, and he had promised to send for them at the
proper time.

“Very kind in Uncle John,” observed Mary to her
sister, “but I should think they would prefer coming
in their own carriages.”

“But it is so pleasant to load up that old double
sleigh,” returned Lucy. “The younger part of the
company will enjoy the arrangement exceedingly.
Just tie this bow for me, Mary, and then, I believe,
we are all ready. Let us go down at once. I have
no doubt that a part of the company have arrived.”

But the parlors were still empty. Even Aunt Clara
had not yet appeared, and after surveying themselves
with much satisfaction in the large mirror, and impatiently
45walking up and down the room for a short time,
the girls resolved to seek her, and inquire if the appointed
dinner hour had not nearly arrived. To their
surprise, they found the table already loaded with the
smoking plum puddings, and nicely roasted turkeys
and chickens, which Uncle John and Aunt Clara were
carrying with all possible despatch.

“But no one has come yet, Uncle John,” exclaimed
both Lucy and Mary in a breath. “Will not the dinner
be cold?”

“Our friends have all arrived,” was their uncle’s
quiet reply; and as he spoke, the door leading from
the great kitchen was thrown open, and a crowd of
persons, young and old, appeared.

There was the honest laborer, who had toiled hard
through the year for the support of his large family.
There, too, was the cheerful wife and the joyful little
ones, and, perhaps, the aged grand-parents, whose
feeble steps were supported by their children, as they
took their seats at the bountifully spread table. In
short, most of the worthy poor in the immediate vicinity
of the farm were there assembled, and some few
from a greater distance.

Mary and Lucy had not time to recover from their
surprise, before all the guests were seated at the table,
and Uncle John, rising from his chair, bade them all
a kindly welcome, and after explaining in a few words
46the origin of Thanksgiving Day, asked them all to
unite with him in a prayer of thankfulness to the Lord,
from whom every mercy is received.

Each guest was then plentifully supplied with the
good things upon the table, and Aunt Clara requested
her nieces to attend particularly to the little children,
and see that all their wants were cared for.

A happier party was seldom seen. After dinner,
presents of food and clothing were distributed among
them, and Mary and Lucy found great satisfaction in
dressing the children in new clothes, and seeing the
gratitude and joy in their smiling little faces.

After an hour or two spent in this manner, the great
sleigh and the gray horses came merrily jingling to the
door, and the old people and the children were safely
conveyed to their homes, and the rest of the party,
with many thanks and blessings to their kind entertainers,
took their leave.

“Well, girls, how did you enjoy my party?” exclaimed
Uncle John, as he reëntered the parlor, after
bidding farewell to the last of his guests.

“O, very much indeed,” was the reply. “It was
very different from what we expected, but still we
enjoyed it very much. It is so pleasant to make others
happy.”

“It is, indeed, my children,” returned Uncle John,
“and it appears to me that on a day like this, it is the
47duty of all those whom the Lord has blessed with
abundance, to seek out the needy and afflicted, and
endeavor to relieve their wants.”

When the harvest is gathered in, and the farmer
beholds his table loaded with the rich fruits of the
year, he should call upon the aged, the poor, and the
helpless to come in with him and share his feast.

“Have you recollected that this is the first day of
winter, Mary?” asked Isabel Gordon as she came
into the room where her younger sister was seated
with her atlas spread before her, busily engaged in
preparing her lessons for the next day.

“I have not thought of it before,” replied Mary,
quietly.

“But now you do think of it, Mary, do you remember
what we agreed to do on this day? Christmas
will soon be here now, you know.”

“In little more than three weeks. Yes, Isabel, I
know what you are thinking of. We agreed to open
our banks to-day, and see how much we have saved
to spend for Christmas gifts.”

“Yes, that is it,” replied Isabel, joyfully. “I am so
glad that we can open them at last. I want to know
how much we have saved. Shall I bring them now?”

“If you please. I have just finished learning my
geography lesson.”

49Isabel ran to the closet, and quickly returned with
two money-boxes, or banks, in her hand. She gave
one to her sister, and taking the other herself, they both
succeeded, without much difficulty, in making an opening
so that they could get at the treasure within. For
nearly a year the little girls had saved almost every
penny which had been given them, that they might
have the pleasure of giving as well as receiving the
pretty holiday gifts.

“Well, Mary, how much have you?” asked Isabel,
as she finished counting the pile of pennies, sixpences,
and shillings which lay before her.

“Four dollars and a few pennies,” answered Mary.
“I did not think I had so much.”

“And I have a little more than five dollars,” said
Isabel, triumphantly. “You know I saved the gold
dollar which grandfather gave me, and you did not.
Are you not sorry that you spent it?”

“Not at all, Isabel. That dollar has done more
good in the last two months than it would have done
lying in our little banks. You know I bought a nice
pair of shoes and some stockings for Susan Green,
that she might attend the sabbath school. Her teacher
says she is learning very fast, and is one of the best
children in her class.”

“Well, never mind that now, Mary. Let us talk
about the best way to spend our money. What will
50you buy for father and mother? I am going to work
a pair of slippers for father, and I shall buy a pretty
worked collar for mother. I heard her say the other
day that she needed some new collars.”

“Have you time to embroider a pair of slippers?”
asked Mary.

“Oh yes! Ellen Shaw taught me a new way. I
shall buy the slippers ready made, and then embroider
them with gold thread. They will cost me about a
dollar, and mother’s collar will be nearly two. Then
I must buy a present for Betsey; a new apron will
please her, I think, and will not cost too much. I
have a nice plan for spending the remainder of the
money; but first let me hear what you are going to do
with yours.”

“I shall buy a handsome inkstand for father’s desk.
You know he broke his large one the other day, and is
using an old one of mother’s now. I will try to get
one just like that which he broke. For mother I will
buy a beautiful rose-bush to put upon her flower-stand.
For Betsey I shall have a nice warm hood. I am to
buy the materials, and mother has promised to help
me make it. There will still be as much as a dollar
and a half remaining, and mother says that if this is
expended prudently it will do a great deal of good. I
have not quite decided what to do with it, but I think
I shall make a nice warm coverlet for that poor old
51man and his wife whom we went to see last week. I
heard the old woman telling mother that she often suffered
dreadfully with rheumatism during the winter;
and when I looked around and saw what a miserable
shanty they have to shelter them, I could hardly keep
from weeping.”

“But I dare say that some one else will give them
a coverlet,” replied Isabel, with a look of disappointment,
“and I want you to put your money with mine,
and buy a pretty present for our teacher. We can get
a very pretty work-box for three dollars, and I am sure
she would be very much pleased.”

Mary was silent for a few minutes. She loved her
teacher very much, and thought it would be very pleasant
to make her a present; but then the remembrance
of the poor old couple in the wretched shanty came
strongly to her mind, and she said, decidedly, “No,
Isabel, I cannot do it. I should be very glad to make
Miss Spencer a present, and perhaps mother will show
me how to make a needle-book for her, but the poor
people need a coverlet more than she needs a work-box.”

“That is no rule, Mary. We cannot always give
to those who need it the most. All of the girls are
going to call at Miss Spencer’s house on Christmas
morning, and each one will take her a little gift.
If you will only join with me, our present will be
52prettier and more valuable than any other she will
receive.”

“I do not care about that, Isabel. Miss Spencer
will not value the gifts for the sake of what they cost.
She will be pleased to find that we think of her and
love her. But I am sure she would rather I would
spend my money in doing good. You know we both
agreed to save a part for the poor.”

“I know we did, but some other time will do as
well as Christmas,” replied Isabel. “If you will not
help me to buy the work-box, I will buy it myself, and
not spend so much on my other presents. I saw a
beauty for three dollars, the other day, and I am determined
to have one like it.”

“Father says that we ought to try to do all the good
we can upon Christmas day,” answered Mary, gently.
“You know it is the anniversary of the day when the
Lord Jesus Christ came into the world, that He might
do more good to men; and if we love to do as He
teaches us, we shall be willing to give up our own
pleasure for the sake of helping others.”

Isabel felt that she was in the wrong, but she was
not willing to acknowledge it, and therefore replied
rather crossly that Mary could do as she pleased, but
she had no idea of spending her money in Christmas
gifts for the poor.

The girls therefore said no more to each other upon
53the subject. They were both very busy in their preparations
for Christmas, however, and long before the
important day arrived everything was in readiness.
The work-box for her teacher had taken so large a
portion of Isabel’s money, that her gifts for her other
friends were necessarily trifling, but she did not regret
this when she thought how pleased Miss Spencer would
be with so valuable a present, and how astonished her
young companions would appear at her generosity.

Mary had, with the advice of her mother, expended
the part of her money which she had set apart for the
poor, so judiciously, that it went much farther than she
had anticipated. Some partly worn dresses served for
the outside of the coverlet, and with the money thus
saved, many other comfortable things were procured.
The happy little girl danced for joy when all was completed,
and she thought how much good even her small
hands could do.

The day before Christmas arrived; and a merry
group of girls had assembled at an early hour in Miss
Spencer’s pleasant school-room, to talk over their plans
for the holidays.

“And now, girls, let us arrange at what hour we
will call on Miss Spencer, to wish her a merry Christmas,
and present our little gifts,” exclaimed Caroline
Elwyn, one of the oldest of the scholars. “I propose
that we should all meet at the great oak tree, at ten
54o’clock to-morrow morning, and then we can go together.
Only you must be sure to be punctual, for the
weather is rather too cold to make it very agreeable to
wait for each other.”

All of the girls readily agreed to this plan, and then
followed an animated discussion as to the beauty and
value of their separate gifts. One had prepared a
work-bag, another a needle-book, a third had worked
a collar, a fourth a pin-cushion.

“And now, tell us what your present is to be, Isabel,”
said Caroline Elwyn. “You are so wonderfully
silent about it, that we suspect it must be something
far surpassing our humble offerings. You shake your
head. Well, we will not urge you. Cannot you enlighten
us, Mary?”

“I can only tell you what my own gift is to be,”
was the smiling reply, “I have made a pen-wiper to
lie upon her desk.”

“We shall soon discover Isabel’s secret,” exclaimed
another of the girls. “Only a few hours, now, before
the happy time will be here. I wish it were night.
Time passes so quickly when we are sleeping.”

The merry laugh which this remark occasioned had
hardly subsided, when their teacher entered the room.
She greeted them with her usual affectionate good
morning, and pleasantly remarked that they must
study with unusual diligence that day, as the holidays
were so near.

55The girls cheerfully took their books, and, in spite
of their joyful anticipations for the coming weeks,
their lessons were well learned and recited.

Toward the close of the afternoon session, Miss
Spencer requested them to put away their books, as
she had something to say to them before she closed
the school.

When everything was arranged in an orderly manner,
she told them that it had been her custom for several
years to visit the poor families in the neighborhood
on Christmas day, and endeavor to do what she could
for their comfort. She said that she hoped that all of
her scholars had thought of the poor in preparing their
Christmas gifts, and had remembered that though it
was very pleasant and proper to present tokens of affection
to their friends, yet it was better still to relieve
those who were in need.

Mary looked at her teacher while she was speaking,
with such a bright, animated expression, that Miss
Spencer could not help remarking it, and said, kindly,

“Have you thought of this in your preparations for
Christmas, Mary?”

“I have tried to do what I could, ma’am,” was the
modest reply.

“I had thought of proposing that some of my scholars
should accompany me in my visits to the poor
to-morrow,” continued Miss Spencer. “There is one
56old couple in particular whom I am very anxious to
assist, as they are exceedingly destitute. They live in
that miserable shanty at the foot of the hill. How
many of you are willing to aid me in this good work,
provided your parents consent?”

Almost every hand was raised, and then each spoke
in turn. One had saved a dollar for the use of the
poor, and would give any part of it which her teacher
thought best. Another had a half dollar, another a
quarter, and three pretty little girls said they each had
a bright dime, which mother had given them to spend
for the poor. Mary had no money, but she told of the
warm coverlet and some comfortable flannels which
she had prepared for the very couple whom her teacher
wished to assist.

“We shall make their home a happy one to-morrow,”
said Miss Spencer. “I have two dollars of
my own to give them, and I have also prepared a
basket of food suitable for their Christmas dinner.
But I think you have not yet spoken, Isabel. Have
you nothing to give? I believe you told me that you
had saved five dollars for Christmas gifts. A part of
this would be well disposed in relieving these poor
sufferers.”

Isabel blushed deeply, as she said, in a low tone,
that she had already spent her money.

It was then arranged that the girls should meet at
57their teacher’s house the next morning, bringing with
them whatever their parents were willing that they
should bestow in charity. Miss Spencer did not know
that they had already agreed to meet there to present
the gifts which they had prepared for herself, and the
girls were quite pleased to think how surprised she
would be when she discovered this little secret.

Among all the merry group which left the school-house,
Isabel alone was sad and uncomfortable.

“I do not know why I should feel so badly,” she
said to herself. “I have done nothing wrong. I have
not been selfish, for I have spent every penny of my
money in preparing gifts for others.”

But Isabel had not yet learned to examine her motives
strictly. She did not reflect that the greater part
of her money had been expended for gifts which it
would gratify her vanity and pride to present. The
box which she had purchased for her teacher was
bought for the very purpose of outshining her companions.
She did not love Miss Spencer any better
than the other scholars, but she wished to make a display
of generosity and affection which would astonish
them all.

Miss Spencer had frequently noticed this defect in
Isabel’s character, and when she found that none of
the money which she had boasted of having saved was
reserved for charitable purposes, she felt grieved, and
58calling Isabel to her as the other scholars left the
room, she passed her arm around her, and said, gently,
“I am sorry that you cannot aid us in our good work,
Isabel.”

“I am sorry, too, Miss Spencer, but I have spent
all my money in preparing gifts for my friends.”

“We should never forget the poor, Isabel. Would
not less valuable gifts have expressed equal affection
for those you love, and then there would have been
some remaining for those who need it more.”

Isabel made no reply, but she looked sad and mortified
as she bade her teacher good afternoon. And
yet her pride was not subdued; for when Mary kindly
offered to share with her the articles which she had
prepared for the poor, she answered, haughtily, that
she could easily have bought these things if she had
chosen to do so.

Christmas morning was bright and beautiful, and
very mild for the season. With happy hearts and
faces the little girls met around the old oak tree, and
after telling each other of the pretty gifts they had
received, and displaying those which they had brought
for their teacher, they all proceeded to Miss Spencer’s
house.

Now was the time for Isabel’s expected triumph.
With glowing cheeks and a self-satisfied air she presented
her present; but the murmur of admiration
which she had anticipated was not heard.

59Miss Spencer thanked her, and said it was a very
pretty box; but she seemed quite as well pleased with
some of the most trifling articles which were given
her. She particularly commended the neatness and
good taste which Mary had shown in making the pen-wiper.
Indeed, she seemed more delighted with even
the most simple gifts which the scholars had made
themselves, than with far more costly ones which had
been purchased for her.

As for the scholars, they were so much occupied
with examining what they had brought for the poor,
that they could give but a passing glance of admiration
at the work-box.

As Isabel had nothing to give she did not wish to
accompany the happy party, and therefore returned
immediately home. Her mother found her in her
own room weeping bitterly, and gently drew from her
the cause of her grief.

“This may be a useful lesson to you, dear Isabel,”
she said. “It will teach you that no real happiness is
ever derived from a selfish act. Your motive in presenting
a more expensive gift to your teacher than the
rest of your companions were prepared to do, was selfish.
You expected to receive praise and admiration.
In this you were disappointed, and therefore you are
unhappy. Another time I trust you will do better.
In expending your money for Christmas gifts, you will
60remember those who need it most, and will gladly
give, hoping for nothing again.”

Isabel still wept, but less violently than before, and
when Mary entered with a beaming countenance, and
told her mother of the gratitude and joy of the poor
people whom they had visited, Isabel put her arm
around her neck and asked her forgiveness for her ill
humor, and promised that when another Christmas
came, she too would remember those who need it most.

“What new experiment are you trying, my son?”
asked Mr. Willard, as he entered his pleasant parlor
late in the afternoon of a day in early spring, unperceived
by his little son Arthur, who was busily employed
in tying up several small packages which lay
on the table before him.

Arthur looked up at his father with a bright smile;
for Mr. Willard always took a great interest in the
amusements of his children, and they were in the
habit of consulting him and asking his assistance in
many of their sports.

“Don’t tell Willie and Jane, father,” said Arthur,
“and I will tell you all about it. You know to-morrow
will be the first day of April, and I expect to
have a fine time playing tricks upon people. There is
nothing in these parcels but little chips and stones. I
shall put one of them upon Jane’s table after she is
asleep to-night; and she will be sure to open it the
first thing in the morning. I expect she will think
62that Uncle Samuel or Aunt Mary were here in the
evening, and brought her a nice little present. Then
I shall drop another package where Willie will find it
when he goes to feed his chickens. What a hurry he
will be in to pick it up!

“And, father,” continued Arthur, “you do not
know what a nice joke I shall play upon Susan!
Sometimes, when I get up early in the morning, and
she is in a hurry getting breakfast, I go to Mr. Conant’s
for the milk. Now, to-morrow morning I mean
to be up very early, before Susan leaves her room.
Then I will take the milk-pail, and put a quart of
water into it, and set it in the place where I usually
put it when I bring the milk. When Susan comes
into the kitchen, she will see the pail on the table, and,
finding it heavy, will suppose I have been for the milk.
So she will say, ‘O, Arthur! you are a good boy to
bring my milk;’ and then she will take off the cover
to pour it into the pitcher. How I shall laugh at her
when she finds it is water!”

Mr. Willard smiled a little as Arthur clapped his
hands at the thought of Susan’s vexation: but in a
moment he looked grave, and, seating himself in his
rocking-chair, he drew his little son close to his side,
and said, kindly,—

“Do the angels try to make people happy or unhappy,
Arthur?”

63“Happy, father,” replied the boy, looking wonderingly
in his father’s face.

“Then you are not trying to do like the angels,—are
you, Arthur. You mean to vex people, and make
them unhappy.”

Arthur blushed, and looked very thoughtful; and
his father continued,—

“Jane and Willie and Susan will all feel somewhat
vexed and displeased at your jokes,—will they not,
my son?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose they will,” answered Arthur;
“but, then, I want to have a little fun on April Fool’s
Day.”

“It is poor fun to make others unhappy. I have
no objection to your playing jokes or tricks, as you
call them, upon your brother and sister and Susan;
but I should like to have you think of something which
would please them, instead of making them vexed.”

“But, father, I cannot think of any tricks of that
kind.”

“I will help you a little, Arthur, and then you will
understand what I mean. We will take the trick
which you intended to play upon Susan, for instance.
Now, if, instead of putting water in the pail, and
deceiving her by making her think it is milk, you
should rise early, and really bring her the milk, you
might still have a pleasant joke by putting the pail in
64the place where it usually stands when it is empty,
instead of on the table where you leave it when it is
filled. Then Susan will be greatly surprised when she
takes it up, intending to go for the milk.”

Arthur’s face grew very bright again.

“Oh, yes, father! I shall like that plan very
much: it is much better than my own. And how
shall I manage about Willie and Jane?”

“Try to think of some way yourself, Arthur. Only
remember to have your joke of a kind that will give
pleasure, and not pain.”

“I know of a grand trick to play upon Jane, father,
if you will let me run to the shop and spend my bright
half-dollar that my grandfather gave me. Jane has a
hole in her thimble, and she pricked her finger sadly
to-day. Now, I can buy a nice new thimble for her,
and take her old one from her work-basket, and put
the new one in its place. How surprised she will be!
May I do this, father?”

“If you feel willing to spend your money for your
sister, I shall be glad to have you do so, Arthur.”

“I am willing, father. And now for Willie; what
shall I do for him? I think I must drop a little parcel
where he will pick it up, father; but I will not put
sticks and stones in it. I have some nice candies in
my pocket, which a boy at school gave me. Willie
does not know that I have them; and I will put them
65into his paper. How he will wonder where they came
from!”

Mr. Willard felt much pleased to see how readily
Arthur followed his advice; and the little boy himself
felt far happier now that his plans for the jokes of the
next day were all of a kind to make others happy.

The thimble was bought; the package of candy tied
up, and carefully placed where Willie would be sure
to find it. Every thing succeeded quite to Arthur’s
satisfaction. He awoke very early, and, stealing softly
from the house, brought the milk, and replaced the
pail in the closet.

Susan came out of her room somewhat later than
usual, and hurried around, fearful that her breakfast
would not be ready at the appointed hour. She did
not observe Arthur, who had seated himself where he
thought he should be unnoticed, that he might enjoy
her surprise. He came very near laughing aloud when
he heard Susan exclaim, as she hastily tied on her
bonnet and ran to the closet,—

“Oh, dear, I must go for the milk! I was so in
hopes that Arthur would have got it for me this
morning!”

Arthur held his hand tightly over his mouth; but
when he saw Susan lift the pail up suddenly, and then
quickly take off the cover to see what made it so heavy,
66he could no longer keep quiet, but with a merry laugh
bounded from his hiding-place, exclaiming,—

“Now, Susan, didn’t I tell you I would play a trick
on you to-day?”

Susan smiled pleasantly, and said she did not care
how many tricks he played on her if they were all as
good as that.

Next came Willie, full of wonder at the contents of
the package which he had found in the box where he
kept the corn for his chickens.

“Only think, Arthur,” said he; “the door of the
chicken-house was locked, so no one could have got in
last night, and yet I feel sure that this was not there
when I fed the chickens at supper-time. Such nice
candy! Do you think it will be right for us to eat it,
or must we try to find out to whom it belongs?”

There was such a roguish look on Arthur’s face, as
he replied that he thought there would be no harm in
eating it, that Willie began to understand the joke;
and, well pleased, he divided the candy with his brother
and sister.

But Arthur felt still more pleased when little Jane
took up her work-basket with a sigh, saying,—

“I will try to hem the handkerchief you wish me
to, mother; but my thimble has such a great hole in
it, that the head of my needle pricks my finger every
few minutes.”

67What a joyful surprise,—to find the old thimble
missing, and a bright new one in its place! It would
have been hard to tell which felt the most pleased,
Jane or Arthur. Both were delighted; and we are
very sure that Arthur did not once regret that he had
spent his half-dollar for his sister’s pleasure.

When evening came, and Mr. Willard was at leisure
to sit down with his children, Arthur had many funny
stories to tell of the pleasant jokes which he had played
through the day.

Charley Mason, one of his schoolmates, had torn a
large hole in his kite when they were flying it at
recess. At noon, he hurried home for his dinner; intending,
if possible, to return in season to mend the
kite, and have another play, before school commenced
in the afternoon. Arthur, having brought his dinner
with him in the morning, was not obliged to return
home; and he carefully mended the kite while Charley
was absent.

“It was such fun to see him turn it over and over,
and look for the hole!” continued Arthur, as he told
the story to his father; “and Johnny Gardiner looked
almost as funny when he found a long slate-pencil in
his desk, which I had slyly slipped in, just as he had
made up his mind to go and tell the teacher the old
story,—that he had no pencil. Johnny does not like
68to tell Miss Grant that very well, for he is famous for
losing his pencil.

“And, father, I played a nice joke on Miss Grant.
She thought I could not learn so long a lesson in geography
as she had given to the rest of the class, because
I am younger than the others, and have never been
through the book before. So she told me to take half
of the lesson; but I studied hard, and learned the
whole. When we were reciting, she stopped when she
had heard about half, and said, ‘You may take your
seat now, Arthur.’

“‘Thank you, ma’am,’ I answered; ‘but I can say
it all.’

“Then she looked surprised, and said I must have
worked very hard.

“But, father, that book is too hard for me; and
Miss Grant told me to ask you to buy one more suitable.
I wish you would, father: I love to study geography.
Henry Williams has such a beauty! all full
of pictures. Oh, how I should like one like that!”

“We must think about it,” replied Mr. Willard.
“And now, Arthur, I must attend to some writing for
a little while, and you may look over your lessons for
to-morrow.”

“Yes, father, my geography: I always have to
study that in the evening.” And, with a little sigh,
Arthur went for his satchel of books. But it was now
69his turn to find a pleasant joke; for the old geography
had been taken from the bag, and in its place was one
exactly like the “beauty” owned by Henry Williams,
upon the blank leaf of which was written, “Arthur
Willard; from his father, April first, eighteen hundred
fifty-six.”

“Oh, dear, it is almost Christmas!” exclaimed Mary
Bradley with a deep sigh, which caused her younger
brother Horace to look up from his book with surprise.

“Why do you sigh about it, Mary?” he asked.
“Are you not glad that Christmas is coming?”

“I should be glad, Horace,” replied his sister in a
melancholy tone, “if things were as they used to be.
What beautiful gifts we had last year! But father
was rich then; and now he is poor.” And again
Mary sighed deeply.

“I do not think father is very poor,” replied Horace,
laughing. “I am sure we have all we want,—a
good house to live in, plenty of food and clothing, a
warm fire, and many kind friends. Do you call that
being poor, sister Mary? You ought to see the poor
wretches that I meet sometimes on my way to school.”

“How foolishly you talk, Henry!” answered his
sister, rather petulantly. “You know very well what
71I mean. Of course, we are not street beggars; but
we live very differently from what we did last year at
this time. Our beautiful house, our horses and carriage,
and nearly all of our servants, are gone.”

“No matter for that,” returned Master Horace.
“Father has paid all his debts like an honest man,
and we have all we need. A small house is just as
comfortable as a large one; the cars and omnibuses
answer as good a purpose as our own carriage; and
as to the servants, I much prefer waiting upon myself.
As long as I have good Mrs. Betty to cook my dinner,
it is all I want.”

“It is of no use talking to you, Horace,” answered
his sister, as she rose to leave the room; “but, when
you see what a bare Christmas-tree we shall have this
year, you will be convinced that we are poor.”

“We had more than we knew what to do with last
year,” persisted Horace, following his sister. “Suppose
we hunt up about half a bushel of books and toys,
and present them to Santa Claus for distribution. No
doubt he will be grateful to us; for times are hard,
and his purse may be poorly filled.”

“What nonsense!” exclaimed Mary, impatiently.
“I will not stay talking with you any longer.”

But, at this moment, the pleasant voice of their
mother was heard calling them from the adjoining
room.

72She had heard their conversation, and now replied
to Horace’s suggestion,—

“Your plan is an excellent one, my son; and I will
try to put it in a form that will be less displeasing to
your sister.”

“Horace talks so much nonsense!” said Mary, as
she took an offered seat by her mother’s side.

“A little nonsense, but a good deal of sense, my
daughter,” returned her mother. “Your mind is in a
disturbed and unhappy state, and therefore you are
not ready to meet his pleasant way of treating our
troubles.”

Although Mary indulged in occasional fits of ill
humor and selfish repining, she was really a sensible
and very affectionate little girl. She loved her mother
very dearly, and felt sad and mortified that she should
have added in the least degree to her trials. In a few
moments, therefore, she looked up with a cheerful
smile, and said, “I will try to do better, mother. I
know we have every comfort that we need. It was
only the thought of the Christmas-tree that made me
unhappy. But I will try not to think of it any
more.”

“Think of it in a different way, my dear Mary.
Our Christmas-tree will, I doubt not, be well filled,
though with less costly gifts than you have hitherto
received. But how many there are who have no
73Christmas-tree!—how many who will even want for
food and clothing on that happy day!”

Mary’s eyes filled with tears, but she made no
reply; and her mother proceeded,—

“When the Lord, in his divine providence, permits
us to meet with such trials as he sees to be for our
good, we must not harden our hearts. We will not
look back with regret upon the luxuries we have lost:
but we will rejoice in the comforts remaining; and we
will endeavor, as far as possible, to share those comforts
with others more needy than ourselves. The
proposal which Horace made in regard to your old
books and playthings is a very good one. There are
many children who may be made happy with what
you now consider useless. Collect every thing which
you feel willing to part with, and I will add some
articles of clothing. Betty can tell us of several poor
families who will be thankful for a portion of our
abundance.”

“I will go and look over our things at once!” exclaimed
Mary. “I have no doubt we can spare a
great many. Come, Horace!” And, for the next
few hours, the brother and sister were busily engaged,
not in useless regrets concerning their own Christmas-tree,
but in active efforts to prepare gifts to adorn the
trees of children far more destitute than themselves.

Betty, having been made their confidante on the
74occasion, took much interest in hunting up destitute
families who were deserving of assistance; and Mary
and Horace soon found that there would be no difficulty
in disposing of their little stock. Long before
the important day arrived, the gifts at their disposal
were done up in neat packages, and duly marked with
the names of those for whom they were designed.
Mrs. Bradley had added an ample supply of partly
worn clothing; and Mr. Bradley, when he found what
was going on, had promised to provide some articles
of food to distribute among those who were most in
want.

Mary and Horace were to have the pleasure of presenting
these gifts themselves; and they were now
eagerly longing for the happy day, not for the sake of
what they would themselves receive, but that they
might have the happiness of imparting their blessings
to others.

Christmas Eve came at last: and, attended by Betty,
the children left their little parcels at their various
destinations; and then, with their hearts warmed and
cheered by the grateful words and smiles which they
had received, they turned their steps toward home,
that they might enjoy the pleasant sight of their own
Christmas-tree, which they rightly concluded would be
brilliantly lighted up during their absence.

As they turned the corner near their own home,
75they met a pale-faced, thinly clad little boy, with a
small branch of evergreen in his hand, which he was
carrying carefully along, as if he considered it a precious
treasure.

“Is that your Christmas-tree, little boy?” asked
Horace, as they drew near to him.

“I found it!” exclaimed the child, joyfully. “I
am so glad! Now Susy and I can have a Christmas-tree!”
And he was hurrying along; but Horace
stopped him by saying,—

“Have you any thing to put on the tree, little boy?”

“Not much,” was the reply. “But Susy and I
have each got a penny: that will buy something.”

“Who is Susy?” asked Mary, as the little fellow
was again hastening on his way.

“My little sister, miss. She will be so glad that I
have got the tree! I must go to her.”

“Come with us first,” returned Mary, “and we will
give you something to hang on the tree. I have a
little doll for Susy, and some candles to light up the
tree.”

The little pale face looked bright and almost rosy
now as he trudged along with the children, still holding
fast to his precious tree.

It did not take many moments to fill a small basket
with what appeared to the child great treasures; and
his eyes sparkled with joy as a warm cape was placed
76upon his shoulders, and a cap, long since outgrown by
Horace, upon his head. Finding, upon inquiry, that
his mother was a poor widow, residing in their immediate
neighborhood, Mrs. Bradley directed Betty to fill
another basket with food, and accompany the child
home. Mary and Horace begged leave to go with
her, although they had not as yet given one glance at
their own Christmas-tree.

It was a pleasant sight to look at little Susy, as her
brother eagerly displayed his treasures to her admiring
gaze; and it was even more gratifying to witness the
gratitude of the mother, as Betty emptied the contents
of her basket.

After assisting in planting the branch of evergreen
in a broken flower-pot which the children produced for
the purpose, Mary and Horace took leave, and joyfully
returned to their home.

Their Christmas-tree was indeed radiant with light.
It seemed to the happy children that it had never been
so brilliant before; for their hearts were filled with the
delight of doing good to others, and this made all seem
bright around them.

Morning found the tree well loaded with fruit,—pretty
and useful gifts, which the children were delighted
to receive. It was indeed a happy Christmas.
They felt that they were surrounded with blessings;
and, above all, they rejoiced in the happiness of sharing
these blessings with others.

It was Christmas Eve; the brilliantly-lighted streets
were thronged with happy faces, and the merry hum
of children’s voices seemed to rise above all other
sounds in the busy crowd. Our own young folks had
gone to rest with their little hearts filled with joyous
expectations for the morrow. The stockings, hung by
the chimney corner, had already been duly visited by
the representatives of Santa Claus, and fatigued with
the labors of the day, we would gladly have sought
repose, when a gentle ring at the bell attracted our
attention, and directly after, our maid of all work
entered, and asked if we had any thing to give to a
poor child who was standing at our door.

“Poor thing!” we exclaimed involuntarily. “It
is hard to think that any child is begging from door to
door, on Christmas Eve, when our own darlings are
so happy.”

“Tell the child to step in,” was the direction to
78Jenny, and in a few moments a modest-looking little
girl stood before us. Her slender form was but scantily
protected from the cold; and her countenance showed
that she was indeed in need of the assistance which
she craved.

Her tale was a simple one. Her mother was very
poor, and there were five children, of whom she was
the eldest.

We inquired for the father, and her blue eyes were
fixed upon the ground, as she answered timidly, that
he was at home, but he was often sick, and did not do
much for their support. A few more questions convinced
us that he was a victim to that fatal evil which
destroys the happiness of so many homes.

Our means would not allow us to do much for the
poor child, but the little that we had to give was given
cheerfully, and with many thanks she bade us good
evening. As she left the room I recalled her, and
placing a small piece of silver in her hands, I said:

“You may have this for yourself. I give it to you
for a Christmas gift.”

“And may I spend it for what I please?” she
asked, her whole face brightening with pleasure.

“Certainly. What will you buy?”

“O, a great many things! A present for mother
and each of my brothers and sisters, and one for poor
father too.”

79“But, my child, you have not money enough to buy
something for each one.”

“O yes, ma’am, a great plenty! I will buy a nice
spool of cotton for mother, she needs one very much,
and a penny book for Mary, a whistle for Johnny, a
cake for Thomas, and a stick of candy for the baby.
Then there will be four cents to spend for father, and
I will go to the cheap bookstore, and ask them to sell
me some good book, which will teach him not to drink
rum any more. He is very, very kind when he is
sober.”

“And will you come and see me again next week,
and tell me how they liked their presents?” I asked,
much interested by the simple, disinterested manner
of the child.

“Thank you, ma’am, I will gladly do so,” was the
reply, and with another grateful good-evening, she
departed.

This little incident gave rise to a train of sad reflections.
Happiness, it appeared to me, was unequally
distributed. Even at this most joyous season of the
year, how few sunbeams found their way to the homes
of the poor. Indeed, their burdens must seem more
heavy to bear, when contrasted with the luxury and
gayety of the wealthy. They gazed upon their ill-fed,
half naked little ones, while the children of their more
prosperous neighbor passed their door loaded with
80useless toys, the price of which would have seemed to
them a little mine of wealth. Oppressed with these
thoughts, I laid my head upon my pillow, and was
soon in the land of dreams.

Strange visions flitted before me. At one time I
seemed to be revelling in the luxurious mansions of
the rich, and then, by some sudden and mysterious
transformation, the extreme of want was my portion.
Suddenly a lovely being stood before me, whose very
presence seemed to fill my soul with joy. Taking my
hand in hers, she said, “Come with me, and I will
show thee that this joyous season of the year may
bring happiness to the homes of the poor, as well as to
those of the wealthy. I am the Spirit of Happiness,
and in the most humble abode on earth I often find a
dwelling-place.” Joyfully I yielded to her guidance,
and together we seemed to traverse the busy streets of
the city. At one of the most splendid of the brilliantly-illuminated
mansions we paused, and in another
moment had gained admittance, and, apparently unseen
ourselves, surveyed the happy party within.
Young men and maidens were gliding through the
graceful figures of the merry dance, lovely children
were sporting around, joyfully displaying the Christmas
gifts of parents and friends; while a less active,
but no less happy looking group, were seated in a distant
part of the room, gazing with quiet pleasure upon
81their children and grandchildren, who at this cheerful
season had gathered around them. Every thing around
gave evidence of luxury and splendor, and turning to
my companion, I exclaimed almost in a tone of upbraiding:

“Yes, here indeed is happiness. The New Year is
to them a time for rejoicing, and ‘Merry Christmas’ a
day of joyful expectations and realities; but it is not
thus with the poor. The words merriment and joy
would seem to them a mockery.”

“Not so, my friend,” replied my guide. “The
happiness which you see before you is capable of extension.
These are the mediums of the blessings of
Him whose birth into this natural world they now
celebrate. The day which proclaimed peace and good
will upon earth, is well calculated to remind these
stewards of the Lord, that the wealth intrusted to their
charge is not for themselves alone. Behold that venerable
old man. He is the grandfather of this little
flock. Every year he distributes large sums among
the poor, making his grandchildren and great grandchildren
his almoners. The happiness which you see
in the countenances of the youth and maidens, the
innocent glee of the children, is in a great measure
caused by the joy which they have this day dispensed
among the needy. Merely selfish gratification would
not produce genuine contentment and joy. All selfish
delights are evanescent and changeable.”

82The scene changed, and we stood in a meanly-furnished
apartment of one of the most humble dwellings
in a narrow street of the city. A father, mother, and
five children, were just seated to partake of their frugal
meal. Every thing around told of poverty, but the
countenances of the parents beamed with contentment,
and the bright eyes of the children shone with joy. In
the short but fervent prayer which the father uttered
ere they commenced eating, gratitude was expressed
to heaven for the blessings which this most joyful season
of the year had brought to them.

“For what are they thus grateful?” I inquired.
“Contrast their situation with that of the happy party
whom we have just left.”

“And yet they are not less happy,” was the reply.
“Listen to the joyful exclamations of the children.”

I listened, and the words of the little ones soon convinced
me that my guide was right. Their hearts
seemed overflowing with joy. The gifts which Christmas
had brought to them and their parents were,
mostly, substantial articles of food and clothing; but
there was one small package of toys which had lost
the charm of novelty for the children of some wealthy
neighbor, and which, though no longer new and glittering,
were whole and good. In the eyes of the poor
children they were of inestimable value, and they gathered
around them with so much delight, that I doubted
83not that they derived more pleasure from them than
the original possessors had ever done.

Again the scene changed, and we stood in a miserable
hovel, where sat a poor mother, with three little
children clinging to her side, and rending her heart
with their cries for bread. No fire was on the hearth,
and the whole scene was one of extreme poverty and
desolation.

“Surely there is no happiness here,” I whispered.

“Christmas will bring them at least one ray,” replied
my guide; and even as she spoke, a load of
wood and coal stopped at their door, and a man entered
to inform them that he had orders to supply them with
fuel, and desired to know where it should be put.
While the grateful woman was yet uttering heartfelt
expressions of thankfulness, a lad entered with a large
basket of provisions, which he placed upon the table,
at the same time slipping a bank note of trifling value
into her hand, saying gayly,—

“Here is a merry Christmas to you, my good
woman.”

Tears streamed from the eyes of the mother, while
the hungry little ones clustered around the basket, and
were soon bountifully supplied with a portion of its
contents.

Deeply interested in this affecting little scene, I had
nearly forgotten the presence of my companion, when
a gentle whisper aroused me.

84“Would you see the effects of your own Christmas
gift?” and scarcely had I signified my assent, when
we stood in another humble dwelling, where I recognized
the little girl to whom I had given the shilling,
surrounded by her family. They had apparently just
received their gifts, for the mother was smiling through
her tears, as she looked at the spool of cotton which
lay on her lap; and Mary, and Johnny, and Thomas,
and the baby were all in the enjoyment of the book,
the whistle, the cake, and the candy: while the elder
sister stood gazing on the happy little group, herself
the happiest of them all, and joining heartily in the
blessings which they heaped upon the good lady who
had given her the shilling. In the corner of the room
sat the father, and in his hand was the book which
had been purchased at the cheap bookstore with the
four cents. I saw at once that it was a Testament.
He had not yet opened it, but sat looking at his wife
and children with a subdued, mournful expression of
countenance, which awakened a strong conviction that
there was yet a chance for his reformation.

At length little Mary approached him timidly, and
said:

“Look at the book sister bought for me, father; it
is not so large as yours. May I look at yours?”

“Yes, Mary, you may read to me from it, if you
like; my head aches, and I cannot read myself.”

85The noisy mirth of the children was hushed, while
the child read from the Book of Life. Some of the
passages were singularly appropriate, and tears rolled
down the cheeks of the unhappy man as he listened.
As she paused at the close of the chapter, the elder
girl drew to his side and whispered,—

“Will you not pray with us, as you used to do long
ago, dear father?”

As if impelled by an irresistible power, he complied.
Prayer and praise had long been strangers to his lips,
but now his petitions were fervent, his confessions of
past error full, and expressive of deep humility.

As they rose from their knees, the eyes of the husband
and wife met, and they fell into each others arms.

One long, earnest embrace, and then the father
clasped his children to his bosom.

“With the help of God, I will no longer be unworthy
of you,” he exclaimed. “This precious little
Christmas gift shall be my guide, and in obedience to
its precepts we shall yet find happiness.”

I uttered a joyful exclamation and awoke, but the
remembrance of my dream was vividly present; and
as the rays of the morning sun beamed brightly in at
our windows, I felt a pleasing confidence that the day
would bring happiness to the poor as well as to the
rich. All reflections upon the visions of the night
were soon banished, however, by the shouts of “Merry
86Christmas” from numerous happy little voices at our
door, and we hastened to join in their pleasure.

A week passed by, and the little heroine of Christmas
Eve again stood at our door. It was wonderful
what a change a few happy days had wrought in her
appearance; and her whole face was radiant with joy,
as she told me that they were all so happy now.

“Dear father had promised never to drink again,
and he had good work, and they could all live comfortably.”
And again and again she assured me that
their happiness was all owing, through the blessing of
God, to the little book which she bought for father
with a part of my Christmas gift.

“Father! father! can I go a-nutting with Dick
Rogers and Sam Roberts?” shouted Frank Wilbur,
as he bounded into the room where his father was
seated at a desk, busily engaged in sorting some
papers.

“Softly, my son, softly!” replied Mr. Wilbur;
“you will disturb your mother, who is not very well,
you know. Where do you wish to go?”

“Out in the woods, father. The frost has cracked
the chestnut-burs, and the nuts are rattling down so
fast!”

“Have you heard them, Frank?” asked his father,
smiling at his eagerness.

“No, father, I have not heard them, because I have
been at school; but the boys say so, and I know they
are. There was a real hard frost last night. May I
go, father?”

Mr. Wilbur drew his watch from his pocket, and
looked at it thoughtfully, as he replied,—

88“You may go if you think it best, Frank; but I
rather advise you not to do so. There is but one hour
of daylight left, and a large part of this would be spent
in going to and from the woods. You have had a
good play since you came from school; and now is the
time to look over your lessons for to-morrow.”

“Oh, no, father!” urged Frank. “This evening
or to-morrow morning will do for the lessons.”

“There is no time like the present, Frank. Better
learn your lessons now, and put off the nutting expedition
until Saturday afternoon. That will soon be
here,—only day after to-morrow.”

But Frank felt unwilling to follow this advice; and,
as his father gave him leave to do as he pleased, he
hastened to get a basket and join his school-fellows.

“My father says there is no time like the present
for learning my lessons, and I think there is no time
like the present for gathering nuts,” he said to himself
as he ran merrily along.

But Frank had forgotten another of his father’s
mottoes, “Duty first, and pleasure afterwards.”

It must be confessed that he was rather in the habit
of delaying the performance of duties until the last
moment, although he had many times experienced the
bad results of so doing.

It was indeed a long walk to the chestnut-trees;
and, after the boys had entered the wood, it seemed
much darker than it did before, and the nuts were by
89no means “rattling down” very fast. The frost had
opened the burs a little, but the nuts were still safely
enclosed in their prickly nests.

“It is too late to get nuts to-night,” said Sam Roberts,
the eldest of the three boys, looking somewhat
fearfully around him; for Sam was not remarkable
for his bravery.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Dick Rogers.
“It will not be dark for a long time yet, only the trees
keep out the light; besides, there is nothing to be
afraid of in these woods,—neither lions, nor tigers, nor
bears, nor wolves. So help me find some good clubs,
Frank, and we will knock off some burs, at any rate.”

“And, if it grows too dark, we can carry them
home, and get the nuts out there,” said Frank, as he
eagerly looked around for a club.

Sam felt somewhat re-assured by the courage of his
companions; and all three of the boys were soon busily
employed in knocking the burs from the trees.

It was quite dusk when they reached home. Frank
found his supper ready for him; and, after this was
over, he spent an hour or two very pleasantly in getting
the nuts from the burs, and roasting some of them
in the kitchen fire. His sister Clara enjoyed this as
much as he did; and they were quite surprised when
their father came to tell them that it was half-past
eight, and time for them to go to bed.

90“Can we go into mother’s room and say good
night?” asked the children; for their mother had been
ill for some weeks, and had not yet recovered sufficiently
to leave her room.

“Yes, if you will move gently,” replied Mr. Wilbur.
“I think she is not asleep.”

The children opened the door of their mother’s room
very softly, and peeped in. She was sitting in a large
easy-chair, and smiled pleasantly upon them as they
entered.

“You have been very quiet this evening, my children,”
she said. “How have you amused yourselves?”

“We have been cracking chestnut-burs, and roasting
some of the nuts,” answered Frank. “I went to
the woods after school, and got a fine lot of burs; but
the frost has not opened them very well yet.”

“I am glad that you got so many,” replied his
mother. “And are your lessons all prepared for to-morrow?”

“O mother!” exclaimed Frank, “I have forgotten
them entirely! I promised father to study them this
evening. I am very sorry; but I will get up very
early in the morning, and study them before breakfast.
Will that do, mother?”

“It would do, Frank, if you could be sure that you
would rise early, and that nothing would take your
91attention from your lessons. But it is very dangerous
to delay the performance of any duty until the last
moment. Perhaps there is time to look over at least
one lesson before you go to bed.”

“I am pretty sleepy, mother,” replied Frank, yawning.
“I do not think I could understand the lessons.
But I will be sure to get them in the morning.”

“I hope nothing will prevent you, my son; and
so now kiss me a good-night, and go to your own
room.”

“Will you come down stairs to-morrow, mother?”
asked Clara, as she affectionately twined her arms
around her mother’s neck, and gave her a good-night
kiss.

“Yes, dear, if I feel pretty well I think I shall
come down to breakfast.”

The children clapped their hands with delight, and
joyfully went to their own rooms.

Frank’s sleeping-room was on the west side of the
house, and it was not very light there early in the
morning. The clock was just striking when Frank
awoke the next morning.

“That’s right!” he exclaimed, “just six o’clock.
I knew I should have time to learn my lessons before
breakfast.”

But, to Frank’s great astonishment, the clock gave
another stroke after he had counted six.

92“It cannot be seven,” he said to himself. “It looks
very early yet. Perhaps I counted too fast.”

Frank thought it better to hurry to dress himself,
however, and was soon seated by the window, with
his book in his hand.

But he had scarcely commenced studying when the
breakfast-bell rung. Frank knew then that it must be
half-past seven; and he ran down stairs, feeling a
good deal mortified, and somewhat anxious as to how
he should get through his lessons.

He found his father already seated, with the large
Bible open before him; for morning worship always
preceded breakfast. So Frank took his place at once,
only waiting to give his mother a smile and a kiss;
for he felt delighted to see her in her accustomed seat
once more.

The family remained at the breakfast-table rather
longer than usual, because it seemed so pleasant to be
all together again; but at length Mr. Wilbur rose,
and said he must go to his business.

“I am half an hour behind-hand this morning,” he
added, smiling; “but, as it is mother’s first appearance
since her illness, I did not like to be in haste.”

Frank cast his eyes toward the clock as his father
spoke, and saw to his dismay that it was half-past eight.

“Are your lessons prepared, Frank?” asked his
mother rather anxiously, as he sprang up in haste.

93Frank felt ashamed to say that they were not, for
he remembered how positive he had been the evening
before that nothing could prevent him from learning
them in the morning. But he was an honest boy, and
told the whole truth at once.

There was no help for it now, for it was time for
him to go to school; and so, with a heavy satchel of
books upon his shoulder, and with a heart almost as
heavy as the books, Frank bade his mother good-morning,
and set off on his walk.

Mental arithmetic was the first lesson. It was always
a difficult one for Frank; and, as might have
been expected, he failed entirely in the recitation, and
was obliged to leave the class and retire to his seat.
This was but the beginning of troubles. The mortification
of being sent from the class in arithmetic quite
unfitted him for learning his other lessons well. His
next recitation was very imperfect; his sums were all
marked “wrong;” his writing was blotted, and looked
very badly; in short, it was a day of misfortunes. He
was not allowed to leave the room at recess, and was
also detained nearly an hour after school to recite the
lessons which he had failed to learn through the day.

It was with a sad countenance that he appeared in
his mother’s room on his return home.

“Where is Clara?” he asked, observing the absence
of his sister.

94“Gone to town with your father, my son,” was the
reply.

There was a large town near the village where Mr.
Wilbur resided, and the children thought it a great
privilege to be allowed to accompany their father when
business obliged him to go there.

“Gone to town, mother!” echoed Frank. “Are
they going to see the menagerie?”

“I believe they are, Frank.”

“O mother! mother! why could not I have gone
with them?” And, quite overcome by the disappointment
and the previous disasters of the day, the poor
boy burst into tears, and hid his face in his hands.

His mother pitied him very much; and, moving her
chair nearer to him, placed her hand gently and soothingly
upon his head.

Frank was comforted by this, and gradually ceased
his sobs, and, seating himself at his mother’s feet, laid
his head in her lap.

“Your father waited more than half an hour after
the usual time of your return from school, my son.
He could not wait longer, as it would have made it too
late for him to attend to his business. Why did you
not come home sooner?”

“I could not, mother. I was kept after school
because I did not know my lessons,” answered Frank,
sadly.

95“And why did you not know them, Frank? Were
you idle?”

“No, mother, I was not idle; I really tried to learn
them, but somehow they would not stay in my mind.
I think it was all because I did not know my first
lesson this morning; and that made me feel so sorry
and ashamed that I could not get the next one; and
then I was sorry again, and could not get the third;
and so on. One lesson knocked the other down,” continued
Frank, smiling a little, “just as one card-house
knocks the other, when I build the row of tents.”

His mother smiled also at this comparison, for she
was glad to have Frank feel cheerful again.

“And why did you not know your first lesson?”
she asked. “We must find out what gave the first
blow to your tents; for, if we know the cause of the
evil, we can perhaps find a remedy for the future.”

“The first lesson is in mental arithmetic, mother,
and the boys are expected to learn it at home. I got
up too late to study it this morning; and so, of course,
I did not know it.”

“But yesterday afternoon was the time to study it,
Frank. An hour before tea is the rule. Your school
closes at three, and this leaves you time for a good
play until half-past five; then you should study till
half-past six.”

“But I went to the woods for nuts, mother. I wish
father had not given me leave to go.”

96“Your father likes to leave you in freedom sometimes,”
replied his mother. “He wishes you to observe
and feel the consequences of your own actions.”

“Well, I have felt the consequences this time, and
they are bad enough,” said Frank, sighing. “You do
not know how much I want to go to the menagerie,
mother.”

“I know you want to go very much, and I feel
much grieved at your disappointment, Frank; but the
misfortunes of the day may be a useful lesson to you
through your whole life, if you will try to profit by
them.”

“I will, mother. I am resolved to act up to father’s
motto in future,—‘There is no time like the present.’
You will see that all my duties will be done in proper
time.”

“I hope so, my son. A habit of promptness, in the
performance of even the most trifling duties, will be
invaluable to you through life.”

“For a good beginning, mother,” continued Frank,
“I will learn my lesson for the morning now, before
Clara comes home, and then I shall be at leisure to
talk to her.”

“I shall be glad to have you do so, Frank. And
now I will tell you that your father intends going to
town again on Saturday, and, if you are a good boy,
will then take you to the menagerie.”

Frank’s face grew bright with pleasure.

97“I am very glad!” he exclaimed. “But why did
you not tell me before, mother?”

“I thought it better not to do so, my son. And
now get your book, and I will explain the lesson to
you.”

Frank obeyed; and the next half-hour was a pleasant
one, although the dreaded arithmetic was in his hand.

Our young readers will wish to know whether
Frank kept his resolution of never delaying the performance
of duties; and if they will pass over with us
the lapse of some six or seven years, and take another
peep at him as a young man of seventeen, they will,
we think, be able to answer the question to their own
satisfaction.

Frank was now the only earthly protector of his
mother and sister, for Mr. Wilbur had been removed
to the spiritual world about two years before. He
had left but little property; and Mrs. Wilbur found it
better to leave her pleasant home in the village, and
hire rooms in the town to which Frank and Clara used
to love to go when they were children. Frank was
very desirous to earn something to aid in their support;
and his mother at length found a good situation
for him in a large shipping-store. His salary was
small, however; and Mrs. Wilbur and Clara were
obliged to take fine sewing to do, and, even with this
98assistance, found it difficult to maintain themselves
comfortably.

“To-morrow I shall be seventeen, mother!” suddenly
exclaimed Frank, as he sat thoughtfully gazing
into the fire one evening after his return from the store.

“Yes, my son,” answered his mother. “You are
almost a man.”

“And I ought to be able to take care of you and
Clara, mother. My salary is too small. I know that
my services are worth more than Mr. Lewiston pays
me.

“That may be, Frank; but he gives you as much
as it is customary to allow boys of your age. I do
not know that we ought to expect him to do more.”

“I cannot bear to have you and Clara work so constantly,
mother. I am the one to work.”

His mother smiled affectionately upon him as she
replied,—

“You do work for us all the time, Frank, and we
love to look to you for help; but it cannot be supposed
that, at your age, you can support us entirely.”

Just at this moment, Clara put the last stitches to
the work upon which she was engaged; and, throwing
it aside, she said joyfully,—

“Come, Frank, I have finished work for this evening.
Bring your flute, and I will sing the new song
that we like so much.”

99Frank readily complied; and Mrs. Wilbur listened
with delight as Clara’s sweet voice mingled with the
soft notes of her brother’s flute.

But, at the end of the first song, Frank rose hurriedly,
as if suddenly recollecting something, saying as
he did so,—

“Mother, I must go back to the store for a little
while.”

“Go back to the store, my son! For what purpose,
at this hour?”

“A cask of gunpowder was brought there this afternoon,
mother, and I fear that it was not put in a place
of safety. We have a particular place for keeping it,
in order to guard against accidents. It was given in
charge to our head clerk; but he was unexpectedly
called away this evening, and I do not feel sure that
he attended to it.”

“But as you were not desired to take care of it,
Frank, will it not answer to leave it where it is until
morning?” asked Mrs. Wilbur, for the walk was a
long one, and she felt sorry to have Frank go at so
late an hour.

“You can move it to-morrow, when you open the
store,” urged Clara. “You will need some one to
help you, and there is no one there to-night.”

“There are men enough near by,” replied Frank,
smiling. “I think I will go, mother. I do not love
100to leave this pleasant room, especially as Clara is
ready to sing with me; but I believe it is my duty to
attend to that powder immediately. There is no time
like the present, you know, mother. I do not forget
father’s motto.”

“You have always remembered it well since the
day of misfortunes at school,” answered his mother,
“and I will not urge you to act contrary to it now.
Go, if you think it your duty.”

And Frank went. As he expected, the gunpowder
had not been put in a place of security. He attended
to its removal, and then, with a quick step and a light
heart, returned home. Clara had already retired to
rest, and his mother was only awaiting his return to
follow her example. Soon all were sleeping quietly.

An alarm of fire in the middle of the night, and the
noise of the engines as they passed, aroused Frank;
and, on looking from his window, he felt convinced
that the light was in the direction of the store in which
he was employed.

Hastily dressing himself, and pausing at his mother’s
door to tell her where he was going, he was soon
walking rapidly to the spot.

As he approached, he felt relieved at finding that
the fire had not originated in the store, as he had at
first feared. It was, however, fearfully near; and, in
spite of the efforts of the firemen, one part of it was
soon in flames.

101It was at this moment that Frank arrived at the
scene of action; and, at the same instant, Mr. Lewiston
and the head clerk came running from opposite
directions.

Frank followed his employer as he was hastily passing
into the store, hoping that the most valuable goods
might be removed; but they were both forcibly pulled
back by the clerk, who, with a countenance full of horror,
exclaimed,—

“The powder! O, Mr. Lewiston, I did not remove
it; and the fire is in that part of the building!”

Mr. Lewiston uttered an exclamation of despair,
and was springing from the door, when Frank laid his
hand upon his arm.

“All is right, Mr. Lewiston. I saw the powder
properly stored.”

“Bless you, my boy!” was the heartfelt reply;
and, relieved from this dreadful fear, all hands were
soon at work to rescue the property from the devouring
flames.

But the firemen had now gained the victory, and
the fire was extinguished before it had reached the
main part of the building. Only the left wing was
burned; but it was there that the powder had been
placed, and from there Frank had removed it, in his
late visit at the store the previous evening. He thanked
the Lord that he had done this, as he thought of the
102dreadful loss of life and property which might otherwise
have taken place.

Again the little party had assembled around the
table to enjoy their pleasant evening chat. It was on
the day after the fire, Frank’s seventeenth birthday.

“And now, mother, I have a piece of good news to
tell you,” he said, as he finished the recital of the
adventures of the previous night; for, at Clara’s request,
he had told the story a second time.

“Mr. Lewiston has doubled my salary; and, moreover,
he assures me that he will continue to advance
me, and will at some future time endeavor to establish
me in business for myself. And now, Miss Clara,
you may put away your needle, and read and study a
part of your time; and mother will no longer be so
incessantly occupied with her work, but will have
leisure to take some air and exercise, and she will
look bright and happy again, as she used to when dear
father lived with us.”

“I ought to look happy when I have such kind children
to take care of me,” answered Mrs. Wilbur,
smiling through her tears.

“I am so glad you went back to the store last evening,
Frank!” exclaimed Clara. “I will never again
try to persuade you to neglect the prompt performance
of any duty.”

103“It will be a lesson to both of us,” replied Frank.
“You do not know how happy I felt this morning
when our head clerk offered me his hand, and told me
that I had saved him from a life of misery; for, had
there been an explosion, he should have considered
himself as the cause of the disasters which must have
followed.”

“It must make you very happy to think that you
have been the means of preventing so frightful a
calamity,” answered Mrs. Wilbur. “The lesson is
indeed a useful one to us all; and in every duty,
whether great or small, we will ever bear in mind
your favorite motto, ‘There is no time like the
present.’”

“Don’t cry, mother. I shall soon be older and stronger,
and then I can do more for you and little sister. You
shall never want for bread when I am a man. Don’t
cry, mother, please don’t; it breaks my heart.”

The speaker was a manly little fellow of some seven
years. His countenance would have been beautiful,
but for an expression of premature and anxious care,
and a look of patient suffering which it was painful to
see on the face of happy childhood.

One arm was thrown around the neck of a pale, sad-looking
woman, while the other clasped a chubby little
girl, who, smiling through her tears, lisped, in her
pretty childish accents,

“Don’t cry, mother. Rosy loves you.”

There was comfort in this. The last crust of bread
had been eaten, and not a solitary sixpence remained
to buy another loaf. The mother was too feeble and
ill to ply her needle with that unremitting diligence
105which was necessary for the support of her little ones.
Her strength had already been too severely taxed; and
now the time had come when Nature could no longer
support the heavy burden. The future was very, very
dark; and yet the mother’s heart was comforted by
the innocent love of her darlings. She wiped away
those bitter tears, and tried to smile, as she clasped
them to her bosom.

“My good Ernest,” she exclaimed, “my sweet little
Rosy, I will weep no more. Our Heavenly Father
careth even for the sparrows. Surely He will not forsake
us in our hour of need. You must go to Mr.
Thayer’s, my son, and see if he will give me some
more work. Tell him that I have been very ill, but
am better now, and should be glad of employment.
Tell him, also, that it would be a great relief to me if
he would pay me one dollar in advance. Perhaps he
will do this for me.”

“If he does not, he will be a cross man,” said
Ernest, “for he has a pocket-book full of dollars. I
saw them the last time I was there.”

“Yes, dear; but he employs a great many people,
and has to pay out a great deal of money.”

“You are not able to sew, mother,” said Ernest,
thoughtfully, as he took up his hat. “It will bring
back the bad pain in your side.”

“Perhaps not, Ernest. At any rate, I must try.
106Go now, my son, for I have no bread to give little
Rosy for her dinner; and you, too, will soon be hungry.”

The heart of the boy swelled almost to bursting, as
he obeyed his mother’s command. For many weeks
she had been stretched on the bed of sickness; and the
kind physician, whom she was at length obliged to call
in, had said, in Ernest’s hearing, that she needed rest;
that such constant exertion would certainly cause her
death.

“And now she has sent me for the sewing again,”
sobbed the poor child, “and I know it will kill her:
and then, what will become of poor little Rosy and
me. Oh! how I wish I was older. If I could only
earn a very little, it would be some help. Is there
nothing in the world that little boys can do?”

As Ernest said this, the shrill cry of a match boy
attracted his attention; and a bright thought entered
his mind.

He could carry a basket, surely. It could not be
so heavy as the baskets of wood and blocks which he
often picked up around the new buildings for his
mother. And he could call matches, and sell them,
too, and take the money to his mother. And then,
how comfortable she would be; and she would not
have to work so hard.

Pleasant visions of tea and bread, and even of a
107pound of butter, passed before Ernest’s eyes; but then
an unexpected difficulty arose. Where was the sum
necessary for the outfit to come from? It certainly
did not need a very extensive capital; but dollars, or
even shillings, were hard to find. Ernest had not
answered the question to his satisfaction, when he
found himself at the door of the building, where he
was to obtain the work for his mother. There was
little trouble in making the desired arrangement. Mrs.
Lawrence was well known at the establishment as an
excellent workwoman; and the work, and the dollar
in advance, were readily furnished.

Encouraged by this success, Ernest involuntarily
exclaimed,

“Oh, how I wish that some one would lend me a
dollar!”

“And what would you do with a dollar, my little
man?” inquired a gentleman standing by, attracted
by the earnestness of the boy’s manner.

Ernest blushed deeply, but answered, in a firm tone,

“I would buy a basket and some matches, and other
things, and sell them in the street; and then my poor
mother would not have to work so hard.”

“You are a good son,” was the reply; “and I would
willingly lend you the dollar, if I thought you were old
enough to carry out the plan.”

“Only try me, sir!” exclaimed the animated child.
“Only try me! You shall see that I can do it.”

108At this moment, a hasty summons from a friend
reminded the gentleman that he must not miss an
approaching omnibus. He placed a dollar in Ernest’s
hand; and without waiting to hear his expressions of
gratitude, sprung into the coach, and was soon out
of sight.

With rapid steps, Ernest passed through the crowded
streets, until he turned down the narrow alley which
led to his own home.

His delight was almost too great for utterance; and
he clasped his arms around his mother’s neck, and
fairly sobbed for joy.

“What is the matter, my dear son?” exclaimed
Mrs. Lawrence, in alarm. “What new misfortune
has befallen us! Would not Mr. Thayer give me
employment?”

“Oh yes, mother; yes, indeed; and here is the
dollar he sent you. I am not crying because I am
sorry, mother. My heart is very glad. You will not
have to work so hard any more, mother; and I shall
help to support you and little Rosy. See what a kind
friend has lent me.” And as Ernest spoke, he held
up the dollar which the gentleman had given him.

“And how will this enable you to support us, my
child?” asked the widow, in astonishment, for she
could not understand the meaning of Ernest’s words.

“You shall see, mother. I will try my best, and
109our Heavenly Father will help me. This dollar will
buy me a basket, and a few things to put in it; and
when I have sold those, I can buy some more. You
do not know how well I can call matches, mother;”
and he imitated the shrill cry so skilfully, that Rosy
clapped her hands with admiration, and even his mother
smiled at his enthusiasm.

But it was a sad smile; for it was a trial to her to
have Ernest commence this new mode of life. He
was a bright boy, and a good scholar for his age; and
she had hoped that he would continue steadily at
school, until he had acquired a good education.

But something must be done for their relief; and it
was possible that the boy’s small earnings might at
least help to supply their scanty food.

So the basket was bought, and a moderate supply
of matches and other trifling articles placed in it; and
early on the following morning, Ernest commenced his
new life.

His neat appearance, and bright, animated countenance,
were so prepossessing, that many who observed
him were disposed to buy; and one kind lady even
bestowed an extra sixpence upon him, because he
thanked her so gratefully for buying half-a-dozen
boxes of his matches.

With a joyful heart, he placed his earnings in his
mother’s hands.

110“Look, mother!” he exclaimed, “all this, besides
what I need to buy more things with, and the sixpence
which I have laid aside toward paying the dollar.
You know I must lay by some every day to pay the
gentleman. But how am I to find him, mother? I
never thought to ask where he lived.”

“He probably meant to give you the money, Ernest,
or he would have told you where to bring it.”

“Oh no, mother, he only lent it to me; I will pay
it back, if I search the city to find him. How much
I thank him for his kindness.”

“And I thank him too,” said little Rosy. “Now,
we shall never be poor any more—shall we, Ernest?”
“I think not,” replied Ernest. “Mother shall have
a cup of tea every evening; and after a little while,
Rosy, we will have butter to eat on our bread, and I
will buy you a pretty new frock.”

“Poor children!” thought the mother, as she gazed
fondly upon them. “How little it takes to make them
happy!”

It was really wonderful what success attended our
little match boy. Not only were many daily comforts
provided, but quite a sum was laid by for time of need.
Ernest was almost too happy when he saw both his
mother and Rosy dressed neatly in frocks which had
been bought with his earnings; and his only trouble
was, that he had not yet been able to discover the good
gentleman who had lent him the first dollar.

111“I should so love to thank him, and tell him how
nicely we are getting along,” he would sometimes say.
“Your cheeks are not quite so pale as they used to be
when you sewed so many hours in the night, mother.
I am very glad that I am old enough to help you.”

“You are a great help to me, indeed, my son,”
replied Mrs. Lawrence; “but I feel anxious that you
should have a little time to devote to your learning.
We have some money laid by now, and I think you
may let your basket rest for awhile, and attend school.”

Ernest loved his books, and his eyes brightened at
the thought of school; but after a moment’s thought,
he said,

“It would not do, mother, to give up my basket
altogether, because there are a good many kind ladies
who buy many things from me, and always wait for
me to come; and besides, we should soon spend the
little money that we have, and then you would have to
work so hard again. But I will study, mother; you
will help me, and I will try my best. I can spare
two or three hours every day for my books.”

And from that time, with his mother’s help, and his
own patient industry, Ernest made rapid progress;
and even found leisure to instruct his little sister in
several branches.

Rosy was an active little girl, and loved to make
herself useful. It was her busy fingers that placed
112everything in such neat and attractive order in her
brother’s basket; and it was she, also, who made the
room look so very bright and cheerful, to welcome his
return. While her mother was engaged with her sewing,
she would sweep the floor, wipe every particle of
dust from the scanty furniture, set the table, and do
everything that one so young could do toward preparing
their frugal meal.

“See, Ernest,” she said, as her brother seated himself
by her side one evening, after the tea table was
cleared away, and Mrs. Lawrence had resumed her
work. “See how nicely I have pasted this strip of
sand paper over the mantel-piece, that you may have a
place to light the match upon when you kindle the fire
for mother in the morning.”

“Yes, it looks very nicely,” answered Ernest; “and
I will try to remember never to draw the matches
across the wall any more, since it leaves such ugly
marks. But, Rosy, I see those same marks in very
nice houses sometimes.”

“Perhaps they did not think about pasting up sand
paper,” replied Rosy, thoughtfully; and then, after a
moment’s pause, she added, “You might cut some
little strips, Ernest, and sell them with your matches.”

“I might do something better than that,” exclaimed
her brother, as a sudden thought struck him. “If
mother will give us some paste, and you will let me
113use some of your pasteboard and bits of colored paper
which the paper hanger, next door, gave you, I think
I can make something very pretty to hold matches,
and light them too.”

The paste and paper were readily supplied, but
Ernest soon found that it was quite beyond his skill to
carry out the plan which he had formed; and he was
delighted when his mother laid aside her work, and
offered to assist him.

With her help, a stiff piece of pasteboard, seven or
eight inches square, was partly covered with sand
paper, and neatly bordered with colored paper. Two
little round cases were then fastened upon the upper
part of the card, to hold the matches; and a small
hole was made in the middle, so that it could be hung
upon a nail driven into the wall.

Ernest and Rosy fairly jumped for joy when the first
one was completed and placed upon the mantel-piece to
dry. The second one was made much quicker than
the first; and Mrs. Lawrence soon became so expert,
that she had finished half a dozen in a very short time.
These were enough for an experiment. Ernest was
sure they would sell for sixpence a-piece; and after he
went to bed, he could hardly close his eyes, his mind
was so busy thinking what a little fortune he should
make with this pretty invention.

His expectations were not disappointed. At every
114house where he called with his basket, the match cases
were noticed and admired; and before he had been an
hour from home, he had sold the last one, and with a
light heart returned to tell his success to his mother.

A fresh supply was soon obtained; and for several
days, he was equally successful in disposing of them.

At one house, where a little girl had purchased one
of the first cases which had been made, he received an
order for half-a-dozen, to be furnished as soon as
possible.

“And be sure to make them very pretty, little boy,”
said the young girl, as she stood at the door talking
with Ernest; “for my father will look at them himself,
and he will want them very nice. He was quite
pleased when I showed him the one which I bought
the other day, and he said you were an ingenious
boy.”

“My mother makes the greater part of them, Miss,”
replied Ernest, blushing. “We will do our best to
please you.”

Rosy had been uncommonly successful, that day, in
collecting pretty pieces of colored paper; and the six
little cases, far prettier than any which had been made
before, were soon completed and placed upon the mantel-piece
to dry, that they might be in readiness for
Ernest’s morning expedition.

Very happy he felt, as with his basket upon his
115arm, he knocked at the basement door of the handsome
house where he had often sold his little wares, and
inquired of the girl who opened the door, if he could
see the young lady.

“Oh, you are Miss Ellen’s little match boy,” was
the reply. “Wait a moment, and I will call her.”

Just then the door of the breakfast room opened,
and Miss Ellen herself appeared.

“Have you brought them so soon?” she exclaimed,
joyfully, as Ernest eagerly displayed his treasures.
“Oh, they are very pretty! Come with me, and I
will show them to papa. He has finished his breakfast,
and is reading the morning paper. Come right
along. Do not be afraid.”

Ernest took off his hat, and followed his little conductress
into the front basement. A pleasant-looking
gentleman sat in an arm-chair, with a newspaper in
his hand.

“Here is the little match boy, papa,” said Ellen, as
they entered. “He has brought the cases which you
wished for. Look! are they not pretty?”

“Very pretty, my daughter, and very neatly made.
What is your name, my little lad?”

But Ernest made no reply. He was looking intently
and eagerly at the gentleman, and after a moment’s
pause, exclaimed,

“It must be the very one! I am so glad!”

116“Glad of what, my little fellow?” asked the gentleman,
smiling.

“Glad to find you, Sir. Do you not remember that
you lent me a dollar? Oh, it has been of great use
to me; and I have wanted so much to thank you, and
pay it back to you. I have carried it in my pocket for
a long time; but I did not know that you lived in this
house.”

As Ernest spoke, he drew a silver dollar from his
pocket, carefully wrapped in a piece of paper, and
offered it to the gentleman; but he drew back, saying,

“This is some mistake, my lad. I never lent you
a dollar.”

“Oh yes, Sir, a long time ago; more than a year.
It was in Mr. Thayer’s shop, Sir. We were very poor
then, and I was so anxious to do something to help
my mother. You thought I was too small to carry a
basket; but you lent me the dollar.”

“I remember it now, my boy. You are an honest
little fellow. And have you really succeeded well?”

“Very well, Sir. We are not so poor now. Mother
does not have to work so hard, and we have good food
and comfortable clothes. It is all owing to your kindness,
Sir.”

Once more Ernest offered the dollar; but the gentleman
refused it, saying,

“I intended to give it to you, my child.”

117“But I should feel happier if you would take it,
Sir; I have saved it for you so long.”

“I will take the little match boxes instead, then,”
replied his friend. “Will that satisfy you?”

“They are not worth a dollar,” replied Ernest;
“but I can bring you more, if you like.”

“We have enough, my good boy. A dollar is not
too much for them. And now, give me your name,
and tell me where you live, for I shall wish to see
more of you.”

“My name is Ernest Lawrence, Sir; and we live
in one room of the large white house near the Baptist
church.”

“Ah, yes, I know the place. Well, Ernest, tell
your mother that I will call to see her to-morrow
morning, about ten o’clock.”

“Thank you, Sir; I will not forget to tell her.
She will be very much obliged to you for your kindness,
and so will Rosy.”

“Who is Rosy?” asked Ellen, who had been an
attentive listener to the conversation between her father
and the little match boy.

“My sister, Miss,” replied Ernest, as he took up
his basket, and made his best bow to the gentleman.

The next morning was a long one to the two children.
Very early had Rosy assisted her mother in
putting their little room in the neatest order; and two
118hours before the time when they might expect the gentleman,
she was gazing eagerly from the window, hoping
that he would soon arrive.

The right time came at last; and Mr. Burnap—for
this was the name of Ernest’s benefactor—was seen
ascending the steps. The children ran to the door to
receive him, and show him the way to their room.

He spoke kindly to them both, and stroked Rosy’s
golden curls; but he had not long to stay, and seemed
anxious to have some conversation with their mother.
So the children employed themselves quietly in another
part of the room, and were careful not to speak a loud
word, for fear of disturbing their guest.

After a little while, they softly left the room, and
seated themselves on the step of the outer door, where
they could talk together in more freedom, and yet be
very sure to see Mr. Burnap before he left the house.

In about half an hour, their mother called them.

“Come here, my boy,” said Mr. Burnap, extending
his hand to Ernest, as he advanced. “Your mother
tells me that you are fond of your books. Would you
like to give up going out with your basket, and attend
a good school?”

Ernest hesitated.

“Speak out, my boy. Tell us what is in your mind.”

“I should love to go to school very much, Sir, if I
was sure that my mother would not have to work too
119hard. My basket earns enough to buy us many comforts.”

“I will see that your mother is provided for.
Would you, then, like to attend school?”

“Oh, very much, Sir. I will study hard.”

“That is right. You are a good son, and I think
you will be a good man. As for my little Rosy, I am
sure she is a good little girl, and does all she can to be
useful.”

“I can sweep the room, Sir,” replied Rosy, smiling
pleasantly, as the gentleman drew her to his side.

“I thought so, my child. It looks very nice. I
must bring my little daughter to see you some time.
And now, I must bid you all good morning. I will
call again in one week, Mrs. Lawrence; please to have
all in readiness.”

Mrs. Lawrence bowed her head gratefully, but her
heart was too full to speak; and she quite alarmed the
children by weeping some time after Mr. Burnap left
the room.

At length she grew calm, and was able to tell them
all that had passed. Their kind friend had expressed
his interest in Ernest’s welfare, and had offered to give
him a good education at his own expense. He had
asked Mrs. Lawrence many questions concerning her
present employment; and finding that constant confinement
to her needle was injurious to her health, and
120yielded them but a scanty support, he had proposed to
her to remove to some comfortable rooms in a house
of his own, part of which was at this time vacant.
One of these rooms was fitted for a shop; and he
offered to advance a sufficient sum to enable her to
open a small thread and needle store, which would,
he thought, be successful, and might be gradually
increased.

Ernest and Rosy were almost wild with delight,
when their mother told them of this plan. Rosy was
sure she could soon learn to attend the shop as well as
her mother; and Ernest thought he could help a great
deal when he was not in school. Their hearts were
filled with gratitude to their Heavenly Father, who
had raised them up such a kind friend.

In about a week they were established in their new
home, which seemed to them almost like a palace.
Several articles of furniture were given them by Mr.
Burnap; and the whole place presented a remarkably
neat and attractive appearance.

The little shop was very successful; and before
many months had passed away, Mrs. Lawrence was
able, not only to repay the sum which their friend had
advanced to them, but also to increase her stock of
goods considerably.

Mr. Burnap would have objected to receiving the
money, but Mrs. Lawrence begged that he would take
121it, and if he pleased, use it to assist others who were
poor and needy.

Ernest applied with great diligence to his studies,
and made rapid progress. Little Rosy, also, was soon
placed at school; and was no less an industrious scholar
than her brother. They delighted to do everything in
their power to assist their mother, and often wished
they could do more, to show their gratitude to the
friends who had been so kind to them.

Mr. Burnap had no son, and Ernest became very
dear to him. After several years, he took him into
his own counting-room, and, as he grew older, made
him a partner in his business.

Ernest, while still a young man, was a wealthy merchant.
If you could have looked into his beautiful
parlors, and have seen that handsomely-dressed, cheerful-looking
old lady, seated in her rocking-chair, and
that lovely young girl by her side, you would not have
recognized poor Mrs. Lawrence and her little Rosy;
and in that gentlemanly-looking man who has just
entered, you would have been still more unable to have
recalled the little match boy, whose shrill cry had once
been heard through those very streets, where he was
now known and respected.

Ernest still loved to tell the story; and when Rosy
would sometimes say,

“That little thread and needle store seems like a
122dream to me now,” he would produce the very basket
which he had formerly carried, and the silver dollar
which he had so long reserved to repay his benefactor,
and would smilingly reply,

“My match basket is still a reality to me, Rosy.
We will not forget the days gone by.”

“I am glad you have come, Clara,” said Mrs. Gray,
as her little daughter entered the room, on her return
from an errand to a neighboring shop; “I began to
fear you would be too late. Where are the buttons?”

“The buttons!” exclaimed Clara. “Oh, mother,
I forgot to buy them!”

“Forgot to buy them, Clara; how is that possible,
when you went to the shop for the very purpose of getting
them? I gave you no other errand.”

“I know that, mother; but you gave me leave to
buy the worsted to work the slippers for father, for
which I have been saving my money so long. I met
Anna Lee, and we were so busy talking together, and
selecting the prettiest shades of worsted, that I quite
forgot the buttons. I will go back again, mother.”

“No, Clara, it will be too late; your father is now
eating his dinner, and he expects the coach in a few
minutes. I should have but just time to sew the buttons
124on his coat, if I had them now. If he had not
been so suddenly called from home, his clothes would
have been in readiness. I have exerted myself all the
morning to put every thing in proper order for his
journey, and all is now ready excepting his overcoat,
which needs new buttons very much.”

Clara looked sorry and ashamed, and just then her
father entered the room, saying,—

“Is my coat nearly ready? I think the coach will
be here in five minutes.”

“I am sorry to say that Clara forgot the buttons,”
replied his wife, “and there is no time to send her
again to the shop.”

“Oh, no!” said Mr. Gray, “I must wear the coat
as it is. I should be gone before she could reach the
shop. It is not pleasant to think that my little daughter’s
forgetfulness obliges me to wear a shabby coat;
but do not trouble yourself about it. I will get a
tailor to repair it at the town where we stop for the
night.”

A few minutes passed, and the coach rattled to the
door. Mr. Gray hastily bade his wife an affectionate
farewell, and stooping to kiss Clara he said, “My
daughter must remember that forgetfulness is, often,
only another name for selfishness.”

In another minute he had taken his place in the
coach, the door was closed, the driver sprang to his
125seat, and they whirled away as fast as the four stout
horses could carry them.

Clara stood at the door until the coach was out of
sight, and then slowly and sadly returned to the parlor,
and seated herself by her mother.

“I am very sorry I forgot the buttons,” she said;
“but what did father mean by saying that forgetfulness
is only another name for selfishness? I did not
mean to forget, mother; I was willing to go for them.
Selfish people are unwilling to do any thing to help
others.”

“There are many kinds of selfishness, Clara, and
forgetfulness is certainly one kind. You have a bad
habit of excusing many acts of thoughtlessness and
carelessness by saying, ‘I forgot.’ Now can you tell
me why you forgot to buy the buttons?”

“Because I was so engaged in selecting the worsteds
and in admiring the pretty colors, mother.”

“And was not that selfish, Clara? You did not
forget your own errand, but you allowed it to engross
your mind so entirely, that you forgot the real object
for which you were sent to the shop. If you loved to
be of use to me, as well as you love to please yourself,
you would have remembered what I sent you for, and
purchased that before you attended to your own wants.”

“I will try to do better another time, mother,” replied
Clara, “and in this case I believe I was a little
126selfish; but I do not believe that forgetfulness is always
selfishness.”

“Not always, perhaps; but very often,” said Mrs.
Gray. “If we love our neighbor as ourselves, we
shall remember his desires as well as we do our own.
It is a poor excuse for any fault to say, ‘I forgot to do
right.’ Now, tie on your bonnet, Clara, and we will
take a short walk this fine afternoon.”

“Oh, thank you, mother! I love to walk with you;
and will you tell me where father has gone, and all
about it, as you said you would do when you were at
leisure.”

“I will,” replied her mother. “We will take the
pleasant retired path which leads through the woods,
and when we reach our favorite seat we will rest ourselves,
and talk about your father’s journey.”

Clara always found a walk with her mother instructive
as well as delightful; for Mrs. Gray allowed nothing
to escape her observation, but made even the most
trifling objects the means of conveying pleasant and
useful information. A simple flower, or blade of
grass, often served to impress upon Clara’s mind the
wisdom and beauty which is visible in all the works
of the Lord; and the music of the birds never fell
unheeded upon her ear, but elevated her affections to
her Heavenly Father, without whom not even a sparrow
falleth to the ground. From her earliest childhood
127her mother had endeavored to give her habits of
observation, and had taught her to regard nothing
which the Lord has made as too trifling to be instructive
and useful, if examined with proper attention.

“Anna Lee has collected specimens of a great many
different kinds of leaves, mother,” said Clara, as she
plucked a large oak leaf from a tree which they were
passing, and admired its deep green and smooth glossy
surface. “She has a very large book quite full, and
yet she tells me that she has never been able to find
two leaves exactly alike.”

“She will never find two leaves alike, Clara. There
are no two things in creation that are exactly alike.”

“Why, mother, how can you know?” exclaimed
Clara, in surprise. “There may be two things alike
which you have never seen.”

“No, Clara, this cannot be. The Lord is infinite,
and therefore there is an infinite variety in all things
that He has made. There is not given any thing the
same as another, and neither can be given to eternity.”

“Not even two blades of grass, mother?” asked
Clara.

“No, Clara,” replied her mother, smiling. “When
you are older you will understand this better, but it
will always fill your mind with wonder and admiration.
At present, it is sufficient for you to recollect
what I have said,—that the Lord is infinite, and that
128therefore, there is an infinite variety in all things. To
impress this upon your mind, you may compare as
many things as you please, and you will soon find that
although they will frequently look alike, yet by careful
observation you will always find some slight shades of
difference.”

“Yes, mother, I will try,” said Clara, “and I think
I should like to collect a book of leaves like Anna’s,
if you are willing, mother.”

“I have no objection, Clara; and, if you like, I
will give you a short lesson to learn in a little book
which I have on Botany, and then you will know the
names of the different forms of leaves, and I will show
you how to arrange them properly in your book.”

“Oh, thank you, mother! I shall like that very
much. And now here we are at our mossy seat, and
I shall hear where father has gone, and why he looked
so grave when he read that letter this morning.”

“Yes, you shall now hear all about it,” replied Mrs.
Gray. “I was pleased to observe that you tried to
suppress your curiosity this morning, and when your
father requested you to leave the room, as he wished
to talk with me alone, that you obeyed readily and
without asking any questions. The letter was from
your aunt Catharine. She tells us that her husband’s
health is evidently declining, and the physicians strongly
recommend a milder climate. They also think that a
129voyage at sea might be useful to him. He will leave
home for Italy in a few days, and your aunt has
decided to accompany him.”

“And is little Ellen going with them, mother?”
asked Clara, who was listening with eager attention.

“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Gray; “your aunt
thinks that she could not devote herself so entirely to
her husband if little Ellen was with her, and she has
therefore decided to leave her behind, although it is a
great trial to part with her. She would like to have
Ellen remain with us during their absence, and this
was the principal subject of the letter to your father.”

“And shall you let her come, mother?” exclaimed
Clara. “Oh, do say yes! I shall be so delighted to
have a little sister like Ellen to play with. I will help
you take care of her all the time.”

“Her nurse will come with her,” replied Mrs.
Gray, smiling at Clara’s eagerness. “Your father
has now gone to visit your uncle and aunt, and it is
quite probable that little Ellen and her nurse will
return with him.”

“How glad I am,” said Clara; “I hope aunt will
remain in Italy a long time. I do not mean that I
hope uncle Henry’s health will oblige them to stay,
but I should love to have him get better, and conclude
to travel for two or three years, and leave Ellen with
us.”

130“There is no probability of their doing this, Clara.
If your uncle should recover, they will return next
summer; and though we may have become much
attached to your little cousin, and grieve to part with
her, I trust we shall not be so selfish as to wish to
prolong her separation from her parents.”

“I can teach her a great deal before they come
home,” said Clara. “She is nearly two years old
now. I might teach her to read before she is three.”

“We will first teach her to talk,” replied her mother;
“but we will not teach her to say, ‘I forgot!’”

“No, mother, I will not teach her to say that. I
will teach her all that I can that is good, but nothing
that is evil.”

“A very good resolution, Clara. And now we will
return home, for the air is rather too cool.”

Before I tell my young readers about Mr. Gray’s
return with little Ellen, I must introduce them more
particularly to Clara; although, from what I have
already said concerning her, they may have formed a
good idea of her character, and have justly concluded
that she is very much like themselves, sometimes trying
to do what is right, and suffering herself to be led
by the good spirits around her, and at other times
somewhat selfish and thoughtless, allowing evil spirits
to lead her in the wrong path.

Clara was nearly eleven years old. She was generally
131obedient to her parents and teachers, kind to her
playmates, diligent in her studies, and orderly and
industrious in her habits. Still she had some faults.
Although obliging in her disposition, and desirous to
be useful to those around her, she frequently entirely
disregarded their wishes through mere thoughtlessness
and inattention. Like most children, she was fond of
play, and sometimes allowed her amusements to make
her forget to perform her duties.

She was unwilling to believe that this forgetfulness
was one form of selfishness; for Clara, like many other
persons, believed herself free from this evil, because
she was glad to share whatever she had with those
who needed it, and was even willing to give up her
own pleasure for the sake of being useful to others. I
have known her to decline an invitation to a pleasant
little party, because her mother was not quite well,
and needed her attention; and yet, perhaps, in the
course of that same afternoon, she would become so
much interested in some book, or favorite amusement,
that she would quite forget the object for which she
remained at home, and entirely neglect to attend to
her mother.

I will relate an instance of Clara’s thoughtlessness,
and you will then see that she sometimes gave great
trouble to herself and to others, although she very
seldom intended to do wrong;—she only forgot to do
right.

132Very near to Mr. Gray’s there lived a good old
woman, whom the children in the neighborhood called
aunt Molly. She lived in a small cottage, with a neat
little garden in front, containing a few flowers and
vegetables, and one large apple-tree. Aunt Molly was
quite lame, and always used a crutch in walking. She
had one son, about eighteen years of age, who lived
with her, and took care of her. During the day he
was obliged to be from home to attend to his work,
but he took good care to bring wood, and water, and
every thing that he thought his mother could want,
before he left her; and with the help of her crutch she
was able to move about quite briskly, and her little
cottage was always in the neatest order. Every child
in the neighborhood loved to visit aunt Molly, for she
had a kind word for each of them, and often a pleasant
story to tell, or a gift of a rosy-cheeked apple or a
pretty flower.

One bright afternoon in October, Clara asked her
mother’s leave to pass an hour or two at the cottage.
Mrs. Gray readily consented, and requested her to
take a glass of grape jelly, which she had just been
making, to the old lady.

“I love to carry aunt Molly a little present, because
she is always so much pleased,” said Clara; and,
tying on her bonnet, she bade her mother good afternoon,
and taking the glass in her hand, soon reached
133the cottage, where she found aunt Molly comfortably
seated in her large arm-chair, with her knitting-work
in her hands, and her crutch lying by her side. She
was, as Clara expected, much pleased with the jelly,
and said it was the best she had tasted for many years.
Clara sat by her side for half an hour, chatting away
very happily, and then aunt Molly requested her to
read aloud to her for a little while, as her eyes were
failing, and she often found it difficult to see to read
herself. Clara readily complied, for she was glad to
be of use, and another half hour passed away very
pleasantly.

“Now,” said aunt Molly, “you must go to the garden,
and find a nice apple for yourself. In a few days
my son will gather them all, but I have none in the
house to-day. You will probably find some good ones
on the ground, or perhaps you can reach the lower
branches of the tree.”

So Clara ran to the apple-tree, and looked around
upon the grass beneath it for a nice apple. There
were some pretty good ones, but they did not suit her
exactly, for high up above her head she saw those that
were much larger and fairer.

“There is a beauty!” she exclaimed; “I can
almost reach it. I wish I had a stick. I will run
and borrow aunt Molly’s crutch, and knock it down.”

Aunt Molly was quite willing to lend her crutch,
134but she charged Clara to bring it back directly, as it
was nearly time for her to put by her knitting and
prepare tea.

“Oh, yes, I will come right back!” said Clara,
“and I will set the table, and hang on the tea-kettle,
and help you get tea.”

While Clara was endeavoring to knock the apple
from the tree, she saw two of her schoolmates running
along a lane not far from the cottage; they were talking
very merrily, and seemed to be much pleased
about something. Clara threw down the crutch and
ran after them. They stopped when they heard her
call to them, and told her that they were going to the
grove to see a new swing which their brother had just
put up.

“Can every one swing in it who wishes to?” asked
Clara.

“Certainly,” replied Susan Allen, one of the little
girls. “My brother said it was for the accommodation
of all the children in the neighborhood. Come
with us, and we will have a fine swing.”

In her eagerness to try the new swing, Clara quite
forgot aunt Molly’s crutch, which she had left under
the apple-tree, and ran hastily along with the other
girls until they reached a small grove of willow-trees
at the end of the lane. Here they found a fine large
swing, and enjoyed their play so much that the time
135passed very quickly. It was nearly an hour since
Clara had left the apple-tree, when she suddenly
sprung from the swing, exclaiming,—

“Oh, dear, I forgot aunt Molly’s crutch! I am so
sorry,” and she run as fast as she could toward the
cottage.

Poor aunt Molly, after waiting fifteen or twenty
minutes for Clara to return with the crutch, began to
fear that some accident had befallen her, and thought
she would try to get to the door and look out into the
garden. She succeeded in doing this, by taking hold
of the chairs and other furniture. She saw her crutch
lying under the tree, but nothing was to be seen of
Clara. She called as loudly as she could, but no one
answered. Becoming still more alarmed, aunt Molly
endeavored to get down the steps which led into the
garden, hoping to be able to reach her crutch.

“If I can only get my crutch,” she said to herself,
“I will go to the next house, and ask them to look for
the poor child, for I know not what has become of
her.”

But, unfortunately, the old lady, having nothing to
take hold of, lost her balance and fell to the ground.
The steps were high, and she was a good deal bruised
by the fall, and her lameness entirely prevented her
from rising, or helping herself in any way.

Providentially, however, her son returned at an
136earlier hour than usual. He was much shocked at
finding his mother in such a condition, and carefully
raising her from the ground, he helped her into the
cottage, and laid her upon the bed. He was then
preparing to attend to the bruises upon her face and
arm, which were beginning to look very badly, but his
mother begged him to leave her and look for Clara,
for she felt exceedingly anxious concerning her. Just
at this moment Clara ran hastily into the room, with
the crutch in her hand, which she had found under
the tree where she left it. She felt very sad at finding
aunt Molly so much injured through her forgetfulness
and neglect. The kind old lady did not reproach
her, but she begged her to try to grow more thoughtful
and considerate.

Clara went immediately to her mother, and told her
of what she had done, and Mrs. Gray hastened to the
cottage with some liniment and other things which
were useful for bruises and sprains.

It was several weeks before aunt Molly was able to
sit in her chair and knit again, for her arm was so
badly sprained by the fall that it was a long time
before she could use it. Clara went every day to the
cottage to assist her, and gladly gave up many of her
hours for play that she might have leisure to attend to
aunt Molly’s wants, without neglecting her studies and
other duties. This lesson appeared to make so deep
137an impression upon her mind, that her mother hoped
it would quite cure her fault; but after a short time
had passed away, Clara was nearly as heedless as she
was before. When bad habits are once acquired it is
difficult to overcome them, and many sad lessons are
often necessary before we sincerely endeavor to remove
the evil.

A few days after Mr. Gray had left home, his wife
received a letter from him naming the day that he
should probably return, and requesting to have a room
prepared for Ellen and her nurse, as they would
accompany him.

Clara was quite overjoyed, and begged her mother
to allow her a holiday, that she might collect every
thing that could please her little cousin from her old
stores of playthings, some of which had long been laid
aside. Mrs. Gray consented, and gave her leave to
use the lower shelves of a closet in the room which
Ellen was to occupy, for a baby-house. To this closet,
therefore, Clara brought all her treasures, and spent
several hours very happily in making new dresses for
the dolls, and in arranging the different apartments of
a house upon the shelves. At length the parlor, kitchen,
and sleeping-rooms were all in proper order; the dolls
were suitably dressed, and placed in their respective
places; one or two were quietly seated in the parlor,
138another was standing by a washtub in the kitchen, and
another might be seen in the neatly made bed in the
upper room. Mrs. Gray was then summoned to look
at the baby-house. She admired the neatness with
which every thing was arranged, but warned Clara
not to be disappointed if she found Ellen too young to
understand and appreciate it.

“Why, mother,” exclaimed Clara, “even very little
babies like playthings.”

“Certainly,” replied her mother, “but they like to
play with them in their own way. Ellen will, I doubt
not, be much pleased with the baby-house, but she will
not know how to arrange things in an orderly manner,
as you do. For instance, you have placed the clothes
for your dolls very neatly in the drawers of the little
bureau. Now, it is quite probable that Ellen will be
delighted with the bureau, but she will not be willing
to allow the clothes to remain in the drawers. Every
drawer will be taken out, and the clothes unfolded;
the bureau will be turned upside down, and perhaps a
block-house built with the drawers.”

“Oh, mother,” said Clara, “that will not do at all!
I will show Ellen how to play properly.”

“You can let her see how you use the playthings,
and she will soon begin to imitate you; but do not
interfere with her plays too much. It is better to let
little children play in their own way, as much as we
139can, without allowing them to injure themselves or
others. The Lord keeps good spirits constantly near
to them, and in every innocent amusement they are
endeavoring to impart those remains of goodness and
truth which will enable them to be useful and happy
as they grow older.”

“I will remember this, mother, and I will try to be
patient, even if little Ellen pulls my pretty bed to
pieces, and puts the ladies into the kitchen, and Susy,
the girl who does my work, into the parlor.”

“She will probably do these and many other strange
things,” replied Mrs. Gray; “but you must always
try, when playing with little children, to play entirely
for their amusement. Do not attempt to have things
in your own way, but devote yourself to making them
happy.”

“And now all is ready,” said Clara, “and how I
wish to-morrow evening was here.”

“Never wish away time, my dear Clara, but endeavor
to improve every moment as it flies. When
we are busily engaged in our duties and pleasures,
time always passes quickly.”

Clara followed her mother’s advice, and attended
diligently to her studies during the forenoon of the
following day. The afternoon was devoted to reading,
sewing, and walking. The hours soon passed away,
and the coach containing the travellers drove to the
140door before Clara had begun to watch for its appearance.

For two or three days little Ellen was too much
grieved, by the separation from her father and mother,
to show much affection for the new friends around
her; but she soon forgot her troubles, and appeared
perfectly contented and happy. She was a sweet-looking,
happy child, and no one could look in her
innocent face without loving her dearly.

Clara devoted every leisure moment to her. The
baby-house was at first in constant disorder, but very
soon Ellen would try to arrange the playthings as she
saw Clara do, and if she did not succeed in putting
them in their proper places, she would run to her
cousin, and pull her by the frock, saying, “Come,
Tara, come.” When all the things were in order, she
would clap her little hands, and say, “Pretty, pretty!
Ellen happy now.” This pleased Clara very much,
and she sometimes told her mother that she loved
Ellen more and more every day.

“I can teach her many things,” she said, “but there
are some things which she teaches me. I never thought
so much about the Lord, and heaven, and the angels,
as I have done since Ellen has lived with us. I love
to think how the angels watch over her, and try to
teach her what is good and true. Sometimes when
my lessons trouble me, and I feel idle and cross, if
141little Ellen comes into the room all these evil feelings
go away, and I resolve to be good and happy. I
think she brings the angels with her, and this makes
me feel better.”

“You must remember that the Lord keeps angels
near to you as well as to Ellen, Clara,” replied Mrs.
Gray. “The evil spirits are suffered to have more
power over you than over her, because you are older,
and have learned to distinguish between good and evil.
You can easily tell whether the thoughts which come
into your mind are right or wrong, and you know that
the Lord will always enable you to remove the evil
spirits, and suffer the angels to draw near to you, if
you sincerely desire it.”

“Yes, mother, I know this; but sometimes I think
I should love to be a little child like Ellen, and then I
should not so often feel tempted to do wrong. How
sweet she looks when she is asleep. When I look at
her then, mother, I always feel like praying to the
Lord. My heart seems to be raised to Him.”

“It is a good feeling, my dear, child,” said Mrs.
Gray, kissing Clara affectionately. “The angels are
indeed near to you when your heart is thus raised to
your Heavenly Father, and He will always hear your
prayer, and strengthen you to walk in the path of
goodness and truth.”

Several months had passed since the commencement
142of our story, and in many respects Clara had considerably
improved. “I forgot” was an expression less
frequently used than formerly; but still her old habits
of heedless forgetfulness were often troublesome, and
she was frequently mortified to find that her friends
feared to trust her in any important matter, lest she
should neglect to perform her duty.

“Why will you never allow Ellen to walk alone
with me, Margaret?” inquired Clara of the faithful
woman who had charge of her little cousin; “I am
sure I am old enough to take good care of her, and
she loves me almost as well as she does you.”

“You are very kind to her, and she loves you very
much, Miss Clara,” replied Margaret; “but I should
fear to trust her in the street with you, because you
are sometimes a little thoughtless, and some accident
might happen to her. When your aunt parted from
the dear child, she begged me, with tears in her eyes,
to watch over her night and day, and I shall faithfully
try to keep the promise I then made.”

“But, Margaret,” urged Clara, “what accident
could happen to Ellen if I took her to walk up and
down the street, and kept hold of her hand all the
way. I would not leave her an instant.”

“You might forget her,” said Margaret, hesitatingly,
for she did not wish to grieve Clara. “Some
of your schoolmates might call to you, or something
else might take your attention.”

143“You ought not to say so,” replied Clara, looking a
little offended. “I know I forget things sometimes,
but they are almost always trifling matters, such as
errands, or some other little thing. I could not forget
Ellen. Could I, mother?” she continued, appealing
to her mother, who was sitting in the next room, and
had heard the conversation..

“I think Margaret is right, Clara,” replied Mrs.
Gray. “While we see you so forgetful of little duties,
it would not be proper to intrust you with any thing
important. I think you have improved in this respect
lately, but you are still very thoughtless, and do not
make so much effort to correct the fault as I could
wish.”

Clara did not look very pleasant while her mother
was speaking.

“I do not think I am any more forgetful than other
people,” she said. “Every one forgets sometimes.”

“You speak improperly, Clara,” said her mother.
“You are not in a good, humble state,—willing to
acknowledge your faults and try to remove them.”

Clara made no reply, and soon left the room. She
felt grieved and displeased that her little cousin could
not be intrusted to her care, and she felt disposed to
charge her mother and Margaret with unkindness,
rather than to blame herself for deserving the mortification.

144Not many days after the above conversation, Clara
and Ellen were playing in the sitting-room, while Mrs.
Gray and Margaret were busily engaged in one of the
upper rooms, quilting a bed-spread. There was no
fire in the room where the children were, and it appeared
perfectly safe to leave them together for an
hour or two.

Clara was keeping house, and she frequently sent
Ellen to different parts of the room to purchase such
articles as she supposed herself to need. Sometimes
she was ordered to go to the grocer’s for tea and
sugar, sometimes to the market for meat and vegetables.
Ellen would run cheerfully to the place pointed
out, pick up a bit of paper or any thing else that she
could find, and return with it to Clara. I suppose you
have all seen children playing in this manner.

“You must have a market-basket, Ellen,” said
Clara. “I know where there is one that will do
nicely. It belongs to me, but I never used it, so
mother put it up on the upper shelf in this closet. I
will take it down.”

Thus saying, Clara opened the door of the closet,
and stepped upon a chair that she might reach the
basket. There were several other things upon the
shelf, and amongst others a box of small papers, neatly
folded up and carefully labelled. When Clara took
her basket down she upset this box, and some of the
145papers fell to the floor. She picked them up and put
them in their place; but after she had shut the door,
she saw that one little parcel had fallen upon the table
near to the closet. “Never mind,” thought Clara, “I
will put it back directly, as soon as I have fixed the
basket for Ellen.”

They continued their play, and an hour passed very
happily. Clara had forgotten all about the paper,
which still lay upon the table. She was showing
Ellen the pictures in a large and valuable book of her
father’s, when Margaret looked in at the door, and
inquired if they wanted any thing.

“Nothing at all, I thank you, Margaret,” replied
Clara; “you may quilt another hour, if you like.
We are having a fine time.”

Margaret gave them each a cake, and returned to
her work.

While they were eating their cake, Clara saw a
little girl, of whom Ellen was very fond, driving her
hoop back and forth in front of the house.

“Oh, there is Mary!” she exclaimed; “look, Ellen,
how fast she drives her hoop! I wish I could
take you out there.”

Ellen knocked upon the window, and called “Mamy,
Mamy!” but Mary did not hear.

“I will run to the door and call her,” said Clara,
146“and then she will come and see Ellen. Will you sit
still while I am gone?”

Ellen sat down very quietly, and folded her hands,
as she always did when asked to wait for any one, and
Clara ran to the door to call Mary.

Mary was an obedient, thoughtful child, and she
told Clara that she could not come without her mother’s
leave, but if she would wait a moment, she would
ask her.

The house where Mary lived was next door to Mr.
Gray’s, so Clara promised to wait while she asked her
mother.

“Be as quick as you can, Mary,” she said, “for I
left Ellen alone.”

Mary ran into the house, but returned directly, saying,
“I cannot come now, Clara, because mother wants
me to take care of the baby. But just look at this
beautiful present that my aunt sent me last evening,”
and she showed Clara a pretty little work-box, and,
touching a spring, it commenced playing a lively tune.
“How pretty!” exclaimed Clara, “I never saw a
musical work-box before;” and she stood still listening
to the music until the sounds died away, and the
box was as silent as any other work-box.

“Oh, make it play once more, Mary!” said Clara;
and Mary again touched the spring, and it played
another tune even prettier than the first.

147Clara would still have begged for another, for the
music and the pretty box had banished every thing
else from her mind; but her more thoughtful companion
reminded her that Ellen was alone, and that
she must go to her mother.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Clara, “I forgot all about
Ellen; I hope she has not cried for me. Perhaps she
opened the door and went up stairs. She goes up
alone sometimes. Good-bye, Mary,” and she ran
back to the sitting-room.

Ellen had left the seat where Clara had placed her,
and was standing by the table, with the little parcel
which had been left there in her hand.

As her cousin entered the room, she looked up and
said,—

“Ellen cry when Tara gone,—then Ellen find sugar.”

“Sugar,” said Clara, snatching the paper from her
hand. “Have you been eating it, Ellen? I wonder
what it is.”

As she spoke she looked at the writing upon the
back of the paper, and saw “Sugar of Lead” written
upon it in large letters, and the word “poison” beneath.

Clara saw that the paper was now empty, and she
knew that Ellen must have eaten its contents. She
turned deadly pale, and for a few moments stood motionless,
as if at a loss what to do. Then rushing to
the staircase, she screamed to her mother and Margaret
148in such a frantic manner that they both ran to
her in great alarm.

“Oh, mother, mother!” she sobbed, “I have killed
Ellen. I left her alone for a few minutes, while I
listened to Mary’s music-box, and she has eaten some
sugar of lead.”

“Eaten sugar of lead!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray. “It
is impossible, for it was upon the upper shelf in the
closet; she could not have reached it.”

“No, no, mother, she did not reach it; but I left it
on the table, and forgot to put it back, and then I forgot
to return to Ellen, and stood listening to the music
a long time. She has eaten it all, and she will die,
mother. Oh, what shall I do?”

Poor Margaret had caught Ellen in her arms, and
was now sobbing as if her heart would break; but
Mrs. Gray, with more presence of mind, begged her
to be calm, and not alarm the child, as any agitation
might hasten the effect of the poison.

“Do you, Margaret, go immediately for Dr. Gregory,”
she said, “and Clara must go to her father’s
office and ask him to come directly home. There was
but a small quantity in the paper. We may do much
for her if we are calm.”

Then, taking the child in her own arms, she spoke
to her in a quiet and soothing manner, and taking
her up stairs, gave her an antidote for poison, and
149then amused her until the physician and Mr. Gray
arrived.

Prompt and judicious remedies in a measure counteracted
the fatal effects of the poison, but a serious
illness could not be avoided. For many days little
Ellen seemed to hover between life and death, and
even after the physician had pronounced her out of
danger, she was for a long time so feeble that no one
would have supposed her to be the same child who
had seemed so full of life and health but a few weeks
before.

I shall not attempt to describe the agony which poor
Clara suffered during the sickness of her little cousin.
Her parents treated her with great kindness, for they
thought the lesson she had received was sufficiently
severe, without adding to it by their reproaches.

For a long time she could not bear to say a word
upon the subject, but it was evident that a great change
was taking place in her character. She was now not
only industrious and obliging, but so thoughtful and
considerate that her friends soon felt willing to trust
her, even where the greatest care was necessary.

The cold winter months had passed away, and
spring had again returned to gladden the earth. Favorable
accounts had been received from Ellen’s parents.
Her father’s health had improved rapidly, and they
were now about to return home.

150“Do you think they will be here in another month,
mother?” asked Clara, as her mother finished reading
a letter which she had just received from their distant
friends.

“I think they will, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray.
“Are you prepared to part with our dear Ellen?”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears as she replied, “I shall
try to be prepared, mother, but it will be a great trial.
I always loved Ellen dearly, and since I came so near
being the cause of her death, I have loved her more
than ever. Every day I thank the Lord for His
mercy in restoring her to health. It was a sad lesson,
mother, but it helped me to see how really selfish I
was. I could never quite understand why you and
father should call forgetfulness a kind of selfishness;
but when I sincerely endeavored to become more
thoughtful, I found that the true reason why I used to
forget so often was because I thought so much more
of myself than I did of others. I now try to be very
watchful of this fault, and I pray to the Lord to help
me put it away.”

“And you will never look to Him in vain, my dear
Clara,” said Mrs. Gray. “You have already improved
very much. Persevere steadily in the endeavor
to remove selfishness in all its forms. It is the fountain
from which many evils flow.”

“O Father! please to come to the door, and see how
pretty everything looks,” exclaimed William Mason,
running eagerly into the room where his father was
sitting.

Mr. Mason was always glad to give his son pleasure,
and he laid aside the newspaper which he was reading,
and followed him to the door.

There had been quite a heavy snow-storm a few
days before, which was succeeded by rain, and then
by severe cold. Everything was now entirely cased in
ice.

“Is it not beautiful, father?” said William. “I
have been all around the yard and garden, and everything
has put on its winter coat. Every little branch
and twig, every blade of grass, and even the little
stones are covered with ice.”

152“This is what we used to call a silver morning,
when I was a boy,” said Mr. Mason.

“That is a good name for it, father,” replied William;
“for everything shines like silver. Look at the
road; it is almost as smooth as the pond. I think I
can skate to school this morning.”

“You would probably find some rough places, which
would injure your skates,” replied Mr. Mason; “but
look towards the east, my son, and you will see something
more beautiful than anything you have yet
observed.”

There was a thick wood of pines toward the east,
and, as William looked, he saw that the trees glittered
like diamonds, and he could see colors like those of a
rainbow in every direction.

He clapped his hands with delight.

“O father,” he exclaimed, “this is the most beautiful
sight of all. The sun is rising, and soon it will
shine on all the trees and plants, and then everything
will look as beautiful as the pine trees do now. It was
a silver morning, father, but it will be a golden day.”

“It will, indeed,” replied Mr. Mason. “Everything
looked cold and dead before the rays of the sun
shone upon them, but now all are sparkling with beauty.
The trees will soon lose their icy casing, but the water
will sink into the ground, and perform many important
uses. The frosts and snows of winter prepare the way
153for the warmth and beauty of spring and summer.
The earth rests from its labors, and is in various ways
enriched and strengthened.”

“I like all the seasons, father,” said William. “In
winter, I am so happy when skating and sliding in the
fine cool air, that I wish the weather might always be
cold; but when spring and summer and autumn come,
with their long sunny days, and their beautiful birds
and flowers and delicious fruits, I quite forget winter
and its pleasures.”

“Yes, every season has its delights,” replied his
father; “but look, William, there is one of your school-fellows.
Is he already on his way to school?”

“Oh, that is only Louis Cunningham,” returned
William, glancing rather contemptuously at a plainly
dressed, but intelligent and manly looking boy, who
was passing by.

“Only Louis Cunningham,” repeated Mr. Mason!
“Well, is he not one of your school-fellows?”

“Why, yes, father, he goes to the same school.
The master gives him his schooling for making the
fire and keeping the room in good order. We call
him the charity scholar.”

“I am grieved to hear you speak in this manner,”
said Mr. Mason, gravely. “Mr. Cunningham died
when Louis was very young, and his mother has been
obliged to deny him many advantages of education,
154which she would gladly have given him if it had been
in her power. Your teacher heard of their situation,
and finding, from conversation with Louis, that he was
an intelligent boy, and very desirous to learn, he kindly
offered to take him into his school. But Louis and
his mother, although they were very grateful for the
offer, felt unwilling to accept it, unless they could make
some return for the kindness; and it was finally arranged,
that Louis should take care of the school-room
and make the fire, and I have been told that he performs
these duties very faithfully.”

“He does, indeed,” replied William. “The room
is always warm and comfortable, and so nicely swept
and dusted, that we never have any cause of complaint.”

“One would suppose, then, my son, that you would
feel grateful to the person who performs these kind
offices, instead of regarding him with contempt and
dislike.”

“Oh, we do not dislike Louis, Father. He is
always kind and obliging; but we do not like to see
him placed on an equality with the rest of the boys,
and often pronounced the best scholar in his class.”

“These are evil feelings, William, and I hope to
have the pleasure of helping you put them away. Sit
down by me in the parlor for a few minutes, and we
will talk about Louis. Can you tell me why the boys
155think he should not be placed upon an equality with
them? Is he inferior to the others as a scholar, or is
he a wicked, profane boy?”

“Oh no, father. Louis is a very good boy, and a
better scholar than many who have had greater advantages;
but, as he does not pay for his schooling, we
do not think that he is entitled to the same privileges
that we are.”

“Even if this were the case, he would be entitled to
every privilege, William, if Mr. Grant chose to instruct
him without remuneration; but Louis does pay for his
schooling; not indeed with his father’s money,—because
the Lord has seen fit to remove his father to the
spiritual world,—but with his own labor. Mr. Grant
considers his services as an equivalent to his instruction,
and, according to your own account, the duties
are well performed. Louis, then, pays for his schooling
as much, or more, than any boy in school; for the
others depend upon their father’s labor, while he depends
upon his own. Your school bills, as well as
other expenses, are paid from the proceeds of my daily
labor in my profession, and the case is the same with
the other boys who attend your school.”

“This is very true, father,” replied William, “and
I know it is wrong to despise those who are poorer
than ourselves. We often laugh at Louis, when he
comes to school with coarse, patched clothes; but
156I suppose his mother cannot afford to buy him any
better.”

“She cannot, indeed, William; and of how little
consequence is external clothing, compared to many
other things in which Louis probably surpasses your
other school-mates. It is right to be neat and clean,
and as well dressed as our circumstances will admit;
but the clothing of our soul is of more importance
than the clothing of our bodies. If Louis is industrious,
obedient, faithful in the performance of his
duties, and in the endeavor to shun evil words and
deeds, he appears to the Lord and the angels as if
clothed in the most beautiful raiment.”

William made no reply, but appeared much interested
in what his father was saying, and Mr. Mason
continued,—

“You must ever remember the Golden Rule, my
son. Think how you would wish to be treated, if you
were situated like Louis; and then you will be more
careful not to wound his feelings, by contempt or idle
jests.”

“I will try to remember, father. I know I have
done wrong, and I will begin to-day, and treat Louis
just the same as I do the other scholars. Perhaps I
may be able to help in some way.”

“These are good resolutions, my son; and, if they
are carried into practice, they will do you and others
157much good. The light has dawned in your mind. It
is a silver morning, and the rays of the spiritual sun
will render it a golden day.”

Within an hour after this conversation, William was
on his way to school, with his satchel of books and his
skates slung over his shoulder, and his dinner pail in
his hand. He was soon joined by several companions,
and each boy tried to display his skill in keeping his
balance on the glare ice, which to many would have
rendered the road almost impassable. But boys have
little fear of ice and snow, and, half running and half
sliding, they soon reached the school-house, where they
found, as usual, a comfortable and neatly arranged
room.

Louis Cunningham was busily engaged at his desk,
and, being little accustomed to any morning salutations
from his school-fellows, he did not look up when
they entered. He was somewhat surprised to hear
William exclaim: “Good morning, Louis. What a
grand fire you have got for us. I am sure we are
much obliged to you, this cold morning.”

“You are very welcome,” he replied with a pleasant
smile. “I came earlier than usual, on account of
the severe cold. I am glad you find the room comfortable.”

“I should not have liked to have been the one to
make the fire this morning,” remarked one of the boys.
158“In many schools the scholars take turns in cleaning
the room and making the fire.”

“It is not fair that they should do so,” observed
another. “Their parents pay for their schooling, and
it is not right that they should be obliged to spend
their time and injure their clothes in sweeping rooms
and making fires. It does well enough for those who
cannot pay.”

“For shame! John Gray,” exclaimed William.
“You should not speak so thoughtlessly. You trouble
Louis,” he added in a whisper.

John was a kind-hearted boy, but rude and thoughtless
in his manners.

“I do not wish to trouble Louis,” he said aloud.
“I only spoke the truth.”

The color, which had deepened on Louis’s cheek,
faded away, and he said, kindly,—

“You do not trouble me, John. I agree with you
in thinking that those whose parents can pay for their
schooling should not be expected to take care of the
room. But as I am situated, I regard it as a very
great favor that I am in this way enabled to earn my
own schooling.”

“It is a great favor to us,” exclaimed several boys.
“We never before had so neat and comfortable a
room.”

The entrance of Mr. Grant, the teacher, prevented
159any farther conversation, and each boy quietly took his
seat, and performed his accustomed duties.

At noon, there was fine sport with coasting and
skating, but, in the midst of his play, William remembered
his promise to his father; and, finding that
Louis was not among his companions, he sought him
in the school-house. He found him seated at his desk,
busily engaged with a pencil and piece of paper.

“Come, Louis,” he exclaimed, “Come and play
with us. There is fine skating on the pond.”

“Thank you,” replied Louis, “but I have no skates
this winter. I had a pair once, but they are worn
out.”

“Then I will lend you mine, and I will slide for a
little while. I shall like that quite as well. Do
come,” urged William; and, as he spoke, he approached
the desk, and looked at the picture which
Louis was drawing.

“Why, Louis!” he said, with an expression of surprise,
“I had no idea that you could draw so beautifully.
You almost equal our drawing-master. Who
taught you?”

“No one,” replied Louis. “I love to draw. If it
were not wrong to neglect other duties, I would spend
every day in doing nothing else.”

“Why do you not take lessons with the rest of us,
Louis? I am sure our drawing-master would be proud
160of such a pupil. How you would laugh at our strange-looking
pictures!”

“Mr. Grant is very kind, to give me so many other
advantages,” answered Louis; “I should not like to
ask the privilege of a seat at the drawing-tables, and
then the pencils and paper are quite an expense. And
if I learned to paint, it would be still more expensive;
but, oh! I should love to learn so much,” and his face
grew bright with pleasure at the very thought.

“You must learn, Louis; I am resolved that you
shall,” said William; “but come now, and have one
good play before school.”

Thus urged, Louis joined his companions, and, encouraged
by William’s example, all received him
kindly, and were careful to allow him equal rights
with themselves, and not to wound his feelings by
foolish jokes and sarcastic observations.

About fifteen minutes before the hour for school to
commence, William saw Mr. Grant enter the school-house,
and, quietly leaving his play-fellows, he hastened
to follow him.

Taking from Louis’s desk the picture upon which
he had been so busily engaged at noon, he presented
it to the teacher, saying,—

“Is not this pretty well done, sir?”

“Remarkably well,” replied Mr. Grant. “You have
improved wonderfully, William.”

161“It is not mine, sir. Louis did it. He has never
had any instruction in drawing, but I am sure if you
will allow him a seat at the drawing-tables, he will
soon equal our drawing-master himself.”

“He shall have every advantage, certainly,” replied
Mr. Grant. “I am pleased with your request, William;
for I have observed with pain that some of the
scholars regard Louis with feelings of contempt and
dislike, which are certainly quite undeserved.”

“I have been in fault in this respect,” replied William,
blushing deeply, “but my father has convinced
me that such feelings are very wrong, and I am resolved
to do better.”

“I am glad that you have made so good a resolution,
William. Your example will help the other
scholars to do right also. You may have the pleasure
of telling Louis that he can receive regular instruction
in drawing, on the afternoons when the drawing-master
attends the school.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied William, and he joyfully
returned to his play-fellows.

A few whispered words told Louis of what had
passed, and the glow of pleasure which suffused his
countenance, and the warm pressure of the hand,
amply rewarded William for his kindness.

“I have pencils and paper enough for both, Louis,”
162he continued, “and I know my father will be glad to
have me share them with you.”

The sound of the bell now summoned the whole
party to the school-room, and as this was the afternoon
for the drawing-master, William had the pleasure of
seeing his new friend seated by his side, and of hearing
the warm commendations which were bestowed upon
the contents of his little portfolio, which, at the request
of the teacher, Louis modestly exhibited.

Much of the ice in the streets had melted away, but
the trees were still glittering in the bright sunlight,
when William left the school-house and took the road
toward home. To him everything seemed even more
beautiful than it had done in the morning, for his heart
was filled with that happiness which always results
from doing good. His father met him at the door.

“Well, my son,” he said, “has it been a golden day
with you?”

“It has, indeed, father,” replied William. “I have
remembered what you told me, and I have already
found an opportunity to do Louis some good.”

Mr. Mason listened with much interest to William’s
little story, and gladly gave him leave to assist Louis,
by lending him his own drawing implements.

It was pleasing to observe the effect which William’s
example of friendliness to Louis had upon the rest of
the scholars. He was no longer regarded with contempt
163or indifference, but became as great a favorite
with the boys as a play-fellow, as he was with the
master as a scholar. The younger boys looked to him
for assistance in all their pleasures and troubles, for
they found that he was always willing to give up his
own pleasure for the sake of making them happy; and
the older ones frequently assisted him in his duties in
the school-room, in order to gain so valuable a companion
in their plays.

His improvement in drawing and painting was so
rapid, that, before many months had elapsed, the
drawing-master declared he could teach him nothing
more, and advised him to procure a situation in some
of the large schools in the neighborhood, as teacher
of these branches. But about this time circumstances
occurred, which induced Mrs. Cunningham to remove
to a distant part of the country, and Louis was obliged
to bid farewell to his teachers and companions.

All parted from him with regret, but none felt the
loss so keenly as William Mason. He had been the
first among the boys to love Louis and endeavor to
assist him; and, although the latter was some years
older, a warm attachment had sprung up between
them.

Many years passed before they again met. Both
had grown to manhood, but the remembrance of their
early days was still fresh in their minds. William
164was travelling through the principal States of the
Union, and stopped for the night in one of our most
flourishing cities. In the course of the evening he
visited, with some of his friends, a gallery of paintings
which had been particularly recommended to his notice.
The collection was a fine one, and an hour soon passed
pleasantly away. At length William suddenly stopped
before a small picture, and uttered an exclamation of
surprise, which brought his friends to his side. The
scene represented was not a remarkable one,—a bright
winter’s morning, and a lad with a satchel of books
and a pair of skates slung upon his shoulder, and a
dinner-pail in his hand, quietly pursuing his way to
school.

“What do you find surprising in this?” asked one
of William’s companions. “It is a spirited little
sketch, to be sure. That lad bears a strong resemblance
to you, William.”

“It is myself,” exclaimed William; “and there is
the old school-house in the distance, and the pond
where we used to skate. Every object in the picture
is familiar to me, even that old tree which seems so
completely cased in ice. I must find the name of the
artist.”

“That is easily ascertained,” replied his companion,
turning to the catalogue which he held in his hand;
“Cunningham, Louis Cunningham. There are several
165other fine pictures in the gallery by the same person.
Do you know him, William?”

“He is an old school-mate and particular friend,”
replied William; “I must inquire if he resides in this
city.”

Louis Cunningham’s address was easily obtained,
and William had the pleasure of hearing him spoken
of as a young artist of uncommon talents. At an
early hour the following morning he sought his early
friend, and received a warm welcome. Louis’s story
was soon told. His mother’s situation in life had been
improved, by a legacy left by a distant relative, and
she was thus enabled to give her son many advantages.
He had travelled in Europe, and received the best
instruction in his favorite pursuit, and his name was
now becoming widely known as one of our best American
artists.

“But I have not forgotten the old school-house, and
our boyish days, dear William,” he continued; “and I
do not forget that my first instructions in drawing were
received through your kindness. It was a bright day
to me when I was first seated at the drawing-table,
and allowed free access to your pencils and paper.”

“I remember it, as if it were but yesterday,” replied
William. “We had indulged a strange prejudice
against you up to that day, Louis. My father had
labored hard that bright and beautiful morning, to show
166me the sin of which I was guilty, in indulging such
feelings, and his words sunk deep in my heart. When
I parted from him, at school time, he remarked on the
beautiful appearance of the earth, clad in its robe of
silver, but pointed out the new beauty it would receive
when the rays of the sun should fall upon it; and he
prayed that the rays of the spiritual sun might thus
vivify and add new beauty to the good resolutions
springing up in my mind, that the silver morning might
become the golden day.”

“It was indeed a golden day to me,” said Louis,
with emotion. “A fountain of kind feelings, which
had been checked by the coldness of my companions,
gushed forth at the kindness with which you treated
me; and it seemed as if from that time all coldness
toward me disappeared, and I was treated by all with
kindness which I have ever remembered with gratitude.
The little picture which you saw in the gallery is a
proof of my remembrance of that day. You must
take it to your father, as a token of my respect and
love.”

“I will gladly do so,” replied William. “My
father will receive it with pleasure, and it shall hang
in our room as a memento of our early friendship,
and of a day which I shall always remember with
pleasing reflections.”

“I should not think you would let him off so easily,
father,” exclaimed Herbert Archer, as he listened to a
conversation between his father and a poor tenant who
begged for a little delay in the usual demand for the
rent.

“And why not, my son?” replied Mr. Archer, as
they continued the walk which had been thus interrupted.
“He is poor and has been unfortunate. The
wealthy should not be indifferent to the sufferings of
those less prosperous than themselves.”

“I know they should not, father; but did I not
hear you say last winter that you would not assist
Simon Brown again, for it was only encouraging him
in idleness? Do you not remember what we were
told about his allowing his poor wife, with her feeble
health, to go out to wash, while he remained sitting
quietly at home smoking his pipe and attending to the
children?”

168“I do recollect it well, Herbert; but my conclusions
were too hasty. Upon inquiry I found that there was
another side to the story. Poor Simon had the rheumatism
so badly that for several weeks he could not
walk one step. In this situation he could do nothing
better than to make himself useful in the house, while
his wife procured what work she could to aid in the
support of their family. The truth is, my son, there
is almost always two sides to a story, and if we suspend
our judgment until we are sure that we know all
the particulars, we shall avoid the injustice which too
often results from hasty decisions.”

Herbert listened with respect and attention to his
father’s words, and acknowledged their truth; but it
was not until after several useful lessons that he learned
to put this simple rule in practice.

Among the most valued of his playthings was a fine
kite, remarkable for its beauty and the swiftness of its
flight.

On his return from school one pleasant afternoon,
Herbert perceived that there was a fine breeze, and
hastily putting away his books, ran for his kite. But,
to his surprise, it was not in its proper place. Who
could have taken it? He felt quite sure that he put it
away when he last played with it, and he felt much
displeased that any one should have ventured to touch
it without his leave.

169He inquired of his mother and sisters, but they
knew nothing of it. He then went to the kitchen, and
Alice, the chambermaid, told him that about an hour
before she had seen his younger brother, Henry, with
it in his hand.

“He had no business to touch it without my leave,”
exclaimed Herbert angrily. “I wish he would learn
to let my things alone,” and his feelings toward his
brother were filled with unkindness.

He went to the barn in search of him, but Henry
was not there. In one corner, however, he discovered
his kite, soiled and torn, with the sticks broken and
the tail draggled in the dirt. This sight vexed him
still more, and he seized a little wagon which he had
been making for his brother that morning, and dashed
it in pieces.

“He is a naughty, bad boy,” he exclaimed, “and I
will do nothing for him.”

Upon further inquiry, he found that Henry had
received permission to pass the afternoon at their
Uncle’s, and would not return until evening.

For several hours Herbert suffered evil thoughts and
feelings against his brother to remain in his mind, and
he complained to his mother and several others of the
injury which had been done to his favorite kite; and
when his father came in to tea, he repeated the story
170to him, with many severe comments on the unkindness
of his brother.

He felt somewhat rebuked when his father said
quietly, “Wait till you hear your brother’s explanation,
my son. Remember there are always two sides
to a story.”

“There cannot be two sides to this one, father, for
Alice saw Henry with the kite in his hand, and no one
else has touched it.”

“Strong proof, certainly, Herbert; but, nevertheless,
suspend your judgment until Henry comes. It is
possible that he did not tear the kite.”

Herbert was silenced, but not convinced. His feelings
were not changed, and he met Henry in a sullen
and irritated manner.

“Oh, Herbert!” exclaimed the little boy, “I wish
you could have been with me. I have had such a
delightful play with my cousins. I should have been
quite happy all the afternoon, only I could not help
thinking of your poor kite. Did you see it in the
barn?”

“To be sure I did,” replied Herbert, crossly; “I
wish you had taken a fancy to destroy some other of
my playthings and let my kite alone.”

“Why, Herbert, I did not destroy it. I found our
dog Pompey playing with it in the yard. I do not
know where he got it, but I took it away as quickly as
171I could. I was very sorry that I did not see him
before it was spoiled.”

A deep blush of shame overspread Herbert’s face as
he thought of the wicked and unkind feelings which he
had harbored for so many hours. He now remembered
perfectly, that, being called away in haste, he
had left his kite beneath a tree in the yard, and no
doubt Pompey had found it there. There was, indeed,
two sides to this story, and now that the truth was
known, it was quite plain that he alone was to blame
for the accident.

His sorrow was increased when Henry eagerly inquired
if he had finished the little wagon which he
had begun for him in the morning.

It was hard to tell his affectionate little brother that
he had been so very angry with him for his supposed
injury, that he had purposely destroyed the wagon
from which he had expected so much pleasure; but
Herbert, though often hasty and passionate, was an
honest boy, and he answered frankly,—

“I have done very wrong to-day, Henry. I supposed
that you had taken my kite without leave, and
had carelessly spoiled it, and I felt so angry that I
tossed the wagon upon the ground and broke it; but,
if you will forgive me, I will make you a much larger
and better one to-morrow.”

Henry readily expressed his forgiveness, and Herbert,
172of his own accord, sought his father and told him
“the other side of the story.”

For some time the little incident of the kite was
well remembered, and served as a warning to Herbert
to be less hasty in judging evil of others; but as the
recollection of it faded from his mind, he was frequently
led into the same error, and often had cause to repent
of his rash decisions.

Among his schoolfellows was the son of a poor
widow, who had, until lately, labored hard with the
neighboring farmers to aid his mother in the support
of her little family. His admittance into the school
occasioned considerable surprise among the scholars,
who had hitherto regarded him as on a footing with
their fathers’ workmen, rather than on an equality
with themselves; and there were some who were
wicked and foolish enough to wonder what business
William Camden had to attend the best school in the
neighborhood, and where he got the money to pay for
his tuition.

The greater part, however, were pleased that he
could have so good an opportunity for acquiring knowledge,
and were surprised to find that he had already
made great progress in many branches which they
were pursuing.

Herbert Archer seemed particularly pleased with
the studiousness and good behavior of the widow’s son,
173and with the consent of his parents frequently aided
him in various ways, by presents of suitable books and
other things necessary to his advancement.

There was one circumstance, however, in regard to
William for which Herbert found it difficult to account.
He was frequently absent from school for whole days,
and when his companions inquired the cause, he would
answer indefinitely that his time had been much occupied.
The teacher expressed no displeasure on these
occasions, which had the effect of assuring the scholars
that all was right, until one unfortunate day, when a
boy, who had appeared to regard William with contempt
and dislike from his first entrance into the school,
made a discovery which he eagerly communicated to
the other pupils, hoping thereby to convince them that
his opinion was well founded.

“Who would like to know the reason why William
Camden stays from school so often?” he exclaimed, as
he entered the school-room, where many of the boys
were assembled.

A large group immediately gathered around him,
and he continued in a sarcastic, contemptuous tone,—

“I have at length found out the useful business
which so occupies his time. He is fond of wandering
in the woods and fields, amusing himself with robbing
birds’ nests.”

“For shame, George Wilson,” replied Herbert
174Archer. “It is impossible that you have detected
William engaged in so senseless and cruel a sport.”

“Impossible or not, Master Archer,” retorted the
other, “it is nevertheless a fact, and I can give you
ample proof of the truth of my words. One of my
father’s workmen has recently been engaged in cutting
down several large trees in the wood adjoining our
house. On the last day that William was absent from
school, he assures me that he spent the whole of our
school hours in climbing trees and robbing the pretty
birds of their young. He reproved him for his cruelty,
but William only replied that he had a use for them,
and went on his way. Probably he intended to enjoy
the pleasure of giving the poor things to his cat.”

Herbert, who was a great enemy to all cruelty,
could hardly restrain his indignation, and as William
entered at that moment, he turned to him abruptly,
and demanded, with some authority of manner, if it
was true that he had stayed from school a few days
before for the purpose of robbing birds’ nests? Somewhat
hurt and offended at the tone in which Herbert
addressed him, and at the indignant countenances of
his schoolmates, William answered, rather shortly,—

“That it was perfectly true that he had taken several
young birds from their nests a day or two previous,
and thought it quite probable that he should do so
again, if it suited his convenience.”

175This was a wrong way of answering, and only increased
the ill feeling which prevailed against him.
George Wilson looked triumphantly at Herbert, who
was only restrained from a burst of passion by the
entrance of the teacher, and the usual summons to
their studies.

After school, instead of joining William, as usual,
that they might walk part of the way together, Herbert
carefully avoided him, and selecting another companion,
declared his intention of having nothing more
to do with one who could thus wantonly engage in
cruel sport.

This resolution he also expressed to his father, after
relating to him the circumstances which had come to
his knowledge. Mr. Archer shook his head, saying,
“Are you sure there are not two sides to the story,
my son?” But Herbert replied in a positive manner
that there could not be another side, as William had
himself admitted the truth of the charge.

Nothing farther was said upon the subject, and Mr.
Archer soon forgot the whole affair.

Weeks passed on, and the intimacy between the two
boys was not resumed. William continued to absent
himself occasionally from school, and several boys testified
that they had two or three times met him with
young birds in his hand, and when asked what he
intended doing with them, he had replied in his usual
unsatisfactory manner.

176One day, as Herbert was returning from school, he
met an old friend of his father’s, a gentleman residing
in a neighboring town, at whose house he had often
visited, and with whom he was very familiar. Mr.
Morgan was a widower, and he had one little son
several years younger than Herbert, to whose welfare
he was constantly devoted.

“I am glad to see you, Herbert,” he said, kindly;
“it is a long time since you have visited me. My
little Arthur has missed you very much.”

“We shall soon have a vacation at our school,”
replied Herbert, “and then I shall be much pleased to
come and see you. My studies occupy me very closely
just now.”

“That is right, my boy. Youth is the time for
improvement. Speaking of your school reminds me
of one of your schoolfellows, of whom I should like
your opinion, for I know that boys have many opportunities
of finding out each other’s characters, and I
can rely upon your statement. I refer to William
Camden. I knew his father well. He was a sensible,
honest man, and I have often thought that I should
like to do something for his family. I have lately
formed a plan for travelling for the next two or three
years with my little boy, and I have concluded, if I
can find a well-principled lad, somewhat advanced in
his education, to take him with us as a sort of tutor
177and companion for Arthur. I shall watch over them
both myself, and shall procure the best instruction in
my power at the different places where we may sojourn;
but there are many of the common branches which
Arthur would learn even more readily from a sensible
lad, a few years his senior, than from an older person,
and he would at the same time have the advantage of
a pleasant companion. The great difficulty is to find
one on whose principles and habits I can fully depend.
I have thought of William Camden, as I have often
heard him well spoken of. His mother depends somewhat
upon his assistance, but I will make that easy
for them. Now, tell me plainly what you think of
William.”

Herbert hesitated, for he knew that the proposition
of Mr. Morgan would be of great advantage to his
schoolfellow; and, in spite of his present dislike to
William, he was unwilling to say any thing which
might deprive him of an advantageous offer. But he
thought it right to tell the whole truth, and he answered,
with some indignation in his manner,—

“A few weeks ago, sir, I should have thought that
William Camden would have suited your purpose better
than any boy of my acquaintance, but I fear I was
deceived in him. He frequently stays from school,
and passes his time in the woods engaged in the cruel
sport of robbing birds’ nests.”

178“Cruel sport, indeed!” exclaimed Mr. Morgan.
“A boy who will do that must be destitute of kind
and generous feelings. It may seem a trifle, but it
would decide me at once not to make him the companion
of my son. You are sure that there is no
mistake in this matter, Herbert?”

“Quite sure, sir. I heard William acknowledge it
myself. I was very unwilling to believe it until there
was no room for doubt.”

“I am glad I met with you,” remarked his friend.
“I have another boy in view, who will perhaps suit
me better. I must make all proper inquiries.”

Thus saying, he bade Herbert good afternoon, and
rode away in the direction of his own home.

A few days after, Herbert accompanied his father to
a large town several miles distant from their own
home. While his father was engaged in the transaction
of business, he walked slowly through the principal
streets, amusing himself with what was passing
around him, and occasionally stopping to look at something
attractive in the shop windows. At length he
became much interested in watching the quick motions
of several birds of different kinds, whose cages were
suspended at the door of a bird fancier’s establishment.

As he stood looking at their lively movements and
listening to their sweet songs, he was surprised to
observe William Camden standing in the shop with a
179large cage in his hand containing a great many young
birds of various kinds, for which he appeared to be
just concluding a bargain with the bird fancier.

“This, then, is what he does with his young birds,”
thought Herbert; “but why was he so secret about
it?”

At this instant William turned around and recognized
his companion. He colored deeply, and at first
seemed inclined not to speak; but better feelings gained
the ascendancy, and, approaching Herbert, he said
pleasantly,—

“You have discovered what I do with my young
birds. It does seem cruel to catch them, but I try to
do it as kindly as possible. I seldom take more than
one from a nest, and always watch the time when the
old birds are absent, that I may not alarm them.
The money which I earn in this way not only defrays
the expenses of my education, but enables me to assist
my poor mother.”

“But why were you so secret about it?” asked
Herbert. “Why did you not tell us plainly for what
purpose you caught the birds?”

“My first motive for secrecy,” replied William,
“Was to prevent thoughtless and idle boys from following
my example, fearing that they would not so
strictly endeavor to avoid cruelty. But when you
questioned me on the subject, I should have answered
180frankly had I not felt irritated by your manner, and
hurt that you could suppose me capable of engaging in
such an occupation for sport.”

“I did wrong,” replied Herbert; “as usual, my
judgment was too hasty. I ask your forgiveness,
William, for my suspicions; but I fear I have been
the means of doing you a great injury. I must seek
my father without delay;” and thus saying he abruptly
departed, leaving William much surprised at his words.

Mr. Archer listened with interest to Herbert’s story,
and yielded to his entreaties to go immediately to Mr.
Morgan, in the hope that it was not yet too late to
repair the wrong which he had done his companion.

When they reached the house, Herbert’s impatience
was so great that he could hardly wait until the customary
salutations were exchanged, before he said,
with much earnestness,—

“Have you yet found any one to fill the place of
which you spoke to me, Mr. Morgan?”

“I have not, my young friend. It is a more difficult
task than I anticipated, and sometimes I think I
will relinquish the plan altogether.”

“I am so glad I am not too late,” exclaimed Herbert
joyfully. “I have come to tell you, sir, that
what I related to you of William Camden can all be
explained, and I am quite sure that he would suit you
in every respect.”

181He then gave Mr. Morgan a full account of the
whole affair, to which the gentleman listened with
much satisfaction, and declared his intention of calling
upon Mrs. Camden that evening.

“This will be a warning to you, my dear boy,” he
said to Herbert, “to judge less rashly of the actions
of your friends.”

“It will indeed, sir,” was the reply. “I have too
often disregarded these warnings; but in future I am
resolved never to forget that there may be ‘two sides
to a story.’”

Punctuation has been made consistent.

Variations
in hyphenation have been retained as they were in the
original publication.

The following changes have been made:

suprised —> surprised {page 178}

The chapter entitled “Two Sides to a Story” beginning
on page 167 has been added to the Table of Contents,
from which it was omitted in the original book.