Skip to main content

Full text of "The children's book of moral lessons : Second series ..."

See other formats

E Children's Book 


Moral Lessons 






Ex Lihris 







Also by Sa77ie Author 

The Children's Book of Moral Lessons. First Series; 

"Self-control" and "Truthfulness." 






{Second Series : '^Kind?iess " and " Work and Duty ") 




Thk first volume of these Lessons, dealing with Seif-Control 
and Truthfulness, was issued in 1899, and I have been much 
encouraged by the reception it lias enjoyed among both 
children and teachers. 

All the lessons in this second volume have been given, in 
one form or another, to classes of young people aged ten to 
fourteen. All have appeared in print before, and are now 
collected from the Ethical World, the Leicester Reasoner, and 
the Leicester Pioneer ; and I have again to thank Mr. W. P. 
Ball for much careful criticism and correction in the work of 
revision. At present, I am undecided whether future volumes 
(if any) in illustration of the "Plan" should be written in the 
form of reading-books, as in volumes i. and ii., or should 
consist of notes and material for the use of teachers only. 

The subject that presented the greatest difficulty to me was 
that of Kindness to Animals. I did not feel competent to 
pursue the ordinary method of detailed description of animal 
life, nor was I sure that the ethical end was best attained in 
that way. The work on Mutual Aid by Prince Kropotkin 
supplied me with the moral clue of Association (see Lessons 
x\\. and xwi.); and Lessons .xx.xii. and xxxiii. suggest a point 
of view not usually adopted — viz., that our treatment of the 
lower animals expresses, or re-acts upon, our own character. 

The chapters on the Blind, Deaf-and-dumb, Fire-brigades, 


and a Day in the Quarries are not so much intended for actual 
lessons as hints to teachers how to make use of their personal 
experiences for purposes of moral instruction. 

F". J. Gould. 

41, Lower Hastings Street, Leicester. 
jMay, igoj. 



Lesson I.— MOTHER. page 

The mother's love. The mother's smile. The motherless girls. 
The child's dependence on its mother for speech, health, etc. - i 

Lesson IL— MOTHER— (contiimed). 

Mother's warnings. Mothers love their children, though they may 
sometimes have to give them pain. Mutual pride of mother 
and child ....... ^ 

Lesson UL— MOTHER— {^onc/uded). 
Showing respect and honour to mothers - - - - 9 

Lesson IV.— THE WONDERFUL MAN - - 14 

Lesson V.— FATHER. 

Father's example and protection. Sometimes father finds it 
necessary to punish. Obedience to father - - - 19 

Lesson \I.— FATHER— {co7ic/tided). 

Mutual pride between father and child. Respect and considera- 
tion for father. When sons and daughters do right, the hearts 
of mothers and fathers are glad - - - - - 24 

Lp:sson VH.— sisters AND BROTHERS. 

Brothers and sisters as companions in a home. Things which a 
boy can do better than a girl. Things which a girl can do better 
than a boy. Things which can be done well by both boys and 
girls. Mutual aid - - - - - - 29 

Lesson VHI.— SISTERS AND BROTHERS— (conc/ttded). 

Kindness to younger brothers and sisters. Forgiving the unkind 
brother. Helping a sister in affliction. Helping even unto 
death - - - - - - - "33 


and a Day in the Quarries are not so much intended for actual 
lessons as hints to teachers how to make use of their personal 
experiences for purposes of moral instruction. 

F. J. Gould. 

^/, Lower Hastitigs Street, Leicester. 



Lesson I.— MOTHER. page 

The mother's love. The mother's smile. The motherless girls. 
The child's dependence on its mother for speech, health, etc. - i 

Lesson U.— MOTHER— (con/mued). 

Mother's warnings. Mothers love their children, though they may 
sometimes have to give them pain. Mutual pride of mother 
and child ....... ^ 

Lesson III.— MOTHER— (conc/itded). 
Showing respect and honour to mothers - - - - 9 

Lesson IV.— THE WONDERFUL MAN - - 14 

Lesson V.— FATHER. 

Father's example and protection. Sometimes father finds it 
necessary to punish. Obedience to father - - - 19 

Lesson Yl.— FATHER— (concluded). 

Mutual pride between father and child. Respect and considera- 
tion for father. When sons and daughters do right, the hearts 
of mothers and fathers are glad - - - - - 24 


Brothers and sisters as companions in a home. Things which a 
boy can do better than a girl. Things which a girl can do better 
than a boy. Things which can be done well by both boys and 
girls. Mutual aid - - - - - - 29 

Lesson VIII.— SISTERS AND BROTHERS— (conc/uded). 

Kindness to younger brothers and sisters. Forgiving the unkind 
brother. Helping a sister in affliction. Helping even unto 
death -------- 33 




Thinking of other people. Good manners. That which seems 
rude is not always so in reality. We are all bound by the rules 
of good manners - - - - - - 46 

Lesson XIL— OTHER PEOF'LE—iconc/tided). 

Courtesy to the weak and infirm. Respecting the burden. Con- 
sideration shown in little things, both by children and men - 50 


The likeness in the five skeletons. Kindness shown by animals as 
well as men. Good qualities shown by savages. Justice and 
mercy towards savage races - - - - "55 


Strength may be used to assist others. Heroes who helped others. 
The words "kindness," " kin," and "kindred." Kindness in 
kings, heroes, men of learning, and children - - - 60 

Lesson XV.— KINDNESS— ((W/z-wm/^^). 

Kindness on a small scale and a large scale. Kindness to ( i ) 
children ; (2) the aged - . . . - 64 

Lesson XVI.— KINDNESS— (r^Jw/Z/w/^^). 

Kindness to (3) the unfortunate, as illustrated by stories from 
England and Japan. Bearing pain for the sake of others - 68 

Lesson XVII.— KINDNESS— (.w///«?<£^). 

Kindness to (4) the sick ; illustrated by stories of a Scot, a Roman, 
a Frenchwoman, and Englishmen - - - - 72 

Lesson XVUl.—Kl'ND'NESS— (continued). 

Kindness to {5) those in peril; illustrated by stories of animals 
and human beings. Is it natural to seek to save those in peril.? 77 

Lesson XIX.— KINDNESS- ((W///««e^). 

Kindness to (6) the mourner. (7) The prisoner. Listening to the 
sad music of the world - - . - - 81 


Lesson XX.— KINDNESS— (<w//z;/«.?^. 

Kindness to (8) the poor (who are like the shipwrecked sailor). 
The sick and helpless may take thought for others ; the poor 
may care for the poor ; and should not the rich care for the 
poor ? - - - - - - - -85 

Lesson XXL— KINDNESS— (r^«/w«frf). 

Kindness due from the rich to the poor. Various ways of helping 
besides giving food and clothes - - - - - 89 

Lesson XXIL— KINDNESS— {com/uded). 

Kindness to (9) servants. Lastly (10), kind people must use their 
brains. Kind men must be intelligent - - - - 95 


Great-mindedness, or magnanimity. Examples from the Greeks, 

Jews, Romans, Swiss, and French ... - 100 


Clever animals. Cleverness devoted to a bad purpose. Clever- 
ness devoted to the spread of knowledge. Cleverness in saving 
life ------- - 105 


Numbers of the deaf and dumb in various countries. Inventors 
of methods of teaching the deaf and dumb. A visit to a " Deaf 
and Dumb School" described - - - - - no 


A visit to an institution for the blind described. Occupations ; 
reading, writing. Duty towards the blind - - " 1 1 5 


Treatment of the sick by Greeks, Romans, Hindoos, Arabs, and 
others. Various kinds of hospitals. Hospital collections. 
Work of doctors and nurses. Better conditions of living - 120 


Dangers of the coasts at night. Lighthouses in olden times. 
Methods of lighting Light-ships. The story of Eddystone. 
Courage of lighthouse keepers - - - - -125 

Rescue from fire. A visit to a fire-brigade station described. The 


work of men and horses. Fighting the flames in olden and 
modern times - - - - - • - 13° 


Association among butterflies, beetles, and ants. Association 
among birds - - - - - - " ^35 

Lesson XXXL— ABOUT ANIMALS— {coitiimed). 

Co-operation among birds. Birds who sing together and travel 
together. Association among deer, " prairie-dogs,'" viscachas, 
monkeys, etc. - - - - - - - 140 

Lesson XXXIL— ABOUT ANlUALS—iconimued). 

Meanness of injuring weaker creatures. Kind lads and cruel lads. 
The effect of kind treatment on animals. Affection between 
animals and their owners - - - - - 144 

Lesson XXXIIL— ABOUT ANIMALS— {conc/uded}. 

Disgust caused by cruel treatment of animals. Does sport make 
sportsmen generous ? A man who is kind to animals attracts 
our respect. Our humble kinsfolk . . . - 149 



Lesson XXXIV.— CAN. 

The little word " can." "Can" and " will." V'arious things men 
and women can do. Those who seem weak may be strong. 
Encouraging others. Good work out of common material - 157 

Lesson XXXV.— WORK. 

The magic power of work. Every healtliy man or woman ought 
to work with brain or hand. Work and nobility - - 162 

Lesson XXXYL— WORK— (con/im/ed). 

Work promotes health and cheerfulness, and wins for us the 
respect and honour of our neighbours. Work leads up to the 
enjoyment of rest ...... 166 


Lesson XXXyiL— WORK— (conchtded). 

Wasted laljour. Examples of labour that brings little or no 
benefit to the world. Work which blesses - - - i/' 


A story of soldiers and sailors who did their duty to women and 
children. Story of a captain who did his duty to his vessel. 
Duty to one's city. Duty done without thought of reward. 
Duty performed by children - - - - I77 


"Honourable" and "Honour." A boy's idea of honour. An 
honourable name ; but name alone will not confer honour. 
Honour in word and work. Duelling. " Act well thy part" - 1S2 

Lesson XL.— ABILITY. 

Various kinds of ability. Using ability to help a neighbour. 
Examples of such help ------ 187 


Serving society by working out ideas ; by building scaffolds ; by 
advice ; by restoring that which is injured ; by honestly perform- 
ing simple tasks - -...-- ig3 


The workman rises early. Breakfast. Sights and sounds in the 
quarry. The old quarryman. What we owe to brave workers 199 


The first series of lessons having dealt with "Self-Control" and 
"Truthfulness," and the present volume with "Kindness" and 
"Work and Duty," the following is the completion of the scheme : — 

Justice.— Simple lessons on the general idea of justice pre- 
paratory to the wider view which will be taken at a later stage. 

Habits.— Continually the children have been led to see that 
mere impulsive righteousness does not suffice. Self-control has 
no worth except as a habit ; truthfulness must be a fixed atti- 
tude of mind ; kindness must be an established sympathy ; 
industry is the habit of work. And, at this point, lessons may 
be given on the significance of habits in general, and the part 
they take in the building-up of the character, both of the indi- 
vidual and the community at large. The effect of repetition of 
movement is observed even in the inorganic world, as in the 
wearing of a channel Ijy a river, and it is amply displayed in 
the lives of animals. Growth and power of habit illustrated in 
learning to walk, to converse, to read and write, etc. ; in the 
exercise of the gymnast ; in the facility of the workman ; in the 
traces left upon our faces and limbs and thoughts by trades, 
occupations, passions, and tastes. Good habits tend to the 
preservation of the person and the race ; bad habits induce 
weakness, failure, and death. It goes without saying that no 
teacher duly versed in the elements of psychology will suppose 
that the delivery of verbal lessons will form enduring habits in 
the pupils, beyond the discipline implied in the systematic 
study of conduct and its results. But this discipline is itself 
an excellent habit which will help to give order and stability to 
the child's view of life and duty. 

Hitherto our standpoint has rather been that of the individual 
than of the social interest ; and yet, in passing, we have again 
and again found that the life and health of the one had no 
reality apart from the life and health of the many. We now 
permanently enlarge our view, and always place the individual 
on a stage of which the landscape in the background represents 
the presence and influence of humanity as a whole. The 
private self merges into the larger self. 


Mutual Dependence and the Social Org-anism.— The 

history of the family as showing the mutual dependence and 
Increase of affection among parents and children, brothers and 
sisters, and the gradual refinement of the home-life. Depen- 
dence of children upon teachers. Ways in which children can 
and do assist teachers. The mutual influence and duties of 
friends. Power of example. Dependence of brain-workers 
upon muscle-workers, and of muscle-workers upon brain-workers. 
Indebtedness of society to the labours of various trades and 
professions. Dependence of one occupation upon another. 
Dependence of town upon country, and country upon town. 
Dependence of one country upon another for food, clothing, 
tools, etc. And here we perceive the possibility of adding a 
new attraction to the teaching of geography. The children will 
learn, not only the position and physical aspect of this or that 
place, but the relations which bind people to people, render 
them ministers to each other's necessities, and lay upon them 
the duty of understanding each other's characters. Then, 
turning to history, we trace the dependence of the present 
upon the past. To the past, as to a revered mother, we 
owe our existence, our nurture, and our immense heritage. 
Material benefits bestowed upon us by the past ; the history 
of architecture, furniture, tools and machinery, shipping, 
roads, canals, railways, etc. Social institutions derived 
from the past ; domestic customs ; manners and fashions and 
ceremonies. Political institutions ; forms of government and 
law. Ideas transmitted from the past by traditions, and spoken 
and written language. Moral conceptions with which the 
present has been endowed by the past. Lessons should be 
arranged to show how great moral ideas found expression in 
the religions of Egypt, China, India, Persia, Arabia, Greece, 
and Rome, as well as in the literature of the Bible. The infor- 
mation thus imparted to the children should awaken a feeling 
of gratitude towards the forefathers and foremothers who have 
so abundantly laboured to develop our civilisation. From this 
feeling, again, should spring reverence for historic spots, 
buildings, and monuments. All periods of our history are seen 
to be connected, all parts of the race related, all interests really 
confederate, in spite of the misunderstandings which have 
engendered jealousy, injustice, and war. 

Justice. — Primitive justice compared with modern. The 
meaning and need of discrimination of claims and merits. 
Apparent justice not always real justice. Justice must be 
awarded irrespective of persons, interests, and affections. It 
includes many things which the laws of the country do not 
touch. True mercy a form of justice. Mutual duties of master 
and servant ; honest work for fair wages ; fair wages for honest 


work ; friendly relations a necessity for individual comfort and 
social harmony. The wrong' of slavery and sweating. Justice 
to animals. Elementary ideas of wealth ; true wealth distin- 
guished from mere accumulation of goods. Property ; respect 
for our neighbour's property ; the rig^ht use of property ; lost 
property ; payment of debts. Gifts, their use and abuse. 
Justice applied to buying and selling. Liberty ; religious 
liberty ; intellectual liberty ; civil liberty ; freedom of speech 
and action. 

The Wopk of the State and the Citizen.— Outline of the 
nature of the State ; ancient States and modern. Simple 
sketches of Plato's Repiihlic and More's Utopia^ etc. The work 
of the State and municipality ; legislatures ; taxation ; courts 
of justice ; local government ; roads, bridges, parks, light, 
water, sanitation, coinage, markets, factories, inspection, postal 
department ; schools and libraries ; army and navy. Civic 
duties ; care of family ; honourable livelihood ; study of public 
questions ; friendly admixture of classes ; the franchise ; care 
for public property and honour. Duties of the judge, magistrate, 
and police ; the police, as representatives of the public will ; 
their use in paciric regulation, as well as in coercion of offenders. 
Punishments, fines, and prisons ; humane notions of modern 
times, as compared with past conceptions and practices. The 
duty of well-disposed citizens to secure the merciful and con- 
siderate treatment of those who have sinned through ignorance, 
bad training, lack of intellectual power, etc. Hence the value 
of education. School children are little citizens, already serving 
the State. The school is the enemy of the prison. 

Co-operation and Peace. — The idea of progress. All 
citizens agents of progress. Benefits of co-operation at home, 
in school, and in public affairs. The good done by societies of 
various kinds. \'alue of mutual forbearance, mutual encourage- 
ment, mutual loyalty. Elevation of character through working 
for a common aim. Victories of peace and industry. Heroism 
displayed in the pursuit of knowledge, in the rescue and service 
of man, in conquests over natural forces. Evils of war and 
national envy. Burden of military systems. While care should 
be taken to give due credit to the military and naval heroes of 
the past, who did their duty according to the standard of their 
time, the newer and better way of international peace and arbi- 
tration should be indicated. 

Study of Nature. — Every possible effort should be made to 
interest children in natural scenes. They should love the sight 
of the starry sky, the winding stream, the daisy-pied meadows, 
the farmyard, the sheepfold, the lane, the path through copse 


or forest, the bank " whereon the wild thyme blows." Town 
children should hear descriptions of village life and customs. 
Such lessons should awaken a desire to spend leisure time amid 
country scenes, and teach children how to take a quiet and 
intelligent pleasure in the beautiful world that lies outside the 
noise and hurry of the city. 

Study of Art. — It is a part of moral education to appreciate 
fine pictures, sculptures, ancient buildings, cathedrals, tapestries. 
Whenever possible (especially in the case of the poorer children) 
visits should be paid to museums, picture-galleries, etc. In this 
way ideas of the power and range of human skill and imagina- 
tion will be imparted. Music, also, will lend its aid to the 
moral instruction, and finely symbolise to the children the 
union of individual activities into a social and harmonious 

Play. — Play involves discipline, habit, truthfulness, kindness, 
honour, mutual dependence, justice, co-operation, and even 
industry and method. Thus even in their games the children 
should see there is a right and a wrong. Younger and weaker 
children must be considered. The rules of the games must be 
honestly observed. The wishes of others should be consulted 
in choosing or ending games. Defeat must be taken with good 
humour. Children may be told of the improvement which has 
taken place in popular sports since the old days of bull-baiting, 
etc. Distinction between innocent and harmful amusements. 
Our sports should not be too expensive, nor cause pain or loss 
to man or beast. The meanness of gambling should be 
e.xplained, it being immoral because the pleasure of winning 
can only be obtained at a neighbour's cost. 

Finally, lessons on the formation of character and the right 
estimate of motives will be imparted. The elder scholars 
should, step by step, be trained to observe that the essence of 
morality does not lie in particular precepts and practices, but in 
the goodwill which spontaneously legislates for itself And, 
when the right moment offers, the teacher, focussing all the 
power of his instruction and his influence into the earnestness 
of personal appeal, will call upon the pupil to dedicate his will 
to the fulfilment of the moral law, to realise his innate worth and 
capacity, and to play a manful part in the service of that com- 
munity which is none other than his larger self 

It may be as well to point out that, in dividing the instruction 
under the heads of Kindness, Duty, etc., no rigid lines of sepa- 
ration between the various aspects of morality are intended. 
All the virtues interpenetrate. The teacher who speaks of 
Justice must continually advert to the power of Kindness, and 
Truthfulness involves Self-control. The moral life is one, 
though our doctrines of it may be many. 



Lesson I. 

The mother's love. The mother's smile. The motherless girls. The 
child's dependence on its mother for speech, health, etc. 

I AM sure you will like this picture. It looks dark at first. 
That is because there is a shade over the lamp which stands 
on the table. A little light comes in at the cottage window, 
for the morning is just beginning to dawn. You can see 
the beams across the ceiling ; plain country chairs ; and there 
is something lying on a rough bed across two of these 
chairs ; and there are four people. One is the doctor, 
whose chin rests on his hand, as he looks upon the some- 
thing stretched on the bed. On the bed lies a child about 
six years old, his curly head half hidden in a pillow, his 
hand hanging over as if it were too weak to clasp anything. 
Perhaps the doctor will presently whisper that this dear 
child is dying. Near the window stands the father ; his 
face is sad ; his lips are pressed tight ; he is watching the 
doctor. And you can see another person, though you 
cannot behold her face, for she is leaning her head on her 
arm, and her arms lie on a table, and her hands are clasped 
together. Though you cannot view her face, you know the 
mother is crying. This picture was painted by Mr. Luke 

Do you know who was the greatest of all painters? It 
was an Italian named Raphael. He delighted to paint 
pictures of the Mother and Child. He had no need to 
hide her face. He shows us the mother whose smiling face 
looks down in love at the babe upon her lap. In one 



picture the child is puUing her dress, and making her turn 
away from the book she has been reading. In another he 
plays at her knee as she sits in the green meadow. And in 
another you may see her seated on a throne, and an angel 
on each side pulls back a curtain, that we may gaze at her 
and her baby; and on each side of the throne two men 
stand ; and below we notice two little boys with wings. 
Have you never seen any of these pictures, or copies of 
them ? If not, go to your friends and say : " Show me 
Raphael's pictures ; show me the beautiful mother and the 
beautiful child." And in a book, or on the wall of a room, 
or in a picture gallery, you may look at their noble faces. 
Always the mother's face is beautiful. Yes, when mothers 
smile at their children, their faces are beautiful always — a 
black mother's, a white mother's — the face of the mother in 
the cottage, the face of the mother on the throne. 

Suppose, for a moment, that in Raphael's picture the 
figures were suddenly changed, and the baby were to lie on 
the floor, and the curtain were to shut and conceal the 
mother from our eyes as if she were gone for ever. Poor 
child ! Neither the two angels, nor the four men, nor the 
two handsome winged boys, could give it the love it wanted. 
Once a Christmas party was being held at a girls' school. 
Fairy lamps were lit, and the candles blazed on the 
Christmas-tree, and the girls flitted here and there, clad in 
white, and cream, and pink, and blue ; and their silken 
shoes danced on the smooth floor. Then there entered two 
girls in black dresses. The singing and chatting were 
hushed. "Why," asked the girls in whispers, "why do 
Nellie and Bertha come in black ?" 

An old lady had brought them. She went up to the 
mistress of the school. 

"I have brought my grandchildren to the party," she said, 
in a low voice, " and beg that you will forgive them for 
coming in black. My dear daughter — their mother — died a 
few days ago. I can sit at home and cry, but I cannot bear 
to see them with their heads drooping in the quiet house. 
I thought you would welcome them here." 

Ah yes, they were welcome ; and the girls in white, and 
cream, and pink, and blue tried to cheer the girls in black, 
and make them forget their sorrow. But, in their hearts, 
each of these laughing girls said : — 


" How glad I am that my dear mother will be there to 
kiss me when I go home." 

We will try to forget that the mother may go behind the 
curtain. We will think to-day of the mother at the side of 
her child. Sometimes, indeed, the mother seems hidden, 
and the child looks for her. Have you not often heard a 
child cry in the night ? It wakes in the dark, and stretches 
out its little hands, and calls. That little babe is praying. 
It is praying to its mother, and she hears it at once. She 
was asleep, but she hears the cry. Others are in the house, 
but she hears the cry first of all. Presently there is 
silence. The prayer is answered, and she is comforting 
the child on her bosom. Another time the child is 
running, and it falls, and its shriek of pain is a prayer, and 
the mother answers it by hastening to help, and bathing the 
bruise, or binding up the wound. It may be that the 
doctor will bind the wound ; but all the while the child 
will fix its eyes upon the mother, as if it thought that, with- 
out her, the bandage would do no good. Or, perhaps, in 
the forest, where the tall pine trees throw their shadow, and 
the oaks stretch their giant arms ; or, perhaps, in the 
crowded street of the city, the child is lost ; and it lifts up 
its little voice in prayer for its mother. Perhaps the mother 
will be too far away to hear ; and if, then, a countryman finds 
it in the forest, or a kind passer-by takes care of it in the 
street, they will do this in the mother's name. They will 
think to themselves : " Poor little soul ! its mother is not 
at hand ; I must take her place." 

And if, boys, you see a child ill-treated ; if you see the 
bully's hand uplifted to strike, and you hear the little one 
raise a scream of terror, you know the scream is a prayer. 
You know the mother would answer it if she were there, and 
she would snatch the child from the tyrant. But the mother 
is not there. You must take her place ; you must shield 
her child. For when things go right in this world, all we 
that are strong will be like mothers and fathers to those 
who weep, or who lie sick, or whose faces are pinched with 
hunger. And if their mothers could know, they would thank 
us for helping their children. 

You see how the child clings to its mother's dress. It 
seems to hang upon her. That is the meaning of the word 
depend — to hang upon. The child depends upon its mother. 


Its life is dependent upon her love. It knows that without 
being told. It will learn to hold out its arms to its father ; 
but, without learning, it will hold out its arms to the mother. 
She can clasp it best. Have you not smiled to see a man 
nursing a baby? You may be sure Raphael would not 
have painted that ! Ought, then, only the mother to 
nurse it ? No ; the father does right to assist the tired 
mother, and you may laugh at his awkwardness, but you 
do not, of course, laugh at his tenderness. 

But mother's tenderness ! What has it done for you? You 
girls and boys — you are ten, eleven, twelve, or thirteen years 
of age. Well, and you will say that soon you will no longer 
depend upon your mother ? Quite true ; and it is right you 
should not. You cannot, as people say, always be tied to 
her apron strings. But you will carry her marks about with 
you. The kisses she dropped upon your cheeks leave no 
trace. What marks do I speak of? 

John, let me single you out. Obey these orders that I 
give you. Walk to the other side of the room. Yes, and 
now fling open the door, and race round the garden, and 
return as sharp as lightning ! Good, you sit down breath- 
less. What swiftness, w^hat power ! And you will make a 
strong man. And who taught you to use your feet ? Who 
taught you to stand, to pass from chair to chair, from wall 
to wall, from room to room, and up and down the hill, and 
about the big world ? Your steps tell of your mother's love. 
You owe your health to her. 

Annie, tell me where you went this morning? 

" I went along the lane, and I gathered buttercups beside 
the millstream. I watched the wind sway the trees in the 
orchard and blow the white apple blossom about. I saw 
poor old widow Brown go slowly, leaning on her stick, 
towards the house where her grandchild lies ill." 

Thank you, Annie, for your story of what you saw, what 
you did, what you felt. I can tell from that story what is 
in your mind and heart. And from whom did your tongue 
learn this wonderful power to tell what is in your mind and 
heart ? Who taught you the little words, and then the 
larger words, and the clear speech that enables you to 
express your thoughts to the people about you ? 

So I see marks of your mother's love in your steps, in 
your speech, in your good health 


In your good health. Have you ever seen a mother 
give her child a rose ? Ah, and have you ever seen a 
mother give the roses of her cheeks to her child ? No ? 
Have you never seen a mother who has nursed a sick child 
until the child grew well and rosy, but she herself lost her 
colour and grew thin and pale ? These are the roses that 
mothers give to their children. 

The mothers are glad so long as the children are well. 
They are glad even though they themselves may suffer. 

Once a mother, who was deaf and dumb, sat by the 
cradle of her child. She knew that she lacked some power 
that other people had, though she could not understand it. 
She knew it was a good thing to move the lips, and to turn 
round when something, she knew not what, happened in 
the ear. Presently she went and fetched a stone. She 
approached the sleeping babe. Ha ! what would she do ? 
She raised the stone on high, and flung it with all her 
might upon the ground. The baby awoke at the crash, 
and began to cry. The mother fell upon her knees, and 
wept tears of joy. She had heard nothing, but she rejoiced 
because she saw that her child possessed the wonderful 
sense of hearing. 

Lesson II. 
MOTHER— (confinued) 

Mother's warnings. Mothers love their children, though they may 
sometimes have to give them pain. Mutual pride of mother and 

" Take care, my dears, take care. Keep to the middle of 
the river. The water is deep there, and safe from enemies. 
If you go near the bank, you will be in danger from men 
who will try to catch you in nets, or with sharp hooks." 

This is what the old fish (she was a carp) is said to have 
said to her little sons and daughters as they swam in the 
river Seine. I suppose she spoke in French ! 


April came ; the sun shone upon the hills and melted the 
snow, and glittering streams rushed down the valleys and 
joined the big river, and the river swelled and swelled and over- 
flowed its banks. The little carps let themselves be carried 
by the flood over the fields, over bushes, over hedgerows. 

" We are masters of the world," cried the little carps. 

" It will not last long," shrieked the poor mother, as she 
flapped about in the deep water, and watched her children 
going farther and farther away. 

And it did not. The flood sank lower ; the river ran in 
its old channel ; here and there shallow pools of water were 
left in the meadows. In one of these pools the little carps 
swam, anxious and unhappy. They could not get out. 
They could not cross the dry land between the pool and the 
river which was their proper home. Men and boys came 
from the village, and swept the pool with fishing-nets. All 

the little carps were put into a basket, and . Well, I 

need not tell you their miserable end ! 

Do mothers like to please their children ? Certainly, 
they would sooner please their children than any other 
persons in the world. Did it please the little carps to swim 
across the flooded meadows ? Very much indeed. And 
their mother forbade them to go ? Yes. Then did not their 
mother wish to keep them away from a pleasure ? Yes. But 
we said that mothers like to please their children ! Well, and 
were the little carps really pleased? Yes, at first. And 
afterwards? Not at all. How terrified they were when they 
saw the men and boys walk to the pool with the nets. They 
knew that death was coming. Suppose, then, they had stayed 
with their mother in the middle of the stream ; would they 
have been pleased ? Not at first. And afterwards ? Yes ; 
very much indeed ; and they might have lived for years in 
the river Seine. Then did their mother wish to please her 
children ? Certainly ; she wanted them to live happy for 
years. And so, to make them happy, she was at first 
obliged to ^«-please them, and give them pain. And did it 
please her to forbid them to swim over the meadows? No ; 
she was sorry to cause them pain ; and she felt a yet deeper 
pain when her children were taken from her for ever. 

A little boy once asked his mother for a mince-pie. 

"No, Julian," she said, "there are currants in it; and 
you know currants make you ill." 


Julian saw his sister eating a pie, and felt vexed to think 
he might not do the same as she did. He sat sulky and 
displeased. And all the time his mother was as vexed as 
he was. She would have been glad to give him what he 
wanted ; but she dared not, because she loved him. 

Once I had arranged to take some children to the Zoo- 
logical Gardens, and I called at Arthur's house to inquire of his 
parents whether he might go with us the next day. I found 
Arthur sitting, rather quieter than usual, in an arm-chair. 

"I hope," said I to the mother, "that you will allow 
Arthur to join the party to-morrow. There is a new giraffe 
in the Gardens. I read in the newspapers an interesting 
account of the tricks which the chimpanzee can perform. 
We expect to see the sea-lions fed. And we shall not only 
see the elephant, but have the honour of riding on his 
back " 

The mother looked rather strangely at me, and I paused. 

"Yes, mother," cried Arthur. "Let me go, do let me 
go ! The giraffe, mother ; the chimpanzee, mother ; the 
sea-lions, mother ; the elephant, mother !" 

She shook her head. 

" Arthur is not well," she answered. " His liver has been 
very much out of order. The doctor has been to see him 
every day this week, and, though I am glad to say Arthur is 
better, I must not let him go out of the house just yet." 

" Oh, mother, the new giraffe, the new giraffe ! And the 
sea-lions " 

"No, Arthur," I said. " Your mother is right. We are 
all sorry, but you ought not to go." 

As I came away, I heard Arthur grumbling bitterly. 
Perhaps he did not see what I had seen — the silver tears 
glistening on the mother's eyelashes. 

So you see, mothers still love their children, though they 
may have to give them warnings and give them pain. 

If you saw a heavy weight about to fall on your mother, 
would you not call out to save her from harm and pain ? 
Of course you would. If she bids you not go to a place, or 
not to do a certain thing, will you disobey ? If you do, you 
will give her pain ; but by obeying her you save her from 
pain and sorrow. 

So, then, you will obey your good mother ; and then you will 
learn to obey your other mother. Other ! Who is this other ? 


Let US think. I went the other day to an office, where 
clerks sat with many cash-books, and I paid in gold, and 
only got in exchange a small piece of paper — a receipt. At 
one moment I felt unwilling to pay. The next moment I 
thought : " I ought to be ready and willing to pay ; this 
money helps to support our soldiers and sailors, our light- 
houses, our policemen, our schools." I had paid my taxes, 
and I had served the great mother. And who is this great 
mother ? The country in which we live ; or, if you please, 
you may call it the fatherland ; but the meaning is the same. 
And he who obeys his mother or father will be ready to 
obey the laws of his motherland, his fatherland. 

There was once a Roman boy whose mother had brought 
him up with care and love. When he grew to manhood 
and showed his valour in the wars, the Romans made him 
a crown as a reward. But afterwards he was offended with 
his fellow-citizens, and he was sent away — banished. Then 
Coriolanus (Cor-io-ld-?ius) went in great anger to the 
enemies of Rome, and joined their army, and said he would 
march with them against his own city and his own people. 
And so, plundering and burning on the road, he advanced 
nearly to the gates of Rome. Then out came his aged 
mother, Veturia, and she made her way into his camp, and 
with her went his wife and two children. The old mother 
looked with grief at her wilful son. 

"Ah, my son," she said ; "did I train you up for this? 
Will you now fight against your own kindred, your own flesh 
and blood ? \Vill you fight against your mother, and your 
mother-city ?" 

Coriolanus folded his arms, and tried to look hard and 
careless. But her speech and her tears moved his heart, 
and he bent his head, and said he would not do the wrong, 
and he broke up the army and retired to a far country. On 
the spot where this happened the Romans built a temple, 
and Veturia lived in it as the priestess, and all the people 
respected the mother whose words had saved Rome. 

I will not tell you to love your mother ; I know you love 
her ; and because you love her you will obey her ; and in 
loving her and obeying her you will be proud of her. 
People sometimes say, Do not be proud ; but they never 
say, Do not be proud of your mother. 

A Roman lady named Cornelia sat talking with a friend 


who had called at her villa. The friend had brought a 
casket with her, and this little box contained jewels and 
sparkling stones— sapphires, pearls, emeralds. Cornelia 
gazed at the jewels and admired them, but did not bring 
out any casket of her own. 

Presently a noise of footsteps was heard, and Cornelia's 
two sons (the Gracchi, we call them — Grak'-ki) came 
bounding in from school, and kissed their mother. 

"These," said Cornelia, "are my jewels." 

This was the mother's pride in her sons. And now I will 
end by telling you of a little boy's pride in his mother. He 
was listening to the talk of a visitor, and the visitor happened 
to say, " An honest man's the noblest work of God," mean- 
ing an honest man is the finest of all people in the world. 
The little fellow cried out : — 

" Oh, no ! My mother's the noblest !" 

So there should be tniiiual pride — that is, pride on each 
side. For, while it is pleasant to see mothers proud of 
their children, it is also pleasant to see children proud of 
their mothers. 

Lesson III. 
^lOTYiY.^— (concluded) 

Showing respect and honour to mothers. 

The soldiers march by ; the band plays ; the ensign carries 
the flag ; and the people raise loud cheers. Little Henry 
takes off his hat as the flag goes past. He shows respect 
to his country. 

An old man with a white beard and stooping shoulders 
walks slowly towards his house ; and he leans on a stick at 
each step. Little Henry runs and opens the gate, and holds 
it open till the old man has entered. He shows respect to 
old age. 

Suppose little Henry goes home, and his mother asks 


him: "Where have you been, my dear?" And suppose 
he answers : — 

" Oh, mind your own business ; I shall not tell you where 
I have been !" 

Would you not be surprised to hear him speak in this 
way ? But I was only supposing. I do not believe Henry 
would do such a thing. When he saluted his country's flag 
he was a patriot ; when he opened the gate for the old man 
he was a gentleman ; and patriots and gentlemen show 
respect to their mothers. 

" Do you find Kate careful at her lessons ?" I asked of a 

" Yes, she is most attentive ; and she is punctual and 
regular at school." 

"And she is quiet and obedient ?" 

" Oh, yes." 

" Ah," said I to myself, " she is getting some good from 
her education." 

Some time afterwards I was at Kate's house as she came 
home from school. Her mother said : — 

" Kate, please run and fetch me a loaf of bread from the 

It was raining a little, and Kate called out : — 

" What ! all in this pouring torrent ? You are very 
unkind ! Why did you not fetch the bread yourself?" 

" Oh," said I to myself, " to be obedient at school is not 
everything. Kate is not well-educated after all." 

For well-educated girls and ladies show respect to their 

Let me tell you of three great men who gave honour to 
their mothers. 

Many years ago a young man named John Chrysostom 
( Kris' -os-toj?i) went to his mother, and said : — 

" Mother, my friend has asked me to go and live with 
him in the Syrian desert. We shall dwell alone, and men 
will call us hermits ; for it is better to live right away from 
the noise and wickedness of the world." 

She took him by the hand, and led him to her chamber, 
and they sat down. She cried bitterly, and then addressed 
him : — 

" My son, since your father died it has been my only 
happiness to see his likeness in your face. Since you were 


but a baby I have had this pleasure. I am now a widow ; 
if you go away, you will make me a widow a second time. 
Wait till I die ; it may not be long ; and then go whither 
you will." 

The young man stayed with his mother until she died. I 
do not think he did a good thing in going afterwards to 
dwell alone in the Syrian desert, but I am sure St. John 
Chrysostom (for he is called a saint) did well to remain at 
home and care for his mother so long as she lived. 

Thomas Telford, the great engineer, did not, amid all his 
buildings of bridges and docks, forget his mother. She 
was a widow, and depended upon his care, just as, when he 
was a baby, Thomas had depended upon her love and 
watchfulness. He sent her money from time to time, and 
used to write letters to her in large plain print-hand, thus — 
MY DEAR MOTHER, so that her weak eyes might be 
able to read with ease. 

A yet greater man was Abraham Lincoln, President of the 
United States of America. It was he who helped to secure 
freedom for the negro slaves. On one occasion, when the 
men of the Congress (Parliament) praised his noble work, 
he answered : " It is not I whom you should praise, but my 
mother, to whom I owe everything." 

Sometimes, indeed, we may meet a mother who does not 
do as she ought. She may say or do things which even a 
child knows are not right ; and when we look into her home 
we may see it is unclean and unhappy. I scarcely like to 
speak of such a thing, but yet, you know, such scenes may 
be witnessed in the world. Suppose, for a moment, that 
you were the son or daughter of such a mother, what could 
you do ? Would you find fault with her ? No ; other 
people, older people, would do that. And when your mother 
saw that you were sorry, and yet, while you looked at her 
sadly, you said nothing, I think that would touch her heart, 
and do her good. And you could watch for a chance to 
help her, so that when, one day, she seemed more ready to 
make the home bright, you would run to her side, and be a 
partner in her work. For you know that, even if your 
mother were not so good as she ought to be, you are very 
likely the person she loves best in all the world. 

There is another sad word I must say. Do you remember 
how, the other day, I spoke of a curtain, and how our 


mothers might be hidden by it ? Do you understand me ? 
I mean that mother may die. And if so, might we not then 
feel grieved to think we had not ahvays pleased her by our 
conduct ? Should we not feel happier if we remembered 
that we had been kind to her ? 

Dr. Samuel Johnson, a great writer, always respected his 
mother, and he showed his respect by what he did when she 
died. He was poor, but he made up his mind to pay for 
her decent funeral, and to pay the debts she had left owing 
to neighbours. And he earned the money by writing a book, 
and selling it for print to a publisher. This little book was 
called The History of Rasselas^ Prince of Abyssitiia. When 
you are older you must read this pretty tale, and think why 
Dr. Johnson wrote it. 

About the same time there lived an English poet named 
WiUiam Cowper. One day his cousin sent him a little 
picture of his mother, who died when he was a small child. 
Then he sat down and wrote a poem to tell what he remem- 
bered of his mother. The gardener, Robin, took him to 
school, warmly wrapped and dragging a toy-cart : — 

" The gardener, Robin, day by day, 
Drew me to school along the public way, 
Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapped 
In scarlet mantle warm and velvet capped." 

Every night his mother came to look at him in bed. 
Every morning she washed his face, and gave him some 
little sweetmeat : — 

" Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 
That thou might'st know me safe and warmly laid, 
Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 
The biscuit, or confectionery plum." 

And he says he used to take a piece of paper and slip it 
under the edge of her flowered gown, and prick the pattern 
in with a pin, while she stroked his head and smiled :— 

" The violet, the pink, the jessamine, 
I pricked them into paper with a pin, 
And thou wast happier than myself the while, 
Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile." 

Dr. Johnson and Cowper were both Christian men. Before 
I close my talk about mother, I will relate to you an old 
Greek story. It shows that the Greeks understood how 
beautiful was the love of children for their mothers. 


At the town of Argos was the temple of the goddess 
Hera. The priestess of this temple had to attend a feast 
one day, and, as usual, she intended to drive to the temple 
in her chariot drawn by oxen. The oxen were out in the 
fields some distance away, and, as the time of the festival 
drew near, the priestess was afraid she would be late at the 
meeting of the people of Argos. Her two sons, Cleobis 
(Cle'-o-bis) and Biton (Bit' -on) saw her distress, and they 
said : — 

" Mother, do not feel troubled. We will take the place 
of the oxen, and draw you to the temple ourselves." 

Over their necks they placed the wooden board or yoke 
which fastened the heads of the oxen together and kept 
them steady at the chariot-pole. The mother sat in the car, 
and the young men pulled, and pulled, and pulled — forty- 
five furlongs they pulled, all the way to the temple. Men 
came out and said : — 

" What strong young men ! Happy is the mother who 
has such strong sons." 

Women came out and said : — 

" What kind young men ! Happy is the mother who has 
such kind sons." 

Kind and strong, but oh ! so tired : they stopped at the 
temple gates. The priestess was in good time, and the 
people were assembling for the service. And the mother 
prayed to the gods to give her dear sons the best of gifts. 

Cleobis and Biton sat at the table with the joyous people, 
and ate of the fruit and the wine. They and their mother 
stayed that night in the chambers of the house of Hera. 
Next morning the kind and brave sons were found dead. 

Dead ! But they were never forgotten. People made 
statues of the two brothers, and often spoke of them, and 
to-day I speak their names to you and tell the story of 
their love ; and some day you will tell it to others, perhaps 
to your own little sons and daughters. 

All over the earth, whether people are Christians or not 
Christians ; whether they are white or black ; whether they 
live amid heat or snow ; whether they follow chiefs or kings 
or presidents ; whether their flag is of this colour or that, 
they are all alike in one thing. They all respect one person. 
All men salute the mother. 

Lesson IV. 

Where did I see the Wonderful Man ? Perhaps I saw him 
in a dream at the dead of night. Perhaps I lay on the 
grass under the beech-tree, and looked up at the rustling 
leaves, and thought and thought, until I saw all kinds of 
strange things in my fancy. Never mind how I saw him ; 
I will tell you what I saw. But, first of all, let me say that 
the wonder of the man was in the way he changed from 
one shape to another, and yet, all the time, he was the 
self-same man. 

I saw him as a hunter. All day long he had climbed 
about the moors, following the tall red deer. Sometimes 
he hid in the hollows, waiting for his prey. Sometimes he 
crouched behind a bush, and then crept to a rock, and then 
another rock, scarcely daring to breathe. And once a 
thick white mist came all about him, and he could espy 
nothing. Often the deer were startled, and they fled over 
the heather and the bracken, and then, weary but patient, 
he began the chase again. 

I saw him as a shepherd. He led his flock beside the 
still waters in the valley, and he sat and watched the sheep 
as they wandered over the green pasture. Or he let them 
clamber up the steep slopes to crop the short, sweet grass. 
If he beheld dark clouds curling all about the tops of the 
hills and shadows spreading over all the scene, he knew a 
tempest was coming, and he guided his flock to a place of 
shelter. When the lion or the bear came by day, or the 
wolf by night, to steal sheep from his flock, he clenched his 
teeth, and gripped his spear, and went out to face the foe. 
He could work, he could fight, and he could wonder. Yes, 
when the stars twinkled out, the shepherd gazed at the 
curious patterns they made in the sky. And if one bright 



speck moved night after night among the rest of the stars, 
he noticed its march, and said to himself: "This is a star 
that travels. I will call it a planet, or wanderer." 

I saw him as a tiller of the soil. He held the handles of 
a plough, and the shining plough-knife, or share, cut neat 
furrows in the brown earth as two stout oxen tugged it 
across the field. The necks of the oxen were fastened 
together by a yoke. When the field was ploughed, the man 
took a basket of seed and dropped the golden grain into 
the ground, as if into a grave, and he waited month after 
month, half afraid that the corn had died. But it rose 
again from the grave as thin green blades, and the sun 
kissed the leaves as soon as they struggled out of the 
ground. At last the green stalks turned to yellow straw, 
with clusters of seeds at the head, and the man clutched a 
gleaming steel sickle, and I heard the swish of his reaping, 
and I saw a beautiful smile on his big brown face, as he 
gathered in his harvest. And I smiled too. 

I saw him as a trader. One day he sang a wild wailing 
song as he walked beside his camel, and the bells jingled 
on the camel's harness. Another time he rode on a strong 
mule that could carry both him and his load of goods ; and 
he picked his way carefully through a rocky pass, peering to 
this side and that for fear lest robbers should fall upon him 
and take all that he had. And yet another time he walked 
as a pedlar with a burden on his back, and he trudged from 
village to village and showed his wares to women at the 
cottage-doors ; or he spoke to the men-servants at the gate 
of the castle, and asked leave to go in and make bargains 
with the noble lady who was mistress of the stately place. 

I saw him as a builder. He cut out clay and made 
bricks ; and he laid the bricks straight as a sunbeam and 
strong as stone, until they stood in four walls ; and when he 
had fixed the beams of timber, and thatched the house with 
straw, and set the oaken door on hinges, he did not fear the 
biting wind, or the clattering hail, or the splash of the rain, 
or the cruelty of the soft snow. 

I saw him as a blacksmith. A crimson glow lit up his 
face as the fire of the forge grew strong. He swung the 
hammer over, and it smote upon the red-hot iron on the 
anvil, and sparks leaped out of the iron, and he smote again, 
and again, until he seemed like a man of thunder, and it 


made me glad to see the might of his brawny arm. One day 
he beat out a long thin leaf of steel, and, when it was 
burnished, I knew it was a sword for killing. The next day 
he created a plough-share to divide the earth ready for the 
corn-seed ; also he made bright shoes for the feet of horses. 

I saw him as a potter. He pressed his foot on a treadle, 
and a wheel spun round like a small table, and on the small 
table he had dropped a lump of clay, and he put his fingers 
to the clay, and the wheel spun and spun ; and presently, 
when it stopped, there lay a bowl on the little round table. 
Some days afterwards the clay was dry and hard, and it 
was baked in a furnace, and then it could hold milk or 
wine or water. Besides this, the potter made jugs, and 
vases, and dishes. The last time I peeped at the potter he 
was painting on a dish in red and gold, and green, and 
blue, and black, and the picture came out in flowers, and 
leaves, and dancing-girls. 

I saw him as a glass-blower. In a large chamber there 
were round furnaces, with doors. He opened a door, and 
the flames inside blazed like sunlight. As soon as the door 
was shut I found that the glass-blower had thrust his long 
rod into the furnace, and taken it out again with melted 
glass on the end. The rod was a pipe, and he blew down 
the hollow rod, and the glass sweUed like a globe, and soon 
he had pressed it and cut it, and turned out a flask for 
holding wine or water, such as the potter's bowl had held. 
Moreover, he poured out melted glass and rolled it flat, and 
put silvering at the back, and brought the mirror outside, 
and lifted it up, and in it I observed the trees, and hills, 
and cattle, and the wide-spread sky; yes, and my own face. 

I saw him as an engineer. He, and others that toiled 
with him, had set a bridge across a stream ; and I was the 
first to walk upon the bridge, and I leaned over and won- 
dered at the roar of the river as it sped through the arches. 
He laid stones for a broad road, and the road went straight 
from town to town until it came to a hill, and then he 
caused it to wind and go zig-zag, but always firm and safe 
for man and beast. Also he stretched railway-lines across 
the level ground, and bored a tunnel through a mountain, 
and he laughed as he mounted an engine, and with a snort, 
and amid a cloud of steam, it rolled into the heart of the 
rocks, and rolled out again into the daylight. 


I saw him as a coal-hewer. He seemed ahnost like a 
mouse in a trap as he worked in the narrow passage under- 
ground. By the rays of a small lamp he did his work. 
Naked to the waist, he wielded a pickaxe, and brought 
down masses of glittering coal from the wall. Now and 
then he was so placed that he could not stand upright ; 
and then he half lay on his back, and struck and struck at 
the crackling coal. 

I saw him as a cleaner of sewers. He had gone down a 
man-hole, down an iron ladder, down under the earth, 
down into the tunnel where a black river ran, the black 
river from the drains of a city. Out of the black river arose 
a gas that no man could see, but it could float into a man's 
mouth and nostrils, and slay him with its deadly force. Rats 
flew in swarms along the sewer — fierce rats that might attack 
a man. 

I saw him as a seaman, first in one ship, then in another. 
He sang as he washed the deck, and the breeze was 
light, and the heavens blue. Then, out in the middle of 
the ocean, he was trying to take in a sail, and the wind tore 
it to rags, and, like moving hills, the water tossed around the 
vessel, and the black sky appeared to come down upon the 
sea, until a flash of lightning burst and showed every rope 
and spar and rail. Afterwards he sat in a fishing-smack 
that lay near a sand-bank, and his nets were spread to catch 
the herring, and below he looked into the restless waters, 
and above him shone the stars. 

I saw him as a soldier. A knapsack hung upon his back, 
and he marched to the sound of the drum, and others 
marched ; thousands marched ; fifty thousand marched ; 
grasping swords and rifles they marched ; dusty and footsore 
they marched behind a flag that was flapping about a wooden 
staff; and the frightened horses and the cannon went by 
with a great rumble ; and the men shouted, and smoke 
arose, and they were all hidden, and I knew they were gone 
to the shedding of blood — ah, me ! the shedding of blood — 
ah, me ! the shedding of blood. 

When I saw him again, I spoke to him : — 

" Tell me, why do you hunt, and plough, and trade, and 
build, and hammer, and fight? Why do you labour with 
so much pain and for such long hours, and year after year, 
and all your life ?" 



" I do this," he said, "for the children." 

"And tell me your name?" I asked. 

"Do you not know me?" he answered. "Who would 
labour as I labour except the father ? By day and by 
night, in heat and in cold, through summer and winter, in 
joy and grief, in safety and in danger, the father works for 
his dear children ; and when they look at the world they 
live in, everywhere they see the works of the father." 

"Good father," I cried, "and what reward do you wish 

" It is enough," said the father, " if my children give me 
their love." 

Lesson V. 

Father's example and protection. Sometimes father finds it necessary 
to punish. Obedience to father. 

A BOY was losing himself in a forest. Tall trees rose like 
giants about him, and stretched their arms overhead. Thick 
clusters of fern and bracken, and masses of bramble and 
holly, grew on all sides. The boy ran this way and that way. 
Oh, would the darkness come on before he made his escape 
from the forest ? At length he raised a cry of joy. He 
had found a path ; he saw the foot-marks of men and 
women. People had been that road before, and he would 
follow in their track. Before long he came out into the 
open meadows and saw his cottage-home, and his father at 
the garden gate. 

Yes, he was glad to follow the road which other people 
had trodden before him. Their footsteps helped him. 

One day, when the snow lay upon the ground, a father 
and his little son trudged across the fields. The man walked 
more easily than the boy, and when he reached the stile he 
stopped and waited. As he looked back across the field he 
noticed the lad coming slowly on in the deep snow. The 
son was placing his feet in his father's footprints. When 
the father went to the right, the son went to the right. 
\\'hen the father went to the left, the son went to the left. 
^^'hen the father went crookedly, the son went crookedly. 
When the father went straight, the son went straight. 

" Ah," said the father to himself, "I must be careful what 
I do. My son imitates me. He copies my example. If I 
wish him to go right, I must go right myself." 

Do all fathers do what is right ? Alas, no. Do all fathers 
show a good example ? Alas, no. Suppose a father often 
does bad things ; would he like his son or his daughter to 


do bad things, or good ? I think he would Hke his son or his 
daughter to do good. He might often be bad himself, but 
he would not wish his children to be bad. And I can tell 
you a very w'onderful thing. Boys and girls often keep 
their fathers from doing wrong, though the children may 
never know it. Perhaps the father is going to open a door 
that leads to an evil place ; perhaps he is going to lift his 
hand to do a wrong deed ; perhaps he is going to utter a 
word that will stain his lips with shame — and he halts. He 
thinks of you. He say to himself : — 

" I will not do this, because it would set a bad example 
to my boy or girl." 

And then, again, boys and girls help their fathers to do 
right. The father will open the door that leads to good 
work ; he will lift his hand to do the just action ; he will 
utter the true word, because he knows his children are 
looking. Is it not a happy thing to have fathers who can 
show us the way through the forest, and guide us across 
the snowy field ? When you go to the workshop, you will 
remember how your father worked. When you have money 
to handle, you will remember how your father spent it. 
When you meet ill-behaved people, you will remember how 
your father acted towards such persons. When a great pain 
falls upon you, you remember how your father bore it. 
When you see a neighbour in trouble, you will remember 
how your father used to help. 

Once, in the eighteenth century, there lived a wild 
chieftain in the mountains of Sicily. His name was Mica 
(Mee'-ka). Much of his money he had gained through 
robbery. As he grew older, he lived a quieter life in his 
dwelling on the hills. But he had a great sorrow. His 
son was rough and unloving, and once he had sprung upon 
his father, with knife uplifted, meaning to do murder ; but 
he was prevented. An old peasant of that district was 
rambling over the grounds near Mica's house, and he shot 
one or two hares. He was seized by some of Mica's men, 
and the chieftain, in a violent rage, ordered the old peasant 
to be put into close prison as a punishment for poaching. 
Next day a young man came to Mica's door, and begged 
to speak with the chieftain. 

" Sir," said the young man, " I am the son of the peasant 
whom you have captured. He is old ; he cannot bear the 


Strain of being shut up in a cell. I can bear it better. Let 
me be punished in his stead." 

The robber was astonished, and, turning to the old man, 
he said : — 

" How is it your son is so good ?" 

" I tried to be good myself," answered the peasant. 

He had shown his son the way, and the son followed it. 

But this way through the forest, or over the snow, is not 
always easy. A wolf may appear in the thicket. The 
father will stand between the wolf and his son. The 
blinding snow-storm may strike fear into the lad's heart. 
Wrapping his coat above the boy, the father will shield 
him from the cold. The father gives his children his protec- 
tion. When the wolf comes, the boy clings to his father's 
side. When the tempest comes, the boy nestles close to 
the father, and grasps his hand. When the boy cannot get 
on well with his school-fellows, he goes to his father and 
asks what he had better do. When the youth finds it hard 
to do his work honestly in the brick-yard, or the smithy, or 
the railway station, or the office, he goes to the father and 
says, "What shall I do ?" He believes in his father more than 
in any other man. Do you know what we call this feeling 
of trust? We call \t faith. He has faith in his father. 

A party of gentlemen were climbing the rocks in the 
Scottish Highlands. They were in search of rare plants ; 
they were botanists. One of them leaned over a cliff, and 
down below, in a crack of the rock, he caught sight of a 
flower which he had often wished to gather, and he raised a 
shout of gladness. But how was he to get it? He could not 
descend himself. Someone said they might tie a rope 
under the arms of a boy w-ho was with them, and let him 
down the precipice. The boy shrank back, for the cliff was 
steep and high. 

" We will hold you tight," cried the gentlemen. 

The boy thought for a moment, and then he looked 
towards a hardy Scottish shepherd who had come with 
the party. 

" I will go down," he said, " If my ftither will hold the 

And he did. Swinging in the air, hovering over a deep 
chasm, he went down and did not flinch. He had faith in 
his father's hand and his father's love. 


You would love your father — would you not ? — for making 
footprints for you to walk in. You would love him — would 
you not? — if he held the rope that saved you from falling 
on the deadly rocks. But suppose your father punished 
you. Suppose he had to lay upon you some kind of painful 
punishment. Would you love him for that? 

Perhaps you do not know what to answer. Well, do you 
love pain? No. Do you love your father? Yes. And 
would you love the pain your father gave you? No. 
Would you love him although he gave you pain ? Yes. 
Why would you ? Because all the time he gives you 
pain he loves you. He gives you the pain because he 
loves you. I remember hearing of a father who felt 
obliged to give his two sons a whipping, and he shed 
tears of sorrow ; but he chastised them all the same. 
The sons loved their father, for they could see his sorrow 
in his tears ; and they knew that they were also giving pain 
to him. 

And so, if you do not wish to give your father pain, you will 
obey him when he bids you do a task, or go on a message, 
or stay in the house, or sit by your sick brother's bedside, 
or come home by a certain hour, or not to speak to an ill 
behaved schoolfellow. 

No doubt you have read of the French boy, young Casa- 
bianca. He was about thirteen years old, and was the son 
of the commander of the warship Orient. The French were 
fighting Nelson's fleet at the battle of the Nile. The boy 
had been placed at a certain part of the ship by his father. 
When the ship caught fire, he stayed at his post. He would 
not leave till his father gave permission ; but, alas ! though 
he knew it not, his father had been shot, and lay in the 
cabin dead. 

" The flames rolled on — he would not go, 
Without his father's word ; 
That father, faint in death below, 
His voice no longer heard. 

" He called aloud : ' Say father, say, 
If yet my task is done ?' 
He knew not that the chieftain lay 
Unconscious of his son." 

At last the fire reached the powder-magazine, and the ship 

blew up with a noise like echoing thunder, and the broken 
pieces of the vessel were scattered on the sea. 

" There came a burst of thunder sound — 
The boy — oh, where was he? 
Ask of the winds that far around 
With fragments strewed the sea." 

Ought children to obey their parents ? Yes. Was it Casa- 
bianca's duty to obey his father ? Yes. Did he do right 
in staying at his post ? Yes. Then did he do right in 
waiting to be blown up ? This puzzles you. 

Well, did the father wish him to be killed ? No. Would 
the boy have done wrong if he had sprung from the ship into 
a boat with others who escaped ? No. But would not that 
have been disobeying his father? No. His father was 
dead, and could not know the son's danger. If the father 
had been alive, you know what he would have done. He 
would have shouted : " My son, let us leave the vessel at 
once, or we shall be blown up. It is no longer our duty to 
stay." The boy made a mistake ; but he was noble to 
remain at his post. 

Our father is, to us, like a captain, a master, a king. 
And if we learn to obey our father, we have learned how to 
obey captains, masters, and kings ; and if we dwell in a 
country that has no king, that will make no difference. For 
the country we were born in — the dear land of our birth — 
England, or America, or France, or Germany, or Italy, or 
Australia — that is our Fatherland ; and the laws of our 
country are the laws of the Fatherland. And when we do 
our honest day's work, and obey the laws which the people 
have made, we are sood children of the Fatherland. 


Lesson VI. 

FATHER— (ro;/c/uded) 

Mutual pride between father and child. Respect and consideration for 
father. When sons and daughters do right, the hearts of mothers 
and fathers are sjlad. 

Once I sat in a room in a friend's house. There were 
many pictures on the walls ; but one, above all, drew my 
attention. It had no men or women in it — only a farm- 
house, a few trees, a sheet of water, and a group of cows 
standing in the water. Beautiful cows they all were — some 
black and white, some brown, some nearly all white ; and 
their coats were sleek and healthy ; and their large eyes so 
calm and bright. 

" What a pretty picture," I said to my friend. 

" Yes," he answered. " But I am sorry to tell you there 
was one person who did not like it. It was the father of the 
painter. The painter was a young man, and his father was 
also a painter. And when the father saw the fine picture 
he felt out of temper, and he spoke unkind words about his 
son. The father was jealous." 

You and I start back from such a father. We say he was 
not a true father. He ought to have been proud of his 
son's work. Do you remember how I told you of Cornelia, 
the good Roman mother who called her sons her jewels? 
And of the little boy who thought his mother the noblest 
person in the world ? There should be prt'de on both sides ; 
each should be proud of the other ; there should be itiutual 

Once there was a famous Frenchman named Diderot 
(Dee'-de-ro). He wrote books, and thousands of people 
thought him great. Some years after his father's death he 
visited the town where he was born, and where his good 
father was still remembered. An old townsman took him 
by the arm, and said : — 

" You are a good fellow ; but if you think you will ever 
be as good as your father, you make a mistake." 

Diderot smiled. It pleased him to hear the townsman 
say his father was a better man than himself. And if the 


father had been aUve, and heard anyone praise young 
1 )iderot, I should not wonder if he had said : — 

" Yes, my son is a greater man than I am, and I am very 

If you had a drunken father, would you not be ashamed ? 
But would you be ashamed if you had a humble father ? 
Suppose you became learned, and could speak in long 
words like a book ; and you had mixed with lords and 
ladies, and knew how to make stately bows, and sit at 
splendid dinner-tables, and write letters to princes ; and 
then suppose your father came to see you. Suppose you 
saw his speech was not correct, and his manners were simple 
and awkward ; would you pass him by as if you did not 
know him ? If so, you would show a very mean and 
unmanly, unwomanly spirit. 

In olden times crowds of people gathered in the streets 
of Rome. Many of them burned incense, and the sweet 
smoke of the incense curled up into the air. 

" Here they come !" shouted the citizens ; and down the 
highway there rode soldiers on horseback, and chariots 
rumbled by, and groups of prisoners bound with chains 
were led past ; and, last of all, could be seen the General, 
who had won victories over the barbarian foes, and now he 
was enjoying his Triumph. 

"lo, lo (yo) !" the people cried. 

Presently the General ordered his chariot-driver to stop. 
He sprang from the car, and made his way towards an old 
and humbly clad man who stood among the crowd. The 
General saluted the old man with respect and tenderness. 
It was his father. 

Do you suppose this was the first time the Roman soldier 
had shown respect to his father ? No. ^^^hen he was a boy 
he would look up to his father, and do little kindnesses for 

A little girl, four years old, used to bring her father his 
slippers when he came in from work, so that he might sit 
easy after a tiring day. A lady asked the child to spend the 
day with her. 

" No, thank you," replied the little maid ; " I could not 
leave home, because, if I did, there would be nobody to 
fetch papa his slippers when he came home. 

You see she was thoughtful ; she showed thoughtfulness. 


The same thoughtfulness is shown by grown-up sons and 
daughters. Some two thousand years ago, when the Temple 
of the Jews was still standing in Jerusalem, the High-priest 
wished for a new diamond to be set in the breast-plate which 
he wore over his robe. So certain men paid a visit to a 
certain merchant named Damah, and asked to see his 
finest jewels. Now Damah was not a Jew ; some people 
would have called him a "heathen" ; but you must know 
that, whether a man is a heathen, or Jew, or Christian, he is 
only good if his conduct is good. 

" I will fetch the largest of my diamonds," said Damah to 
the messengers. 

Then he remembered that the key of the safe in which 
the diamond was kept was in the pocket of his father's 
robe ; and the father was asleep. Damah said he could not 
waken the old man. 

"Go," the messengers said, "and wake him; and we will 
give you more money for the jewel. 

Damah refused. The Jews were vexed, and were about 
to depart, and go elsewhere, and Damah would have lost 
their custom. Just then the father awoke, and his son got 
the key and the jewel. 

" Of course," said the messengers, " we will give you the 
larger price which we offered." 

"Oh, no," answered the merchant ; " I will sell you the 
diamond for the sum which you first named. I did not 
show honour to my father in order to make a profit out of 

I will tell you of a son who was more than thoughtful. 
Old Appius {Ap'-pMis) was a citizen of Rome. He had 
offended the rulers of the city, and they ordered him to leave 
Rome within a few hours. Alas ! he knew not which way 
to turn. All in haste, he must leave the home he loved 
and go out in the world, he knew not where ; and he had 
scarce strength to walk ; and, unless he left by a particular 
time, he would be put to death ! His friends had fled from 
him. Only his son stayed near him, and the son was but a 
youth. Appius feared he should not reach the gate in 

" Father," said the youth, " I will carry you." 

People wondered when they saw the lad struggling along 
the streets carrying the old Roman. Some laughed, some 


hoped he would succeed ; but none dared to aid the lad. 
The time drew near. Keen eyes watched ; no mercy would 
be given if the father and son failed to reach the gate by 
the appointed hour. At length the boy gave a last run, 
passed the gate, and then sank down fainting outside the 
city wall. Old Appius was saved by his sons heroism. 

And so we have talked of the mother and of the father ; 
and, in the last place, I will speak of both together. 

Have you ever been in the midst of a vast crowd ; 
perhaps a hundred thousand people at a festival, or a 
review ? Did you not feel strange and lonely when, for a 
moment or two, you lost sight of your mother and father ? 
Hundreds and thousands of men and women pressed all 
about you ; but you were not sure that any of them were 
your friends. A feeling of despair came into your heart. 
You were ready to cry out : — 

" Oh, I am alone in the great world !" 

Then you saw your mother's face. Then you saw your 
father's hand held out. You ran to them. You caressed 
them. You were not alone. And so, as the days go by, 
and you have to learn at school, and then begin to work in 
the field, the shop, the office, or wherever else, you will be 
joyful when you think that in the great crowd you have a 
mother and a father who love you. It is you they love ; 
they love you more than they love the king, or the queen, 
or the President. 

A Greek hero, Epaminondas {Ep-ani -i-non-das), once 
gained a battle, and all people praised his courage. Years 
afterwards some one asked him what had been the most 
pleasing thing in his life. 

"It was this," replied the hero; "after my victory my 
mother and father were still alive to hear of the glory of 
their son." 

He lived three or four hundred years before Christ. I 
will relate to you the story of a brave son who lived in our 
own time. 

In the summer of 1897 a lad, named Horace Martelli, was 
walking along the beach of Southsea, England, with his 
father, when they saw a boy struggling in the sea. Horace 
sprang into the water, and saved the boy's life. A few 
months afterwards a meeting was held, at which General 



Lloyd pinned a bronze medal on Horace's breast, as a token 
of respect for his bravery. Horace's mother and father 
were standing by. They said nothing, but oh ! they were 
proud of such a son. After he had pinned the medal on 
Horace's breast, the General said to Mr. and Mrs. Martelli : 

" I congratulate you on having a son who has distinguished 
himself so early." 

That meant: "I am glad you have a son who, though 
so young, has shown that he will make a good man." 

Perhaps there were other fathers and mothers there. 
Perhaps they thought, " May our sons be as noble as 
Horace." For when sons and daughters do right, the 
hearts of the mothers and fathers are filled with a great 

Lesson VII. 

Brothers and sisters as companions in a home. Things which a boy can 
do better than a girl. Things which a girl can do better than a boy. 
Things which can be done well by both boys and girls. Mutual aid. 

Robinson Crusoe did not live quite by himself. Have you 
not often looked at him in the picture, seated at his table, 
eating his dinner, and giving tit-bits to the parrot, the dog, 
and the cat ? Poll was amusing ; the dog was faithful ; the 
cat made the place look more comfortable. But I believe 
that, if a fairy had walked in (but oh ! these fairies ; though 
they run about in books, they will not walk in when we want 
them), Crusoe would have said : " Please, Miss Fairy, will 
you change the parrot into a brother John, and the dog into 
a sister Adeline with dark hair, aiid puss into a sister Daisy 
with flaxen curls ?" 

I saw little Mary in her home the other day. She had a 
fine doll's house ; a doll which wore a flower-garden hat 
sometimes, and sometimes a nightcap; skipping-ropes; games 
of Halma and Ludo ; a work-box ; a mother and father — 
yes, but the mother was five feet three inches high, and the 
father was five feet ten inches and a half. Mary would have 
liked a companion nearer to her own age and her own 
height. A big brother would have pleased her, even if he 
sometimes pulled her hair ; or a little brother, even if he now 
and then broke her doll's furniture and refused to pay the bill 
for the repairs. Of course, Mary had cousins. Cousins are 
really very fine people : you can ask them to tea and show 
them your new china, or they can ask you to their birthday 
parties ; and for twenty cousins there would be twenty 
birthday parties. But Mary would have liked a brother or 
a sister for her friend. She could make friends with another 
school-girl, or with the girl in the blue frock who lived next 


door, but she would have been most pleased with d^ friend 
who had the same father as herself, and who kissed " good- 
night " to the same mother. 

Teresa and Francisca were two sisters, who came to 
my school. Little Francisca was scarcely seven years old. 
When the children stood up to sing, her large dark eyes only 
just peeped at me over the benches. Ah me ! Francisca is 
dead, and Teresa sings without her sister at her side. When 
I look at her, I sometimes think of the boy who grieved for 
his lost brother. This boy saw the summer flowers bloom, 
and the butterflies flutter, but he missed the face of the 
brother whom he loved : — 

" Oh I call my brother back to mc, 

I cannot play alone ; 
The summer comes with tiower and bee ; 

Where is my brother gone ? 
The butterfly is glancing bright 

Across the sunbeam's track ; 
I care not now to chase its flight ; 

Oh ! call my brother back." — Mrs. Hemans. 

There is another kind of absence which is not so bitter. It is 
when a brother or sister goes away to school, or on a visit to a 
distant town or village. Troublesome Harry used to slam 
the doors, and bring the mud in from the road, and leave 
chips and shavings on the carpet, and spill his glue on the 
tablecloth, and yell like a red Indian while his sister Jessie 
was reading her favourite magazine. But now Jessie looks 
out of the window, and watches the white puffs that mark 
the line of the railway across the fields, and says to herself : 
" I wish he was coming in that train." 

You have heard of negroes being sold in America at so 
many dollars a piece. What prices would you put upon 
brothers and sisters ? I do not mean in silver and gold. 
But which do you think is of more value in the home, or in 
the world ? Brothers, are you worth more than your sisters ? 
Sisters, are you worth as much as your brothers ? These are 
puzzUng questions. We feel as if we had a hard sum to 
work out. Let us work it out on the blackboard, step by 
step : — 

/. — Things which a boy can do better than a girl : — 

1. Throw stones. 4. Make ugly faces. 

2. Run races. 5. Carry loads. 
■?. Strike balls. 6. Fight. 


//. — Things which a girl can do better than a boy : — 

1. Nurse the baby. 4. Skip. 

2. Make the bed. 5. Keep her shoes clean. 

3. Lay the table for tea. 6. Sit still. 

This sum makes my head ache. After all, I believe some 
boys can nurse babies as well as some girls. And then I do 
not quite see the use of making ugly faces, even if it is done 
better than the girls can do it. Never mind ; let us go on 
to the third step : — 

///. — Things which can be done well by both girls and 
boys : — 

1. Speaking kindly to each 4. Helping each other in 

other. trouble. 

2. Speakingkindlyabouteach 5. Helping each other to do 

other. right. 

3. Amusing each other. 6. Helping father and 


It seems to me that, for every useful thing a boy can do, we 
can find a useful thing a girl can do; and, if there are things 
at which boys are not very useful, there are also things at 
which girls are not very useful. Well, perhaps you will agree 
to our putting down this answer to the sum : — 

Ans2ver.—.\ girl is as good as a boy. 
A boy is as good as a girl. 
A sister is as good as a brother. 
A brother is as good as a sister. 

If you agree to this, you must, of course, also agree that, if 
the brother goes to a picnic one day while the sister stays at 
home to assist mother, it will be fair that, on the next 
occasion, the brother shall take his turn at home while the 
sister enjoys a holiday. 

Brothers and sisters may be like the two blades of a pair 
of scissors. One blade helps the other blade to cut the 
paper or string. They give mutt/al aid. Sister may mend 
brother's torn jacket, and brother may mend sister's broken 
■workbox ; sister may tell the sick brother a charming story 
about the " Half-chicken " or the " King of the Golden 
River," and brother can show sister his amusing tricks with 
cards, coins, or balls ; when she cries, he can put his arm 
round her neck, and, when he wins a prize, she can look as 


happy as if her comrades had put flowers on her head and 
made her Queen of the May. 

Young George Stephenson went with his sister Nell to 
Newcastle. In a shop-window she saw a bonnet which she 
very much liked ; but alas ! she found it cost fifteen pence 
more than she could spare. 

" Never heed, Nell," said George ; " I'll see if I canna 
win siller [silver] enough to buy the bonnet. vStand ye there 
till I come back." 

Amid the crowd of people who were bustling to and from 
their marketing Nell waited and waited for hours. At last 
George came running back, crying : — 

" I've gotten the siller for the bonnet, Nell." 

" Eh ; but hoo [how] hae ye gotten it ?" 

"By haudin' [holding] the gentlemen's horses, Nell." 

And the sister bought the bright bonnet, and George was 
very likely as pleased to see her wearing it as he was, years 
afterwards, pleased to win the prize for the engine Rocket 
which ran between Liverpool and Manchester. 

George Stephenson was a famous Englishman. 

Now, I will tell you a Jewish story. At harvest-time two 
brothers were reaping the corn. The elder one was married, 
and had to provide for a family : the younger one had no 
wife. As they piled up the sheaves in the burning sunshine, 
the elder said to himself : — 

" My brother is alone in the world ; he has no companion 
to assist him ; he needs more than he now possesses. To- 
night I will share some of my corn with him, but he shall 
not know it." 

The younger one said to himself: — 

"My brother is married; he has many cares; he has a 
whole household to feed and clothe and lodge. To-night 
I will share some of my corn with him, but he shall not 
know it." 

In the darkness the elder brother carried shocks of corn 
to his brother's field. Not long afterwards the younger man 
bore loads of rich corn to his brother's plot of land. Next 
morning each was astonished, for each found he had as 
much corn as before ! 

The next night each of the brothers went out on the 
same kind errand, and the next morning they were again 


Kut the third night they met each other as they carried 
their burdens of brotherly gift. Each smiled to discover 
his brother's deceit. Each wept for joy at his brother's 
goodness. ( "ould they — could you or I — make each other 
richer by exchanging our goods ? Yes, indeed ; for though 
we shall have no more corn or gold, we shall be richer in 
our love. The story says that, afterwards, the great Temple 
of the Jews was built on the harvest-fields. But though 
there was much marble in the Temple, and much cedar- 
wood, and many glittering gems, and handsome curtains, 
there was nothing in the building so noble as the love of the 

Lesson- \TII. 

Kindness to younger brothers and sisters. Forgiving the unkind 
brother. Helping a sister in aflliction. Helping even unto death. 

In the year 1732 two boys approached a "diligence," or 
country coach, which was about to start for Paris. The 
elder was named Michel-Jean, and was thirteen years of 
age. He bade his little brother mount to the top of the 
coach, and paid his fare out of his small stock of money. 
Not long before, the father, M. Sedaine, had died, and the 
lads were left alone with but eighteen francs (a franc is worth 
between ninepence and tenpence). The money was not 
enough to pay for both. The diligence rumbled slowly 
along, and Michel-Jean ran some distance behind. At first 
he enjoyed the keen air of the winter morning, and, when 
the coach stopped at a village inn, he would hurry up and 
see that his little brother was safe and comfortable. But, as 
the hours passed, the way seemed harder, and Michel-Jean's 
feet began to drag heavily. But his brave heart carried him 

"Mother will be so glad to see us," he said to himself; 
" she has been waiting in the convent at Paris ever since 
Hither lost his money and his business as an architect, and 



went into the country with us two boys to try to find work. 
My feet are getting tired, but my little brother is happy in 
the coach ; and he has my big coat to keep him warm." 

The passengers began to talk to each other about this boy 
who kept running, running, following, following. Once, when 
the coach halted, they asked him questions, and heard his 
sad story. They all said the faithful lad must ride alongside 
the driver ; and they collected money to pay his fare to Paris. 
The mother and her other children rejoiced when they saw 
the boys come running to the convent door. Michel-Jean 
went to w^ork at a mason's yard, and he cut stone, and earned 
money to support his mother. Afterwards Michel-Jean 
Sedaine became a celebrated poet, and wrote beautiful 
French verses. But none of his pretty verses were so noble 
as his kindness on the day when he ran behind the diligence 
to Paris. How pleasant it is to think that to-day, all over the 
world, there are millions of elder lads and girls who are 
showing kindness to their younger brothers and sisters. 

Perhaps you will not mind if I tell you another Jewish 
story. I like to tell you about Jews ; for you know the Jews 
have been ill-treated among many nations of Europe, and I 
want you to see that from the jews we learn many great 
lessons. Well, there were four brothers, named Reuben, 
Simeon, Levi, and Judah. Reuben bought an axe from 
some merchants, and used it to cut down trees. Each of 
his brothers wished to borrow this useful tool, and he refused 
it to them all. They bought axes for themselves. One day 
Reuben's axe fell into a stream, and was lost. And now he 
wished to borrow from his brothers, and he went to each in 

"Certainly not," said Simeon; "you would not lend me 
yours, and I will not lend you mine." 

"Ah," cried Levi, "you would not lend me yours ; but I 
will be better than you. Here it is ; take it ; but you don't 
deserve it." 

Reuben turned away sullenly. He would rather go without 
than take the axe lent in this sneering spirit. 

Judah saw him coming, and he also saw the bitterness in 
his face. 

" My brother," said Judah, " I know you have lost your 
axe. Mine will do for you as well as for me. Take mine." 

The tears came into Reuben's eyes, and he clasped Judah's 


hand. He was glad, not for the loan of the axe, but because 
of the kindness which fofgave a brother's utikindness. 

" I shall always love you,"' murmured Reuben. 

" Of course you will," said Judah, " for we are of the same 

" Of the same blood." That meant of the same family 
and the same nature. Reuben might have forgotten that. 
But, when Judah was generous, and spoke such friendly 
words, Reuben's heart was touched, and he remembered 
Chat he was a brother, and must act like a brother. 

Girls, you would not think it kind of a brother if he tried 
to chain you up, or shut you in a prison. No ; but Charles 
Lamb had to do something like that to his sister Mary. I 
hardly like to tell you this sad story; but you should know 
some of the sadness of the world as well as the brightness. 
This sister Mary's brain was often disordered ; and once, in 
a mad passion, she killed her own mother with a knife. 
^\'hat would you have thought if it had been your own sister 
who did such a deed? Charles Lamb loved her, and 
watched over her, and gave her all she needed. She knew 
how kind he was, and I am sure it made her a better sister, 
and kept her mind more clear and calm. Still, every now 
and then she would suffer from the old disorder, and 
Charles was obliged to take her to the asylum. He would 
cry, and she also would cry, as they went along the road. 
He would carry the "strait jacket" which was to bind her 
arms down and prevent her from striking other people. 
When Mary passed the gate of the asylum her poor mind 
was weak and dazed, and yet she felt her brother loved her. 
In this way he cherished her for forty years. When her 
reason came back to her she would return home, and the 
brother and sister would sit at table together and work. 
One day Charles said : — ■ 

" Mary, let us pick out the stories from the plays of 
Shakespeare, and write them in easy words for boys and 
girls to read." 

They did so, and you may have seen the book : — 

Tales from Shakespeare. 
By Charles and Mary Lamb. 

But I do not think any of the tales of Shakespeare will tell 
you anything more praiseworthy than the history of Charles 


Lamb's goodness to an afflicted sister. True brothers love- 
in affliction as well as when their sisters are gay and can. 
dance and sing. 

In affliction, sorrow, mid deatli. 

An old man was living in the year 1796 in France, and 
he would sometimes say: — 

" I am now an old man, and have lived through many 
troubles of my own, and I have seen my dear country in< 
the troubles of the Revolution ; but I should not have beert 
here to speak to you if it had not been for my brave sister, 
Francoise ]Marie." 

What had Marie done? She was eleven years old. Her 
parents had died, and she was left with a brother of four. 
She earned money by knitting and spinning, and the neigh- 
bours also helped. The winter was very severe, and wolves 
prowled near the village. Marie was at work one day when 
a she-wolf sprang into the cottage with her young ones. 
The girl beat the she-wolf off with a stick, and then found 
that one of the whelps was seizing the little brother. Marie 
dragged the child away, thrust him into a cupboard, and 
fastened him in, and then • 

Alas, when the neighbours ran in and chased the wolves 
away, they saw that Marie lay dead. The frightened boy 
was let out, and he grew up to be the old man of whom I 
spoke. Old as he was, he never forgot his sister's love. 

I know there are no wolves prowling about your houses ;. 
and sisters do not often have to give up their lives to save 
their brothers from death. But, my dear girls and boys, 
if you carried little books about with you, and if, every 
day, you Avrote down with pencils the brave and helpful 
things you saw brothers do for sisters, and sisters for 
brothers, you would be able to tell me more stories than 
ever I have told you. 

But suppose you have no sisters and brothers ? Has all 
this talk about brothers and sisters nothing to do with you ?' 

No brothers and sisters ! Is that really true ? Do you 
not think you could find them if you looked out from your 
window at the people in the street ? Or if you saw men 
and women in workshops, and mines, and fields ? Or if 
you sailed from one clime to another and saw the many- 
coloured sons and daughters of Europe, Asia, Africa,. 
America, and Australia ? 

Lesson IX, 

Two maidens, who were sisters, walked together near the 
king's house at Thebes (Theebz). The land they looked 
forth upon was rugged with hills, and the sky above was 
■clear blue. These sisters were Greeks, and the land was 
'Greece. The time I speak of was many hundred years ago 
— what we call " ancient times." 

The sisters looked sad. A battle had raged the day 
before. On one side were the men of Thebes, led by a 
brother of these two Greek ladies. His name was Eteocles 
i^Et-e'-o-kleez). Against him fought the army of his brother, 
Polynices {Fol-i-ny'-seez). And all amid the charging and 
trampling, and the shouts of fear and triumph, and the falling 
•of the slain, the two brothers pressed forward until they met 
■each other; and they smote each other with their swords, and 
.•smote again ; and, in hate and anger, they both died 
stricken by each other's hand. Then the troops of Polynices 
;fled ; and the stars came out, shining down so softly on 
rthe field of blood and quarrel ; and the two sisters wept all 

In the morning, as I have told you, the ladies walked in 
front of the palace. Their names were Ismene {Is-mee -iiee) 
and Antigone {An-tig-o-nee). 

"My dear sister," whispered Antigone, "I have led you out 
•of the house so that no one but you might hear what I say. 
Our uncle Creon is now king, and he has resolved that our 
'brother Eteocles shall be buried in a splendid tomb : but poor 
Polynices is to be left on the open ground, and birds of prey 
will come to feed on his body ; and his spirit will have no 
rest, and you and I will be unhappy because our brother is 
iiot laid in peace in a place of burial. ^Vhoever buries him is 
•to be put to death." 


"Ah," said Ismene, as her tears flowed, "but what can we 

" Let us bury him ourselves," pleaded Antigone. 

" But," replied Ismene, " we must not disobey the com- 
mandment of the king. We must not break the law." 

"The law is not just," said Antigone; "the king has no- 
right to keep you or me from doing a kind service to those 
we love. If you will not help me, I will do the work alone." 

" You have a very noble heart, sister," answered Ismene, 
" but I fear to do anything against the will of Creon." 

So that day passed ; and early the next morning, as King 
Creon was beginning his royal duties, a man rushed to the 
palace, looking scared and nervous. 

"My lord,"' he cried, "I am one of the watchers whc« 
guarded the place where the corpse of Polynices lay. As soon, 
as the day broke one of our band raised an alarm, and showed 
us a strange thing that had happened in the night. Over the 
body was scattered a thin coating of dust." 

"Hal" exclaimed Creon, "who has disobeyed my com- 
mandment ?" 

" I cannot tell," said the watchman; "there was no mark 
to show. We saw no dint of spade in the soil, or any 
loosening of the earth around. Nor was there any sign of 
any beast of the field having come near to pull at the dead 
body. AVe sentinels knew we were none of us guilty. At 
length we cast lots to choose which of us should come and 
tell you. And so, half-afraid, and often pausing on the way^ 
I have brought the unpleasing message." 

Creon's face flushed with rage. 

"There are bad men in Thebes who dislike me," he cried^ 
" and no doubt they have given bribes of money to youi 
watchmen to do this evil thing which I forbade. Our country 
will be ruined if the laws are disobeyed like this." 

The watchman trembted, and kept pleading that he and 
his companions were innocent ; but the king dismissed him, 
and ordered him to find the wrongdoer, if he wished to- 
escape punishment. 

Later in the day a noise of hurr}ing and shouting roused 
all the palace. A voice was heard, saying : — ■ 

" Hear is the doer of the deed." 

Then the same watchman entered, and he held the 
maiden Antigone fast by the arm. 


" This maiden ?"' asked Creon, much astonished. 

"Yes, sire; I saw her burying the prince." 

" How was she caught ?" 

"It happened thus," answered the watchman. " My mates 
and I cleared away the dust from the prince's corpse, and 
than we sat by on the hillside at a little distance talking of 
the strange event of the night before. Suddenly the Storm- 
god raised a whirlwind, which tore leaves from the trees, and 
flung such masses of them into the air that for a time the 
sky was darkened. After a while the leaves began to settle 
down, and the sunlight gleamed once more on the battle- 
field. Then we saw this maid kneeling by the prince and 
wailing bitterly, just as a mother bird chirps sadly when she 
comes home to an empty nest and finds the little nestlings 
gone. Then she took dust and sprinkled it on the body; 
and next she lifted a brass pitcher, from which, three times 
over, she dropped water on the dead — -thinking that the spirit 
of the prince would be glad of the drink-offering. Then we 
ran and seized her, and charged her with having covered 
Polynices with earth the night before. She said that she 
had indeed done so ; and here she stands, your prisoner." 

" Did you do this deed ?" asked the king, sternly. 

" I did," replied Antigone, and her clear eyes looked 
straight at Creon's face. And all the people wondered at 
her bravery. 

" How dared you offend against my will ?"' 

"I had to obey something that was greater than your will," 
said Antigone. " I had to do what Justice bade me. For 
Justice is greater than your commandment, and its throne is 
greater than the thrones of kings. I thought it just and 
right to bury my dear brother, and I thought that I must do 
what was just, even if I died for it." 

"So, then," spake the king, "you glory in your crime. 
You must suffer death." 

The sister Ismene came in, weeping to see the danger in 
which Antigone stood. She offered to share the blame, but 
she scarcely seemed to mean it : and Antigone resolved to 
die alone. 

Then Antigone was led away to death. In the mountain- 
side a small cave had been hollowed out, and there the 
maiden was shut in to starve. Antigone bade farewell to the 
land of Thebes and to the light of the sun. 


An old soothsayer (or wise speaker) came to the palace of 
Creon. He was blind, and was guided by a boy. He warned 
the king that trouble would come upon him for his cruelty 
and rash temper. Fear fell on the king, and he ordered his 
servants to take axes, to break open the entrance to the 
cave ; and the party sallied forth towards the hill. But 
Antigone had already slain herself, so that she might not 
bear the pangs of starvation ; and the Prince Haemon, to 
whom she should have been married, killed himself with a 
sword : for his grief was so heavy that he cared not to live. 
Also, when Hremon was dead, his mother slew herself; and 
Creon bowed himself to the earth in sorrow and despair. 

Now, the story which I have related to you is taken from 
a poem or play by the famous poet Sophocles [Sof -o-kleez). 
The play was acted in the open-air theatres, where the 
Greeks sat and looked and listened. The story of Antigone 
pleased them much ; for they understood that, though the 
maiden died a sad death in the cave, yet she was glorious in 
her faithful sisterly love. 

And if, girls, you find something noble in the tale of 
Antigone, I would like you to see that she was noble because 
she loved the Right ; and girls who try to act rightly will be 
good sisters, and they will become good women. And 
Greece, England, France, Germany — every land is great 
which contains good women. 

Lesson X. 

The broad, blue sea lies in front of a little town in Brittany ; 
.and straight northwards lie the Channel Islands. Religious 
men and women — monks and nuns — live in certain houses ; 
and these houses have high walls, and look down on quiet 
streets and pleasant gardens. In the midst rises an old 
•cathedral. Its spire is very tall, and has many small windows. 
Near by is a ruined church, which was struck by lightning. 
The Breton people used to believe that once every year the 
bells of the church floated away over France, right to the 
city of Rome in Italy, and there they stood before the Pope, 
waiting to be blessed : and, after they had been blessed, 
they floated back again to Brittany, ready to ring sweetly to 
the folk on a vSunday. 

In this Breton town lived a sailor. Brave man ! he could 
face wild storms, and the chill breezes and the rugged cliffs 
of dangerous coasts ; but he did not understand buying and 
selling. When he became a trader he lost money ; his eyes 
looked anxious ; he was worried and puzzled. Yet he could 
smile at his dear daughter Henriette. By the time she was 
twelve years old she seemed so grave and thoughtful. She 
Avas glad, and her father also was glad, when her little brother 
Ernest was born in the year 1823. She loved the baby, and 
the baby loved her. Sometimes Henriette put on a bright 
frock to go to a party. Ernest would cry for her to stay, 
and she would take off her holiday dress and play with him 
at home. One day, in joke, she threatened she would die if 
Ernest did not behave himself, and she lay back in an arm- 
chair without moving. Ernest was in such terror that he 
rushed at her, and, scarce knowing what he did, he bit her on 
the arm. Henriette shrieked, and scolded him, and Ernest 
looked sad and asked : " But why were you dead? Are you 
.;going to die again ?" 


Their father's ship came into the port one day. The crew 
said the captain had not been seen for several days. Had 
he fallen overboard ? What had become of him ? No one 
knew. A month afterwards the mother heard that a body 
had been found at a sea-side village not far off. It was the 
dead father of Henriette and Ernest. He was buried in the 
sand, and twice a day the tide ripples and murmurs over the 
place where the Breton sailor lies. 

And now the family was poorer than ever. They went to 
live in another town. Ernest's big brother went to work in 
Paris. Henriette often took Ernest to church. On winter 
evenings the snow crackled under their feet, and the brother 
nestled close under his sister's green woollen cloak. One day 
she noticed Ernest twisting himself in a strange way. He was 
trying to hide the holes in a worn-out garment. Henriette 
burst into tears. She had hoped to be a nun in a convent ; 
there she would teach girls and nurse the sick. But she must 
take care of Ernest; she would labour for Ernest; for Ernest's 
sake she would become a governess and earn money to keep 
him as well as herself. The children she taught were often 
troublesome ; her head ached, and she felt weary ; but she 
persevered so that Ernest might be fed and clothed comfort- 
ably. A good man asked Henriette to be his wife ; she 
thought and thought, and then said no, for she remembered 
her mother and Ernest. At length, when she was twenty-four 
years old, she went to teach in a girls' school in Paris. Oh, 
but the girls were tiresome; and the streets so noisy; and the 
crowds of citizens seemed to care for things she never cared 
for; and Henriette dreamed of the old cathedral, and the 
boats on the beach, and the bells that floated through the sky 
to Rome, and of dark-eyed, dark-haired brother Ernest. 
Now, Ernest conned his school-books very attentively, and he 
won a scholarship, so that he could have free schooling at 
Paris under learned professors. 

Henriette could now come to see him, and she still used to 
wear the old green cloak under which he nestled on his 
way to church. Soon, however, brother and sister must part 
again. Henriette was offered a place as French teacher in a 
family in a distant land — in Poland. She lived in the palace 
of a Count, and had his three daughters for her pupils. 
The house was large, and surrounded by huge forests. Far 
miles and miles over the sandy plains one could behold 


nothing but pine trees, birch trees — millions of birch and pine 
trees. Spring, summer, and autumn passed quickly. During 
the long winter Henriette often saw sledges gliding along the- 
snowy road in front of the palace, and in the sledges sat 
rough Cossacks and strangely dressed men from the East. 
In the palace, in the midst of the forests, and even when 
she travelled with the family to warm Italy and to the fair 
islands of Venice, Henriette remembered Ernest. Out of 
her salary she frequently sent him sums of money to purchase- 
books and clothing, and to pay for his living. And Ernest,, 
in the midst of the bustle and trade and glitter of Paris,, 
remembered his sister ; and they wrote long letters to eacH 
other, and each kissed the letters which the other wrote. 
She told him a thousand duties kept her busy, but "through 
them all I carry one idea — you, my Ernest, always you." 
And he wrote to her : " Henriette, what would my future be 
without you ?"' 

He had told his sister, and brother, and mother, and all 
his friends, that he would be a priest in the Catholic Church,, 
and teach boys in a monastery, or preach in the old 
cathedrals. But, as he grew older, he was troubled, and he 
wondered and wondered. He would go to the Bible and' 
other book.s, and open them, and read them, and shut them,, 
and think, and sigh. He would kneel to pray, and rise up, 
and pace up and down the room. " I love the stories in the- 
Bible," he would say to himself, " but I cannot think they 
are all true ; and I ought not to be a priest if I do not 
believe them ; no, I must not be a priest ; I must get my 
living some other way. Oh, but in what other way can I 
earn my livelihood ?" 

All that was in his heart he told to Henriette : and she 
answered that he was right in wishing to retire from the- 
priesthood ; for the first thing we must strive after is to be 
honest. He must learn all he could in the colleges, and' 
prepare for some other kind of occupation ; and he must tell' 
the professors — yes, and tell the Archbishop — that he could' 
not put on the robe of the priest and stand before the altar.. 
They said he was wrong ; Henriette said he was right. She 
even thought of his dress ; he had better wear a dark coat,. 
over a black vest and trousers. When at last Ernest gave 
up his priesthood, he found work as a school-teacher. He- 
still had time to bend over his books, so that he might gain. 


Ihonour at the University. His little room overlooked a 
pleasant park, and from its windows he could also see the 
; grounds of a Deaf and Dumb Institute, and watch the poor 
silent children at their play. 

After spending ten years in Poland, Henriette came back 
to Paris, and lived with her brother. P>rnest was now a 
writer of books, and she C(jpied out all the papers which he 
wrote, so that the printers might easily read every word. 
Brother and sister would often talk about history, and 
many a time she was able to tell him things he had not 
Icnown correctly ; and, when she pointed out mistakes in his 
•composition, he bore in mind what she said, and tried to use 
more beautiful words and sentences. AVhen Ernest was 
married, Henriette still dwelt with him and his wife. When 
they wept, she wept; and when they were glad, she also was 

In i860 the lunperor of the French sent Ernest to the 
land of Phoenicia. His work was to look carefully at the 
remains of ancient times, at old tombs and temples, and to 

■ copy writings on old slabs of stone. Ernest took with him 
his wife and sister. His wife was obliged to return to France, 
but Henriette stayed with her brother. Wherever he went, 

:she went. They climbed the rocky hills of Lebanon, and 
; travelled along the valley of the River Jordan, and on the 
plains where glorious flowers made a thick carpet under the 
feet of their horses. Ernest thought much of the words and 
acts of Jesus, the great teacher who had lived and died in 
this very country. He resolved to make a book which would 
tell the story of the teacher, and he called it The Life of 
Jesus. Henriette copied each page of the writing, and said: 
" I shall love this book, because we have done it together." 
Alas 1 brother and sister both fell ill. Their health had 
been harmed by their journeys, now on burning rocks, then 
nn cold valleys, and by sleeping in houses where fresh air did 
not enter freely. They sickened with fever. Henriette died, 
but Ernest lived. Not till two days afterwards did his brain 
•become clear enough to understand that the sister who loved 
him so deeply had passed away. So she was buried in a 
imountain village, under lofty palm-trees. Ernest went back 
to France, and composed other books about the Christian 
'Gospel and the people who first preached it. He died in 
.1892, and you will often hear people speak of him as the 


great author, Ernest Renan. Amid all his work and fame he- 
never forgot his dear sister. And he put down his memories 
of her in a little book, in which he said : " Oh, lovely eyes, 
shining with tender light ! Oh, slender and dainty hand, sO' 
often clasped in mine I'' 

Better than books and fame and money and all else are- 
the eyes that shine with love and the hands that clasp ini 

Lesson XL 

Thinking of other people. Good manners. That which seems rude is 
not always so in reality. We are all bound by the rules of good 

The red, blue, and gold bonbons, which you like so much, 
■often contain pretty little gifts — a ring, a brooch, a medal, etc. 
The gift is hidden from your eyes until you and your friend 
pull the ends — crack ! — and then the treasure is revealed. 
Now, the word please is like a bonbon. If we pull it open, 
we may find a little hidden word. It is a piece of a sentence, 
If it please you. The hidden word '\?> you. So that, when I 
say " Please," I am thinking of you : that is, I am thinking of 
■otAer people besides myself. And so, in all such pleasant 
speeches as " Thank _r^w," " I am much obliged to jw^," 
" Would jvw^ mind posting this letter for me?" we do not think 
simply of ourselves; we are thinking also of other people. It 
gives me pleasure to pick a ripe plum from the tree; but I do 
not thank the tree. When a friend gives me the plum and I 
say " Thank _iw/," there are two pleasures — the pleasure of 
taking the crimson and yellow fruit, and the pleasure of 
looking a kind neighbour in the face. You may have heard 
of the great naturalist, Charles Darwin. He never spoke 
rudely to his servants, but he would say, " \\'ould you be so 
good as to do this or that ?" And thus, when a servant 
brought him his coat, or made the bath ready, Darwin not 
only obtained the thing that he needed, but also obtained 
the love of other people. His little daughter, Annie, died 
when she was ten years old. Even when she lay ill, she 
spoke courteously as her father spoke, and, on receiving a 
cup of water from him, she said, " I quite thank you." Of 
course, you would not usually say to your mother or friend, 
" I quite thank you "; but, when Annie Darwin was ill, she 
knew the people round her were trying more than usually 


hard to comfort her, and so she added a kinder word to her 

Father and mother have, perhaps, told you that you did 
not show good manners when you shouted out WHAT ? 
Why was it wrong to speak in that sharp, loud tone ? 
Because it showed that you quite forgot the other people. 
You spoke to them as if you were tugging a nail out of a 
wall, or driving a pig out of the garden, or breaking a lump 
of coal with a big hammer. Do not forget the you : "What 
did you say, mother ?" " I did not heat you, uncle ?" " I 
heg your pardon, aunt ?" 

Is it wrong of boys to throw stones ? Certainly not, if 
they throw into the open sea, or on the moors, or any place 
where no men and women or children pass, and no harm of 
any sort will be done. I once saw at the seaside some boys 
who forgot the other people. They were sitting on a bank 
of shingle, in front of which ran a wooden wall ; and below 
the wall sat groups of persons on the sandy beach, watching 
the rippling of the tide. The boys amused themselves by 
throwing stones over the wall, to the great discomfort of the 
nurses and children and quiet grandpas and grandmas who 
were resting in the shade of the wall. I do not suppose the 
lads meant any harm ; but, if they had thought of looking 
over before they began throwing, they would not have acted 
with such seeming rudeness. They were thoughtless. So 
also was little Jasper, whom I saw playing with two forks at 
the dinner-table. He knocked the forks together, and made 
a noise which made us all fidget. 

" Jasper," said his mother, " please do not make such a 

" I like the music," repHed Jasper. 

"Yes, my dear, but -we do not," said his mother. 

It was almost as bad as throwing stones. \\'hen you drum 
on the table, or go " tap, tap, tap," with your foot, you are 
flinging sounds at the people around. They cannot help 
listening, though they do not wish to; and you have no right 
to throw stones or noises at people against their will. 

You see I am talking about good manners: and I daresay 
you expect me to tell you about eating silently, without 
smacking your lips ; about letting other people pass through a 
■doorway first instead of jostling by them ; about giving up the 
comfortable cushioned chair to the old gentleman while you 


take the hard wooden one ; and about boys stepping aside andl 
allowing girls and ladies to go first into the train or tram-car 
or omnibus. Or perhaps you know all these things, and I 
need not stay to speak about them. So let me ask you if 
it is right, when a visitor comes to see you, to call him a 
rascal ? 

Of course not. But I remember I was once called a rascal,. 
and it quite pleased me. I went to visit an honest bricklayer, 
who had forgotten my face, and, when I stood at his doorway, 
he looked and stared as if I were a man to beware of. In a 
few words I made him understand that I had only come to 
pay a friendly visit. And then he burst out : — 

"I remember you now ! ("ome in, you rascal, come in I" 

He meant to be bright and jolly, and he could think of no^ 
pleasanter word than " rascal " ; and you may be sure I did 
not mind being hailed by such a bad name. For we must 
not always judge a person by his words. We must try tO' 
understand the spirit in which he speaks. That which seems 
rude is not always really rude. 

For instance, you know that, in eating, people — (well,, 
people in Europe, America, and Australia; we can leave out 
the Chinamen with their chopsticks, and a good many others) 
— are expected to take the knife in the right hand and the 
fork in the left, and to use the knife for cutting and the fork 
for lifting. Even kings, princes, and presidents are expected 
to eat in that manner. What would you think of a visitor at 
your table who used a knife only, and made it do all the 
lifting as well as all the cutting ? One day Prince Albert of 
England invited a worthy, but poor, man to dine with him. 
This man had been kind to the Prince in his younger days, 
and they were still good friends — as, indeed, all men ought to 
be, whether rich or poor. The visitor ate with his knife only, 
for, in his country home, he and his family were accustomed 
to that way of eating. As .soon as Prince Albert noticed this, 
he also laid iside his fork, and handled the knife alone. 
Some of the royal children smiled, and their father checked 
them by a quick, stern glance. When the visitor had left, the 
children asked : — 

" AVhy did you not use your fork, papa ?" 

" Because my friend would have felt ill at ease. If I had' 
used a fork, he might have done the same, and felt very 


My opinion is that Prince Albert was very polite and kind 
when he ate his food without a fork. What do you think ? 

Having told you a story of a prince, I will proceed to tell 
you about the Irish boatmen ; for, of course, you know that, 
whether we are princes or boatmen, we are all bound by the 
rules of good manners. Bishop Temple (who was afterwards 
Archbishop of Canterbury) was once travelling in Ireland, and 
he noticed that the Irish people were very polite and nice. 
But he found two sorts of politeness — a right sort and a wrong 
sort. The wrong sort was this : Sometimes, when he asked a 
question of a countryman, Pat would smile and say "Yes" if 
he thought the Bishop liked it, or " No " if he thought the 
answer " No " would please better. You see that was telling 
untruths in order to please other people; and you would not 
call that good manners, would you ? But the right sort was 
seen in the boatmen. The Bishop and his sister went for a 
trip in a boat on the silvery waters of the lakes of Killarney. 
The boatmen chatted about the mountains, and the villages 
and churches that could be seen round the lakes ; but their 
speech was rather thick and broken. 

" I suppose," said the Bishop's sister, " you can speak 
Irish ?" 

" Oh, yes, miss, better than English." 

" But," said the Bishop, " I never hear you speak Irish in 
the boat." 

" No, your honour," one of the men replied ; " that is 
because the lady here doesn't know Irish." 

They thought that, if they spoke in the Irish language, the 
lady would be puzzled, and wonder if they were making 
remarks about herself and her brother. So they let her hear 
and understand all they said to each other. I think that 
was quite beautiful good manners. The boatmen were gentle- 

There are some boys and girls who make you and me 
uncomfortable by getting behind us, or into corners, and 
whispering so that we cannot hear, and all the while looking 
towards us as if they were smiling at some mistake we had 
made. We should like them to be more open and straight- 
forward. "We should like them to be as frank as the Killarney 


Lesson XII. 
OTHER PEOPLE— {conc/uded) 

Courtesy to the weak and infirm. Respecting the burden. Considera- 
tions shown in Httle things, both by children and men. 

The great Napoleon took his army and waggons and cannons 
over the snowy Alps, and he did many other remarkable 
things. Also, he said many things that were thoughtful 
and clever. But he never said anything nobler than when, 
one day, he was walking with a lady, and they met a man 
carrying a heavy burden. The lady, like you and me, some- 
times thought more about herself than about other people, 
and so she stood in the middle of the narrow path, expecting 
the poor staggering porter to move aside. Napoleon drew 
her aside, and said : " Respect the burden, madam " ; and 
the carrier passed slowly on. I would like you to remember 
this little story. Napoleon, by his wars, caused the death 
of many men, and the thought of all the blood he shed is 
enough to make us bitter against him. For all that, we 
must allow that he taught the lady a good lesson. 

Indeed, we are always meeting with people who bear 
burdens — perhaps iiot heavy loads on their backs, but the 
burden of some tveakness or infirmity. For instance, there 
is the infirmity of deafness. I always feel touched when I 
look at the eyes of deaf people. The deaf hear little or 
nothing of what is said by the men and women around 
them ; it is as if they were closed up in a prison ; only, by 
means of their eyes they can, as it were, gaze forth from the 
windows. Well, let them see that we mean kindly towards 
them. We ought not to hurt their feelings by laughing 
at the mistakes they make through not understanding our 

There are many other burdens besides deafness. Shall 
we write a list of them on the blackboard — a list of all the 
sad marks left upon our fiices and limbs by illness or 
accident ? No, I do not think we will. We ought never to 
take any notice of these things except when we see we can 
give pleasure to the other people who carry the burden, as 
in the following example : — 


Some boys were playing at the ball game known as 
rounders. Each in turn gave a big swing with the 
stick, and, if he hit the ball and sent it flying, a shout 
went up from the players, and there was a scampering 
and rushing like the swoop of eagles, like the racing of 
hungry lions ! 

" I want to play too," said an eager voice. 

The eagles and the lions (I mean the boys) all hushed 
their noise, and seemed puzzled. It was a lame lad who 
had spoken. He stood with wide-open eyes, leaning on his 
two crutches. What was to be done ? 

"Why, Jimmy," cried one of the children, "you know 
you can't run ! " 

He told the truth. Would you praise him for telling 
such a truth as that ? 

Another boy (the sort of boy who is as good as a man — 
no, who is really a man) suddenly said " Sh-sh" and added : 
" I'll run for Jim when he hits the ball." And presently, 
when Jim, with his face all laughing, held the stick, his friend 
remarked quietly to the others : " If you were lame, you 
wouldn't want to be told of it all the time." 

I must just say a word about the fine fellow who goes to 
the concert and finds a comfortable seat, and gives it up to 
a woman, and stands during the whole of the entertainment ; 
and the other fine fellow who crosses the muddy road or 
field to fetch something for a woman, or take a message for 
her, so as to save her from trudging through the slush. In 
many ways (but not in all ways) girls and women are not so 
strong or hardy as boys and men ; and that is why it is good to 
be a boy or a man, so that we may help the girls and women 
to carry the burden. Now, let us suppose, boys, that when you 
are comfortably seated at the entertainment two persons come 
in, and you feel you ought to offer one of them your chair. 
Which shall it be ? One is a girl with rosy cheeks, and a 
smart jacket, and a pretty hat; and the other is an old 
woman, with a black bonnet, and a woollen shawl, and 
clumsy boots. Yes, it shall be the old, and not the young. 
But I have a word to say to girls as well. Suppose, girls, it 
was one of you who had the comfortable seat, and there 
came in an elderly man who walked with feeble step and 
bent back ; what would you do ? I hope you would let 
him sit in your place, and you, the girl, would give way to 


the weaker man, and you would feel proud like a little 
mother. And again, girls, if a woman came in holding a 
baby (and I daresay some of you have been told how heavy 
you were when you were babies), what would you do ? You, 
the girl, would aid the woman. So you see that, after all, 
we are to assist people who carry a burden, whether they 
are men or women. 

Many years ago there reigned over Naples and the Island 
of Sicily a king named Alphonso. He was once travelling, 
without any royal state or show, through the province of 
Campania, when he met a mule-driver whose mule had 
stuck fast in a muddy place, and could not be pulled out. 
The distressed muleteer had called upon several passers-by 
to help, but none had answered ; and now he begged assis- 
tance from the king, not knowing who he was. Alphonso 
sprang from his horse, and stood alongside the man, and 
king and peasant pulled and tugged until the mule was set 
free. Presently the muleteer learned from the people who 
had gathered round that it was the king who had lent a 
helping hand. The muleteer fell on his knees, and asked 
pardon for expecting the king to take part in such a 
disagreeable task. 

" Not at all," replied Alphonso ; " you have done nothing 
wrong. Men must help men." 

Yes ; men, women, boys, girls, muleteers, kings — it is no 
matter what we are : we should respect the burden. 

You have heard of the god Atlas, who was supposed to 
carry the whole world on his back. A splendid thing to do, of 
course ; but we do not expect you to do such big things for 
other people. The little things will show just as well what kind 
of hearts you have. Three small children wished to please 
their father with gifts on his birthday. They — the girl and the 
two boys — picked flowers, and made a wreath, and at break 
of day, with naked feet, they crept into their father's bed- 
room, and laid near him the bright birthday garland. 
Other gifts came that day. One, from the eldest son, was a 
barrel of wine made from the grapes of Hochheim ; and the 
three children laughed and danced round their father and 
the barrel. Another gift came in a letter. It was something 
written on a large sheet of paper ; it was a poem from his 
second son, expressing in pretty verses his good wishes for his 
father's happiness. 


The children said : " Ah, father, we can't give you barrels 
of wine, or verses." 

The father kissed them all, and said : " I love your 
wreath as much as anything else. Your little hearts beat for 
me as well as the hearts of your elder brothers." 

There are some little things which other people care for 
as if they were big things. Perhaps your brother has a 
favourite mug. You may have as much right to use it as he 
has ; but if he takes a fancy to it, it will not hurt you to give 
way ; and so with people who have their favourite chairs, 
their favourite corners to sit in, their favourite knives, etc. 
If they do no harm, you should show respect to other 
people's likes and fancies. 

In the year 1806 a new general was appointed over the 
army of Sepoys (natives) in the province of Madras in India. 
The new general was Sir John Cradock. At that time the 
Sepoy soldiers wore a loose costume ; their heads were 
covered with round hats of basket-work ; they oiled their 
moustaches and curled them up at the ends ; they wore ear- 
rings, and they marked their foreheads by rubbing them 
with ashes, in order to show what caste or social class they 
belonged to. You and I might consider this a strange dress 
and a strange habit ; but I do not see why we should make 
fun of, or despise, the dress and habits of foreigners. Sir 
John Cradock had been used to drilling English soldiers 
who wore tight jackets, and cut their beards close, 
and sprinkled white powder on their heads, and tied 
the ends of their hair into a " pig-tail." The foolish idea 
occurred to him that the Hindu soldiers ought to be 
dressed the same as the English. So one day the order 
went round that the Sepoys were to wear tight jackets, and 
smear no ashes on their foreheads, and hang no rings in 
their ears, and they were to don new hats of a European 
style, and they were to trim the ends of their black 
moustaches. The Sepoys were greatly enraged at being 
commanded to break up their old habits and ideas. Some 
refused, and were flung into prison. A large number 
rebelled, and set out on a wild march, and attacked the 
barracks of the English soldiers and killed as many as two 
hundred. A band of dragoons arrived, and, in their turn, 
hundreds of Sepoys were wounded or slain. But it was 
plain that Sir John Cradock had made a stupid mistake. 


He had shown no respect for the feeHngs of the Hindus 
He had shown no respect for the wishes and customs of 
men who belong to a different nation and a different reHgion. 
Quite rightly he was sent away from the army of Madras. 

Lesson XIII. 

The likeness in the five skeletons. Kindness shown by animals as well 
as men. Good qualities shown by savages. Justice and mercy 
towards savage races. 

I AM sure you like pictures ; pictures of castles, St. George 
and the dragon, shepherds and their flocks, mothers and 
babies, mountains and waterfalls. And so do I. But there 
is a picture of five skeletons which I am very fond of, and 
which you might think rather ugly.^ Five strange figures, 
all bones. 

First the skeleton of the gibbon, a little monkey which lives 
in the forests of the East Indies, and can swing from one 
bough to another, a distance of twelve yards. It looks like 
the skeleton of a boy who has very long arms, and jaws like 
a dog. Second, the skeleton of the orang-outang, or Man 
of the Woods. It can almost stand upright. An orang- 
outang can drink from cups, unbolt doors, play with kittens, 
and kiss its friends. Third, the skeleton of the chimpanzee 
from West Africa. Its arms are not so long as those of the 
orang-outang, but it has a larger brain. A chimpanzee has 
been known to use a cup and saucer, a spoon and a fork ; to 
wipe its mouth after eating; to let its tea cool before drinking 
it ; and to climb up a cherry tree and gather fruit for the 
laughing children. Fourth, the skeleton of the gorilla. Observe 
its strong arms and legs, broad shoulder-bones, stout spine, 
and big skull. It can pull a tree down, tear a man to pieces, 
and chase a lion. It is a savage giant, and there is cruelty 
in its face. It looks like a man who hates his neighbour. 
Last of all, here is the skeleton of a man, with thinner bones, 
shorter arms, larger and stronger thumb, a wee skeleton tail, 

' Tylor's Anthropology, p. 39. 




small teeth, and a fine skull : and in that skull is a brain that 
can think of houses, ploughs, guns, ships, railways, books, 
and songs, and soft beds for the sick, and gentle words for 
little children, for blind and dumb folk, for birds and beasts. 
I am sorry the gorilla is so fierce and unfriendly ; but so 
am I sorry that some Englishmen, Frenchmen, Germans, 
Americans, and others, are so fierce and unfriendly towards 
their fellow-men. But there is one thing I wish you to notice 
in these five skeletons. They are so much alike; they have 
a great likeness. And besides, you will find that there is 
also a good deal of likeness between the skeleton of a man 
and the skeletons of oxen, horses, sheep, birds, and other 
animals. They are not only like us in their bones. They 
are like us in their ways ; they love their friends ; they like 
to go to parties (which we call herds, flocks, packs, etc.); 
they care for their young ; and, when they are little, they 
delight in play. 

They love their friends. Yes, let me tell you about the 
American monkey that risked its life to save its keeper. It 
lived in the same house as a large baboon, and one keeper 
fed and watched them both. One day, as the keeper knelt 
on the floor, the baboon sprang upon him and attacked him, 
tearing sharp wounds in his neck. The little American 
monkey loved its keeper, and, seeing him in danger, rushed 
to the rescue. By screaming and biting it made the baboon 
let go its hold of the man. Generally, the fittle creature 
trembled at the size and strength of the baboon. But now, 
in its passion of love, it forgot its own fears ; it thought only 
of its friend. The keeper was able to leap up, the baboon 
was thrust back into its den, and the keeper's wounds were 
dressed by a surgeon. Of course, there are some men — 
many men — who are like the baboon. They are stupid 
enough to suppose that the best way to get on in the world 
is to push, or beat, or kill other men ; or to cheat them, and 
worry them, and make them work for very low wages. But 
we never like apes or men for such conduct, not even strong 
gorillas five feet high ; not even rich men who live in splendid 
mansions with parks around. We are able to love animals 
and men when we find that we and they have the same 
qualities of the kind heart, friendship, neighbourliness. 

You know there are people called savages — rough, wild, 
and strange. Yet they are not altogether strange. They 


have qualities which we should admire. I will ask you to 
tell me what qualities they show. 

The Red Indian, when fastened to a tree by his enemies, 
would never utter a sound even after his body was pierced 
by arrows. He mastered or controlled his feelings. He 
showed the quality of self-control. It is sad to think that the 
Red Indians have so often been slain or ill-treated by the 
white men. 

The wild Arabs of the Soudan fought bravely against the 
English. They rushed upon the lines of English rifles and 
guns, and died in thousands. They displayed courage. 

Have you ever been in a museum where articles made by 
savage hands are kept in glass cases ? — dishes, bowls, boats, 
paddles, kites, feather ornaments, baskets, ivory carvings, 
etc. In these things we see what the industry of wild men 
can do. 

A number of Kaffir children sat in a ring, and a woman, 
who had been appointed to give them food, went round 
giving each a portion. A second time she passed round, 
taking part from one, and giving part to another, so that all 
might share ahke. A third time she walked round in the 
same manner. This savage woman desired to diO justice. 

The traveller, Mungo Park, could find no one to give 
him shelter in an African village. Night was drawing on ; 
the wind was rising ; a storm was approaching. Mr. Park 
let his horse loose to graze, and then sat under a tree, .sad 
and lonely. A negro woman, who had been working in a 
field, passed that way, and asked him what was the matter. 
He told her. Then the negress picked up the horse's 
saddle and bridle, and said kindly, "Come with me to my 
hut." Mungo Park gladly followed her. In the hut she lit 
a lamp, spread a mat for him to lie on, and broiled a fish 
for his supper; and, after that, she bade him sleep. The 
girls of the family had been looking on, much astonished at 
the whiteness of the visitor's skin. The lady of the hut (for 
she was in truth a lady) called upon the girls to spin cotton, 
and this they continued doing for some hours. As they 
span they sang songs. And one of them made a little song, 
the words and music being her own, about the tired way- 
farer to whom they had given shelter. She sang, "The 
winds roared, and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint 
and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother 


to bring him milk, no wife to grind his corn." And all her 
companions joined in the chorus, with soft, sweet voices, 
" Let us pity the white man ; no mother has he to bring 
him milk, no wife to grind his corn." It was long before 
Mungo Park could sleep, the goodness of the negro women 
had so touched his heart. In the morning he bade them 
farewell, leaving his black hostess the only gift he could 
spare — two bright brass buttons from his coat ; for such 
things, you know, greatly please the fancy of savages. Thus, 
the negresses in the African hut understood kindness. Yes, 
and their song showed that they knew the loveliness of music. 

That last word — music — reminds me of a story told by 
Mr. Moffat. He dwelt among the Koranna folk in South 
Africa. The pretty idea came into his mind to teach the 
Korannas the alphabet by the help of a song. So he taught 
them to sing A B— C D— E F G H, etc., to the Scottish tune 
of Auld Lang Syne. The simple Korannas loved the tune, 
and when once they learned it, they sang it for two hours 
straight off ! Often after that, Mr. Moffat heard the people, 
as they milked the cows or tended the calves in the meadows, 
gaily singing their ABC. 

There are monkeys and apes which are fierce and spiteful, 
and yet we have found good qualities in these creatures of 
the forest. Let us be gentle and just to them as far as 
they will let us. Also, among savages we know that terrible 
and gross deeds are done. But we also know that among 
savages we may find self-control, industry, justice, kindness, 
and the love of music. When the white men of Europe and 
America have ill-treated the natives of the prairies of the 
West and the vast plains of Africa, they must have supposed 
that the uncivilised people had only bad qualities. But that 
is not so ; and it is our duty — your duty, girls and boys, 
when you grow up — -to strive to do justice and show mercy 
to men and women and children whose skins have a 
different colour from ours, but who know how to help each 
other, to deal fairly, and to pity. 

Lesson XIV. 

Strength may be used to assist others. Heroes who helped others. 
The words " kindness," "kin," and " kindred." Kindness in kings, 
heroes, men of learning, and children. 

Look at the elephant. He marches by like a little moun- 
tain on four legs. He can carry a class of school-children 
on his back. When he meets a tiger he will not quail. In 
his rage he can pull down a tree. He can toss a man into 
the air. ^Vonderful is his strength of body. 

There was once an Indian elephant who had a child given 
to him to mind. The mother had no fear ; she trusted the 
monstrous nurse to do his duty while she went on an errand. 
The child crawled about and got between its nurse's legs, 
and the elephant quietly fetched it out with his trunk, so 
that it might not be trampled on. And when the child 
became entangled among the branches of a tree on the 
leaves of which the elephant was feeding, he gently lifted it 
away. So here you see the strong animal used its strength 
in order to help. 

You may have read the story of the hero Hercules {Her- 
ku-/ees), the strongest of the strong. Even when a child he 
displayed his might. Two poisonous serpents crept to his 
cradle ; but he awoke, he cried, he grasped one snake in 
each hand, and held them tight until they were strangled. 
This he did to help himself. \Vhen he became a man he 
used his strength to \\^\f^ other people. A lion was the terror 
of the land of Nemea, and Hercules felled it to the ground 
with his club, and strangled it as he had strangled the 
snakes ; and, always afterwards, he wore the lion's skin on 
his shoulders for a cloak. A terrible creature with nine 
heads, called the Hydra, had devoured many folk in the 
country of Lerna (I hope you do not believe this story !). 


Hercules cut off all its dreadful heads. A wild boar caused 
great fear among the people of Erymantia. The strong 
man drove it from the forest, chased it among the snow- 
drifts on a high mountain, and, having caught the boar, 
bound it with a rope and carried it away in triumph. Best 
of all was the help he rendered to the unhappy man who 
was chained to a rock. The chained man was Prometheus 
{Pro-mee'-theus), and he had bean fastened to the rock by 
the Lord of Heaven because he had stolen fire from the 
sun to warm the men and women on the earth. For thirty 
years the friend of mankind had lain there, amid heat and 
cold, rain and lightning ; each day an eagle gnawed his liver, 
and each night the liver grew again. Then came Hercules, 
and he killed the eagle, and undid the chain, and Prometheus 
went free. We call Hercules a hero. And what is a hero ? 
A hero is a very brave man, one who makes war on things 
that are evil. But let us stop for a few moments, and I will 
tell you another Greek myth (or fable). Once there was a 
city named Troy, and the Greeks laid siege to it for ten 
years, and many battles were fought before its walls. The 
Queen of the Amazons came to the aid of the men of Troy. 
Clad in armour, she strode out to meet the Greeks ; she 
carried sword and shield ; and when she saw the hero 
Achilles {A-kil-kez) she did not tremble, but prepared to 
fight. He would willingly have stayed his hand from hurt- 
ing her, but she would not let him go without fighting. At 
length, when she came near to killing Achilles, he was 
obliged to strike her, and the queen was sore wounded, and 
sank to the ground. Then the hero lifted her up in his 
arms, and, as he looked into her beautiful face, he shed 
tears to think his weapon had injured her ; and she died 
while he held her. Then he called to the men of Troy, and 
praised the bravery of the dead queen, and bade them take 
away her body. But there was in the Greek army a cowardly 
fellow named Thersites ( Ther-sy -teez) ; and this fellow spake 
jeering words about the fallen queen, and pierced her body 
with his lance. Thereupon, Achilles turned in anger upon 
the coward, and killed him with one tremendous blow of 
his hand. Of course, Achilles was a man, and Thersites 
was a man. But was Thersites, who insulted the dead 
queen, worthy to be called a man ? No. Achilles had a 
noble spirit, and shed noble tears, and so we call him a 


man, a hero, a master. We admire a strong man ; but we 
admire, most of all, the strong man who is kind and tender. 
A man who is stronger than his neighbour will show that 
he has something heroic in him if he does his neighbour a 

Let us look at the word kindness. Take the first half of 
the word — kind. People say, What kind of fruit do you 
like best ? And that means. What class or family of fruits 
do you like best ? And people speak of the cat as an 
animal of the tiger-KiND, meaning an animal of the tiger 
class or family. You and I, and all men, women, and 
children, belong to man-KiND — the class or family of man. 
We are kin to one another ; we belong to one kindred. 
When we talk of a person as being our KiNS-man, we mean 
he belongs to our family. Now, we can think of ourselves 
as members of a small family, or a big family — a small kind, 
or a big kind. The small family is composed of mother, 
father, daughter, son, aunt, uncle, cousin, and so on. Most 
people feel kinder to mother, father, cousin, etc., than to 
strangers outside their kind. But the big family spreads 
all over the world — English, Scottish, Welsh, Irish, French, 
German, Italian, Russian, American, Boer, Indian, Chinese, 
Negro — many millions of men and w^omen who live where 
palm-trees grow, where the grapes turn purple, where the 
sea hardens to ice; in the blaze of the sun at the Equator, 
or in the twilight of the cold north and south. Man-KiND 
are brethren, and should therefore act KiND-ly to each other. 

A little girl was carrying a big baby. Someone asked her 
if the baby was not very heavy. She smiled and said, " Oh, 
no, he is not heavy ; he is my brother." He did not seem 
heavy because he was her brother. There was something 
heroic in the girl. I think — and I hope you think — that little 
girls, as well as kings and warriors, can have the heroic spirit 
in their hearts. 

The heroic folk are generally kind folk ; and kind kings 
are generally the best kings. You remember the story of 
King Wenceslas ( Wen'-ces-las). One winter night he looked 
forth from his palace-window, and saw a poor peasant picking 
up sticks : — 

Good King Wenceslas looked out 
On the feast of Stephen, 
When the snow lay round about, 
Deep and crisp and even. 


Brightly shone the moon that night, 

Though the frost was cruel, 
When a poor man came in sight, 

Gathering winter fuel. 

The King called a page-boy, and inquired if he knew the 
stick-gatherer ; and he answered that the peasant lived three 
miles away, by the spring that issued from the forest : — 

" Hither, page, and stand by me. 
If though knowst it, telling, 
Yonder peasant, who is he ? 

Where and what his dwelling ?'' 

" Sire, he lives a good league hence, 
Underneath the mountain ; 
Right against the forest fence, 
By Saint Agnes' fountain." 

Then the King took meat, and wine, and logs of wood ; and 
he and the page carried them across the snowy plain towards 
the peasant's house, while the wind blew keen and shrill. 
The boy feared to go on : — 

" Sire, the night is darker now, 
And the wind blows stronger ; 
Fails my heart, I know not how, 
I can go no longer." 

And the King cheerfully bade him walk on, because in 
walking, and in striving, and in acts of kindness our hearts are 
warmed : — 

" Mark my footsteps, good my page ; 
Tread thou in them boldly ; 
Thou shalt find the winter rage 
Freeze thy blood less coldly." 

Kindness was the King's best crown. 

And that makes me think of the garland of Adanson the 
botanist. (A botanist is one who studies plants). Adanson 
was a Frenchman, who died in 1806. He loved trees and 
flowers ; he also loved mankind. When he died a garland 
was laid on his coffin. The flowers in the garland were given 
by fifty-eight families, to whom Adanson had been a friend 
and helper. The people looked at the garland ; and the 
lilies, the violets, or the snowdrops (I do not know what the 
flowers were) told the tale of his goodness to his brethren in 
their time of need. 

Kindness is the ornament of the hero, the king, the man 
of learning, and the child. 


Lesson XV. 

KINDNESS— (cofilinued) 

Kindness on a small scale and a large scale. Kindness to (i) children ; 
(2) the aged. 

When you have asked father to open his watch for you, 
have you not been pleased to see the Httle shining wheels 
that moved the hands that told the time ? But, when you 
come to think of it, what an immense number of wheels of 
all kinds one can behold in the world ! — wheels in watches, 
wheels in clocks, wheels in steam engines, wheels in car- 
riages, carts, barrows, bicycles, motor-cars, and wheels for 
the woolly lamb at the toy shop to run on. Yet, whether 
small or large, the wheel works in the same way, and has 
the same nature or principle. And it is so with the kindness 
about which I spoke to you the other day. It can be 
shown in noble acts that please a million people ; these are 
the large wheels. Let me give you an instance. In the 
year 18 70-1 the city of Paris had been girdled round for 
four months by the armies of the Germans. Through the 
snowy winter the siege had lasted, and men, women, and 
children had felt starvation. At length the siege was ended, 
and the city of Paris was like a person just let out of a cruel 
prison — free, but weak and ill. What, then, did the people 
of London do ? They subscribed ;^ioo,ooo and sent it to 
the governors of Paris, to be spent in buying food for the 
dear French folk (they were dear to London because they 
were suffering) who needed comfort after the long, long 
siege. The people of Paris did not forget this, and about 
six months afterwards they sent two French gentlemen to 
tell the Lord Mayor of London how much they had been 
cheered by this kindness. And, in token of their friend- 
ship, they gave to London a model of their Town Hall 
(Hotel de Ville) ; and, if ever you go the Guildhall Museum 
in the City of London, you may see this beautiful model in 
a glass case. It is made of bronze, and shows the pointed 
turrets and many windows aiid doors of the fine Town Hall. 
And when you look at it, you may think of the kindness 
shown by London to Paris. And, as for a small wheel, the 
first example that comes into my head is of the little boy 


who lived next door to Mrs. Jones. I knew this old lady ; 
and once she had her leg so bad that she could not move 
across her room. Little Harry happened to call in to see 
her, and he filled her kettle for her, and placed it on the 
fire so that it might sing songs about ships and fairies and 
all sorts of things. But small wheels and large wheels work 
in exactly the same way ; and there was the same good 
heart in the filling of the kettle as there was in the sending 
of the great gift of London's money across the silver sea to 

So now I shall talk to you about various ways in which 
the power of kindness may be applied. 

(i) To children. 

You often hear people speak of Jesus as a great teacher, 
though, indeed, he spoke modestly of himself, and did not 
care for men to even call him "Good Master." One of the 
best stories about him in the Bible tells how he received the 
visit of the children. Fathers and mothers came to him 
with their dimpled babes, and begged that he would lay his 
kindly hands upon them. The pupils of Jesus — young men 
who thought that great teachers were too great to be 
friendly with girls and boys — scolded the parents, and bade 
them take the children away. But when Jesus saw this 
rudeness, he was much displeased. He said he wished little 
children to be brought to him. They belonged to the kind 
or family that he loved. And then he took them up in his 
arms, put his hands upon them, and blessed them. 

Some poor children were playing in a corner of a London 
park. Their bare feet pattered, and their shouts sounded 
pleasant to the passers-by. A woman (she also was poor) 
was crossing the children's playground. She stopped, 
picked up something, hid it in the pocket of her old apron, 
and walked on. A policeman had watched her. Had she 
picked up a purse and taken it as her own ? He went up 
to her (though, really, I do not think he had any right to do 

" What are you carrying off in your apron ?" 

She hesitated, and then showed him a handful of broken 

" What do you want with that ?" 

The woman replied : " I took it out of the way of the 
children's feet." 


The same kindness moved the heart of Jesus the Hebrew 
and the heart of this poor EngHshwoman. 

And now I will tell of a Frenchwoman. Her name was 
Miss Marie-Louise Prioul, and she lived in a small Breton 
town, where the folk worked in the granite-quarries, or made 
leather, and cloth for sails. She and her sister lived in a 
little cottage with two rooms. As she sat knitting at her 
window she often saw children running, dirty and untidy, in 
the street. Their parents had to work hard, and seemed 
unable to attend to them. Marie-Louise pitied them, and 
wondered what might be done. She said to her sister, 
"Let us have the girls in our room, and teach them to be 
clean and to do useful tasks." So then they invited several 
little girls in, and then others ; and, day after day, the little 
maids filled Miss Prioul's parlour. She persuaded them to 
wash themselves regularly ; she showed them how much 
better it was to keep their locks of hair combed and clean 
instead of tangled and grimy ; and when they could get no 
better clothes she found garments for them. Also she 
talked with the parents, and induced them to send the girls 
to school. But the schools broke up for a long summer 
holiday of ten weeks. Were the children to go back to the 
gutters ? Marie-Louise opened her cottage again and set up 
a class of her own. She taught the class to sew, knit, and 
cook. When people told her she was very good, she 
answered, " Everyone should do what he can ; and my 
sister and I have an income of i,ooo francs" (about ;;^4o a 
year). Her friends built a hall, where, when I last heard of 
her, in the year 1900, she was caring like a mother for 
eighty girls, aged eight to fifteen. No doubt it would have 
been a happier thing if the parents could themselves have 
cherished their daughters ; but Marie-Louise saw the 
children in want, and she did her best to make the girls 
bright, sweet, and useful. 

(2) To the aged. 

Our life is like a piece of ground : the children play at 
one end ; the strong men and women work in the middle ; 
and the old folk sit on the seats at the other end. You will 
quite agree that people should be kind to the children. 
Yes, and also to the old folk who sit and watch the workers 
working and the children learning their lessons or sporting. 

A bishop — his name was Knight-Bruce — was riding up a 


Steep hill in Devonshire, when he saw an aged woman 
bearing a bundle of wood, which was to keep the fire burning 
in her cottage. He instantly dismounted, fastened his horse 
to the nearest tree, and helped her all the way to her 
dwelling. A few weeks afterwards he died, and they clothed 
his body in the fine robes of a bishop, and laid on his breast 
a beautiful cup which he had used in his church. But neither 
cup nor robes could make him look so noble as his simple 
deed of goodwill to the aged v/oman. 

A little boy walked with his mother in an Italian street. 
Presently he stood still, looking fixedly at a ragged, white- 
bearded beggar-man who sat on the steps of a church. The 
mother thought he was frightened by the old man's rough 
appearance, but the boy broke from her hand, and ran up to 
the old man, and threw his arms round his neck and kissed 
him, and cried, " Give him something, mother, give him 
something." The old man burst into tears, caressed the 
child, and said to the mother, " Love him well, lady ; he is 
one that will love the people." This boy, who pitied the 
sorrows of old age, became a very famous man, who lived to 
do his country much good. His name was Mazzini {Mad- 
zee -ne). 

To end with, let me tell of the nation which pays respect 
to old age more than any other nation on earth ; I mean the 
Chinese. The older a person becomes, the more they think 
he should be honoured. When a Frenchman, M. Simon, 
received a visit from two Chinese villagers, he took care the 
best seat was given to the elder man. After talking of other 
things, one of the Chinamen said to M. Simon, " May I ask 
your happy age ?" 

The Frenchman replied, "I am thirty-six." 

" I should have thought you double that," said the China- 
man very politely ; and he meant his remark to give pleasure, 
for he considered that to be aged seventy-two was better 
than to be aged thirty-six. 

Always, therefore, in China, the younger people give way 
to the old, and attend to their comfort, and listen with 
respect to their words. M. Simon understood the Chinese 
custom. If ever a crowd of Chinese happened to approach 
his house, regarding him with curious and mistrustful eyes, 
he would look round till he saw an old man, whom he 
would invite to follow him to the best seat. He would 

68 kindnp:ss 

place the old Chinaman in the seat of honour with many 
bows and with kind words. At once the people understood 
that he was a friend ; they left off their cries or complaints, 
and listened to him as to a gentleman. And as each father 
or grandfather dies, his name is kept on a varnished board, 
and the story of his life is written in a book ; and at least 
once a month a family will assemble in a quiet room, and 
listen to the names and deeds of one of their forefathers. 
Thus they never forget those who lived before them ; and 
even a poor Chinaman can tell you the history of his family 
for hundreds of years. Is it not pleasing to see the son 
respect the father, the young respect the old, the Present 
respect the Past ? Some people sneer at the Chinese, but, 
for my part, I think they must be a good nation. 

Lesson XVI. 

KINDNESS— (co^aim^ed) 

Kindness to (3) the unfortunate, as illustrated by stories from Ens^land 
and Japan. Bearing pain for the sake of others. 

You remember I have been talking to you about the way in 
which we should treat our ^I'nd or family. We should treat 
them kind-\^. If your little brother fell down and hurt his 
knee, would you say, " Oh, Harry cannot run and play as he 
used to ; he no longer belongs to our family "? Why, no ; 
you would say, " Harry has hurt himself ; I will help him 
becmise he belongs to my family," That is a reason why a 
family is a good thing — because its members can help each 
other in time of sorrow and misfortune. So next I will 
speak of kindness — 

(3) To the unfortunate. 

The unfortunate are the people who have suffered a loss ; 
and in the great family of mankind there are always millions 
of men, women, and children who are sad because they have 
lost a friend, or health, or some other good thing. Let me 
tell you what little Mary dreamed on the hill-top. 

She had heard that on Midsummer Night (June 21st) the 


wee fairies held meetings and dances on the Low or hill, 
and she climbed the Caldon Low to see what she could see. 
Well, she fell asleep, and when you are asleep you can see 
many things which you never behold with your open eyes ! 
Mary dreamed of the fairies and funny little brownies ; and 
when she woke up, the mist was hanging over the stones and 
rocks, and she scrambled down the path and hurried home 
to her mother. Here are the mother's questions, and 
Mary's answers : — 

'' A fid where have you been, my Mary, 
And where have you been from me ?" 

" I've been to the top of the Caldon Low, 
The Midsummer Night to see.'' 

"And what did you see, my Mary, 

All up on the Caldon Low ?" 
" I saw the glad sunshine come down, 

And I saw the merry winds blow."' 

Then Mary sat on her mother's knee and related all that 
she had seen and heard. Nine tiny harpers played, and a 
hundred fairies danced. After the dances (waltzes, polkas, 
and barn-dances) were ended, the fairies chatted, and they 
said things which delighted the girl's heart. They talked 
about water, and they seized hold of the thousands and 
thousands of water drops which fell from the mist and 
clouds, and they rolled them down the hill in a sparkling 
stream. The water leaped, and so did Mary's heart leap 
with joy. She knew that help was badly needed by three 
people. One was the man who lived at the water-mill ; the 
stream had fallen so low for want of rain that the mill-dam 
was half empty, and there was no power to turn the wheel. 
The second person was the widow who had a corn-field ; 
but a disease called " mildew " had settled on the wheat, 
and the stalks of the corn drooped, thin and feeble. 
The third person was the linen-weaver ; he, poor man, had 
a croft or field near his house, in which fl;ix had been sown ; 
but the dry air had hurt the plants, and they were withered- 
looking, and seemed as if they would never put forth their 
sweet, blue blossoms. But the water and the breezes and 
the fairies would change all that ! 

" Oh, the miller, how he will laugh 
When he sees the mill-dam rise ! 
The jolly old miller, how he will laugh, 
Till the tears fill both his eyes." 


Well, that is the way I like to hear millers and other people 
laugh ; not a little, sleepy he-he-he I but a big, shaking, 
musical ha-ha-ha I And then the widow — the blind widow :— 

And some they seized the little winds 

That sounded over the hill ; 
And each put a horn unto his mouth, 

And blew both loud and shrill. 

"And there," they said, " the merry winds go, 
Away from every horn ; 
And they shall clear the mildew dank 
From the blind old widow's corn." 

And next, the fairies took handfuls of brown linseed, and 
flung it into the weaver's croft, so that (what wonderful flax !) 
it should grow up, flowers and all, in twenty-four hours : — 

"Oh I the poor, lame weaver, 
How he will laugh outright, 
When he sees his dwindling flax-field 
All full of flowers by night !" 

When Mary descended the Low, she heard the clack and 
roll of the wheel ; she found the widow's corn all stout and 
green ; she met the weaver at his gate, and heard him tell 
the glad story of the flax that was growing so strong and 
healthy. The little maid was happy now that the unfortunate 
folk were comforted and blessed. And so now to bed : — 

" Now this is all I heard mother. 
And all that I did see ; 
So, prithee, make my bed, mother, 
For I'm tired as I can be." 

This charming poem, I must tell you, was written by a 
lady — and her name, also, was Mary — Mary Howitt. I 
hope you will hunt the poem out in your reading-book, and 
con the verses which I have not had room to repeat here. 

It was only a dream ? Yes, it was only a dream. But 
there are some things which it does us good to dream. 
Suppose I were to dream that when men and women went 
to meetings, and churches, and Town Councils, and Parlia- 
ments, and Congresses, and Senates, they rolled the water 
down the Low, and blew the happy breezes from the horns, 
and tossed the linseed on the fields — Do you know what I 
mean ? Suppose that, like little Mary, they kept thinking 
of the millers, and weavers, and widows, and miners, and 
dockers, and fishermen, and tiny mites of children who 


had not enough food to eat ; and suppose they forgot all 
about the marching of grand armies, and the navies that 
ride on the broad sea, and cared for nothing else until all 
the weeping folk could smile again 1 Do you think that 
would be a good work for the people in the churches and the 
Parliaments ? Do you think you would care to help in it when 
you grow up, and when you — girls as well as boys — have the 
power to vote ? But there ! if your father heard me, he 
would say that I had left off talking about kindness, and 
was talking about politics. 

I will tell you about a dragon. 

On the coast of Japan is a bay, called the bay of Tokyo, 
and in its blue waters lies a small island. The island is very 
rocky ; the cliffs rise steep and ragged. Fisher-folk live in 
a village, and, if you were to walk up the village street, you 
would see strange objects for sale in the shops. There are 
crab shells, with the claws, stretching six feet from one claw- 
tip to the opposite one ; you can buy articles made from 
the skins of sharks ; also curious lanterns which have been 
made by filling the skins of fish with air like bladders, and 
varnishing them with oil. On the south side of the island 
is the mouth of a cave. It is a like a huge dark gateway, 
into which the tide flows and out of which it ebbs again 
twice a day. As you approach, you see rough-looking 
fishermen sitting round a fire by the entrance. If you tell 
them you wish to visit the Dragon's Cave, they will light 
torches, and lead you in along the winding path. The 
place is damp and musty. At last the passage becomes so 
low that you have to crawl. Then you reach an iron fence, 
where candles are burning. You can go no further. The 
Japanese guides say that, beyond the fence, dwells the 
dragon Enoshima (E-fio-shi-mah). Of course, he does not; 
for there are no such things as dragons, except in carvings 
and pictures and fairy-tales ; and I daresay one of you boys 
could draw me a dragon with sharp talons and ever so many 
teeth and a lovely curly tail ! 

Well, I am going to tell you the fancy-tale, or legend, of 
Enoshima. The Japanese say that a long time ago the 
villagers were in deep trouble, because the dragon used 
every now and then to sally forth from the cave and devour 
any children who happened to be on the beach. They 
cried in their distress to a good lady named Benten, who 


lived in the sky. You see, the Japanese understand, as well 
as we do, that nobody can help the sorrowful so well as a 
gentle-hearted lady. In answer to their call, Benten 
appeared in the clouds. An earthquake took place ; the 
island shook; the sea was heaved up and down; and the 
dragon rose above the waves. 

There was no fight. Benten descended to the island, 
and looked straight into the dragon's face. She was not 
afraid. \Vild and fierce as he was, Enoshima understood 
that Benten had more power than he ; for she had the 
power to love and save children, and he only knew how to 
destroy. Then (so says the Japanese story) Benten became 
the dragon's queen ; and he had the sense to do her bidding, 
and feed on other food, and leave the villagers in peace. In 
the dark cavern she was willing to dwell, so that she might 
protect the little girls and boys from the dragon. It was 
not so pleasant as the bright cloud-land whence she had 
sprung, but she was happy in knowing that she was saving 
the children and making the parents glad. 

It was delightful of little Mary to wish well to the miller, 
the widow, and the weaver. But when Mary grows to 
womanhood, she will find that, in order to aid the unfortunate, 
she must do more than laugh with the fairies on the Low. 
She may have to bear hardship herself while helping others. 

Yes, and if you read the lives of many great men and 
women who have done good to the world, you will find that 
is just what happened. For the sake of their neighbours, 
they bore pain — just as, dear children, your mother has 
often borne pain for you. 

Lesson XYII. 

KINDNESS— (co/ifi;med) 

Kindness to (4) the sick ; illustrated liy stories of a Scot, a Roman, a 
Frenchwoman, and Englishmen. 

I LIKE to see a strong man lift his hands to climb steep 
rocks ; I like to see him raise his hands to gather fruit from 


the tree ; I like to see him swing on high the stout axe that 
will fell the oak or the pine ; I like to see him thrust the 
spade into the brown earth ; and I also like to see him 
stoop over the bed where a child, or a woman, or a man is 
ill, and I like to see his big hands helping. So, in the fourth 
place, w-e will speak of Kindness, — 

(4) To the sick. 

A small army of Scots were marching in Ireland. Grim 
and determined they marched ; they were marching away 
from the enemy — the English enemy — but only because 
their wise captain, Robert Bruce, knew it would be foolish 
to stay and fight while their numbers were so few. They 
must march in storm or sunlight, by night or day, for Roger 
Mortimer was in pursuit with his English warriors. One 
day King Bruce was told that a woman who had followed 
the army — a poor woman who washed the clothing of the 
soldiers — had fallen sick. She and her new-born babe 
were in danger of being left behind. 

" Halt !" said Bruce. 

All the army halted. Each hour the English drew 
nearer, with banners and spears. The Scots waited — quiet, 
steady, manful. The mother was provided wdth comforts ; 
the little babe cared for ; a litter was made to carry them. 
Still the English marched, and still the Scots waited. 
Even if the delay brought some hardship to the men, the 
mother must be tended. And, at length, the mother was 
rested, and the army set forward on swift foot again. Bruce 
and his men were heroic. They had done a deed which 
was better than shedding the blood of foemen. They had 
endured peril for the sake of a weak woman and a weak babe. 

A greater man than Bruce was the Roman, Julius Caesar. 
You have heard of the countries Cfesar conquered. He and 
his soldiers carried the Roman eagles over mountains, 
across rivers, across the restless sea. He was the greatest 
man of his time. But what did he do when he and his 
companions (his friend, Oppius, among them) were over- 
taken by a tempest? They looked about for shelter, and 
saw a poor cottage. To this they hurried in the pelting rain. 
There was but one room, with but one couch in a corner to 
spare for strangers. Caesar must take this place, said his 
companions ; and they would huddle as best they could in 
the shed outside. 


" No," ordered Cossar, " Oppius is the weakest ; he is in 
bad health ; he must have the easiest place." 

Oppius went inside ; and all that night great Caesar and 
his lords slept in the chilly shed. 

And so, if ever you yield a place to an old man or woman, 
or stay at home to amuse your sick friend, or help to carry 
to his cottage the lad who has hurt his leg, or stop on your 
road to say to the crying child " Never mind !" you will be 
doing a thing such as the valiant Bruce and Cassar did. 

The names of Robert Bruce and Julius Ctesar are well- 
known. I should like now to relate to you a simple story 
of two men, which was told me by a good old gentleman, 
but he did not give me their names. 

These two men had each an allotment (or piece) of 
ground near a convent. 

Monks lived in the convent, and, sometimes, you could 
hear their voices singing a solemn chant. The two men 
laboured hard in tilling the soil and weeding it, and growing 
plants for the table of their families or for sale. Between 
the gardens was placed a row of pegs, which were very easy 
to step over, but neither of the men ever interfered with the 
plants that belonged to the other. When they heard the 
convent bell ring they stopped a few moments to cross 
themselves (that is, to make the sign of the cross over face 
and breast), and said a short prayer. If you had asked 
them, they would have said it was their religion to do so. 
One man fell ill. He used to work on his plot of ground 
two hours each morning before he walked to his business. 
His neighbour pitied him ; but he did more than pity — he 
worked one hour in his own garden and one hour in his 
friend's. I do not know if he would have called this 
religion, but I think he might have done so. To do good 
is our religion. 

No doubt you love a garden, whether it is a flower garden, 
bright with blossoms that wave their colours when the cool 
breeze blows, or a kitchen garden, with its rich beds of 
potatoes, or marrows, or its tall ranks of peas and scarlet- 
runners. How delightful, too, to have tea in the summer- 
house, or rest and read a book there when the sun is sultry. 
Perhaps you agree that it would be pleasant to work for your 
sick friend by helping to cultivate his pretty garden. i\h, 
yes ! but while it is always beautiful to aid a neighbour, we 


may have to aid him in ways that are not at all charming. 
Let me show you what I mean. 

In 1824 a family of eleven persons lived near Dieppe, on 
the north coast of France — father, mother, and nine 
children. A bad fever (typhus) broke out ; the mother and 
five children died, leaving the father and the rest of the 
children still tossing, hot and weary, on their beds. No one 
would come to the house to assist them for fear of catching 
the fever. The house was like a house on a lonely island. 
I said no one would come ; but there was one good soul 
who walked into the stricken dwelling. It was a woman 
named Celestine Detriment. She nursed the man and the 
little ones, giving them food and drink, cheering them when 
their spirits were faint ; and, when all the place seemed dark, 
Celestine would talk and smile until it all seemed light. One 
of the children died. Celestine placed it in a coffin and 
carried it to the courtyard for the bearers to take away. 
And the brave woman stayed until the father and the three 
children were well and strong. English children, you find 
it difficult to repeat this Frenchwoman's name ; but you 
understand her kind heart. When you think of France, 
remember that it has in its cities and villages many such 
fine characters as Celestine. 

So also has England. One of the most beautiful parts of 
England is Derbyshire — a place of bold mountains and 
cliffs ; of clear streams, where the trout and grayling swim ; 
of fair green meadows ; and of old churches and mansions. 
In the north of Derbyshire is a village called Eyam (the way 
to say it is Eem). In the year 1665 the Plague broke out 
among the cottagers. You have heard of the Plague of 
London, when so many thousands of people were sick, when 
the city was mournful and silent, and grass grew in the 
lonesome streets. A box of clothes had been sent from 
London to Eyam, and in this box were contained some of 
the disease-dust (germs) which spread the illness among the 
villagers. In every house the Plague raged, and all faces 
were sad. None played music, and the children dared not 
gather together to sport on the green. The priest of the 
village was Mr. William Mompesson, and he, with his wife, 
Catharine, stayed at Eyam during the whole time of the 
Plague. He assembled the people one day, and said he 
wished them all to promise not to leave Eyam, lest, if they 


went elsewhere, they might carry the disease to other places 
and injure other people. To this they agreed. Also, they 
agreed to trade with neighbouring villages in this way : 
they met the tradesman at a certain spot, where the goods 
were laid down, without the people coming close to each 
other ; and when money was given by Eyam folk to the 
traders they put the coins in a trough of water, so that the 
disease-germs might be washed clean away. In spite of all 
the care taken there were many deaths. Out of 350 people, 
259 died of the Plague between September, 1665, and 
October, 1666. One poor woman lost her husband and six 
children in seven days. Mr. Mompesson visited the sick, 
consoled them, and supplied their wants. On Sundays the 
people went to meeting in a valley — in the open air, so as 
to avoid coming too close to one another in a building. 
Mr. Mompesson, standing on a rock, used to speak to them 
words of love and hope. His wife also helped, until in 
August, 1666, she died, at the age of 27. Mr. Mompesson 
belonged to the Church, and there was in the village a man 
named Thomas Stanley, who had once been a priest in the 
same church, but he had been driven out because he did 
not hold certain beliefs. This Mr. Stanley also aided the 
sick and dying, for, whether we belong to the Church or 
not, we are all akin, and must show Ainship and /CvV/rt'ness 
to our neighbours. 

Well, these great plagues do not happen every day, and 
so you and I may never have the chance to do such 
remarkable deeds as Mr. Mompesson and his wife and Mr. 
Stanley did. But notice these two little actions : 

1. The holding of the hand. A sick woman once had to 
endure an " operation " — a cutting by the surgeon's knife. 
She said to a friend, " I will stand it if you will hold my 
hand." vSo he held her hand while the operation was done, 
and she bore it bravely. 

2. The smile. A man was ill, and several friends went 
to see him. One after the other they looked sad, and 
talked much about his bad chest. At last, one called who 
said little about illness, but talked of things in the 
street, and at the town hall, and at the theatre, and, as he 
talked, he smiled ; and the sick man said, " Ah, you have 
done me more good than all the others ; you have smiled !" 

These are simple things — the holding of the hand, and 


the smile ; and anyone can help a neighbour in ways so 
simple. It is the same kindness, whether we stay the steps 
of an army, as Bruce did, to help a weak woman, or smile 
at the friend whose head lies wearily on the pillow. 

Lesson XVIII. 

KINDNESS— rrd?////>«/f^; 

Kindness to (5) those in peril ; illustrated by stories of animals and 
human beings. Is it natural to seek to save those in peril ? 

Men, women, boys, girls, lions, bears, and all other animals 
suffer thirst ; and when they are thirsty, they want drink. 
That is their nature ; it is natural to seek drink when we 
are thirsty. When we are hungry, we have a natural desire 
for food. After the dark night, the birds feel a natural joy 
when the day breaks, and they trill, trill, trill in the trees 
and bushes ; and men and women and children are glad to 
see the new sunlight. It is natural for children to hop, and 
skip, and jump, and laugh, and shout, and sing, and run, 
and dance, and get tired, and go to sleep — sleep — sleep. 
And when a dear friend of ours lies dead in the house, and 
the blinds are drawn down, it is natural for us to sit sadly in 
the dim rooms, and to cry. It is also natural for men and 
boys to fight. Yes, but that is one of the things we want to 
change ; and I think we shall change it some day. 

And now let us see if it is natural to show kindness — 
(5) To those in peril (or danger). 

Two men were riding along the bank of a stream in 
California (in North America), and they saw at the water- 
side a beautiful doe (mother-deer) and her young fawn 
drinking. When the animals saw the men they were startled 
and turned to gallop away, but the little one slipped into the 
river, and was carried along by the rushing water. The 
mother tried to bend over and seize the fawn with her teeth ; 
but she failed. Then she ran on in front, and placed herself 
on some broken rocks in the middle of the river, and the 
fawn was swept nearer and nearer by the rough current, until 


at last the doe was able to clasp the fawn's neck with her 
fore-legs and draw it from the stream. She laid the young 
one on the bank, and licked it and warmed it. The fawn 
soon felt well again ; and the mother and her offspring 
trotted away into the woods. The two men might easily 
have captured the deer, but they did not; they respected 
the mother's love. 

That happened at an American river. Let us turn to the 
famous English river, the Thames. Near the railway bridge 
at Barnes some children played, and one of them, a girl, 
slipped, and fell into the stream. The tide was going down, 
and it carried her swiftly away. Just then a gentleman was 
walking on the bank, with his dog at his side ; he sent the 
dog (a retriever) into the river. The dog swam to the girl, 
bit tight at her dress, and held her above the water until a 
boatman came up and took her out. She had lost her 
senses, but presently she recovered. 

I think both the doe and the dog liked to do their deed 
of rescue. If we could have had a chat with them about it, 
they would have said, " Well, you know, it was only natural 
that we should want to help ; we felt it was the right thing 
to do." 

In Leicester there lived a lad named William Alfred Hull, 
aged thirteen. One afternoon, in July, 1901, Hull had been 
bathing in the river Soar, and was dressing himself again, 
when a friend named George came up and said he also 
would bathe at a certain spot which he pointed to. Hull 
said, " George, don't go in ; it's deep water." But George 
plunged in, the water being seven feet deep. He could not 
keep up, and he shouted, and sank, and rose again to the 
surface. Then Hull leaped in, caught hold of his struggling 
friend by the hair, and tried his hardest to pull him out. 
But all in vain : George could not keep quiet ; he was 
dragging Hull under water, and Hull was obliged to let go, 
and he reached the bank nearly fainting. George was 
drowned ; but his friend had nobly tried to save him. 

Next, the girl with the wooden hoop. Her name was 
Betsy Harris. In the spring of 1896, when she was fifteen 
years old, Betsy was running along the beach at Hove, by 
Brighton, when she saw a little boy in danger of drowning. 
He had slipped off a groyne that stretched some distance 
out into the sea, and he had sunk twice before Betsy noticed 


him. She rushed into the sea, and made her way to the 
poor child and dragged him out. I beUeve she did not 
swim, but she just went in, got drenched through — and 
saved a Hfe. 

Betsy was fifteen, I said. Catherine Vassent, a French 
maiden, was seventeen when she deUvered three men from 
death. In the town of Noyon, about seventy miles from 
Paris, a sewer had been left open for repairs. It was a dark 
ill-smelling pit in the roadway. Four men were working, 
and they all fell in. People crowded round, and looked 
down, and said, " Ah, poor fellows, they will be choked by 
the vile sewer gas ! " None of them offered to assist. 
Catherine came by, and, when she heard what was the 
matter, she persuaded some of the people to lower her into 
the sewer. The men lay huddled at the bottom, drowsy 
and helpless. She fastened ropes about two of them ; and 
she and they were drawn up. Again she descended, and a 
third man was rescued, but Catherine fainted after reaching 
the top. In a few minutes she felt stronger, and went down 
the third time, returning with the fourth man, who, alas, was 

Let us come back to England. One night, in the year 
1885, a fire broke out at a London oilshop. Very soon the 
house was red with flames, and the sky above glowed with 
crimson ; and hundreds of people had flocked to see, and 
the rush of the fire-engines was heard. Three children slept in 
an upper room, in charge of the servant, Alice Ayres. 
Alice was the first to awake and find all their lives in peril. 
She darted to the window, flung it open, threw a feather bed 
into the street below, and then one by one she dropped the 
children safely on to the soft bed ; and all the while the 
smoke puffed about her, and showers of sparks dazzled her 
eyes. Alice had now become faint, she tried to jump, she 
fell on the hard paving instead of on the bed, and she was 
carried to Guy's Hospital hurt and dying. There are 
hundreds of beds in that large hospital, and many men and 
women have lain there ; but none that ever died at Guy's 
was nobler than this servant. Boys, if you and I pass a 
picture of Alice Ayres, I think we should lift our hats. 

Are you tired of the stories ? I will tell you about Captain 
Moore and carpenter Macintosh. They were on board 
the vessel Annabel/a Clark, which, in November, 1878, lay 


in the river Adour, near Bayonne, in France. Near their 
vessel was a French barque laden with petroleum. The 
ship caught fire, the oil-tanks exploded, the oil all blazing 
ran upon the water, encircling the ship with flames. Some 
of the crew jumped into the river ; more stayed on the 
burning barque. Moore and Macintosh got a boat out, and 
rowed through the fire ; their clothes were burned, so were 
their hands and arms, but they kept on. The French crew 
were saved ; but Macintosh was much injured, and had to be 
taken away to his home at Ardrossan, in Scotland. You 
know that Englishmen and Scotchmen have often fought in 
battle against Frenchmen ; for instance, at ^^'aterloo. I 
would sooner hear the tale of Moore and Macintosh than 
the tale of the cannon and muskets at Waterloo. When the 
PVench Government heard of their bravery they sent them 
gold medals ; also Queen Victoria of England sent them 
bronze medals ; also the great shipping insurance company 
known as Lloyds sent other medals. But, girls and boys, if 
Captain Moore, and Macintosh, the ship's carpenter, could 
see your eyes brighten as I tell this story, I believe 
they would be even more pleased at that than with the 

It is nearly time to stop, is it not ? But just one more 
example. An old woman named Mrs. MacDaniel, seventy- 
eight years of age, was taking care of a fourteen-months-old 
child that belonged to a widow who was out at work. She 
left the room for a few minutes ; the child set its clothes 
alight by playing wnth the fire. Mrs. MacDaniel returned, 
took a cape, and pressed out the flames, though she placed 
herself in danger. Then she hastened to buy some sweet 
oil to ease the child's wounds. Poor soul, she had but five- 
pence left in the world, and that she spent on the oil. The 
child died, and when Mrs. MacDaniel related what had 
happened, she burst into tears and said, " Oh, the poor 
darling ! if only I could have saved its life." This occurred in 
Southwark, London, in February, 1901. 

Some people take delight in hearing about Alexander the 
Great, who led his soldiers, bold as lions, all the way from 
Europe to India; or about Bonaparte, who marched with 
his brave Frenchmen into Italy, into Spain, into Germany, 
and other countries. But I take more pleasure in thinking 
of old Mrs. MacDaniel, of Moore and Macintosh, of Alice 


Ayres, of Catherine Vassent, of Betsy Harris, of William 
Hull ; yes, and of the retriever and the Californian doe. 

And now I wonder if we can say it is natural for men and 
women to seek to save those in peril ? You can read and 
hear of thousands and thousands of examples of persons who 
were glad to go to the rescue of their fellows \ and yet we 
know, at the same time, that there are very many who would 
shrink from doing so. At any rate, you and I will agree 
that it will be a happy thing if all men learn to be kind to 
each other, so that it will seem quite easy and natural to run 
to each other's aid. And then, I think, we shall no longer 
give medals to brave people. 

Lesson XIX. 
KINDNESS— ^^^^///////t'^; 

Kindness to (6) the mourner. (7) The prisoner. Listening to the sad 
music of the world. 

Sometimes you hear lively music played on the piano, or by 
the band ; and you feel you must dance. Sometimes the 
music is slow, sad, and solemn ; and you feel you must be 
quiet as if you were near a friend who lay very ill. 

There was once a great Sultan and warrior named 
Amurath, and he laid siege to the city of Bagdad. When 
he had captured the city, he ordered, in a passion of cruelty, 
that all the Persians in Bagdad should be put to death. 
One of the prisoners begged that he might speak to the 
Sultan, and his request was granted. He asked that he 
might play on a musical instrument and sing to Amurath, 
and this also was permitted. So he began to sing about the 
mighty Sultan's march with the army, and the siege of 
Bagdad, the battles, and the victory. With all this Amurath 
was much charmed. Then the Persian musician went on to 
.sing in a different strain. His voice sank to sorrowful 
wailing, as he told of the poor prisoners who were con- 
demned to death, and would never more look on the sun, 
and the grass, and the faces of men and women. The 


Sultan burst into tears, and ordered that all the prisoners 
should be set free. 

Now, the world that you and I live in has many kinds of 
music, and we ought to listen to them all. A\'hen we hear 
the glad music, we should be glad ; and when we hear the 
music of distress, we should be distressed. 

I think you know what I mean. For instance, the great 
Chinese teacher Confucius {Co?i-fu'-she-us) once passed by a 
village with his disciples. The harvest had just been 
gathered in, and the country-folk were making merry with 
song, dance, and jokes. Confucius looked on and smiled, 
but his disciples were displeased, and they said, "The 
people ought not to be so fond of pleasure ; they ought to 
be serious ; they ought to go to the temples and thank 
Heaven and pray." 

"Well," answered Confucius, '' they are expressing their 
thanks in their own simple way. Do not be too hasty in 
your judgment. It is quite right that the peasants should 
take their ease after their hard toil. They are like a bow 
which is unbent after being used by the hunter. You 
should not keep a bow always bent ; if }ou do, it will lose 
its elastic power and be of no value." Thus Confucius 
showed his kindly feeUng towards the Chinese villagers in 
their hour of mirth. 

And so, when you see the children ride by in the brakes 
on a sunny day to the forest and the meadow, you will look 
up and wave your hand and cheer, though you will not be 
going on the excursion yourself. When your companion 
has passed the examination with success, you will go to him, 
or her, and say, "I am very glad." When your friend who 
has been lame can put aside his crutch, and step out with 
his own strong foot, you will be as pleased as if you yourself 
had been healed of a sickness. When the bride and bride- 
groom are married, you will stand among the joyous friends, 
and throw the flowers and cry " Good-bye, good-bye, we 
wish you every happiness." 

But then there is the other kind of music. The music 
often sounds sad in this world. To that music also we shall 
listen, even if it brings the tears to our eyes : and we shall 
show kindness to — 

(6) The mo/trner. 

You have heard of Prince Bismarck, the famous German 

KIMJ.NK.sS 83 

statesman, who died in 189S. He had marched with armies ; 
he had seen much bloodshed ; he had Hved among kings 
and emperors ; and sometimes people called him the Man 
of Iron, because he seemed severe and cruel. His home 
was in the country, and he had a large garden. Often he 
played with the gardener's children ; and they would climb 
upon his knee. One of them — a little girl — died. The 
Prince was deeply grievc;d. He went to the gardener, took 
his hand, and burst into tears ; and then he placed a bunch 
of roses in the dead child's hand. You can ask your father 
and mother what they think of Prince Bismarck. Some 
people admire him : though I am sorry that he spent so 
much of his thought in planning war and conquest. But, 
at least, we will all agree that he showed a kind and humane 
spirit when he wept with the little girl's father. 

That is the story of the German prince ; but I like still 
better the story of the French shopkeeper. 

A poor workwoman stood looking in at a shop window in 
a part of Paris known as the Chaussee d'Antin. The shop 
was filled with brilliant flowers, among which were bunches 
of sweet lilac. Snow was falling thickly ; the weather was 
gloomy ; the woman's heart was troubled, ^^'ith hesitation, 
she opened the shop door, and said to the mistress — 

" How much does a bunch of lilac cost?" 

"Ten francs" (7s. 6d.). 

The workwoman shook her head, and said : " My dear 
little boy was born at the time the lilacs were in flower ; and 
now he will go away without holding any of its blossoms in 
his arms." 

" Is your child dead ?" asked the shopkeeper. 

Then she picked up a very large bunch of lilac, placed it 
in the mother's apron, and refused to take any money. 

(7) To the prisoner. 

In the year 1895 a war took place between Italy and 
Abyssinia (in Eastern Africa). Many Italian soldiers were 
taken prisoners, and among them was one named Major 
Gamerra. For ten months he remained among the enemies 
of his country. On his return to Italy he wrote a book in 
which he gave an account of what had happened to him and 
what he had seen. He said the Abyssinian men did the 
sewing and weaving, while the women worked hard all day 
cutting wood, carrying water, grinding corn, and preparing 


food for the household. Yet, though they laboured so hard, 
and were treated like slaves, they were kind-hearted to all 
who suffered. 'I'here was one old and ugly woman whom 
the Major met, and who was very good to him and to other 
Italian prisoners. Her name was Kongeitu. She found 
herbs, and made medicine for the soldiers. \\'hen she saw 
them sorrowful she would cry, " Italy, Italy '." meaning that, 
some day, they would return to their dear land. The soldiers 
told her that, in Italy, they had mothers, wives, sisters, who 
wept for them ; and then old Kongeitu also wept. Once, 
Major Gamerra had to march without shoes : his feet were 
cut, and they bled. A poor slave- woman, named Sellas, 
saw his pain ; she had a heart as tender as the heart of old 
Kongeitu ; she took from off her head a band of white linen 
to ease his feet. The Abyssinian women prize white linen 
very much, so that Sellas was giving the Italian something 
very precious. At last the happy day came when Major 
Gamerra and his c(jmrades departed for Italy. Old Kongeitu 
was ill, and she was mournful at the thought of the Italians 
going ; yet she knew it pleased them to regain their freedom, 
and so, in the midst of her sorrow, she was glad. 

The same tender heart beat in the breast of a Frenchman 
who was born in 1576 and died in 1660. Every time the 
19th July comes round, Roman Catholics remember him : 
and I am sure he was worth remembering. This noble man 
was called Vincent de Paul, and he is usually spoken of as 
Saifit Vincent. His father was a farmer, who was so anxious 
to send the lad to college that he sold the plough to pay the 
expenses. When a young man, Vincent went on a voyage 
in the Mediterranean Sea. Pirate ships pursued the vessel ; 
Vincent was wounded by an arrow ; the ship was captured, 
and the crew were put in chains. They were taken to Tunis, 
in North Africa. Vincent was sold as a slave, first to one 
man, then to another. The last master became so friendly 
that he and Vincent resolved to go across to France together, 
and they succeeded in escaping. Vincent had suffered, and 
he never forgot that many of his fellow-men also suffered. 
Night and day he tried to comfort others. It was he who 
first formed the band of good nursing women whom we call 
" Sisters of Mercy.'' He became teacher to the children of 
an inspector of galleys. These galleys were big barges. 
Prisoners of war or criminals (wrong-doers) had to sit in the 


galleys, chained to the oars ; and, hour after hour, in rain or 
sun, they had to pull the oars. Vincent used to visit the 
galleys, and he pitied the galley-slaves. One unfortunate 
fellow, especially, he pitied, and he longed to see the man 
free, and able to return to his family. He made up his mind 
to take the prisoner's place. He undid the chain, and bade 
farewell to the poor soul, who rejoiced to get his liberty. 
Vincent chained himself to an oar, and pulled, pulled, 
pulled, in rain and sun, until he was discovered and sent 
away. It appears to me that Vincent made a mistake in 
setting the convict free, but his intention was kind, and the 
very people who said he did wrong loved him for his 
generous heart. 

Now do you understand better what I meant by " listen- 
ing to the sad music of the world"? The shop-keeper 
listened ; the ugly old Abyssinian listened ; the slave-woman 
Sellas listened ; and Saint Vincent de Paul listened. As 
they listened, the music stirred their good hearts, and they 
did kindnesses which were more beautiful than all the music, 
the blossoms, and the jewels in the world. 

Lesson XX. 

KINDNESS— f6w;//>?//^fl'; 

Kindness t.o (8) the poor (who are like the shipwrecked sailor). The 
sick and helpless may take thought for others ; the poor may care for 
the poor ; and should not the rich care for the poor ? 

We have talked together lately about Kindness to (i) 
Children; (2) The Aged; (3) The Unfortunate; (4) The 
Sick; (5) Those in danger; (6) Mourners; and (7) 
Prisoners. To-day I shall begin speaking of Kindness to — 

(8) The Poor. 

A good many years ago the frigate Amethyst (a frigate 
is a quick-sailing ship-of-war) was crossing the restless Bay 
of Biscay. Sir Michael Seymour was in command. The 
wreck of a merchant vessel was just seen above water. A 
gale was blowing ; overhead were the black and ragged 


clouds, and about the ship-of-war the white foam curled. 
But Sir Michael would not pass by a vessel in distress. He 
ordered men to row a boat to the sinking wreck. On the 
deck of the disabled ship one of them saw what looked like 
a big bundle of clothes. Was it a man ? He caught hold 
of it with a boat-hook, and hoisted it on to the boat. Yes, 
it was a man, half-starved, shrunken ; he was like a skeleton. 
They rowed back to the frigate. Then the poor fellow 
spoke in a strange, thin voice, and murmured, " There is 
another man I" At once Captain Seymour ordered the 
boat to hurry to the wreck again, and two other men were 
found, but both dead. The survivor (the man that still 
lived) was carefully nursed. In three weeks he was well 
and strong. As you looked at him, six feet tall, you would 
not believe it was the same poor sailor w'ho had been dying 
on the WTeck. But I want you to notice that, ivhe}i he was 
ill and helpless, he thought of his Jieighboiir. 

And now, girls, I have as good and even better story for 
you. A good and famous Frenchman, who was known as 
Saint Vincent de Paul (born 1576, died 1660), once met a 
poor village-girl w-ho did a great deal to help her neighbours. 
(I am sorry I do not know her name.) She had to mind 
cows during most of the day. \\'hile the cows were quietl)- 
grazing she would bend over a book and try hard to learn 
reading. Sometimes a word puzzled her, and she would 
wait until a good-natured man or woman passed along the 
meadow, and she would run and ask for assistance. There 
were children in the village who were quite unable to read, 
and the girl gathered them together in her spare hours and 
taught them. She knew very little, but her eyes sparkled 
with pleasure as she sought to teach that little to the lads 
and lasses of the village. When Vincent talked with her 
she told him how it made her heart glad to aid her 
neighbours ; and besides this, she said, she loved to nurse 
those who were sick, so that she could make them smile 
and win the red colour back to their cheeks. A severe 
plague had troubled the cit}- of Paris, and many people were 
stricken down by the deadly sickness. 

" Come," said Vincent to the village girl, " and comfort 
those who suffer in Paris." 

So she went. Vincent had asked many ladies to do this 
work, but they shrank away from it in fear. The village girl 


cast aside all fear, for she loved her fellow-men and women. 
Into one house after another she passed with her kind face 
and kind hands, and the folk rejoiced to see her. At last, 
when she shared her bed with a sick woman, she herself 
caught the plague and died. Other women had seen her 
work ; they went out helping as she did ; and so they earned 
the name of Sisters of Charity. The first Sister of Charity, 
you see, was the simple village girl. I think she was a very 
noble person, and I would sooner hear about her than about 
queens who sit on thrones, and wear shining silk, and carry 
golden crowns on their heads. The village girl, poor as she 
ivas, ca?-ed for the poor. 

I daresay you will agree with me that, having told you 
about a man and a woman, it is time to talk to you of a 
child whose little heart beat with tender feeling towards 
other living creatures, ^^'ell, the child I am thinking of was 
Minna. The winter was very cold and the frost glittered on 
the trees, the hedges, the grass, the houses. Little Minna 
looked out from the cottage window and beheld the birds 
as they flew here and there seeking the least bits of food. 
She said to herself that she would feed them, and she swept 
up the crumbs that lay on the table, and went to the door 
twice a day, and scattered them on the ground. From the 
bushes in the garden and the trees in the wood near by the 
birds fluttered joyfully to eat of Minna's feast. She stood 
watching them one afternoon, and her hands trembled from 
cold ; but her heart was warm. Her father said to her — 

" What are you doing, Minna ?" 

" Father, the ground is covered with ice and snow. The 
little creatures cannot find enough to eat. They are all so 
poor; and I am feeding them, just like the rich people help 
the poor people." 

" But," observed her father, " you cannot provide for all 
the birds of the forest." 

" No, father ; but you see there are all the other children 
in the world to help ; and they feed the birds, too, don't 
they ? Just as all the rich people are glad to help all 
the poor people, aren't they ?" 

The father looked at the mother and whispered — 

" Our little Minna is very innocent." 

By that he meant that Minna did not understand what 
kind of a world we really live in. For, as you older 



children know, all the rich people do not help all the poor, 
and all the children do not feed the hungry fowls of the air. 

No, but don't you think people ought to care for their 
neighbours ? The helpless sailor thought of the other men 
on the wreck. The village girl, poor as she was, thought of 
other poor persons. Minna, little child that she was, 
thought of the starving birds and of starving men and women. 
And if the weak and the poor can think of the weak and the 
poor, ought not the strong and the rich to do so ? Mind 
you, even if the strong and the rich do care for their neigh- 
bours they cannot show greater love than the sailor, the 
village girl, and the small cottage child. 

Perhaps some strong and rich people fancy they can get 
on very well without the poor people. That calls to my 
mind a dream which a French poet dreamed. A farm- 
labourer came and said to him, " Make your own bread, I 
shall do no more for you ; plough the ground, sow the seed, 
and look after yourself." A weaver came and said, " Make 
your own clothes ; I shall not wait on you." A mason came 
and said, " Take the trowel ; build your own house." The 
dreamer was in sore distress ; he had no food, no garments, 
no shelter ; and he heard the roar of lions in the way. 
AVhen he awoke he was glad. The builders climbed ladders, 
and whistled as they worked ; the weavers spun cloth ; and 
the farmer's men toiled in the fields. 

" I am not alone," said the poet, " my companions work 
for me." 

And I am sure he worked all the better for them, and 
perhaps he made them happy verses to cheer them at their 
labour. The poet, the ploughman, the weaver, the builder, 
the man who works with his brain, the man who works with 
his arms — yes, all of us, need each other, just as your one 
foot needs the other foot, one eye needs the other, one hand 
needs the other. And do not the rich need the poor? 
Ought they not to remember them, and to be as ready to 
help them as the poor sailor, the village girl, and little xMinna? 

Once I read a book of fables by a Russian author named 
Krilof ; and this was one of his stories. Of course it is not 
true, but I think you will understand what he means by it. 

One beautiful day in June, the sun shone on a tall tree 
which spread abroad its giant branches. The leaves of the 
tree were joyous, and they said proudly to one another — 


" How fine we are ! how cool a shade we make for the 
tired traveller I how pleasant a roof we offer to the shepherds 
and the shepherdesses when they dance ; and how sweetly the 
nightingale sings amid our boughs !" 

Then came soft voices out of the ground saying — 

" Can you not utter a word of thanks to us ? " 

" Who are you ?" 

'• ^Ve are the roots of the tree," answered the voices ; 
" we grow in the dark, but we provide you with moisture, 
and nourish you, and keep you beautiful ; and if the roots 
perish, the tree will die." 

You see the fable means that, if the poor workmen and 
workwomen left off their work, the rich people would perish. 
But still, do not forget there are two kinds of rich people — 
rich people who are idle, and rich people who do useful 
work. Some persons think it would be better if there were 
no very rich people at all ; and I am sure it is wrong that 
there should be so many people who are very poor. You 
must ask your father and mother what they think. But one 
thing is certain ; while some people are much richer than 
others, they ought to reflect (that is, think very hard and 
earnestly) how they may help and save their unhappy neigh- 
bours. And so, children, as you grow up into men and 
women — some poorer, some richer — look about the world, 
and when you see some one faint, or weeping, or lonely, 
say, There is another ??ia?i ; and help him yourself, if you 
can ; and if not, beg strong men to lift him from the tossing 

Lesson XXI. 
KIN DN ESS— f r^.7//V///^^; 

Kindness due from the rich to the poor. \'arious ways of helping 
besides giving food and clothes. 

In our last conversation we were talking about showing 
kindness to the poor. Now, in talking to a class of children, 
I should like to have both poor boys and girls, and rich 
boys and girls, to speak to. It is a good thing to see them 


sitting together as if they were brothers and sisters, though 
the parents of some have much money and the others httle. 
But, to-day, I wish to talk as if to the cJiildren of the rich. 
And when I say rich, I mean people who have very many 
comforts, whether they live in a palace, a mansion, or a villa. 
If any boy or girl whose parents are poor should happen to 
read this lesson, that will please me also ; for I respect such 
children quite as much as I respect the children of kings, 
presidents, generals, and professors. 

Let us suppose, then, that I am addressing the sons or 
daughters of people who have plenty of money. 

First of all, I will tell you about the cowherd. This is a 
story I read in a French book. 

A French gentleman walked w-ith several ladies and chil- 
dren by the seaside. The ladies and children were dressed 
in rich costumes, with bright colours ; and their faces showed 
how well and strong and cheerful they felt. The sun shone 
on the waves, the sand, the cliffs, and the grass on the top 
of the cliffs. When the party had climbed the steps up the 
cliff, they saw a herd of cows feeding on the pasture, and, at 
the sight of these animals, the children were afraid, and they 
shrank back. Just then a man rose up from the ground 
where he had lain. It was the cowherd. He wore a rough 
goat-skin • his face was brown with sun and weather. Calling 
his dog up, he assured the ladies and children that there was 
nothing to fear. By his side stood a thin, sickly-looking 
boy, who appeared to be six or seven years old. 

" Is that your son ?" asked a lady. 

" Yes, madame." 

" How old is he ?" 

" Eleven years." 

" Eleven years I Why, my Jennie is only eleven ! " 

Jennie (or Jeanne, in French) was a fine, big girl, with 
bonny, rosy cheeks. The cowherd gazed at Jennie earnestly, 
and said : — 

"Ah, madame, it is because the young lady eats meat."i 

When the lady asked further questions, she found that the 
cowherd had eight children ; he earned twenty sous (twenty 

' Vou know, children, some people (vegetarians) think it wrong to 
eat meat ; but that makes no difference to the story ; the man was too 
poor to buy proper wholesome food for his family. 


French halfpennies) or one franc a day ; but he had to 
pay one franc a week as rent for the poor Uttle cottage in 
which his family dwelt. The ladies gave him some money, 
and bade him good morning ; but, as they went away across 
the fair meadows by the sea, they wondered how the poor 
fellow managed to live on so small a wage. AVhat were his 
thoughts ? What were his pleasures ? 

Well, it was right that they should reflect like this ; it was 
right that they should keep wondering how poor people 
passed their lives ; it was right that they should feel sad, 
so that the grass did not look so green as before, nor the 
sky so blue. 

A rich man once said to his friend, "Why do poor 
people complain so ? What have they to grumble about ?" 
His friend said, " Come out with me to-night, and I will tell 
you." They shivered as they went ; the snow whitened the 
streets. The friend was a poet — the poet Robert .Southey ; 
and he gives us the story in his verse : — 

We met an old, bare-headed man ; 

His locks were few and while ; 
I asked him what he did aVjroad 

In that cold winter's night. 

The old man said he had no fire at home : he had come out 
to beg. Then they met a girl : — 

We met a young, hare-footed child, 

And she begged loud and bold ; 
I asked her what she did abroad 

When the wind it blew so cold. 

Her father was lying sick in bed, and she w^as seeking food 
from any who had kind hearts. 

We saw a woman sitting down 

Upon a stone to rest ; 
She had a baby at her back 

And another at her breast. 

She explained that her husband was serving as a soldier in 
a far land, and she was so poor, she must needs go to the 
workhouse. And then, says the poet : — 

I turned me to the rich man then, 
For silently stood he — 
"You asked me why the poor complain, 
And have answered thee !" 

I hope the rich man felt unhappy when he thought of all he 


had seen and heard that night. You see, it is sometimes 
right to make people feel unhappy, because then they want 
to go and alter the Wrong thing, and make it Right. 

And now I will tell you two fables, both out of German 
books. The first is about a rich man named Chryses 
{Kry'-sees means goMe/i). A widow came to his splendid 
house, and she had four children with her, the fifth child 
lying ill at home. She could not pay the yearly rent of her 
cottage, and she begged for more time in which to pay. 
Chryses ordered the servants to drive her away from his 
door. \Mien she had gone, he went into his great garden, 
and he entered the pretty summer-house by the river, and 
he lay on a couch to take his ease. Presently he heard the 
cry of the sick child in the cottage. No ! it was the 
whistling of the wind among the feathered reeds by the 
water-side. He heard the rush of the river, and it seemed 
as if he were being carried down it, away from the world of 
men and women, to an ocean that stretched farther than he 
could think. And he heard the clap of thunder. Then he 
rose up and hastened to the house, and called to his 
servants, and said : — 

" Fetch the widow and her children here." 

But she could not be found that day. Next morning he 
heard that the sick child had died ; and the widow had 
wandered off into the forest with her four living children, 
and no man knew whither she had gone. 

Chryses felt sad and troubled. It was his conscience that 
heard the cry of the child. It was his conscience that made 
him dread to float down the river away from the world of 
men and women without having helped the widow who 
Avas in need. He went to his bed, and his heart was sore 
grieved. And as he tossed uneasily in his fever, he heard 
the reeds whistle, and he heard the rush of the river, and 
he heard the roll of the thunder ; and he died.' 

Rich children, do you know where these reeds whistle in 
the wind ? You will hear the sound in the streets of citifes, 
where the people live in close rooms, without enough sun 
and air and food ; and even in the fair, open country, where 
the children of the cowherd and other such workmen live 
in wretched hovels and are not well clothed. The sound 

' From Krummacher's Parables. 


can be heard every day ; but all the rich people do not 
hear it. Rich people eat and drink, and ride and shoot, 
and visit friends, and travel about the beautiful world : and 
I wonder how many of them ever listen to the whistle of 
the wind in the reeds, or the rush of the river, or the voice 
of the thunder. How many of them become sad when 
they think of the cottages that do not keep out the rain and 
cold, and the dark streets in the towns, where there are no 
trees, and where the thrush and the lark do not sing ? 

Once I heard of a woman and her daughter who lived in 
a pleasant little cottage in the West of England. The 
landlord wished to use the house for some other purpose, 
and, without troubling as to what might become of her, he 
warned them that they must leave. Well, they did leave. 
But before they went they set fire to their old home ; and, 
when the landlord came, he found the cottage all a black 
ruin. When rich people are selfish, it makes the poor 
people angry, and even makes them hate the rich. There 
are many terrible things in the world — earthquakes, storms, 
fires, fioods, accidents on railways, shipwrecks, sickness. 
But the most terrible thing of all is that men should hate one 

Here is the other fable In Germany, the noble river Rhine 
flows among hills and forests and vineyards. Near the town 
of Bingen is a rock in the middle of the stream ; and on the 
rock stands an old tower which is called the Tower of 
Mice. The Rhine splashes on the rocks round the silent 
tower, ^\'hy was it named the Mice Tower ? The story 
goes that, long ago, a certain Bishop Hatto lived in Bingen, 
and he was rich. He had a large palace, and he had broad 
fields ; and in his granaries he had stored up immense 
quantities of corn which he meant to sell. Bishop Hatto 
was a cold-hearted man. If any man offended him, he 
never forgave. Now, a famine fell on the land, and the 
country-folk were starving. One day a crowd of men and 
women, with their children, swarmed about the gates of the 
Bishop's palace, and begged for food. They were refused. 
Then they rushed, shouting and enraged, to a granary 
which belonged to the cruel Hatto ; and they pushed their 
way in, and began to take corn for themselves. 

" ^^'e will have bread to-day," they shrieked one to the 


Bishop Hatto told his servants to close the granary-doors, 
and, when this was done, he ordered the place to be set on 
fire ; and the people died in the flames and smoke. The 
Bishop laughed when he heard the cries of the people. 

" Hark at the mice squealing ! They won't squeal any 
more !" 

At midnight armies and armies of mice came into his 
bedroom, through cracks and down the chimney. He rose 
in haste, and called for help. The servants ran in, and 
killed many mice ; but still more came, and more, and 
more. Bishop Hatto fled from the palace, and still the mice 
pursued. Then he crossed the Rhine to the tower on the 
rocks, and there he thought he was safe. But the next night 
the mice came again. They had swum the river, and crept 
into the castle, and they all went towards the Bishop. In 
the morning only his bones were found on the bed. 

Of course, this story is not true. But it shows us how the 
people hated the memory of a selfish man ; and they hated 
him so that they made this fable, or legend : and often told 
their children how the cruel-hearted Hatto met a dreadful 

If Bishop Hatto had liked, he could have made the 
people love him. 

Well, rich children, what will you do when you grow up ? 
Perhaps you say, "We will give money and food and clothes 
to the poor." Sometimes that is a very right thing to do. 
But there are other ways of helping that need much more 
thinking, and that will cost you much more trouble, such as 
helping young people to study, and helping them to learn 
trades, etc. ; teaching people science, history, etc. ; teaching 
people how to amuse themselves with good music, good 
games, etc. Think of this each year as you grow to manhood 
and womanhood, and say, " How can I help ?" 



Lesson XXII. 


Kindness to (9) servants. Lastly (10), kind people must use their 
iDrains. Kind men must be intelligent. 

The grandest church in the world is St. Peter"s at Rome, 
with its proud dome, surmounted by a cross. It was 
planned by three architects (ark'i-tects), and the chief of the 
three was Michael Angelo. In Rome also may be seen a 
noble statue of Moses, an old man with flowing beard, and 
holding the two tablets of the Law in his arms. This 
statue was carved by Michael Angelo. And also in Rome 
you may see beautiful paintings, called frescoes, done by 
Michael Angelo on the plaster of ceilings. But I must tell 
of this famous artist's kindness to his servant; for I am 
going to speak of kindness — 

(9) To Servants. 

Michael Angelo had a servant who waited on him faith- 
fully for twenty-six years. The servant's name was Urbino 
( Ur-bee-no). When the old servant's time came to die, and 
he lay ill, his master nursed him by day and by night until 
Urbino passed away. His master was his friend. And 
that is how it ought to be always, if servants and masters did 
their duty to each other. I have seen a beautiful picture of 
Urbino dying, and his master bending over him with a look 
of affection. 

Long before that, in the time of Julius Caesar, there lived 
in Rome a man named Plancus. I have read in the history- 
book that Plancus had a great many faults, and perhaps he 
had, though we cannot always believe what we read in 
the history-books. But there is a very good story told of 
Plancus and his slaves — for you know the ancient Romans 
kept slaves. Plancus was condemned to death, and the 
officers of the law came to take him to prison. But he was 
hidden in his house, and his slaves, who loved him for his 
kindness to them, refused to say where their master was ; 
yes, even though they were put to cruel torture, they still 
refused. Plancus heard from his hiding-place what went on, 
and he could not bear the sound of the cries of pain uttered 


by his servants, and so he came forth and surrendered himself, 
ready to die. Then the hearts of the rulers of Rome were 
softened ; and they said they could not take the life of a 
master who was so beloved by his household slaves. 

Now, let us come to modern (that is, the latest) times. 
Three women lived in a cottage in A\'ales ; one was the 
servant, named Mary Carryl ; the others were the mistresses, 
named Lady Emily fjutler and Miss Ponsonby. Mary had 
come with the ladies from Ireland, and she did all she could 
for their comfort, and they, in their turn, treated her as a 
friend. All three became old ; and now that their hair was 
turning grey the mistresses thought of the day of death ; and 
they also thought that, even in death, they must not be 
parted from the honest Mary Carryl, and so they had 
a tombstone built in Llangollen churchyard, and it had 
three sides to it, each side ready to take the name of one of 
the three. And Mary died first, and her name was written, 
and not many years afterwards Lady Butler died, and Miss 
Ponsonby : and their names, too, were written above the 
spot where the three women lay in peace. The servant and 
the mistresses had equal respect. 

Of course, you girls and boys know that masters, 
mistresses, and servants are not always so good to each 
other as we have seen in these stories. Servants will waste 
their master's time, and waste his goods, and try how much 
profit they can make for themselves ; and such conduct 
provokes the master into being harsh. Then masters will 
act unkindly to the servants, so that the servants have no 
heart for honest service. So, you see, each side must think 
of its duty. Suppose you were in the place of a master or 
mistress, how would you show kindness to your servant ? I 
hope you would do so — 

(a) By the way you spoke. You should say please, or 
thank you, or / beg yotir pardon, just the same to a servant 
as you would to a friend. I do not know whether you 
would call servants "ladies" and "gentlemen," and people 
do not always know what they mean when they use these 
words. But I am sure of two things ; I am sure the 
servants will not consider you to be a lady or gentleman if 
you speak rudely to them ; and I am sure that, if you speak 
politely to them, you will help them to become ladies and 
gentlemen of the real kind. 


(/;) By paying them just rewards in wages, and food, and 
shelter. Pay them to time, and let them see that you pay 
them willingly ; and, if ever you raise their wages, let them 
see you are pleased at being able to do so. Do not give 
them food which you would not like to eat yourself. Do 
not ask them to sleep in rooms which you would never ask 
your brother or sister to sleep in. 

(c) By giving them proper rest. Masters and mistresses 
like to go out in the parks or fields ; to the forest and the 
seaside ; to the museums ; to the houses of their friends. 
And so do servants. You would not like to be called a 
" sweater." A sweater is a man or woman who makes a 
servant or workman labour too long and for too little reward. 

(d) By serving them. You can help them if they are ill, 
as Michael Angelo helped ; you can comfort them if they 
have lost friends ; you can help them to learn useful things ; 
you can lend a hand when they are tired. 

But suppose you have no servants, and perhaps never 
will have. At least, it is well for you to know what masters 
ought to do ; and you can speak your thoughts about their 
conduct, and praise them if they are kind, and reproach 
them if they are unmerciful. 

And now, lastly, I should like to remind you that : — 

(lo) Kind people must use their brains (or wits). 

Little Agnes was a kind-hearted girl, but she did not 
always think carefully about what she was going to do. She 
saw her uncle give some sacks of coal to poor persons, and 
she said to herself, "Oh, I wish I could do as uncle does; I 
wish I had coal to give to the poor." 

Well, of course, she had none. Then she thought that 
perhaps she could make some. She had read in books that 
coal was once the wood of trees, and these trees, with all 
their branches and leaves, had sunk below the clay and mud 
of marshy places, and had turned black and shiny ; and 
that, you know, is true. Agnes got some leaves and twigs, 
and some lumps of clay, and she put the leaves and twigs 
between the lumps of clay, and patted them up, and hid 
them in a ditch. Her pinafore had become very dirty as 
she climbed in and out of the hole where the clay was lying, 
and she had been warned by her mother not to go to this 
hole. After a day or two she said to herself : 

" I think the leaves and twigs must be turned to coal 



now ; I will try some in the fire ; and, if it burns well, I will 
make more to give away to poor people." 

Then she dug up one of her lumps, and thrust it into the 
kitchen fire ; and the clay damped the fire, and spoiled its 
red glow ; and when the cook entered presently she was 
vexed to find the fire nearly out. She hastily raked out the 
clay, and scolded Agnes ; and poor Agnes was in great dis- 
grace. She had indeed thought how to make coal, but she 
had not thought of other things : she had not thought 
whether she was giving trouble to the cook and the family, 
who were waiting for dinner ! We ought to be kind, but we 
should be wise in our kindness. But really, I believe a 
great many grown-up people who mean to be kind are quite 
as foolish in their kindness as Agnes. 

Now, I have said so many serious things to you in these 
lessons about Kindness that I think we will finish with a 
few smiles. So now get ready to hear the famous story of 
Brother Juniper.' 

Our friend Juniper was a simple man (very much too 
simple), who lived with a company of monks in the middle 
parts of Italy. They were once lodging at a house in the 
country, and hud occasion to go out. So the master of the 
brethren .said to Juniper : 

" Brother Juniper, we are all going out, and see to it that, 
when we return, you have cooked a little food for the 
refreshment of the brothers." 

" Right willingly," answered Juniper; " leave that to me." 

^Vhen they had gone away, the good fellow turned the 
matter over in his mind, and he thought it was a pity so 
much cooking should have to be done every day by the 
monks in turn. Suppose he cooked enough to last for a 
fortnight, it would save a great deal of trouble, and then 
one of the monks would not need each day to be kept away 
from the company of the others at their work or prayers. 

Brother Juniper resolved to act on this grand idea ! He 
belonged to an Order, or class, of monks who begged their 
food from the people whose houses they passed, and the 
people loved the brethren, and readily gave them their 
desire. So Brother Juniper called on the neighbours in 
the village near by, and asked for the loan of several large 

' Adapted from the Little F/owers of Saint Francis of Assisi. 


pots, and the gift of firewood ; and he asked for various 
kinds of food, and the good-natured folk gave him all sorts 
— ^joints of meat, vegetables, herbs, portions of pie and cake, 
ducks and chickens, eggs, cheese, lard, and so on. He 
made a big fire, and set the pots on, and threw the provi- 
sions in merrily — lard, cheese, eggs, cake, pie, herbs, vege- 
tables, meat, and the ducks and the chickens, just as they 
were, with all their feathers on ! The fire roared ; the pots 
steamed ; and Brother Juniper felt so hot that he could not 
approach to stir the stew ! So he tied a large board in 
front of his chest in order to shield himself from the heat, 
and then he joyfully hopped from one pot to another, 
stirring one and then the next ; and the fire roared, and 
the steam was plentiful ! 

One of the brethren came home early, and, after looking 
at the sights in the kitchen, he went and told the others on 
the road : 

" I can assure you, Brother Juniper is making a marriage 

At last, the bell rang for dinner, and the hungry men 
came in with speed and with keen appetite. Brother 
Juniper stood at the head of the table, his face all red and 
all smiles. 

"Eat well, dear friends," he cried, "and let no one think 
of this troublesome cooking for a while ; for I have cooked 
so much food that I shall have enough for more than a 
fortnight !" 

They seized their spoons and took their first mouthfuls, 
and then stopped and made ugly faces ! 

"I hope you enjoy your dinner," said Brother Juniper; 
" these fowls are strengthening for the brain, and this stew 
will refresh the body, it is so good." 

Poor brethren ! Already they began to feel ill, and all 
laid down their spoons, and all were obliged to go hungry. 
The Master was angry, and bitterly reproved Brother 
Juniper for his folly, until at length the poor cook was so 
ashamed of himself that he fell upon his knees, and wept, 
and begged forgiveness from the Master and the brethren. 
None of them could help smiUng. And I think you cannot 
help smiling either. So smile away, girls and boys ; but do 
not forget that kindness must be intelligent and wise, and 
kind people must use their wits. 

Lesson XXIII. 

Great-mindedness, or magnanimity. Examples from the Greeks, Jews, 
Romans, Swiss, and French. 

When Herakles {He -ra-kleez, also called Hercules), the 
famous strong hero, was on his travels, he came to the 
western end of the Mediterranean Sea. On each side of 
the passage into the sea he set up lofty rocks, which were 
afterwards called the Pillars of Herakles. He wanted to 
pass further west to an island where lived a giaiit with three 
bodies, three heads, six hands, and six feet. (I hope you 
don't believe this old Greek story !) The giant had a herd 
of fine cattle, which were of a rich red colour, and these 
cattle Herakles hoped to capture. But, just after he had 
built his two pillars, he felt faint and sick, for he was nearly 
overcome by the rays of heat which were shot down by the 
sun-god Helios {Hee'-ii-os). 

" Are you trying to burn me to death ?" he shouted ; and 
he raised his bow towards the heavens, and, in his anger, 
was about to shoot an arrow at the bright sun-god ! AVhen 
Helios saw how Herakles was full of spirit and courage, he 
was far from being offended. He admired the hero's pluck 
in defying the blazing lord of the sky. 

" Do not let us quarrel," he called down to Herakles. " I 
like a man who is not afraid of me. Come ; I know where 
you want to go. Allow me to help you. I will lend you 
my golden boat." 

So Herakles smiled, put his arrow into his quiver, jumped 
into the golden boat, and sailed away to the island where 
the giant guarded the red cattle. 

You see, Helios had a noble sort of mind. He did not 
love the rule of tit-for-tat. There was no feeling of spite in 
him. Just when he might have clenched his dart, and 


hurled it at the head of Herakles, he paused in wonder and 
pleasure at the sight of a brave man. He was stronger than 
Herakles, but he would not crush him. He had a mind 
above petty quarrelling. He had a great mind. He was 
great-minded. Or, if you care to learn a very big word, we 
will say Helios was magnanimous (niag-fian -im-us). What 
do you think ? Would it have been fair if the Sun-god had 
answered back at Herakles, and replied to the arrow with 
the mighty dart ? I suppose you will say, Yes ? Then was 
it cowardly of the Sun-god not to engage in a fight ? Not at 
all. He was able to fight ; he did not fight ; he did some- 
thing better; he said to himself, "I like this splendid fellow; 
I'll lend him my golden boat."' Well, you know, girls and 
boys, it would be a happy thing if the brave men — yes, and 
the brave nations — the brave Dutch, French, Germans, 
Italians, Russians, Japanese, Americans, British — were to 
say, " We will not fight with those other brave men and 
nations. Rather will we lend them our golden boats, to 
help them over the troubled sea." Ah, but all men and all 
nations are not great-minded; they are slowly learning to 
be so. 

I have just told you an old Greek story. Let us hear a 
tale from the history of the Jews. You remember they had 
a celebrated king named David. Once he and his warriors 
were encamped on the mountains. For shelter they retired 
to a large cave. Down below, in the valley, they saw the 
Philistine foes, round about the little town of Bethlehem, 
where David had been oorn and bred. David was athirst, 
and he longed — oh, ever so much I — to drink sparkling water 
from the well by which he had played when a boy. The 
well was near the town gate, and the Philistines had their 
tents all about the spot. Three valiant men heard David 
sigh for the water. They resolved the king should drink 
the water that he loved, and they went down, and 
strode towards the town, and clove their way through the 
shouting crowd of the Philistines, and one drew water in a 
pitcher while the others stood by, and they fought their 
way back bit by bit, and every moment it looked as if 
they would have to die ; but they returned safe, though 
wounded, dusty, and breathless. Then King David took 
the water, and his heart was proud of his three valiant 
friends; but he did not drink. He poured it out upon the 


ground, and said, " No ; I would sooner thirst than drink 
this water ; for it would seem to me like drinking the blood 
of the generous men who risked their lives to please me." 

Should you have thought it wrong if he had drunk ? No, 
very likely not. But he would have thought it mean and 
paltry : he admired the valour of his friends, and was too 
great-minded to drink. 

What have the Romans to tell us ? Listen to the story of 
the general Camillus. He laid siege to a city which was 
girt with strong walls. During the siege a school teacher 
(well, children, / am a school teacher, and I am sorry this 
teacher was such a sneak !) said to his boys, " Let us go out- 
side the walls and play in the meadows." Out they went, 
thinking the Roman camp was too far off to endanger them. 
The schoolmaster kept them on the run, till he brought 
them so near the besiegers' camp that the Romans ran out 
and seized all the lads. The schoolmaster then said to 
Camillus, with a grin : 

" Sir, these lads belong to the most noble families in the 
town. Keep them in your hands, and the chief people will 
be sure to yield, for fear lest you should slay their sons." 

Then Camillus looked as if he had just tasted something 
vile and bitter. He thought the schoolmaster was a mean 
scoundrel. He scorned to capture a city by such means, 
for he was a gentleman. The schoolmaster's back was 
stripped, and his hands were tied behind him, and rods and 
scourges were placed in the hands of the boys. 

" Lay on, lads !" ordered the stern Camillus. And oh, 
how they whipped the traitor as they ran across the pastures 
to the city gates ! After that, Camillus sent a message to the 
townsfolk, and he and they made peace. The boys went to 
a better school. 

The Greeks, the Jews, the Romans, have had something 
to say to us. We will pass on centuries later, till we come 
to the Middle Ages. In the year 1356 the town of Basel 
(Bah'-zel), in Switzerland, suffered a great shock of earth- 
quake. Houses fell with a loud noise, and three hundred 
people were buried beneath the ruins. Then a fire broke 
out, and all the place was full of alarm. The news of the 
disaster came to Duke Albert, who was a sworn enemy of 
the city of Basel. 

" Now," said some of his friends ; " now you can fall upon 


the city ; it cannot resist ; you can make these stupid people 
sorry they ever offended you." 

The Duke said: "I will not avenge myself upon a city 
smitten with the woes of earthquake and fire. I will help it, 
instead." And the great-minded Albert sent four hundred 
stout peasants to Basel, with orders to clear away the ruins 
and assist in giving shelter and comfort to the men, women, 
and children who had been so sorely tried. Don't you 
think he had as noble a spirit as Helios, the Sun-god ? 

We will come nearer to our own times— to the nineteenth 
century, when Napoleon was carrying on a war in Spain. 
About the battles I do not care to talk, for what pleasure is 
there in relating how brave men slew each other ? After 
the battle. Frenchmen and Spaniards were lying dead or 
wounded on the field, and General Hugo^ was riding about 
with a troop of soldiers. A wounded Spaniard called out, 
" Drink ! give me drink, for mercy's sake !" The general 
had a flask of rum. Leaning down from horseback, he 
offered the flask to the Spaniard. But the fallen man, seeing 
a chance of killing a Frenchman, suddenly raised a pistol 
and fired. The general's hat was knocked off, and the horse 
reared. The soldiers would have slain the Spaniard. 

"No, no I" cried Hugo; "give him some drink all the 

I cannot think that the Spaniard looked any longer with 
hatred at the general. 

But you children — you are not sun-gods, nor kings, nor 
dukes, nor generals, but only just boys and girls from yonder 
street or from the cottages by the village green ; and you 
have no golden boats to lend anybody who had hurt you — 
no, not if you were ever so great-minded. Well, then, I will 
tell you about a boy. 

His name was Rousseau- (Roo-so). He went to play with 
another boy, named Fazy, whose father made cloth. In the 
workshop was a machine with rollers ; between these rollers 
the workpeople pressed the newly-made cloth. Young 
Rousseau put his fingers between two rollers. His friend 
Fazy was pulling a handle ; the machine moved ; Rousseau's 
fingers were caught ! He screamed ! 

' Father of the celebrated author, Victor Hugo. 
- Jean Jacques Rousseau, born 1712, died 1778- 


The nails were torn off his third and fourth fingers, and 
the tips were badly bruised. Fazy was in great trouble. 

" Johnnie," he said, " don't call out. Father will hear 
you, and I shall be punished !" 

Rousseau became quiet, though his hand was in great 
pain. The boys went to a place where they could obtain 
water, and they washed the injured fingers, and Fazy put 
pads of moss over them to staunch the bleeding ; and then, 
once again, he begged his friend not to tell anyone ; and 
Rousseau promised. Ought he to have done so ? Well, 
perhaps, he simply said his hand had been caught between 
the rollers as he and Fazy played with the machine^I don't 
know ; but I am sure he wished to save his comrade from 
pain, and that showed a generous mind. 

For three weeks he had to stay indoors till his hand was 
healed, though the marks remained all his life. He heard 
his companions pass the window as they marched in the 
school drill, and the drum beat, and he wished with all his 
heart that Fazy had never made the machine move. For 
all that, he kept his promise ; nor did he say anything about 
the accident for twenty years. \\'hen you grow up, you 
may read things about Rousseau which you may dislike. 
Well, remember the good when you hear the bad. 
Remember that, though he was often faulty, his mind often 
had great thoughts and great feelings. 

j\.nd now I have told you enough for one morning. Let 
us go into the sunlight ; and suppose we have a sail I 

Sail ! 

Why not ? — a sail in the golden boat. 

Lesson XXIV. 

Clever animals. Cleverness devoted to a bad purpose. Cleverness 
devoted to the spread of knowledge. Cleverness in saving life. 

*' My son Frank is such a clever boy !" " My daughter Hilda 
is such a. clever girl !" 

I suppose you have often heard fathers and mothers 
(especially mothers) say things of that sort when they were 
showing a visitor Frank's drawings, or Hilda's art-needlework, 
or Willie's model of a tram-car, or Lily's certificate for music 
from the Doh-ray-me College. Perhaps mother has risen 
even higher, and exclaimed, " Frank is a genius !" — which 
means a very, very, very clever person, like the engineer 
Stephenson, or the musician Handel. 

Well, let us talk about clever people. But, first of all, I 
think we will have a word or two about clever animals. 

An English officer, who lived in Paris, was one day 
crossing a bridge over the river Seine. A poodle dog rubbed 
against his nicely-polished boots, and dirtied them. A shoe- 
black was near, and to him the officer went to have his 
boots cleaned. Next day the same thing happened again, 
and the officer was curious to know if it were more than a 
mere accident. So he watched ; and behold ! the dog 
rolled in the mud by the river, and then rolled over another 
gentleman's boots, and that brought more custom to the 
shoeblack ! As you may guess, the shoeblack had taught 
the dog to perform this clever trick, and the dog had the 
sense always to pick out the people with well-polished boots. 
So in this way the dog's master earned extra money. Yes, 
the dog was clever, though it was j/of a kind of cleverness 
that did credit to the man who instructed him. 

Now, let me go a long way back — right back to those 
ancient Greeks whom I love to talk about. You know, the 


Greeks were a very clever nation, and they invented very 
pretty fables or myths (?niths) about gods, goddesses, and 
heroes. One was the myth of Daedalus (Dee'-dal-us). 
This clever fellow was the first to think of the axe to chop 
with, and the awl to bore holes with. He had a nephew 
yet cleverer than himself. The nephew was the first to make 
a saw, the first to make a potter's wheel (for shaping clay 
into bowls and pots), and the first to make a turning lathe 
for fashioning table-legs, etc. But Dsedalus was very Jea/oiis 
of his clever nephew, and one day, when they were standing 
together on a cliff at Athens, he flung his nephew over, and 
the poor lad was killed. The wicked uncle was discovered 
burying the body, and he fled away with his son Icarus 
(Ik'-a-rus) to the island of Crete. In Crete dwelt a terrible 
monster — a man with a bull's head. To this monster the 
King of Crete gave every year seven young men and seven 
maidens, who came from Athens in a ship, and the monster 
devoured them. Well, clever Daedalus and his son having 
come to the island, they entered the service of the King, 
who asked them to make a wonderful maze or labyrinth for 
the monster to dwell in. If you walked into this maze, you 
were sure to lose your way in its winding paths. Daedalus 
and his son must have known they were helping a bad 
purpose when they constructed the maze; yet, for the sake of 
gaining royal rewards, they did this evil thing. However, 
later on they offended the King, and he shut them up in 
their own maze. Thereupon the clever workmen made 
themselves wings fastened on with wax, and flew upwards 
and escaped. But Icarus flew too near the sun, whose 
mighty rays melted the wax, so the wings dropped off, and 
unhappy Icarus fell into the Mediterranean Sea, and was 
drowned. He was not clever enough, after all, else he 
would have been careful not to let his wings get melted. 

Icarus was as stupid as the thief who stole the Emperor 
Charles the Fifth's watch. The Emperor had one of the 
first watches ever made ; it was large, and it struck the 
hours. The thief managed to remove the timepiece from 
the Emperor's pocket to his own, and, no doubt, thought 
himself an extremely clever fellow to have done it so neatly; 
and he coolly remained among the crowd close to the 
Emperor while the courtiers were vainly searching for the 
lost watch. It was now approaching twelve o'clock, and 


presently, from underneath the clever man's coat, there 
sounded clearly — ting I ting! ting! ting! and so on. "Ha! 
open this man's coat ! We heard the watch strike ! Yes, here 
it is, and this is the thief !" And thus the rogue was caught. 

As far as we have gone, then, the cleverness does not 
come out very well. Here was a clever dog who simply 
played smart tricks. Daedalus cherished the miserable 
feeling of jealousy; and he and his son devoted their 
cleverness to the service of a cruel king. And the thief 
used his skill for a wrong object, and only got himself into 

Well, it is time to speak of a pleasanter sort of cleverness. 
In the year 1642 a little Lincolnshire boy was born, and, 
even after a year or two, he was so small his mother used 
to say she could put him into a quart pot ! Small as he 
was, he was a genius. Having watched some men build a 
new windmill, he resolved to make a little one himself; and 
he did it, and placed it on the top of a house, where its 
revolving sails caught the breeze, and as they went round 
they ground the grains of corn. The miller was a wee 
mouse, which Isaac (that was the boy's name) placed in 
charge ; only the miller kept eating the corn ! Another 
smart thing Isaac did was to construct kites with long tails, 
and to the tails he fastened paper lanterns, in which were 
fixed lighted candles. And oh ! didn't the village lads stare 
when Isaac's kites mounted the sky, and flamed out like 
new stars over the church and the cottages ! \\'hen Isaac 
grew up, and had studied in college, all England knew him 
to be one of her greatest sons, and he was then known as 
Sir Isaac Newton. It was this Newton who placed himself 
in a dark room, and let the sunlight fall through a prism of 
glass in a hole in the shutter ; and the light fell on a screen, 
not as a white spot, but in seven colours — red, orange, 
yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet. Thus Newton found 
that sunlight, sparkling through the drops of rain, broke up 
into the seven colours, and formed them into the lovely 
rainbow across the sky. This great man of science was 
buried in Westminster Abbey, in London. If ever you 
visit that famous church, be sure and look at Newton's tomb. 
He was a man who gave his genius to the service of mankind. 
The knowledge he imparted was useful and noble. His 
cleverness enlightened the minds of other men. 


Last of all, I must take you a long way from England— 
to far-off Japan, where once lived a brave old man. His 
name was Hamaguchi (you must please excuse him for 
having such a comical name). On a stretch of flat land 
stood his farmhouse, and all round three sides were the 
farmer's rice-fields. He had cut and gathered the rice — all 
dry and ripe — into sheaves ; and as he sat in the balcony 
of his house he thought with joy of the plenteous store of 
rice which he possessed. In front of the farm the land 
sloped down to the sea-shore. On the sea-shore were dotted 
ninety cottages, with thatched roofs. The people were 
holding a holiday, and their voices sounded in laugh and 
song. And the purple sea lay in a wide, wide expanse 

Suddenly the ground shook. The old farmer felt the 
earth quake. He had felt such movements often before, 
and he glanced quickly at the sea, in order to notice if the 
water showed any change. He knew how the sea often did 
vast damage when flung up by an earthquake. Yes, it did 
show a change. It seemed rolling steadily away from the 
sandy beach towards the far-off horizon. But suppose it 
came back in a huge wave ; and suppose it swept away the 
village — and the people ? And how could he warn the folk, 
and fetch them up the hill, out of danger, in time ? Ah, 
now was the moment for cleverness. Work, brain ; work ! 

Yes, the bright thought flashed into the old man's mind. 
CaUing to his young grandson, he cried, " Bring me a torch, 
quick !" The lad brought the flaming torch as Hamaguchi 
came down. The farmer set light to the dry rice-sheaves 
— one, another, another, another. " Why do you do it ?" 
shrieked the boy. But his grandfather kept on. The 
flames leaped upwards ; sparks curled in clouds. The 
young men on the beach saw the fire ; they ran, they ran 

" Let it burn !" shouted the old Japanese. 

The older men came up : and the women climbed the 
hill, and the girls, and all. 

The sea had rolled back, and, with a roar, it dragged 
away the houses, and flung them away on the tossing 
waves ; and then it fled back again towards the horizon. 

The people had forgotten the fire ; they were gazing at 
the tumbling of the ocean. Back came the high wave ; 


and, after a while, again ; and again, and a fifth time. All 
the cottages were gone, but the folk — four hundred of them 
— were safe on the hill. 

" That is why I set fire to the rice," said the farmer. 

The grand old man had lost all his rice. But his was the 
finest and most glorious of all genius, for his clever thought 
had invented a plan to save human life, and make the 
people glad. 

Lesson XXV. 

Numbers of the deaf and dumb in various countries. Inventors of 
methods of teaching the deaf and dumb. A visit to a " Deaf and 
Dumb School " described. 

One hundred and fifty people sat in a room at Glasgow, 
and they were all what are called Deaf Mutes. That means, 
they were deaf persons ; and, as they were deaf, they had 
never heard anyone speak, not even their fathers and 
mothers, or their dearest friends ; and so they had never 
learned to speak : they were mute, or dumb. But, of course, 
there are differences among such people. Some can hear 
just a little ; some not at all. A gentleman named Dr. Barr 
was lecturing to those deaf mutes about various sorts of gas 
—such as the gas oxygen and the gas hydrogen ; for he 
knew how to speak to them by signs which they could 
understand. You know, if you mix oxygen and hydrogen 
together in a jar, and put a light to it, the gases explode 
with a loud bang. Before bringing the light to the jar. Dr. 
Barr asked all to stand up if they heard a noise. Then the 
explosion took place, and about a hundred stood up, with 
faces full of joy : they were so pleased at being able to hear 
something ! The rest looked unhappy. Those who had 
not heard were then asked to come closer, and the gases 
were again exploded. About half of these stood up, glad 
and smiling. The others (about twenty-five) were, as we 
sometimes say, stone-deaf 

In Great Britain and Ireland there are about 20,000 deaf 
mutes ; in the United States, more than 40,000 ; in India, 
about 200,000. How glad we should all be if we could 
give these men, women, and children the power of speech, 
such as you and I possess ! 

But, though they can never hear or speak as you and I 


do, a good deal may be done for them. In olden times, 
people thought nothing could be done for the deaf mutes ; 
the poor, silent creatures had to live among their neighbours 
like a tribe that was pitied and despised. At last an Italian, 
named Cardan (born in 1501), wrote a book in which he 
said the dumb might be taught to read and write. Then 
some Spanish writers said the same ; then Englishmen ; 
then Germans and Frenchmen. A noble Frenchman named 
De L'Epee {Del-ay-pay) was filled with pity when he saw 
two young girls, sisters, who had been deaf from birth. He 
taught them to speak by signs, and at length he had quite 
a large school for the deaf and dumb. I dare say you have 
seen deaf people talking on their fingers, and you know how 
they make the shapes of letters with their fingers ; and it 
was the clever Frenchman who invented this way of talking. 
The French use one hand ; the English both hands. And 
now many deaf mutes are trained so well that they can 
work for themselves as tailors, cabinet makers, shoe makers, 
printers, dress makers, weavers, laundresses, and so on. 

Once I went into a school' where the deaf mutes were 
taught by young ladies to speak with the voice as you 
and I do. Two girls were talking to the mistress, and I 
wrote down some of the questions and answers. 

"Where is your brother John this morning ?" asked the 

The girls watched the mistress's lips and teeth and face. 
Then one of the dumb girls said, '■'■At home with mother." 

"What is the matter with him?" '■'Nothing:' "Why 
has he stopped at home?" "I dofi't know" "Where do 
you play?" "In the chu?rhyard, tna'am." "What do you 
do when you play ?" " Rufi about:'' 

It happened there was to be a festival in the town a 
few days later, and the teacher had written something 
on the blackboard about everybody having a holiday, and 
about medals, bonfires, music, etc. The lady asked more 
questions : — 

" What will be given you on Wednesday ?" 


The girl said this at first like Muttles, but pronounced it 
right after being corrected. You would smile to see how 

' In Leicester. 


the mistress corrects her scholar. She takes the scholar's 
hand and places it next her own throat, so that the scholar 
may feel the movements made when the words are sounded. 
If you put your own hand to your throat while you say musky 
glitter, funny, etc., you will notice how it feels. So the 
mistress went on : — 

"Who will give you the medals?" ^^ The Mayor." 
" Who is everybody ?" '"'' Many people." " When will every- 
body have a holiday ? " " On T/iursday and Friday." ' ' What 
will the shops do?" ''The shops 7vill be closed." "What 
does CLOSED mean ?" ''Locked up ; shut up." " What is a 
bonfire made of?" "Paper, wood, coals." " What park 
will you go into?" " Abbey Park." " What will you see?" 
" Water, floivers, swans." " Will you hear the band play?" 

One of the girls pointed to her shoulders. The mistress 
said that meant the girl could feel the thrill or vibration in 
her shoulders when the men played their brass instruments. 

Then the mistress pointed to me, and asked : " Can 
Mr. G. hear ?" " Yes." " Why can he hear ?" 

Well, that was a very hard question. The girl Kate 
looked at me and said: "Because he's a man!" — and her 
reply made me laugh heartily ; and when I laughed the girl 
laughed, and the mistress laughed. I like to laugh in a 
school. Don't you ? 

A man called at the school while I was there, and told the 
mistress how his little boy (one of the deaf mutes) had 
caused an explosion of gas at home. A gas meter was 
being mended ; a hole in the pipe was plugged with paper ; 
the boy set light to the paper with a match, and then followed 
a CRASH and a bang ! The meter was burst ; and the 
damage cost the father thirty shillings. The father had come 
to beg the mistress to explain to his son what he had done, 
and why he must be careful. The ladies could explain 
better than the father could. So one of the teachers took 
several boys and girls to a gas meter in a corner of the 
school, and warned them against playing with gas, matches, 
and fire. She related to them how a little girl named Nellie, 
three years old, had been injured. Nellie's brother played 
with fire, and his sister's hand was burned so badly that she 
lost one of her fingers. 

" How many fingers have you ?" asked the teacher of the 
boy who played with the gas meter. 


" Four, and a thumb." 

"But when Nellie's hand was burned, how many fingers 
had she then?" "77//^." 

Ah, only three ! The deaf children looked at the teacher, 
and at one another. They were sad as they thought of little 
Nellie. The boy who had spoiled the gas meter was the 
most serious of all. 

x'Yfter that I went to hear another teacher talking with the 
older scholars. She told a simple story. The girls and boys 
looked at her with such attentive eyes. It is wonderful how 
steady and piercing is the gaze of deaf mutes. All their 
heart seems to come into their eyes. The lady told the 
story in slow sentences — about the boy who wanted a 
garden, and his mother gave him a little plot of ground. 
^Vhat grows in a garden ? The deaf mutes sdiid,^'' Ge7-aniums, 
roses, daisies, potatoes, peas." Where do we put flowers in 
winter? " 7>/ greenhouses." After that the boy got tired 
of the garden, and wanted a dog ; and his mother gave him 
one. Next, he longed for a rabbit ; and his mother gave 
him one. " Have you seen rabbits?" 

The deaf mute Clara said, " Yes, in Bradgate Park." 
"Were the rabbits tame?" '^ No, they ran away" — and 
Clara waved her hands to show how swiftly the bunnies ran 
into their burrows. 

\\'hen the lady had finished the story, I asked if Kate 
might say to me a piece of poetry, and she repeated — 

Little Boy Blue, come, bloiv up your horn, 
The sheep's in the meadow, the cotv's in the corn ; 
Where is the boy that looks after the sheep ! 
Under the hay-cock, fast asleep. 

Kate said it slowly, and I could understand every word she 
said. Then one of the boys was requested to draw Boy 
Blue's horn on the blackboard, and he made a fine curly- 
looking bugle. And when I had seen the coloured drawings, 
and the writing books, and arithmetic books — all the work 
of these children who live in the land of silence — it was 
time to leave. But I shall often think of those girls and 
boys and the wonderful look in their eyes. 

As I came away, I thought of a story I once read in the 
newspaper about a boy, a deaf mute, who lived in an asylum 
at Sunderland. He was about six years old, but so wild and 



passionate that he would often bite and kick the persons 
who came near him. A poor woman whose mind was crazed 
lived in the same asylum. She got the strange fancy into 
her head that he was her son, and she approached him with 
kindness. He bit her and kicked her, but she loved him 
all the same, until at last the little lad's heart softened, and 
he was good to her in return, and would run to her with a 
smile as if to his very own mother. Love had changed his 
wildness into obedience and respect. Now, the children 
who go to the deaf-and-dumb schools are not wild like this 
idiot boy ; yet they are far behind you and me in quickness 
and sense. But the kindness of teachers can work a change 
in their minds and characters, so as to train their thoughts, 
and hands, and tongues, and make them friends with you 
and me, and useful labourers in the world. Yes, surely you 
girls and boys that can hear well and speak well will be 
friends and helpers of the deaf and dumb ? I have heard 
of children who meet deaf mutes in the street, and tease 
them, push them, knock them down, jeer at them, and mock 
them. What do you think of that? I know by the look 
in your faces you are ashamed even to hear of such deeds. 

Be glad, children, that you can hear the voices of your 
mothers and fathers, for the Children of Silence cannot 
hear. And I am glad, and you are glad, that the kindness 
and patience of teachers can teach the dumb to speak. 

Lesson XXVI. 

A visit to an institution for the blind described. Occupations ; reading, 
writing. Duty towards the blind. 

" This is where the blind men weave baskets," said Mr. D., 
as we entered a large room, in which I saw fourteen or fifteen 
men at work. 

There was a constant sound of " Clack, clack, clack !" 
This sound was made by the long osiers (twigs of the wnllow- 
tree) rattling in the basket-makers' hands. Some of the 
weavers stood ; some sat with legs straddled out, holding 
their half-made baskets between their knees. They were 
making hampers to carry potatoes ; baskets to hold boots 
and shoes ; round wicker-cases to hold cheeses ; clothes 
baskets; and wicker boxes, each divided into twenty-four 
little boxes to contain wine bottles. 

There was a grey-haired weaver in the corner. It seemed 
to me a little dark there, but what did that matter to a man 
who could not see ? 

" He has worked for us for thirty-nine years," said Mr. D. 
" He lost his sight through faUing off a wall when he was 
seventeen years of age. Over there you may see his son. 
It is a curious thing. The son also lost his sight when he 
was but a lad of eight or nine." 

^^' e presently passed through a room where a blind woman 
sat writing a letter. She had placed a sheet of paper in a 
frame something like the frame of a school-slate. Over this 
she held a flat piece of brass with holes in it, all in a row. 
Through these holes she pushed the sharp point of a tool, 
called a style, and with this she made what are known as 
Braille letters — that is, letters which stand up on the paper. 
Blind people can feel these letters with the tips of their fingers, 
and in this way they may be taught to read and write. 


I dare say you have seen blind people reading with their 
fingers. You might like to know that these letters were 
invented by a man named Braille (died 1852). But the first 
person to think of this kind of type or reading was the 
Frenchman, Valentin Haiiy (died 1822), and, if you do not 
mind, I will relate to you how the idea came to him. One 
day he met a blind beggar, into whose hand he meant to 
drop a soil, but by mistake he gave him a silver coin, the 
same size and weight as the sou (French halfpenny). The 
blind beggar was honest. 

" Sir," he cried after Valentin, " you have made a mistake ; 
you have given me silver instead of copper." 

Valentin was astonished. 

"How," he asked, "did you know the difference?" 

" By feeling the figures stamped on the coins," answered 
the blind man. 

Valentin walked on, reflecting. He thought to himself, 
"This is a clever way blind people have. Could we not 
make use of it ? Could we not make letters which they 
could understand by means of their fingers?" 

Valentin tried the plan in a school which he established. 

Well, now let us come back to the workshops where Mr. 
D. and I were watching the basket-makers and their 

In another room we saw a dozen or more women all 
busy. Some made brushes for cleaning boots, or polishing 
grates with blacklead. First they would take the wooden 
backs, which were pierced with holes, and through these 
holes they would thrust little tufts of hair or fibre, and fasten 
them with wire. Then the hair and fibres were trimmed by 
a large knife working in a machine. Other women were 
caning chairs, and very nimbly did their fingers thread the 
thin slips of cane in the cross pattern which you see in cane- 
bottomed chairs. I noticed that four different widths of 
cane had to be used in the pattern of one chair-bottom ; 
but the blind woman by her delicate touch knew which was 
which. One woman made curious circular brushes of soft 
fibres, which are whirled round and round in the shoe 
factories in order to brush newly-made boots, and make 
them glossy. An old lady who made brushes was very deaf 
as well as blind. 

"Do you know who is looking at you?" asked Mr. D. 


" I think it's Tom," she replied. 

" No, it's Mr. D.," he said. 

" Oh, I beg your pardon," cried the old lady. 

"Do not call me Tom again," said Mr. D., laughing. 

" No, I won't if I can help it," she answered, also laughing. 

Some of the workers wore purple glasses, and I asked 
why. Mr. L). told me one reason was that their poor blind 
eyes looked strange and unpleasant, and so they were 
hidden from view. It made me sad to see the purple 

Before we left the room I asked a brush-maker how long 
she had been blind. 

''About forty-five years." 

" And how old were you when you lost your sight ?" 

" About twenty-five." 

■' Then, of course, you can remember the look of red, 
blue, green, and other colours?" 

" Yes," she said; " and I can think now of the sun and 
moon, and the bright stars in the firmament. 

Mr. D. showed me the library. The books were pruited 
in the raised Braille letters. There were all sorts of volumes 
— History of England, History of Scotland, History of the 
World, Prose and Poetry for Recitation. That last book 
pleased me. I thought that, though the readers could not 
see, they could learn the stories and verses in the book, and 
speak them with as clear a voice as you and I can. Other 
books were Shakespeare's plays, the life of Benjamin 
Franklin, and so on. 

A room was set apart to store the articles made by blind 
workers, and in two glass cases I saw some very remarkable 
things. They had been collected by a gentleman on his 
travels, and were all made by blind folk — wool-work, lace, 
bead-work, dolls and other toys, and many other objects. 
To each article there was tied a ticket, showing where it 
was made. I read the names of such places as New York, 
Amsterdam, Paris, Milan, Lausanne. Ah, me ! Do you 
see what the names show? There are blind people in 
America, Holland, France, Italy, Switzerland — yes, all over 
the world. But all over the world people are more and 
more ready to help the blind by protecting them, and by 
teaching them to gain their own living. It is wonderful 
how many things the blind can do. They can play organs, 


pianos, violins, and other musical instruments ; they can 
tune pianos ; they can recite, lecture, and write books ; they 
can do type-writing ; they can make mats, brushes, brooms 
ropes, sacks, baskets, etc.; they can exercise themselves in 
the gymnasium ; they can skate ; they can swim ; they can 
row ; and they can cycle — some going as much as fifty or 
sixty miles in one day. And yet they dwell in the Land of 
Darkness all the year round. 

Let us make our salute to the industrious blind folk who 
make mats and brushes. Let us also salute the blind 
poet, John Milton. In his old age he dwelt in a little 
cottage in an English village. There were roses about the 
porch. More beautiful were the thoughts in the poet's 
mind. Still he could not help, now and then, grieving over 
the loss of his sight. In his poem of Paradise Lost he 
sighs to think that he cannot see the bloom of spring-time, 
the roses of summer ; instead of that, he is surrounded by 
clouds of darkness : — 

" Not to me returns 
Day, or the sweet approach of even or morn, 
Or sight of vernal bloom, or summer's rose, 
Or flocks, or herds, or human face divine ; 
But cloud instead, and ever-during dark 
Surrounds me, from the cheerful ways of men 

Cut off, ' . 

And wisdom at one entrance quite shut out." 

The "one entrance" means his eyes; for he could not 
take in any knowledge or wisdom by the eyes. Yet, like the 
old lady in the workshop, Milton could bear in mind what 
he had seen of the earth and the stars, and he could tell, in 
noble verses, what he remembered. 

I have heard of a Welshman who had been blind, but 
received his sight by the removal of a cataract (kat'-ar^akt : 
a kind of skin growing over the eye). For a time after its 
removal he had to wear a bandage. When it was taken 
away, he was startled at the sight of the earth. When a 
flock of sparrows flew by, he thought they were tea-cups ! 
When a lamp was lit, he wished to pick up the flame as if it 
were a bright stone. When evening came and night drew 
on, he became sorrowful, for he feared that his sight was 
going away again. 

Children — you who can see — you have no such fear when 
the stars twinkle out in the wide heavens ; for you know you 


will see the rosy dawn, and you will see the green trees in 
the morning light, and the faces of your dear mother and 
father. You are glad that you can see. When you are 
glad, do you not wish others to share your pleasure with 
you ? Do you not share your sweets and your toys ? And 
can you share your sight with the blind ? In one way, no ; 
in another way, yes. For, if you help them whenever you see 
thum in a difficulty, you are really sharing your eyesight 
with them. And this is what the good man Job meant 
when (as you may read in the Bible) he told how he tried 
to help those who were in trouble, and said : — 

I became eyes to the blind, 
And feet to the lame. 

Note.— The workshops referred to in the earlier half of this lesson 
are those connected with the Blind Institution, Granby Street, 
Leicester. The manager (Mr. Draycott) kindly showed me round. 

Lesson XXVII. 

Treatment of the sick by Greeks, Romans, Hindoos, Arabs, and 
others. Various kinds of hospitals. Hospital collections. Work of 
doctors and nurses. Better conditions of livin"-. 

In the year 1874, a British ofificer, named Commander 
Cameron, was walking across the broad continent of Africa, 
from the Indian Ocean to the Atlantic Ocean. One day 
his road lay over hills. The sky was cloudless ; the sun 
very hot. Cameron's feet were scorched, though he had 
thick boots and stockings on. He entered a village, and 
the natives clustered about him, to stare at the white man. 
He was almost dying with thirst. An old African saw his 
distress, and brought him a large calabash (the shell of a 
melon-like fruit) full of water, and Mr. Cameron drank it 
greedily at one draught. The old native gave him more ; 
and then the Commander, in his joy and thankfulness, 
offered him a small present of beads. But the African 
declined to take anything whatever. He was black, and he 
was a gentleman. He was black, and he helped a white 
neighbour who was in need. 

It is this spirit of kindness which made men think of 
building hospitals, where the sick folk might be cared for 
without fee or reward. 

In ancient Creece the people gave honour to a god, 
^sculapius {Ees -ku-lay -pi-us), and sick persons were 
brought to his temples for healing ; and they were 
attended to by priests, who were really doctors. When a 
man got well, the story of his cure would sometimes be 
written on a tablet of stone and placed on the temple wall, 
so that, as you walked through the temple, you could read 
on the walls how the god (so they said) had made the 
invalids strong again. A famous priest of this time was 


Hippocrates {Hip-pok' -ni-tees), who was kind-hearted as well 
as good ; and it is related that he travelled in many countries, 
and even as far as India; and wherever he went he ministered 
to sick men and women without payment. At the famous 
city of Athens, also, there were houses to which poor persons 
might go for the doctor's advice and medicine. In India, two 
or three hundred years before Christ, lived a noble king named 
Asoka ; and he made a law (and the law was written on 
rocks in various parts of the kingdom) that hospitals should 
be built for the comfort of both men and beasts, and all 
the help was to be given for nothing. One of these 
hospitals lasted for two thousand years. About the year 
1800 a traveller in India saw it, and. he reported that 
it had shelters for sick animals covering a space of twenty- 
five acres : and he says that, when two animals were so 
feeble that they could not crop grass, the doctors fed 
them with bread and milk. The Bible tells us that "a 
merciful man is kind to his beast." 

Then, again, in olden Rome, certain physicians (doctors) 
were paid out of the public money, in order to assist the 
infirm people who came to them. You know, the Romans 
were very fond of baths, and they had many fine buildings 
where men, women, and children could bathe in hot or cold 
water ; and some of these baths were free to all. In the year 
380 a Christian lady founded a hospital (that is, caused it 
to be built) in Rome. For a long time all the hospitals in 
Christian countries were looked after by priests. About the 
year 500 somebody built an asylum (a place of shelter) for 
mad folk at Jerusalem. But I am sorry to say that, for long 
ages, mad folk were badly treated in Europe. Sometimes 
mad women were burned to death as witches. Mad folk 
were looked upon as wild beasts, and chained up and flogged. 
Dogs teased them ; children mocked them. Even in London, 
so late as the year 1820, idle persons were allowed, on 
paying a penny, to go into the hospital for the insane, and 
gaze with amusement at their strange manners. On the 
other hand, I am pleased to tell you about the merciful 
spirit of the Arabs and Moors. In the eighth and ninth 
centuries many Arabs lived in Spain, and they set up good 
hospitals in aid of persons troubled by all kinds of disease ; 
and in these hospitals the sick were minded by the cleverest 
doctors that could be got. Besides these they made asylums 


for the boys and girls (orphans) who had lost the love and 
care of mother and father. In 1254 a French king founded 
a hospital for three hundred blind persons ; and about 1350 
another French king set up an asylum for orphans. 

^^'ithin the last hundred years much has been done to 
make hospitals brighter and more useful. As you pass 
along the streets, you cannot go far before you come to a 
hospital. Sometimes it has a pleasant garden and trees 
surrounding it. A carriage drives up, and a sick man, or 
woman, or child, is gently carried in and placed in a bed in 
one of the wards (rooms). Or policemen walk up with an 
ambulance stretcher, and under the covering of the stretcher 
lies, pethaps, a man who has been hurt on the railway, or 
on a scaffold, or in a mine. And you know that, when 
the patient lies in the ward, he will be nursed by women 
who move softly, and watch to see what he wants, and are 
quick to come to his help. Perhaps you have been ill in a 
hospital yourself, and you can recollect how kindly you were 
treated. I once met a child who came from a poor and 
miserable home, and who had been in a hospital for six 
weeks, and she said she would like to go back again. 
Let us think of the different kinds of hospitals : — 
(i) General hospitals which take in sick people of all 
kinds, and attend to those who sufifer from accidents. 

(2) Special hospitals, such as for fever, small-pox, diseases 
of the throat, ear, skin, etc. 

(3) Cottage hospitals for country places. The first of 
these in England was opened in 1859. 

(4) Convalescent (Con-val-es'-ent) hospitals. These are 
buildings in which people stay a-while, after having got over 
the worst part of their illness, until they are able to go back 
to their daily life and work. There is a fine one near Paris, 
with more than 500 beds, for workmen who are recovering 
from sickness. It has large courts and gardens, and round 
about is the beautiful Forest of Vincennes. 

(5) Hospitals built as part of workhouses, where the poor 
men and women dwell who cannot earn their own living, 
and are supported by the citizens (that is, the people of the 
city or town) who pay "rates." 

People take more interest in hospitals than they used to, 
and much more money is collected for them. In the year 
1858 the folk at Birmingham started the plan of giving 

money for hospitals on a certain day, which came to be 
called Hospital Sunday. And Hospital Saturday began at 
Liverpool in 187 1. On this Saturday men in workshops 
hand in their pence ; ladies hold boxes at the corners of 
streets ; and processions march with bands and banners. 
The sick folk lie silent in their beds ; they cannot ask for 
themselves, and so their neighbours, with generous hearts, 
speak in their name and ask for help in paying for the build- 
ings, furniture, gas, electric light, water, food, doctors and 

I want you to think about these hospitals. I want you 
to bear in mind that, to keep hospitals going, we not only 
need good hearts : we need clever brains. The founders of 
hospitals have to use their wits in choosing the spot to build 
on, so as to have a dry soil, and plenty of sunlight, and 
shelter from sharp wdnds. Also, they must contrive to let 
in plenty of sweet air, and to warm the air of the wards, and 
even the floors ; to supply pure water, and make sound 
drains to carry off all hurtful waste ; to make rooms pretty 
with flowers and pictures ; to protect the walls and floors 
from fire. And, most important of all, you should think of 
the hard work of the doctors and nurses, and the way in 
which they have to train themselves for years, in order to be 
good servants of the sick folk. You know that a doctor 
sometimes risks his own life that he may save the life of a 
patient. Dr. Macdonald, who worked in the Gray's Inn 
Road Hospital, London, sucked through a tube the bad 
matter from a patient's throat ; but in thus aiding his 
neighbour he injured himself, for the poison gave him the 
sickness of which he died. When, therefore, you pass a 
hospital, think of the courage of the doctors aiid nurses 
in doing their hard, unpleasant, and perhaps dangerous 
tasks. I wonder if you have ever heard of the noble 
Italian, Saint Francis of Assisi {As-ee'-si) ? He had a 
pitiful heart, and helped men and women who were in 
distress. But he felt a fear of coming near the unhappy 
people who were called lepers, because their skins were so 
frightfully diseased. But one day he was riding along a 
valley and he saw a leper, and he alighted from his horse, 
and kissed the hand of the leper and filled it with money. 
In a way, the nurses and doctors of our hospitals do deeds 
like Francis did. They come near to the wounded and 


diseased, and comfort them by cleansing them, feeding 
them, and binding up their maimed limbs, and soothing 
their pain. 

Yet, girls and boys, do you know what I think ? I think 
many people fall sick and need to go to hospitals because 
they live in unhealthy houses, are obliged to work too many 
hours each day, or have to toil in dusty and unwholesome 
places. It is the duty of all men and women who notice 
these things (and it will be your duty when you grow up) to 
strive to make our towns more wholesome, and to make 
work and workplaces more wholesome. When we can help 
all the poor and lowly people to obtain better chances of 
living in sunshine and fresh air, and better food and 
dwellings, there will be less need for hospitals. 

Lesson XXVIII. 

Dangers of the coasts at night. Lighthouses in olden times. Methods 
of lighting Light-ships. The story of Eddystone. Courage of 
lighthouse keepers. 

You do not like it if the candle, lamp, or gaslight goes out 
suddenly, leaving you to tumble over furniture, or bruise 
yourself against the wall. Nor would you like it if you 
were out in the street at night, after the shops were shut, 
and all the lamps were to be extinguished, '\^'hat work you 
would have to reach home in the blackness and the confusion ! 
Think, then, of the ships which pass in the night along the 
coast, and encounter danger from sandbanks, from reefs 
(ridges of rock nearly level with the top of the water), or 
the cliffs which rise up, gloomy and still, above restless 
waves. How thankful the sailors and passengers are when 
the rays flash out from a lighthouse to warn them of the 
nearness of a perilous place. And how dismal must a 
journey by sea have been in olden days, when there were 
few of these kindly lights to be beheld on the beach or 

The first large lighthouse that is known of in the ancient 
world was one called the Pharos (Far'-os), which stood on 
an island at the mouth of the River Nile. It was built in 
the year 270 b.c. ; it was made of white marble, and was 
about 130 feet high. When the Roman sailors, or Greeks, 
and others, rowed by in their galleys, and saw the blaze of 
the fire which burned on the top of the Pharos, they knew 
they were near the great port of Alexandria. The tower 
was so strongly set up that a good part of it remained 
standing for 1,500 years. 

Of course, people did not travel about on the ocean high- 
way then so much as they do now, and so they did not take 
so much trouble as we do to-da\- to put up warnings. Still, 


kind-hearted men did think of their brethren in danger on 
the waters. In some places candles or oil lamps were lit at 
the windows in the towers of churches. By the harbour of 
Ilfracombe, in Devonshire, there rises a small height known 
as Lantern Hill. Here a chapel once stood ; and the priests 
of the chapel used to keep a light burning to send its friendly 
beam across the western sea. At other places a grate or 
iron cage filled with coal or wood would be fastened on the 
summit of a castle turret on a cliff, and, if rain and snow 
permitted, the glow of the fire would pierce through the 
night and cheer the mariner's eye. A lighthouse on the 
Norfolk coast was illumined with candles, which were in 
charge of a somewhat lazy man ; and he left the work of 
lighting the candles to a poor old woman who lived some 
miles distant. In bad weather she could not always reach the 
house, and then there was no twinkle on the dark shore, and 
vessels were beaten into fatal wreck. People showed more 
wit in the making of lights as time went on. They thought 
of placing bright plates behind the oil-lamps to reflect the 
blaze. In the year 1778, at Lowestoft, a thousand little 
polished mirrors were used in the lantern of a lighthouse, 
and the lamps threw out a gleam which was perceived about 
twelve miles away across the North Sea. Later on gas was 
sometimes used ; and, in 1853, the clever man of science, Pro- 
fessor Faraday, made the first trial of electric light. If you 
have paid a visit to the seaside, you may have noticed that the 
lights of some of the towers of warning keep going out (or 
so it seems), and then appearing again. This is done by 
machinery which revolves the lights or turns them round. 
The light may be hidden for a few seconds only, or even 
for a whole minute ; and, as the times are different in 
different cases, sailors can readily tell one lighthouse from 
another, even at night. This kind of changing light was 
first tried in Sweden and France before it was used in 
England. I like you to observe what was done in other 
countries, so that you may see how men in various lands 
have helped each other to think out these useful plans for 
the saving of life. 

If I had time, I might tell you about the light-ships, of 
which there are forty or fifty stationed at points of the 
English coast. They are fixed to a spot by means of strong 
chains and anchors, though, in big storms, the cables (chains) 


have now and then been snapped. The first English light- 
ship was fixed at the Nore Sands, in the River Thames, in 
the year 1732. The old-fashioned lights were composed of 
candles in lanterns, and these were often blown out, or 
perhaps the whole lantern would be torn away from the 
mast by the wind. Robert Stephenson made a better 
lantern, Vvith strong reflectors, and so arranged that, no 
matter how the ship rolls, the light always keeps upright. 

I should like to relate to you the story of the Eddystone 
Lighthouse, which lifts its beautiful pillar some fourteen 
miles out at sea from Plymouth. The first tower was 
erected on the rock in 1698 by Henry ^Vinstanley, an 
Essex man. He was very clever at inventions. If you 
walked along a passage in his house, and trod on a certain 
board, it moved a spring which opened a door, and out 
came a bony skeleton. Or if you seated yourself on a stool 
in his summer-house, the stool swung round to the middle 
of a pond, so that you would be sitting on a sort of island. 
These were very fanciful ideas, and not at all useful ; and 
he did a far better thing when he built the first Eddystone 
Lighthouse. It was a handsome-looking tower, with painted 
walls, and a weather-vane on top ; indeed, it was almost 
pretty enough for a summer-house in a garden. And, alas ! 
it was not so strong as the mighty sea which tossed about 
its foundations. On a winter afternoon, in 1703, Mr. 
Winstanley took a boat from Plymouth, and crossed over 
to the rock. The next morning the painted tower was 
gone ; and its keepers were gone ; and its builders also ; 
for the deadly sea had swept all away. 

Then another builder came. His name was Rudyerd ; 
and he made a pile of granite on the rock, and round that 
he set up a tower of wood, which was finished in 1708. It 
wore very well, too, until it was burned down, having lasted 
forty-eight years. 

The third builder came, and this was John Smeaton ; and 
he built his house of rock in 1759. In rather more than 
two years he had pieced his stones together in the manner 
known as " dove-tail," the corners of one rock fitting into 
the holes or grooves of another rock, so that the stones 
clasped and gripped hold of each other. The four-and-twenty 
candles were set in chandeliers, and hard work it was to snuff 
the wicks, for the snuffing had to be done every half-hour. 


In 1 88 1 the fourth Eddystone Lighthouse was made on 
a reef near the old one. Not that the old one was worn 
out ; but the rock underneath it was being fretted away by 
the endless splashing of the sea, and people saw that before 
long the tower would be undermined. So the old tower was 
taken down, and then reared up again on the beach of 
Plymouth, where, if you like, you may go and visit Smeaton's 
work. But if you are not able to go to Plymouth, you may 
see Smeaton's tower by looking at a halfpenny or a penny, 
for there it stands behind Britannia and her shield and three- 
pointed spear. 

It makes me glad (and does it not make you glad ?) to 
think of the lighthouses that rise, one after the other, all 
along the coasts of England and Europe, and America, and 
Australia, and elsewhere, and sparkle out when the dusk 
comes on, like stars of salvation for the traveller on the 

Last of all, let us send a thankful thought to the men 
who live in these lonely houses. In the Longships Light- 
house, near Land's End, the keepers have been imprisoned 
by the furious Atlantic for weeks, so that no fresh food 
could be taken to them, and their stores were nearly ended 
before help came. 

Off the coast of Wales, on some rocks called the Smalls, 
near St. David's Head, was built a lighthouse in 1776. 
About the year 1800 a long, long storm raged. For four 
months no assistance could be taken to the two keepers of 
the tower ; yet all the while the lights were lit each evening, 
and people knew that the food was lasting out. Sometimes 
friends got near enough in a boat to see a man on the gallery, 
which ran round the great lantern. Yet they did not see 
him move ; and they wondered. At the close of the long 
storm it was all explained. The man on the gallery was 
dead. His comrade feared to cast his body into the sea, 
lest he should be suspected of murdering hun. And thus, 
day by day, and night after night, the living man did his duty 
with the dead near him. He was sad, but loyal ; and people 
honoured him when they heard the story of his courage. 

Courage ; yes, that is the beautiful power in men's hearts 
which builds the towers, and guards them, not simply on 
soft summer evenings, but when the winds howl around, 
and all the waves seem to roar in a resolve to crush the 


lighthouse into ruin. The keepers in the lighthouses 
behold the ships that pass, not knowing the people, not 
seeing their faces. Yet they stay at their posts ; and 
perhaps the stars and moon shine, and perhaps they do 
not ; but always the lamps of salvation hold out their 
glittering signs when the twilight creeps over the earth 
and the water ; and the men, women, and children in the 
ships see the lights and rejoice. 

Girls and boys, be still a moment before we close our 
lesson ; and think with respect of the keepers of the light- 

[The facts detailed in this chapter are drawn from W. J. Hardy's 
interesting work on Lighthouses : Their History and Romance. Another 
useful work, with better illustrations, is E. Price Edwards's Our 
Seamarks: A Plain Account of Lighthouses, Beacons, Fog-Signals, etc.] 

Lesson XXIX. 

Rescue from fire. A visit to a fire-brigade station described. The 
work of men and horses. Fighting the flames in olden and modern 

A CARTER, named Elijah Reeves, who lived at Ilkeston, in 
Derbyshire, saw thick smoke issuing from a cottage chimney, 
and heard screams. He ran up, and saw a woman pointing 
to the house, and calling, "My child, my child !" A pail 
of boiling tar had spilt over and caught fire, and the place 
was filled with flame and smoke. And alas ! a baby had 
been left lying on the sofa. Reeves, the carter, rushed in ; 
the fire forced him back. He tried a second time, and 
failed. He tried a third time, seized the baby, and brought 
it out alive. About a week afterwards it died of its burns in 
the hospital. This happened in October, 1902. You will 
agree with me that Reeves did a noble deed ; and the spirit 
that he showed is the spirit which makes a country great. 
But he was a carter ; he had his horse and cart to attend to ; 
and we could not expect him and other workmen to run to 
every fire they heard of. We need special men, with special 
tools and machines, and special training for the business of 
fighting the fire. And so we have fire brigades. 

One morning I went to the Leicester Central Fire Station 
to see Mr. William Ely, the Captain, or Superintendent, and 
he showed me the strong engines, the brave men, and the 
brave horses that go out, by night or day, to make war on 
the Fire-dragon, and to slay it. 

Mr. Ely was in his office, where he began by showing me 
a sort of little museum of things that had been snatched 
from the fire-dragon. There was a pair of boots which were 
twisted by the heat until the toes turned up as you see them 
in the slippers worn by people in the East. The head of a 
child's doll looked all black like a negro. There was a half- 
burned clock and a scorched book. On the wall hung a 


black leather helmet, cracked and blistered by the flames. 
This helmet had been worn by a fireman who stood on a 
ladder, and he fought the dragon of smoke and sparks until 
the ladder itself had begun to burn. 

" Now let us go into the Call Room," said the Superin- 

On the walls of the Call Room are cases of wood and 
glass, which contain signals of all kinds. Bells ring ting I 
ting ! or voices speak through the telephone, and give the 
cry of danger. When a bell rings, the hand on an indicator 
(a kind of clock-face) moves and shows which part of the 
town the alarm comes from. Leicester has more than 
twenty fire-alarm posts placed in the streets. In each post 
is a square of glass. The person who wishes to call the 
fireman breaks the glass, and presses a button which rings 
the bell at the station. 

"Ask the boys," said Mr. Ely, " not to play tricks with 
the alarms. A false alarm fetches out the men and horses, 
and causes them much trouble for nothing ; and, besides 
that, at the very time they are coming to the wrong place 
they may be wanted at a real fire somewhere else, and the 
life of a man, or woman, or child, may be put in peril." 

Suppose the firemen at the station are in bed when the 
tidings come that a fire has broken out. The men live in 
cottages close by, and over each man's bedroom door is 
fixed an electric bell. One moment the man sleeps ; ting ! 
ting I he is awake, all life and movement ; he hurries his 
uniform on ; he rushes to his engine ; the town has called 
him, and he obeys. In various parts of the town bells are 
placed so that, when they ring the alarm, the policemen 
who stand near clear the road ready for the engine which 
presently dashes along. Men, women, carts, carriages, 
waggons, must move aside and leave the track clear, for the 
warriors are coming to defy the dragon of fire. 

Perhaps a fire breaks out in a factory at a time when no 
one is by to see and raise a cry. Well, even then, the alarm 
may be given if the master of the factory has placed in the 
building a certain electric signal. This signal acts as soon 
as the heat rises to i6o degrees;' the message speaks 
through the bell, and the brigade answers to the call. 

' These degrees are reckoned on the thermometer : 98 degrees is 
the heat of the blood, and 212 is the heat of boiUng water. 


We went to look at the engines, which were painted a 
gay red colour, and bore the Latin motto of Leicester, 
Semper eadem, " Always the same." The fuel is kept ready 
under the boilers. When the engine starts to go to a fire, 
the fuel is lighted, and, in seven minutes, the cold water has 
been boiled, and the steam machine is pumping water on 
to the fire through the hose at the rate of 350 gallons per 
minute, or (in the case of a larger steamer) 600 gallons. 
In winter the water is always kept warm, and so the water is 
ready, the men are ready, and the horses are ready. The 
water to be thrown on to the burning building is obtained 
from the water pipes below ground, and these pipes are 
reached through openings called hydrants. There are two 
or three thousand such hydrants in Leicester. When the 
engine has left the station, men follow with ladders (one of 
which is sixty feet high), to be placed against walls, so that 
the firemen may climb to windows and roofs. Down some 
of these ladders, called fire escapes, people may be carried 
from windows in canvas sacks or " shoots." A dozen people 
may be saved by the shoot in one minute. Also, there is a 
jumping net. This is held by a number of men, and a 
person in danger leaps from a window into the net. When 
you boys grow strong enough, I am sure you would be only 
too pleased to help hold the net in order to save a precious 
life. If a fireman enters a room full of smoke, he may put 
on a "smoke-helmet," a curious head-piece in which is 
carried a supply of compressed air (that is, air packed close) 
for him to breathe. 

You would have liked to visit the stables. I saw five 
horses, two of which are always standing ready to dart off to 
the engine in the next room. The names of the horses 
were Tom, Peter, Prince, Taffy, and Darkie. Mr. Ely told 
me that when the alarm is heard, and the men run, and the 
gates of the stable swing open, the horses are ready to spring 
— all life and eagerness. I would have made a salute to 
these horses if they could have understood it, for I felt they 
were servants of the people, servants of society, servants of 

Next, I saw the store-house for keeping ropes, axes, pails, 
etc. Then I saw the smith's shop, where iron could be 
heated in the forge and beaten on the anvil, and repairs 
could be done to hose, or ladders, or engines. The 


Superintendent showed me the ambulance waggon. If a 
sick person has to be carried to a hospital (he may have 
been taken ill in the street, or suffered an accident in a 
factory), somebody runs to the Fire Station, and the 
ambulance waggon sets out on its work of mercy. In the 
year 1901 the Leicester waggon was wanted 162 times. 

A tall, square tower is called the drying tower. It is 
seventy feet high. When you look upwards you see iron 
ladders by which the men ascend. From the top of the 
tower a man can look across the town, after an alarm has 
been received, and an engine has been sent out, and if he 
sees a big glare he knows the building is well alight, and 
sends a second engine. The hose is dried here by means 
of hot air ; and, as the hose hangs down in long lines from 
the top, a mile of the canvas piping can be dried at a time. 
It takes four hours to dry. 

The married firemen live in six pleasant cottages close to 
the station. Flowers are in the windows. A good bath is 
provided. A nice laundry is used for the washing of uniforms 
and other clothes. Besides this, I saw a recreation room, 
where the men could play billiards, or read books from the 
library. All this pleased me, because the servants of the 
town deserve to be made comfortable in their houses. 

Last of all, Mr. Ely let me see the engine got ready. I 
stood in the engine room. All was quiet : you could have 
heard a pin drop. A bell sounded — 

Ting, ting, ting I 

Rush, rattle, hurry ! Seven men dashed in from the 
yard, from the workshops ; they ran to the pegs where 
their helmets were, their jackets, their axes ; they flew to 
the engine. The stable gates had swung open, a brown 
horse leaped out, a black horse leaped out ; the two 
comrades stood side by side, harnessed to the engine-pole. 
The driver was in his place. This drill had just taken 
43^ seconds, less than three-quarters of a minute. The 
men dismounted and stood about the room, and the horses 
were put back in the stable. 

Again. A whistle blew shrill — 

Hr-r-r-r-r-r ! 

Rumble, rattle, thump ! The stable doors opened ; the 
horses sprang forth ; the harness was adjusted ; the men 
were on the engine ; the front gates were flung wide ; the 
engine rolled into the street 


All this was done in seventeen seconds. 

I could not help feeling sorry at the thought that, before 
many years have passed, the engines will be driven in the 
form of motor cars, and horses like Prince and Peter and 
Taffy will no longer assist the firemen in the battle with 
the flames. 

Mr. Ely related to me how he had been to the United 
States of America, in order to examine the fire stations 
there, and see how the brave Americans did the work. 
That is a grand idea, I think, for the servants of the people 
to go from one land to another so as to learn better ways of 
saving life and protecting houses and goods. The first 
pump for throwing water on a burning house was made by 
an engineer in Alexandria, in the second century before 
Christ. The first steam fire engine was constructed in 
England in 1829, and the first in America in 1840. So 
you see it was a long time before the powerful aid of steam 
was thought of. But now, every year, wise brains invent 
new helps in fighting the fire-dragon. Americans, French- 
men, Germans, Englishmen — they are all setting their wits 
to work, and planning better methods of attacking the 
dreadful enemy whose breath is fire and whose garments 
are rolling smoke. 

" Then give them honour, give them fame ! 
A Health to hands that fight the flame !" 

Lesson XXX. 


Association among butterflies, beetles, and ants. Association among 

Mr. Bates stood beside the mighty River Amazon, in South 
America, watching the butterflies. You would have been 
dehghted if you could have seen what he saw. The butter- 
flies were of a yellow and orange colour, and they flashed 
like little golden stars across the water. Neither Mr. Bates nor 
any other man could ever count them. They flew close 
together — in hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands, 
millions. They flew in the morning, they flew in the after- 
noon, and they flew across the broad stream, till the sun set 
behind the forest. They may have been travelling to find 
a warmer air, or sweeter food, or for any other reason. But 
whatever they were in search of, they liked to keep each 
other company. 

" Brothers and sisters," the golden butterflies seemed to 
say to one another, "let us fly together. Let none go 

They liked each other's society; they liked to associate 
with each other. 

Next, I must tell you about the Burying Beetles — that is, 
beetles that can bury something in the ground. What do 
they bury ? Dead birds, dead mice, dead toads. Why do 
they bury the toads, mice, or birds ? When a dead animal 
lies in the earth, you know it decays and dissolves. Also, 
you know that beetles lay eggs, and from these eggs come 
the worm-like "larvce," or grubs, which become young 
beetles ; and the grubs feed on dead toads, mice, and birds. 
When the eggs are laid in the corpse of the bird, or toad, or 
mouse, the young creatures will readily find food on going 
forth from the eggs. But the toad, or whatever it is, must 


be buried. Do you think one beetle could bury a toad ? 
Certainly not. What is to be done ? The beetles aid one 
another. The beetle who has found the dead thing calls in 
four, or six, or ten of its friends, and they all toil together at 
the task of burying. Each beetle, with its six legs, and its 
little brain, and its little heart, labours away to scoop the 
grave, and cover the mouse, etc., with soft earth. 

So you see, some beetles know how to act together, to 
co-operate (that is, work together), and associate together. 

No doubt you have often heard how the ants live and 
work together in their nests ; how they make smooth roads 
through their towns ; how they pile up grain in their store- 
places ; how they take care of the precious eggs and grubs 
which change into new ants and new citizens of the ant-city ; 
and other remarkable things which these tiny six-legged 
creatures are able to perform. And have you heard also of 
the way in which they oblige each other by giving food ? 
The ant has a " crop," or inner-pocket, in its small body, 
and in this crop it can store a sweet juice, which is made tjy 
the digestion of its food. Suppose an ant with a full crop 
is trotting along the street of the city, or through the grass, 
or elsewhere, and it meets a neighbour who is hungry. The 
hungry ant, by means of a trembling movement of its 
feelers (antennae) shows that it wants something to eat. 
The companion then gives its crop a sort of squeeze, and 
throws out a drop of clear fluid. You and I would not 
think it much of a dinner, but a small ant only needs a 
small supply ; and the hungry neighbour licks it up with 
pleasure. If an ant which has a full crop is greedy, and 
refuses to feed its comrade, the other ants rush upon it in 
anger, and let it understand that they despise its selfishness. 
And nobody likes to be despised by his neighbours ! 

Now let us talk about birds. We will begin with a little 
one — the wren. In the year 1827 a German gentleman saw 
two wee wrens whose feathers were not yet fully grown. 
They fled from him, and he could not find them ; they 
seemed to have no mother, and he wondered what would 
become of them. The next day he happened to peep into 
the nest of two robin-red breasts ; and lo ! and behold ! he 
saw the two wrens among the children of the robins. All 
were being fed together ; all were being nursed together ; 
all were happy together ; and yet the wrens were orphans. 


who did not belong to the nest at all. The gentleman told 
the story to his friend — an old man, whose name was Goethe. 
Now, this old man was one of the greatest of all poets, and 
when you grow older you will be pleased to read his poems, 
such as the play called " Faust " {Fozvst). Goethe was 
much interested to hear about the robins and the wrens, 
and talked eagerly to his friend concerning the wondrous 
feeling which led the robins to take care of the two poor 

Very likely you believe that robins could be kind, because 
they look so pretty; though I am not so sure that the nice- 
looking birds (and people) are all kind. What do yoit 
think ? Well, but would you believe that the terrible eagles 
— the kings of the mountains — would ever help one another? 
A Russian traveller, who was fond of observing the ways 
of animals, was on the Steppes (the great plain) of his 
native land, and he saw a white-tailed eagle rising high into 
the air. Up aloft the big bird flew in wide circles, as if 
watching, watching, watching, with its piercing eyes. Not a 
sound did it utter for quite half an hour. Then it made 
a shrill cry. A shrill cry was heard in answer, and another 
white-tailed eagle approached ; then another, and another, 
till nine or ten were gathered together, flapping their power- 
ful wings. They then soared away, all in one direction. 
The observer crept carefully towards the spot where they 
halted, and he looked from behind a mound of earth, so 
that he should not disturb them. What did he see? He 
saw a dead horse lying on the ground, and the younger 
eagles were feeding upon its flesh. The older birds had 
already had their meal, and were pearched upon some 
haystacks, looking on at their companions ; for white-tailed 
eagles understand good manners, and the young ones wait 
till the old ones have partaken, and then they go forward 
for their own share. On other occasions, also, the Russian 
traveller noticed the like thing happen : one eagle would 
search for food, and when he had found it he would give 
a cry as a signal, and thus summon the rest to the feast. 
They seemed to think that a good eagle would never glut 
himself with food while his neighbours were wandering 
about without a bit to eat. 

If you have ever been to the gardens where various kinds 
of wild animals are kept, you have, perhaps, smiled at the 


birds called pelicans, with their sprawling, webbed feet, their 
clumsy walk, and the enormous pouches below their great 
mouths. Big as their mouths are, the pelicans know how to 
procure their food in an orderly and friendly manner. One 
way would be for each pelican to rush into the water and 
grab at his own fish. The way they prefer is to hunt for 
food together, in company, in association. This is the 
manner of their hunting. They go down to the river, and 
find a place where the bank curves in a bay. Plunging into 
the water, they advance some distance from the shore, and 
then turn back towards the land so as to form a half-circle. 
They paddle steadily, nearer and nearer to the bank, and 
thus drive the fish into a smaller and smaller space. The 
pelican-comrades paddle together; they go forward together; 
they eat together ; there is enough for all ; and the food has 
been far more easily obtained by thus helping each other 
than if each pelican had fished on his own account. When 
night comes, they fly to their resting-place, each finding a 
handy spot, without pushing or quarrelling with his neigh- 
bour. Perhaps forty or fifty thousand of these birds dwell 
together ; and, while some sleep, others stand on guard, 
ready to awaken the others if danger threatens ; and so the 
whole multitude of pelicans live in peace and goodwill. You 
can laugh at their big mouths and big pouches if you like. 
Yes ; but do not forget that they are wise birds, and are too 
wise to make war on each other. I wish all birds were as 
wise as the pelicans. 

Cranes are very sensible, too. Of course, you know what 
a crane is like, with its sharp eyes, long bill, long neck, and 
long legs. With such eyes it could, if it cared, spy about 
for somebody to fight ; and with such long legs it could stride 
very quickly after its enemies. The crane has no enemy in 
the world, except (so I am told) the crocodile ; and the 
crocodile will eat a crane if he can. I am sure the croco- 
dile would not eat the crane if he only knew what a charm- 
ing bird it was ; but, you see, crocodiles have very thick 
skins, and very thick heads, and are very stupid. The 
cranes live in flocks or societies. It is very hard for hunters 
to catch a crane. The clever birds go to the river in the 
morning for their food, which chiefly consists of water- 
plants ; and, while most of the flock are feeding, some are 
keeping watch, their keen eyes prepared for the slightest 


sign of man's approach ; and all fly at the news of danger. 
During the rest of the day the cranes enjoy each other's 
fellowship in sport and dance. Oh, you and I would like 
to be there when these long-legged birds have their games. 
How we should gaze in pleasure and astonishment when the 
cranes picked up scraps of wood, threw them up into the 
air, and tried to catch them ; and when they bent their long 
necks, and opened their wings, and jumped and danced and 
ran — all in happy company, some playing while others 
looked on ! Perhaps we should wish we were cranes our- 

But the parrots — the wild parrots, I mean — have a good 
time as well. They live in associations. In the morning 
they proceed to a field, or garden, or to a tree, to feed upon 
fruits ; and, while the flock are breakfasting, the sentries are 
on the look-out. If a sentry screeches, they all fly — not 
some here and some there, but together. They do not say, 
"Every parrot for himself!" And at night, in India, when 
the parrots go to sleep in the thickets of bamboo-canes, 
hosts of other birds — jays and crows — come to spend the 
time of quiet and slumber along with the jolly parrots. The 
parrots like it. There is room enough among the bamboos 
for jays and crows and parrots, and all. If you were to tell 
the parrots (supposing they could understand your talk) that 
they had better put a board up thus : — 




I expect the parrots would reply, " We don't mind who 
comes to our bamboos as long as they behave them- 
selves !"' 

' The facts which are translated into child-language in this lesson are 
all taken from Prince Kropotkin's admirable book, Mutual Aid : A 
Factor in Evohition. 


Lesson XXXI. 
ABOUT A^lMK\.?>—(co?ttinued) 

Co-operation among birds. Birds who sing together and travel 
together. Association among deer, "prairie-dogs," viscachas, 
monkeys, etc. 

Shall I tell you about a fight ? Men and boys like to 
talk of battles, do they not ? Very well, let us go to the 
field of battle. It is on the shore of a lake in the far-off 
land of Siberia, in the North of Asia. A multitude of gulls 
and terns (both kinds of water-birds) fly about the edges of 
the lake, thick as snowflakes on a winter day. Thousands 
of plovers and sand-coursers (more birds !) run along the 
beach, whistling, searching for food, all happy and con- 
tented. On the heaving waters you see swarms of ducks, 
which rock up and down with the waves. Suddenly a dark 
object appears in the sky. It is a kite, with curved beak 
and very long wings, and long tail. It swoops down. All 
the birds are now in the water, where they can best defend 
themselves. They crowd close together, and dash the water 
until the spray rises in a cloud and gets into the kite's eyes, 
and bewilders him, and he is beaten off. The birds in the 
lake have helped each other, and, by co-operation, they have 
defeated the foe. The battle is ended. 

Let us next go to Colorado, in North America. Here there 
are deep river- valleys, called caiions (can'-yons), on either 
side of which rise tall cliffs. In the holes of the cliffs many 
little swallows construct their nests. Above one of these 
colonies of swallows was a mound of clay, in which a large 
falcon (fatv'-kofi) dwelt. The falcon had hooked claws, 
and its eyes were wonderfully keen. It saw and hungered 
after the swallows, and would now and then rush upon the 
small birds in the hope of seizing one. But the swallows 
flew close, and attacked the big bird with such fury that, in 
spite of his size and strength, he had to retreat. So safe 
did the little cliff-swallows feel in each other's protection 
that they did not take the trouble to move their nests away. 

Of course, you know the black crow. Some farmers 
dislike him because he loves to dig up and eat the newly- 


sown seed ; but he also digs up and eats the wriggHng little 
grubs which devour the farmer's plants ; so he does good as 
well as evil. Well, there was once a crow which was 
wounded — I do not know how, perhaps by a sportsman's 
gun. The wounded bird took shelter in a hollow tree. 
Poor soul ! it looked out across the fields, envying its 
brethren who were able to fly, and wishing it could follow 
the sower, and steal some of his seed. And behold ! two 
other crows came and brought him food, and his two friends 
did this for several weeks. They kept their comrade alive 
by their kindness. This was observed by a German 
gentleman. Also, an Englishman, named Mr. Blyth, saw, 
in India, some crows who fed several blind companions. I 
wish crows understood human speech. I should have 
liked to pay a visit to these noble black fellows, and to say 
to them : " Gentlemen (or gentle crows), I respect you for 
the goodness which you have shown towards your friends 
in distress." 

In South America lives a bird which has a crest — a circle 
of feathers — at the back of its head ; and it can scream 
enough to deafen you ! So it is called the Crested 
Screamer; but the natives call it the chakar. In the 
country of Brazil the people teach the chakar to take care 
of their poultry. At sunrise the chakar marches out with 
the chicks behind ; and at dusk he leads them back to the 
roosting-place. If a bird of prey comes near, the faithful 
chakar flaps his wings and shows the spurs on his feet. 
The wild chakars are very sociable ; that is, they like to be 
in each other's company. Once, a traveller, named Mr. 
Hudson, came to a lake on the shores of which were groups 
of chakars, each group containing about five hundred birds. 
Presently one of these flocks began to sing or scream, and 
kept on for three or four minutes ; then the next flock took 
up the song ; then the next, and so on, all round the lake. 
Also, one evening, Mr. Hudson saw countless numbers of 
chakars on a big marsh : they continued for miles. They 
all sang together ; all the crested screamers screamed and 
screamed and screamed ; all in joy and companionship they 
screamed, screamed, screamed. Mr. Hudson says it was a 
concert worth riding a hundred miles to hear. Bonny birds ! 
Would you not like to go to America and hear their 
tremendous song? 


Before I leave off talking about our feathered friends, I 
may remind you of the wonderful journeys, or migrations, 
which some birds perform, as in the case of swallows, 
cuckoos, wild ducks, etc. For instance, in September the 
swallows leave England, France, and other countries in 
Europe, in order to fly across the sea to Africa, and there 
they stay until the spring. But how do they go? They 
might go in twos, or twenties. But no, they love to travel 
in immense societies. Some time before they set out they 
assemble at certain places, fluttering here and there, and 
twittering all day long, as if consulting with one another as to 
which is the best way and which the best time. At last 
they advance to the south, all eyes directed towards Africa ; 
all the wings plying with one purpose ; all the little hearts 
beating with one hope — the hope of reaching the charming 
summerland where food is plentiful and the air soft. In 
this way, in co-operation and friendship, the vast armies of 
the swallows pass over land and sea. 

We often find the same friendship among the four-footed 
creatures. The wild mice like to live in association ; also, 
ground squirrels, marmots, elephants, rhinoceroses, monkeys, 
reindeer, musk-oxen, the foxes of the frozen North, and wild 
horses, camels, and sheep. On the other hand, the flesh- 
eating animals, such as hyenas, prefer to live in couples ; 
though even lions will sometimes hunt in company, and you 
have heard how wolves hunt in packs. In Siberia dwell 
vast herds of fallow-deer ; and when the snow-storms 
approach they gather in thousands and march in a splendid 
host towards the river Amur ; and, having crossed it at the 
easiest spot, they journey on together to a warmer region. 
Years ago, when only a few settlers were to be seen on the 
broad grass prairies of North America, the bisons would 
walk or run in enormous herds, so long that they took two 
or three days to pass a place where the travellers were 
encamped. On these prairies used to be seen multitudes 
of animals, commonly called prairie-dogs. These prairie- 
dogs turned up the earth in order to scoop out burrows to 
shelter in. If danger appeared, all the dogs would rush 
into the burrows. When the danger was over, the prairie- 
dogs would come out of their holes and stand on the earth- 
heaps, and bark at one another in a pleasant way, like 
neighbours gossiping. The tiny animals would frolic about. 


Standing on their hind legs, and scratching one another 
without hurting. From one heap to another were footpaths, 
showing where the dogs had walked as they went to and fro 
to their evening parties. AVhat merry parties ! To be sure, 
their songs were but barkings, but all the four-legged folk 
were friends, and that was everything ! Similar habits (that 
is, habits of a like kind) are noticed among the viscachas of 
South America. (The vis-cacK-a is a rat-like animal, about 
twenty inches long.) The viscacha lives in burrows, many 
burrows together forming what may be called a village ; and 
sometimes all the people (I mean all the viscachas) of one 
village go on a grand visit to their neighbours in the next 
village. The American farmer does not love the viscacha, 
for it destroys his plants ; and so he digs up a burrow if he 
finds one, and piles earth over the place to smother his 
enemies. And then, what do you think ? When the news 
of the disaster reaches the other viscachas, they are much 
concerned. They seem to say to one another, " Our friends 
are in peril I To the rescue !" Off they go, and set to 
work with their paws to tear down the pile of earth and 
deliver the comrades who were buried alive. As for rabbits, 
you must have seen them in their warrens ; and you know 
what happy families they form. The young rabbits are very 
obedient to their fathers ; yes, and to their grandfathers ! 
Hares do not care to associate in the manner the rabbits 
do ; but they delight in having games with each other ; and 
I have heard of a hare who became so excited by sporting 
with his companions that he wanted to play with a fox that 
passed by. I wonder what the fox thought. Perhaps 
Mr. Reynard went and complained to the naughty little 
hare's schoolmaster ! The wild horses of Mongolia, too, 
are known to unite in large droves, perhaps as many as 
ten thousand. When a bear or wolf attacks, the horses run 
together and drive it back, and may even chase it for some 

The monkeys — the chimpanzees, the mandrills, the 
baboons, and the rest — -associate together, and if one is left 
alone it becomes sad. If one raises a cry of fear, the others 
hurry to its aid, and help to repel a beast or bird of prey. 
Even eagles will not attack a band of monkeys. If they are 
on the march, and one is hurt, some of its mates will stay 
by it as long as they are of any use. ^Vhen one lights upon 


an ant's nest which may be partly covered by a heavy stone, 
its comrades assist in raising the weight, so that all may 
join in searching for ants' eggs. And the monkeys known 
as tee-tees will cuddle each other when it rains, and roll 
their tails over each other's necks to keep off the wet. 

Men and women, and girls and boys, are very wise and 
clever — especially boys ! — and they can do many things 
which the tee-tees and viscachas and chakars (please do 
your best to say these funny names) know nothing about. 
Human beings can build churches and ships ; they can 
make organs and violins ; they can stretch telegraphs under 
the sea, and span broad lands with railways ; and besides 
all this, they know wonderful ways of killing each other with 
guns. But I do think (and don't you ?) that they would be 
happier if they always co-operated like the prairie-dogs, kept 
together in friendly association like the fallow-deer, and 
protected each other like the jolly little tee-tees. 

Lesson XXXII. 

ABOUT N^\yih\Ji~{continiied) 

Meanness of injuring weaker creatures. Kind lads and cruel lads. 
The eftect of kind treatment on animals. Affection between animals 
and their owners. 

It was very hot in the summer of the year 1363, but a very 
cold winter followed ; and the streets of the Swiss town of 
Zurich swarmed with wild ducks and other birds that came 
for food and shelter. They were so little afraid of man that 
they came close to the townsfolk, and could easily be 
captured. But the rulers of Ziirich issued an order that 
no man should shoot, or throw stones at, or in any way 
hurt, these hungry creatures who had placed themselves 
under the protection of human beings. It was thought 
mean to injure the birds who so trustfully approached the 
dwellings of men and women ; just as you would consider 
it mean if a big, strong boy acted the bully to a weaker boy. 


A gentleman in Leicester saw some boys stoning a frog, 
and he stopped to speak to them. 

" Would you," he asked, " throw stones at a lion ?" 

" No." 

" No ? Not stone a lion ? ^\'hat would you do ?" 

" We should run away." 

" You would run away, would you ? And would you 
think it 77iean to run away from a lion ?" 

*' No ; the lion would be so strong." 

" But the frog is not strong ?" 


"And so you don't run away from the frog?" 

They laughed at the idea ; and the gentleman asked 
again : 

" Then you don't think it mean to stone a frog ?" 

They looked at one another. 

"Yes," replied one of the boys, "it is; and I shan't 
throw any more." 

So saying, he went away, and his companions followed 
bun, and left the frog in peace. 

Yes, boys ; leave the frogs in peace. Do not take them 
from the pond, where they are happy, and put them in a tin 
can or a handkerchief, where they are unhappy. In the 
pond they are not only happy, they are beautiful in their 

The toad, I agree, is not beautiful, either in its shape or 
its movement. It is, however, harmless ; it lives in ditches 
and caves out of our way, and does not push itself into our 
notice ; and its food is insects, worms, and other soft-bodied 
creatures. It is almost more mean to hurt a toad, because 
it has not power to move quickly from us as the frog has. 
I should like to tell you the story of a toad, which I read in 
a French poem. One evening the toad was slowly making 
its way along a rut or grove worn by cart-wheels in a country- 
lane. Four schoolboys came running along ; they had red 
cheeks, and were blithe and racketty. They saw the toad. 

" Ha ! let's kill it." 

They struck it with sticks. One fetched a heavy stone^ 
and was about to crush it. Just then they heard the sound 
of cart-wheels. 

" Stop !" said one to the boy who held the stone ; " let the 
cart-wheel go over it !" 



They agreed, and they watched in silence, as the cart 
rumbled along. The driver was swearing at the ass who 
drew the cart. Presently the ass saw the toad — stopped — 
pressed backward (while the man beat him), then pulled 
forward again, but so as to draw the wheel on one side, and 
the toad was unharmed. The boys appeared to be ashamed. 
If the ass did not hurt the toad, why should they ? A voice 
seemed to say in the ear of one of them, Be kind. He 
never forgot the thought of kindness that entered his mind 
at that moment. The lad afterwards became a poet, and 
wrote the story in verses of his own. His name was Victor 

Better still were the Lincoln boys who were mentioned 
in the newspapers in August, 1902. They were playing in 
some fields near the city of Lincoln, and found a collie dog 
which had been run over. Touched by the animal's help- 
lessness, they got together old bricks, bits of brushwood, 
and some old rugs, and made the colhe a comfortable nest 
under the shelter of a hedge. Then they took it food and 
water, and continued for several days to give it their atten- 
tion, until they had the pleasure of seeing it able to run 
about again. A few days afterwards a gentleman saw another 
dog run over in the town of Huddersfield. The driver of 
the cart was a man in livery, and that showed he was used 
to driving. Some passers-by called to him to stop, but he 
drove on as if he cared nothing for the pain suffered by the 
dog. No wonder the people thought him mean and cold- 
hearted, and very different from the boys of Lincoln. At 
least he could have stopped a moment or two to say a word 
of regret. 

No doubt you have heard of the celebrated author. Sir 
AValter Scott. When he was a boy he threw a stone at a 
dog which was coming towards him, and broke its leg. 
The poor thing crawled to him and licked his feet, as if 
beseeching that they might be friends ; and the boy's heart 
felt pity, and he remembered the dog's action all his life. 
It was indeed wrong of him to injure the dog ; but the 
. right feeling followed : he was sorry for his cruelty. He 
»knew he had been mean. 

Why, even the Indians (whom some foolish people sneer 
at because of their dark colour) understand the right way to 
treat animals. Let me tell you a Hindoo fable. 


A Brahman in India had a strong bull, which he used for 
drawing his carts. He fed the bull on rice ; he loved it ; and 
he gave it the pet name of Nandi-Visala. According to the 
myth {mith^ a legend), the bull had the power of speech ; and 
one day he said to his master : 

" Tell your neighbour, the rich farmer, how strong I am. 
Make him a Let that I can move a hundred ox-carts at once 
You'll win." 

[I am afraid the Hindoos who invented the story thought 
betting a proper thing.] 

The Brahman did as the bull advised. 

" Tush !" cried the farmer. 

"All right," answered the Brahman; "I'll bet you a 
thousand silver pieces that he can." 

Then he filled a hundred carts with gravel and sand, and 
fastened them in a long line together. After placing a 
garland of flowers round Nandi-Visala's neck, he mounted 
the front cart, lifted his goad (a sharp-pointed stick), and 
shouted : 

" Gee up, you brute ! Drag 'em along, you wretch !" 

The bull never moved. He stood as firm as a rock. 
The bet was lost ; and the Brahman went home, and lay 
down on the ground in despair. The bull came up and 
asked : 

" Are you asleep ?" 

" How can I go to sleep after losing so much money ?" 

" Master," said Nandi-Visala, " I have lived a long while 
in your house. Have I ever broken your pots, or rubbed 
up against the walls, or made the place untidy ?" 

" Never, my dear." 

" Then why did you call me a brute and a wretch ? It 
was your fault, not mine. Go now ; bet the farmer two 
thousand pieces, and never call me such names again." 

The Brahman did so. Again the bull was harnessed in 
front of the hundred carts ; and many people looked on. 
His master said : 

" Gee up, my beauty ! Drag 'em along, my beauty I" 

And Nandi-Visala gave a big pull, and the long chain of 
carts began to move. Kind words had more power than 
the goad or the harsh command. 

You see, animals like to be treated with respect. They 
do" not care for rudeness, any more than you or I do. 


They understand when the voice is friendly, or the touch 
gentle. It is a beautiful thing to see man and beast living 
in sympathy. I am sure you will think so when I tell you 
the following story, taken from the writings of Laurence 

At the door of a Spanish inn a poor German peasant sat 
on a stone bench. He had at his side an ass's saddle and 
a bridle. With a look of sadness, he was putting into a bag 
a piece of bread. 

" This," he said, " should have been thy portion, hadst 
thou been alive to share it with me." 

He was speaking to a dead ass. 

Some people gathered round the peasant, and asked him 
his history. 

He had had three sons, he replied ; three of the finest 
lads in Germany. The two elder ones had died, and the 
youngest fell seriously ill. The father made a vow that, if 
this son recovered, he would make a journey all the way to 
the cathedral of St. lago {Ee-a/i-go) in Spain, and offer 
thanks for the healing of his boy. The son did get well ; 
and the peasant set out on his faithful ass. All the way the 
ass shared his master's food ; they were affectionate 
comrades. The ass loved its master ; and once, when the 
peasant lost his way among the mountains of the Pyrenees, 
he became parted from the ass ; and for three days the ass 
had sought him as much as he sought the ass. Each had 
scarcely eaten or drunk till they met. 

" Thou hast one comfort, friend," said Laurence Sterne, 
" at least, in the loss of thy poor beast : I am sure thou hast 
been a merciful master to him." 

" Alas !" replied the peasant, " I thought so when he was 
alive; but now that he is dead I think otherwise. I fear 
the weight of myself and my afflictions together have been 
too much for him ; they have shortened the poor creature's 
days, and I fear it is my fault that he died." 

Mr. Sterne said to himself : 

" Shame on the world ! If we loved each other as this 
poor soul loved his ass, 'twould be something." 


Lesson XXXIII. 

ABOUT ANlMALS~-( co;tc/7(ded) 

Disgust caused by cruel treatment of animals. Does sport make 
sportsmen generous ? A man who is kind to animals attracts our 
respect. Our humble kinsfolk. 

Athens has been the chief city of the land of Greece for 
ages. In olden times the city was kept in order by a 
council of elder men, called the Areopagus (Ar-e-op'-a-gus), 
They sat on a hill-side in the open air, and discussed 
the affairs of Athens, and tried prisoners who were 
accused of misdeeds. One day, as these magistrates were 
in council, a poor sparrow, fiercely pursued by a hawk, 
flew into their midst, and took refuge under the robe of one 
of the elders. He dragged it forth from his bosom, and 
threw it to the ground with such force that it died. 

His fellow-magistrates saw his action, and raised a cry of 
horror. Who would care to sit near a man who could be 
guilty of such cruelty towards a harmless sparrow ? Was he 
likely to judge with a fair and honest mind the persons who 
were brought to trial before the Areopagus? They all 
agreed that he was unfit to hold office as a magistrate, and 
they expelled him. 

Do you think they were right ? He might have replied : 
"What have sparrows to do with our business here? We 
are here to judge people, not birds." Yes ; but we ought to 
have good feelings towards birds as well as men ; and he 
who harbours unkind feelings towards dumb animals will 
very likely be harsh in his conduct towards human beings. 

There was once a notable French painter named Gros 
(Gro) ; and he had under his care a number of pupils who 
worked in his studio. They drew with chalk or pencil ; 
they used water-colours and oil-colours ; they all hoped to 
become artists. 

One day, while the young fellows were busy at their 
easels, another pupil entered the studio with his hat on. 
Something alive was fluttering in his hat, and could not 
escape. It was a butterfly, which he had transfixed with a 
pin. The lovely insect was slowly dying. 


No doubt you have seen the cases of butterflies in a 
museum ; and you have admired their glorious colours — 
green, blue, red, orange, purple, yellow, pink, brown. 
Surely you will feel, as the painter Gros felt, angry at the 
young man's behaviour. 

" What, unhappy man !" he cried. " Is this the feeling 
that beautiful things inspire in you ? You find a beautiful 
creature, and all you can do is to make it suffer? Do not 
come here again." 

That was right. However clever the young man might 
be, the master was convinced he was not worth teaching if 
he could treat a butterfly in so heartless a manner. Would 
he paint really beautiful pictures when he could seize a 
beautiful living thing and spoil its loveliness and torture its 
helpless body ? 

Sometimes people who are cruel to animals are punished 
by the law. But, whether they are so punished or not, we 
can show our opinion of their conduct by avoiding them and 
showing that we do not care for their society. We should 
let them see we consider it very mean to ill-use a dumb 

Some years ago several gentlemen sat smoking and 
drinking in a Scottish bothy (or hut). They were young 
fellows from Oxford University. As they smoked and drank 
their whiskey, they talked of sport ; they told each other 
tales of the remarkable feats (or actions) which they had 
performed while shooting grouse, or stalking (folhjwing after) 
deer on the Highland mountains. These sportsmen were 
proud of their work in slaying so many animals. They 
thought their sport was a very manly business. 

" Yes," they said, " sport takes a man out among the 
fields, woods, and hills. It braces him up. It makes him 
strong in muscles and strong in character. It makes him 
brave and sound-hearted. Men who hunt are better than 
the milk-sops who do not love sport. Sportsmen are never 

Is that so ? Robert Browning, a well-known English 
poet, did not think so. He told the young Oxford gentle- 
men a story which you and I can read in his poem of 
" Donald"; and you will see that Donald, though a sports- 
man, had by no means a generous spirit. When Mr. 
Browning met Donald, he was begging for money from 


gentlemen who travelled on the moors and mountains in 
Scotland. Donald carried about with him the skull of a 
stag; and, when anyone asked him why he carried so strange 
an object, he would tell them the story of the stag's death, 
and of the misfortune which had ruined his own health and 

One day Donald was stalking deer in the Highlands. He 
was following the timid creatures from place to place, 
keeping out of the sight of their sharp eyes, making no 
sound that would attract their sharp ears, and moving in a 
direction which left the deer between him and the wind, so 
that he should not be detected by their sharp scent. This 
creeping and crawling is called deer-stalking. 

Donald was making his way along a narrow path. 
On his right the cliffs fell deep to the valley. On his 
left the cliffs rose high towards the sky. In the midst 
of the pathway he met a big gold-red stag, whose 
beautiful antlers branched over his head. Neither man nor 
animal had room to turn round without danger of falling 
over the precipice. The stag looked at Donald, and 
Donald looked at the stag. Then Donald lay down. The 
stag seemed to understand. He moved forwards, and began 
to step lightly over the huntsman. If Donald had let the 
creature pass, all would have been well. Each would have 
gone away in safety. But a mean, paltry thought entered 
the sportsman's mind. How easy it would be to kill the 
stag as it crossed over Donald's body ! The man drew his 
knife quickly, and plunged it into the noble animal's flesh. 
The stag stopped, quivered in pain, toppled to one side, and 
fell headlong down the cliff, and the swift motion carried 
Donald over as well ! 


Donald had fallen on the body of the dead deer. He 
was so badly bruised that he could not rise ; he must needs 
lie there, hour after hour, until the sun set. The stars came 
out ; still Donald lay there among the rocks. The morning 
arrived, and some people found him and bore him away to 
a hospital. He was never well and strong again. His 
health was wrecked. Nor could he follow his old occupa- 
tion. He became a beggar, and with him he carried the 
skull of the stag he had slain. Perhaps some of the 
gentlemen who heard his story considered he had done a 


very clever thing by killing the stag. Perhaps others thought 
it was a very mean action. You may think of Mr. Browning's 
story whenever you hear folks say that the hunting of 
animals always makes the sportsmen manly and noble- 

A gentleman who was often travelling by train in the 
United States noticed a poorly-clothed man, who would pass 
along the corridors (the passages) of the trains which arrived 
at a certain station and pick up bread, scraps of pastry, etc., 
thrown to the floor by the passengers. The broken pieces 
which he thus collected he placed in a satchel. He was a 
quiet, simple-looking person, whom few of the passengers 
would be likely to take any special notice of. Hut the 
gentleman I have mentioned — ^Mr. M. — thought he would 
like to know something of the man's history. 

One morning Mr. M. was walking through the town when 
he caught sight of the gatherer of scraps. The man was 
watching some large crates, or cases, containing live poultry, 
which had just been brought in by train. Presently he 
opened his satchel, and began to fling the food to the fowls. 
Some of the birds were smaller and weaker than the others. 
He took care that these had their proper share of the feast. 
Now and then he wetted pieces of bread from a bottle of water, 
so as to make the morsels softer for the little ones to eat. 
Mr. M. went up, and said : 
" You are very kind to those fowls." 
The man smiled sadly. 

" Well," he said, " some of these poultry travel hundreds 
of miles without food, and reach this station nearly starving. 
They need someone to take thought for them." 

Mr. M. talked in a friendly manner to the good fellow, 
and heard from him of the many troubles he had passed 
through in his home and at his work. But, amid all his 
troubles, he retained a warm affection for dumb creatures, 
and he rendered aid to them whenever he found an oppor- 
tunity. He fed poultry and stray dogs. In cold weather 
he replaced the coverings on the horses' backs in case they 
had been neglected ; and he adjusted the horses' feeding- 
bags, and gave them water to slake their thirst. 
" These creatures cannot thank you?" 
" No, but a look from their beautiful eyes is thanks 
enough for me." 


Sad and lonely as he was, this man had a heart that felt 
pity for speechless animals, and a hand willing to assist 
them. And you may also see from this story how the man 
who is kind to animals is regarded by others as a man who 
deserves respect. I suppose a man might be kind to animals 
and cruel to human beings ; but it is not very likely ; and if 
you saw one who was merciful and considerate towards 
dumb creatures, I expect you would be more ready to trust 
him as your friend than one who was harsh and thoughtless 
towards what we call the lower animals. 

If you had a brother who was crippled, or weak in his 
body, or perhaps feeble in his mind, you would consider it 
very unmanly and inhuman to ill-treat him. In a way, the 
animals are like our brethren in the vast family of living 
things. We must needs keep them under our rule and 
•order, but they are still our kinsfolk, and should receive from 
■US, as far as possible, tender and humane treatment. 


A YOUNG Spaniard was sent to prison. 

*' A bad fellow," said people. 

" What has he done ?" 

" Done ? He has spoken against the teaching of the 
priests ; he has written in newspapers, and upset the minds 
of young men : he is a rebel." 

The prisoner sat alone day after day. He loved mankind, 
and wished to rouse their thoughts to great subjects, so that 
they might work to make the poor happier and to make the 
ignorant wise. He loved beasts and birds and insects, and 
all their colours, and movements, and wonderful works. He 
loved plants, and he liked to watch the growth of seeds, and 
the bursting of buds, and the spreading out of branches. 
In shadow he dwelt, in shadow he ate and drank, in shadow 
he slept, in shadow his heart ached. And as he sat in 
shadow he dreamed of the life in the world of men and 
animals outside : 

" There's life abroad ! From each green tree 

A busy murmur swells; 
The bee is up at early dawn 

Stirring the cowslip bells. 
There's motion in the lightest leai 

That trembles on the stream; 
The insect scarce an instant rests, 

Light dancing in the beam." 

They had thrust him into gaol because he was what they 
called a heretic. 

The prison in which he was confined was a fortress 
guarded by Spanish soldiers. The soldiers were coarse and 
thoughtless men. Sometimes the prisoner heard shouts of 
laughter among the men as they lounged in the barrack- 

' The main facts of this little story were related to me by a friend of 
the Prisoner. The details I have filled in myself. 

THE prisoner's LECTURE 1 55 

rooms. He was told what they laughed at. They caught 
ants and spiders, and spilt boiling water on the poor 
creatures, and were amused to see them spring and run and 
turn over and over in their pain. 

At first, the prisoner said to himself: " If I could speak to 
these soldiers, I would say to them. You are brutes !" 

Then he reflected, and he thought of something better. 
He sent this message to the governor of the prison : Might 
he give a lecture to the soldiers in the barracks ? 

"On what subject?" asked the governor. 

" On ants and spiders," answered the prisoner. 

The governor smiled, but he consented. It would be a 
change, and the idea of a prisoner lecturing to his guards was 
a novelty. It would be a sort of entertainment. 

The meeting was held in a large room in the fortress. 
Officers came, and many soldiers, also their wives and little 
children. They joked with each other. How comical it 
would be to hear an address from the prisoner ! 

The young Spaniard stood up, and he spoke for a long 
time. His voice was earnest, but his face lit up with 
pleasure, for he was talking of things that interested him. 

He had drawn large sketches of ants — their feelers 
(anten/m), their six legs, the holes through which they 
breathe, in the centre part of their body (thorax). 

" What a curious way to breathe," said the listeners. 

The prisoner told also of the underground cities of the 
ants, with their rooms and passages ; and about the eggs 
which the mother ants laid, and how from the eggs came 
grubs {larv(e), which were carefully nursed and fed by the 
grown-up ants. 

"Pretty creatures !" said the soldiers' wives. 

And how the grubs became covered up in cocoons of 
their own spinning, like silkworms, and how they broke 
through the cocoons, and came out, no longer grubs, but 
ants with feelers and legs, and with a will to work for the 

" Isn't that wonderful ?' said the children. 

And how the red ants went forth to war, and captured 
black ants, and made slaves of them, and how the black 
ants fed the red ants. 

" ^Ve like the red ants," said the soldiers. 

And how, in spite of their strange habits of fighting, the 


ants understood what it meant to assist each other in the 
work of the Httle town ; and how some ants showed 
kindness ; how, for instance, when an ant had lost its 
feelers and could not find its way about, a companion came 
up and led it gently to its home. 

The soldiers were silent, but they were very attentive. 

Also, the prisoner showed pictures of spiders, and he 
described how they spun their beautiful webs ; and how the 
trapdoor spider made a kind of tiny tunnel in the earth, and 
closed it by a circular door, which it could shut and open. 

" Just think of that, mother," said the children. 

And how some spiders were said to love music ; and he 
related the story of the spider who would crawl upon the 
shoulder of the boy who played sweetly on the violin. 

The women looked at one another. 

But, alas ! a visitor saw the spider, and killed it. 

The soldiers said nothing, but they seemed sorry the 
spider was killed. 

The lecture was ended. The young Spaniard went back 
to the prison, and dwelt in the shadow again. But he heard 
no more laughter at the death-struggles of the ants. The 
soldiers understood the wonder and interest of these little 
creatures' lives, and tormented them no more. 

That is the end of the story, except one thing that I must 
sorrowfully tell you. The young Spaniard died in the 


Lesson XXXIV. 

The little word " can." " Can " and "will." Various things men and 
women can do. Those who seem weak may be strong. Encouraging 
others. Good work out of common material. 

Which of you girls and boys can lend me a pencil ? You, 
Alfred ? Thank you for so quickly whipping one out of 
your pocket, and offering it to me. Which of you can lift 
your chair ? You, Ernest ? Thank you ; I have scarcely 
spoken the word before you have jumped up, lifted your 
chair, and sat down again. Which of you can spell me the 
word DUTY ? You can, Lizzie ? Please do so. D-u-t-y, 
duty ; quite right. Which of you can write the word duty 
on the blackboard ? You can, Maud ? Yes ; that is clearly 
and neatly written. Which of you can draw a tea-pot ? 
Step to the front, Tom, and begin. Your pot will hold a 
pint and a half ; now I behold the little knob on the top of 
the lid ; and there is the noble spout ; and the strong 
handle ; I should enjoy tea out of such a pot ; I am much 
obliged to you, Mr. Artist. 

Let us go on. Which of you can hurt me, if you wish 
to ? What ! twenty of you hold up your hands ! I am 
glad you laugh, because then I feel sure those hands will 
not hurt me. But which of you wish to hurt me ? None. 
Well, now my mind is at ease. 

Again ; which of you can earn your living ? None of 
you. How is that ? 

" We can't do it now," says Ernest ; " but we shall later on." 

To be sure you will ; later on. And which of you can 
touch the moon ? Not one of you. And shall you ever be 


158 WORK 

able to? No, never. And which of you can help father 
and mother ? All of you ; very good. Which of you can 
make father and mother unhappy ? All of you can do so, if 
you have a mind to. This is a remarkable power we have ; 
we can make each other sad. 

What word have 1 used in nearly every question I have 
just asked you ? The little word can. 

But did you notice what happened when I asked, " Which 
of you can lend me a pencil ?" I did not ask, " ^Vhich of 
you ivill lend me a pencil "; and yet, at once, Alfred was 
willing. And the same thing happened with the chair. Thus 
we see that (i) can and 7£'/// often go together very closely. 
Then, when you were asked if you could hurt me, you said. 
Yes ; but you also said that you did not wish to. So next 
we see that (2) ca7i and will not may go together. You told 
me you could not earn your living, but you added that you 
could do so (so you hoped) later on. And thus we find 
that (3) the cantiot of to-day may be turned into a cati in the 
future. You said also that you could not touch the moon, 
and never would be able to ; and so, of course, you will not 
trouble yourself about it, for (4) there are some cannots 
which will never be turned into cans. Could you I asked, 
help father and mother ? You answered. Yes ; and you 
could also make them unhappy. There are (5) right cans 
and wrong cafis. About the wrong cans I do not wish to 
talk. I wish to talk about the right things that can be done, 
and the people who can do them. 

Let me now ask you four questions about men, and four 
questions about women. Tell me, please, what good things, 
these folk can do ; what right things, useful things. What 
can navvies do ? Dig; lift heavy weights ; lay pipes. What 
can sailors do ? Weigh anchors ; scrub decks ; furl sails ; 
protect passengers. What can judges do? Listen to wit- 
nesses ; tell truth from falsehood ; pass sentence or acquit 
(let go) the innocent. What can artists do? Paint ; carve; 
engrave ; decorate; and teach people what is fine and beau- 
tiful. What can Sisters of Mercy do ? Nurse the sick ; feed 
the hungry ; comfort sorrowful persons. ^Vhat can maid- 
servants do? Sweep; wash; dust; tidy; brighten the house. 
What can school-mistresses do ? Teach ; praise ; reprove ; 
train. What can mothers do ? Feed; clothe; nurse; wipe 
away tears; yes, and ever so many other good things. I 

CAN 159 

might go on asking you about many other ca7is. Men and 
women, boys and girls, have many good catis, or capacities, 
or abilities, or powers. Do you like to feel you can do 
things ? Yes. And do you like to see other people who 
ca7i ? Yes, I hope so. 

But now, if I asked you, " What can sick people do ?" 
you might be somewhat puzzled as to how to reply. Let 
me tell you a story from Shakespeare's play of As You Like 
It. Young Orlando came to the Court of Duke Frederick, 
who was holding sports out on the green. The Duke and his 
friends had watched the wrestling of the strong man, Charles. 
This athlete {at/i ket) had already thrown three fellows to 
the ground ; and now Orlando offered to try his powers. 
Orlando looked much slimmer and more delicate than 
Charles. Two young ladies stood by — Celia and Rosalind ; 
and they feared Orlando would be hurt, and begged him 
not to defy Charles. But Orlando was resolute. The ladies 
became excited. 

"Oh," cried Celia, "if I could, I would catch the strong 
fellow by the leg and pull him over !" 

And, when the two men began to wrestle, she said again, 
" If I had a thunderbolt in my eye, I would look at Charles 
and strike him down !" 

That would not have been fair, would it? However, 
Orlando did very well, and he wrestled fair, and Charles was 
hurled to the earth, and the people shouted. 

So we learn (i) that some people who appear to be weak 
m/inots are strong cans. 

Not only in wrestling and such things. Have you ever 
heard of the leper of Limburg? About the year 1480 a 
poor fellow who suffered from the wasting disease of leprosy 
lived in the old Flemish town of Limburg. Children who 
passed near his door trembled, lest he should look out, and 
they should catch sight of his disfigured face. If ever 
he walked in the streets, he had to sound a rattle, so as to 
warn the townsfolk to avoid him. Poor soul ! perhaps you 
would have said he was a cannot ; he certainly appeared 
like one. But in the churches you might sometimes have 
listened to sweet music composed by the leper. Men, 
women, and children listened, and loved the full, clear notes 
of his hymns. And again, you could sometimes hearken 
to people reciting poems that interested and charmed the 

l6o WORK 

hearer ; and these poems were written by the humble leper. 
Who would have thought that the gloomy-looking man with 
the rattle could please a whole town with his poetry and 
music ? So do not make too sure, when you meet a weak 
or sickly person, that he is a cannot. 

I will speak next of the clever Danish lad, Thorwaldsen 
(Tor-vald-sefi).^ The boy used to carry his father's dinner 
to the docks, and watch his father carve the big figure-heads 
of ships ; and he longed to become a carver — perhaps a 
sculptor — himself. He attended a school where he learned 
to make clay models. One day there was a competition, 
and a group of boys were all trying to win a prize by their 
modelling. Thorwaldsen was displeased with his own work ; 
he felt he would fail, and he flung down the clay, and left 
the room. But his teacher hurried after him. The boy 
said, '''' \ ca?inotr The teacher said, "Come, come; you 
can." At last he persuaded Thorwaldsen to go back ; and 
the boy set his wits to work, and his nimble fingers did their 
best ; and he won a gold medal. He was afterwards a great 
sculptor ; and, in a museum at Copenhagen, you may see 
the beautiful marble statues which he made. You will 
agree with me, then, (2) that people can often perform good 
and useful deeds if they are encouraged. When you see 
your neighbour low-spirited about his work, go to him, 
and encourage him ; and you may change a camiot into a 
can. I daresay you have heard how the boy Horatio Nelson 
(known, later on, as Lord Nelson) was sent to school with 
his brother William. The school lay at a distance ; the 
brothers rode on horseback, and the winter snow was deep 
on the road. The snowstorm drove them back home, and 
William was unwilling to try a second time. But Horatio 
said to William, "You know father left it to our honour, 
William." That means, their father had said he expected 
and hoped that his sons, like brave fellows, would manage 
to get to school in spite of the trouble of the journey. 
Then William put out all his efforts, and followed Horatio 
through the snow, and they reached the school at last. 
William the cannot had become William the can. His 
brother had taught him that, if they could go, they must; 
and they knew they could because they tried. 

' Born 1770; died 1844. 



One more story before we finish : and this comes from a 
poem by Longfellow. A certain sculptor received from a 
friend the gift of a most rare piece of wood from a far-off 
island in the East ; and he determined to cut out of it a 
noble image of a Mother and Child ; but he failed. In 
sadness and disappointment, he fell asleep by his fireside. 
The fire was composed of logs of oak-wood. As he slept, 
he dreamed ; and, in his dream, he heard a voice calling 
softly to him^ 

" Rise, O master ; from the burning brand of oak 
Shape the thought that stirs within thee." 

He awoke, and drew from the fire a partly-burned log of 
oak-wood. And he seized his carving-tools, and he wrought 
in hope and patience ; and, before long, the people came to 
gaze, with wonder, on the fair Mother which he created. 

"O thou sculptor, painter, poet, 
Take this lesson to thy heart ; 
That is best which lieth nearest. 
Shape from that thy work of art." 

And so (3), you and I can do with commoti wood what 
we may not be able to do with rare wood. And there 
is plenty of the common wood. The rare wood — • 
what is that ? Why, such deeds as were done by famous 
persons like John Howard or Florence Nightingale. The 
common wood^what is that ? Why, the simple duties of 
each day — the sweeping ; cleaning ; fetching ; lifting ; 
running ; waiting ; watching — all the useful things we can 
do now. And what you will be able to do in years to 
come, who knows? I look at you, girls and boys, and 
think, "Well, each of these children is a big bundle of 
ca7is. What can this boy, this girl, do? They will know 
by trying, ^^'hatever good thing they ca7i do it is their 
duty to do — they must do." 

Shall I repeat to you two lines by the American writer, 
Emerson ? Listen : — 

" When Duty whispers low, ' Thou must,' 
The youth replies ' I can.' " 

A noble word is the word can. We all love to be strong ; 
to be useful ; to be cans. Suppose, then, I can whisper to 
you, as if I were duty. I will whisper, " Thou must.'' 
And you reply, "I can." 

Lesson XXXV. 

The magic power of work. Every healthy man or woman ought to 
work with brain or hand. Work and nobility. 

You must be very strange boys and girls if you have never 
heard of Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp. No doubt you 
recollect how Aladdin, the Chinese boy, met a magician 
{ma-jish'-an) who pretended to be great friends with him, 
and persuaded him to go down into a cave underground ; 
and he gave him a m'?gic ring to keep off evil of all kinds. 
In the cave Aladdin found the little dirty-looking lamp 
which the magician very much wanted to obtain, ^^'hen he 
was coming back, and when he refused to give the lamp to 
his companion, the magician angrily threw some powder 
into a fire, uttered tAvo magic words, and the mouth of the 
cave closed up, and the poor young Chinaman was a 
prisoner. You knew how he escaped through rubbing the 
magic ring on his finger. A genie {Jee'-ne ; also spelt djin), 
or spirit, appeared, and said : " What wouldst thou have ? 
I am ready to obey thee. I serve him who possesses the 
ring on thy finger — I, and the other slaves of that ring." 
Aladdin immediately wished to be set free, and the genie 
immediately lifted him out into the open air. After that, 
when Aladdin's mother rubbed the magic lamp, another 
enormous genie sprang to view, and cried, in a voice of 
thunder : " What wouldst thou have ? I am ready to obey 
thee as thy slave, and the slave of all who have that lamp in 
their hands — I and the other slaves of the lamp."' 

Said Aladdin, " I am hungry ; bring me something to 

The genie vanished, and in an instant returned with a 
large silver tray. On this tray were twelve silver dishes 
containing cooked meats of various sorts ; six large white 

WORK 163 

loaves on two plates, two pitchers of wine, and two silver 
cups. Having placed the tray on a carpet, the genie 
disappeared. Well, you know all about the ring and the 
lamp and their magic powers. I only wanted to remind 
you of the meaning of the word ?nagic. And as you 
understand it, I can pass on to tell you about Cresin the 

This man Cresin lived in Italy a long while ago. The 
land which he owned w\as covered with beautiful crops of 
corn, and one day the people of the village stood in a 
crowd looking at his wheat and barley, and talking to one 

" Yes," they said, " he could not get these fine crops to 
grow unless he did something very different from his 
neighbours. This fellow Cresin must be a magician ; he 
uses the secrets of magic to make his fields so fruitful. It 
is not right. We don't use magic, and why should he ? He 
is an enchanter, and some day he will do us some harm." 

So they seized Cresin, and caused him to appear before 
the judges, and accused him of being an enchanter. 
" What have you to say ? " asked the judge. 
Cresin beckoned his daughter — a rosy-cheeked lass — to 
step forward ; and he laid before the judge a plough which 
he had brought wilh him ; also, he showed the oxen which 
drew the plough ; also spades, and hoes, and other farming 

"This girl," he replied, "pulls up the weeds which grow 
on my farm. I put manure on the soil to make it richer. 
I keep my plough and tools in good order, and I feed my 
cattle well to keep them strong. And I toil hard every day, 
whether the sun browns my face or the hail beats upon my 
head. This is all the magic I employ ; and any one of my 
neighbours may have as good crops as I have if they will 
work with the same willingness." 

The judges said Cresin had well spoken, and they praised 
his industry, and let him go away in peace. 

There is the magical power ; it is tvork ; or you can call 
it laboin- ; or industry. Cresin had neither the magic ring 
nor lamp ; and yet his golden wheat waved fair and sw-eet 
in the valley, and the sun kissed it in love, and the clouds 
sprinkled it with pure water. It is this same work which 
fills the world about us with the real magic. It dresses you 

164 WORK 

and me, it feeds us, it builds our houses and prepares our 
beds ; it makes the roads and the carriages that roll along 
them ; it flings bridges over the streams, and stretches 
telegraph wires across the land and below the waters ; it 
mows the grass, reaps the corn, and arranges the flowers in 
the garden ; it tames the horse and puts the elephant in 
harness ; it lights our rooms, prints our books, paints our 
pictures, takes our photographs, carves our statues, draws 
our maps, constructs our telescopes, creates our ships and 
balloons ; it finds for us the iron and copper in the mines ; 
it twists the silver into chains, and turns the ugly clay into 
handsome china ; it fastens the wires in the pianos, and 
shapes the brass of the cornet ; it lifts up the high pillars of 
the temple ; it teaches the singers to chant in chorus ; and 
it guides the feet of the young men and girls when they 
dance on the green grass. And when the workman, or 
workwoman, passes by you ; when you see the carpenter, 
the teacher, the nurse, the engine-driver, the weaver, the 
glazier, the laundress, the clerk, the singer, the sailor, the 
dressmaker, or any of the others, you can say, " There goes 
the magician ! " And if we see a man who never does any 
work that helps the world — well, what shall we say ? He 
has neither the ring nor the lamp such as Aladdin had ; 
nor the ring nor the lamp such as the carpenter has. If he 
says, " I am hungry ; bring me something to eat," I daresay 
it will be brought to him, but it will have to be brought by 
some man or woman who understands the magic and has 
done work with his or her own hands. 

Hands — well, when we speak of hands we often mean 
things that are not actually hands. A poHceman has to 
work with his feet in much pacing of the streets, and much 
gazing with his eyes, both by sunlight and starlight. An 
actor works with throat and Hps, and eyes, and indeed he 
has to be busy with his whole body when he pleases us by 
pretending to be a prince, or a jockey, or a tinker, or an 
innkeeper. And perhaps Shakespeare in England, or old 
Homer in his Grecian island, would often sit looking fixedly 
at the ground, or the trees, or the clouds, and seem to be 
doing nothing ; and yet all the time their brains would be 
at work, inventing pleasant stories of gods and men and 
women. But, in one way or another, do you not think 
every healthy man and woman ought to work — with hand or 

WORK 165 

brain ? If the names of all the people in the world were 
written in one of two books — the book of the workers and 
the book of those who do not work — you would rather be in 
the books of the workers, of course. I think it is a very 
fine thing to be a magician of this kind. We shall not 
expect sick folk to work — unless, indeed, they like to do so of 
their own accord, so as to help them forget their sickness ; 
or old folk — -unless, indeed, they like to do so of their own 
accord, so as to show their fellowship with the younger 
workers. And if there are any people who will not work, 
and dislike work — well, what shall I say ? It is not pleasant 
to talk about them ; it is like talking about fogs, and earth- 
quakes, and famines, and poison-plants, and accidents, and 

Have you ever heard of Charlemagne {Shar -le-main), or 
Charles the Great ?' He was a famous warrior, law-maker, 
and builder of schools. You see him in pictures, with a 
large crown, and flowing beard and moustaches. One day 
he visited a school, and heard the scholars examined in 
their work. Now, some were children of poor parents, and 
some were children of rich parents ; and the poor scholars 
had done their tasks ever so much better than the richer 
scholars. The King had the boys divided into two classes, 
and he placed the industrious ones on his right hand and 
the lazy ones on his left. Then Charlemagne spoke sternly 
to the scholars on his left hand : 

"Ah ! you are proud at being the sons of nobles, are you? 
Well, I care very little for your nobility, though other people 
may admire you. Be sure that, unless you make up for your 
idleness, you will never have my favour." 

Charlemagne thought the poor boys were truly noble, 
because they worked. 

You hear of persons who are called noblemen. I will tell 
you about one. He was a young German, and the time of 
which 1 speak is about the year 161 5. This young man 
went to a rich landowner, a man of rank like himself, and 
asked if he might marry this other nobleman's daughter. 
Now, this old nobleman had sensible ideas, and he .said to 
the young man who came courting : 

" Could you keep your wife ?" 

' King of the Franks; born 742, died 814. 



" Oh, yes, I have large estates, fields, forests, vineyards." 

" Have you nothing more sure and more safe than these? 
We live in troubled times. There are wars and tumults, 
and sometimes, in a day, rich men are robbed of all they 
have, and become poor. I have resolved that no man shall 
wed my daughter unless he can support her by the craft 
of his own hands." 

"Very well," answered the young man, "give me a year, 
and I will come again." 

He was really noble, as you will see. Going at once to 
a clever basket-maker, he asked the honest workman to 
teach him ; and day after day he sat with the workman in 
the shop, and plied his fingers and learned to plait the 
osiers. At the end of the year he carried to the old noble- 
man a most beautiful basket, made of white twigs. The 
father was greatly pleased ; so also was the maiden ; and 
the marriage took place. 

Some years afterwards the young husband and his father- 
in-law lost all their lands and property in the wars, and they 
fled for safety to Holland and settled in a Dutch town. 
The young nobleman had no need to sit down and wish for 
a ring or a lamp and a wonderful genie to bring him food 
on a magic tray. He procured osiers and made baskets of 
work so fine and elegant that the Dutch ladies were eager 
to buy. When one had bought a basket, she showed it to 
her friends, and then they also trooped to the basket-shop, 
and the workman had a great trade ; and the mother 
smiled at the happiness of her children ; and the old father 
was at peace. 

Lesson XXXVI. 
WORK— {co;at;wed) 

Work promotes health and cheerfulness, and wins for us the respect 
and honour of our neighbours. Work leads up to the enjoyment of 

The pond lay very still, and its surface was covered with a 
cloak of tiny green plants. Not far off a river was running — 
splash, gurgle, swirl, and ripple. 


" You Stupid creature," cried the pond, "you are always 
on the move. You will wear yourself out. You carry 
heavy ships ; you push barges ; you pull rafts of timber. 
Why don't you take things easy, as I do ? If a leaf falls on 
me, I never move it." 

The river replied : " I want to keep fresh and wholesome, 
and only by movement and work can water preserve its 
freshness. I obey the law of work, and my waters remain 
pure ; and the people love me and respect me, and I shall 
flow, and flow, and flow, w'hile you will be forgotten." 

The words of the river came true. The pond grew 
smaller and smaller ; it was choked up with plants which 
flourished in its mud ; and at last it dried away in the dry 
clay — and all men honoured the useful waters of the river. ^ 

Girls and boys, see if it is not so in your own bodies. 
Do you think you will remain fresh and healthy without 
movement, without exercise ? Would you learn to observe 
the world if your eye was still ? Does not the baby learn to 
hear by turning its ears this way and that ? Has not the busy 
tongue, by constant exercise, taught you the taste of foods 
and sweets ? Do not your teeth gain power by grinding ? 
If you did not pull, and push, and grasp, and throw, would 
not the muscles of your hand, and arm, and wrist, and 
shoulder, become limp and flabby? Does not the leg 
become strong by walking, running, jumping, sliding, and 
dancing ? W' ould your brain be rich in thoughts and ideas, 
and reason, if you did not use it day by day ? Is it not even 
adding to its power while you talk with me and reflect on what 
I say ? And is it not just the same with animals ? Do not 
the feathers of the birds become lovely by flight through air 
and sunlight ? Has not the snake, by coiling many and 
many a time, acquired its skill in gliding and clasping ? Do 
you not love to see the lissome fish swim ? You laugh at 
the slug, and call a lazy boy " sluggard," but you can tell its 
progress by the slimy track. How did the lion get its force 
but by much leaping and tearing? And if you look at the 
horse which draws the plough or the waggon, you will see, 
in its noble limbs and shapely head, what beauty work gives 

' Adapted from Krilof, a Russian fable writer. The analogy must 
not be pressed too close. We must recognise that the humble pond has 
its uses. 

l68 WORK 

to a living creature. Why, even when we play, do we not 
work ? We fling balls and wield bats ; we push, drive, beat, 
bang, tug, twist, stamp, kick, wrestle, leap, dive, wriggle, 
dash, chase, retreat (I am almost out of breath with this 
long string of words !) — and our friends are pleased to see 
the brightness of our eyes, the glow of our cheeks, and the 
suppleness of our limbs. We ourselves are pleased too. 
We all like to be healthy; and so you will agree that we will 
work, like the busy river, because Work promotes Health. 

About the year 1725 a man was passing through the 
village of Edgeware, near London, when it came on to rain 
sharply. He took shelter in the shop of Mr. Powell, the 
blacksmith. Powell was lifting his great hammer, and 
bringing it down again upon the sparkling red iron. As the 
hammer rang on the anvil, Powell sang snatches of songs. 
Now, the man who took shelter was Handel, the great 
composer, and he had wonderful ears to hear. He listened 
with deep attention, and the notes of the workman's voice 
seemed to blend together in a new music. When he reached 
home that night, Handel wrote out the melody which he 
called " The Harmonious Blacksmith." Perhaps you can 
play it ; if not, ask a friend to play it to you, and it will 
make you feel how glad a thing it is when work and music 
go together. 

You may have heard of the Miller of the Dee. The Dee 
is a fine stream, which runs from the .Welsh hills into the 
Irish sea, and, as it goes, it turns many a water-wheel at the 
corn mills. And a good while ago^ 

" There dwelt a miller, hale and bold, 
Beside the river Dee : 
He worked and sang from morn till night, 

No lark more blithe than he : 
And this the burden of his song 
For ever used to be, 
' I envy nobody, no, not I, 
And nobody envies me.'" 

But when King Hal (Henry VHI.) came by and heard the 
cheerful miller sing, he did envy the miller, and he wished 
he could be in his place ; or, at least, he wished he could be 
as blithe. So he asked him what made him so gay, and 
here is the miller's answer : 

" The miller smiled and doffed his cap ; 
' I earn my bread,' quoth he, 

WORK 169 

I love my wife, I love my friend, 

I love my children three : 
I labour hard from morn till night, 

I thank the river Dee 
That turns the mill that grinds the corn 

To feed my babes and me.' " 

Of course, you and I know that all workers are not so happy 
as the Miller of the Dee. You know that some poor 
children are made to work till late at night, selling matches 
or newspapers in the streets. You know that many men 
and women have to labour for more than twelve hours a 
day at tasks which are dull and unpleasant, and which do 
not yield them a proper wage. Such people cannot sing at 
their work. Indeed, it is not true work in which they are 
employed. It is slavery ; and all who are able should try to 
help them out of it, and make their lives easier and sweeter. 
When you grow up into men and women, we want you to 
help. It will be your business and duty to help, so that, in 
days to come, all the work of the world may be done with 
a joyful spirit like the task of the harmonious blacksmith. 
And, therefore, we will all agree that (2) work promotes 

I will tell you about the stone and the rain shower.' 

The stone grumbled : "What a fuss everybody is making! 
Here have I lain on the ground for hundreds of years, and 
nobody ever said 'Thank you.' This shower came for only 
two hours, and everybody is delighted." 

" Hold your tongue," said a worm to the stone. "This 
shower, short as it was, has watered the fields and made 
them fruitful, and lifted up the heart of the farmer ; while 
you are only a useless weight." 

No one respects the stone. 

Bishop Patteson was an Englishman who dwelt in New 
Zealand and taught the people to live better lives. He did 
not pride himself on being a bishop, and he was willing to 
do anything that was useful. He cleared out his own hut, 
made his own bed, cooked his own food, and mended his 
own kettle. Another man — another European — lived in 
the settlement, but his character was very different. He 
wanted everything done for him. Now, one of the native 
Maories {Mow'-ries) noticed the conduct of these two men. 

' Another fable by Krilof. 

1 70 WORK 

He called the bishop " a gentleman gentleman," and he 
called the other man " a pig gentleman," and he made the 
remark that "the gentleman gentleman was ready to do 
anything that ought to be done, no matter how mean, but 
the pig gentleman never worked." You see the New 
Zealander respected the worker and despised the idler. 

No doubt you have heard the story of Saint George and 
the Dragon — how the horrid reptile was going to eat the fair 
princess of Egypt, and how George fought and killed the 
dragon, whose scales were bright like silver, whose wings 
were of fire, and whose tail was poisonous. Well, in the 
east of England there runs a river called the Ouse, and near 
it are marshes. One of these marshes was drained by the 
engineer, John Rennie, and the people of the district so 
honoured him for his triumph that they named him "the 
greatest slayer of dragons " that ever lived, for they used to 
give the title of " slayer of dragons " to anybody who drained 
a marsh and got rid of its unwholesome damp, and made 
the land good for crops or the pasturing of cattle. It is right 
to give honour to the worker. 

You know that Raphael (born 1543) was a splendid artist. 
He died at the early age of thirty-seven. The Italians 
thought so highly of him that his body was laid out in state, 
and crowds came to take their last look. There were many 
wax tapers burning about him, and they threw a light on a 
great picture of the "Transfiguration" — a picture which 
showed Christ in robes of glory, and his companions on the 
mountain gazing and wondering. The picture had been 
painted by Raphael, and the people paid respect and honour 
both to him and to his work. ^Ve might also say that his 
own picture gave honour to the dead artist. We have seen, 
then, that (3) work wins for us the 7-espect and honour of our 

As I have just mentioned Raphael, I may as well speak to 
you also of Michael Angelo, who lived in Rome at the same 
time as Raphael. Michael Angelo was a famous sculptor 
(carver of statues). He had a longer life than Raphael, and 
reached nearly ninety years. One day the snow whitened 
the streets of Rome, and a Cardinal met the aged Michael 
Angelo slowly walking along the road. 

" Where are you going on this snowy morning ?" 

" I am going to the school to study," said Michael Angelo. 

WORK 171 

He was still willing to learn, and still willing to work. 
Yes, if he chose to work, and it was his pleasure to do so, 
well and good. But when the old hand and the old head 
have done much work, they should always be allowed to rest 
if they wish. They have earned the rest. So also with 
younger persons. After work comes leisure (or it ought to 
come). And who, do you think, enjoys leisure best — the 
man who has worked or the man who has idled ? If, at the 
beginning of the day, you sit lazily in a garden chair ; or if, 
at the close of the day, you sit in the chair after doing long 
lessons, or driving the cattle, or pulling weeds, or mowing 
hay, you know which leisure you enjoy the best. Only those 
who labour know the real sweetness of the rest. And so (4) 
work leads up to efijoyment of rest. 

" Be something in this throbbing day 

Of busy hands and feet, 
A spring beside some dusty way, 

A shadow from the heat. 
Be found upon the Workers' roll ; 

Go sow, go reap or plough ; 
Bend to some task with heart and soul ; 

Be something, somewhere, now !'" 

Lesson XXXVII. 
\\0^}L— {concluded) 

Wasted labour. Examples of labour that brings little or no benefit to 
the world. Work which blesses. 

Creak, creak ! sounded the wheels of the waggon, while 
the waggoner whistled. A robber lay hiding behind the 
wayside bushes. 

"Ah,"' chuckled the robber to himself, " this waggon is 
laden with good things, all of which will belong to me 
when I have knocked the waggoner on the head. Perhaps 
those heavy bundles which I see contain cloth, perhaps 
embroidered silk, white damask. — Hah-r-r-r-r-r-r !" 

With this tremendous shout he darted from the bushes 

172 WORK 

and attacked the waggoner. It was not an easy conquest. 
With a cudgel the waggoner broke a dozen of the robber's 
teeth, injured one eye, and badly bruised an arm ; but in 
the end the waggoner was killed. Then the robber rushed 
to the waggon, and (as well as he could with one eye) he 
examined the packages. They contained nothing but 
empty bladders, which were being taken to the lard-maker's ! 

Now, think for a moment of the amount of labour which 
the robber performed — he used his brain to plot with ; he 
waited a long while among the bushes ; he fought savagely 
and received many hurts ; and all for a result which was 
worth nothing to him. What was the use of his carrying 
away a parcel of bladders ? You and I will agree in calling 
him stupid, because he wasted his labour.^ 

It was the same with the squirrel in the revolving cage. 
This cage was placed in a Russian nobleman's window, and 
it went round and round as the squirrel's paws patted the 
wires, and a crowd of people watched. A thrush looked in 
as he was passing, and stopped to say : — 

" Dear old friend, what are you doing here ?" 

" Oh," answered the squirrel, " I work hard all day. You 
see I am courier (running messenger) to a distinguished 
nobleman. I have scarcely time to eat, or drink, or take 
breath !" 

" Yes," said the thrush, as he flew away, " but you are 
always there at the window !" 

The squirrel spent a deal of energy in performing 
movements that were quite useless. 

And it was the same with the spider. A certain merchant 
had a shop filled with fine linen, and many customers came. 
A spider up in the corner was jealous of the merchant, 
because people flocked to do business with him and none with 
her. She resolved to set up a shop for herself, and sell 
cobwebs. All night long she span until she had made a 
large piece of gossamer. In the morning a servant brought 
a broom and swept it all away. The spider was vexed. 

"What," said she, "is the good of expecting a just 
reward ? Whose work is the finer and more delicate, my 
web or the merchant's linen ?" 

' He was certainly too stupid to be regarded as a typical robber. 
Nevertheless, in another sense the cleverest robber is stupid. 



" Yours, of course," replied a bee ; " but your web would 
furnish people's backs with neither covering nor warmth."' 

Sometimes you hear a girl or boy say, " I wish I could 
go to work." Or a man may complain, "I am willing to 
work, but can get none to do." And we are apt to think 
that any kind of labour by which we gain money is useful. 
But is that really so ? The robber's labour was in vain ; so 
was the squirrel's ; so was the spider's. Yes, though they 
made ever so much fuss, it was all in vain. It brought no 
benefit to anyone ; it made no one happier. Look round 
the world, and you will often see men and women toiling 
away at things that are of no value, or only of small 
value. A great deal too much beer is drunk, and so much 
of the labour spent in its manufacture is wasted. Men 
smoke too much tobacco and take too much snuff, and the 
labour given to the preparation of these articles is wasted. 
Many of the books which are printed — even some of those 
which are illustrated with pictures — are of very little use : 
they do not make the readers wiser or more good tempered ; 
and the persons who write them and print them are throwing 
their energies away. A man goes to " work," as he calls it, 
in the morning ; and the mother says to the children, 
" Father's gone to work." But suppose his work is to bet 
on race-courses ; suppose he is what is termed a " book- 
maker." He just wins money from other people, to whom 
he gives nothing in return. Do you consider that is real 
work ? Look, again, at the men in the iron foundries who 
cast cannon, or make swords and bayonets, rifles and bullets. 
What is the purpose of all these weapons ? Only to kill ; 
only to take men away from their wives and children and 
friends for ever. Thousands of men are engaged in making 
these things. They are, of course, quite honest workmen ; 
but, so far as the world is concerned, does their work bring 
any blessing? And so, too, with many of the servants who 
wait on rich people, even brushing their hair for them, 
fastening their buttons, and tying their cravats and bows. 
Unless we are feeble and sick, or crippled, it is better for us 
all to help ourselves in such matters, and the labour of the 
maids and valets who attend to such trifles is largely wasted. 

' These three fables are from a collection by Krilof, translated Iiy 

174 WORK 

And so, girls and boys, I beg you not to take up any 
occupation simply because it will bring you money. Be 
sure first that your work will be useful to the world around 

It will amuse you to hear the story (told by Oliver 
Goldsmith), of Whang, the miller.^ The miller ground 
flour for the country-folk, and, though his earnings were 
small, they were certain, and he even saved money; and 
you will, no doubt, agree with me that his work was of a 
very valuable kind. But he desired more, more, more. He 
felt very envious when he heard that his neighbour. Hunks, 
had dreamed, three nights running, of a pan of money 
underground, and had actually found it as he had dreamed ! 
^Miang was wretched because he could not manage to dream 
in that way himself. He became idle and listless at his 
business, and his customers began to forsake him. At last, 
however, he had the wished-for vision ; he dreamed of a 
great pan full of gold and diamonds below a flat stone 
underneath his windmill ; and he dreamed of it three nights 
running. So, on the third morning, he rose early, and 
saUied forth to the mill, spade in hand, and set to work 
digging. I said zvork^ but I should like your opinion as to 
that presently. After a long while he turned up a broken 
mug ; then a tile ; then a large flat stone. It was too heavy 
for him to lift. 

" Here," he cried with joy, " here it is ! Under this 
stone there is room for a very large pan of diamonds indeed. 
I must go home to my wife and tell her the whole affair, and 
get her to assist me in turning it up." 

He went home and told her. His wife put her arms 
round his neck in her delight, and they proceeded to the 
mill. Alas ! Whang had dug so big a hole that he had 
disturbed the foundations of the buildings, and the mill had 
fallen into a heap of ruins. Whang had foolishly given up 
useful labour for a useless search after diamonds, and now he 
had lost the means of earning his livelihood. He was even 
more stupid than the robber, because he had been engaged 
for years in an employment which he knew would yield him 
support, and make him respected by his neighbours. 

Perhaps, if Whang had read the old fable of the Buried 

' Citizen of the World, Letter 69. 

WORK 175 

Treasure, he would have been wiser. You remember how a 
countryman, who felt himself near his end, gathered his sons 
about him, and said to them, " My dear children, before I 
leave you I wish to tell you that there is a considerable 
treasure buried in my vineyard, near the surface of the soil. 
So, when I am dead, be sure to dig and search narrowly 
for it." 

The father died, and the sons at once toiled in the vine- 
yard. They dug the soil over and over again, but not a 
single piece of gold or silver, not one precious stone, could 
they find. But the ground was so well dug up, and took in 
the sunlight and air and water so amply that, next autumn, 
the vines bore a wondrous load of purple grapes. That was 
the treasure I Honest labour is a treasure, and it creates 
treasures, and covers the earth with plenty. The workman 
who works usefully is the finest sight in the world. And 
that leads me to my last story for to-day. 

According to an old legend of Alsace (in Germany), a 
giant lived in a castle on a hill. \\'ith him lived his fair 
daughter. One day she climbed down the steep path to the 
valley. She had never been so far down before. She had 
never beheld in the valleys the forms of men and women. 
She had only seen giants. But now, in the green valley, she 
beheld a peasant following the plough ; and, as he ploughed, 
the sun's rays fell on the iron share and were reflected in a 
gleam of light. 

" Oh, pretty toy," exclaimed the giant maiden ; " I will 
take you home." 

She picked up the oxen and the plough and the man in 
her enormous fingers, and placed them in her enormous 
pinafore, and carried them up to her enormous father. Her 
father sat at table, drinking wine, and he smiled at her. 

"What do you bring in your pinafore?'" 

She carefully opened it, and set the live toy on the table, 
and clapped her hands with pleasure. 

The giant looked very serious, and shook his head. 

" My child," he said, " what have you done? This is no 
to)-. Take him back at once. If we had no peasants like 
this man, we should have no corn, no bread, and not a 
single giant, or king, or citizen could live !" 

Well, of course, there are no such creatures as giants. 
But you see the meaning of the story. The life of the 

176 WORK 

great world rests upon work — real work ; not robber's work, 
or squirrel's work, or spider's work, or work such as that of 
greedy Whang. And so, brave girls and brave boys, let us 
go to our work ; for we know the sort of work which is true 
and blessed. 

Lesson XXXVIII. 

A story of soldiers and sailors who did their duty to women and 
children. Story of a captain who did his duty to his vessel. Duty 
to one's city. Duty done without thought of reward. Duty per 
formed by children. 

Darkness covered the sea. Darkness covered the African 
coast. The watchers on the ship knew not that they were 
rapidly nearing a dangerous rock. The vessel carried 638 
persons, about 465 of whom were sailors, or men belonging 
to various regiments of the British Army ; and some of the 
soldiers were recruits, going to service for the first time. 
Nearly all were asleep. At two a.m. the ship, which was 
named the Birkenhead, struck on a rock. A leak was 
sprung. The water was pouring in at the breach. Most of 
the men on the lower deck were drowned as they lay in 
their berths. The rest of the men, with the women and 
children, hastened to the upper deck. All the sailors and 
soldiers were orderly and quiet, ready to do whatever their 
officers bade. Sixty men were set to work at the pumps, 
and sixty to get out the boats. The rest of the people were 
collected on the poop (the upper deck in the hinder part of 
the ship). Blue lights were burned and rockets fired to 
attract attention. The order was given to save the women 
and children. 

Yes, boys ; when you become men you will remember 
that the women and children must always be helped first 
from the place of peril. That is why, even in quiet times, 
when no danger threatens, you are always asked to let the 
girls and infants pass before you. Sneaks and cowards 
would push their way first, and leave the girls and infants 
to care for themselves. But boys that have the spirit of 
men will always wait. 


Well, three boats were lowered. The women and little 
ones, only half dressed, were hurriedly placed in the boats. 

Then a voice called, "All those that can swim jump 
overboard and make for the boats !" 

I suppose the idea was that the men could cling to the 
boats and so be towed through the water. 

" No," said Captain Wright (he was a captain in a High- 
land regiment), " don't do that ; for if you do that the boats 
with the women will be swamped." 

He was very sensible. Men who feared drowning would 
seize the edges of the boats wildly and desperately, and 
over-balance them. Therefore, the order was given that 
the soldiers should remain where they stood until the boats 
were at a safe distance ; only three men jumped off; the rest 
stood fast. They would not endanger the women and 
children. The vessel was sinking ; the sky was dark ; the 
ocean was deep ; but the souls of these Englishmen and 
Scotchmen were brave. Five-and-twenty minutes after 
striking the sunken rock the Birkenhead went down. Out 
of 638 persons on board the Birkenhead only 193 were 
saved. This wreck happened on February 27th, 1S52.' 

Let me speak next of Captain Riou, who was in command 
of the war-vessel Guardiati in the days of King George III. 
In the southern seas the vessel met a dense fog. A huge 
iceberg, white and chilly, floated out from the darkness, and 
struck the Guardian^ and made holes in its side. For 
forty-eight hours the men worked at the pumps, seeking to 
clear enough water from the ship to keep it from sinking. 
The sailors gave up all hope of mastering the inrush of 
water. They hastened to the boats. " Which boat," they 
asked, " would the captain go in ? " 

"I will stay with the ship," replied Riou. " If I can, I 
will save her; if I cannot, I will go down with her." 

Half the crew left in the boats, and most of these soon 
lost their lives. The rest remained with the captain. For 
eight weeks he kept his shattered vessel afloat. Weary as 
he was, he was proud and glad to stand on the deck of the 
ship which his country had given into his charge. Some 
Dutch whaling ships passed by, the unhappy condition of 

' A full and accurate account of the wreck is given in A. C. 
Addison's Story of the Birkenhead, published in 1902. 

DUTY 179 

the Guardian was seen, and the whalers took the British ship 
in tow to Table Bay. Later on the captain was killed in the 
Battle of Copenhagen, when Nelson fought with the 
Danish fleet ; and when the poet Campbell wrote the story 
of the battle he did not forget to mention " the gallant good 

The men on the Birkenhead did their duty to the women 
and children. The captain of the Guardian did his duty in 
preserving the ship of which his country made him the 
keeper. If you could have asked them why they stayed 
where danger was, they would have answered : 

" It was our duty to stay." 

About the year 1780, before the American colonies were 
quite separated from the rule of England, a meeting of the 
Parliament of Connecticut {an American Colony or State) 
was held, and the members were engaged in discussing impor- 
tant business. Presently the heaven became overcast. It 
was not a storm. No rain fell. No clouds were passing 
over the sun. A strange blackness was creeping across the 
sun's face. It was an eclipse. Many of the members of the 
Parliament were in great alarm. " This," they said, " is the 
end of the world." Others exclaimed, " No, but it is some- 
thing very serious ; let us adjourn (that is, put off the meet- 

But old Mr. Davenport rose and said : 

" Let us have some candles brought in, and let us go on 
with our business. Even if this is the last day of the world, 
I should like to be found in my place doing my duty." 

Ah, yes ; you can read in the Arabian Nights of won- 
drous places where gold and pearls and silks are to be 
gathered by all who come there ; but the finest place in the 
world is the place where you have a duty to perform and 
do it. 

You have often heard of the Romans ; and you know 
with what true hearts the Romans served their city (Rome), 
and their country (Italy). A general named Paulus Emilius 
was leader of the Roman army in Spain. He gained two 
battles, and he captured 250 Spanish cities. You may be 
sure these cities contained much wealth, of which he could 
easily have taken his share, and no man would have spoken 
a word against his doing so. But he returned to Rome no 
richer than when he set out for Spain. Twice he was 

l8o DUTY 

elected chief magistrate, or consul ; and thus again he had 
opportunities to use his power and obtain money ; but he 
did not seek to enrich himself. At his death Paulus Emilius 
left only just enough property to keep his wife. His pride 
was to do his duty to Rome, not to gain for himself rewards 
of land or money. 

Of course, it was right he should be paid for his work as 
a general. It is right that the bricklayer should be well 
paid for laying bricks, the plasterer for whitening our ceilings, 
the postman for carrying our letters, the factory-hand for 
making our shoes, stockings, coats, and blouses ; and so on 
of all workers. You also know that, either because we are 
not able, or not willing, or not wise enough, the workpeople 
of the world are not all well paid, and their food and 
dwellings are often poor ; and when you grow older, you 
must try and alter that. But suppose we were all well paid 
for our labour. Even then we ought not to labour simply 
to gain the money or the reward. The money should be 
given to us in order that we may be strong and able to 
work ; but our work should be done because we wish to be 
useful to our neighbours, to our city, and to the world. 

Let me tell you a legend. A man at Damascus (an 
Eastern City) met an old woman carrying in her right hand 
an iron pan containing fire, and in her left a vessel containing 
water. He asked her what she was going to do. She 
answered : 

" With the fire I want to burn paradise ; and with the 
water I want to put out the flames of hell." 

" Why do you want to do this ?" 

" Because I do not wish anybody to do right in the hope 
of going to paradise or for fear of going to hell ; but they 
should do right out of love of the Good." 

I am afraid you will not quite understand this. You may 
think that men and women, girls and boys, should do the 
right thing or carry out the right work so that they may 
receive wages, or rewards, or medals, or gifts. And, as I 
have already told you, I think many working folk are not 
paid enough for their labour. But, while people should be 
paid and rewarded for their work, they ought not to do the 
work merely for the pay. Think about this, and perhaps, 
as you grow older, you will more clearly understand. 

A little fellow named Tom, not yet five years old, was 

DUTY l8l 

sent on a message to a pig-driver who had gone to the 
market-town of Coggeshall in Essex. The weather was wet ; 
the lanes were muddy. Tom could see which way the man 
had gone by the marks of the pig's feet in the mud. On 
and on he trudged till he lost one of his shoes in the mire. 
This did not daunt him. For nearly three miles he trotted 
and walked till he found the pig-driver in the market-place, 
and delivered the message. This brave child was after- 
wards known as Sir Thomas Fowell Buxton. He helped to 
put a stop to the slavery of negroes in British colonies. 

Once again. A little French girl was told by her mother 
to take a halfpenny {sou) to a shop and make a small 
purchase. A heavy dray was passing ; the child slipped 
and was run over. She did not drop the halfpenny. She 
was carried by kind friends home to her mother. On the 
way she had fainted. When she recovered and saw her 
mother, she handed to her the halfpenny, saying, with a 
smile, " I have not lost it." 

And soon afterwards she died. She had been faithful to 
her little trust, and her heart was as true to duty as the 
heart of the great Paulus Emilius on the battlefields of 

Why have I related to you these last two stories ? One 
was about a child who carried a message along a muddy 
lane. The other was about a child who took care of the 
halfpenny which her mother had placed in her hand. 
Sometimes you may think that to do one's dtity must mean 
doing brave things such as the men on the Birketihead did ; 
or such as Captain Riou did. I want you to see that, in its 
way, a little child who does its best to perform its task or 
serve its mother or father is doing its duty as well and as 
truly as the strong man in his strength. 

Lesson XXXIX. 

Honourable" and "Honour." A boy's idea of honour. An 
honourable name ; but name alone will not confer honour. Honour 
in word and work. Duelling. " Act well thy part." 

If you were writing a letter to your special friend, you 
might begin — "Dear Harry," or, "Dear Flossie." In 
writing to a gentleman whom you do not know very well, 
you will say — " Dear Sir." But if you have to write to the 
Lord Mayor of London, you will begin — " My Lord " ; and 
on the envelope you will put the address — '' The Right Hon. 
the Lord Mayor of London." I suppose you know that 
"Hon." stands for "Honourable," and an "Honourable" 
man is a man of " Honour." And what is honour? 

Of course, you have heard of the great Admiral Lord 
Horatio Nelson, who was killed in 1805, at the Battle of 
Trafalgar. I find no pleasure in talking about his battles ; 
but I will tell of something very fine which he did when a 
boy. He and his elder brother used to go to school at 
North Walsham, in the county of Norfolk, and they enjoyed 
coming home for the Christmas holidays. Once, after the 
Christmas holidays were over, they set out for school on 
horseback. As they were riding towards the school a snow- 
storm came on, and they went home again. 

" Well, boys," said their father, " I should like you to try 
again. If you find the snow becoming dangerous, return 
here ; but keep on if you can. I leave it to you. I leave 
it to your honour." 

They made a second attempt. The elder brother began 
to grumble at the increasing depth of the snow. 

" Let us go back," he exclaimed. 

"No," cried Horatio, "we must go on. You know it was 
left to our honour." 


They pressed on, and safely reached the school. 

Young Nelson would not have been scolded or punished 
if he had gone back again. His father had not said that he 
must, in any case, push on to the school. But he had a 
sense of pride, of self-respect, of honour. If he had returned, 
he would have felt a little ashamed of his want of courage. 
He would have found fault with himself. And so, in this 
way, a man (or girl, or boy) of honour will do an action 
because it seems worthy and right, not in fear of what other 
people say or think. 

There was once a King of Poland who had a character 
for bravery and honesty. People could trust him. Even 
his enemies knew that he would keep his promises. In his 
campaigns as a soldier he acted without meanness. When 
he sat at the council with his lords, he spoke his mind 
frankly and truthfully. And it is said that he wore in his 
bosom a locket, and in the locket was a miniature, or small 
picture, of his father's face. Often would be draw the 
locket from his bosom, and look at his father's face, and 
say, " I will do nothing that can dishonour my father's 
name." His father had been a good man, and the father's 
name was uttered by the people with respect. The son 
bore the same name ; he wished the people still to speak 
that name in love, and hold it in honour. Yes, that was 
very good ; but, after all, the people would have thought 
well of him if he had borne any other name. All the 
Mayors of London are called Right Honourable ; but not 
every Mayor has been a man of honour ; and every 
" Nobleman " is not noble. 

In olden times there was a war which lasted, on and off, 
for sixty years, between the people of Rome and the people 
of Carthage. In one of the battles the Romans were led 
by a general named Marcellus {Mar-sel-lus). Struck by 
sudden fear, or panic, the Romans had fallen back in con- 
fusion, and the general was obliged to follow their retreat 
into the camp. Then he ordered all the soldiers to be 
assembled, and he looked at them sternly, and said : — 

" I see many Roman swords, Roman spears, Roman 
slings, Roman bows and arrows ; also I see many Roman 
bodies ; but I cannot see one Roman." 

What did he mean? He meant that it was a grand 
thing to bear the name of Roman — a citizen of Rome : but 


it was of no use to bear the name alone ; a man must do 
deeds worthy of a Roman's name and honour, otherwise 
the name was but a vain and worthless sound. 

The soldiers stood silent when Marcellus thus rebuked 
them. Food was distributed to the men, but those who 
had run away only received barley instead of wheat ; and 
barley is not such good food as wheat. The soldiers did 
not mind having the barley, but they did mind the disdain 
which the general showed when he ordered the barley to be 
served out to them. 

The next day those companies of the army who had 
retreated asked if they might be placed in the front, in 
order that they might have a chance to show their bravery 
and to win back their good name. They fought well, and 
a victory was won ; and Marcellus said all his men were 
now true Romans. 

" Is it true that you won the prize in the egg-and-spoon 
race ?" asks one boy of another. 

"Yes, honour bright," says the other. 

It is a curious expression which boys sometimes use — • 
" honour bright "; but it is rather a good one. It seems to 
mean that, when a man or boy's word can be trusted, his 
honour is bright and unstained. 

Bright was the honour of the famous Roman, Regulus, 
who was taken captive by the men of Carthage in the great 
war of which I have already spoken. He was allowed to 
cross the sea, and go back to Rome, on these conditions : 
He must take a message from the City of Carthage to the 
City of Rome, summoning Rome to yield in the fight ; and 
if he could so persuade the Romans, he might have his 
liberty ; but if not, then he must go back to Carthage and 
die. What did Regulus do ? He bade the Romans 
continue the war, and then he returned to his prison. His 
wife and children and friends implored him to stay ; but he 
had given his word, and he kept it, though he knew he 
should be put to death. 

Should not honour be bright also in work as well as in 
word? The celebrated potter, Josiah Wedgwood, thought 
so. Many were the beautiful cups, dishes, and vases made 
at his workplace in Staffordshire. He hated to see a piece 
of china badly made. If he saw a fault in a plate or vessel, 
he would take a stick and break the earthenware, saying, 


" That won't do for Josiah Wedgwood." It appeared to 
him a shabby and disgraceful act to turn out bad work. 

Of the same mind was Thomas Brassey, the contractor. 
A contractor is a man who carries out the making of houses, 
or railways, or canals, etc., for a certain price ; even if he 
has to spend more than the price bargained for, he agrees 
to bear the loss ; and if he spends less, of course he is 
pleased to make a profit. Mr. Brassey made a viaduct of 
twenty-seven arches across a valley in France. He had 
been supplied with material (clay and stone) which he did 
not consider good ; and he had complained about it, but 
was not listened to. After the viaduct was built, wet weather 
followed ; the masonry was soaked by the rain, and the 
arches fell into a ruin. Mr. Brassey did not like the idea 
of his viaduct breaking up. It seemed as if he scamped or 
neglected his work. True, it was not his fault; and he was 
not obliged to bear the loss. But, sooner than appear slip- 
shod in his work, he had the viaduct rebuilt at his own 
expense. In this way he lost ^30,000. But people 
respected him for his love of good, honest work. His 
honour was bright. 

I might remind you that a very wrong idea of honour is 
sometimes held. Men who quarrel may fight a "duel." 
The person who thinks himself insulted sends a challenge 
to his insulter. Each is encouraged by a friend or "second." 
The duellists fire pistol-shots at each other ; or they try to 
wound or kill each other with swords ; and many deaths 
have been caused by this bad custom. In England the 
duel is no longer practised. But in France and Germany 
men still seek to defend their honour (as they say) by 
duelling. Young men at German colleges often fight duels 
for very little reason, thinking to show their spirit and 
hardihood. In 1897 a fine old officer, Baron von Ehrhardt 
{Air-hart), was challenged by a young man to fight ; and he 
refused. For this refusal his name was struck off the list of 
officers by the authorities (that is, those who governed the 
army). They said, however, that he might keep the Iron 
Cross, which he had won by heroism on the field of battle. 
The old baron was too proud to keep the Iron Cross on 
such terms. He returned the cross to the military authori- 
ties, and said he would not wear a decoration he had earned 
if he might only retain it as a favour. In this way the baron 


made a stand against the foolish custom of duelUng. Many 
persons sneered at him, and called him stupid and singular. 
But he did not mind being sneered at. He would not do a 
thing which he thought wrong. That was " honour bright " 
indeed. And no doubt, some day, the Germans (who are a 
great and brave nation) will give up this unwise custom of 

Which are the honourable people, the rich or the poor ? 
You cannot answer that question. Some rich persons are 
men of honour, and some poor persons are men of 
honour. It does not depend on how much money 
we have, or what dress we wear, or what sort of house we 
live in. In ancient Italy there lived a Roman leader named 
Manius Curius ; he was a strong captain in time of war, and, 
when he led the Romans, he led them to victory. And the 
enemies of Rome — the Samnites {Sam-tiv -tees) — sent mes- 
sengers to him to offer him a bribe of much gold, and to 
persuade him to stay away from the Roman army. The 
Samnite ambassadors found Manius Curius in his cottage. 
He was boiling turnips for his supper. Not very rich food, 
was it ? He smiled when he saw the gold, and said that a 
man who could be content with a supper of turnips would 
not be tempted by the offer of gold. His home was poor ; 
his food and clothing were simple; his honour was bright. 
We can be men and women of honour no matter whether 
we are rich or poor, masters or servants, manufacturers or 
trade unionists. 

' ' Honour and shame from no condition rise ; 
Act well thy part, there all the honour lies." 

Lesson XL. 

Various kinds of ability. Using ability to help a neighbour. Examples 
of such help. 

Not many girls wear diamond necklaces ; nor do I think 
they would be any the better for it if they did. About fifty 
years ago a little Russian princess was staying with some 
ladies at the seaside town at Torquay [Tor'-kee), and she 
wore a necklace of diamonds. But something pleased her 
more. At that date there lived in Torquay a learned 
gentleman named i\Ir. Pengelly. He spent much of his 
time in travelling through the charming country districts of 
Devonshire, and searching among the rocks for fossils. You 
know that fossils are the remains of plants and animals 
(teeth, bones, shells, etc.) found embedded in stone. 
Mr. Pengelly carried a hammer with him in order to break 
open the rocks in his quest for fossils. Now and then the 
little princess went with him, taking with her a hammer of 
her own ; and the learned man explained the rocks to her, 
and showed her the wonders of the fossils ; and one day 
she said, " I would rather have Mr. Pengelly's fossils than 
all my diamonds." You see, the pleasure she felt in learning 
facts that interested her mind was greater than the pleasure 
she took in her sparkling ornaments. 

One day Mr. Pengelly had wandered for hours among 
the hills, and had laden his basket with the specimens that 
he loved. He halted at a roadside inn on his way home- 
wards, and sat down in the kitchen while the landlady was 
preparing his tea. Several working-men were smoking after 
the labours of the day. They eyed him curiously. They 
scanned the hammer which he had stuck in his belt. 

" I ask your pardon, sir, for making so bold," said one of 
them, " but what trade are you ?" 

Mr. Pengelly smiled, and said he was a stone-breaker. 


" We won't believe that," they cried. 

" Well, if you will open my basket, you will see the stones 
I have broken." 

One of them opened the basket, and took out a stone 
which contained a shell half sunk in its solid substance. He 
and his mates stared in surprise. 

"Well," they asked, "how did that shell get there ?" 

Mr. Pengelly explained. The stone, he said, was once 
dull-looking mud at the bottom of the sea. It had been 
brought there by the flowing river, or by the waves which 
tore and chafed and ate the seaside cliffs all the year round. 
In this mud many a shell, large and small, sank and lay still 
after the creature that lived in it had ended its dumb life. 
Little by little the bed of the sea was lifted, lifted, lifted, 
lifted (for the crust of the earth we dwell on is often moved 
by forces of fire and water underneath), and at last the mud 
that was once sea-bottom had become dry land, hard land, 
stone, rock. The shells stayed where they were. The 
shells were embedded in the stone. They were fossils, 
waiting for some sharp-witted man to come with his hammer 
and find them. 

"Tea's ready," cried the landlady of the inn. 

^^'hile Mr. Pengelly was taking his tea, the Devonshire 
working-men were talking with great eagerness of the strange 
and charming story of the shell. Presently the landlord 
came into the parlour, where the geologist (the man who 
studied the rocks and fossils) was sitting. 

"If, sir," he said, "you'll come to this inn of evenings, 
and talk to the men about your stones, I would give you 
meat and drink free ; for I'm sure lots of men would come 
to hear you talk, and I should sell an uncommon deal of 
beer !" 

Well, you may be sure Mr. Pengelly did not want to earn 
his meat and drink in such a way as that. 

What I want you to notice is that this man of science 
was a very clever man, an able man ; a man who had great 
ability for discovering the secrets of the rocks. No doubt, 
you have heard your father or your teacher use the word — 
"Lucy is a girl of great ability"; "Edwin is a boy of 
remarkable ability," and so on. And you know there are 
all sorts of ability — the ability to get runs at cricket, to 
swim, to knit, to crochet, to recite, to govern a people, and 


to do many other things. Of course, you girls and boys 
would all like to possess ability. 

Yes, but what shall we do with our ability when we 
have it ? 

Let me tell you what I have read in a book by John 
Ruskin, a great English writer. In the old city of Milan, in 
Italy, there is a stately church — a cathedral. For three 
hundred years the body of a saint (holy man) has lain in 
Milan Cathedral. The body has been enbalmed, or care- 
fully preserved. In its hands it holds a golden crosier (a 
staff with a cross at the top) ; and on its breast it has a 
cross of green and shining emeralds. Gold and emeralds 
are thought to be rich and precious things, are they not ? 
Well, and of what use are these precious jewels to the dead 
man ? Of no use at all. He can do nothing with them. 
Nobody is comforted or blessed by them. Nothing is 
precious until it does good to some man, woman, child, or 
animal. And our abilities are not precious things until they 
do good to ourselves and to other people. Look at Mr. 
Pengelly again. He had an ability for examining and 
understanding the rock and soil of the earth ; he knew very 
much about quarries and cliffs, and the strata (layers of 
earth) and the fossils. Was his ability like the dead man's 
golden crosier and emerald cross? No; because he blessed 
other people with his knowledge — the little princess, the 
Russian ladies, the Devonshire workmen, and the people 
who listened to his interesting lectures. He was able to 
please his neighbours, to teach them, to instruct them, to 
amuse them, to make them wiser. Besides helping himself, 
he used his ability to help his neighbours. 

Suppose you have ability for arithmetic, how couldj you 
help your neighbour ? Perhaps he has not had a proper 
schooling, or his head may be weak at figures ; and he may 
have made out a bill like this :— 

s. d. 

5 lbs. butter at IS. 3 J^d. per lb 4 9 

9 dozen eggs at I od. per dozen 9 o 

7 lbs. cheese at I id. per lb 7 7 

/I 9 6 

But you see him rubbing his head in great despair, for he is 
sure the account is wrong ; and he knows his customer will 
be vexed if he makes a mistake. Of course, as you are quick 



at figures, and are also good-natured, you will soon put his 
bill right for him. 

Suppose you have ability for reading, how could you help 
your neighbour ? You can read the letter which the old lady 
in the cottage has had from her son in America. You can 
read to mother or father in the evening by the fireside ; and 
they will be proud of you. Or you can sit beside the play- 
mate who has a broken limb ; or visit a friend who is blind, 
and read a pleasant story of Crusoe on his island, or 
Andersen^ s Fairy Tales^ or Alice in Wonderland^ or a book 
of natural history. 

Suppose you have ability for writing, how could you help 
your neighbour ? You could write a letter for a blind com- 
panion ; you could copy out the verses which your sister or 
brother wishes to learn for recitation ; you could address a 
hundred envelopes which your father needs in his business. 

Suppose you have ability for picking up a knowledge of 
geography, how could you help your neighbour? You could 
show him on the map the town in Australia where his cousin 
Jack has settled ; you could show the sailor's wife the port at 
which her husband's ship was last signalled ; you could 
direct a friend by which railway to travel to London, or 
Edinburgh, or the Lake District, and so on. 

Suppose you had ability for ambulance work, how could 
you help your neighbour ? You could aid him when he was 
drawn out of the water, and seemed to be drowned ; you 
could bind up a broken leg, or bandage a wound ; you 
could assist in carrying the injured person without jolting or 
too much fuss. When Astley Cooper was twelve years old 
he saw his foster-brother being brought home by some 
villagers. The foster-brother had been run over by a heavy 
cart, and his thigh was bleeding badly. Young Astley had 
the sense to tie a handkerchief very tightly above the wound 
to check the flow of blood ; and when the doctor came, he 
was pleased at the lad's quickness of thought and act. 
This boy was afterwards the famous medical man, Sir Astley 
Cooper. * 4. ^ * ^ 

A lady sang one evening at a concert. The audience 
(that is, the people listening) was small, though she was a 
famous singer, and usually the people came in crowds. The 
concert had been arranged by an Italian gentleman ; and 


he was much grieved when so few persons attended, because 
the money received was so much less, and he had to pay 
the lady twent^y guineas. After the concert he came to pay 

" Can you take less ?" he asked anxiously 

"No," said Madame Malibran (for that was her name). 

The ItaUan sighed, and spoke of his wife and children, 
whom he found it hard to maintain. He paid the twenty 
guineas, and then the lady handed all the gold back to him, 
saying : — 

" I insisted on having my full payment so that I might 
have the pleasure of giving it all to you." 

She left the room with tears in her eyes ; for the good 
lady's heart was touched by the Italian gentleman's sadness. 
Yet she was also glad, for she was making a whole family 
glad. Thus the clever singer, having earned money by her 
musical ability, gave the fruit of her labour to a brother and 
sister in distress. 

Last of all, I have a yet more charming story to tell you.' 

A lady from Sweden, known as Jenny Lind, was so sweet 
a singer, and gave so much delight to the crowds of English 
people who flocked to hear her, that she was called by the 
pretty title of the Swedish Nightingale. She paid a visit to 
the seaside town of Brighton, and took part in a fashionable 
concert. The next day she went out for a walk. The day 
was hot, the road was dusty, and Jenny Lind felt tired and 
thirsty. Seeing a row of little cottages, she went up to one 
of the doors and begged an old lady for a drink of water. 

" Yes," said the old lady ; " pray walk in." 

Jenny Lind walked in, and took a seat which the good 
woman had carefully dusted with her apron. 

"Well, miss," the old lady went on to say, "I will not 
give you water. Suppose I make you a cup of tea." 

To this the Swedish visitor at once assented. While the 
tea was being brewed a pleasant chat proceeded. After 
Miss Lind had taken tea, the old lady remarked : — 

" I have heard that a great singer has come into the town. 
It is the Swedish Nightingale. How much I should like to 
hear her !" 

" Would you ?" answered Jenny Lind. " Then you shall !" 

'- Fcir this story I am indebted to Mr. H. Major. 


She sang to the old lady in the cottage parlour, her voice 
rising and falling like the leaping and sinking of fair fountains 
of water, trilling like the melodies of birds in the green 
woods, and blessing the listener's heart with joy and peace. 
The singer had a noble gift, and she gave of her ability to 
the service of her neighbour. Each in her way had served 
the other, just as all men and all nations should serve one 
another in respect and friendship. 

Lesson XLI. 

Serving societ}' liy working out ideas ; b)^ building scaffolds ; by advice ; 
by restoring that which is injured ; by honestly performing simple tasks. 

Many years ago a big block of white marble, eighteen feet 
long, lay on the ground, near the cathedral, in the city of 
Florence. Perhaps you know a girl named Florence ; and 
it is a very nice name, for it means flowery, or rich in 
blossoms. The city of Florence, with its many handsome 
old buildings, and its vineyards and gardens, stands on the 
river Arno, across which four bridges stretch their arches ; 
and overhead is the fair blue of the Italian sky. Now, 
about the block of marble. It had lain in its place for 
more than a hundred years. Once, a sculptor (a carver in 
stone) had looked at it, felt it, measured it, scratched some 
rough lines on its surface, and chipped it a little, as if he 
meant to cut out of it a grand figure ; but he tired of the 
task, the idea that stirred in his mind died away, and he 
made nothing, and the huge block remained, dusty, and 
almost forgotten, in the midst of the busy city by the river 

Often there passed by a man who had keen eyes to see 
the value of stone, and skilled hands to cut it. His name 
was Michael Angelo (born 1475; died 1564). He would 
gaze at the block, and then walk on, reflecting. An idea 
was growing more and more clear in his brain. He seemed 
to see the block of marble changed into a young man of 
eighteen or twenty years, holding a sling in one hand, and 
in the other a stone ; and his limbs were strong, his feet 
stoutly planted on the earth, and on his face a look of 
courage, and the eyes seemed to pierce the air until they 
met something that the young man regarded as an enemy to 
be slain. 

194 WORK 

" Yes," said Michael Angelo to himself, "that is how my 
David shall stand, and that is how he shall gaze at the giant 
whom he means to kill with sling and stone." 

Michael Angelo told the rulers of Florence of this idea, 
this design, this imagination, which he had formed in his 
mind. They were pleased, and said they would pay him to 
make the statue of David, so that it might be put up in 
some public place in the city and give pleasure to all that 
beheld it. For they thought, as Michael himself thought, 
that if a man has a noble idea, or design, or ijnaginaiion, the 
best thing he can do is to turn it into something real for the 
service of the city, or the country, or the society in which he 
lives. If our work pleases and helps society (that is, the 
neighbours among whom we dwell and labour), we are doing 
social service. 

They agreed to pay Angelo £^2 i6s. a month (in Florentine 
money), and he was to finish the statue in two years. He 
must have a shelter from the sun or rain, and from disturb- 
ances caused by people passing ; and so it was ordered 
that a shed should be erected over the block of marble. 
This would be his workshop. Now, suppose you had gone 
to the men who had built the shed, and suppose you had 
asked : 

" For whom are you working ?" 

" For Michael Angelo, the sculptor." 

"Ah, you work for the sculptor, but he works for 

" Yes," the workmen might reply, " but we work for 
Florence also ; for, though we cannot carve David, we can 
help and shelter the man who does, and so we do our share." 

That would be right, would it not ? In their way they 
would be working for Florence, doing service for Florence, 
and doing social service. And so, when you see a man 
sweeping the road, or lighting the lamps, or laying bricks, 
or cleaning windows or chimneys, or driving a milk-cart, I 
want you to recollect that such labour, done honestly day by 
day, is as real a service to the town as if it were the making 
of poems, or pictures, or the making of laws for the ordering 
of the nation. When the block of marble was set up on 
end, the sculptor needed ladders to reach its top ; and so a 
wooden scaffold was set up, and this enabled Angelo to get 
to any part of the block that he wished. You will agree 


with me that the men who built the scaffold were also 
serving the city of Florence. 

Before Michael Angelo began carving the stone he made 
two little figures of David out of wax. Having altered these 
figures many times, they at last satisfied him ; they would be 
models for him to work by. I do not know why he had 
two, but it showed that he was taking great pains to get the 
right kind of figure. 

I told you he was to receive ^2 i6s. per month. It was 
not a large salary for so clever an artist. I wonder if he 
would have carved his David any better if he had been paid 
£100 per month. What do you think ? You think he 
would have toiled harder ? Well, let me tell you that he 
used to chip the stone with such swiftness aud power, and 
the bits of white marble flew about so rapidly, that people 
said he worked as hard as three men. Three ! Surely, if 
he had had ^100 per month, he could not have put more 
strength into the blows of his mallet (hammer) or more skill 
into the touch of his chisel. The truth is, he loved to make 
statues, and he loved to please the people of Florence ; and 
when we love to do our work, we think more of the social 
service than of the money. I wish (and you wish, don't 
you ?) that every man could do work that would make him 
happy. And in the days to come I think people who work 
for their city or country will not think very much of the pay 
they receive, but they will deem it an honour to serve 

When Angelo had finished his statue of David, the 
question arose, " ^Vhere shall we put it ?" A meeting was 
held to talk the matter over. One said this place, another 
that ; and at last it was left to Michael Angelo himself to 
decide, and he chose a spot in the open air where all the 
citizens might see the hero with the sling and stone. Now, 
I wonder whether these people who talked were doing any 
social service ? I think we may say they were. We need 
men who will talk about public affairs (that is, the things 
that concern the town or village or country), and so we elect 
Councils and Boards and Parliaments. And the men and 
women who talk thoughtfully and wisely are helping society 
as much as the persons who carve statues or build houses. 

Well, how was the statue to be moved to the chosen spot? 
It was fixed in a wooden cage with a network of ropes all 

196 WORK 

round ; and then it was pushed forward, very slowly, on 
fourteen wooden rollers. It took four days to transport the 
statue. There was much pushing, much tugging of ropes, 
much calling of " Go on !" " Stop !" " Yo-heave-ho !" And 
every man that helped in the moving of the statue was, 
in his way, serving the city of Florence, serving the common- 
wealth, serving society. 

When the marble figure of David was at length placed in 
position and uncovered, all the citizens crowded to gaze at 
it. Most of the people admired it, but some shook their 
heads and found fault. Were the fault-finders doing any 
social service ? It all depends. Very often things are done 
wrong, and it is a good thing when a man of sense and 
courage steps forward and tells the town that all is not as it 
should be. It is not always a pleasant task to have to point 
out faults, but an honest man is sometimes obliged to do it. 
But, on the other hand, there are some men who find fault 
without good cause, and because they like to grumble, or 
because they want their friends to think them clever. Such 
a man was old Soderini ( So-day-ree-nee). He looked at the 
David, and said, with a grunt, "The nose is too large !" 

" Is it ?" answered Michael Angelo, with a smile, "we will 
see what can be done." 

He took a file and mounted a ladder, so as to reach the 
statue's head. Then he pretended to scrape, scrape, scrape 
at David's nose ; and, at the same time, he dropped some 
dust which he had brought with him, and the fault-finder 
supposed that Angelo was really taking off a piece of the 

" Very good !" he cried ; " very good ! You have put 
more life into it !" 

And yet Angelo had altered nothing. 

Some years afterwards a riot took place in Horence, and 
a stone was thrown, and the arm of the statue was broken. 
Several of the by-standers ran in haste to pick up the 
broken pieces, and Michael Angelo carefully put the bits 
together again, and made the arm appear as if uninjured. 
This also was social service, to feel sorrow that a beautiful 
thing was spoiled, and to do their best to restore it to its 
right shape and value. 

In 1873 the statue was moved into the Museum of 
Florence, and there it is to this day ; and if ever you are 


able to see it, you will recollect the clever sculptor who made 
it for the city ; but do not forget the honest citizens who, in 
simple ways, helped in the making of this great work of art. 

Next to Italy is the country of Switzerland, the land of the 
Alps and the lakes. Close to one of these lakes is the town 
of Ziirich ; and I will tell you what happened there some 
centuries ago. 

A poor man, who was weak in his mind, was for a while 
shut up in an asylum. When it was seen that he was not 
likely to do harm to anybody, he was allowed to come out, 
and someone thought of the plan of letting him ring the 
bells of the parish church. The bell-ringer was deHghted to 
think how the men, women, and children heard his bell, and 
hastened to church because he rang. He felt he was 
serving the town. He felt he counted for something 
good. Thus he went on for years. One day, however, after 
an unpleasant dispute had occurred, the bell-ringer was 
dismissed. He wandered along the street in a very unhappy 
state of mind, saying to himself that he was no longer of any 
use to the world. At length he went to the house of the 
executioner — the man whose business it was to hang or 
behead evil folks for their crimes. 

"I come," said the heart-broken bell-ringer, "to ask a 

" Yes ; what is it ?" the executioner replied in a kind 

" I used to ring the bells. It was all I was fit for. They 
have taken away my work. Please cut off my head. I 
would do it myself if I could !" 

He knelt down, and closed his eyes, expecting that the 
headsman would bring down his axe and take away a life 
that was useless. 

Of course, the headsman did no such thing. He lifted 
up the sorrow-stricken man, and gently led him to the 
magistrate of Ziirich, and told the story. The magistrate's 
feelings were touched. He said : 

" This good man has been badly treated. Let him go 
back to the work which he loves. He has done the town a 
service for many years, and we want him to continue." 

The poor fellow's soul w^as filled with joy, and, till the 

198 WORK 

da}' when his last sickness took the strength from his hands, 
he rang the bell of the parish church, and was happy in the 
thought that he was serving the people. 

If a man of genius (that is to say, very great skill) serves 
society, respect him. If a simple man serves society in 
some small way or in a humble trade, respect him also. 

Lesson XLII. 

The workman rises early. Breakfast. Sights and sounds in the quarry. 
The old quarryman. What we owe to brave workers. 

It was just a quarter past five in the morning when a knock 
at my bedroom door roused me from sleep. Quickly wash- 
ing and dressing, I hurried downstairs. My comrade and I 
had a cup of tea, and then he took a lighted lantern, and 
we went out into the village street. The beautiful curtain 
of stars was stretched above us. Houses and schools and 
roads were all quiet. The air was cold but dry. 

"The other morning," said my comrade, "as I came 
along this lane in the dark, a man was driving a flock of 
sheep without a dog. One of the sheep lay down, and the 
man passed on without noticing it, and he might have lost 
it and got into trouble if I had not called out to him." 

I said to myself, " The poor drover must needs rise very 
early, and he meets toil and care while many people are 
comfortably asleep." 

We heard the tramp of feet behind us. 

" I know the step," said my friend ; " it is the step of a 
man who walks from the village three miles away every 
morning to his work in the quarry. He leaves home at five 

We passed through the gate of the quarry where busy 
hands fetch the hard granite, day by day, out of the earth. 
We went along some rough paths, and down two ladders, 
and presently we entered a shed where my companion hung 
up his lantern. On one side of the shed I saw the enormous 
boiler of the engine which supplied steam to the machines 
all over the quarry. On the other side was a heap contain- 
ing several tons of coal which, by the end of the day, would 

' At Enderby, near Leicester. 

200 WORK 

be burned by the devouring furnace of the engine. My 
friend the stoker opened two doors in the boiler, and flung 
in coal ; the red flames flashed a light upon his face ; then 
he closed the doors. 

The clock of the village church struck six. My friend 
pulled a chain which caused a steam whistle to sound a loud 
blast. Some workmen hastened to their places in different 
parts of the quarry. The stars still shone as the stoker and 
I w^alked across to the shops where the blacksmiths and 
carpenters worked. Seven or eight blacksmiths stood by 
their fires. They would thrust pieces of iron into the blue 
and white flames, draw them out with tongs, and place 
them on anvils. A man would hold the glowing iron, and 
touch it quickly with a hammer, and then, wherever 
he touched, a boy would strike with a " striking hammer." 
By fire-light, by star-light, in the winter morning, these 
lads were learning to gain their livelihood. In the 
carpenters' shop hard by things were much quieter. Amid 
pieces of wood and bundles of shavings a group of men 
were repairing wheels, etc. Not far off was the fitters' shop, 
where parts of the machinery are made or mended ; and 
there I saw a wonderful lathe that could cut brass or steel 
as easily as your mother cuts cake. A thick, dirty block of 
steel was fixed in the lathe, and it was being shaped into a 
smooth roller, bright and polished, the steel being stripped 
off" in curly and glittering ribbons that strewed the floor. In 
these different shops the broken machinery is repaired, and 
much of it is made. 

It was breakfast-time. The morning had dawned. My 
mate put out his lantern, and we sat on a ledge of brick by 
the wall. A boy had brought us from home a basket 
covered with a neat napkin, and containing a can of hot 
coffee and a dish of bacon, and slices of bread. As we sat 
eating heartily in the stoke-hole, the water in the boiler kept 
rumbling, the sound of puffing steam echoed all about the 
quarry, and along a black chain (or cable) that stretched 
across the sky I could see a sort of box flying with its load 
of granite stones. 

The cable is nearly 800 feet long, and hangs from a 
scaffold on the edge of the quarry to another larger scaffold 
in the middle ; and in this large scaffold (which is some- 
thing like a wooden tower) is set a tremendous monster. 


with iron teeth and jaws ; and the monster bites and eats 
stones all day long as readily as the stoker and I ate bread. 
As the cable moves, it carries below it a wheel, and below 
this a second wheel, and below the second wheel hangs the 
flying-box I spoke of; and this box travels from the pit 
where the stone is dug to the monster which eats the stones. 
I went into the engine-house, where a man watched with 
eyes that never seemed to tire, and hands that were as quick 
and eager as his eyes ; and, as he pulled this or that lever, 
the flying-box glided this way or that, or dropped towards 
the ground, or rose again in mid-air. The work-people call 
this useful carrier the " Blondin," because it makes them 
think of the clever Frenchman who used to walk on the 
tight-rope. And the monster I mentioned is, of course, not 
a live one. It is a "crusher," or crushing-mill. When the 
Blondin-box stops, it is made to tilt ; the stones roll down a 
slide, rattling and banging ; they fall between powerful 
blocks of chilled cast-iron, which press and strike and batter 
them into small pieces. These small pieces drop into a big 
tube (or cylinder) called a riddle, big enough for several men 
to lie in. The riddle is pierced all round with holes, out of 
which the stones tumble in streams. At one end of the 
riddle the holes are larger than at the other : and so the 
stones fall into three immense boxes and in three different 
conditions — larger stones, smaller stones, and dust. From 
the boxes the stones and dust are dropped through trap- 
doors into railway trucks below, ready to travel far and near. 

The crusher growled and thundered ; the stones rattled ; 
the riddle revolved ; the dust rose in a cloud ; the boiler 
rumbled; the steam puffed; the Blondin-box flew; the sharp- 
eyed man pulled his levers ; the blacksmiths, the carpenters, 
the fitters plied their tools. All the world seemed at work. 

But where did the stone come from ? 

To find out where the stone came from in the first place 
I walked to the edge of the enormous Hole (as the quarry- 
men call it), and looked down. It was like standing on the 
high cliffs by the shore of the Atlantic Ocean, only there 
were no sea-waves breaking at the bottom. The Hole was 
longer than it was broad, and the rugged sides were com- 
posed of granite, mixed with earth, the cliffs or precipices 
being of different colours, such as green, red, brown, and 
grey. In one corner of the Hole was a pool of water, which 

202 WORK 

was being emptied by a steam pump worked by my friend's 
engine. Tram lines crossed from end to end of the big 
pit, and along these rails the broken blocks of granite were 
carried in trucks drawn by horses. 

At a certain spot a truck would be halted ; then it would 
be unfastened from the horse, slung by three chains to the 
chain that hung from the Blondin, and, in a few seconds, 
it was rising in mid-air and gliding overhead on its way to 
the roaring Crusher. Some scores of men were at work in 
the Hole with pick-axe, spade, or sledge-hammer. The 
Hole was so vast that, from where I stood, the men 
appeared like small boys. The stones which they fetched 
out of the clififs were of different qualities, some excellent, 
some poor. The irregular pieces were sent to the Crusher ; 
the larger blocks were despatched to the set-makers, whom 
I will tell you about directly. The way down into the Hole 
was by long staircases, with wooden steps ; down one stair- 
case you would go ; then you would turn to the right or left 
and down another. When you reached the bottom of the 
main staircase, you found yet another Hole, within which a 
group of men were busily hewing out some very fine granite. 

How did the horses go down ? Not down the steps, you 
may be sure. After dinner-time I saw one going back to 
his task on the tram-line. He waited by the engine-house 
where the sharp-eyed man pulled the levers. A cage of 
iron and wood was placed in front of him, this cage being 
swung on a cable connected with the Blondin rope. The 
door of the cage was flung open ; the brown horse walked 
in ; the door was closed ,; the cage was lifted up towards 
the sky. The horse stood as still as the horses in a child's 
Noah's Ark. I watched the cage as it soared upwards, then 
ran under the high cable some distance, then dropped, and 
dropped, until it gently rested on the floor of the Hole. A 
lad opened the cage, and, in a few moments, the brown 
horse was dragging his load. 

While most of the workmen were at dinner the cliffs were 
blasted in several places. This was how it was done : Holes 
were bored by powerful instruments called drills ; they were 
worked by steam. In the holes was placed gunpowder or 
(if the water could not be kept out) dynamite. A fuse, or a 
long slow match, was pushed into each hole, and set alight. 
Then the men who had lighted the fuses hurried away ; and 


all peoplt; who might be near were warned by a loud cry : 

" Fire I — -fire on it I fire ! fire o?i it T Then there was 

silence for some minutes. 

Puff of white smoke — ^bang ! 

One of the charges of gunpowder had exploded, and 
pieces of granite rattled down. Other explosions followed. 
Silence again. 

Bright flash !— big puff of smoke— BANG ! 

The largest charge had exploded last ; and some thirty or 
forty tons of rock thumped and tumbled down the steep 
walls of the quarry, ready to be broken into smaller portions 
by the workmen. 

The large blocks were taken in trucks, which rolled on 
tram-lines, to the sheds where the " set-makers " were at 
work. The sheds were side by side, one man in each ; and 
each man sat on a low stool, and placed a ragged block of 
granite between his knees, and smote it with his hammer, 
chipping pieces off; and then he would quickly turn the 
block, and hit again, and chip off more; and so on, until his 
stone was squared neatly into a block three or four inches 
long, or longer as the case might be. These granite blocks 
are used to pave streets with. Yet larger blocks are employed 
as gate-posts, kerb-stones, window sills, etc. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap ! sounded the hammers ; the Crusher 
growled and thundered ; the stones rattled ; the riddle 
revolved ; the dust rose in a cloud ; the boiler rumbled ; the 
steam puffed ; the Blondin-box flew ; the sharp-eyed man 
pulled his levers ; the blacksmiths, the carpenters, and the 
fitters plied their tools ; and a locomotive travelled up and 
down the quarry-side, drawing laden trucks. All the world 
seemed at work. 

As I passed by the sheds I noticed an old man with blue 
eyes breaking blocks of granite ; and I stopped to speak to 
him. And he told me how he had worked in the quarries 
for nearly forty years. He had only been ill for one week, 
and had had no accident except for the fall of a granite 
block now and then on his toes ! As he told me this he 
smiled ; and I bade him good afternoon, and walked away, 
thinking of the long life of toil spent by this brave old man. 
Yes, I will tell you his name. It was Foster Spence. 

About four o'clock I bade farewell to my friend in the 
stoke-hole. In a day's work (so he told me) he shovelled 

204 WORK 

coal into the boiler-furnace about 120 times. He was 
steady and patient all day long, tending his engine as if he 
loved it. 

As I came away from the village the dusk had crept over 
the earth, and the stars were faintly sparkling again. And 
still I seemed to hear the tap of the hammers and the roar 
of the Crusher. And often, as I pass the streets of a city, 
the stones under my feet will make me think of my friend 
the stoker, and of Foster Spence, and of the workers in 
every corner of the quarry. 

The streets of the city, and the houses, and the ships, 
and countless things that are precious and useful are made, 
day by day, by the hands of such brave workers ! 


Los Angeles 
This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 



Form L9-100in-9,'52(A3105)444 


» ^ »-. ^~\ I 1 TT7ir\T»XTT A' 

7a 001279 494 7 

L 009 530 282 4 


«1 _ 



University Researcli Library 


JR- ^