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JANUAEY, 1854. 

Illustrated with two Frontispieces and fifteen Vignettes. 

Sedgemoor ; or, the Home Lessons of Herbert and Alice, By Mrs. Manners. 

Anecdotes of the Fox, By The Schoolfellow. 

The Archer ; Words, Music, and Illustration, . . Selected. 

Child-Life in England, By "W. C. Richards. 

New-Year's Day at Rose Hill, .... By Mart E. 

Now and Then, a Little Poem, ..... By Mart E. 

A Song, By Eugenie. 

The Pet Lamb, A Poem in three parts, ... By Thomas Miller. 
How to make Presents, . . . . . . By Mrs. Manners. 

The Riddler's Corner. — The Schoolfellow's Gift ; Anagrammatical Charade, by 

A. B. K.; Charade for Mary, by Inez ; Enigma ; Conundrums. 
The Schoolfellow's Annual Message. 


The present number — being the first of a new Volume — is 
sent to all the Subscribers of the past year, in order that they 
may see the improvements made in the work, and to remind 
them that the annual subscription of One Dollar is now 
due. The Publishers beg leave to announce that this will be 
the only number sent to any individual until the subscription 
for 1854 is paid. This rule is positive and without excep- 
tion. It may be that its enforcement will cut off names that 
have been upon the mail-books for years, but it is deemed 
imperatively necessary to adopt it ; and the Publishers hope 
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tional notice published in this number) will place every 
one's name where it will not be overlooked ; and we earnestly 
hope that we shall not have to cut off any of our present 
New York, Dec. 15, 1853. 


Mant of our Subscribers being in arrears for the present volume, and we hope 
desirous of paying up for this and the next volume before the first of January, 
we propose to receive from any one thus in arrears, Three Dollars, in payment 
for the years 1853 and 1854, and also for two additional copies of 1854 to be 
sent to any address. Any Subscriber shall be entitled to a copy for 1853 free. 
who sends us three new names and Three Dollars. These offers will remain open 
until February, 1854. , 






HE room was growing dim, and twilight had fallen 
at an earlier hour than usual over the world with- 
out. Matthias, the steady and trusty waiting- 
fw -™i& man, who for a score of years had ministered to 

the comfort of the family at Sedgemoor, came in and drew the cur- 
tains of the library, lighted the large lamp in the centre of the room, 
arranged the small lamp on the reading-desk of Mr. Clayton, and 
heaped upon the grate the sparkling anthracite. 

From time to time, as he made these evening arrangements, he 
glanced towards a sofa near the fire, where were seated his " young 
master and mistress," Herbert and Alice Clayton. These two child- 
ren were motherless, and, thus far, had known no other care than 
such as was given them by the faithful servants, and by the most 
loving of fathers. Hence, an almost motherly love was felt for 
them by all the household ; none seemed ever to forget the dying 
words of Mrs. Clayton, when she said, 

*' Philip, you will be father and mother both to our darlings, and 
you, my faithful people, will aid your master in preventing these little 
ones from ever knowing the full extent of the loss they will have 
borne when their mother is laid in the grave. You will, all of you, 
love my children for my sake, and will serve them with greater 
fidelity, that I cannot overlook their welfare." 

She was answered by the sobs of the group who stood near the 

v 0) 

2 sedgemoor; 

door, assembled there by her desire to listen to her last words, and by 
the voice of the trusty Matthias, who spoke for all of his companions, 

" God bless you, mistress, and be as merciful and loving to you as 
you have always been to us. Little massa and missus shall never 
have a care while we can keep it from them." 

So they had grown up, to the ages of ten and twelve years, the 
lovely children of the sainted Mrs. Clayton, the pride and glory of 
the household, the whole world to the bereft man, who found in the 
charge of them his life-duty. 

Herbert was a tall, noble-looking boy, who might have been called 
too lovely and effeminate in the singular tenderness of his disposition, 
but that he had a clear, dark eye, wherein slumbered a soul of fire, 
fearless, and firm, and ardent. His constant association with Alice 
gave an unusual degree of refinement and gentleness to his manners, 
but he might have been a very Chevalier Bayard in his bold and 
enterprising spirit, combined with his womanly purity and tenderness. 
It was a beautiful combination : so rare now, that, to find its exam- 
ples, we go back to the days of knighthood, and call it chivalric. 

Alice was worthy of the really romantic attachment and devotion 
she inspired ; she was called by the guests who sometimes sojourned 
at Sedgemoor, " the white rose," and a fair and dainty creature she 
was. Long golden hair floated down upon shoulders and over a 
brow of perfect loveliness ; large blue eyes were fringed by curled 
lashes, which subdued their otherwise startling beauty, for they had 
an almost weird expression of spiritual loveliness; exquisitely moulded 
limbs, and fairy hands and feet completed a category of charms which 
would have inspired a painter or a poet, and suggested to every 
mind the lines of Mrs. Browning : 

"And all voices that address heT 
Soften, sleeken every word, 
As if speaking to a bird. 

And all fancies yearn to cover 
The hard earth whereon she passes 
With the thymy-scented grasses. 

And all hearts do pray, ' God love her I' — 
Ay, and certes, in good sooth, 
We may all be sure, Hedoth." 


Thus the children looked, even to the servant, who, so long accus- 
tomed to the refinements of his master's house, and to the delicate 
influences of these " good angels," had a rare power of appreciation. 

" God bless them," he said softly to himself, as if responding to the 
loving admiration with which he had stolen glances at them, " the 
sweetest young lady and gentleman that ever this earth saw, any how, 
and good enough even to be dear mistress's ! " And, lingering near 
the oriel window opposite to which they were seated, he continued, 
mentally — 

" Love 'una and cherish 'urn, mistress said ; every thing loves 'urn, 
and every thing cherishes 'um. I always seem to see the good spirits 
about 'um, and they be good spirits to all of us. Isn't he a fine boy, 
our Massa Herbert, and isn't Miss Alice the true beauty of our dis- 
trict now 1 She will walk in her mother's shoes, and be the loveliest 
and best in the world, as her mother was before her." 

And with these tender thoughts the good Matthias left the room, 
to tell his master that the library was ready for evening. 

He found Mr. Clayton still sitting in contemplative mood by the 
table in the dining-room. He, too, was thinking of Herbert and Alice, 
but he was troubled and sad ; and his heart was full of tearful memo- 
ries, that tinged with gloom the future as they had the past. He 
was considering what should be the course to be pursued in reference 
to the education of the children. He knew that Alice was of an age 
now when she needed a woman's influence and instruction, and that 
he must give Herbert sterner tasks than had hitherto fallen on him. 
He dreaded to separate them, and he dreaded almost as much to give 
up the charge of their education to a governess or tutor in the house. 
He longed for communion with their blessed mother, who was even 
now, he doubted not, watching over her beloved ones ; he felt the 
need of a wiser direction than he could give to this affair, and his 
heart was sending up a prayer for aid and counsel to the Heavenly 
Father, without whose notice not a sparrow falleth to the ground. 

When Matthias spoke to him, he pushed away bis almost untasted 
dish of nuts, and arose to follow the children into the library. He 
found them sitting together as the servant had last seen them, Her- 


bert's arm encircling Alice, and both intent upon an elegantly bound 
volume which they seemed earnestly to read. They looked up, as 
their father came in, and when he spoke to them, they laid the book 
aside and came and stood by his chair. 

" What shall be done now with my young people 1 " he said to 
them. " I am considering Herbert's Greek and Alice's music, and 
other things necessary for you to learn, and fancy neither Mammy 
Henny, nor Matthias, nor myself, quite equal to your future needs, 
my dear children." 

" If you only won't send us away, papa," said they both, most 
eagerly, " we will do any thing at home — oh, every thing ! " It was 
the response to his own wishes for them, so he said, 

" I must see about it. If I can find a suitable lady to take charge 
of you, Alice, who is willing to live at Sedgemoor, and a tutor for my 
young Greek here, you shall both stay at home, and I will add my- 
self to the list of your instructors." 

" Oh, yes, if you please, dear papa," was the reply. " Do you not 
remember when last winter the evenings grew shorter and shorter, 
and you had finished the stories of adventure you used to tell, you 
promised this winter to give us some more of those dear charming 
evenings of the pleasantest kind of learning 1 We will study ever so 
hard all through the day, papa, for our teachers, if we must have 
them, but we will love best our dearest, old teacher, whose lessons 
will be of the most use to us after all, I know," said the energetic but 
loving Herbert. 

" Well, so be it," said Mr. Clayton. " I shall still be your teacher 
at night. When we get settled, under this new order of things, which 
I suppose must come, we will plan some evening lessons." 

Thus was it arranged ; and Herbert and Alice knew that it w r as 
settled that they were in future to have a less loving task-master 
than they had ever had before. But they did not dread their new 
instructors. They both craved knowledge, and desired always the 
highest attainable excellence. And then, was not " papa " to be still 
the dearest and best of teachers % What would they not learn during 
those long winter evenings 1 


gtfieritoles of t|e Jte. 

HE fox is of all animals the most cunning. In 
the nobler quality of sagacity, he is perhaps in- 
ferior to his relative, the dog, or to the ele. 
phant ; but both of these must yield the palm 
to him in that peculiar trait which we call cun- 
ning. This is not always a bad quality, for it is frequently 
employed to defeat evil intentions, and oftener still for 
mere amusement ; but it is seldom that cunning may be 
ranked with the virtues. We say of a man who resorts to all man- 
ner of tricks to secure his objects, that he is wily, or that he is " as 
cunning as a fox." 

The fox is one of the most abundant of the four-footed animals. 
He is found in nearly every part of the globe, and wears coats of 
different colours in different localities. Sometimes he appears in a suit 
of glossy black ; again he is found in a red coat, a yellow jacket, or 



a grey mantle ; while in far northern regions, he dons a robe of white, 
as if he were the most innocent creature in the world. 

He is not easily tamed, and hence there are not half so many en- 
tertaining stories told about him, as there are about more domestic 
animals. He loves his freedom too well, and is too fond of commit- 
ting depredations among the poultry, to be content to be petted in 
the house. Nor would he be a very agreeable companion, although 
it must be allowed that he is not an ill-looking fellow with his soft 
grey or reddish coat, his bright eye and his bushy tail. 

He is very rapacious, constantly seeking what he may devour, and 
seldom disdaining any thing in the shape of fish, flesh or fowl, which 
he can lay his paws on. He is fund of rabbits — epicure that he is ! — 
and displays his cunning in the manner in which he takes them pris- 
oners. Instead of entering the hole which leads to their burrowmg- 
place, he saves himself the trouble of digging his way along, by scent- 
ing the track of the rabbit above the ground till he reaches the spot 
where it hides, when he digs down, and falls upon his victim sud- 

The fox is very fond of grapes, and in the fables of Esop there is a 
familiar story of one who came one day to a vine hanging full of de- 
licious-looking fruit. The fox made great exertions to reach them, 
but finding it impossible, he consoled himself by saying that they 
were miserable, sour things, and not worth having. It has become, 
from this fable, quite a proverb, when a thing is beyond our reach, 
to say " the grapes are sour." 

There is another story, of equal truth, told of this animal. One 
day, a fox, who was distinguished among his fellows by the size of 
his " brush," (a name given by hunters to his bushy tail,) was so un- 
fortunate as to fall into a trap, from which he contrived to escape, 
with a sad loss, however, the loss of his tail ! The cunning rascal, 
while he was deploring his misfortune, conceived of a plan to make 
it turn out to his credit. He was an influential fox, and he resolved 
to try what eloquence could do among his fellows. So, after some 
days of concealment, he made his appearance among his tribe, and 
reported that he had been abroad, where, he said, the fashion was tc 


we^.r no tails ; and he earnestly counselled his brethren to adopt the 
fashion, as he had already done !. But the cunning of one was not a 
match for the cunning of many, who loudly protested that they did 
not approve the fashion, and did not believe that their brother would 
do so, if he had not first lost his tail in a trap ! 

A naturalist relates that a fox lost one of his fore feet in a trap, 
and made his escape. Some two years afterward, he was unearthed 
by some dogs, but instead of running, as is usual with the hunted fox, 
he waited until each dog came up to him, and then jumped suddenly 
over him. When he was taken, after repeating this ruse several 
times, it was discovered that he had but three feet, and could not run 

The same writer tells an anecdote of another fox who wanted very 
much to secure a hare for his breakfast. He says that he saw him. 
stealing along the edge of a plantation, and looking very cautiously 
over the low wall at some hares which were feeding there. He was 
too cunning to give them chase, for he knew that they would escape 
him in E ight ; so he resolved to try stratagem. He stretched him- 
self out at full length, close to a gap in the wall, which one or more 
of the hares might pass on leaving the field. His anxiety for a meal 
prompted him now and then to rise up and peep over the fence ; but 
most of the time he laid motionless, not even stirring when two or 
three hares left the field at another gap not many feet removed. At 


length two approached his place of ambush, and the fox crouched 
lower, and his ears quivered. As they passed the gap, he sprung up 
like a flash of lightning, and, seizing one of them, killed it immediate- 
ly. He was making off boldly with his breakfast, when a rifle-ball 
suddenly put a stop to his course. 

In a fox-chase which took place in Ireland, Reynard was hard pushed, 
and made for a high wall, over which he sprang, and crouched beneath 
it ; and, while the hounds which took the leap after him dashed for- 
ward in full cry, he quietly leaped back again and made his escape ! 

In another Irish chase, the fox was so hotly pursued that he sprang 
to the roof of a. cabin, and, mounting the stone chimney, looked calm- 
ly down upon the hounds. One of these, however, made after him 
so resolutely, that Reynard had to plunge down the chimney to es- 
cape his clutches. He descended into the lap of an old woman, who 
thought the visitant came from quite an ill-famed quarter, and, shriek- 
ing with affright, rushed into one corner of the hut, while the fox re- 
treated to another. When the hunters came up and entered the 
cabin, they found the fox grinning at the woman, and they took him 

In the picture gallery of the New York Crystal Palace, there is a 
very amusing picture, called, upon the catalogue, " The Fox and the 
Crow." It tells its own story, and serves to illustrate our theme. 
A fox is lying on his back, apparently dead, his feet sticking up stiffly 
into the air, while two crows are approaching him. One of them is 
almost near enough to peck him ; and we almost expect, while look- 
ing at the cunning creature, to see him spring up and catch the un- 
wary bird in his jaws. A good name for this picture would be "The 
Fox playing 'Possum." 

Our stock of stories about the fox is not exhausted so soon as the 
space which we are permitted to occupy, which is even now full. 

%\t %xt\tx. 


, r-f. 


Bow and ar - row bear-ing, - ver hill and dale, 

r r \ " 

Lo, tho ar - cher dar - ing Bids the morning hail. 

T7 V. * ~ £ ? [ £ ? ' ' I V. m -g- -±f 

La la la, la la la, la la la, . la la la, la la la ! 

As the eagle soaring 
Seems a king to be, 

To the wilds exploring, 
Like a king goes he. 


He rules o'er the distance 
Where his arrows fly ; 

Vain is all resistance, 

Beast or bird must die. 



Cljiilr-fife xir (Siigkulr; 


<?tl)a.ptev K. 

IT, brother Willie," exclaimed my sister Maud, 
as she met me near the edge of Beech lane, re- 
turning from the village school, one pleasant 
evening in June, " What do you think ? Papa 
says that he will take us all to Milford Fair to- 
morrow, if the day is fine ! And don't you 

think it will be fine, Willie 1 See ! there is a bright red streak along 

the sky, and Philip says that is a sign of fair weather." 

" Philip says so, does he f I replied, rather coldly, to my sister's 

eager words ; " Philip did not say so first, any how ; for one of the 

earliest rhymes I learned was — 

' Evening red and morning grey 
Indicate a very fiae day.' " 

" Well, never mind whether Philip said so first or not, so that it 
is true. But you don't seem half glad at what I tell you, dear brother, 
and I thought you were longing to go to Milford." 

" Oh yes, I am glad, Maud, but I wasn't in a very good humour 
when you met me. The sight of your sweet face and the sound of 
your pleasant voice have driven away my bad feelings, however, and I 
am glad to hear what you tell me." 

" What put you out of humour, Willie ?" rejoined Maud tenderly. 
" You are not apt to be ill-tampered." 



" Oh, it was not much," I answered, half ashamed to tell her that 1 
had lost my place at the head of the class in Virgil, and that it had been 
taken by George Rivers, who had never before reached the first place. 

However, to her repeated and affectionate inquiries, I at length 
confessed the mortifying truth, and she soothed my wounded pride 
by declaring her opinion that I would surely go up again, if not at 
the next lesson, yet before the end of the quarter. I made my sister, 
who was a year older than myself, the sharer of all my pains and 
pleasures, and her sweet companionship and love "were the dearest 
joys of my happy child-life. I was easily persuaded by her gentle 
reasoning, that notwithstanding George Rivers might strain every 
nerve to maintain his new and unexpected honour for the three weeks 
that were yet to pass before the end of the term, I should, by con- 
stant diligence, recover my lost position ; and once assured upon this 
point, I felt what I had just said to my sister, that I was glad of the 
promised visit to Milford Fair. 

" Brother Willie," she resumed playfully, as she saw the cloud 
breaking away from my face, " Papa says that he intends to take 
mamma and all the children. We are to go in the chaise, which papa 
will drive, and Philip is to take the donkey, with a basket of dinner 
for us all." 

" Oh! that will be capital fun," I exclaimed, now fully awake to the 
delights of Milford Fair, and of a pic-nic in Milford Park. 

We had walked, during this conversation, to the stile by which 
we entered the little meadow that lay in front of our home. The 
sun was just below the horizon, but his radiance was still visible in 
the dormer-window of my room, which was glowing crimson with 
the glory that 'covered it. Springing gaily over the stone stile, 1 
turned to receive Maud, who was already standing on the top of it. 
The jump which I gave her was so energetic that we both fell into 
the grass of the meadow, but were instantly again upon our feet, and 
ready to join in the laughter of Maurice and Fanny, who came at 
that moment, through the wicket of the garden, and testified their de- 
light at our tumble by a most child-like -chcrus of merriment and 


Master Walter even ventured upon a poetical commemoration of 
the mishap, and made free use of Mother Goose's melodies, a new 
edition of which had just been sent to him by a cousin in London. 1 
remember feeling half provoked with him as he shouted melo-dra 

matically — 


" Jack and Gill went up the hill, 
To fetch a pail of water : 
Jack fell down and broke his crown, 
And Gill came tumbling after." 

But Maud laughed as gaily as they did, and I soon took a full share in 
the merriment, which lasted until we had entered the house, the child- 
ren forgetting in their fun the great delight in store for the morrow. 

Our house was a pleasant one. Then I thought it handsome ; and 
so indeed it was in comparison with many of the houses in the village 
of Hackington, in the suburbs of which we lived. It was a substan- 
tial stone building — properly a cottage ; for the second story was 
quite low, and yielded only two upright rooms in the centre of the 
house. The windows of the parlour folded like doors, and opened 
upon a small lawn of soft green grass. There were four rooms upon 
the ground-floor of the principal part of the house ; besides which, 
however, there was a wing containing the kitchen and the laundry, or 
wash-room. One of the front rooms of the house was the parlour I 
have already spoken of, and the other was the libraiy, on opposite 
sides of a great central hall. Behind the library was the family 
dining-room, and behind the parlour — connected with it by great fold- 
ing-doors — was a second parlour, employed as a spare bed-chamber for 
honoured guests. The two upright rooms, up stairs, were flanked on 
both sides by small chambers sloping to the eaves. This arrange- 
ment gave us plenty of room, and I was therefore allowed to claim a 
chamber as my own, next to that which Maud occupied as hers ; she 
sharing it with Fanny, and I admitting Maurice to my companionship. 
I have dwelt upon the internal arrangements of our house, because 
memory vividly recalls such things to mind. 1 shall never forget my 
own pleasant chamber, to the lattice of which there crept up, on one 
side, every spring, a profusely-blossoming virgin's bower, which I 



somehow greatly preferred to the dark-green ivy which, winter and 
summer alike, covered the other side of my window, and stole quite 
around the edge of the house. . We called our home the Parsonage? 
my father being a clergyman, but not of the Established Church. He 
had a large and flourishing congregation, which worshipped in a hand- 
some chapel situated near our dwelling-house. The lands attached 
to the Parsonage were not extensive, but exceedingly picturesque, 
comprising a beautiful garden, a well-stocked orchard, a wheat and 
oat field sweeping away to a crystal brook which skirted a large 
tract of meadow. Here my childhood was passed, save brief inter- 
vals of residence in London, where nearly all my relatives lived. 

©fmpter 3BJ. 

HE morning of the eventful day upon which we 
were to go to Milford Fair dawned without a 
cloud to arouse our fears or give the zest of 
doubt to our anticipations. There was no tar- 
diness at family worship, which was always per- 
formed in the library, at sunrise — and at which it 
frequently happened that one or another of the family circle 
came in late. Even little Fanny was dressed and in her 
place before papa had taken his seat at the table upon which 
lay the Bible and Rippon's Hymns. An unusually cheerful tone 
marked the voices of all, both in reading alternately and in the united 
song of thanksgiving which was selected for the occasion. Papa 
prayed that we might " enjoy the pleasures of the day without sin ;" 
and I recollect very well that I wondered why he should pray in that 
manner, when he himself was going to be with us all clay ; for I thought 
then that he could keep us all good. Mamma checked the eagerness 
with which Maud and myself were discussing breakfast, and I was 
hardly conscious of the fact — which at another time would have 


been a momentous one — that the delicious strawberries upon the table 
were the product of my own garden. 

There were several things to be done after breakfast, before we 
could set out upon our journey. There were the poultry to feed, and 
that was Maud's especial care. Then there were her rabbits to be 
thought of, and Maurice's guinea-pigs, and Fanny's pigeons — a pre- 
sent from her uncle John in London. I too had a pet — a starling 
which was a great favourite with us all, for he was learning to talk, 
and could already call his own name, which was " Bright-eye," and that 
of his young master. None of these might be neglected, or the 
pleasure of the day would be marred. By the time they were done, 
and we were all dressed in our holiday clothes, Philip had put Light- 
foot into the chaise and driven it around to the front gate, near which 
Gipsy — the donkey — was already tied. I must not forget Ponto, the 
house-dog, who stood close to the chaise, and wagged his tail in appro- 
bation of all the proceedings. 

The chaise was a commodious one, with three seats, two of them 
facing each other, and the front one intended for the coachman, who 
upon this occasion was to be papa, and I was to share it with him. 
Mamma, with Maud and Fanny, sat upon the back seat, and Maurice, 
with Hetty and our baby-brother, in front of them. When Philip 
had put the reins into papa's hands, he touched his hat and turned 
towards Gipsy, across whose back was already slung a pair of 
covered baskets resembling small panniers, in which mamma had care- 
fully bestowed sandwiches, cake, apples, and two bottles of cowslip 
wine, of her own vintage. 

It was nine o'clock when we left the Parsonage, and Milford was 
ten miles distant, by a country road for the greater part of the way. 
The fields and hedge-rows were in the fresh livery of the summer. 
The meadows were golden with buttercups and cowslips. The song 
of the thrush and the blackbird filled the air with melody ; and while 
we stopped at a brook to give Lightfoot some water, we heard the 
blithe notes of the cuckoo from a neighbouring copse-wood. 

As we approached Milford, the signs of gaiety and excitement be- 
gan to be visible. The occasional group of country people which we 


had noted hitherto, was multiplied into scores as we entered upon the 
turnpike-road about a mile from the town. We could now distinctly 
hear the music of a band, and see the flags flying from some of the 
tents. This was Saturday, the third and last day of the Fair, 
and the multitude of people in attendance was very great. Papa 
drove through the village of Milford — which was three times as large 
as Hackington — and past the open ground where the Fair was held, 
till he reached, just beyond, the gate of a beautiful park, the porter of 
which, when he recognized papa, touched his hat respectfully and threw 
open the gate. We drove in, and papa immediately alighted, and 
bade us all do the same. The porter now directed Philip, who had 
also entered upon the donkey, to put the baskets in the little lodge, 
and then to take the horse and chaise to a shed at no great distance. 
Leaving Philip to obey these directions, we cheerfully followed papa 
to the centre of mirth and amusement, Milford Fair. 

It was a gay and animated scene. The spot chosen for the Fair was 
a meadow which was perfectly level for three hundred feet, and then 
fell with a very gentle slope to a rivulet. It contained nearly twelve 
acres of ground, and the entire space was covered with a motley as- 
semblage of people, and tents, and booths, and caravans. Flags were 
flying from the tents, and two or three bands of music were playing 
in different parts of the field ; besides which, horns and fiddles were 
inviting the crowds to various points of attraction. I had been to 
Milford Fair once before, and was not, therefore, as much astonished 
as was Maurice, who was almost beside himself with delight. He 
had half a crown to spend at the fair • Maud and myself had just 
twice the sum for our pocket-money, while Fanny was proud with 
what she called her "silver ha'penny" — a shilling from her papa. 

Maurice and Fanny would have spent their money at the first cake- 
stall they saw, had not mamma restrained their eagerness. 

Our first adventure, I well recollect, was a round in a whirligig. 
This was a huge frame with four arms, upon each of which was hung 
a gayly painted box, shaped something like a boat, and large enough 
for six or eight to sit in. Papa handed a shilling to a man, who re- 
turned him sixpence, and we all got into one of the boxes, which was 


just at the edge of the platform. As soon as we were seated, the box 
began to rise into the air, and Fanny clung close to mamma. Bertie, 
the baby, did not mind it at all, but crowed merrily. Up we went 
higher and higher, till we could look down upon the tops of the tents, 
and then we descended once more, to rise again and go the same 
round. All the boxes were full of people, and. some of them sung as 
we went — 

" Now we go up, up, up, 
And now we go down, down, down !" 

We passed several huge wagons in which wild beasts were exhibited, 
and others where extraordinary sights were to be seen " for a penny" — 
such as a " three-armed monkey" and a " learned pig." Here, within 
a large tent, was a whole menagerie of animals, with great pictures 
painted on the canvas. Papa paid our fees, and we went in, as 
Fanny had never yet seen the elephant. She was not a little fright- 
ened when the mammoth brute slowly approached us as we stood 
inside the tent, and directed his trunk toward us, as if to receive a con- 
tribution. I was bold enough to put one of mamma's sweet caraway 
cakes into his trunk, which he immediately conveyed to his huge 
mouth with apparent satisfaction, for he again put it out, and this time 
received an apple from the hands of papa. 

We next went to see " Punch and Judy" — without which expressive 
pantomime a fair would scarcely be a fair — and were all excessively 
amused at the show. 

I was very anxious to have a throw at a stick, upon the top of which 
a knife or some other object of small value was laid, to be the prize 
of the one who should knock it off with a short club. The charge 
was only a penny a throw ; but papa forbade me, telling me that it 
was a kind of gambling, and should be avoided by all good boys. I 
was seldom inclined to disobey my father, and did not a second time 
express my wish. 

We did not go into any of the theatrical tents, though I confess that 
I did desire to see the famous play of " Jack the Giant-Killer." To 
compensate us for this denial, papa took us to a tent, or large booth, 
within which there was the most extensive collection of toys that I 




had ever seen or imagined. The booth was open on both sides, and 
the top of it was hung with drums and trumpets, and many kinds of 
playthings, while upon a table, within the tent, there was spread out a 
still greater variety. The man who stood behind the table — the envied 
owner of this wonderful collection — was a curious being. He wore 
an odd-shaped hat, which half covered his long, white face, and still 
whiter locks. He smiled upon us as we entered the booth, and 
pressed to the very front of the table. Papa remained at the en- 
trance of the booth, and mamma stood just within it, behind Hetty, 
who seemed to think that Bertie was as much concerned in the affair 
as any of us. There was a little fruit-boy in the tent who had placed 
his basket of oranges upon one of the toyman's empty boxes, and was 
eagerly regarding the display before him. There were other children 
in the booth, but our party chiefly engaged the toyman's attention, 
and he handed out one thing after another to our eager looks and words. 
As papa and mamma declined interfering with our purchases in the 
booth, we had to make our own choice. Maurice speedily possessed 
himself of a small brass trumpet, which he thrust into his pocket, and 
turned to bargain for a Chinese tumbler which he greatly fancied. 

As for me, my v/hole mind was engrossed by a puppet which the 
toyman exhibited, a quaint figure clad in a long robe, with a peaked 
cap over his sharp features. He moved his eyes about, and raised 
his arms ; and when, at length, he addressed me in a very sharp voice, 
( ' Won't you buy me, my little master, to be your faithful servant V 
I could hesitate no longer, and though it took the greater part of my 
crown to make the purchase, I made it boldly — as much to the de- 
light of Maud and Maurice as my own — and was the proud owner of 
the wonderful puppet. 

Maud bought a very pretty work-box — a choice which I fancied 
mamma approved more than she did mine ; but she did not say so. 
Fanny was made perfectly happy by the exchange of her bright shil- 
ling for a woolly lamb mounted upon wheels. I bought a bright 
wicker rattle for the baby, which delighted him very much. We 
should have willingly lingered in this booth, but papa now told us 
that it was time to go to our lunch in Milford Park, to which we all 
gladly consented. 

Itixm far Ikrtie. 


** ^Plffllifflif^l WISH somebody would tell me a story !" 

Bertie was lying upon his little couch-bed, with 
eyes so bright and wide-open it was very plain to 
see there was no sleep in them, although it was past 
his bed-time. I was sitting by him quietly reading 
a volume of poems, and took no notice of his half-petulant, half-plead- 
ing exclamation. Presently it was repeated : 

''• I do wish somebody would tell me a story, Aunt Marimilie !" 

" Well, Bertie T 

" I wish you would, Marimilie ; I really do. Couldn't you tell me 
just one f 

" If I tell you just one, won't you ask for just one more ?" 

" No, indeed I won't ; I'll go to sleep right off," the child promised 
eagerly. " But tell a long one, Marimilie." 

So I told him a recollection of my own childhood which just then 
flitted across my mind. Someway, they always interest him, these 
simple stories of scenes I have really passed through myself, even 
more than the stories I read to him from books. So I tell him 
many of them. I was reading that most beautiful poem of Mrs. 
Browning's, " Isobel's Child," and thinking, as I read, of a letter I had 
lately received from my sister Lizzie,which told of anxious night- 
watchings by her rick child, and many heart-aches in the fear that it 
would die. And I thought how strange it was that Lizzie should now 
be a mother, full of cares for her baby, when such a short while ago, 
as it seems to me, she was a romping girl, the ringleader in all child- 


new-year's day at rose hill. 21 

ish mischief, and often getting me into trouble on account of her wild 

I remember once — it was in the Christmas holidays, though the 
weather was mild and warm — that Lizzie and I were playing together 
under the back piazza in the old Rockville House. The piazza was 
supported by tall columns of brick, and the long, brick-floored space 
beneath it was a favourite play -room for the children. It was dry 
and clean, and the piazza floor made a roof; so we were very fond of 
having play-houses there, bringing out our dolls, and making little 
parties. We often got a piece of rope and tied to the beams of the 
floor above, for a swing. The swing did not have a very lofty sweep, 
it is true, and very often " broke down in the middle," but we en- 
joyed it quite as much perhaps as if it had been a proper swing 
made to order. 

This afternoon Lizzie and I were making a swing with very un- 
promising materials. We had a short piece of rope only half long 
enough for the swing, and we pieced out the other half with a string 
of twine and a rail that had dropped out of the piazza fence. It was 
a very ingenious contrivance, we thought, but neither of us cared to 
test its strength first. 

" You are the lightest," argued Lizzie ; " so you get hi first, and 
try it." 

" But I don't want to — I'm afraid," I said, holding back. 
. " Nonsense ! what's the use of being afraid 1" said Lizzie. " We 
might as well not have made it, if nobody's going to swing. Do 
get in !" 

And so I did get in at last, with considerable fear and trembling. 
It seemed to bear up, though, right bravely, so we were encouraged, 
and Lizzie gave me a pretty hard push to set the swing going. But 
bah ! as soon as it was moved, the whole machine came to pieces, and 
I was thrown out a yard beyond it, face downwards on the hard brick 
pavement. There was a hurrying of feet to the spot, and a bewilder- 
ing commotion around me, as some one lifted me upon my feet. The 
great force of the fall coming upon my forehead, stunned me for a time, 
but I recovered from that, and awoke to the consciousness of a great 


swelling pain upon my brow.. It was frightfully bruised, and over 
my left eye the flesh had swelled into such a huge kuot that I could 
scarcely open the eye. . 

They carried me to my mother, who was sitting in the parlour 
with Minerva Davidson, a young lady who had called on her that 
afternoon. Both of them sprang up in astonishment, as Aunt Nelly 
brought me in, followed by Lizzie, frightened and crying. 

" My child ! what have you done V exclaimed mother in alarm ; 
and she took me up on her lap to examine my face. Minerva David- 
son drew near too, to look at me, and then started back with affected 

" Good heavens !" she said. " What a little fright you have made 
of yourself! Such a bunged-up eye ! Where in the world have you 
been, child ?" 

No one answered the coarse and unfeeling speech, but a glance of 
indignant scorn flashed from my mother's eyes, that made the girl 
shrink ; and for the rest of the visit she was treated with such chilling 
politeness, that she took her departure very soon. She was a cousin, 
I believe, of one of mothers dearest friends, Mrs. Mines, and did 
not live in Rockville, but was visiting her cousin for a few weeks. 
She had brought an invitation for mother from Mrs. Mines, to spend 
New- Year's day at Rose Hill. The invitation included Kitty and 
myself, and I was very anxious to know if I should be allowed to go ; 
for I loved Mrs. Mines, and Kitty and I were always delighted with a 
visit at Rose Hill. 

But mother looked doubtfully at my bruised and swollen eye. " I 
don't think it would be best for you to go, my little daughter," she 
said. " There will be many other guests at Rose Hill, and you will 
be mortified and ashamed to appear before them all, looking so." 

" It is n't my fault that I look so !" I exclaimed bitterly, and I 
turned away sobbing with mortification and disappointment. Mother 
drew me back to her, and kissed me tenderly. " I know it is n't your 
fault, darling, only your misfortune; and I wished to keep you at 
home only to save you from pain. But if you really wdnt to go, you 
shall go. So don't cry any more." 

new-year's day at rose hill. 23 

She spoke so kindly and lovingly that I was ashamed of my crying, 
and threw my arms round her and kissed her with a sort of penitent 
love, before I went off to build houses with Kitty. Next morning 
was New- Year's day, and soon after breakfast was over, the carriage 
came to the door to take us to Rose Hill. Kitty and I were in such 
merry spirits that we could not sit quietly upon the seat at all, but 
must kneel upon the cushions to look out of the front w'v low. So 
we saw the white gate, and the avenue of poplars still and tall, and 
the elms before the pretty Rose Hill, before mother and father did ; 
and we clapped our hands delightedly, and called to Uncle Joe to 
drive very, very fast, which he did, so that we were soon at the end 
of the long avenue, and just before the door of the house. Mrs. 
Mines met us at the door, and said, " How do you do ?" and wished us 
" happy New-Year," all in the same breath. She kissed Kitty and 
me, but she gave me the tenderest kiss, because she pitied me for 
having had to suffer so much pain. Minerva Davidson kissed Kitty, 
but not me. 

By and bye, after some other ladies and gentlemen came, Mrs. 
Mines sent Kitty and me to the study, where she said we might play 
as much as we liked. The study was a large room with tall curtained 
windows, and book-shelves from floor to ceiling. At one end was a 
great blazing fire-place, and somewhere near that corner was a certain 
box filled with toy-houses and trees, that Mrs. Mines always gave us 
to play with when we went to Rose Hill. Beside the box of toys we 
found this morning two mysterious little packages, done up in pink 
tissue-paper. One was for me and one for Kitty, Mrs. Mines 
said ; so we opened them eagerly, and found two dear little work- 
boxes, just about as long as my hand, lined with crimson silk, and 
fitted up with every thing needful. We were very much delighted 
with them, of course, and thanked Mrs. Mines very much for such 
pretty gifts. 

We sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire with all our treasures, 
end played together a long time with great satisfaction. When we 
were tired of building houses, we ate apples and nuts which Mrs. 
Mines sent in for us j and we were roasting chestnuts, and laughing 


merrily to hear them snap, when Minerva Davidson came into the 
room, and sat down on the floor amongst our toys. I remembered 
how she had mocked and laughed at me after my fall yesterday, and 
I was a shy, sensitive child, so I shrank away from her, and held down 
my head that she might not see my face. But she noticed me im- 
mediately, the more for that reason, I suppose. 

" What are you hanging your head for, as if you were ashamed of 
yourself?" she asked rudely, and she stooped down and looked in my 
face with a scornful laugh. " You miserable little bung-eyed thing," 
she said, with a sort of contemptuous pity," why did n't you stay 
at home with such a face as that 1 What in the world do you come 
out for T 

" Because she chose to !" exclaimed Kitty passionately, confront- 
ing Minerva before I could speak. "And you let my sister alone, 
you bad girl ! I'll tell my mother of you if you make her cry !" 

I was crying already, as much on account of Kitty's warm-hearted 
defence of me as for Minerva's cruel speeches ; and Kitty, quite en- 
raged at the sight of my distress, ran up to Minerva and struck her 
furiously with her little hand, bursting into angry tears herself. We 
threw our arms around each other and cried together, Kitty flashing 
glances of angry defiance through her tears at the " bad girl," who sat 
looking at us in equal amusement and wonderment. Presently she 
jumped up and ran away, laughing with infinite glee. 

" I hate her !" said Kitty fiercely, after she was gone. " It was so 
mean to make fun of you, Mamie, just as if you could help getting 

" I'm glad she's gone out," I said. 

"And she sha'n't come in any more," Kitty added. " I'll tell Mrs. 
Mines if she does. She spoiled all our play, and upset our village too. 
Just see ! we'll have to build it all over again, Mamie." 

We set to work to rebuild our fallen village, and busying ourselves 
thus, we grew quiet again, and almost forgot our little storm with 
Minerva. Getting weary of the toys, we hunted for a pretty book* 
and when we found " Edward and Miriam," we sat down together 
with our arms round each other, and read from the same book. We 



loved each other very dearly, Kitty and I, and this was always the 
way we liked to read, or study our lessons. When Kitty finished the 
page first, she waited for me, and then we turned over the leaf together 
and read on. So we were reading very happily and contentedly, when 
the door opened and Minerva appeared again. 

(conclusion in ous next.) 

HUto a lift %\t\\ + 


My mother's hands, so white and fair, 

Lay softly on my head ; 
As, teaching me my earliest prayer, 

" Our Father," low she said. 
" Our Father," said I reverently, 

And so unto "Amen" — 
Albeit the holy prayer for me 

Had little import then. 

My mother's hands lie folded still, 

Like marble hands, at rest, 
Unstirred by any trembling thrill 

From her white, pulseless breast. 
" Our Father !" say I brokenly, 

With pale, uplifted brow ; 
" I kneel in my despair to Thee, 

My only refuge now !" 

% Sfl1t|J- 


Twilight dews are softly falling 

On the flowerets sweet ; 
Summer breezes lightly calling 

To the arbour's calm retreat, 
Where each bud has closed its petal, 

Heavy with the pearly dew 
And the poor despised beetle 

Sweetly slumbers too. 

While the twilight dews are falling, 

And all nature is asleep 
I the sweet past am recalling 

Up from memory's misty deep. 
As the fair moon, brightly beaming, 

Gilds the sleeping world and sea, 
I of thee, sweet friend, am dreaming, 

Moonlight dreams of thee ! 


ONCE on a time, a shepherd lived 
Within a cottage small ; 
The grey thatched roof was shaded hy 

An elm-tree dark and tall ; 
While all around stretched far away 

A wild and lonesome moor, 
Except a little daisied field 
Before the trellised door. 

Now it was on a cold March day, 

When on the moorland wide 
The shepherd found a trembling lamb 

By its dead mothers side ; 
And so pitiful it bleated, 

As with the cold it shook, 
He wrapped it up beneath his coat, 

And home the poor lamb took. 

He placed it by the warm fireside, 
And then his children fed 

This little lamb, whose mother died. 
With milk and sweet brown bread, 

Until it ran about the floor, 
Or at the door would stand; 

And grew so tame it ate its food 
From out the children's hand. 

It followed them where'er they went, 

Came ever at their call, 
And dearly was this pretty lamb 

Beloved by them all. 
And often on a market-day, 

When cotters crossed the moor, 
They stopped to praise this snow-white lamb 

Beside the cottage door ; 
They patted it upon its head, 

And stroked it with the hand, 
And vowed it was the prettiest lamb 

They'd seen in all the land. 



past n. 

"YTOW this kind shepherd was as ill, 

■i- ' As ill as he could be, 

And kept his bed for many a week, 

And nothing earm'd he ; 
And when he had got well again, 

He to his wife did say, 
"The doctor wants his money, and 

I have n't it to pay. 

" "What shall we do, what can we do ? 

The doctor's made me well. 
There's only one thing can be done : 

"We must the pet lamb sell. 
"We've eaten nearly all the bread, 

And how can we get more, 
Unless you call the butcher in 

When he rides by the door?" 

" Oh, do not sell my white pet lamb," 
Then little Mary said, 

"And every night Til go up stairs 

Without my tea to bed ; 
For if the butcher buys my lamb, 

He"ll take away its life, 
And make its pretty white throat bleed 

With his sharp, cruel knife ; 

"And never in the morning light 

Again it will me meet, 
Nor come again to lick my hand, 

Look up to me and bleat. 
Oh, do not sell my sweet pet lamb 1 

And if you'll let it live, 
The best half of my bread and milk 

I will unto it give." 
The doctor at that very time 

Entered the cottage door, 
As, with her arms around her lamb, 

She sat upon the floor. 



PART ni. 

* TSTHY do you weep, my pretty girl ?" 

" * The. doctor then did say. 
"Because I love my little lamb, 

Which must be sold to-day. 
It lies beside my bed at night; 

And, oh, it is so still ! 
It never made a bit of noise 

When father was so ill. 

" Oh, do not let them sell my lamb, 

And then I'll go to bed, 
And never ask for aught to eat 

But a small piece of bread." 
"I'll buy the lamb and give it you, 11 

The kind, good doctor said, 
"And with the money that I pay 

Tour father can buy bread. 

"As for the bill, that can remain 

Until another year." 
He paid the money down, and said, 

" The lamb is yours, my dear ; 

Tou have a kind and gentle heart, 

And God, who made us all, 
He loveth well those who are kind 

To creatures great and small ; 

"And while I live, my little girl, 

Tour lamb shall not be sold, 
But play with you upon the moor, 

And sleep within the fold." 
And so the white pet lamb was saved, 

And played upon the moor, 
And after little Mary ran 

About the cottage floor. 

It fed upon the cowslips tall, 

And ate the grass so sweet, 
And on the little garden walk 

Pattered its pretty feet; 
And with its head upon her lap 

The little lamb would lay 
Asleep beneath the elm-tree^ shade, 

Upon the summer's day, 
While she twined flowers around its neck, 

And called it her " Sweet May." 

fliu fa Utah* iraerik 

RAKING presents is a very mercenary business," 
said a young lady, one day. " People give 
to those who give to them in return ; and 
they are careful to see that their gift is just 
as valuable as the one they receive." 

" Is that your idea of making presents ?" 
I replied. " Mine is wonderfully different. 
I give sometimes, I know, from a motive 
which might be called selfish ; but I do not 
reproach myself much for it. I mean the 
pleasure I derive from seeing other people 
pleased and made happy. I enjoy it much 
more than the one receiving the gift does, / 

" Oh, I never know what will please peo- 
jte. pie ! How can I tell what they want or 
like 1 I don't know how to make presents." 
" I believe you," I remarked. " You, who 
can see in a gift nothing but the money 
which it cost you or some one else, do not know how to make gifts. 
You lack the natural perception which would make the one receiving 
the gift feel herself to be conferring a favour by accepting the proffered 
article. You are not, apparently, capable of the delicacy, combined 
with generosity, which it requires to become a graceful and acceptable 

" You are very severe, Mrs. Manners." 

" You have exposed yourself to severity, my dear, by your remarks 
first made. You know the old saying about 'judging others by your- 
self.' I never have that coarse, uncomfortable feeling about presents. 



I am not given to expecting them. If I receive them, I give credit to 
the kindly feeling of a friend who has sought to give me a pleasure ; 
if they do not come, I cannot feel badly — I had no right to expect 
them ; a thousand things might have prevented my friend from giving 
me any thing. Indeed, I don't try to account for their not coming, for I 
don't miss them. I think it simple and indelicate to be looking for 
such things. If you are always expecting them, you can never have 
the agreeable pleasure of a surprise in receiving them. Your man- 
ner, when you do receive them, loses all the grace which an agreeable 
surprise gives to it. You feel constrained, because you wish to 
appear surprised, and are not ; and the expression of thanks comes 
awkwardly. I very much dislike to hear people say, 'So and so 
ought to give me something. I made her a present at Christmas, or 
on her birthday, and I shall expect one from her.' That is mercenary 
and unladylike." • 

" Well, somehow, when I give presents, it always seems as if they 
were expected, and criticised as to their expensiveness, etc." 

" Oh, how unfortunate you are in your heart if it is capable of con- 
ceiving such things ! You must have this way of acting and thinking, 
if you are so ready to suspect others of it." 

" Well, I might as well tell the truth. I make presents to free 
myself from obligations." 

" I thought so ; you need not have confessed it. You give with a 
mercenary feeling ; you see nothing else, therefore, in the whole sys- 
tem of giving." 

" Yes ; if I have been staying a little while with a friend, I feel as 
if I ought to give her some little return for the comforts and conve- 
niences of her house — " 

"And not daring to offer money, you give her a present. There 
is a propriety in making gifts at such a time, but those gifts are no 
return for the expense you may have put your friend to. You should 
not thus consider it. They are simply an expression of your sense 
of her kindness, which mere money could never repay ; therefore 
they must never be considered as representing money. They repre- 
sent your feeling of grateful consideration for your friend ; and, un- 


less the gift is to supply something which she has no need of, or 
could buy with more acceptance for herself a hundred times over, it 
has, in the eyes of the one receiving it, an entirely different value 
from any that money could give it. Very small, contemptibly little, 
is the mind which regards the making of presents as a mercenary busi- 
ness. I advise you to disabuse yourself of the idea as soon as possi- 
ble, and take a wider and more refined view of the case. Consider, 
in purchasing the article, its price, etc., when the state of your purse 
renders it necessary, for you must ' be just before you are generous ;' 
but consider chiefly the pleasure you are about to give, and you will 
find it a delightful thing, a very luxury, to be able to make presents. 
The Bible says ' it is more blessed to give than to receive.' Every 
right-minded and right-hearted person has felt this a hundred times." 

" But, Mrs. Manners, I have but little pocket-money. I have no 
right to use my father's mffney for others, for, you know, he is far from 
being a rich mau. I really need all the allowance he makes me. I 
cannot dress at all elegantly, or indeed properly, on less." 

"And therefore you do not consider it your duty to make presents; 
is that if? That is a sorry subterfuge. What merit is it to do any 
thing for a person which costs you no personal sacrifice? If you 
have time to throw away, it is no evidence of your friendship that you 
visit your friends often. If you have an overflowing purse, it is no love 
for them — no particular evidence of it, I mean — that you spend ten 
or twenty dollars of money that you have no use for, in making them 
a present. Deny yourself some coveted article of dress, if your small 
income will prevent your making presents otherwise ; such self-denial 
makes your dollar equal, in real value, to fifty from a full purse. 
Some of the most acceptable presents that I have ever received, came 
from a person who had necessarily to practise a rigid economy ; and 
these gifts were her own handiwork — chiefly beautiful embroidery for 
myself or my children." 

" Oh, I never think of doing such things ! I get very little time 
for fine work, you know ; I have to go out so much, and see so much 
company, etc. I would often, to tell the truth, make presents when 
I do not ; but I know I cannot give as costly things as most of my 


friends can, and I am not willing to be mortified by seeing every one 
else surpassing me in that respect." 

" That remark is not very creditable, my dear. ' To be seen of 
men ' is a miserable motive for doing a thing ; and, if you apply it 
to your friend, you are almost insulting. It is the same as saying that 
she values every thing for the money it costs, and not for the love it 
expresses. When my brother-in-law, Frank, was quite a lad, I spent 
Christmas- day at my father-in-law's. Scores of gifts were exchanged 
in the family. I was the oldest of all the daughters and daughters-in- 
law, and had, in various ways, received many elegant presents. 
Frank had a little gift ready for every one of the family except my- 
self. Some one remarked the omission, which, you will admit, was 
quite noticeable. 

" ' Oh,' said Frank, ' I could not think, of offering sister C. any 
thing. She has so many elegant articles, that mine would not be 
worth looking at.' 

" He said it before me, and I replied : 

" ' Frank, I did not think you would judge me so meanly as to 
think I prized a present because it was costly or specially elegant. 
Every one of these things,' pointing to my share of the Christmas 
gifts, ' tells me of the love of the dear brothers and sisters here, not 
of dollars and cents. I prize Amy's pincushion just as much as 
Fred's inlaid work-box, for I know little Amy loves me as much as 
he does ; and this pretty little pincushion is as much for her to give 
as the box is for him.' " 

" Our family have been differently brought up from yours, Mrs. 
Manners. We were all taught the habit of buying what we needed 
for ourselves, and of looking out for our own comfort." 

"And this has given you your mistaken and small ideas of things, my 
child. With us, how different it has been ! We have all had to study 
economy as much as in your family, but we have, at the same time, in 
every way studied each other's comfort, peculiar likings, etc. Why, 
I never see a special coloured satin much fancied by my mother, but 
I begin to consider whether I cannot give her a bonnet or dress of it ; 
and every new basket of a graceful form reminds me of Fan, who 


has a particular affection for beautiful baskets. This early-formed 
habit of affectionate consideration has come to make it a necessity of 
my life to make presents. I, too, have a limited income, and I know 
if I do give mother the dress, I must go without something myself in 
order to do it. But I forget, entirely, that I wanted the article put 
aside as not to be purchased, in the pleasure of thinking of mother's 
agreeable surprise. How much you lose in not knowing any thing of 
the luxury — I can call it nothing else — of being thus able to please 
your friends, and of calling yourself frequently to their memory, as 
they look at, use, or wear your gifts !" 

' ; I heard Jane Cross say, the other day, that she was principled 
against making presents — she considered it ridiculous and vulgar. I 
then said that I quite agreed with her ; but I am beginning to change 
my mind, Mrs. Manners. I think I will make some gifts on your 
principle, and see if it is not a more agreeable practice." 

" Neither Jane Cross, nor any other person who is in the habit of re- 
ceiving, has any right to make such a remark about giving. If one asserts 
a principle against giving, she must, to be in any manner consistent, get 
up a principle against receiving. I heard a very distinguished gentle- 
man say, a few days since, ' I receive freely my friends' favours, and I 
give freely again, whenever I have it in my power to do so. I should 
lose the chief pleasure of living, if I lived only for myself.' And 
truly to him, doing for others is a chief part of his life. I knew he 
spoke the truth, and that his name, like that of Ben-Adhim, in the 
Eastern legend, might well lead all others ; so truly did he live out 
of himself, and for the good of those around him." 

%\t °§xMw'b €m£X> 

OME all of you, dear young readers, into the corner 
which the Eiddler has chosen as his own, and exer 
cise your talent and your tact in discovering the key 
to the various mysteries he has to propose. It is 
a pleasant and not an unprofitable pastime, for it 
quickens the imagination and strengthens the judg- 
ment. Great men have not scorned to ask or to 
answer riddles, and we know of none who pro- 
nounce them vain and foolish, except those who 
lack wit enough to solve them. Many persons at- 
tempt to disguise their ignorance by affecting a 
scorn of useful knowledge. 
Who of you will be the first to discover the true nature of 


I offer you, first, an indefinite article — 

(Take care, I beseech you, and lose not a particle.) 

The head of a hammer my next gift shall be, 

With the uppermost sprig of an apricot tree ; 

The ends of a root that is good to be eaten, 

And the last of what sometimes deserves to be beaten ; 

The outside of a nut, but yet not its rind ; 

The end of what many are trying to find ; 

The beginning of sorrow — (if you do n't like to take it, 

The tail of a talkative bird you may make it ;) 

An end that to-morrow will be a beginning ; 

The head and the front of the cause of man's sinning. 

The next thing I give you lies now in your hand, 

And the last is the head of the thing I have planned 

As a gift of the season ; made up of all these, 

Which, if rightly divined, must every one please. 



The following enigma was laid over from last year's store. It is 
sent by A. B. K., of Connecticut. 


I 'm red or yellow, white or blue, 
Or even black may be ; 

Ay, any colour you can view, 
You '11 find, perchance, in me. 

Not glass more brittle is than I, 
But, if you will transpose me, 

I 'm tough the tempest to defy, 
And every body knows me. 

We are very happy to receive from Inez (our long-time beloved 
correspondent) the following pretty charade, with a kind promise of 
more in the future. 


Onyx, jasper, ruby, pearl — 

All a gleam of brightness lend 
To form a gem, dear little girl, 

In which their purest colours blend, 
And with fitful splendour vary. 
What its name is, tell me, Mary. 

A new contributor sends us the following 


One arm alone mj first can show, • 

And never had another ; 
My second is some one you know, 

Say, if you will, your brother. 
My third is something good to eat, 
And, altogether, I 'm a treat. 

What kind of a peddler is a horse 1 

What kind of sculpture would you properly consider food 1 
Why are schoolboys' knuckles like good subjects ? 
Why is a curate in search of a place like a sailor ? 
By what rule would you keep a ship's journal in verse ? 

We hope to receive answers to all the foregoing in season for our 
next number ; and we take this occasion to invite our readers, every- 
where, to enter into the pleasing competition of solving the riddles 
and enigmas in this department, assuring them that our interest in it 
will increase with their own. 

%\t jlrijoolfrlloto's %Mmi Stesap 

It has been our custom ever 
since this Magazine was estab 
lished to deliver a short message 
to its little readers at the open- 
ing of each year. We see no 
T' good reason for setting aside this 
BlFcustoin, and, therefore, we send 
^=lfii=E this our Message for 1854, to the 
HP** wide-spread circle of young peo- 
ple who constitute the School- 
fellow's Congress. 

We enter upon the New Year with bright hopes and pleasing prospects. The 
publishers of our little work are most liberal in their feelings towards it — willing 
to incur any reasonable expense which will increase its real merit, and resolved 
that it shall not fail of the highest possible degree of success from omissions on 
their part. Our own continued and increasing attachment to the work will be 
taken for granted by those who have known and loved it for years — and we shall 
soon make it evident to all our new friends and readers. 

We are to have the aid of " Cousin Alice " during the present year, and besides 
her and our own contributions, those of Mrs. Manners, Mary EL, Caroline Howard 
and Miss Cheesboro, will form the principal contents of the volume. We shall 
have occasional articles from other former contributors, and the more frequent 
they are, the more gratified shall we be. 

The two stories commenced in this number, " Sedgemoor," by Mrs. Manners, 
and " Child-Life in England," will be continued from month to month until 
they are completed. We cannot doubt that they will afford much pleasure to 
our readers. In like manner, the " Stories for Bertie," from the graceful pen of 
Mary E., will extend into a series— though each one is complete in itself. 

You, dear readers, can encourage and aid us in our labours in a very effectual 
manner, and without trouble to yourselves. Show this number to your playmates 
and to your companions, and persuade them to take the work for the year 1854. 
Do this at onee, if you would testify your love for the Magazine. Do it before 
the February number is published. Do it the very week — the very day — this 
new and beantiful copy of the work comes into your hands. You will love it 
more for helping it, and you will read it with more delight for the recollection 
that you gave us a token of your kind wishes at the very beginning of the New 
Year. Since all prosperity and true pleasure come to us from the band of our 
Father in heaven, let us all resolve that we will seek His favour, and direction, 
and blessing, throughout the year upon which we now enter. 

flflks far §Mug !§ta$h. 






ROUTLEDGE, BOGUE, and others of London. 



697 Broadway, New York, 

(Next to corner of Fourth-street.) 

|Ufo $00hs hx § cog $)MpI*. 




Beg leave to announce to the trade and to the public, that they intend to devote 
particular attention to the Publication and Importation of Books for the 
Young. They have made arrangements with well known American authors for 
a series of Books, which will be issued under the superintendence of the Editor 
of that popular Juvenile Magazine, "The Schoolfellow." The Books will be 
printed and illustrated in a superior style, and will appear as rapidly as a due 
regard to their getting up will warrant. 

The following are now in active preparation, and others will be speedily 
announced : 

I. Pleasure and Profit ; ) 

Or, Lessons on the Lord's Prayer in a Series of Stories. By Mrs. Manners. 

II. The Pet Bird, and other Tales. 

By "Cousin Alice," Author of "No such Word as Fail," &c, &c. 

III. Fairy Land, and other Stories. 

By Caroline Howard. 

IV. Harry's Vacation ; 

Or, The Science of Amusement. By W. C. Eichards. 

V. How to Behave. 

By Mrs. Manners. 

VI. Cousin Alice's Letters to Kate. 

By Mrs. Alice B. Neal. 

VII. The Marble Lamb, and other Poems. 

By Two Sisters. 

VIII. Cousin Leila's Stories in Prose and Verse. 
IX. The Story Wreath. 

By Miss C. W. Barber. 

X. Harry and Herbert in Town. 

By the Author of " Harry's Vacation." 




in a $txm 0f Stow. 












oto t0 $ijjilfrt. 


Author of "Pleasure and Profit," etc 

illustrate bs Srtrtnl g*auttful (JjAjytfrtajs, 

" The Best and Cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States. " 


The undersigned invite the attention of Parents, Teachers and Guardians of Youth 

everywhere, to their popular Maoazine for Girls and Rots, entitled 




The work has been in existence for four years, during which time it has acquired a 
degree of popularity and fame unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, and has 
freqently been pronounced by the press, both North and South, " The best and cheapest 
Juvenile Magazine in the United States." 


Is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and aims at 
the cultivation of the heart, as well as of the mind. It is an original magazine, and its 
articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for the young in the 
country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Richards, it will continue under his general super- 
inteudance, but he will have the constant aid of " Cousin Alice," [Mrs. Alice B. Neal.] 
the popular author of the "Home Books," whose name alone is a talisman to command 
the love and favour of children. They will be supported by a large number of favour- 
ite writers — among whom are Mrs. Gilman, Caroline Howard, Miss Bates, Miss 
Tuthill, Mrs. Hentz, Mrs. W. C. Richards, Miss Cheeseboro, " Mary E.," Miss C W. 
Barber, etc. 


Of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skilful artists, and are 
unequalled in variety and beauty by those of any other juvenile magazine. 

The Numbers are issued punctually on the first of every month, and each contains 
32 pages and several engravings, printed on the finest paper, and in the best style. Its 
price is 


Clubs are supplied on the following terms : — Five copies to one address, $4 ; 
Ten copies, $T. All Postmasters are empowered and requested to make up " Clubs" 
upon these terms. 


For 1849, 1850, 1851, and 1852, maybe had, neatly bound in gilt muslin, at $1 25 
each, or they will be supplied in connection with the present volume, for Five dollars. 
All business communications should be addressed, post paid, to . 


Specimen Numbers sent gratis on application to Publishers. 


" We can recommend it as one well calculated to interest and enlighten the rising generation."— 
Jeffersonian Republican . 

" A beautiful little magazine. Its contents are very nicely adapted to the age and capacity of 
youth, and are of a pleasing and elevating character."— Syracuse Journal. 

" It is a perfect gem in the way of print and illustrations. If all parents paid proper attention to 
the reading of their little ones, and awakened in them a love of books by furnishing them with tales 
and sprightly miscellanies such as this, we should have few such precocious men and women as 
some of our young friends we know of." — Godey's Lady's Book. 

"We call the attention of those who need to purvey mental aliment for the young to this maga- 
zine. The names of the editors will be a guaranty of the skilful adaptation of the work to show for 
whom it is designed, and also of its sound moral tendency." — N. Y- Recorder. 

" The work is cheap, and a dollar thus invested will pay a better interest than twenty times that 
amount otherwise paid for the amusement of the young." — Temperance Advocate. 

" It is an original magazine, and its articles are prepared by many of the best writers for the 
young in the country." — Vermont Statesman. 

"Filled with the choicest of juvenile reading." — Telegraph. 

" Replete with matter which is at once pleasant and instructive. A delightful periodical for 
youth." — Saratoga Whig. 

" Every youth from five to fifteen should be in possession of it." — Citizen. 

" The reading matter is of the right sort." — News. 

"No family, where children are, should be without it." — Telegraph. 

"It is well calculated to encourage the young to aspire to excellence and fame. It is both enter- 
taining and instructive, and is unsurpassed by any magazine of its kind." — Com. Jldvertiser. 

"Confessedly the best juvenile work in the country." — Gazette. 

" A lively miscellany of decided merit, from the pens of some of our best writers for children. It 
is pervaded by a wholly moral tone, and deserves an increase of its already extensive circulation." 
— Evangelical Catholic. 

" It is varied, pleasing and instructive." — MiiTor. 

" If we had our way, it should be in the hands of every child in the country." — Norfolk Daily News. 

"Worthy of confidence and support, and is replete with matter which is at once pleasant and 
instructive. It is a periodical for the youth of our land." — Advocate. 

" The reading is of the very kind to interest the juvenile mind, and instruct it, at the same time 
that the fascination of its pages begets and cultivates a most healthy thirst for reading." — Hagers- 
town News. 

" It is inferior to none. Its pure moral tone, its healthy cheerfulness, and its really amusing 
matter, in its stories, charades, and enigmas, must recommend it to all." — New Haven Palladium. 

"A most pleasant companion, as well as instructive monitor. Its contributors embrace writers 
of fine ability, and its articles are especially suited to the intellect and moral nature of children. 
We should like to see it in the hands of every boy and girl, because we think it would produce 
desirable results. — Norfolk News. 

" Those who purchase books for village and family libraries, will find that hardh' any will be in 
such constant use as bound volumes of such magazines as contain a pleasing variety. We may 
name as an illustration, The Schoolfellow. Its volumes form an inexhaustible mine. The young 
reader explores in a random way, again and again. There is always a chance for some new discov- 
ery. Indeed, we know of no book so permanently attractive to the young as the volumes of this 
magazine." — Weekly Mirror. 

" It is brim full of interest for the young reader." — Painsville Telegraph. 

" One of the few excellent periodicals for young people which ought to have a wide circulation." 
■ — Democrat. 

" We have examined the work carefully, and we recommend it to the support of parents who 
desire to minister to the instruction of their children." — Republican 

" Its well-stored pages inculcate lessons of morality in a pleasant imperceptible way, and cannot 
be perused without profit, both in a literary and moral point of view." — Danville Democrat. 

*** Specimen numbers furnished gratis on application to the Publishers, 





E. & B. would direct attention to the stock of 

For sale at their store, comprising the most Attractive Illustrated Books 
published ; including the Publications of Messrs. Addey & Co., David Bogue, 
Routledge, and others, of London ; some of them they are importing in quantities. 

Harry's Ladder to Learning ; 

In Progressive Steps. The Picture Book — The Horn Book — Nursery Songs 
— Nursery Tales — Simple Stories — Country Walks. Illustrated by 230 en- 
gravings. Neatly bound in cloth, $1.00 ; with plates, coloured, $1.75. 

The Home Primer; 

"With nearly two hundred Illustrations. Crown 8vo., plates coloured 75 c, 
plain. 31 c. 

The Boy's Own Book ; 

A complete Encyclopedia of all the Diversions, Athletic, Scientific and 
Recreative, of Boyhood and Youth. With several hundred Wood cuts. 
New edition, greatly enlarged and improved, handsomely bound. $2.50. • 

Grimm's Household Stories ; 

The celebrated Stories of the Brothers Grimm. Complete Edition. Em- 
bellished with 200 small and 36 full page Illustrations. 2 vols, crown 8vo. 

The Picture Pleasure Book ; 

Containing 500 fflustrations by the most eminent artists. Large 4to. $1,50. 

The Little Sister; 

With sixteen Illustrations by H. J. Schneider. Oblong 4to., cloth, gilt 
edges, $2.00 ; coloured, plates, $3.00. 

English Juveniles in quantities. 

Naughty Boys and Naughty Girls ; 

Comic Tales and coloured Pictures, by Dr. Julius Bahr. 4to in Picture 
Binding. 15c. 

Funny Leaves for the Younger Branches ; 

By the Baron Krakensides, of Burstenoudelafen Castle. Illustrated by 
Alfred Crowquill. Coloured Plates. 4to. 15 c. 

Kit Bam the British Sinbad ; 

Or the Tarns of an Old Mariner. By Mary Cowden Clarke. "With Illus- 
trations by Geobge Ceuikshank. Pcap. 8vo. cloth. $1.25. 
"A more captivating volume for juvenile recreative reading we never remember to have 
seen.'' — Standard of Freedom. 

" Cruikshank's Illustrations are worthy of his genius. Here is a giant and a dwarf which 
he could never have drawn, if he had not lived in fairy -land." — London Examiner. 

A Laughter Book for Little Folk ; 

Prom the German, by Madame de Chatelain - . Eighteen lajge coloured 
Comic Engravings. 4to. Picture binding. 15c. 

Picture-Book for Young People ; 

With about fifty large Pictures, with descriptions. 4to. neatly bound, $1.50 
cloth; coloured. $3.00. 

The Playmate ; 

A Pleasant Companion for Spare Hours. Tales, Historical Sketches, Natural 
History, Amusements, &c. Complete in one volume, with numerous Illus- 
trations. $1.50 cloth. 

Original Poems for my Children ; 

Including the Story of the Babes in the Wood. By Thomas Miller. "With 
numerous Engravings by B. Postee. 15c. cloth. 

Acting Charades; 

Or Deeds not "Words. A Christmas Game, to make a long evening short. 
By the Brothers Mayhew. Illustrated by H. G. Huste. Small 4to. cloth 
gilt edges. $1.25. 

A Child's First Lesson Book ; 

Chiefly in words of one syllable. Illustrated with upwards of 60 Pictures. 
Square 16mo. 15c; coloured, $1.25. 

New Englkh Juveniles. 


To be Published Simultaneously, by Special Arrangement, 

The Picture Gallery ; 

Illustrated with a large number of splendid cuta. 4to. cloth. $1.00 

The Careless Chicken ; 

Illustrated by Crowqtjtll. Coloured plates. Uniform with " Funny Leaves." 

The Cat and Dog ; 
The Peacock at Home ; 
Scripture Histories ; 
The Baby Boy ; 

Showing, in an attractive manner, the employment of a day of Baby-life. Il- 
lustrated by Absalom ; 

Peep at the Pixies ; 

Illustrated by H. K. Browne. 

Songs for Children ; 

Beautifully Illustrated with numerous plates, from designs by Berelt 


Familiar Natural History. "With 42 Il- 
lustrations, by "Weir, and Descriptions 
by Mrs. Lee. Eoyal 16mo. plain, 
$1.00; coloured, $2.00. 

Or, separately, each with 7 Illustra- 
tions. Plain, 15c; coloured Plates, 
31c, viz. British Animals, 1st and 
2d Series — British Birds. Foreign 
Animals, 1st and 2d Series — Fo- 
reign Birds. 

Adventures in Australia ; or the Wander- 
ings of Capt. Spencer in the Bush and 
the "Wilds. By Mrs. Lee. With Illus- 
trations, by Prout. Fcap. 8vo. cloth. 

" This volume should find a place in every 
school library." — Educational Times. 

"Cannot fail to achieve an extensive popu- 
larity."—.^)^ Journal. 

Stories of Julian and his FlayfeUoivs. 
Written by his Mamma. Pour Illus- 
trations. 4to. 75c plain; $1.00 co'd. 

The Doll and her Friends. Four Illus- 
trations, by Phiz. Small 4to. 62c; 
coloured Plates, $1.00. 

Domestic Pets. Their Habits and Man- 
agement; with Anecdotes by Mrs. 
Loudon. Plates. Fcap. 8vo. cl. $1.00. 

Mrs. Trimmti's History of England. With 
Portraits of the Sovereigns in their 
proper costume 12mo. cl. $1.50. 

The Celestial Empire; or Points and 
Pickings of Information about China 
and the Chinese. 20 Engravings. 
Pcap. 8vo. cloth. $1.50. 

Tales from the Court of Oberon. Contain- 
ing the favourite Histories of Tom 
Thumb; Graciosa and Pereinet; Va- 
lentine and Orson ; and the Children 
in the Wood. 16 Illustrations, by 
CrowquilL Small 4to. $1.00; Plates 
coloured, $1.37. 

The Wonder Seeker; or the History of 
Charles Douglas. By M. Fraser Tytler. 
Illustrations, by Absalom. Fcap. 8vo. 
.cl. $1.00; coloured Plates, $1.50. 

Short and Simj^le Prayers for Children, 
With Hymns. 50c 

Easy Lessons ; or the Leading Strings to 
Knowledge. 3 parts. 8 Engravings. 
75c ; coloured, $1.00. 

Prince of Wales's Primer. 300 Illustra- 
tions, by Gilbert. 31c 

Facts to correct Fancies ; or Short Narra- 
tives compiled from the Biography of 
Remarkable Women. Engravings. 
$1.00; coloured, $1.37. 

Infantine Knowledge. A Spelling and 
Reading Book on a Popular Plan. 
Numerous Engravings. 75c ; Plates 
coloured, $1.00. 

Ladder to Learning. A Collection of 

Tables Original and Select. By Mrs. 

Trimmer. 79 Cuts. $1.00. 
Short Tales. Written for Children. By 

Dame True-Love. 20 Engravings. 

The Ship. A Description of different 

kinds of Vessels. Origin of Ship 

Building, &c By Rev. Isaac Taylor. 

Engravings. $1.25. 

Stories of Edward and his Little Friends. 
12 Illustrations. $1.00 ; coloured 
Plates, $1.37. 

Belzoni's Travels; or Fruits of Enter- 
prise. Engravings. $1.00. 

Mamma's Lessons, for her Little Boys 
and Girls. 75c 

Toy Books. A large Collection of Pleas- 
ing Toys for Children. Coloured Plates. 
From 6c to 37c 

ume containing about 50 Illustrations. 
31c viz. 

Funny Rhymes and Favourite Tales, 

Nursery Heroes. 

Nursery Heroines. 

Fairy Folk and Wonderful Men. 

Far-Famed Tales from the Arabian 

Aladdin and Sinlad. 
New Nwsery So?igs. 
The Little Fortune Teller, a Pastime 

in Poetry. 


Nutcracker and Sugar Dolly, and other 
Stories and Legends for Children. 40 
Illustrations. 18mo. $1.25. 

Peacock at Some. By Mrs. Dorset. 12 
Illuminated Borders. 1 6rno. gilt edges. 

Child's Little Sketch Book. A series of 
Drawing Lessons for Beginners, in 
progressive stages. 2 vols. $2.25. 

Worsley's Little Drawing Book. Consist- 
ing principally of Landscapes, in pro- 
gressive lessons. 2 vols. $2.25. 

Pictorial Bible History. Comprising near- 
ly 300 Engravings of the Principal 
Events in the Old and New Testament, 
with Descriptions. $1.75. 

Little Mary's Lesson Book. Containing 
"Primer," "Spelling," and "Reading," 
in one volume. Cloth, gilt. 75c. 

Picture Books for Children. Price 15 c- 
each, plain; 31c. coloured: — 
Harry's Horn Book. 
" Picture Book. 
" Country Walks. 
" Nursery Songs. 
" Sbiple Stories. 
" Nursery Tales. 
The Wonders of Home. By Grandfather 
Grey. Illustrated. My Cup of Tea — 
Milk Jug — Hot Water — Jenny's Sash 
— Tumbler — Piece of Sugar — Lump of 
Coal — A Pin — Harry's Jacket — A 
Knife— This Book. 16mo. cl. $1.00. 
Plates coloured, $1.25. 
Tales of School Life. By Agnes Loudon. 
Illustrations by Absalom. 16mo. cl. 
$1.00. Plates coloured, $1.25. 
The African Wanderers ; or the Adven- 
tures of Charles and Antonio. By 
Mrs. Lee. Fcap. 8vo. cl. $1.75. 
Insect Changes. With richly illuminated 
Borders, composed of Flowers and In- 
sects. Forming a first Lesson in En- 
tomology. Small 4to. $1.50. 
Pictorial French Grammar, for the use of 
Children. 80 Engravings, cloth. 62c. 

series of Works for the Young. 16mo. 
31c. each, viz. 

The Eskdale Herd Boy. By Lady 

Mrs. Leicester's School. By Charles 

and Mary Lamb. 
History of the Bobbins. By Mrs. 

Bob, the Spotted Terrier. 
Keeper's Travels in Search of his 

The Scottish Orphans. By Lady 

Never wrong and It was only in Fun. 
Life and Perambulations of a Mouse. 
Easy Introduction to the Knowledge 

of Nature. By Mrs. Trimmer. 
Eight and Wrong. By Author of 

"Always Happy." 
Harry's Holiday. By Jeffreys Tay- 
Short Poems and Hymns for Chil- 
The History of England in Verse, from the 
Norman Conquest to the reign of 
Queen Victoria. Fcap. 8vo. cl. 75c. 
Anecdotes of the Habits and Instincts of 
Birds, Fishes and Reptiles. By Mrs. 
Lee. Six Illustrations, by Weir. Fcap. 
8vo. cloth. $1.75. 
Anecdotes of the Habits aiid Instincts of 
Animals. By Mrs. Lee. Six Illus- 
trations, by Weir. Fcap. 8vo. cloth. 
Twelve Stories of the Sayings and Doings 
of Animals. By Mrs. Lee Illustra- 
tions by J. W. Archer. 16mo. cloth. 
75c. ; coloured Plates gilt edges, $1.00. 
Home Amusements. A choice collection 
of Riddles, Charades, Conundrums, 
Parlour Games, and Forfeits. By P. 
Puzzlewell. 16mo. cloth. 75c. 

Soldiers and Sailors ; or Anecdotes, De- 
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Military Life, as related to his Nephews 
by an Old Officer. 50 Engravings. 
Fcap. cloth. $1.50. 


Illustrated Ditties of the Olden Time. Beau- 
tifully illustrated. Cloth, $4; the plates 
exquisitely coloured, $6. 
The Village Queen; or, Summer in the 
Country. By Thomas Miller. Illustra- 
ted with water colour Drawings, by 
Wehnert, Absolon, Lee and Weir. 4to. 
cloth, $2.75. 
Illustrated Scripture History, for the Im- 
provement of the Young. Steel Engra- 
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Comical People. Illustrated with 16 Pic- 
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Comical Creatures from Wurtemberg : in- 
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20 Illustrations. Cloth, $1; coloured 
plates, $2. 
Jack and the Giants. Illustrated with 35 
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History of Ancient and Modem Jerusalem. 

By J. Kjtto. Cuts. 63 cents. 
Tlie Natural History of the Sacred Scrip- 
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Illustrated by upwards of 300 coloured 
Engravings. By W. T. Bicknell. 2 
vols, square 16mo. Cloth, $4.50. 
Watts' Songs. Divine and Moral Songs 
for the use of Children. By Isaac "Watts. 
30 elegant Illustrations. 8vo. Cloth. 


Napoleon Bonaparte. Sketches from his 
History. Cloth. 44 cents. 

Natural History of the Year, for Children. 
Cuts. 50 cents. 

The First Trial, and other Tales. Illus- 
trative of Right Motives and Right Ac- 
tions. Cuts. 31 cents. 

London in Ancient and Modern Times ; or, 
Sketches of the Great Metropolis. Cuts. 

31 cents. 

The Flowers of the Year. Cuts. 63 cts. 

The French Revolution and Napoleon Bona- 
parte. Cuts. 63 cents. 

The Naturalists Poetical Companion. "With 
notes, selected by Rev. Edward "Wil- 
son. Cuts. 12mo. Cloth, gilt, $1.50. 

Harry's Ladder to Learning. In four parts. 
230 Illustrations. 88c; coloured, $1.50. 

Magic Words; a Tale for Christmas Time. 
By Emile Macervin. Coloured plates. 
75 cents. 

Lessons worth Learning, for Boys. By Old 
Humphrey. Cloth, 31 cents. 

Lessons worth Learning, for Girls. By Old 
Humphrey. Cloth, 31 cents. 

The Family Bible, Newly Opened, with Un- 
cle Goodwin's account of it. By Jef- 
ferys Taylor. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75. 

Sandford and Merton. By Thomas Day. 

32 Engravings. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 
The Apple Dumpling, and other Stories 

for Young Boys and Girls. Coloured 
plates, $1. 

The Story of an Apple. Illustrated by 
John Gilbert. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 

The Dial of Love; a Christmas Book for 
the Young. By Mary Howitt.- Illus- 
trated. Cloth, 75 cents. 

The Four LitMe Wise Ones. Illustrated. 
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A Hero. Philip's Book. With Illustra- 
tions. 12 mo. Cloth, $1. 

A Peep into Uncle Tom's Cabin. By Aunt 
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Illustrated. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50. 

Evenings at Home. By Dr. Aikin and 
Mrs. Barbauld. 12mo. Cloth, $1. 

Tales for all Readers. 12mo. Cloth, 75c. 


The Children of the New Forest. By Capt. 
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The Little Savage. By Capt. Marry att. 
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The Seven Wonders of the World and their 
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The Swiss Family Rolinson. New Edition. 
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The Boy Hunters. By Capt. Mayne Eeid. 
Twelve Illustrations. 12mo. Cloth, $1.75. 

Kate and Rosalind; or, Early Experience. 
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Grimm's Household Stories. Complete 
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Children's Summer. Eleven Etchings on 
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Child's Flay. Seventeen Drawings. By 
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Naughty Boys and Girls. Comic Tales and 
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Binding, 75 cents. 

Ficture Pleasure Book. 500 Illustrations. 
By the most eminent Artists. Large 4to. 
In coloured Picture Binding. By Luke 
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Wonder Castle. A Structure of Seven 
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by E. H. "Wehnert. Imp. 16mo. Cloth, 
gilt, $1.75. 

The Children of the Bible. Square 16mo. 
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|«mlit mm f itBtntcfon of % |oitit$i 


The charcoal-burner and his wife approached the lady with 
respect — Page 40. 

%\t ^iorjj of ait €%%. 


ffiijaptct Jr. 

OME centuries ago, there lived in a little 
woodland, valley, in the north of Germany, a 
community of charcoal-burners, whose huts 
were scattered here and there along the decli- 
vities of the hills. A piece of ground, planted 
with fruit trees and vegetables, was attached to 
each habitation ; and this, with a small stock 
of hemp and flax, a cow and a few goats, was 
all these humble villagers had in the world. 
The children earned a trifle now and then, by 
working at a neighbouring forge ; but they were 
still very poor, though they were not less happy on that account. 
Sobriety and industry insured the enjoyment of health; and amongst 
the inmates of these cottages there were many who had reached the 
age of ninety years, and who still relished the comforts of life. 

One sultry day, when the corn was just beginning to ripen, a little 
girl, who was keeping the goats, ran home quite out of breath, and 
told her parents that some persons of singular appearance, who spoke 
a strange language, had arrived in the valley. A lady with her two 
children, and an old man, who appeared to be their servant, com- 
posed the party. 

They were evidently in great distress, and suffering both from 
fatigue and hunger ; and the kind-hearted little girl entreated that 
some food might be carried to them, and a lodging obtained for them 
in the village. The good people immediately followed the child in 
search of the strangers, with such homely food as the cottages afford- 
ed. The lady was sitting upon a mossy bank at the foot of a high 
rock: she was splendidly dressed; a veil of rich lace covered her 



face, and a lovely little girl was lying in her lap, while the old ser* 
vant was unloading the mule which carried their baggage ; and .the 
other child, a fine boy, was feeding the animal with thistles. 

The charcoal-burner and his wife approached the lady with respect, 
perceiving at once, from the elegance of her appearance and the dig 
nity of her deportment, that she was a person of distinction. 

" Look," whispered the woman to her husband, " look at that high 
collar, so beautifully worked ; the fine lace mittens upon her delicate 
hands ; and those shoes ! why, they are as white as the cherry blos- 
soms, and covered with silver flowers !" 

Vexed at these observations, the husband replied : " Have done 
with your ridiculous vanity : rich clothes are suited to people of rank, 
but they do not make them either better or happier ; and these shoes, 
so pretty and so gay, have not prevented the lady from hurting her 
tender feet in these rugged paths." 

The worthy cottagers offered the noble stranger the food which 
they had brought ; and when she lifted up her veil, they could not 
help being struck with the sweetness of her face, and the expressive 
beauty of her features. Having thanked them for their kindness, she 
took a porringer of milk, and gave it to the child upon her knees. 
Tears of tenderness started from her eyes and trickled down her 
cheeks, when she saw her grasp it with both her little hands, and 
drink it eagerly. Some bread and milk were then given to the elder 
child ; and it was not till the affectionate parent had satisfied her 
babes, that she thought of relieving her own necessities : nor was the 
old serving-man forgotten. The lady then expressed her grateful 
thanks for the succor which had been afforded them. 

In the meantime all the inhabitants of the valley had gathered 
round them ; and telling them that she had been driven by a fearful 
fate from her country and her friends, the lady begged them to pro- 
cure for her a cottage in the valley, for which she was ready to pay 

From the head of the valley a little stream dashed rapidly down 
wards, and in its course turned a mill, which seemed, as it were, sus- 
pended among the overhanging rocks. On the opposite bauk, the 


miller had erected a neat rustic cottage, which, though built only of 
wood, was delightfully situated on the brow of a steep crag, sur- 
rounded with a pleasant garden, and commanding a fine view across 
the valley. With this residence he offered to accommodate the lady. 

" The little cottage which you see yonder," said he, pointing with 
his finger, "I will give up to you with all my heart. It has not yet 
been inhabited ; indeed, I meant to occupy it myself, when I resign 
the mill to my son." 

The lady accepted this obliging offer with gratitude, and found the 
cottage in every respect suited to her wants ; and as the miller had 
already provided such furniture as was necessary, she had only to 
enter immediately upon her new habitation. Before she retired to 
rest, she returned thanks to God, who, after so much danger and sor- 
row, had provided for her so comfortable an asylum. " Who could 
have believed," she said, with a sigh, " that, brought up in a palace, 
I should one day think myself happy to find a shelter in ,a humble 
cottage ! Ah, how much are the rich and the great interested in 
treating their inferiors with kindness and consideration ; and how 
little does it become them to act towards them with arrogance and 
pride ! Not only the feelings of humanity, but the dictates of pru- 
dence, teach us this lesson ; for who can foresee the destiny reserved 
for himself?" 

Somewhat recovered from her fatigue, the lady walked out the fol- 
lowing morning with her children, to see the country in which she 
had found a home. A charming prospect lay before them. The 
huts of the charcoal-burners were scattered at little distances along 
the valley ; the little rivulet murmured through the midst of them, 
with a stream as clear as crystal ; the goats were browsing upon the 
rocks, covered with soft green moss, and the whole landscape, illu- 
mined with the rays of the rising sun, presented to the eye a picture 
which the pencil of the most skilful artist would fail to imitate. See- 
ing them approaching, the honest miller threw a plank across the 
stream, and advanced to meet his guests. 

" Well," said he, " is there in all the valley such a spot as this ? 
Here we enjoy the first rays of the morning sun. The huts below 


are still enveloped in the early mist. The situation is at once healthy 
and beautiful." 

While the new friends were engaged in conversation, the children 
of the lady were amusing themselves with the sights which were new 
to them. They were astonished at the motion of the large wheel, 
continually turning in the same place ; they listened with surprise to 
the deafening mill-clack, and to the roar of the water, as it dashed in 
boiling foam below. The little girl was especially delighted to see 
the numberless drops of water, hanging like brilliant pearls upon the 
wheel, and dropping one after another into the stream. 

The greater part of the day was passed in arranging the little house- 
hold ; and the good people of the village busied themselves in sup- 
plying victuals, wood, and whatever articles might be wanted. 
Martha, the little girl who had first met with the party in the valley, 
was taken into their service. 

Preparations were now to be made for dinner ; " But," said the 
lady to Martha, " I must first have some eggs ; take the money and 
buy some." 

" Eggs !" exclaimed Martha : " what do you want eggs for V 

" To boil them," replied the lady : " go quickly, and make haste 
back again." 

" To boil them !" again cried the little girl, more surprised than 
before. " But the birds have none now ; and then it would be such 
a pity ! It would take so many eggs of the goldfinch, and the thrush, 
and the robin, to satisfy four people." 

" Robins' eggs !" said the lady, equally amazed in her turn ; " I do 
not want birds' eggs ; they are hens' eggs that I mean." 

At these words the girl hung down her head in deep thought. At 
length she said, " I do not know what these can be : I am sure that 
I have never seen any." 

" What !" asked the lady, ' : do not you know what a hen is 1 ?" 

My young readers may perhaps be surprised at the ignorance of 
this poor little girl. Nevertheless, they will cease to be so, when 
they learn that hens came to us from the East, and that, at the time 
of the story I am now telling, they were as rare in some countries as 
the peacock is still in our own. 


As it turned out that domestic poultry had never been seen in the 
valley, and they could get no meat, the lady found herself a good 
deal embarrassed in her housekeeping. " I should never before have 
thought," she observed, " that an egg was so precious a gift of Divine 
goodness as now I acknowledge it to be. Alas ! this is not the first 
lesson which my sorrows have taught me. Want and adversity 
have at least this advantage — they make us sensible of the gratitude 
we owe to God, and prove to us the value of many of his blessings, 
which we do not properly appreciate in the time of prosperity." 

In her altered condition, the good lady was obliged to live very fru- 
gally, and to impose upon herself great privations. It is true, her 
neighbors in the valley were ready to supply all her wants, as far as 
they could, and to soothe as much as possible the rigour of her lot. 
If the miller chanced to take a fine troitt;, or to shoot a few larks, he 
felt pleasure in offering them to his noble guest. Yet, the money she 
brought with her was spent, and she was obliged, from time to time, 
to dispose of jewels and trinkets, of which she had a great abundance. 
Her faithful servant went occasionally to sell them at the nearest town, 
and returned with such articles as were necessary for the maintenance 
of the household. The inhabitants of the valley remarked, that 
every time old Bertram (for so he was called) returned from these 
excursions, his mistress appeared more dejected than before. They 
were very desirous to know who she was, but they had not courage 
to ask her ; and when they applied to Bertram, he teased them with 
names so difficult to repeat and to remember, that they soon found 
he was amusing himself at their expense, without satisfying their 

One day, as little Frederick, the eldest child, was rambling in the 
fields, several of the children of the village ran to him and coaxed 
him to tell his mother's name. 

" Only whisper it," they said ; " we will keep it secret." 
The little fellow shrewdly replied, " Her name is Mamma." 
The answers of his little sister, whose name was Blanche, were 
not more satisfactory, and the good people were obliged to trust to 
time for the discovery of the mystery. 

t\\s of §jti 


! E shall present, from time to time, to the notice 
of our readers., Works of Art which have be- 
come famous, either from the grandeur of their 
design or the beauty of their execution, or, it 
may be, from both these characteristics com- 

The great works of the painter and of the sculptor become equally 
famous with those of the philosopher and of the poet, and in the crea- 
tions of these, our grandest and almost our only memorials of the re- 
mote past consist. Of ancient Greece, with her multiplied glories of 
arms, and commerce, and luxury, there remain to us few other tokens 
than the works of her poets and her artists. When the present busy 
era of the world shall have been buried in the deep dust of centuries, 
it may be that the most eloquent monuments of its greatness in the 
eyes of a new generation of men will be, in like manner, the works 
of its historians, its poets, its painters and its sculptors. The famous 
Works of Art, therefore, may well be made the theme of some re- 
marks in our pages. They have an interest of a double nature: first, 
as wonders in themselves ; and, secondly, as objects which, more 
than all others, defy the wasting " tooth of time," exi ting on when 
those who produced them, together with those who irst admired 
them, are slumbering in the long- forgotten past. 

In the " Chronicles of the Crystal Palace," which we prepared for 
the last volume of this Magazine, we mentioned a remarkable work 
of Art, known as the "Amazon Group." It attracted much notice, 
and was universally regarded as a master-piece of Art, or, as the 
French would call it, a chef d'ceuvre* 

* Pronounced shay-doover 



The Amazon Group was designed and modelled by Professor Kiss, 
of Berlin, in Prussia. It consists of three figures, each of which is 
essential to the completeness of the group, and equally displays the 
genius and skill of the sculptor. An Amazon, mounted upon a war- 
horse, is attacked by a tiger, who has fastened himself upon the breast 
and neck of the horse. In his fright, the animal has reared, and almost 
unseated his bold rider, who, however, maintains her position and pre- 
pares to defend herself, and at the same time to destroy the savage 

assailant, who seems quite unconscious of the peril which menaces 
him in her uplifted javelin. The whole work is instinct with the pas- 
sions which belong to such an incident. The frame of the horse is 
wrought into an agony of terror and muscular exertion, as the claws 
of the tige- sink deeper into his flesh, and the fierce teeth penetrate 



his neck. The Amazon looks with mingled amazement and vindic- 
tive wrath upon the fierce beast, and her face and arm are alike elo- 
quent of her purpose to plunge her spear into his very heart. 

This work was first wrought in plaster ; and when it was completed, 
a cast in bronze was made from it, which now stands at the entrance 
of the Council-house in Berlin. The copy in the New York Crystal 
Palace is a cast in zinc, with a bronze surface, and was exhibited at 
the Great Exhibition in London, where it received a Grand Council 
medal — the highest honour which the Jury of Fine Arts could award 
to its author. 

So popular is this great work, that it has been reproduced, as artists 
term it, in a great variety of ways. There were copies of it in sil- 
ver, in bronze, and in Parian clay, at our Crystal Palace. The en- 
graving which accompanies this article is a very faithful representa- 
tion of its grand outline, but fails altogether to convey an adequate 
idea of the terrible energy which the work expresses. 

$h gtege iooli. 

Not alone let printed books 
All thy youthful mind engage : 

Read the largest open book, 

Nature's mighty, -wondrous page ; 

See the heavens inscribed with light — 

God's handwriting day and night. 

Mark the opal morn appear ; 

Mark the dew on leaf and flower ; 
Mark the storm-cloud's wild career, 

And the rainbow in the shower 
List the wind, and list the sea : 
God through these doth speak to thee. 

Snow-clad mountain-realms of frost, 
Nature's largest printe hold b 

Cragg'd and stern and earthquake-toss'd, 

Clothed by forest stern and old, 
God's vast creatures, there they stand. 
Looking over sea and land. 

See rich plains and winding rills, 
Fertile vales, and fields of corn, 

Flocks upon a thousand hills, 
Little birds that sing at morn. 

And all these will teach thee more 

Than alone the scholar's lore : 

God in each, and God in all, 

In the large and in the small — 

Thunder's roar and sparrow's fall ! 

Makt Howrrr. 



©Ijaptcr ££. 

HE arrangements for the education of 
his children were made by Mr. Clayton 
f^-^ with a degree of deliberation, and yet of 
#rjp* expedition when once decided upon, that 
showed how important he considered'the change he 
was making in their young lives. Not the least 
important part of this change was, that he con- 
sidered it desirable for Herbert and Alice to have 
some companions in the new studies they were to 
commence. It was a wise determination, for Alice's 
gentle mind and placid temperament needed the 
spur of a keener intellect, and a more vivid perception of life and its 
duties. Herbert, too, was the gainer by this accession of companions. 
But there must first be an introduction of these young people, and 
also of their teachers, whose advent at Sedgemoor was so anxiously 
expected by the children. 

Arthur and Maude Eastbrook were cousins, one degree removed, 
of the young Claytons. They were orphans in truth, having neither 
father nor mother ; and, unlike the heirs of Sedgemoor, they were 
dependent for almost the necessaries of life upon their relatives. It 
had long been a favourite idea with Mr. Clayton to provide for their 
education, and it was consideration for them as well as Herbert and 
Alice, that induced him to contemplate the present arrangement. He 
foresaw that Arthur's strength, and his vigorous handling of every 
pursuit in life to which his attention had been directed, and that Maude's 
lofty and fervid soul, with its unusual accompaniment of strong, clear 
sense, would stimulate the finer minds and tenderer natures of his 



With all her strength, Maude Eastbrook was a loving, womanly 
girl ; she bade fair to become a brilliant woman intellectually, and a 
true woman by the operation of her tender heart. Though not far 
from Herbert's age, she had much more maturity, and was in a great 
many things his superior. 

Arthur was, like Maude, distinguished by a precocious maturity : it 
seemed to have been developed in them by their desolate and depend- 
ent situation. They had been all the world to each other, each striv- 
ing to supply to the other the place of their lost parents, as far as their 
childish judgments would allow them to do so. They had always 
looked up to Mr. Clayton as one to whom they could turn in trouble ; 
he had promised their mother, his own cousin, Catherine Eastbrook, 
that he would stand between her children and the colder charities of 
the world, and so far he had done it, indirectly, though none the less 
surely. He had watched them narrowly, seen them tested, and found 
them worthy of their parentage, and well worthy of his future inter- 
est. They had not dreamed of what their future had in store for 
them ; they did not know the close watch kept over them, nor how 
much depended on the manner in which they were conducting them- 
selves. Mr. Clayton would never have dealt harshly with them, or 
seen them suffer ; but he was not quite ready to enfold them with his 
own children until he had proved them. 

It was not in the nature of their generous benefactor to do any 
thing by halves ; when Arthur and Maude were brought to his 
house, it was to find a home there. He would have offered nothing 
less ; they could receive nothing less. Not a guest came to the house, 
not a servant moved about it, but acknowledged the young strangers' 
superiority, and honoured them in the household. 

Mr. Carey, the tutor selected by Mr. Clayton, was a young and 
richly-endowed graduate of the University of Heidelberg. There was 
nothing, however, save the great wealth of his mental store, to dis- 
tinguish him from the hundreds of ripe scholars who find in the in- 
struction of others the true sphere of their labours. He was high- 
minded and single-hearted, as every true scholar is. He gave honour 
in receiving it, for he was gifted by God intellectually ; and those who 


Knew him felt that he enriched life with the fine harmonies which he 
struck upon the chords of his soul. He entered warmly into all 
Mr. Clayton's peculiar views of education for the young people, and 
conducted that education with the fervour of a man who devotes him- 
self to his task with no selfish reservations. 

Miss Emily Donne was the instructress of Maude during her pa- 
rents' lifetime, and since their death the little girl had never left her. 
She would have been willing to labour always for her sweet charge, 
asking no reward for her devotion; content to minister to such a 
soul without hire. 

Her noble conduct found its reward in the appreciation of Mr. 
Clayton ; she came with Maude to Sedgemoor, and was installed in 
luxurious apartments, with servants of every degree about her, and 
no more troublesome duties than the care of the dear Maude and 
the lovely Alice of our story. 

With such materials for a family circle, it is not wonderful that 
Sedgemoor wore to all its guests an air of almost fabulous and really 
enchanting happiness. Mr. Clayton seemed to have been won from 
his grief of years, in the gladsomeness around him ; his interest in 
his children and their new associates became absorbing and most bene- 
ficial to his nature, checking the morbid growth of ivy and night-shade 
in his soul. 

GAIN the evening had closed in, and the sweeping 
folds of the crimson curtains shut out the gloom of 
a cloudy night from the group in the library of 
Sedgemoor. Matthias's duties were done for the 
time, luxurious comfort prevailed, and bright 
smiles and glad voices lent their rich colouring to 
the picture, and their fine harmony to the music 
which greeted eye and ear. Miss Emily had a sweet, grave look in 


her eyes, as she sat apparently lost in thought. The watchful Maude 
was at her side in a moment, and asking — 

" What are you thinking of, that you cannot smile at Arthur's 
puns, Miss Emily 1 Don't you think he is growing very clever ? I 
feel so proud of my brother — and how handsome he looks to- 
night !" 

" So he does, Maude ; and you are right to be proud of him, for he 
is a rare boy, that brother Arthur of yours, dear. I'll tell you what my 
thoughts were, Maude. I was contrasting this beautiful room and its 
bright surroundings with our humble little home in Easton. Do you 
remember, Maude, how much we enjoyed the glory of those Turkey- 
red curtains in our sitting-room there, and how you wondered if any 
thing could surpass the warm, rich glow they cast over the furniture 
and my pale face ? The whole cost of those curtains would not pay 
for one yard of this superb brocatelle. It has been a great change for 
us, Maude, from our lowly routine there, to our pleasant and free- 
from-care life here. The companionship of Arthur, the high hopes he 
may indulge for the future now ; the lofty and vivifying generosity of 
Mr. Clayton, the grace of Alice, the beauty of Herbert's character, 
and the genial and invigorating sympathies of Mr. Carey, are all so 
much gain to our hearts and to our happiness. We have a thousand 
causes for joy in this great change, Maude, — suggested to me first, it is 
true, by the remembrance of those curtains, but greatly independent 
of them." 

" I have thought of all these things, dear Miss Emily, though I 
cannot sum them up and state them, as you do. I only hope papa 
and mamma can see us now, and can know of our happiness. Do 
you think it wrong to rejoice in the richness and elegance that sur- 
round us 1 Do you think it a mean feeling to look around upon these 
superb rooms with a feeling of joy that we are here to live and be 
happy in them V 

" No, Maude ; it is quite right to find pleasure in these appliances 
of luxury. The wrong would be in depending upon them for happi- 
ness. We should enjoy them as luxuries, and never consider them 
as necessaries. We should have still such resources that it would 


scarcely cost us a painful thought to relinquish this elegance for our 
old home. We used to be happy, there, my child 1" 

" Oh, yes ! very happy." 

"And could you not be happy there again, Maude 1" 

" Yes, Miss Emily. But I should miss Arthur very much after 
this, and I should often think of this beautiful room, with all the sweet, 
pleasant faces I see in it now." 

" You will probably never have to give up this home for the old 
one, Maude. But take care, my child, that you do not learn to set 
too much store by the luxuries and the pleasures which here appeal 
to your senses. It is right to enjoy the beautiful always. God has 
given us a capacity for so doing — a power of appreciating grace and 
loveliness, and we ought to use this power." 

" Did you hear last evening what Mr. Clayton and Mr. Carey were 
talking about, Miss Emily, when we were getting ready to leave the 
room at ten o'clock ? I believe they are talking about the same thing 
now. Yes, those ' evening lessons' — what does it mean ?" 

" Let us listen and find out, as it seems to concern us, my clear Maude." 

So their conversation ceased, and the only speakers in the roor 
were the two gentlemen. 

" My plan, if you will approve and aid me, Mr. Carey, will be to 
select some topic for investigation through the day, and for discussion 
every other evening. There is surely no need of the young people 
studying at night, and there is no reason why they should not be in- 
structed as well as amused." 

" I see no objection to such a course, as I remarked last evening, 
Sir. I am quite ready to cooperate, if y©u wish me to, and shall 
hope to find pleasure and benefit too with the rest. How do you 
propose to go to work — what is your plan V 

" It is a very simple one. When I was a boy, I was in the habit of 
playing a game which we used to call the ' Biographical Alphabet.' 
Do you understand if?" 

" I don't think I ever engaged in such a play. I have certainly for- 
gotten it if I did. How is it conducted V 

" The party to play it forms a circle, and the business of each per- 


son is to think of some distinguished man, or perhaps woman, 
whose name commences with A : then, each having given one in A, 
we go all around with B. C follows, and so on through the alphabet." 

"A pleasant game for an evening. But how do you intend to use 
it for many nights, as you speak of doing V 

" Oh, I would take but one letter, or two perhaps, for an evening ; 
and each member of our circle must come prepared not only to give 
a name beginning with that letter, but to tell the rest of us who the 
person was whom he has chosen, and to tell us any thing particularly 
interesting which he may be able to find out of their history or 
achievements or character." 

"A very capital plan, I see, Mr. Clayton. Most excellent. All can 
take part in it, from the well-read Miss Emily Donne," rising and 
bowing with graceful pleasantry, as he paid her the merited compli- 
ment, " to our little Alice, whose acquaintance with biography is so 
much less extensive. Do you not like the idea, Miss Emily ?" 

" Very much, indeed, Mr. Carey. It will be amusing too, I fancy, 
to see what persons the various ages, preferences, and so forth, of our 
circle will select. We shall each learn something for ourselves in 
reading to justify our choice, and we shall learn from the researches 
of others. It will tax our tastes and judgments and memories ; it will 
have the charm of continual variety, and will be, in the end, ' great 
gain,' I'm sure." 

" Thank you, Miss Emily, for your kindly-appreciating assent. You 
have, with a woman's peculiar tact, come very rapidly to a just and 
gracious judgment of my propositions." 

'And when shall we commence, papa ?" asked Herbert eagerly. 

" Let me think, Herbert : to-morrow will be Saturday. You could 
scarcely prepare yourselves properly for the first evening by to-mor- 
row night. Besides, it will be better to commence with the week. 
So I propose to begin our peculiarly ' Home Lessons' next Monday 

%a a §irft. 

^ ™-" t — I F -ar I'' ^ ' ' I I r 



In the a - zure sky O-ver moun - tains high, Thy 




song sounds through air's do - mi 


nions. And now thou dost 

ho-ver The blue sea o-ver, To cool there thy rush-ing pini - ons. 


Through the sweeping cloud, 

Near the torrent loud, 

Thou canst fly, o'er the wind victorious ; 

Or with sudden swoop 

To the valley stoop. 

Oh, thy life, happy songster, is glorious. 


j5forifls for lniie t 


©ijaptcr M. 

\ VtJ^ $A4& Pv "^ ^ not want to sce ner 5 an< ^ we turned away 
■&1HJTSJA s£#iL from her sullenly and proudly; but she sat 
^ down by Kitty, nothing abashed, and produced 
» n & quietly a store of bright pieces of silk and 
f] chintz, and shreds of ribbon ; and, lastly, a 
wooden doll, as yet undressed, came out of her 
pocket. Kitty's eyes grew bright with a sudden 
interest as she looked at the tempting display. 
A doll was truly a great temptation to Kitty, and Minerva saw it. 

"Don't you wish I would give you this doll 1 ?" she asked, holding 
it up before the child. 

"Yes," answered Kitty, half hesitating — "will you 1 ?" 
" Kiss me, and say you love me dearly, and I will." 
Kitty hesitated a moment, then half reluctantly put up her mouth 
to be kissed. 

" Now tell me you love me," said Minerva. 
" But I don't love you — much," said the child. 
" Very well, then ; " and Minerva pretended to gather up the doll 
and the pieces to carry them away. " It's nothing to me." 

Kitty watched the pieces of silk and muslin slipping back into Mi- 
nerva's pocket — watched the doll gradually disappear till only its 
round, rosy face and staring blue eyes were seen. She could resist 
no longer, and she snatched the doll, exclaiming impulsively, " I do 
love you ! now give it to me." 

Minerva laughed triumphantly, and drew Kitty away from me to 
the sofa, where the two little work-boxes had been placed. Pushing 
mine away to the farther end, she opened Kitty's, and took out the 


new-year's day at rose hill. 55 

little scissors to cut out the doll's dress and pantalettes, which were 
to be made of crimson silk. She kept up a great deal of chattering 
and laughing about the doll, and the doll's frock, and its funny little 
feet, and all that, till she succeeded in engrossing Kitty's attention 
entirely, and made her forget me altogether. And there I sat apart 
from them, neglected and deserted even by my sister, my heart 
swelling with indignation, and the bitterness of wounded feeling. I 
held " Edward and Miriam" in my hand, but I could not read, for if 
ever I looked up, I met Minerva's mocking, scornful eyes, and the 
very words in the book before me seemed to change into them, and 
mock and sneer at me all the while. Kitty chatted with Minerva 
gayly and cheerily, now admiring the pretty Turkish trousers, now 
the crimson silk skirt that Minerva was braiding with black. I 
listened to all their merry talk in a bitter sadness. 

By-and-by Minerva said, pointing to me, " What is the matter with 
her, over yonder?" 

" I don't know," Kitty answered without looking up. " Nothing, I 

" Why, she looks as if she had lost her last friend." Minerva con- 
tinued. " But I don't wonder — one look at her would be enough to 
frighten away the best friend she ever had, / should think ! " 

Kitty laughed carelessly. I am sure she did not hear the speech, 
for she was engrossed with her work. But I heard it, and it almost 
broke my heart — at least Kitty's indifference did. I could not stay 
there any longer ; my heart was swelling too largely for restraint, and 
I would have died rather than cry before them ! I ran away to a little 
bed-chamber where no one could see me, and there I sobbed out my 
passionate grief and mortification. I didn't care for Minerva's mock- 
ing so much — child as I was, I despised the littleness and meanness 
of her cruelty too much to care for it ; but I loved Kitty so dearly, 
and it was a bitter thing to be deserted by her ! I could not analyze 
my feelings then ; thinking of them now, I can well know what a 
tumultuous war of emotions raged in my childish heart. The dinner- 
bell rang while I was in the little chamber, and I heard them going 
through the hall, past the little room to the dining-room. I did not 


stir. By-and-by my name was called through the passage, and pre- 
sently Kitty ran into the little room where I was. " Did n't you hear 
the dinner-bell, Mary?" she cried. "What made you come off here 
to stay by yourself? What's the matter, any how?" 

" Nothing," I said proudly, " but I don't want any dinner." 

" Why not, Mamie 2 " exclaimed Kitty in much surprise. " Why, 
we're going to have such a nice little table all to ourselves, with just 
only two plates on it, and covered with good things ! A whole mince- 
pie all to ourselves, and lots of things besides! Do come." 

" What's to pay now 1 " said another voice, and Minerva made her 
appearance. " What ails you, you little fool 1 Come to dinner this 
moment ! " and half-roughly, half-good-naturedly, she pulled me out 
of the room, and dragged me to the dining-room. 

" Minerva has almost finished my doll," whispered Kitty to me, as 
we sat at our little table, " and it looks beautiful. Maybe she'll 
give you one after dinner." 

" I don't want her to," I answered quickly. " I wouldn't take any 
thing from her. She calls me names, and you let her do it ; she 
treats me miserably, and you don't care ; and I wish I was at home, 
that I do!" 

It was well all the ladies and gentlemen around the large table 
were talking so busily that they did not hear me, for my voice had 
risen much above a whisper, and my eyes had filled with angry tears. 
Kitty was astonished. " How cross you are !" she said impatiently. 
" I'd be ashamed of myself to be such a baby. I wonder what I've 
done to you now, or Minerva either. You cry for every thing !" 

I crushed back the tears proudly without answering her, and we 
both sat in most uncomfortable silence, trying to eat our dinner, but 
with little appetite, for we were always very miserable after a quarrel. 
The mince-pie was scarcely touched ; even the large rosy apples and 
almonds and raisins of the New Year's dinner could not tempt us, 
and, soon as we could, we left the dining-room. I went into the 
library and took up " Edward and Miriam" again ; Kitty sat down 
with the half-dressed doll. We were both very unhappy. 

When the grown people left the dining-room, they came to tht 

new-year's day at rose hill. 67 

library to see what we had been doing all day. Kitty's doll in its 
pretty costume attracted attention, and Kitty said that Minerva had 
dressed it. " Minerva amuses children so nicely," said Mrs. Mines, 
addressing my mother. " She makes herself so intimate with them 
that children all like her. She is almost a child herself in her way of 
playing with them." 

My mother smiled. I knew she was thinking of what had hap- 
pened yesterday, but she did not reply to Mrs. Mines. She came to 
me, and, laying her hand on my head, whispered, " What makes you 
look so sad and quiet, Mamie'? Does your head ache, darling?" 

How I longed to hide my head in her lap, and cry out all my 
trouble then and there ! What a. comfort it would have been to have 
told mother every thing ! but I could not, and she must have thought 
I was sullen and cross, for I scarcely answered her at all. I held her 
hand tightly, though, and when she left the library I went with her into 
the parlour. There was a little chair which I drew close to mother's 
side, and sat down in, determined not to go back again. I sat there a 
long time, growing more and more weary and sad. The ladies and 
gentlemen were all talking together about things which did not interest 
or concern me, and no one noticed me at all ; except now and then 
when mother smoothed my hair with her soft white hands, or Mrs. 
Mines asked me if I was not tired of sitting still. 

She sent me out of the room at last, and told me to go and play 
with Kitty. She did it kindly, thinking it was not well for me to be 
alone, but I would much rather have staid in the parlour, very weary 
as I was, and longing to go home. I went to the study as she had 
told me, but very soon I came back to the parlour with such hurried 
steps, and a face so agitated with passion, that all wanted to know 
what had happened. But I threw myself into mother's arms, and en- 
treated with the bitterest crying to be taken home ; and I could not be 
pacified until she had promised that I should go immediately, as soon 
as I had told her what was the matter. And then I told her how, 
when I had gone into the library, Minerva had called me rude names 
and mocked me with pitiless ridicule ; and at last had made up a 
bunch of rags into a ridiculous doll, and marked its face with a great 


nealie's good-night. 

black ink-spot, to imitate my bruised eye. And so she had given the 
doll to me, and called it by my name. "And she has been treating 
me so all day!" I sobbed, "and I can't, I won't bear it any longer. 
Take me home ! " * 

I need not tell of the reproaches that Minerva received on all hands 
for her heartless cruelty, nor how every one pitied me for having 
been so tormented all day. Mrs. Mines gave me another doll, beau- 
tifully dressed, and filled my hands with sugar-plums ; but I could 
not be satisfied till I found myself in the carriage with Kitty by my 
side, and the horse's head turned homewards. That was a most un- 
happy day ; but Kitty and I learned one lesson from it, and that was, 
always loving, to stand together, and suffer no false friend to come 
between us, or to lure the one to forsake the other. And that's a 
lesson we've remembered these many years. 

lUalu's (iflfllr-iujjlt* 

Good - night, good -night to the birds and 
flowers : 
They're weary now of play ; 
The nighf has chased the golden hours, 

The hours they love, away. 
Darkness falls in broad-winged flight — 
Oh, bless the sleeping world to night, 
Our Father ! 

Good-night, good-night to the angel eyes 

That beam on us above; 
All night long in the silent skies 

They keep their watch of love. 

They smile on eyes just closing here — 
Oh, bless those eyes, to us so dear, 
Our Father! 

Good-night ! Beneath Thy mighty wing, 

Oh, Father 1 let me sleep ; 
Suffer no dream of evil thing 

Upon my rest to creep. 
Around me fold Thine arms, to be 
My shelter till I go to Thee, 

Our Father I 

Mabt Glen 

Cjnlfr-I if e i it itiflatfc; 


ffijjaptec ££E. 

T was a favour which very few of the visitors to Mil- 
ford Fair enjoyed, to he permitted to roam at 
will through the beautiful park of Milford Hall, 
and to enjoy a pic-nic beneath one of its noble old 
trees. The park was of great extent, being more 
than three miles in circumference. The Hall, 
which was an exceedingly picturesque old man- 
sion, with the exception of one modern wing, 
stood nearly at the farther extremity of the park 
from the point where we entered it, and from 
which it was only partially visible through the 
dense foliage which surrounded it. Two octagonal towers rose above 
the trees, but were themselves clothed with the verdure of the luxu- 
riant ivy which nearly covered the old Hall. This fine baronial 
mansion, which, with the exception of the modern wing I have men- 
tioned, had stood over a hundred and fifty years, was the summer resi- 
dence of Sir Arthur Milford, to whose friendship my father was in- 
debted for the freedom both of the Hall and of the park. Sir Arthur 
represented the county in Parliament, and spent much of his time in 
London. In the winter, his family was there with him, but they 
rarely failed to come back to Milford with the first roses, and in their 
absence the beautiful domain was as carefully kept by the steward as 
any in England. 



The rivulet which ran along at the foot of the gentle declivity out- 
side the park, extended its course quite through the domains of Sir 
Arthur. Near the centre of the park it had been expanded artifi- 
cially into a small lake, upon which there was a gaily-painted boat, 
moored, when not in use, within a picturesque boat-house. There 
were two beautiful swans upon the lake ; and, scattered through the 
park, were numerous deer, some of which might be seen at almost 
any time upon the borders of the lake or of the stream. 

The undulating surface of the park was covered with a brilliant 
green sward, and thickly dotted with fine old oak and elm trees Be- 
sides these, there are many other trees of less venerable appearance, 
but of scarcely less beauty. 

At the time of our visit, the laburnum, or golden-chain trees, grow- 
ing about the lodge, were in full flower, and the keeper gave us per- 
mission to pull some of the pendant yellow wreaths. 

Into this beautiful domain we all entered with delight, and it was 
soon agreed, at Mamma's own suggestion, that we should pic-nic be- 
neath a magnificent tree just upon the margin of the lake. Thither, 
therefore, Phillip carried the baskets with which Essel, our patient 
donkey, had been partially laden. Hetty now busied herself in 
arranging the feast, in which employment, however, she had so much 
assistance volunteered to her, that I think she would rather have dis- 
pensed with all aid. 

She spread a white damask table-cloth, folded double, upon the 
emerald grass, at the risk of crushing the tall butter-cups that peeped 
with golden eyes above it. 

Around the great trunk of the old elm tree there was a seat 
upon which Papa and Mamma chose to sit in preference to throw- 
ing themselves, as we children did, upon the beautiful sward. We 
did not do this, however, until we had wooed the white swans to 
the edge of the lake, by tempting morsels of Mamma's delicious 
white cake, and then frightened them away again, almost before they 
had secured the bait, by our eager expressions of delight. 

I envied Maud her unequalled success in alluring a graceful fawn 
to take a fragment of the cake from her very hand. In vain did I 


try to imitate her gentleness and fascinating wiles. The timid crea- 
ture, which suffered her to lay her fairy hand upon its soft neck, 
bounded swiftly away when I attempted to take the same liberty. 
My sister loved me so dearly, that she even preferred my happiness to 
her own ; but, for once, she really seemed to exult in the exercise of a 
charm denied to me, and she laughed with an exquisite glee as she 
repeated her own success after my discomfiture. Dear Maud ! how 
could it be possible that she should woo any gentle thing in vain ? 

While we lured the swans and the deer, Hetty proceeded to dis- 
pose the various contents of the baskets upon the cloth. There were, 
besides the edibles and the cowslip wine, plates, knives and forks, and 
two or three silver cups. These were soon arranged, and at father's 
summons we gathered around the feast, for which our ride and sub- 
sequent, pleasure-seeking had given us all an excellent appetite. 

By the time we had finished our delightful repast, the shadows of 
the trees in Milford Park were growing very long, and Papa directed 
Phillip to go and put the horse into the chaise, that we might pro- 
ceed homeward. Hetty packed up the plates and the remnants of 
our meal, which now scarcely sufficed to fill one of the baskets. Be- 
fore we left the park, we threw some more bread to the swans, and 
looked around for the deer, which at first had seemed disposed to be 
very sociable. They had, however, withdrawn to a distance, and 
Papa gave us permission to run up to a copse-wood, where, he told 
us, we should be sure to find a number of them. 

Thither we ran with great glee, and, as we drew near, Maud sud- 
denly put her hand upon my arm, exclaiming : 

" Look, Willie, look !" 

In the direction in which she pointed, there was a graceful head 
with a large pair of antlers, just lifted above a clump of foliare. Two 
large, soft and dark eyes were gazing steadily at us. We stopped a 
few moments to admire the pretty sight, but the next moment I 
sprang forward with a shout, and the beautiful animal rustled the 
bushes, and, tossing his head, bounded away deeper into the wood. 
He was joined in his flight by two or three more of his kind ; and 
almost at the same moment a fawn ran so close by Maud that she 



actually screamed. She had laughed at my discomfiture when I had 
frightened the fawn, and now I repaid her by laughing at hers when 
the same beautiful little creature frightened her. 

Papa and Mamma, with Hetty and the younger children, had 
already reached the lodge, when we set out for it on a quick run. 
We took our places in the chaise, Papa took the reins from Phillip's 
hand, and, bidding the porter " good-day," with a " fairing" in the 
shape of a silver half-crown, he touched the horse lightly with his 
whip, and we rolled out of the park and into the high-road of Milford. 

The sun was quite down when we reached Hackington and our 
own happy home, delighted with our day's excursion, and grateful 
to our beloved parents for the pleasure they had afforded us. 

% %mt Sftorj jrf 



^ HPJSTOPHExTS mother came to me one day 
and said, " My child is ill ; he may die ; I am 
weary, weary with weeping and watching ; will 
you come and sit up with my little boy, and 
help me to take care of him ?" 

Poor mother ! Her eyes were indeed swol- 
« *y len with weeping, and the colour on her cheeks was not that of 
» Z health, but the excitement of anxiety. Her rich black curls 
were all uncombed ; heavily upon her young cheek lay the 
thick lashes, and wearily she moved about the darkened room. 
I took her place by the little crib, and gently forced her to lie 
down and take some rest. Little Kit, as we call him, lay in a stupor, 
moaning, and only showing by a strange movement about his lips 
when he wanted water or nourishment : and thus he lay all night long. 
He might die ; he might live ; we were all uncertain of the issue ; 


but, thank God, he lived. Towards morning he opened his eyes 
with a sign of intelligence in them, and smilingly called for his mother. 
Then we knew the crisis was passed, and that he would live; but he 
was so weak that he could scarcely move from side to side. In one 
of his weakest moods he astonished us by calling his mother to the 
side of his little crib. 

" Mother," he said, " I want to say my prayer." 

" Well, Kit, repeat it, darling." 

" No, I want to kneel down." 

" Well, kneel down in your little crib." 

" No, I want to get out of my crib, and kneel down upon the 

" But, Kit, you are so weak." 

" Kit is strong now ; just let him come out and say his little prayer 
kneeling down." And his mother took the persevering little boy 
from the crib, and supporting him lest he should fall, she listened to 
him while he repeated in a languid voice the following sweet lines : 

" Jesus, tender Shepherd, hear me ; 

Bless thy little lamb to-night ; 
Through the darkness be thou near me, 

Watch my sleep till morning light. 
All the day thy hand hath led me, 

And I thank thee for thy care ; 
Thou hast watched me, fed and clothed me ; 

Listen to my evening prayer." 

Then the little fellow was placed in his crib, and carefully tucked in 
with the covering. 

" Kit," said his mother an instant after, " how does my darling feel 
now ?" 

No answer came, for he was fast asleep, and his breathing was 
almost as peaceful as a healthy child's. 

The next morning he woke up so much better that we were all cer- 
tain that he would recover ; and to-day he is playing with a Noah's 
Ark and some marbles, and does not look at all as if he had been so 
very sick. 



The light of a summer sunset 

Lay goldenly in the trees, 
And wafts of sweet forest fragrance 

Stole up in the mellow hreeze. 
Faintly, away in the distance, 

The plaint of a mateless bird, 
The dimness and hush of the forest 

"With echoing anguish stirred. 

Sweeter than breath of the flowers, 

Sadder than ring-dove's cry, 
Eose on the stillness of evening 

A tremulous, human sigh. 
Mabel's sweet eyes drooped heavy 

"With swelling of tears unshed ; — 
In Alison's hand, all blood-soiled, 

The ring-dove's mate lay dead. 

Again through the forest foliage 

The light of a sunset streams, 
On the red leafage of autumn 

Lying in golden gleams. 
Slowly a band-of children 

"Wind through the forest ways; 
One white face lieth upward, 

Full in the sunset rays. 

Sweet eyes that were drooped in 

Heavy with tearful rain ! 
Never will breath of earth-sorrow 

Trouble their blue depths again. 
Dove-like, her heavenly spirit 

Upward to heaven has fled ; 
And Mabel, our white dove, lieUi 

Amongst the children, dead. 


" Here sits tlie Lord Mayor, 
And two men has he ; 
Tt«re sits Cock-a-lu, 
And here Hen-a-lie ; 

There two little chickens 
Run out and in — 

Chin-chopper, chin-chopper, 
Chin-chopper-chin !" 

ND the fair young mother 
touched, as she said over the old 
rhyme, the fine broad forehead 
of her boy, and the other fea- 
tures which figure in the enu- 
meration. Mean-while the little 
one crowed, and tried to catch 
the white hand which passed 
so gently over his chubby face. 
The mother was very young ; she could scarcely look the matron, 
even with her baby in her lap, but she felt all the mother swelling 
her heart with proud fondness, and suffusing her eyes with glad 
tears, as she looked down upon the gay, frolicsome infant. He was 
noble in his perfect babyhood, and "a well-spring of joy" to those 
who gathered about him every day to count his baby-tricks and court 
his capricious favour. 

But now " Mamma" had him all alone ; none were near to see 
the glad smiles or watch the growing dimples. Mrs. Arnotte told 
over for the thousandth time every beauty ; and, commencing again 



with the nursery-song, she once more laid her hand on his forehead, 
repeating — 

" Here sits the Lord Mayor—" 

Her hand rested on his head, and she said it over once or twice, 
" Yes, ' here sits the Lord Mayor' — how will he rule you, my child — 
what impulses will spring hence to carry you along the world's way — 
what guides will be sent forth with those impulses by ' My Lord 
Mayor V 

" Wilt be a wise, well-governed man when my Lord Mayor shall 
have sole rule 1 Mamma longs to look into her little boy's future life 
— she wishes to know whether his forehead will be as smooth as now 
till age wrinkles it. Will it expand over its treasure of mind, and 
will the Lord Mayor keep wise guard Dver that treasure ] 

" Will the ' two men' whom the Lord Mayor commands be as 
true and fiithful to the being within you, as they are bold and fearless 
in their beauty now ? Will they never shrink before the light, nor 
watch inwardly with grief and apprehension 1 

" ' Here Cock-a-lu, here Ilen-a-lie' — be you ever overshadowed, as 
now, by the majesty of the Lord Mayor. See that only ' little 
chickens run out and in,' and keep the whole palace in good order ; 
such care rests with you. Let there be no riotous living, no inordi- 
nate love of the good things of life. Keep your gates closed to luxu- 
ries which would impair the effect and weaken the foundation of this 
fine structure. 

" So, my boy, you will grow up to a beautiful manhood, and I — 
I shall look with a double pride on a brow which now I name the 
Lord Mayor — into eyes which stand as his guardsmen — on every 
sweet feature, still good and firm, only changed, in that Wisdom shall 
here come to dwell with Goodness." 

Mrs. Arnotte smiled " inly" at the moral she had drawn from the 
old rhyme, and said, " When Hughey is "older, he shall know how his 
mother one day read a lesson in the ' Chin-chopper' verses, and found 
a great truth hidden therein — even the sovereignty of the soul over 
the grosser man." 

%\t ^xMtt'i Corner* 

HE first thing to be done in this " corner" of the 
Magazine, is to ascertain the answers to the 
Riddles which were proposed in our last num- 
ber. We have answers to all of them, and will 
present them in their proper order. First 
comes the Enigmatical Gift of the Schoolfellow 
to all his young readers, for the solution of 
which we are greatly indebted to our kind 
friend, " Inez," whose letter we print just as she 
wrote it. 

The Grove, Jan. 7th, 1854. 

Deae Schoolfellow : — The New Year's number of your beautiful little 
Magazine reached " The Grove" yesterday, and already have all its charming 
stories, and sketches, and poems been read and admired by our little people, 
and also by your friend, " Inez." " It is a very delightful number, isn't it, sis- 
ter ?" said Elsie to me, when she had finished it. Elsie, you know, is now twelve 
yjears old, but she says she loves the Magazine even better than she did when 
she was only eight. After she and Frank had read the number through, they 
set themselves to the task of solving the Enigmas ; and, after two hours' close 
attention, they brought to me answers to all of them, which I think are correct. 
They begged me to put the solution of the " Schoolfellow's Gift" into rhymes, 
which I have attempted to do. I am however almost ashamed to send them, 
they are so uncouth. I think the printer or you yourself must have made a slight 
mistake in the last line but two of the Enigma. It reads : 

" And the last is the head of the thing I have planned." 

Now, if the answer sent is the right one, the last letter of it is r, and that is 
rather the end than the head of the gift. Do I err in coming to this conclusion ?* 

Need I tell you how cordially I and Elsie and Frank reciprocate your gift, 
or how much we all prize the monthly visits which you make to " The Grove," 
in the shape of " The Schoolfellow?" 

I send the answers upon separate slips of paper. The rhymes are all Elsie's, 
save those to which I have referred. 

Ever yours, affectionately, 


' Inea" is quite right. The mistake was one of inadvertence. 




Your indefinite article seems to be A, 

And so becomes definite— doesn't it, pray? 

The head of a Hammer an II seems to be ; 

A is also the top of an Apricot tree ; 

And a Parsnip begins, as it ends, with a P. 

Boy ends with Y, and a boy must be beaten, 

When bad, as sure as good parsnips are eaten. 

N is a Nut's outside, though not its rind, 

And E ends Time, which many seek to find. 

Woe (which is sorrow) will with W commence, 

(And so with Jack-daw's tail I can dispense.) 

With Y To-day ends, and Yesterday begins. 

E is the head of Eve and all man's sins. 

What in my hand now lies an A must be. 

To all of these add R, and solve the mystery ; 

For in these various letters 'twill appear, 

The Schoolfellow's Gift 's "A Happy New Year." 

" Elsie's" answer to the Anagrammatic Charade of A. B K. is 
quite correct, and very creditable to her. 


China's red, and white, and blue, 
And may be painted any hue ; 
Drop it, and you'll find, alas ! 

China's brittle, just like glass. 
Now transpose it, and it's plain, 
China's converted into Chain. 

In the " Charade for my Little Mary," page 35, Inez must have 
intended some other gem than the ruby — perhaps the topaz — for, 
although she sent no answer with it, we think " Fannie L." is quite 
right in supposing that the answer is Opal, which cannot be made 
without some change of the sort. Fannie has selected the sapphire, 
which does very well. 


From the Onyx borrow 0, 
And from the Jasper P ; 
Sapphire lends us A, we know, 

And L in Pearl we see. 
All these gems some beauty lend 
To the Opal, where they blend. 

To the next Enigma we have a number of answers — all of them 
correct. Besides " Elsie's," there is one in verse, from " Marian." 
We publish the latter only, not because " Elsie's" is inferior to it, 
but because we prefer to divide the "honours" among our little com- 



Your first, I think, a pump must be, 
* That never more than one arm had ; 
Your second must be kin, I see, 

Be it a lass or be it a lad ; 
Your third is pie, and I'll give up beat, 
If pumpkin-pie is not a treat.' 

The Conundrums which we proposed in our last number have all 
been correctly answered, though not by any one correspondent. We 
give them again, with the answers annexed. 

"What kind of a pedler is a horse ? 
Ans. — A quadru-pecWer. 

What kind of sculpture would you properly consider food ? 
Ans. — Any statuette (any stat-you-ate.) 

Why are schoolboys' knuckles like good subjects ? 
Ans. — Because they obey the ruler. 

Why is a curate in search of a place like a sailor ? 
Ans. — Because he goes to see (sea) for a living. 

By what rule would you keep a ship's journal in verse ? 
Ans. — By logarithms (log o' rhythms.) 

Having thus disposed of all the riddles in the last number, we proceed 
to offer our readers new material for the exercise of their ingenuity. 
We are indebted to the kindness of a friend for the Charades which 
follow. He tells us that they were composed to beguile the tedium 
of convalescence. Our readers will thank him, as we also do most 
cordially, for making such a happy use of otherwise idle hours. If 
we did not hope that he will devote other hours than those of con- 
valescence to the same pleasant employment, w T e might almost wish 
that he should not get well very soon. 

These Charades are most gracefully constructed, and may well 
employ the skill, and reward the effort, of those "children of a larger 
growth" who condescend to read our pages. We shall be happy to 
receive answers from any of these " honorary readers" — as we may 
properly term them — of whom we are to glad know that we have 
some who are not above such a juvenile employment. 



My first is a city long since passed away 

From the banks of the " Gozan," which saw its decay, 

Whose name is spelled backward and forth the same way. 

My second's a poet's " sole daughter," whose name 

Both backward and forward is still spelled the same. 

My third has withdrawn from the gay world, to pray, 

With a title which spells back and forth the same way. 

My fourth in all climates proclaims the midday, 

And backward and forward is spelled the same way. 

My fifth is a soft-sounding feminine name, 

Which backward and forward spells ever the same. 

My last, men in merriment often exclaim — 

A word which spells backward and forward the same. 

The initials of these, rightly placed, give the name 

(Which backward and forward is still spelled the same) 

Of a virtuous, pious, and primitive dame, 

Whose prayers, perseveringly, faithfully given, 

Ascended on high, and were answered from heaven ! 


How sweet and gracefully my first 

Fall on the listening ear, 
When they who claim my second part 

The orators appear ! 
But what a harsh, discordant blast 

Comes sweeping o'er my senses, 
When he who rudely plies my first 

In legal strife, with skilful hand, 
My first the lawyers wield, 

In bold attack or brave defence — 
At once a spear and shield — 

While soberly my second pursues 
His honest, quiet way, 

And peacefully my first employs 

With my second quite dispenses. I In all he has to say. 

But where shall we seek my gifted whole ; 

Where find his broken lyre — 
The hand which caused the page to glow 

With a poet's vestal fire ? 
All, all that's mortal coldly sleeps 

Beneath the silent sod, 
While his name, undying, lives with us, 

And his soul rests with his God. 


Fly to the mountains, quickly fly, 
While my first sweeps o'er the land, 

With blazing torch and savage cry, 
And his blood-stained knife in hand. 

My second, though seldom seen by day, 
At evening hour grows bright ; 

And, like the burning Stromboli, 
Appears in a blaze of light. 

My whole, with courage undismayed, 

In deadly strife, alone, 
With single hand and trusty blade, 

Upheld a tottering throne. 

Jot \\t €Aint$ <&\m> 


FOR many and many a year, Santa Claus, that good child-lover, has wrough< 
Christmas toys for children in his great work-shop under ground. Years ago, 
When the Schoolfellow was a " little shaver" himself, he hung up his stocking 
on Christmas eve, with as boundless anticipations of what Santa Claus would 
bring, as Master Bertie indulged in, this very last Christmas. 

Santa Claus is the same " merry old soul" now, that he was then ; there has 
been very little change in him, I fancy, except that he has every year grown 
more and more skilful in the manufacture of rare and wonderful toys for his 
Christmas distribution. He is conscious of this fact himself, perhaps, for it seems 
he is beginning to think about the use which children make of his lavish gifts. 
This last Christmas, Bertie found amongst crowds of toys and bon-bons, which 
filled his stockings to overflowing, and lay in profusion around the chimney- 
place, a folded letter, neatly sealed, and directed to him. It bore a very strange 
post-mark, and was a queer-looking document altogether. For the benefit of 
some of our little readers, who are operatives in the same line with Master Ber- 
tie, we will transcribe the letter, with a hope that its warning will be effective. 
It is dated — 

From Santa Claus's Den. 
Young Master Bertie, — Christmas Eve. 

While you are so comfortably sleeping, 
And dreaming, maybe, of the gifts in Santa Claus's keeping — 
I'm writing down a thing or two this evening in December, 
Which I particularly beg, hereafter you'll remember. 
You'll wake up in the morning, I dare say, very early, 
Before the Christmas daylight has brightened on us fairly ; 
And barefoot, in your night-drawers, with eager expectation, 
You'll be pulling down your stockings for a quick investigation. 
The first thing that you come across most probably will be, Sir, 
This letter, neatly folded, and addressed to you by me, Sir ; 
So do not be impatient, but quietly, I pray, Sir, 

Sit down and listen while mamma reads what I have to say, Sir. h 

All through the year my elves and I have much as we can do, Sir, * 

To manufacture Christmas gifts for girls and boys like you, Sir : 
Out of the best material, with care and skill we make 'em ; 
And not with the intention for you to spoil and break 'em ! 



Don't you think, yourself, Sir, I well may have objection 
To sending out my pretty works from under my protection, 
Until I can be satisfied that children who may get them 
Will not destroy, but properly, with care, appreciate them ? 
I dearly love to shower toys — the best that I can make of 'em, 
On children who, I'm well assured, a proper care will take of "em ; 
But you better had believe, my boy, it puts me in a passion, 
"When I hear of naughty boys and girls, who love to crush and smash 'em. 
I have been told this Christmas-time by those whom know you well, Sir, 
That you have broken up more toys than memory could tell, Sir ; 
It grieves me much to hear this tale — I'd like to disbelieve it, 
But it comes from good authority, and so I must receive it. . 
So, Master Bertie, you must hear my rule and regulation, 
Which is to be enforced without the slightest deviation. 
This time, I will bestow on you your usual Christmas treasure ; 
A bountiful supply of gifts I'll bring in liberal measure ; 
You shall have ten-pins hard and smooth, and you shall have a fiddle j 
You shall have braided slippers with red flowers in the middle ; 
You shall have all you wished for — but remember to take care of 'em, 
Or when another Christmas comes, you shall not have a share of 'em I 
Here I pause, — and sign myself, Yours truly, 

Santa Claps. 


WE have not space enough to mention all the pretty books for the young 
which have been published sinc° New Year's ; but there are two or three 
which we must commend to our reader 

Carl Kunken: His Christmas Stocking, is the title of the second upon" Ellen 
Montgomery's Book Shelf." It is one of the most natural and charming Christ- 
mas stories we ever met with, and we thank "Amy Lothrop" for it in the name 
of good children. Our gratitude extends also to its publishers, Messrs. Putnam 
& Co., for the handsome manner in which it is got up. 

Little Blossom's Reward is a Christmas book of graceful and pleasing stories, 
and pictures over which, doubtless, many a bright eye has sparkled with delight. 
It is published by Messrs. Phillips, Sampson & Co., of Boston. 

The Perils of Greatness, published by Mr. Charles Scribner, of New York, is 
ft beautiful and fascinating story, translated from the German by Mrs. Conant, 
whose name upon the title-page of a book is always a warrant of its merit. 

Pretty Poll is a delightful story for quite young readers. It is embellished 
with four handsome pictures. Messrs. Evans & Brittan are its publishers. 

€Mt nf Cnttt^ntB 

MARCH 1854. 

Illustrated with a Frontispiece and twextt-four Vignettes. 

Child-Life in England. By "W. €. Richards. 

The First Snow-Drop, By Mary E. 

We, Us & Co, By We. 

The Baby Correspondence, . . . . By Cousin- Alice. 

The Cock and the Spaniel, From the German, by M. P. 

Sedgemoor ; or, the Home Lessons of Herbert and By Mrs. Manners. 


The Story of an. Egg, From the German. 

The Fatal Effects of Disobedience, . . . By E. B. C. r 

The Riddler's Corner. — Answers to Charades in the last number ; A Cluster of 



We are glad to announce to our friends, that the present volume 
of the Schoolfellow has thus far been received with universal favor. 
We have added a goodly number to the circle of our youthful readers, 
and we hope not to disappoint their expectations. 'I he Press all over 
the Union has kindly noticed '' the sprightly little Schoolfellow," for 
which kind encouragement, as well as for numerous expressions of high 
regard privately received, we are sincerely grateful ; and the best we 
can do is to strive and make the Schoolfellow deserving of all the 
praise bestowed upon it. 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for one year. 

For .Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
book upon our list. For Three Dollars, three copies of the School- 
fellow, and the volume for 1853, handsomely bound. 

For Five Dollars, five copies of the Schoolfellow, and any of our 
books to the amount of Two Dollars. 


Booksellers & Publishers, 

697 Broadway. 

*.£* Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

i I 


See Page T8. 

(Cpllr-f ifc in dtt|lpir + 


Laptev £17 

UE house-dog, whom I intro- 
troduced to my readers in the 
first chapter of these recollec- 
tions, was a great favourite 
in the family. He was a fine 
large animal of the famous 
Newfoundland breed ; a gift to 
my father from a gentleman 
in London, who was sometimes a guest at the parsonage in the sum- 
mer season, when his duties permitted him to leave the great city. 
Ponto, skilled in all the accomplishments of his tribe, was the very 
prince of amiable and excellent playfellows for every one of us ; but 
he seemed to have a peculiar fondness for Maud, which I never was 
unkind enough to complain of, even when I sometimes tried in vain 
to entice him from her feet, where he used to lie while she was read- 
ing or knitting. 

I do not think that Ponto loved Maud so much, because she was 
kinder to him than any of the rest of us, for we all vied with each 
other in our efforts to win his particular regard. But Ponto had con- 
ferred a great favour upon his young mistress, and ever afterwards 
he followed her with more devotion than he displayed to any one else. 
The favour which he conferred upon her was indeed a great one ; for it 
was her life perhaps. It happened on this wise : 

The crystal brook which skirted the meadow-tract just beyond our 
wheat-field was expanded at one point into quite a little pond. This 
had been done purposely, by my father's directions, to make a suit- 
able place for the administration of the ordinance of baptism to those 
who united themselves to the church under his care. I may perhaps, 
at another time, describe a beautiful and touching scene which I wit* 



nessed there some years after the event of which I am now writing. 
This lakelet was overhung by a group of willow trees, which drooped 
their long and delicate branches into its quiet waters. A small house, 
or rather lodge, stood near by, where the candidates were robed for 
the baptismal rite. Into this Maud and myself often retreated dur- 
ing the pleasant weather, for quiet study ; and upon such occasions, 
Ponto generally went with us, and laid himself at full length upon 
the sward near the lodge door. 

Once, while we were thus studying together, Maurice came to call 
me home, to go to Epwell, upon a special errand for papa. I there- 
fore kissed Maud and left her with her books. As I went off with 
Maurice, I whistled to Ponto to go with me. The dog rose as if to 
follow me, but he immediately observed Maud at her post by the 
window, and wagging his tail, laid himself down again. 

When I reached the house, Philip had the donkey already saddled 
at the door, and my preparations — thanks to mamma's assistance — 
were soon made. When I was quite ready, papa put a letter into my 
hand which he bade me deliver to the Rev. Mr. Forester, at Epwell, 
and to wait for an answer. The village to which I was going was 
about three miles from Hackington, and as I had all the afternoon 
before me, and the weather was very charming, I set out in high spirits. 

But it is not of my journey that I would tell, though it was not 
until I had accomplished it and was once more at my happy home 
that I knew any thing of the circumstances I am about to relate. 

As I rode up to the gate upon my return, Maurice ran out and 
nearly frightened me out of my senses by exclaiming, " Oh, brother 
Willie, Maud would have been drowned but for Ponto — good, dear 
Ponto ! He saved her life !" 

" How — what do you mean, Maurice V I replied gaspingly ; but, 
meanwhile leaving Essel to take care of himself, I rushed forward 
into the house, and instinctively up into Maud's chamber. At the 
door of it stood Ponto, looking anxiously towards me, and wagging 
his tail just as he did when he refused my summons at the lodge. 
I pushed quietly into the chamber, and there I saw my darling sister, 
lying, or rather reclining, upon the couch beneath the window. She 


was in her night-dress, the snowy frills of which were scarcely whiter 
than her cheek. 

" Oh, Maud," I sobbed out, as I ran and threw my arms around 
her, " what has happened ]" She smiled ; but mamma answered for 
her, telling me the story which Maud had related to her. It was to 
this effect : 

Soon after I had left the lodge, Maud, feeling a little restless with- 
out me, closed her book, and went out. One of the willows which 
overhung the brook, stretched out an arm nearly across it. In a crotch 
of this limb we used often to sit and watch the flies as they sported 
upon the water below, and the minnows which darted about beneath it. 
Thither Maud clambered, and took her seat, calling at the same time to 
Ponto, who stood at the edge of the pond, and seemed quite dis- 
posed to plunge in and seize the handkerchief which Maud dropped 
till it nearly touched the water. 

While she was thus sportively engaged, and rather daringly lean- 
ing forward to strike the surface of the lakelet, that she might see the 
circular ripples stretch out to the shore, she was startled by the dis- 
charge of a gun in a copse that stretched along the brook a little 
further up. The suddenness of the shock, combined with her some- 
what adventurous position, occasioned her fall almost headlong into 
the water. It was not deep enough to drown her, had she only re- 
gained her feet ; but whether she would have done this or not, remains 
unknown. Ponto was her speedy deliverer from danger. He caught 
her dress almost before she was conscious of her fall, and dragged 
her by main force to the bank. She did not faint, but started imme- 
diately homeward, Ponto pressing closely by her side, as if to sup- 
port her. When she reached the house and saw her mother, her 
strength failed, and she sank lifeless into her arms. 

She was, however, very easily restored, and had no other sense of 
her mishap than extreme weakness — the consequence of the strong 
excitement under which she had reached home. 

Ponto was in high favour that afternoon ; but he could not be in- 
duced to leave the door of Maud's chamber, unless when he was per- 
mitted to enter it. 



He had followed me into the room, and I had scarcely done kissing 
Maud after mamma's recital of her adventure, when I heard Ponto 
growling, and looking around, I saw him before a toilet-mirror which 
had been removed from the bureau to the floor. 

He had caught sight of himself in the glass ; and whether it was 
that he did not like his own appearance, or supposed his image to be 
another dog, of whose admission to the privileged chamber he was 
jealous, he stood with one foot upon the stand, and the other raised 
as if he would strike the intruder, while he growled as unamiably as 
so good-tempered a dog as he was could do. 

Maud joined in the hearty laugh which we all raised at Ponto's 
expense ; and he seemed a little conscious of our raillery as he re- 
treated to the outside of the chamber door ; but not without casting 
a furtive glance at the looking-glass. 

\t Jrcrf £rato-]grif< 

Little Elsie worked in her garden 

All the autumn afternoon : 
" I must put it in order," said she, 

For the winter is coming soon. 
I must clip my scented geraniums 

Close to the very ground, 
And cover them over with pine-bougli3 

Heaped above and around. 
And I must bury my snow-drops, 

And make the borders high, 
Else the winter will come with hail and snow, 

And my tender flowers will die." 

Little Elsie went to her mother 

At the setting of the sun, 
And told her, very gleefully, 

Of the work that she had done, 
"And oh !" she said, " dear mother, . 

I will give you in the spring 
The very earliest snow-drop 

That my garden-ground shall bring !" 
And her mother kissed her softly, 

Her lips and her eyes so mild, 
Thinking " the earliest snow-drop" 

Not half so sweet as the child. 

The bitter winds of the winter 

Swept by with a mournful wail, 
An I sharply against "the windows 

Eattled the driving hail : 
Whitely in Elsie's garden 

The deep cold snow was spread, 
And whitely the long, fringed covers 

Lay over Elsie's bed; 
But whiter than either lay Elsie, 

With her hands upon her breast, 
And her eyelids closrd softly 

In a deep and dreamless rest. 

She had been in a dream when dying, 

And ianeied the spring had come ; 
That the yellow crocus, and pansies, 

And snow-drops were all in bloom. 
She thought that she heard the bleating 

Of the lambs upon the hill, 
And the cuckoo's call in the morning, 

When the woods were cool and still; 
And stretching her hands to her mother, 

Softly and sweetly she cried, 
" Here is the earliest snow-drop — " 

And so little Elsie died. 


& €a. 



iHINKING it may interest the little readers of 
the Schoolfellow, we have concluded to give them 
some account of " We, Us & Co." 

We live about thirty miles from the great and re- 
nowned city of New York, in a country township, 
in a very old house, built before the Revolution 
by a gentleman who was bought of his parents 
(very poor people) for a bushel of potatoes, on a 
very old farm of sixty. acres or more. So you must expect only a 
very plain account of very plain people. 

We have a large family, to whom I will introduce you. First 
comes Grandma, an elegant old lady of over fifty years, but looking 
much younger than that ; then there is Aunt Mercy, a cheerful, good- 
humoured " old maid ;" Uncle Bob and Aunt Sophy, who have no 
children, and now pet the little ones belonging to other people ; Aunt 
Freelove, who is so unfortunate as to be deaf, but is very full of plea- 
sant conversation ; Papa, Mamma, and Walter and Irving, two little 
boys of less than three years old ; the first, a fine, active little fellow, 
with large gray eyes, and who did have very pretty light curls, but 
he cut one half of them off, and his mamma had to remove the other 
half, much to her regret. He js very mischievous, as little boys too 
often are, and is always in trouble. Irving, the younger, has dark 
hair and eyes, and is a round, fat lump, almost as broad as he is 
long ; he can only say one word at a time, and follows. Wallie's lead 
in every thing. 

The playmates these little ones have are a dog, named Snap, two 
black kittens, Sambo and Peter, (of whom we will tell you more by- 
and-by,) and a pet lamb called Fanny. We have two farm-horses, 
Katy and Canada, and a large white horse named Daisy, because he 
is both fair and gentle, kept only for driving. Then there is our 
man Toney, and the two girls Bridget and Agnes, who fill the respect- 


80 WE. US CO. 

ive stations of cook and. nurse. Now, we believe, you are acquainted 
with the whole establishment except cows, pigs, ducks, geese and 
chickens, to whom we shall not introduce you, because we do not 
want to tax your memories with too many new names. 

One day last spring, Aggie, the nurse, proposed that she should 
make a summer-house for the two little boys ; so Mamma, Aggie, 
Wallie and Irvie walked out one fine morning to choose a spot. It 
was down near a pond, where a young apple-tree which had never 
known a pruning-knife, grew next to some grape-vines. That tree 
formed the back and top ; two young saplings, brought from the 
woods, furnished the door-posts ; we fastened the branches of the 
apple-tree to them, and we wound the grape-vines round and round, 
after disengaging them from the trees, to which they had become so 
much attached that we had much ado to separate them. We brought 
shrubs from the swamp to make the sides, and then our house only 
differed from a bee hive in having a larger door. Aggie built a seat 
of stones and brick, and covered its top and sides with a thick coat of 
mortar, to keep out the snakes. 

Our house being finished, we next turned our attention to beautify- 
ing the grounds. We removed all the old stumps and rocks, and 
made a flower-bed on each side of the house, in which we planted 
flowers brought from the woods and garden. Weeping-willows, too, 
were placed round the edges of the pond, and made it a very pretty 
place indeed; and in the warm summer days we spent many hours 
in this little house of ours, to enjoy Jbc view of the water and the 
odour of the flowers, which we appreciated the more because we had 
contributed our share of the labour. This is one of the sure results of 
industry. Next summer the pond is to be deepened and filled with 
pretty little gold-fish. 

Now for the kittens, which we promised to say more about. One 
day, when Toney was returning with the cows from the pasture, he 
found in the road a pretty little black kitten, with white face and feet, 
that seemed to be homeless and friendless. He brought it home, and 
Mamma happening to fancy it, she called it Sambo, and gave it a 
home in the granary, to scare away the rats and mice, A few di/s 

WE, US & CO. 81 

afterwards, there came, of its own accord, another black kitten, almost 
an exact match for Sam. He, also, has a white face, but his legs are 
black and his feet white : so, while Sam looks as if he had white shoes 
and stockings, Peter seems to have black stockings and white shoes. 

We do not allow them to stay in the house, but keep them in the 
out-buildings to frighten the rats, (towards whom, you know, they 
have a natural enmity,) and they have already killed a dozen, 
although they are neither of them a year old. Every time we go 
down in the fields they both follow us, as you have seen dogs follow 
their masters ; and if we get too far ahead, they call and call till 
some one has to return for them. Almost all day long they play on 
the lawn around the house, rolling and tumbling over each other, and 
performing very strange antics even for cats. Sometimes one will 
climb a tree, and the other will follow ; the first going out on a 
limb and looking back to see if his companion is coming, like 
children playing " Follow the leader." Thus he ventures to the ex- 
treme end, so that it bends with his weight : when the other joins 
him, down they both go on the nice soft green grass, and there is a 
rare chase. After this, they will part, one lying down to rest, the 
other walking past, apparently as demure as a judge, but only watch- 
ing his chance to make a spring and begin the game over again, per- 
haps choosing the fence instead of a tree to practise their antics on. 
One afternoon, they followed the children into the poultry-yard, where 
Fanny, the lamb I spoke of, is kept. Much to our surprise, she had 
a real frolic with them, rolling them over and over, butting them with 
her head two or three feet from her, then chasing and jumping over 
them, till they were glad to seek refuge in the empty coops, which, 
though not made for them, were none the less acceptable. We. 

Mr Dear little Cousin Edith : 

S my mamma thinks it is too cold for me to 
make you a call at present, I have persuaded her 
to write to you for me. She is very obliging 
as a general thing, and was so kind as to tell 
me of your arrival immediately. You can 
~*^ imagine what a nutter of pleasure and curiosity 
it threw me into, (I was lying quite still in my nurse's 
arms before,) to know that I had a little friend near my 
own age, and a relative too. A cousin is a kind of sis- 
ter, mamma says ; and as I have no little sister, I shall, no 
doubt, be very fond of you. I wanted to go and see you directly, and 
tried to make them understand it, but papa only thought I was rest- 
less, and suggested to mamma that I had an attack of colic. 

Now, if there is any thing in the world provokes' me, it is to be 
accused of the colic. I warn you how it will be. If you try to look 
around you a little, and make up your mind (out loud) as to what kind 
of a place the world is, they will say you have the colic. If you wish 
to be taken to your mamma, after a long nap, you will be sure to hear, 
" Poor little thing ! it is in pain." And then look out ! such dosing with 
soot tea, and catnip, and sugar and water, and dear knows what all, 
as follows ! They will split your little mouth with a big spoon, and 
scald it w r ith the sickening stuff, till you do have the colic in real earnest. 
Sugar and water is the best of all ; but I must say I prefer milk as 
my mamma gives it to me, above any thing. 

I'm quite an invalid at present, myself. That's the reason I can't 
come and see you ; not because I don't go out, for I'm a great travel- 
ler. I'll tell you all about it some day. I came here to New York 
all the way from Philadelphia, — as far as a million of times across the 
nursery. What do you think of that 1 But then I'm a boy, you see : 
I suppose a girl couldn't do so. 



Yes, I'm a great invalid ; I've had a doctor on my own account. He 
is something like a papa, or an uncle, only not so nice. I confess it 
to you — don't let it get to grandma's ears for any thing — (I hope you 
don't talk in your sleep) — but, between us, I was a little bit afraid 
of having a doctor. Mamma had one come to see her in Philadel- 
phia, and he pricked my arm with a knife (only think of it!) till the 
blood came ; and it made me so sick ! and then my arm swelled up 
dreadfully. They called it being vaccinated. Don't you think it is 
frightful % If I hear they are going to vaccinate you, I shall defend 
you to the last. 

This doctor was not so cruel. He said my mouth was very sore, 
(just as if I had n't known it days and days, only I would n't cry, for 
fear they would say I had the colic !) and then he put some sugar on 
my tongue out of a little paper. He gave mamma a great many 
sugar-papers for me, and I have one 'most every time I wake up. 
I'd send you one, if I thought you'd like it. 

Mamma says you have very large eyes. I have too. Don't you 
like to have large eyes % one can see so much further. I can see 
across the nursery. I could n't at first, not much beyond my nose ; but 
then my nose is very large too. I'm a very large boy, altogether. 
Mamma says you're a nice plump little thing. I wasn't, though I'm 
quite stout now. It used to hurt my feelings dreadfully to hear peo- 
ple say, I "needed filling up." I hope I've filled up fast enough to 
suit them. I'm sure I've done my best. 

Do you like being kissed 1 Or have n't they commenced yet 1 
This kissing is a dreadful trial. My aunts kissed me almost to death, 
in Philadelphia ; but then they were very good to me ; so I put up 
with it. Besides, if I had cried, they would have said I had the colic. 
Your mamma is my aunt ; did you know it ? I saw her once, the day 
after I came here. She laid me on her lap and admired me o great 
deal. I liked her because she had such good manners. I'm very glad 
you have such a nice mamma. 

Have you got two grandmothers 1 I have. One, the grandmother 
that came to see me yesterday, and talked about you — she belongs 
to both of us, it seems. Then I've got a grandmother in Philadelphia 


and a grandfather too. They say I look very much like my grand- 
father ; as you're a girl, I suppose you look like grandmother. Well, 
as my mamma says, you might look like a great many worse people. 
I wonder if you mid I look alike. 

I've got a nurse, too ; her name is Margaret. Your nurse is named 
Fanny, mamma says. Can you call her yet ] I can call my nurse 
now ; I scratch on the pillow when I wake up, and she comes directly. 
Nurses are very good people. You will be sure to like your nurse, 
and you need n't be afraid of her, unless she kisses you too much, 
and then I'd put a stop to it. I would. 

I admire my hands a great deal at present. Hands are very amus- 
ing things. They are made for us babies to look at. You will find 
yours by and by; I didn't know I had any for a great while. 
What do you suppose they mean by teeth 1 They say I shall have 
teeth before long. Have you got any 1 Do send me word what they are. 

I have written you a very long letter, but you must excuse it. It 
is so nice to have somebody near my own age, that can understand me ; 
I expect we shall be very intimate when we come to see each other. 
If this cold weather continues, I shall write to you again, and tell you 
about papa, who is a great friend of mine ; only that he will tickle my 
face with his whiskers. 

I think it time I had my luncheon now, so I shall stop. 

Send me word when you get this. I have n't got a pretty name 
like you, but mamma says " it's a good name, and papa's." I wish 
it was prettier for your sake, for I'm very much afraid I shall destroy 
all favourable impressions, when I have to sign myself 

Your affectionate Cousin, 


Cock aittr % ^pittel 


T happened that once upon a time there 
lived in a fashionable house a spaniel, the 
mother of four young puppies, who for 
some days had been confined to her room 
with ear-ache. She could not consequently 
go with her little ones as formerly into 
the courtyard ; but every evening, when 
they came in, they related to their mother 
all that had happened to them during the 

One evening the four little dogs had a great deal to recount : 
" Lady," the eldest, had been running about with a neighbour's little 
Spitz. " Fidele" had been sadly 
teased by one of her young 
sisters, but had afterwards re- 
ceived a present of some de- 
licious cheese-parings. 

Bellini had been terribly alarmed by the creaking of the wheel of 
a child's carriage, as it whirled round with frightful rapidity ; and 
Nimrod, the youngest of the four little dogs, had been so shockingly 
frightened by the cock, that he had been obliged to hide himself be- 
hind the water-butt, and could not play a bit. 

" You silly child !" said the old dog, " what did the cock do to you ?" 

" Ah, mamma," cried Nimrod, " I wanted to play with him, but he 

is such a bad, proud fellow ! He would not even look at me at first. 




I think he must have been out just before, taking a ride with some 
other distinguished cocks, for he had spurs on his feet. He was, be- 
sides, quite beautifully dressed — much finer than gentlemen are." 

The old spaniel laughingly shook her head, but Nimrod continued 
eagerly : " Only hear, mother, what he had on ! His coat was of green 
satin, done all over and over with gold ; a red cap set on the side of 
his head ; and only think ! — a plume of feathers, like those the officers 
who come to visit our mistress wear in their hats, was stuck at the 
end of his body ! It looked so foolish !" 

"And I suppose, little Malapert, you laughed at him !" said the 

" No, mamma, I did not quite laugh at him," replied Nimrod, " but 
I w r as so vexed with him that I began just a little to snarl at him — ha ! 
you should have seen how bad he was ! He stretched out his neck 
so long, turned his head about on all sides, and abused me as I never 
heard any animal do : our mistress's old parrot, even, cannot call one 
such bad names ! Was it then so wrong 
in me to hide behind the water-butt V 

" If he teased you so much, why did 
you not bark at him right well ?" 

" That I did once, dear mamma, but it only 
made him worse. With a frightful bound 
he sprang upon the fence, flapped both his 
wings violently against his sides, and called 
together all the fowls on the lot, who immediately answered him 
from far and near !" 

"And did they all come to him?" 
"Ah, that I cannot say : I was too much afraid 
to stay any longer behind the butt, but I put my 
tail between my legs and ran into the house as 
fast as I could. Do not take it amiss, mamma, but I believe I did 
cry fearfully." 

The old dog laughed loudly at the cowardly young chatterer, and 
said : " In a week my ear will be better, and you will be somewhat 
bolder ; I will then show you this proud gentleman nearer." 



She did as she said, and at the end of a week she went into the 
courtyard, accompanied by her four children, where the cock was pay- 

ing the most courtly attention to his hens, and looking on the world 
around with a proud and disdainful air. 

" Now come here, my children," said the mother. " Let whichever 
of you has the most courage, go straight up to the. cock and bark at 
him. Whoever does that, shall have as his reward a most deliciously 
tender lamb-bone, which I hid yesterday under the straw mat." 

" Only think of the lamb-bone !" cried the three eldest puppies, 
and gained from the thought heroic courage, and from appetite quite 
wet little noses. 

They frisked about their mother quite boldly, and began to bark 
gently, always gaining more and more courage, except little Nimrod, 
who still kept his tail closely stuck between his legs. 

Bellini was the first who let her courage be seen. She laid her head 
between her two fore-feet flat on the ground, and so crept softly, softly, 
looking sharply at the cock all the while. He (the cock) uttered one 
of his highly abusive cries, upon which the nim- 
ble young puppy made two quick bounds brave- 
ly towards him, and barked as loudly as her 
shrill little voice would let her. 


Ah ! what is the matter with the fine gentleman 1 His long neck 

becomes shorter and shorter; his tall 
tail-feathers trail on the ground, and 
with steps a yard long, he runs right 
and left, round and round, the dog 
always behirai him, till at length the 
old coward escapes through a hole into 
the hen-house. 

A loud laugh arose from all in the courtyard. The dogs whined, 
the ducks cackled, the turkeys gobbled, and the boys who saw what 
passed from the windows, clapped their hands. 

When little Nimrod saw it, he lost all fear, and ran with his bro- 
thers and sisters to the hen-house, where they all barked for a long 
time through the hole in which the cock had escaped. 

Since that time Nimrod has become so brave, that he fears nothing, 
and barks even at men and horses. The cock, however, remains the 
same insolent simpleton, and is still so fearful, that it is plainly seen 
that he is a cock. M. P. 



Chapter W. 

p^T^HERE were great consultations amongst the young 
|s people on the following day, to make sure that all under- 
stood the plan, and Herbert and Maude were seen sitting 
with their heads resting 011 their hands, in very thought- 
ful attitudes. Alice, with more spirit than she usually 
displayed, begged Arthur not to trouble himself about 
her, when he offered to assist her by suggestions and 

" I would rather do it all alone, Cousin Arthur, even if I have to go 
to ' Mother Goose' for a hero." 

" Mother Goose has no hero whose name begins with A,' " said 
Herbert, laughingly. 

" Oh, no matter ; you boys will please let me stumble along by 
myself, now, and I may come to you by and by, when J find out just 
how ignorant I am. At present, I think I ought to have at least one 
idea in my head ; I am just as much obliged to you, though, as if I 
accepted your kind offer, Arthur." 

So Alice continued to ponder, but it was evidently not to much 
purpose, judging by her troubled look. She did not exactly know 
what would be required of her, and therefore thinking did not do 
much good. 

Sunday passed over, and no reference was made to the anticipated 
pleasant evening. Whether it was much in the thoughts of the c young 
people, could not be determined ; but the Sabbath was a day at Sedge- 
moor, wherein worldly plans and pleasures were not talked of, or 
dwelt upon, even in thought, if possible. It was not a day of dull 
and prosy routine. Mr. Clayton had always endeavored to arouse to 



the full the interest and attention of his children in the religious in- 
struction they received, whether at church, where they listened to 
the good substantial discourses of Mr. Latimer, or at home, where he 
himself, assisted now by his willing and able associates, read to and 
with the young people, talked with them about the Christian and bene- 
volent operations of the day, or of the most fascinating history of the 
Church in the centuries which had intervened since its establishment 
by its great Head upon earth. 

Scarcely a thought then turned to the proposed amusement of 
Monday evening, during that well-spent, pleasant Sunday. But when 
the next morning came, and the group assembled, before breakfast, 
around the dining-room fire, they all talked fast enough to make up 
for the time of restraint and silence. Through all the day their tasks 
were performed with even unwonted zeal and energy, and evening 
found them radiant and flushed with eager anticipation. 

" Here Ave are, all primed, papa," said Herbert, and they gathered 
about the large inlaid table which stood in the centre of the room. 

"Ah, you can work, Miss Emily," said Alice, as she watched the 
lady unrolling a strip of muslin which she had taken from her mo- 
rocco case, " but Maude and I, particularly I, will have as much as we 
can do to think of what we must say. I wonder if I shall ever know 
as much as you do, and be able to use all I know as readily. It is 
no trouble for you to do what is quite hard work for me ; indeed, 
you don't seem to think at all, while all my thinking seems to be in 

" If vou properly dispose of what you study, Alice, you will be 
able to recur to it and to use it with no apparent effort. It would be 
like taking from a well-arranged library the precise book you want, 
with no previous search, while in a disorderly library you might spend 
hours in useless seeking." 

" Let us see if you have made good use of the time since Friday 
evening," said Mr. Clayton, interrupting the dialogues which were 
going on in various quarters. " Now, each one of you is to name a 
distinguished person in the letter A. Miss Donne, we give you the 
precedence which belongs to a lady." 


Miss Emily looked up smilingly, and replied : " Having a special 
admiration for poets and artists, I shall choose my illustrious person- 
ages from their works. So 1 name Angelo, Michael, as the books 
of reference say." 

" He was the great artist of whom you were speaking a few days 
ago, Miss Emily, was he not 1 Was not he the sculptor, architect, 
and painter ]" asked Maude. 

" Yes, my dear." 

" And you said, I remember, that he was the only artist who had 
acquired real excellence in so many ways." 

" Did Miss Donne tell you what was the chief characteristic of 
this wonderful genius, Maude ?" asked Mr. Clayton. 

" I do not think she did, Sir." 

"How would you characterize him, Miss Donne V 

" I think his greatest achievements were noted for their extraordi- 
nary grandeur and majesty. 'Terrible and sublime,' says some 
writer, speaking of his genius and its conceptions." 

." Leo X. was fortunate in having such an artist to carry out his 
magnificent projects," remarked Mr. Carey. "Much of the glory 
of his pontifical rule was reflected from the great soul of Michael 

"What were his chief works; do you remember, Miss Donne?" 

" I think, in sculpture, his fame rests chiefly on the monument of 
Julius II., whereon is the colossal figure of Moses : his greatest achieve- 
ment in painting was the walls of the Sistine Chapel, and in architec- 
ture the artist is best known by the Farnese Palace, and by the 
church of St. Peter at Rome — the fame of whose perfect cupola has 
filled the world." 

" It is singular," responded Mr. Clayton, " that Michael Angelo has 
been justly said ' to have laid the foundation-stones of the Reforma- 
tion V " 

" How so, Sir V asked Arthur. 

" In this way : To build the magnificent St. Peter's, great sums of 
money were required. These were supplied by the sale of indub 
gences, against which iniquitous proceeding Martin Luther was aroused 


to make violent and powerful protestations. This led to the exposure 
of other corruptions in the Church, and finally to the great triumph 
of the Reformation." 

" Was Angelo the name of his family ?" said Alice. 

" Oh no," replied Miss Donne ; "I must convict myself of an error 
in the game at this first move. His family name was Buonarotli, and 
he should justly be classed with the ' B's' — should he not, Mr. Clay- 
ton ?" 

" I believe you are right," said that gentlemen.; " but in considera- 
tion of your first thinking of your mistake, the only forfeit to which 
I shall condemn you will be, to draw from your ready memory 
another great man." 

" That forfeit is easily paid, Sir. I will take a poet this time, and 
believe I am right now in giving Alfieri' 1 '' 

" That is the name I called 'All fiery,' Miss Emily," said Her- 
bert, " when I was reading over the names of your books the other 
day, and you said that though I pronounced the word wrong, I de- 
scribed the man correctly." 

"Yes, Herbert," said Mr. Carey; "and if Alfieri had only been as 
judicious, consistent, and self-controlling as he was energetic, patriotic, 
and fiery in his love of liberty and denunciation of tyranny, he would 
have a nobler fame than is accorded to him now." 

" You said he was a poet, Miss Emily, but Mr. Carey talks as if 
he were only a patriot," remarked Alice. 

" He was both in an eminent degree, my daughter," said Mr. Clay- 
ton. " He was a Sardinian noble by birth, and found himself the sub- 
ject of the most arbitrary and overbearing, yet petty tyranny in the 
world. Arthur, I heard you talking with Miss Emily about him the 
other day : what did she tell you about him V 

" She interested me very much, Sir, in the singular character she 
described. He was an orphan, or rather fatherless, from his child- 
hood, and was at a large public boarding-school for years. At the 
age of fourteen, by the laws of the country, he came into the posses- 
sion of his whole income, though he was not allowed to manage his 
estates so early. The Sardinian king enforced a law that no young 


nobleman should appear abroad unaccompanied by a servant. This 
and other restrictions annoyed Alfieri excessively. He violated these 
laws incessantly, and was imprisoned at the school for a month. When 
the month was out, he was released, and did precisely the same un- 
lawful things. He was imprisoned — suffering all the hardships of 
prisoners generally, such as the floor for a bed, bread and water to 
live upon, etc., for another month. This he followed by a third series 
of transgressions, and then came three months' imprisonment. All 
these punishments had no effect upon the young lover of liberty, and 
at length the attempt to enforce certain regulations upon him was 

©fcaptev V. 

HAT, out of breath, Arthur ?" said Mr. Carey, 
laughingly, as the earnest lad finished his descrip- 
tion. " You have spoken well ; and now, Maude, 
tell us what interested you so much, and caused 
your impatient and indignant exclamation of ' How absurd !' " 

" Why, no nobleman could leave the kingdom at any time without 
express and formal permission from the king. When Alfieri became 
a man, this law proved very hateful to his free spirit. He broke it 
more than once, and finally went away in great disgust ; giving up his 
rank, forfeiting all his estates, and renouncing his allegiance ' to Sar- 
dinia and her tyrant.' This seemed to show a great deal of pure 
love of liberty, and was in many respects a great sacrifice ; but, Mr. 
Carey, would you believe that the man who could do all that had 
such a small vanity about him that, for years after, he continued to 
wear the Sardinian noble's uniform — the badge of the tyranny he de- 
tested — ' because it was very becoming !' " 

All laughed at Maude's energetic contempt of poor Alfieri's weak- 
ness, and Miss Emily said — 

" You must not be too severe, Maude, especially as he confesses it 
himself, with a full sense of his littleness in indulging the feeling. 


You must forgive him as the world has forgiven this and other weak- 
nesses in the man whose poems — especially his grand tragedies — were 
the admiration of Italy and of all Europe Unfortunately, like Lord 
Byron, to whom he is often compared, he was lamentably profligate 
and unprincipled in many things, and greatly dimmed the lustre of 
his great genius by his wayward, wicked follies." 

"Ah ! his father died, and his mother was so early separated from 
him, that she could not, if she would, teach her son, as did the noble 
mother of our Washington, ' to be good.' But we must proceed 
faster than this," continued Mr. Clayton, " or we shall be a long time 
playing our game of wisdom. If Miss Emily makes her characters 
so interesting, she must not be indulged in another forfeit," he said, 

Miss Donne begged pardon, but Mr. Clayton and Mr. Carey, she 
said, had done most to awaken the interest in her illustrations of 
" great A." She wished " the two gentlemen might be successful in 
their seemingly hopeless task of trying to be stupid !" 

" Now, seriously," said Mr. Clayton, " you must not expect any 

very interesting details concerning my hero ; his name was " 

here he paused, and all sat listening intently for the great man the well- 
read Mr. Clayton should give — " his name is found in the first chap- 
ter of Genesis, and you all know the whole history of Adam? 

" Oh, papa," said the disappointed Alice, as he turned around mirth- 
fully to her. 

" The mountain laboured and brought forth a mouse," said Herbert. 
" I give it in English, out of consideration to the ladies and the country 
members," bowing to the former and to his father. 

" What sharp-shooting !" whispered Maude to Miss Donne. " I 
wonder what Mr. Carey has to say in his wisdom." 

" To secure myself against Master Herbert's wit," said his tutor, 
" I shall measure my great man by Miss Emily's. I will give you 
Joseph Addison, the elegant essayist and popular critic." 

" Oh, Mr. Carey !" exclaimed Arthur. 

" Why, surely you have no objections to Addison !" 

" He was so tame, and Miss Emily's heroes were so — so — " 


"Wild, Arthur, if they were not tame." 

"No, not that,. Alice ; but they had larger souls than Addison: 
they were geniuses, and he was only a clear writer." 

"Very well discriminated, Arthur, but let Addison pass; he is a 
man of much more note than ever Allien will be ; besides, we cannot 
nave all lions here, you must remember." 

" Yes, Sir, I saw you took an antediluvian specimen." 

" Don't be disrespectful to our great progenitor, Herbert. Come, 
Master Arthur." 

" Alfred the Great, Sir ; the wise statesman, the skilful general, 
the magnanimous sovereign, the man of piety, of self-denial, of great 
achievement and of equally great acquirement, England's immortal 
Alfred /" 

" Hear, hear," said Herbert. 

"I've finished, Sir," continued Arthur ; " have I justified my choice V 

" Your eulogium was just, Arthur ; and now comes your turn, Her- 

" Gentlemen and ladies, as a patriotic American, I call your atten- 
tion to John Quincy Adams, the great expounder and defender of our 
immortal Constitution." 

" Do, Miss Emily, follow that burst by Yankee Doodle on the 
piano," said Arthur. 

" Come, Maude, ' the evening waneth ;' who is the hero in your 
pure thoughts." 

" I cannot make up my mind, Mr. Clayton. I have three heroes ; 
I know Alice has not thought of any of them, so I want to ask you 
which you would choose of the three." 

" Well, Maude, you must tell me what directs your choice. Must 
your hero be mentally, morally, or physically great V 

" He must be a great and good man, and I can't tell whom to take, 
Alcibiades, Aristides, or St. Augustine." 

" How are you attracted to each of these three 1" 

"Alcibiades was so beautiful, and so gifted with every grace of 
person and mind — " 

" But he was so ambitious of personal distinction, that he became 


unprincipled, sacrificing country and friends to his own aggrandize- 

" Then I will not think of him. Aristides comes next ; you know 
he was a good man. Some meanly envious person wanted him ban- 
ished for no other reason than because he was tired of hearing him 
called ' the Just.' " 

" Yes, Maude, his virtuous integrity made him an honour to man- 
kind ; but was not Augustine something more than a virtuous man 1" 

" Oh, certainly, Sir ; he was a very pious man. He was good 
towards man, and also towards God." 

" He had the example of Christ and his teachings, to aid him in sub- 
duing the depravity of the natural heart," remarked Miss Donne ; 
" while Aristides lived and struggled with his nature, and strove for 
the good of others, before Christianity dawned upon mankind, show- 
ing them by divine light the right path, and giving them strength to 
avoid error." 

" Still, Miss Emily, I believe I will choose St. Augustine.'''' 

"Very well, my dear. And whom have you chosen, my little Alice ?" 

Alice blushed and hesitated : 

" I thought and thought, and it seemed to me as if there never had 
been a great man living whose name began with 'A.' I could 
think of every other letter, and plenty of them too, but if I can't take 
Hans Christian Andersen, I must pay a forfeit." 

"Andersen is as good a name as you could wish for, my daughter. 
You might know as much as Miss Emily herself, and not make a 
wiser selection. He does honour to the literature of his country ; and 
all young people have a right to love his name and do honour to it ■ 
for he has been, by his good and charming stories, a real benefactor 
to children. And so we have finished with ' great A.' " 

%\t jStorg of ait (%g* 

©l)a$ter J$i. 

NE day old Bertram returned home with a chicken- 
coop on his shoulders. As it was his custom on these 
occasions to bring back some little present for the 
children of the valley, his appearance soon attracted 
their attention ; and their curiosity was excited to as- 
certain the contents of this large cage, which was 
covered with a thick cloth, so that they could not see into it. They 
accordingly followed him to the gate of the cottage, where his mis- 
tress was ready to receive him with a hearty welcome on his return. 
" Well," said the little Blanche, " so we have got some chickens at 
last !" 

Bertram placed his load upon the ground, and opening the coop, 
out strutted a majestic cock. The children drew back a few paces in 



surprise. " What a beautiful bird !" they exclaimed. " Sui'ely never 
was seen a more elegant creature. Only look at the fine red comb on 
the top of its head ; and what a long tail !" 

The hens gave them no less delight. There were two black ones, 
with red crests ; two white ones, with tufted crowns ; and two of a 
reddish brown, without tails. The lady threw them a handful of bar- 
ley, and away they ran to pick it up. Ranged in a circle around, the 
children were delighted to watch the greedy creatures, as two or three 
together snatched at a single grain, and chased and battled with the 
fortunate possessor of it. When they had eaten the corn, the cock 
flapped his wings, and crowed in triumph. A hearty laugh burst 
from the joyous tribe, and all the way home the boys and girls 
continued shouting in imitation of the bird's remarkable note. 

For several days they did nothing but talk of the wonderful sight 
they had seen. " They are larger than wood-pigeons," said one. 
" Indeed are they," said another ; " they are larger than ravens, and 
more beautiful than any of the birds of the forest." 

" If you had but seen," said Martha's little sister Mary to her mo- 
ther, " if you had but seen the pretty red comb upon the head of 
one of them ! Never did I see any thing like it before !" The parents 
now became as curious to see these singular birds as their children 
had been, and like them, they expressed both astonishment and ad- 
miration at the sight of them. 

Some time afterwards, one of the hens began to sit, and the lady gave 
her into Martha's charge. One day she showed the nest to some of 
the village children, who were not a little startled at the number of 
eggs it contained. " Fifteen eggs !" they exclaimed : " the wood- 
pigeon lays but two, and scarcely any birds lay more than five. How 
will the hen be able to provide for so large a brood f 

When the time of incubation was at an end, the lady had a new 
surprise in store for her young favourites. She sent to fetch them, 
and as it was a holiday, many of their parents came with them. 
With what delight did they behold the eggs beginning to open, and 
the young chickens struggling to break their transparent j)rison ! 
Still greater was their admiration when they saw the little brood 



nearly hatched, covered with soft down, and turning their small black 
eyes from side to side, and gradually escaping from the shell ; whereas 
most other birds are born blind, unfledged, and helpless. 

" This is strange indeed," said the children ; " surely there never 
were such birds as these !" But their joy was at its height when, on 
the next day, the beautiful hen with her purple crest came out for the 
first time upon the turf, surrounded by her little family. 

" So beautiful a sight is seldom seen," said one of the charcoal- 

u Only listen," replied his wife, " how the mother calls her chicks, 
who understand her voice, and follow where she leads them ! It 
would be well if children were equally attentive and obedient to the 
commands of their parents." 

There was a strong desire to examine the young brood more close- 
ly, and one little fellow caught a chicken for the purpose. In an instant 
the hen darted forward to attack the child, and would have made 
him repent his rashness, if he had not speedily released his captive. 


His father was not angry, because he did not mean to do wrong ; 
but he took occasion to notice the fidelity and affection with which 
the mother watched over her young. Presently the hen, finding a 
morsel of food, gave a maternal cluck, and the little brood were im- 
mediately gathered round her ; she first divided it with her beak, 
and then resigned it to her offspring, who, feeble as they were, 
snatched at it one after another, and pecked it voraciously. It caused 
no little astonishment to see them eat and fight, though they had only 
been hatched a day. As soon as the sun was set, the hen gathered 
the whole brood under her wings, to keep them warm. " This is the 
best of it all," said the charcoal-burners ; " nothing can be more de- 
lightful than to see here and there a litttle head peeping from the 
protecting wing of the mother, and immediately drawing itself back 
on account of the cold." 

The miller, whose coat covered with flour gave him a singular ap- 
pearance among the black charcoal-burners, was also distinguished 
from them by his sagacity and good sense. " These birds," said he, 
" are indeed very remarkable creatures. We see God, it is true, in 
all the works of nature, but His goodness, wisdom, and power never 
make so strong an impression upon our minds, as when we perceive 
something extraordinary. Consider what a good thing it is, that 
these little birds are able to run about and feed themselves from their 
very birth. If, like the swallows, their mother was forced to put the 
food into their beaks, her task would never be accomplished. What 
a blessing, too, that instinct teaches them to follow and obey her ! 
Were they to stray to a distance, the hen would never be able to 
collect them again, and she would lose half of them. I should like . 
to know, too, where she finds the courage with which she defends 
her young. They seem naturally to be very timid birds ; for they 
always run away at our approach ; but no sooner do they become 
mothers than their very nature appears changed — they acquire new 
instincts and new habits, and will attack those who attempt to harm 
their young. Since we have had them in the valley, I have often been 
amused to see them fight and quarrel for a grain of barley ; but their 
ordinary voracity is at once laid aside in favour of their young, nor 



will the hen touch any thing till she has satisfied her brood. I verily 
believe the affectionate creature would die of hunger, rather than 
rob her little ones of their food. The tender solicitude with which 
she watches, feeds, cherishes, and protects them, is awakened in her 
by God ; and if God is so bountiful to the little birds, will He not take 
much greater care of human beings 1 Yes, truly ! Courage, my young 
friends ! All that God does is good. His providential care is over all 
His creatures, but especially over man, who is far more dear in His 
sight than all the fowls of the air and all the beasts of the field." 

ffifcaptev KKJJ. 

S the good people of the valley had 
always paid every attention to the stran- 
ger lady, she had long wished for an op- 
portunity of showing them some kind- 
ness in return. Having, by means of 
good management, laid up a plentiful 
store of eggs, she sent Martha one 
morning to invite the grown-up vil- 
UpP lagers to pay her a visit on the follow- 
ing day : they did not fail to arrive in 
due time, dressed in their holiday-clothes. Bertram had spread a 
rustic table in the garden, and they seated themselves on benches 
round about. Martha then brought a basket of eggs, and the guests 
expressed their surprise at seeing so great a number. 

" Yes," said their kind hostess, " we have now abundance ; but I 
must endeavour to show you the use of which they can be made in 

A fire had been made of some dry sticks in a corner of the garden, 
and a large saucepan full of water placed over it. Before the eggs 
were thrown into it, the lady opened one of them to show her guests 
the inside ; and she directed their attention to the beautiful crystal- 


line liquor, in which there appeared to float a little yellow ball. She 
then boiled as many eggs as she had guests. Salt was served with 
them, and small rolls of white bread. The lady showed them how 
to open their eggs ; and they were much gratified with the delicious 
repast which they afforded. They wondered at the ease and expedi- 
tion with which an egg might be boiled ; " and surely," they said, 
" for a sick person, a cheaper or more nourishing food could scarcely 
be found." 

Some more eggs were then taken, and broken into boiling water. 
" This," said the lady, '■ is called poaching them ;" and these, being 
laid upon spinage, were no less commended than the others. 

She then proceeded to cook the rest of the eggs, in several other 
ways, and thus taught the charcoal-burners that they were not only 
an excellent food in themselves, but a useful ingredient in the pre- 
paration of various dishes. At last a fine bowl of salad was placed 
before them. The good-natured Bertram brought some eggs which 
had been boiled hard, and set aside till they were cold. By way of 
affording some amusement, he let them fall suddenly, as if by acci- 
dent, and roll along the ground. The guests startled at the noise, 
expecting them all to be broken and lost ; but they were agreeably 
disappointed at seeing the lady pick them up, take off the shells and 
cut them in slices. This was curious enough ; but the process of 
dressing a salad they thought more so, and a very agreeable curiosity, 
into the bargain. 

When they had finished their dinner of eggs, the lady distributed 
among them several young cocks and pullets ; observing that a sin- 
gle hen will lay upwards of one hundred and fifty eggs in the course 
of a year. 

" A hundred and fifty eggs !" they exclaimed ; " what comfort for 
a poor family !" 

The good lady '3 generosity spread joy through the whole village, 
and every family returned thanks to God for the blessing which they 
had received at her hands. 

For a long time the poultry was the subject of all their conversa- 
tion, and every day they discovered something more extraordinary 


and more useful about them. The morning crow of the cock 
was the source of more than ordinary delight. " It proclaims the 
day," they said, " and calls forth man to his labor. It has been 
quite another sort of life in the valley since the cocks began to crow ; 
and every one goes to his task with a light heart and a cheerful coun- 

The good folks did not fail to observe that the hen always gave 
notice by her cackling of the present which she had made to them, 
and the sound was always welcomed with delight. No sooner was it 
heard than they went at once to take the new-laid egg and stow it 
away carefully. " These birds," the parents would frequently say to 
the children, " are formed by nature to live with man. God has 
evidently made them for domestic purposes. They remain constant- 
ly about the house ;. come for their food when called, and go to roost 
of their own accord. They are of great utility in a poor household, 
for they are kept at little cost : a few crumbs, a little barley, the re- 
fuse of vegetables, being all that they require. Indeed, they are 
chiefly employed, from morning till night, in seeking food for them- 
selves ; so that thousands of grains, which would be lost in harvest- 
time, are preserved to the use of man. The poorest widow has thus 
wherewithal to support a hen ; and the eggs which she receives come 
like an alms-gift to her." 

Neither did the lady suffer her own children to be ignorant of the 
value of an egg, which they had been used to regard with indiffer- 
ence when thejf lived in the midst of wealth and abundance. How 
contented were they now with an egg beaten in milk for their break- 
fast ! how grateful were they to God for all the mercies which he still 
poured upon them ! 

%\t hiatal (Biub flf gisok&wtrt 


T was the " night before Christmas," and Mrs. Mor- 
ton's children were seated around a blazing fire in 
the nursery, gazing with almost reverential awe 
upon the chimney, from whose dark depths St. 
Nicholas, or Santa Claus, was soon to emei-ge. 

Tongues were moving merrily, and the fire blaz- 
ing brightly — Lucy feared too brightly ; for it 
could never cool in time for St. Nicholas to pass 
through. When this singularly generous man visited Mrs. Morton's 
children, he entered the room by way of the chimney. They thought 
this strange taste, but dared not dispute it ; for their mother had told 
them that any slighting remarks made upon their good friend would 
certainly come to his knowledge in some manner, and offend his 
generous spirit for ever. 

But from amid this group of children, one rosy face peeped out 
very knowingly, and shook back her curls with sovereign disdain. 
She " knew who St. Nicholas was — yes, hideed, that she did ; you 
could not make her believe all the idle tales told children ; the idea 
of a great man like St. Nicholas coming down the chimney was 
absurd. In the first place, there was no such saint ; in the second, if 
there was, he would not come down the chimney like a sweep ; and, 
in the third, he could not if he would" — and Bessie leaned back in 
her chair quite indignantly, after having spoken this little " piece of 
her mind." 

The children were aghast at such horrible talk, and said : " Dear 
Bessie, what ails you to-night 1 you speak so strangely ; St. Nicholas 
will surely punish you for it." 

"Indeed!" laughed Bessie, defyingly ; "what could he do ? I 
hope that when he comes down the chimney to-night he will be well 



singed. I intend to lie awake and tell him so ; and when you are all 
asleep, I will watch for him, rise up, and scare him by saying, 
' Merry Christmas, Sir !' " 

" Indeed, my darling," said her mamma, " I hope that you will not 
think of doing such a thing ; you will not only scare St. Nicholas, but 
offend him too. It is to our "interest to be wide awake on some occa- 
sions, but, I assure you, not on this. The more soundly little children 
sleep on Christmas Eve, the better ; so, come now, it is time to re- 
tire. Let us prepare for the reception of St. Nicholas." 

Five chairs were arranged around the hearth, on which the children 
hung five stockings. They never placed any article larger than a 
stocking for the reception of their gifts, fearing that it would look to 
St. Nicholas as if they expected to receive the whole contents of his 
pack ; and past experience had taught them that whatever the stock- 
ings would not hold, the chairs would. Matters arranged, Mrs. 
Morton left the room, after having exacted a promise from Bessie 
that she would go to sleep as soon as possible. 

The tired little ones were speedily wrapped in slumber, all except- 
ing Bessie, who, notwithstanding the promise made her mother, was 
using every means in her power for keeping her eyes wide open. 
For one hour she lay awake, watching the expiring fire-light dancing 
in long shadowy lengths upon the wall, and listening to the breath- 
ing of the little sleepers by her side. Then her eyes roved to the 
fire-place, expecting, and yet half doubting, that St. Nicholas would 
make his appearance. At length, wearied with watching, she was 
about closing her eyes, when she heard a noise, and, gazing cautiously 
around, she saw her mother enter the room — as she wickedly per- 
sisted in declaring the next day — with her hands filled with bundles. 

" Now," thought Bessie, " I have found out the real Santa Claus. 
How glad I am that I cannot be cheated any more I" 

Poor, simple Bessie ! She little knew at what cost she had gained 
her knowledge, and that this was one of the few cases where the plea- 
sure is as great " in being cheated as to cheat." 

"Ah ! have I not caught you nicely, Mamma V she said, jumping 
up and clapping her hands. " I knew that you were St. Nicholas." 


" My darling," said Mrs. Morton, starting with surprise, and drop- 
ping, in her dismay — as Bessie, poor foolish child, persists in assert- 
ing — those same parcels ; " I hope that your newly acquired know 
ledge will prove profitable to you ; hut may I inquire what change 
I have undergone, that you mistake me for St. Nicholas ? Surely, 
child, you are dreaming." 

" No, I am not," replied Bessie, " for I have not yet been to sleep." 

" Then, my dear," said her mother, gravely, " you have broken 
your promise, and disobeyed my command. I have nothing further 
to say on the subject, feeling well assured that St. Nicholas will pun- 
ish you as you deserve." 

The next morning the children arose with the sun, and gathered 
around the fire-place to examine their presents. There were a great 
many beautiful gifts, but none of them were for Bessie. At first, 
she could not believe that she had been so shamefully treated, and 
persisted in her search. At length she discovered, in the very toe 
of her stocking, a note directed to her, which was read out at the 
breakfast-table by her father, and is here inserted as a beacon to warn 
all little folks who may feel inclined to pry too closely into the 
affairs of St. Nicholas : 

Dear Bessie : — You are doubtless surprised that among these glittering gifts 
there is not one for you ; but, dear child, it is never my practice to reward the 
disobedient or to encourage the curious. There are many things wisely hidden 
from us ; and if we, by improper means, try to find them out, the knowledge 
thus acquired brings its own punishment. You have gone one step from the 
fairy-land of childhood ; if you are wise, you will go no further, but strive to 
keep as long as possible within that enchanted ground. Every childish amuse- 
ment given up is a pleasure for ever gone ; and so you will find in maturer 
years, when you look back sorrowfully to the vanished days of your childhood 
and of St. Nicholas, who now bids you adieu for ever." 

Fast and thick fell Bessie's tears when this solemn note was read, 
for she felt that she had indeed lost her generous friend, and gone 
with him was the pleasantest portion of her life. One act of diso- 
bedience had taken half the sunshine from Bessie Morton's once 
Merry Christmas. E. B. C. 



fs €mm. 

HE charades which we published in our last number 
have taxed the ingenuity of our little riddlers more 
than usual, we judge, from the small number of cor- 
rect answers which have reached us. Fortunately, we 
are seldom without a. kind hand to aid us when our 
d|p distant correspondents fail. It is to such an one that 
we are indebted for the answer to the curious charade 
1, in the last number. 

ANSWER TO CHARADE No. 1, page 70. 

On Gozan's banks of old, fair Halah rose 

Where Salmanezer bound his captive foes.* 

"Ada, sole daughter of my house and name," 

Sang Byron in the zenith of his fame. 

Within the convent's walls, the world to shun, 

In prayer and penance goes the pious Nun. 

The female name we speak in gentle manner, 

None other can be than the graceful Anna. 

In tones of merriment that sound afar, 

Men give their laughter vent — Hah hah ! Hah hah I 

These words are palindromes, the scholars say, 
Which forward and backward read the same way. 
Now join their initials, another is made, 
In which the same trick of orthography's played. 
So the title of " pious and primitive dame," 
For Hannah, the mother of Samuel, I claim. 


It is unnecessary for us to say how much we thank the author of the 


ANSWER TO CHARADE No. 2, page 70. 

How sweet are words from skilful tongue. 

When men of worth the speakers are ! 
But words like idle winds are flung, 

When solid worth is wanting there. 

* See 2 Kings xviii. 11. 





"Words are the weapons lawyers wield, 

Aggressive or defensive still ; 
But worth employs them as its shield, 

To peacefully assert its will. 
When words and worth in one appear, 

A stately vision, lo ! we see ; 
Our hearts yield love — our eyes a tear — 

To Wordsworth's sacred memory. 

ANSWER TO CHARADE No. 3, page 70. 

"With blazing torch and blood-stained knife, 
"War stalked abroad to menace life. 
When evening shades obscure the sky, 
The wick glows bright like Stromboli. 
In single combat brave and bold, 
Earl Warwick propped a throne of old. 

The author of the following graceful " Cluster of Charades" promise? 
to afford us frequent aid in this department. We hope- that many of 
our readers will send us answers to all of them in season for the next 


My first to the Philistines proved 

A sweet perplexity ; 
My second evermore has roved 

Around both land and sea : 
My whole e'en as my first is sweet, 
And ever as my second fleet. 

Of any substance, shape, or size, 
My first may be conceived ; 

Sometimes my second it supplies, 
And then my whole's perceived : 

Now guess me soon, or to my name 

You'll have an undisputed claim. 

White and light, and soft and cold, 
Thus my first might be extolled ; 
Round and small, and clear and bright, 
Gleams my second in the light ; 
And my whole springs from my first, 
By my genial second nursed. 

My first is broad, and deep, and strong, 
Where quick and dead for ever throng ; 
My second springs unbidden where 
We seek for what is bright and fair ! 
My whole, though kindred to my second, 
A treasure of my first is reckoned. 

The kind friend, to whose confinement as an invalid we were in- 
debted for the three charades answered in this number, has added to 
our obligations to him by sending more, which we shall publish next 








li i 

$w Cljilhm 

Mill] mmmm kmtxM dEngratoings front fasips 05 



Beautifully printed on the finest pnper. 

€aUt af t&mlnis. 

APEIL, 1854. 

Illustrated with a Frontispiece and twelve Vignettes. 

Tit for Tat, v By the Author of " Older and 

,s Wiser." 

Sedgemoor, . 
The Cradle Song, 
The Cloud, . 
When I'm a Man, 
Genevieve, . 
Little Kate, *. 

The Baby Correspondence, . 
The Story of an Egg, 
Pictures of the Seasons, 
Child-Life in England, . . . . By W. C. Richards. 
The Riddler's Cornek. — Solution of Charade No. 1. in February No.; a Cluster 
of Answers to a Cluster of Charades ; two Riddles. 

By Mrs. Manners. 


From the German, by M. P. 

By Aunt Lucy. 

By Mart E. 

By Mrs. DdBose. 

By Mrs. Richards. 

From the German. 

By Caroline Howard. 


We are glad to announce to our friends, that the present volume 
of the Schoolfellow has thus far been received with universal favor. 
We have added a goodly number to the circle of our youthful readers, 
and we hope not to disappoint their expectations. The Press all over 
the Union has kindly noticed " the sprightly little Schoolfellow," for 
which kind encouragement, as well as for numerous expressions of high 
regard privately received, we are sincerely grateful ; and the best we 
can do is to strive and make the Schoolfellow deserving of all the 
praise bestowed upon it. 


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new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for one year. 

For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
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books to the amount of Two Dollars. 


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697 Broadway. 

%* Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 


fit fir Ha.t 


T was on the voyage home that I had a most un- 
pleasant adventure with a monkey, which ended, 
however, rather to my advantage, as it gave me 
an opportunity of showing my spirit and courage. 
There were several of these animals on board, 
and, strange to say, ugly creatures as they are, 
there were those who had the bad taste to like 
playing with them and watching their silly tricks. 
I never could abide monkeys, even in my native 
wood. What plagues they were ! Indeed, I have 
heard from my mother that she had the greatest 
difficulty in keeping her eggs, before we were hatched, (I and my 
brother and sister parrots,) from the attacks of a little black monkey, 
who had set his mind upon getting one. 

All this made me quite vexed, when I saw the nuts and bits of 
sugar and cakes that the children brought out of the cabin to give me, 
given instead to a horrid little brown ape, that was allowed to go 
scrambling about the deck. Things, too, that were actually given to 
me, and put into my cage for me, or stuck between the wires, would 
this ape continue to steal ; as I sat on my perch cracking and enjoy- 
ing a nut, for instance, after one had been given me, the ape would 
put his paw between the bars of my cage, and help himself to some 
of those which lay at the bottom. Now, as I could not hold them in 
my claws, and had no pockets, how could I prevent this 1 I had been 
served several times in this way, when I determined that I would put 
an end to it. It happened that one day a little girl brought me a 
handful of cashew nuts, a kind of nut of which I am very fond. She 



opened the door of my cage, and put them in. I had, however, no 
sooner begun to crack and enjoy them, than I saw my enemy, the 
brown ape, approaching. I pretended not to see him. I half-closed 
my eyes, as I sat on the perch, and just looked out of the corner of 
one to watch his proceedings. He slipped his paw between the rails 
of my cage, and clawed out a nut. As I took no notice, he took 
another ; then grasped at two or three in his long brown fingers, and 
having captured them, skipped up to the very top of my cage. Now 
nothing made me more angry than the ape getting on the top of my 
cage. It shut out the sunshine from me, in the first place, and then, 
could any thing be more disrespectful to me 1 — so that now, as he sat 
there and kept dropping his shells over my head, I determined to 
punish him for his impertinence. I watched my opportunity, though 
neither he nor any one else could have guessed that I was watching ; 
but I could see ! He twisted and twirled about, and fidgeted this 
way and that, (apes can never sit still for half a minute,) when all at 
once, he let fall his tail between the bars of my cage. Up I swung 
myself on the wires at the side, and caught firm hold of his tail in my 
beak ! You should have heard the yelling, and screaming, and chat- 
tering which the ape made to get free. It brought around us all the 
people on deck. They laughed, and clapped their hands, and cried, 
" Well done, Poll !" " Bravo, Poll !" and seemed highly delighted, 
for they well knew what the ape had been about. The ape struggled 
so hard to get free, that I really thought I should have bitten off the 
end of his tail ; — so at last I let him go, for I really did not wish to 
do him so very serious an injury ; and as every one had seen his 
defeat, I was satisfied. After this, I was never more troubled with 
the pilferings and impertinences of the little brown ape. 



Chapter UJJ. 

APA," asked Alice at the breakfast-table on the following 
morning, " why did you take Adam for your great man 
last night 1 Any one could have thought of him. Matthias 
could, I'm sure ; and then for you, who know so much, only 
to think of Adam !" 

" My dear little girl, you seem quite ashamed of your 
father," saidthat gentleman laughingly. " You really appear 
to think that I disgraced myself last evening. Was it so bad a thing to 
brinw in amongst your heroes the great patriarch of the world, the man 
created in God's own image, pure, ' upright,' perfect, not having yet 
'sought out many inventions;' he whose creation angels had cele- 
brated by songs, and with whom God had conversed at eventide V 

"Certainly, Sir, those are good reasons for your choice," said 
Arthur; "but Alice is troubled, I suppose, because you took one whom 
she would reject as ' too easily thought of.' Any child who has read 
the first page of his primer, knows that 'A is for Adam, who was the 
first man.' " 

" My dear Alice," remarked Miss Donne, " I think I can read your 
father's special lesson to you in his selection." Then turning to Mr. 
Clayton, she asked, " Would you not have us learn a more proper 
estimate of that which is near, often present, and familiar 1 Because 
' any one could think of Adam,' Alice was not willing to admit his 
claims to distinction, now so eloquently set forth in your defence of 
your choice." 

" But, Miss Emily, papa knows so much " 

" He knows enough to distinguish between the true and false ; to 
reject a thing which has showy, for one that has sterling claims to 
notice. Do you not know, Alice, that simplicity is a characteristic 
of. great wisdom ?" asked Mr. Carey. 



" Mr. Carey, you and Miss Donne do me much honour," said their 
smiling host. " How shall I acknowledge fittingly so many compli- 
ments ? I am convicted of eloquence and wisdom to a degree of 
which I had not imagined myself guilty." 

" Dear papa " 

"Well, little lady?" 

" You are growing very funny." 

" Thank you, Alice. Another compliment ! Really, I am getting 
embarrassed. I must leave you all, while I am able to tear myself 
away from such fascinating society." 

After Mr. Clayton left the table, the others soon followed. All 
went eagerly to work : studying, teaching, walking, riding, sewing, 
reading aloud, and some fine music at night, whirled away the hours 
when this interesting family were together. "Wednesday passed as 
pleasantly ; for in addition to other pleasures, was the anticipation of 
the charming play to be resumed in the evening. While the party 
were taking their seats that night, Maude, who was a delightful little 
singer, ran her fingers over the small cabinet piano which occupied 
one corner of the library, and hummed a line from a favourite ballad : 

" The birds came to listen to Marion Day." 

" They would to you, Maude, I am sure," said the admiring Alice. 

" Maude, you shall begin with B to-night, and your name shall be 
Birdie," said Mr. Clayton kindly. 

" Then Miss Emily is our Bee, she is so industrious," said Alice ; 
" and I will be " 

"A Butterfly, darling, with your bright smile and your gaiety now- 
a-days," said her father. 

"We are losing time, Mr. Clayton." 

" You are right to call us to duty, Miss Emily. What heroic name 
is longing to escape from the prison of your lips ?" 

" I beg to be allowed to use the name of one of my own sex. 
Will you not grant Elizabeth Barrett Browning a place in this list?" 

" Most gladly, Miss Emily. With all her genius — and she is un- 
doubtedly the first poetess of her day — and with all her great learn- 


ing, she is still a true woman ; loving, gentle, domestic, wifely, and 
devoted to her child. She seems to have the graces without the faults 
of the poetic temperament." 

" Mr. Carey, do you remember a remark some one has made of 
poets and other geniuses 1 The burden of it is, that ' it is not because 
these people have genius that they are unfitted for domestic life, but 
because they have not genius enough.'' Those who know Mrs. Brown- 
ing by her poems, recognize in her the highest order of. genius. We 
find this knowledge confirmed by what we hear of her home-life." 

" Yes, I am sure that every person of heart and intellect will ac- 
knowledge Mrs. Browning's merits. I only questioned if I might 
introduce a lady — a woman, I prefer to say — whenever one so beau- 
tifully illustrates womanhood." 

" She is living in Florence, is she not, Miss Emily ? Why is that V 
asked Maude. 

" On account of her health, I believe, my dear. You know she has 
been an invalid for many years. The Italian climate seems to agree 
with her better than her native air." 

" Her husband also has much celebrity as a poet, I have heard," 
remarked Arthur. 

" Yes, Robert Browning has many admirers ; though he will never 
be popular as a poet — his writings appealing rather to the thoughtful 
few than to the mass of readers." 

" It was a singular union. Such are not apt to be happy." 

" Oh, you are mistaken, Mr. Carey," said Mr. Clayton. " There have 
been many unions of fine, sympathetic minds which have been truly 
blest. Pray, do not bring up the sad fact that clever men often choose 
stupid, uninteresting wives, to illustrate and confirm you in an error. 
Intellectual cultivation, combined with proper cultivation of the heart, 
unfits no woman for her duties as a wife, as a mistress of a family, or 
as a mother. Let us leave that dogma to the dark ages." 

" I would not willingly be convicted of such a sin against woman, 
Mr. Clayton. You must remember I have to speak from hearsay, 
having had no experience." 

" I hope your experience will furnish an argument against your half 


adopted theory, in some future time, Sir," replied Mr. Clayton. " I 
believe you are ready to listen to me now, so I will give John, Bunyan. 
How does that please little Alice Clayton ?" 

" I only know, papa, that he wrote ' The Pilgrim's Progress ;' but 
that is a delightful book." 

" Do you forget the ' Holy War,' Alice V said Herbert ; " and there 
must be other books written by him, too. That last package of new 
books, which Matthias brought home on Saturday, was all of it 
' Bunyan's Works.' " 

"Are his writings all allegorical, Mr. Clayton ?" 

" No, Arthur. He was a shrewd, excellent, even eloquent writer 
on religious matters, in many other veins than the allegory." 

" But he was a tinker once, Mr. Clayton, and was afterwards im- 
prisoned hi Bedford Jail." 

" The more honour, Maude, that, a tinker and a tinker's son, he 
should in after years win such distinction as a writer. As for the im- 
prisonment, it was for c conscience' sake.' Was that disgraceful ?" 

"Is 'Pilgrim's Progress' really a great book, papa?" 

" Yes, Alice ; it is a nobly-conceived, consistently-sustained alle- 
gory. It is most evangelical in its teachings, and could only have 
been written by a great intellect sanctified by true and humble piety." 

" I think papa makes great men out of any one," said Alice in a 
low voice. "/ never should have thought of Bunyan. I should just 
as soon think of saying the author of ' Robinson Crusoe.' " 

" You would name a person who has achieved immortality in lite- 
rature, then, Alice ; for as long as the world is full of young people, 
' Robinson Crusoe' will be read." 

" Will it ? I'll remember that," she said again in a low tone. 

€i)apter Vffi. 

"AS these young gentlemen objected to Addison as a ' tame spirit,' 
-£*- and a superficial writer," said Mr. Carey, " I have chosen one 
to-night of very different character. I refer them and all of you to 
Francis Bacon, Lord Verulam, known commonly as Lord Bacon" 


" Will you please tell us why you lay such stress on his superiority 
to men of Addison's stamp V said Mr. Clayton. 

" Because I count him a sovereign amongst minds, for he folds' 
his wonderful intellect about him most regally. He was a giant in 
our literature ; the most profound philosopher that ever used our 
language, and the ablest of politicians. The eyes of a world were 
upon him; alas! that they should also witness his fall as they had 
beheld his rising !" 

" Why did he fall, Mr. Carey ?" inquired Arthur with great 

" I will answer you, Arthur, in the language of another : ' The ad- 
vocate of purity was a corrupt minister ; the panegyrist of liberty 
assisted at the torture, and sat in the Star-chamber ; the most philo- 
sophical of lawyers, and the most accomplished of statesmen, was the 
abettor of monopolies, the supporter of abuses, the most greedy and 
parasitical of courtiers.' " 

"That is terrible ! a 'virtuous mediocrity' would be better, I think." 

" Yes, my boy, vastly better. His ambition, his love of show, and 
his unrighteous pride, caused him to commit sins which led to his 
downfall. It is the saddest and most impressive lesson taught in life, 
that the mere natural depravity of the heart is mightier than the 
grandest intellect. See how we are to beware of evil propensities ; 
see the necessity, even in a worldly view, of high religious principles. 
What were you saying, Alice 1" 

" I was only repeating Matthias's motto, papa : ' Cheatin' never 
thrives.' " 

All laughed at the homely embodiment of the grand moral taught 
by the life and character of the great Lord Bacon. 

" Come, Arthur, my lad," said Mr. Clayton. 

"Well, Sir, I have chosen Robert Bruce." 

" What an old-time, romantic hero, Arthur," said Herbert ; " quite 
a falling off from Alfred." 

" I am not so sure of that, Herbert. I think Bruce a great patriot, 
and a great warrior, considering the odds he had to contend against ; 
and a more devoted man never lived." 


" Oh, he means the Scotch hero, Miss Emily ! Do you know, I 
kept thinking of the traveller Bruce. I do think of that Bruce — James, 
was it not 1 — so much since I read the sketch of him ! He, too, was a 
great man, and had a great fall, Mr. Carey," said Alice archly. 

" What was it ?" inquired her brother. 

" It was almost equal to Lord Bacon's, only it was not figurative 
but literal. Tell them about it, Alice dear," said Miss Donne. 

" You must know, then, that Mr. James Bruce was a great travel- 
ler, equal to — equal to " 

" Munchausen ?" suggested Arthur. 

" No ; Gulliver — Gulliver, I insist," said Herbert. 

" Or Mungo Park," said Maude. 

" Please, don't. He was a great traveller, then, and went all over 
the world, passing through most wonderful perils with safety ; and 
by-and-by he came home to live. One day he went down stairs to 
hand a lady to her carriage, and fell down a few steps and broke his 
neck and died. Just think ! after escaping from starvation and ship- 
wreck, and wild beasts, and every thing dreadful." 

" That was a fall truly, Alice. But, look, it's nine o'clock ! Let us 
go oh." 

"Alice's hero annihilated yours, Arthur," whispered Herbert. 

"Take care that yours is not annihilated, Herbert," was the re- 

" Oh, I don't fear any untoward fate for my man. He is the great 
English Demosthenes, and he is known as Edmund Burke." 

" Irish, not English, if you please, Herbert." 

" I don't care who claims him : he was 

' meant for mankind,' 

the poet said, and I could claim him as well as any one. What an 
intellect he had, Mr. Carey ! and what eloquence ! Such a friend to 
liberty, too !" 

" I give up, Herbert," said Arthur ; " it would be a difficult matter 
to annihilate Edmund Burke. If you had not happened to think of 
him, I should never have forgiven myself for not doing it." 


"Arthur is really noble, is he not, Miss Emily ?" whispered his 
proud and loving sister. 

" Yes, dear, he is one who could be magnanimous when the time 
comes for such a virtue to be exercised, I doubt not. But give us 
your selection," continued Miss Donne aloud. 

" I have been thinking of Napoleon Bonaparte" 

" You speak hesitatingly, Maude." 

" Well, Miss Emily, I don't want to choose people who are not 
good as well as great ; and almost all I think of have some stain upon 
their characters. Now, my chief complaint against Bonaparte is his 
divorce of that lovely and loving Josephine." 

"Ah, Maude, Napoleon has great sins for which to answer. Such 
a career as his must necessarily be marked by many errors, many 
wrongs. Still, he was a very great man ; and also, as Mrs. Browning 

' He had the genius to be loved. 

It is pitiful to think, in his case as well as Bacon's, how mighty are 
the human passions, whose gratification so offends goodness, purity, 
truth, and the holy God, who is the essence of those attributes." 

" I will try to get a better hero next time. I wish Napoleon had 
not treated his good Josephine so shamefully," said the woman-hearted 
little girl in an under-tone, recurring again to- his chief fault in her 

" Now, Alice, you have a few minutes to name your choice ; or 
was it James Bruce, my daughter V 

" Oh no, papa ; I had chosen Mrs. BarlauldT 

" Good girl ! faithful to your first loves, I see. She was a worthy 
and estimable lady, Alice, and has done enough good, I'll warrant, by 
her little verses, to give her a strong claim upon us. After all, the 
greatest are those who do most good. And now, good-night. Large- 
eyes, you don't seem to remember that it is sleepy-time." 

Co Mi S u 5 . 

shak - ing the dream-land tree, And 

down falls a lit - tie dream on thee ; Sleep, ba - by, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 

The large stars are the sheep, 
The little stars are the lambs, I guess, 
The fair moon is the shepherdess. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 


Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Our Saviour loves his sheep ; 
He is the Lamb of God on high, 
Who for our sakes came down to die. 

Sleep, baby, sleep! 


Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

I'll buy for thee a sheep, 
"With a golden bell so fine to see, 
And it shall frisk and play with thee. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Away ! and tend the sheep; 
Away then, black dog fierce and wild, 
And do not wake my little child. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 

And cry not like a sheep ; 
Else will the sheep-dog bark and whine, 
And bite this naughty child of mine. 

Sleep, baby, sleep ! 




NE hot summer morning, a little cloud arose 
from the sea, and like a blooming, playful 
child, looked through the blue sky, and 
over the wide earth, which for some time 
had lain sad and languishing from the 
effect of a long drought. 

As the little cloud sailed through the 
heavens, she looked on the poor people 
below, working in the sweat of their 
brow, and suffering from fatigue, while she was free from care and 
toil, and was borne along by the light breath of the morning. 

"Alas •!" said she, " if I could but do some good to the poor peo- 
ple there below — something to lighten their labor, to soothe their 
cares, to supply food to the hungry, to refresh the thirsty ! And the 
day went on, and the cloud grew larger ; and as she grew, the hopes 
of men were turned towards her. 

But on the earth the heat still increased ; the sun glowed and 
scorched, and beat on the heads of the laborers till they were near 
fainting ; yet they must work on, for they were very poor. 

They cast a look of entreaty towards the cloud, as if to say, "Ah ! 
you can help us !" 

" Yes, I will help you," said the cloud, and immediately began to 
descend gently towards the earth. 

But now occurred to her what she had heard in the bosom of the 
ocean, when a child ; namely, that the clouds found death whenever 
they sank too low, and came near the earth. 

For some time she descended, and allowed herself to be carried 




hither and thither. At length she stood still, and said boldly and 
joyfully, " Men, I will help you, happen what may !" 

This thought made her suddenly gigantic, strong, and powerful. 
She had never even thought herself capable of such greatness. She 
stood over the earth like a beneficent God, and raised her head, and 
spread her wings over the fields. Her splendor was so great that 
man and beast shrank from it ; the trees and grass bowed their heads ; 
but all saw in her a benefactress. 

"Yes, I will help you !" continued to cry the cloud. " Receive me ! 
I die for you !" 

It was a mighty purpose which she therein executed. A bright 
light shone through her, thunder roared, undying love transpierced 
her, and she sank to earth dissolved in a flood of rain. This rain was 
her deed ; this rain was her death ; in it she was glorified. Over the 
whole land, as far as the rain spread, arose a bright bow, made of 
the finest rays of the sky. It was the last visible manifestation of 
her great, self-sacrificing love. In a short time, it also disappeared, 
but the blessing conferred by the cloud upon suffering and relieved 
man long remained. m. p. 


m r 


" I'm ten years old," said Harry Lee, 

"And see ! I'm just an inch more tall 
Than last year, when they measured me 

Against the wall. 
I have a birthday gift — a gun ; 

It's only wood — but I've a plan 
To shoulder thus a real one 
When I'm a man : 

" Come, be my comrade, brother Ben !" 

" Oh no ! excuse me, Captain Lee ; 
Before the sword I choose the pen. 

I mean to be 
An author famous far and wide ; 

My books shall flourish in the van 
Of fame : you'll hear of me with pride 
When I'm a man. 

'And what will you do, brother Joe?" 

" No fighter I, nor writer, sure ; 
Guns hurt, and books are dull ; I'll go 

Where winds are pure, 
And woods are green, and waters gay, 

And creatures, free as ever ran 
On some lone Crusoe-island, play, 
When I'm a man.'' 

Says Willy : " Father's calling, ' Boys, 

Here's something you can do for me.' " 
Then what a grumbling ! what a noise ! 

Says Willy Lee, 
"I'm coming, father ! I'll begin 

To make folks happy while I can, 
And do good, any place I'm in, 
When I'm a man." 



HE young girl was sitting alone in her little cot- 
tage room. She and "Frolic," the pretty pet 
kid, Genevieve's constant companion at home or 
abroad, had just come in from a long search after 
the wild flowers which now, in the early spring, 
were beginning to bloom in the woods and fields. 
The basket, nearly full of wild anemones, arbutus 
and early violets, stood on the rude bench where 
Genevieve had seated herself to rest a while and caress Frolic, who, 



a little subdued by his rambles, let his head lie quietly in his mis- 
tress' lap. 

It was a pretty picture altogether : the cottage, rude as it was, 
with its stone walls and floor, and great rough rafters, was scrupu- 
lously clean, and even delicate in all its appointments. Genevieve's 
little bed was daintily white and pure ; and her own little table and 
chair, which stood before the one window, gave a wondrous air of 
refinement to the room. A cup of flowers, Genevieve's neat work- 
basket, and her little treasure of books, so often read and re-read, 
made the whole charm ; but it was quite wonderful what a bright- 
ness seemed to come from that corner for the whole cottage. 

Genevieve herself was the prettiest feature of the picture, with 
her girlish grace of figure, her large, beautiful eyes, half-concealed 
by a heavy fringe of long, curling lashes, which many a high-born 
lady might have envied, and her wealth of shining brown curls ; 
among which her cottage bonnet lay, thrown back carelessly, that the 
bland spring air might fan her flushed face. 

Genevieve was very beautiful, little as she knew it herself; she 
was a lady, too, in all delicate instincts and intuitive perceptions of 
grace and refinement, though born and bred a cottager's child. She 
shrank instinctively from the coarse companionship of the cottagers 
around her, either remaining in her own home, where she had lived 
alone ever since her grandmother died — a year ago — or taking long 
walks with only Frolic for a companion; living apart altogether from 
her neighbours, except so far as she might do a kindness for any one 
of them, and then no one was more active or cheerful than Genevieve. 
Nevertheless, she was not liked among them ; they called her proud, 
because they could not understand her reserve, and her innate lady- 
hood was too far above their comprehension for their appreciation. 
They accused her of vanity, and " setting herself above her betters," 
" because she was noticed at the Hall ;" and this was, in truth, the 
prime reason for the dislike of Genevieve's neighbours. 

At " the Hall " Genevieve was a favourite, and many a long visit 
she and Frolic made to the little Lady Constance, the Earl's only 


daughter. Had Constance been a bright and beautiful and healthy 
child, Genevieve might never have seen more of her than an occa- 
sional glimpse, when the lord of the manor came to spend the sum- 
mer months at his country-seat. But Constance was no gay and 
brilliant child. From her babyhood she had been a sufferer, and now, 
when nearly as old as Genevieve, she was still obliged to lie most 
of the day upon her luxurious couch, often in much pain, and never 
able to bear the least fatigue or excitement. Though nearly fourteen 
years old, she looked more like a child of eight or ten, and her intel- 
lect was not more comprehensive. Nevertheless, she was very gentle 
and loving ; and, though idolized by her parents, and indulged to any 
extent of whim or fancy, she was not spoiled or exacting, but always 
good and patient. 

She had taken a great fancy to Genevieve when she had s"een her 
once at the Hall, where the young girl had come to sell yarn, or some 
such thing, to the housekeeper. And after that she begged that Ge- 
nevieve might come to see her very often. And this, Genevieve was 
very happy to do. It delighted her to see poor Constance's face 
brighten when she caught a glimpse of Frolic bounding before his 
young mistress ; or to see the enjoyment which the child had in the 
wild flowers and fruits which Genevieve always brought. She dearly 
loved to sit for hours by the side of Constance's couch, and read to 
her from some of the countless books which the little lady rarely 
read herself, but to which she loved to listen when Genevieve read 
them with her clear and delicate enunciation, all untutored as it was. 
These books, and this association at the Hall, Genevieve loved very 
much, and they made her still more indifferent to the society where, 
by her birth, she seemed to belong. They did not make her discon- 
tented, though; Genevieve was still too pure-minded and child-like 
for that. 

This morning she had been more than usually successful in her 
search for wild flowers. She had scarcely ever given Lady Constance 
so beautiful a bouquet as that which she now arranged for her in a 
moss-basket of her own construction. She smiled as she anticipated 


the sick child's enjoyment of the fragrant gift; and then she arranged 
her dress, and smoothed her brown curls under the cottage bonnet, 
in preparation for her visit to the Hall. Frolic bounded after her at 
her bidding, and so the two started off again, Genevieve shading her 
flowers carefully from the heat of the sun. 

" There goes that proud Genevieve !" said a woman, lounging idly 
at her cottage-door, as the girl passed. " Going to the Hall again, 
of course, the good-for-naught. Better be at her spinning." 

Genevieve heard her, but she did not heed. She often heard such 
ill-natured speeches, and she had grown indifferent to them. She was 
too happy herself this beautiful morning to care for the envy and 
uncharitableness of others. So she and Frolic bounded on, one scarce 
merrier than the other, till they reached the Hall. 

Hinder, Skttoto, sraubr (&frax% 


A PEASANT'S wife baked three cakes ; two were made of the 
finest wheat flour, and the other of coarse meal. The first two 
she named Hunger and Sorrow, the third Charity. As soon as they 
were baked she ate both the white cakes, but put the black bread by 
till the evening. When her husband came in from his work, she said : 
" Here, husband ; when making bread to-day, I baked you a little cake." 
" Good wife," replied he ; "but you must eat with me, or I will not 
touch it." "Alas !" said the wife, holding down her head, " I am so 
full of Hunger and Sorrow that I have no place for a crumb of 

May the day soon dawn in which people may be filled with 
Charity, and turn their backs on Hunger and Sorrow ! M. P. 

I know a fair and winsome girl, 
Scarce eight years old, I trow, 
With eye of light, and teeth of pearl, 
And locks that float in many a curl 
Around her sunny hrow. 

Tou scarce can tell her eyes' soft hue, 

So changeful is their heam ; 
But whether gray, or hrown, or blue, 
Radiant with smile, or moist with dew, 

No brighter can be seen. 

Her soft hair twines luxuriantly 

About her shoulders fair ; 
In careless beauty, wild and free, 
Those sun-bright tresses goldenly 

"Wave in the wanton air. 

They call her Kate — that peerless name, 

"Which oft in olden days 
Was proudly borne by noble dame 
And lady fair of spotless fame, 

"Who live in poets' lays. 

There is a sweet bewitching spell 

In Katie's childish face, 
But whence it comes you scarce can tell- 

"■ ~" — —n nr l uijjLdwalk 

What shall her future years unfold 

Of happiness or woe, 
As time's deep shadows are unrolled, 
And onward through the darksome wold 

Her careless footsteps go ? 

Her lot is woman's, and her fate 

Is woman's destiny — 
To suffer patiently ; to wait 
For sympathy, and learn too late 

How vain such watchings be ! 

E'en now, that young and gladsome face 

Is shadowed o'er with thought ; 
Though few her years, I mark a trace 
Of sorrow in its pensive grace, 
From saddened memory caught ! 

For Katie has no mother dear 
To guide her trusting youth ; 

No gentle hand to wipe each tear ; 

No voice beloved, with accents clear, 
To teach her words of truth ! 

That mother slumbered in the tomb 
Ere spring's sweet blossoms blew ; 
For her the flowers of Eden bloom, 
And no earth-sorrow casts a gloom 
O'er jovs for ever new ! 

And often o'er my brain 
Come stealing thoughts of love beguiled- 
Strange dreamings, fanciful and wild, 

An endless, busy train, 

Sparta, Geo., 1853. 

But still my Katie, motherless, 

Turns to a father's love : 
His watchful care her youth shall bless, 
His voice have deeper tenderness, 

His heart more faithful prove. 

And thus, encircled by his love, 

Shall Katie onward go, — 
One father here, and One above, 
To guide her footsteps, as they rove 

This wilderness below I 

Thus may the future ever bring, 

My bonny Kate, to thee 
In joy or grief — sweet hope, to fling 
Its radiance where thy heart shall cling 

With its affections free 1 




the sick child's enjoyment of the fragrant gift ; and then she arranged 
her dress, and smoothed her brown curls under the cottage bonnet, 
in preparation for her visit to the Hall. Frolic bounded after her at 
her bidding, and so the two started off again, Genevieve shading her 
flowers carefully from the heat of the sun. 

" There goes that proud Genevieve !" said a woman, lounging idly 
at her cottage-door, as the girl passed. " Going to the Hall again, 
of course, the good-for -naught. Better be at her spinning." 

Genevieve heard her, but she did not heed. She often heard such 
ill-natured speeches, and she had grown indifferent to them. She was 
too happy herself this beautiful morning to care for the envy and 
uncharitableness of others. So she and Frolic bounded on, one scarce 
merrier than the other, till they reached the Hall. 

ittflgir; borate, uH <$|arii$. 


A PEASANT'S wife bakt 

finest wheat flour, and t 
she named Hunger and Sorr 
were baked she ate both the 
till the evening. "When her 1 
" Here, husband ; when makir 
" Good wife," replied he ; " 
touch it." "Alas !" said the 

full of Hunger and Sorrow that 1 have no place for 

May the day soon dawn in which people may be filled with 
Charity, and turn their backs on Hunger and Sorrow ! M. P. 



I know a fair and winsome girl, 
Scarce eight years old, I trow, 
With eye of light, and teeth of pearl, 
And locks that float in many a curl 
Around her sunny hrow. 

You scarce can tell her eyes' soft hue, 

So changeful is their beam ; 
But whether gray, or brown, or blue, 
Eadiant with smile, or moist with dew, 

No brighter can be seen. 

Her soft hair twines luxuriantly 

About her shoulders fair ; 
In careless beauty, wild and free, 
Those sun-bright tresses goldenly 

"Wave in the wanton air. 

They call her Kate — that peerless name, 

"Which oft in olden days 
Was proudly borne by noble dame 
And lady fair of spotless fame, 

"Who live in poets 1 lays. 

There is a sweet bewitching spell 

In Katie's childish face, 
But whence it comes you scarce can tell — 
"Whether in eye or lip it dwell, 

Or in her artless grace. 

A winsome, loving, dove-eyed maid 

Is she, my bonny Kate ; 
A violet sweet, that loves to shade 
Its modest beauties in the glade, 

"When sings the turtle's mate ! 

Her childish heart is gay and light, 

Her voice sings out in glee ; 
Her sparkling eyes with smiles are bright, 
Her bounding footsteps glad the sight: 

A merry maiden she I 

I love this sweet and darling child, 

And often o'er my brain 
Come stealing thoughts of love beguiled— 
Strange dreamings, fanciful and wild, 

An endless, busy train, 

Sparta, Geo., 1853. 

What shall her future years unfold 

Of happiness or woe, 
As time's deep shadows are unrolled, 
And onward through the darksome wold 

Her careless footsteps go ? 

Her lot is woman's, and her fate 

Is woman's destiny — 
To suffer patiently ; to wait 
For sympathy, and learn too late 

How vain such watchings be 1 

E'en now, that young and gladsome face 
Is shadowed o'er with thought ; 

Though few her years, I mark a trace 

Of sorrow in its pensive grace, 
From saddened memory caught! 

For Katie has no mother dear 
To guide her trusting youth ; 

No gentle hand to wipe each tear ; 

No voice beloved, with accents clear, 
To teach her words of truth ! 

That mother slumbered in the tomb 
Ere spring's sweet blossoms blew ; 
For her the flowers of Eden bloom, 
And no earth-sorrow casts a gloom 
O'er jovs for ever new ! 

But still my Katie, motherless, 

Turns to a father's love : 
His watchful care her youth shall bless, 
His voice have deeper tenderness, 

His heart more faithful prove. 

And thus, encircled by his love, 

Shall Katie onward go, — 
One father here, and One above, 
To guide her footsteps, as they rove 

This wilderness below I 

Thus may the future ever bring, 

My bonny Kate, to thee 
In joy or grief — sweet hope, to fling 
Its radiance where thy heart shall cling 

With its affections free I 



My Dear Cousin Sam : 

OU, who are so large and so used to the world, 
cannot think what a twitter I was thrown 
into by hearing papa read your letter to me. 
As you say, I am very small, though I am so 
plump and nice ; but, as I am a girl, I have " a 
very excitable nervous system," they tell me, 
and surprises and loud noises are very trying 
to me. My mamma enjoyed your letter very 
much indeed. She was ill in bed ; that was the reason papa had to 
read it ; but she laughed so much, my grandmamma was afraid she 
would make herself very sick. 

It did seem to me that a letter coming to me alone should not be read 
in everybody's hearing ; but it was of no use for me to cry out against 
it. As you say, papa and Aunt Marimilie, and all the rest of them 
to talk about " colic," so I thought I might as well lie quiet, and sub- 
mit with a good grace to what I could not help. When I am older, I 
shall not allow such a thing ; it don't seem to me delicate to have a pri- 
vate letter made so public. 

My mamma is better now, and sits up almost all day long ; she is 
writing this letter for me, which is very good of her, seeing it makes 
her eyes ache very much to use them just now. I am lying in the 
lap of one of my aunties, quite near my mamma. I have been trying 
to look about me every day since you wrote to me. I find my 
eyes are very weak yet, though everybody says they are large and 
beautiful. I can see my mamma and my grandmamma very plainly, 



and I hope I shall have dark eyes like aunt's, which all say is likely. 

They complain greatly of my nose. I am afraid large noses are not 
admired on little girls' faces, and I have heard them talk about some- 
thing dreadful, which they call a " pug." What can they mean ? Do 
ask your mamma if people ever have pug-noses, and if she thinks I 
am in danger of such a thing ! I hear them say that you are very 
large and noble-looking, and that you " will make a splendid boy ;" 
but they seem to expect me to be a beauty ; because I am a girl, I 
suppose. I think my mamma will be very much disappointed if I am 
not, but I am sure I don't know how to grow beautiful, if I am not so. 

Mamma says that my first little brother was wonderfully beautiful. 
I hear it all day long ; so much about curly hair, small mouth, fine 
complexion ! What can I do, Sam 1 They will always find fault 
with me because I am not such a wonder as he was, or as my little 
sister was. It will distress me so much ! I hope you won't love me 
the less for not being beautiful, if I chance not to be. I shall be glad 
when I can see for myself how I look. Can you look in the glass yet ? 
That's what I want to do ! 

I must tell you one truth — but the confession is as bad as the pain — 
I do have the colic. My mamma says " all her children have it for 
four or six weeks." I like the catnip tea which they give me for it. 
It is very sweet, and directly after I take it, I feel so nicely ! And 
then I lie and shut my eyes, and forget all about pain, and cold, and 
every thing that isn't nice. I think I have so many bad feelings 
because the. weather is so cold here. All my brothers and sisters 
have lived at the South, where, mamma says, it is always warm. I 
wish I was there now. 

I have another grandmamma there. My only grandpapa lives there 
too ; and oh, so many aunts, and uncles, and cousins ! You see I 
know a great deal about the family, for if I can't see much, I can hear 
very well ; and they keep up a great chattering about me, considering 
how small I am, and how sick mamma has been. I don't see much 
of Fanny yet, but I heard her tell Ann, the housemaid, and Margaret, 
the cook, one day when they peeped into the room to see me, that she 


should stay up stairs all the time pretty soon. They said I was a 
sweet little thing, and- they wished they could take care of me ! I 
wonder if they really thought me pretty. J only hope I shall have 
such beautiful long curls as my aunts here have, which swing over my 
head whenever they take me. My mamma has no curls ; has yours 1 
and is she beautiful without them 1 

We have no doctor coming here now, we are all getting on so well. 
I hope your mouth is better. Sore mouths must be bad things ; and 
if they are sore outside, it must make one look very ugly. Per- 
haps, however, you don't care so much about looks as I do. I shouldn't, 
only they all seem to expect me to be a beauty. How they do worry 
me with it ! 

I am afraid I never shall admire my hands. I have not looked at 
them yet, but mamma says, " What ugly hands !" and every one else, 
" How large her hands are !" What can I do 1 If I should have large 
hands and no beauty, I ought not to be a girl, ought I % Mamma says } 
if my hands grow to be like your mother's, she will be quite satisfied. 
Do look at hers, and tell me about them. 

As for kissing, to tell the truth, I am so little, they are afraid to kiss 
me much now. I think I shall have pretty shoulders, however, for I 
hear mamma talking about corals to tie up my sleeves and show my 
shoulders. If I do, they may kiss me there as much as they like. 
My lips I shall be very close with, for fear my mouth might grow 

I would write about something else than my own looks, but I don't 
hear much else talked of. When I am older, and have travelled, as 
you have, my letters may be more interesting. I have a beautiful 
name — don't you think so 1 — for I am, my dear Sam, 

Your loving little Cousin, 


Laptev W. 

HE delightful days of summer passed away, and 
the winter, which in that country is usually very 
severe, succeeded. The huts in the valley were 
Mj almost buried in the snow, and the roads were 
||jjl scarcely passable. The mill was no longer at 
!i* work ; the cascades were suspended in silence 
!' over the rocks ; and the inclemency of the season 
confined each family to its own fire-side ; so that the honest charcoal- 
burners were not a little pleased when the snow began to disappear 
before the mild approach of spring. 

The children of the valley were now seen running to the cottage 
with bouquets of violets and primroses for Frederic and Blanche ; 
and as the fields began to be covered with flowers, they gathered the 
most beautiful, and tied them into nosegays for their little favourites. 
Pleased with their attention, the lady determined to provide some 
pleasure for them in return. " When Easter comes," she said, " I 
should like to give them some little treat, for it is right that these 
holidays should be days of innocent enjoyment. At Christmas I 
could regale them with the apples and nuts which had been laid up in" 
store ; but how shall we manage in a season when there is nothing 
but eggs to be had ? The earth has not yet produced its crop ; trees 
are without their fruit ; eggs are the first gift of a bountiful Provi- 

" Yes," said Martha ; " but it is a pity that eggs are all of the same 
colour. The white is very pretty, to be sure, but the various colours 
of fruits are much prettier." 

"An excellent suggestion," s:iid the lady, after a moment's reflec- 
tion. " I will boil some eggs and paint them, and the variety of 
colour will afford amusement to the children." 

Accordingly, being well acquainted with those plants and roots 
which are used in dyeing, she stained a sufficient number of eggs with 



different colours ; some blue, some yellow, some red, and some violet. 
Others were boiled with green leaves, which produced tints of various 
shades ; and some she marked with written mottoes. 

" These coloured eggs," said the miller, who had walked in one day 
while the treat was in preparation, " remind us of the goodness of 
God. The fruits which he gives us are at the same time delicious to 
the taste and agreeable to the sight. Cherries are red, plums are 
purple, and pears are yellow ; and these eggs, painted in imitation of 
those colours, are calculated to call up the remembrance of the many 
bounties of our merciful Creator." 

Early on the morning of Easter-day, the lady and old Bertram set 
out for the church of the neighbouring village, which was situated at 
the foot of a mountain, at some distance from the cottage, and all the 
inhabitants of the valley, old and young, who were able to walk so 
far, followed her example. The proposed entertainment was fixed for 
the following day. It arrived at length. The rising sun sent forth 
his genial rays ; the sky was fine and serene ; the fields were covered 
with flowers ; the birds twittered and hopped from spray to spray, 
and all nature seemed to speak of health and enjoyment. 

All the children about the same age as Frederic and Blanche had 
been invited, and repaired to the cottage at the appointed hour. 
Bertram took them into the garden, and seated them on benches 
round a rustic table. Frederic and Blanche sat in the midst of them, 
and you might read in their looks the impatience with which they 
anticipated the treat prepared for them. It was truly an enchanting 
sight to see their little faces beaming with pleasure, and their eyes 
sparkling with delight. 

First of all, the lady explained to them, in a clear and impressive 
manner, the origin and design of the feast of Easter. " It was insti- 
tuted," she told them, " to commemorate the resurrection of Jesus 
Christ from the dead, and to assure mankind of the resurrection of 
their own bodies at the day of judgment ; when the good will be 
rewarded, and the wicked punished according to their works. Such a 
reflection ought to make them good children and good Christians. 
For," she continued, " if the expectation of the little festival I have 
made for you, because you were good boys and girls, has had its 



effect, the pleasure of going to heaven will be much greater, and 
ought, therefore, to make you love and obey your Saviour." 

A tureen of eggs beaten in milk was then placed on the table, of 
which they all had a small basinful. They were then allowed to 
ramble into a neighbouring wood, and the lady told each of them to 
gather sufficient moss to make a little nest. This task was soon 
finished, and the nests were deposited upon a bank of turf, each child 
carefully marking its own. On their return to the garden, they were 
agreeably surprised to see on the table a large cake, made light with 

eggs, and covered with white sugar and sweetmeats. The cake was 
cut into slices, and while they were eating it, Martha slipped unob- 
served into the wood, with a basket of coloured eggs, which she dis- 
tributed among the nests ; and the several colours, blue, red, and 
yellow, formed a pretty contrast with the soft green moss. When 
the children had finished their cake, the lady proposed that they should 
go and see what had become of the nests. Here was a new source 
of surprise and pleasure. There were in each nest five eggs of the 
same colour, and one inscribed with a motto. 


A shout of joy burst at once from all the children. It would be 
impossible to describe their transports. " Red eggs ! red eggs ! oh, 
how beautiful !" cried one. " Blue, blue ; mine are blue P' shouted 
another ; " as blue as the sky." "And mine are as yellow," said a 
third, " as that butterfly yonder." " Oh, do but look at mine !" said 
a little fellow : " what beautiful hens they must be to lay such pretty 
eggs ! how I should like to see one !" 

" No, no, no," said Martha's little sister Mary, " it cannot be the 
hens that have done this ; I should rather think it was that hare that 
I saw running out of the hedge, and scampering away as fast as it 
could, while I was gathering the moss for my nest." 

At this speech all the children burst at once into a loud laugh ; 
and the hare that laid red eggs became a standing joke in the valley. 

How little it requires, thought the lady, to make children happy ; 
and who would not willingly contribute to their amusement % Who 
does not envy their innocent simplicity % The joy that sparkles in 
their eyes, and beams in all their features, falls to the lot of those 
only who have pure and guileless hearts ; and thus, through life, 
virtue is the only source of real pleasure. 

Although the children seemed perfectly satisfied and happy, yet the 
good lady suggested a new pastime. She proposed that those whose 
eggs were all yellow should make an exchange with the red 'and the 
blue, and so with the rest, that by this means the eggs of each might 
vary in colour, without bartering those on which the motto was 

" It is thus, you see, my dear children," she observed, " that you 
must always be ready to oblige each other ; and what you have now 
done you will frequently have occasion to repeat in the course of 
your lives. The Almighty pours his blessings on all mankind, and 
makes them mutually dependent on each other, in order that they 
may live in harmony and peace and love. May God grant that all 
your bargains may resemble that which you have just made, in 
which all are gainers and none losers !" 

Little Frederic was now desired by his mamma to read his motto. 
One of his visitors was much surprised to hear him ; for there were 
then but few schools for poor children, and many grown-up persons 



could neither rdad nor write. As soon as he was made to understand 
that Frederic had expressed in words what was marked upon the 
shell, his curiosity was excited to know what was written upon his 
own egg. 

"An excellent precept," said the lady : " I will read it to you. 

' God gives us raiment, health, and food ; 
Strive, then, to please a God so good.' " 

She then asked the children if they always returned thanks to God 
for the good things which he gave them. This put them, in mind 
that they had not yet returned thanks for the happy day which they 
had passed, and the pretty eggs which had been given them. ; and 
they lost no time in performing the duty. 

The rest of the children were equally desirous to know what was 
written on their eggs, and they requested the lady to read the mottoes. 

As soon as they were silent, and seated in order near her, she read 
them one after another. They were short and simple precepts of 
morality, such as those which follow : — 

•'With all your heart and spirit, love 
The Almighty God who reigns above." 

' From sin and guilt, with terror fly, 
For naught escapes God's searching eye. 1 

' God gives us rafment, health, and food ; 
Strive, then, to please a God so good." 

"Attend to what your parents say ; 
Good children never disobey." 


" To those who on his help rely, 
In time of trouble, God is nigh." 

" God to a child in conscience speaks, 
When the blush burns upon his cheeks.' 

" Of Heaven ask virtue, wisdom, health ; 
But never let your prayer be wealth." 

" Be you to others kind and true, 
As you 'd have others be to you." 

" Until to-morrow ne'er delay 
The work which should be done to- 

" Who ventures near the brink of vice, 
May tumble o'er the precipice." 

The children next set about learning their mottoes, and repeated 
them frequently in silence, that they might not forget them. Many 
of them had some difficulty in learning them, others were more apt ; 
but they were soon all able to repeat the whole by heart. It was 
only necessary to repeat the first word, and they immediately went 
on with the rest. Never had they learned so much before, as on this 
day of pleasure and enjoyment. 


Their shouts of delight were heard at the very bottom of the valley, 
and many of their parents ran to see what was going on in the lady's 
garden. When they were informed of the cause of the merriment, 
they were fain to confess that their children had learned moie in one 
afternoon than they could have taught them at home in a twelve- 
month. So true is it that good-will fears no trouble and knows no 

"Ay," said the miller, who had also joined the party; "but how 
is this good-will to be effected 1 — that is the question. This is, in 
fact, the grand point to be attained in the instruction of youth ; and 
well indeed does this good lady understand the management of 

The lady then divided amongst her new visitors the cake and the 
painted eggs which were left. " You may carry them home," she 
said ; " but mind you preserve those which have the mottoes." 

" Thank you, thank you, dear lady," they replied ; " we will take 
care of them, for the motto is worth more than the egg." 

" Yes," she said, " if you attend to the instruction contained in it." 

Recommending the parents to remind their children of these 
mottoes whenever an occasion presented itself, she sent the little party 
home, full of happiness and gratitude. Her advice was strictly fol- 
lowed. If a child was disobedient, the father, holding up his finger, 

would begin, 

"Attend to what your parents say ;" • 

and the child, immediately adding, 

" Good children never disobey," 

did at once what it was ordered. In the same way they applied the 

other mottoes. 

The children frequently talked of the agreeable day they had spent, 
and said that they had never been so happy in their lives. 

" Well," said the lady, " only be good, and mind what is said to 
you, and you shall have the same treat every year. None but good 
children must be of our party ; and I trust we shall hear of. no 
naughty ones." It will readily be believed that this promise made 
the children of the valley as tractable and obedient as little boys and 
girls ought always to be. 

uhxn of ijjf Seasons. 


Spring is a laughing chilS, 
With shaded eyes of blue, 
And garlands deck her path 
Of every shape and hue : 

The early buds are hers, 
Of tender, dainty green, 
And birds just venturing forth, 
Salute her as their queen : 

She conies ! our hearts o'erflow ; 
She comes ! our pulses beat, 
Her lovely form to view, 
Or watch her busy feet : 

Oh, yes, give me the Spring 
"With ever-changing hours, 
Her free and lavish hand, 
And wealth of bursting flowers. 


List to the Summer's tread, 
How weary, faint, and slow ; 
Where'er his footsteps rest, 
The scorching sunbeams go : 

Leaves wear a deeper green, 
And browner is the grain ; 
Now come long days of drought, 
And now long days of rain : 

See ! standing by a stream 
Whose waters slowly glide, 
The cattle of the field, 
To drink the sluggish tide : 

The laborer rests from toil, 
For fierce the sun shines now, 
And sits beneath a tree,. 
To cool his heated brow. 


What visitor is this ? 
We scarce can truly tell ; 
He wears the Summer's dress, 
And Winter's garb as well : 

To-day the sun is warm, 

And leaves and flowerets grow ; 

To-morrow leaves are dead, 

And flowers are crowned with snow: 

The song of birds is o'er, 
The woods are gold and red ; o 
The skies are crimson too, 
Gay insects now lie dead : 

The laborer's step is quick — 
To keep from growing poor, 
He toils from dawn till dusk, 
To gather in his store. 


Throw on the seasoned wood, 
And make the parlor bright, 
For a new guest has come, 
And frosty is the night : 

He came with active step, 
With blowing wind and storm, 
And icicles all wet 
Hang from his shivering form : 

He clothes the rich with smiles, 
And joy and plenty brings ; 
TViey never feel his gripe 
Or suffer from his stings : 

But on the wretched poor 
A crushing hand he lays. 
Help those who toil and weep, 
In these bleak wintry days, 

C|U&-fif* m OMiCjkni); 


(Ejjaptcr V. 


HILDKEN," said papa, as we were seated around 
the tea-table, one pleasant Friday evening in the 
early summer, " how would you like to visit Fair- 
pasture to-morrow ?" 

"Oh, dear papa," exclaimed Maud, "I shall be 
perfectly delighted." 

"And I, too," was my answer to the proposal, a 
little less eagerly given, perhaps, than my sister's, 
for I had made some calculation upon going with 
some lads of my own age upon a bird's-nesting ex- 
pedition. I had not, however, asked my father's 
consent, and it cost me but a little effort to resolve 
that the visit to Fairpasture would be even more agreeable than my 
projected adventure. Maurice and Fanny testified their delight by 
clapping their hands, and such other noisy manifestations that mamma 
had to remind them that they were at the table. This hint made 
Fanny draw down her lips in such a very comical attempt to be 
grave, that every one laughed aloud, to the utter discomfiture of the 
little maiden, and she made good her escape. 



" Well," said papa, resuming the subject of our conversation, " if 
mamma approves the plan, and the morning is a fine one, we will 
spend to-morrow at Fairpasture." 

"And what if I should not approve V said mamma, with a sweet 
but arch smile, which very plainly told us that she had already 
granted her consent to the visit. 

" Oh, then," said Maud, " we must all unite in a petition that ' her 
Ladyship' will graciously yield to the will of the majority." 

" You may spare yourselves the trouble of making such a petition," 
replied mamma, " for I am nearly as anxious and quite as willing to 
go as you are, Maud !" 

" Oh, it will be s© charming !" returned Maud. " I shall see Lucy, 
and won't we have a great deal of fun, Willie ?" 

Maud's evident delight awakened the same feeling in me ; and I am 
quite sure that if papa had divined my previous wishes, and offered 
his consent to my joining the egging party, I should not have hesitated 
a single moment to decline doing so. I will not say that Maud's 
mention of Lucy did not have something to do with my quickenad 
interest in the Fairpasture visit ; for I recall with much vividness, 
even now, my boyish admiration of fair Lucy Gibson. 

The matter was thus pleasantly arranged, and the rest of the even- 
ing, after the tea-things were removed, and family worship was over, 
was spent in talking of the happiness we anticipated on the morrow, 
and in selecting some little tokens for the younger members of the 
kind family we were going to visit. Maud chose from the pretty 
book-shelf which hung upon the wall of her chamber, a pocket-copy 
of Cowper's Poems as a gift for Lucy ; and after much consultation' 
with her I selected, from my own treasures, a neat little box of 
coloured crayons, with which, as Maud said, Lucy could make much 
prettier drawings than those she' was used to make with lead-pencils 
only. I had bought them, together with colours and a drawing-book, 
when I was last at Oxford, which was only twenty miles distant from 
the village of Hackington. For the boys I chose, with less solicitude, 
from my stock of playthings, a trap and ball, and a good bow, with 
a quiver full of arrows. Maurice had to provide sdmething for the 


younger of the two lads, and in his perplexity as to what he should 
get, mamma suggested that Walter Gibson would perhaps like some 
of Mr. Walford's nice gingerbread. 

Now of this we were all very fond. It was a peculiar kind of 
gingerbread, very sweet, and as hard and brittle as sea-biscuit. It 
was made in oblong forms, deeply indented with cross lines, so that 
it was easily broken up into little squares. Mr. Walford was the 
village baker, and his shop was only just across the street from the 
parsonage. Thither I and Maurice went, with instructions to bring 
half a dozen cakes of this favourite commodity. 

Fanny counted herself supremely happy when mamma produced a 
gaily-painted wicker basket, with dainty knots of pink ribbon at the 
sides, and handing it to the little girl, told her that was to be her 
present to Bessie Gibson, a child not quite her own age. 

For some time after Maurice and Fanny were in dreamland, Maud 
and myself talked of the next day, and wondered if Lucy would prize 
our little gifts as much as we hoped for. We anticipated, moreover, 
the pleasures we were to enjoy — the hide-and-seek in the rick-yard 
and the barn — the frolic in the hay-meadow — the search after hen's 
eggs — the delicious bread and honey for which Fairpasture was 
famous — and many other things of which I have now only a vague 

The morning was as beautiful as we could desire it to be. There 
were but a few silver-grey clouds in the sky, and papa pronounced 
the weather perfect ! 

I have not yet informed the reader of these recollections where and 
what this Fairpasture was, that seemed to all of us such a land of 
promise. I must atone for this neglect at once. Fairpasture was a 
farm situated nearly three miles from our home. It belonged to a 
gentleman of the name of Gibson, who was one of the principal sup- 
porters of the chapel at which my father ministered, and, indeed, one 
of the deacons of the church. He was a substantial but not a wealthy 
farmer. He had around him a large family, and plenty to supply all 
their reasonable wants, without exhausting his yearly income. He 
was a large-hearted man, giving freely to the poor of the parish, and 


not withholding his support from general objects of benevolence. 
His farm was a beautiful tract of land, containing over four hundred 
acres, divided into meadow, field, and copse. 

The farm-house was situated in the centre of the domain. In front 
of it was a tastefully -cultivated flower-garden, and a green meadow, 
sweeping with a gentle slope to the high road. From the latter it 
was separated by a thick hedge of white hawthorn, from which there 
sprung, at irregular intervals, graceful trees — the ash, the laburnum, 
and the silver-leaved poplar. 

Behind the house, and just beyond the cattle-yard and sheds, was 
the spacious barn, nearly bounding one end of the rick-ground, where 
the wheat, and oats, and barley, the peas and the hay, were all care- 
fully bestowed in shapely ricks beneath roofs of straw thatch. 

The farm-house itself was built of stone, after an unpretending 
fashion. Its roof was rather steep, and it was thatched with aulm, 
tha,t is, with the short or stubble straw of the luxuriant wheat-fields 
which surrounded it. This was laid over the roof-frame and fastened, 
in successive layers, until it was nearly or quite a foot thick ; making 
a warm and durable covering. The windows of the house were nar- 
row, and composed of small, diamond-shaped panes of glass, firmly 
set into a framework of lead. They opened, not as windows do 
now-a-days, but like the doors of a cupboard. These windows were 
nearly buried in ivy and honeysuckle vines, making the old grey 
stone walls almost as green as the velvet sward of the lawn in front 
of them. 

To this pleasant domain it was that our steps were bent upon that 
charming summer morning in the long ago. It may surprise my 
little readers to learn that we went on foot, not even taking Gipsy 
with us. Nor was this at all a singular proceeding. Had we taken 
the carriage, or even the donkey, for such an excursion, our neighbours 
would have been surprised. There was, it is true, a high-road to 
Fairpasture, but then there was also a bye-road, and the latter was a 
thousand times the more delightful, besides being half a mile shorter. 
It ran, all the way, through meadows or fields of grain separated by 
hedges, which were themselves full of beauty. Not even mamma 



voted for the carriage, and, with light hearts and light steps, we set 
off — a happy family party — Ponto taking the lead, with extravagant 
tokens of delight. 

As I have said, it was the early summer. The meadows were fra- 
grant with the tufted cowslips, and bright with butter-cups and daisies. 
The red poppies were beginning to flaunt their heads among the corn. 
The white blossoms of the fragrant May-thorn covered the hedge- 
rows, while, here and there, the laburnums drooped their golden 
clusters. The air was vocal with the song of a multitude of birds. 
The thrush and the blackbird rivalled each other in melodious bursts 
of music. The finches chattered in the trees, and the busy hedge- 
sparrow twittered almost as eagerly below them. 

Now and then the clear, ringing note of the cuckoo came up from 
a copse-wood, and provoked us all to vain endeavours to echo its 
sweet, peculiar cry. I did succeed in making little Fanny start with 
surprise by calling " cuckoo" in her ear ; but she declared immedi- 
ately that she " knew all the time it was brother Willie." 

It was with such sights and with such sounds as these that our walk 
to Fairpasture was beguiled of all weariness ; and when we reached 
the great gate of the farmstead, we all agreed in wishing that it had 
been five miles instead of half that distance. 

%\t lltiMer's Canter* 

Since we sent the March number (containing the reply to the euri 
ous " Charade No. 1," published in February) to press, we have re- 
ceived another solution of the same riddle, which we must do the 
author the justice to publish. We direct her to the answer printed 
last month for the name of the city which she could not make out ; 
and thanking her for her very graceful lines, hope that she will send 
us many u more of the same sort," and not remain " unknown" to us 

SOLUTION TO CHARADE NO. 1.— (In February No.) 

The name of " the city" we cannot make out, 
No ancient geography being about, 
But "Ada, sole daughter of house and of heart" 
Bids thoughts of " Childe Harold" in memory start. 
A nun will withdraw from the gay world to pray 
In the walls of the convent so time-worn and gray, . 
And at noon the slow sound of refectory bell 
Calls the sisters in order from chapel and cell. 
Sister Anna, the abbess of soft-sounding name, 
For prayers and for lectures a hearing will claim : 
No hah ! hah 1 is allowed in that solemn convention, 
But subdued, undivided, and humble attention. 
Very different from them was good Hannah of old, 
Whose earnest desire her prayers had made bold : 
The mother of Samuel, great, good, and wise, 
My whole is unveiled to inquisitive eyes. 

Beatkice, or the Unknown Relative. 

We have received various answers to the Cluster of Charades, and 
select the four following for publication : 



The honey's sweetness proved in olden times 

A puzzling riddle to the Philistines ; 

The gentle moon o'er earth and ocean ranges, 

The same forever, though she often changes ; 

The honeymoon with bride and groom flows sweetly, 

And like the silver car moves onward fleetly. 


144 the riddler's corner. 


A block is oblong, round, or square, 

Or void of shape at all, 
Just as the workman may declare 

"What fate shall it befall ; 
Thus far unlike some heads I know, 

That, use them as you may, 
Are blockheads born, and blockheads go 

Unto the judgment-day ! Marian. 


White and light, and soft and cold, 

The falling snow may be extolled, 

While round and small, and clear and bright, 

The crystal drop gleams in the light. 

In early spring the snow-drop rears its head, 

Nursed by the melting drops around its bed. 


The sea is broad, and deep, and strong 

In which the dead and living throng : 

The rank weed springs unbidden where 

We look for flowers fresh and fair ; 

Thus sea-weed solves the fourth charade, 

From which a valued drug is made. H. 

We have room left for only two Riddles in this number ; but foi 
next month we can promise our readers quite* a variety of good 
things. We hope to receive numerous answers to the following 


Amid the city's crowded walks, 
Or by the rippling stream, 

On western lands or eastern shores, 
My first is often seen. 

With haughty step and scornful eye, 

My second moves along ; 
A stranger it to country scenes, 

To cities does belong. 

My whole possessed a precious gift, 
Which God to man has given ; 

He could describe the woes of hell, 
Or paint the joys of heaven. 


I am foremost in heaven, and last upon earth ; 

Though the sun never sees me, his light gives me "birth ; 

I dwell not in stars, but I linger in night, 

And shun the moon's presence to lurk within sight. 

The world's my aversion, its follies I hate ; 
I smile on the humble, and frown on the great ; 
Though sinners forsake me, with Christians I stay, 
And without me the Church would soon fall to decay. 

Published by Evans 8f Dickerson. 

Naughty Boys and Naughty Girls. 

Comic Tales and Colored Pictures. By Dr. Julius Bahr. 4to, 
in picture binding. 75 cents. 


* I 

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By the Baron Krakemsides, of Burstenoudelafen Castle, 
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From the German. By Madame de Chatelain. Eighteen large, 
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€Mt nf Cntthtth 

MAY, 1854. 

Illustrated with Frontispiece and Engravings. 

Lost in the "Woods, . , . - . . By Mrs. Bradley. 

Sedgemoor, By Mrs. Manners. 

Poetry, From the German, by M. P. 

Seeing the World, From the German of Herman 

Kurtz. , 

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The Pearl, . Selected. 

" Little Mannie," Contributed. 

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The Riddler's Corner. 


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fast in t$t SIS a tr s . 

UR mother had given us leave to play in 
the woods, because it was Saturday after- 
noon, and a holiday ; besides, it was nut- 
ting-time now, and under the big chestnut 
trees that grew all through the wood, we 
could find many a brown nut that the wind 
had shaken out of the burr when it opened 
in the sunshine. There were hazel-nuts, 
too, and wild grapes clustering ripe and 
purple over the vines — we'd have a famous time, we thought, all to 
ourselves ! 

It was a charming walk from our house to the woods; down a 
shady green lane, then across a noisy little brook ; and the rest of 
the way was by the public road, to be sure, but great old trees grew 
all alongside, and the same brook went scampering by, growing wide 
and deep in some places, and then bubbling and fretting amongst the 
rocks and stones, making all kinds of merry little falls. 

By holding each other's hands, Albert and I could step from stone 
to stone all the way down the brook, and my frock was so short I 
wasn't afraid of getting it wet ; so it was great fun to step over the 
slippery stones. But we came by-and-by to a place where the stones 
were unusually wide apart, and I was afraid. 

" Come on !" said Albert, gaily, for he had sprung over safely. 
" No, I can't," I answered ; " I am afraid." 

" Nonsense !" said Albert, boy-like. " Don't be a goose, Madgie." 
" I'm not a goose, Albert, but I'm afraid still." 
" Oh, of course you are ; a girl always is," he said impatiently. 
" Do you want me to go on and leave you standing there ?" 
" Well, if you don't, you'd better give me your hand, and jump !" 



He held out his hands to me, and I grasped them tightly, and 
made a desperate spring. I reached the stone, sure enough, but one 
foot splashed down into a pool of water, and my shoe and stocking 
were dripping wet above the ankle. 

" See there, now, Albert !" I said, looking at my foot in dismay. 

" Well, what of that I It won't hurt any thing, will it f he asked, 
with a boy's scornful laugh. " What a fuss you girls make about 
such little things ! Why, if you were a boy, you wouldn't mind wet 
feet any more than any thing." 

" I know boys don't," I said, " but mother might think it would give 
me a cold, you know, Albert." - 

" Oh psha ! no, it won't,*" he answered, carelessly ; so I didn't say 
any more, and we climbed up the bank then and got into the road 
again ; for just there the path branched off that led into the chestnut 

It was very pleasant in the woods, just cool enough to make the 
sunshine feel very nice ; and the wind that came rustling down 
through the thick foliage of the chestnuts had so pleasant a voice, that 
we lay still a long time amongst the withered leaves to listen to it. 

" It sounds like singing, don't it, Madgie ?'•' said Albert. 

"Yes," I said, "like mother singing to us when we go to bed." 

" Or like the people that sing in church. A'n't you tired of lying 
still, Madge? Let's look for nuts." 

And we got up and commenced to toss over the leaves in search 
of stray nuts. Every now and then Albert would cry out, " I've 
found one !" and pretty soon I would answer, " So have I ;" and in that 
way we got quite a little pile of nuts before long. " Now, then, we'll 
eat them," said Albert, presently, "and when we've eaten all we 
want, we'll find some for mother." 

" But maybe we can't find any more," I suggested. 

"My!" he exclaimed, scornfully ; "just as if this whole wood 
wasn't full of 'em ! Why, we could find bushels, Madgie ; that is, 
you know, I could climb a tree and shake 'em down." 

I didn't doubt his word at all, for I had a great admiration for 
Albert, and thought he could do almost any thing he said. So I ate 


the chestnuts, of which he gave me a generous share, very content- 
edly ; and then I was going to find some for mother ; but Albert all 
at once remembered that he had had no wild grapes yet, and said we 
must go to look for some. So we started off, plunging deep into the 
woods where there was no path, and the trees grew closer together. 
Albert knew, he said, exactly where to find the grapes, and he went 
on and on a long way into the forest ; but still we did not see any 
thing like a grape-vine. 

" We are going too far, Albert," I said uneasily ; " we'll get lost." 

" Nonsense !" he answered ; " don't you s'pose I could find my 
way anywhere in these woods V 

I was silent ; but I grew more and more uneasy, as we went further 
on in our vain search, and the afternoon wore by. The trees were 
very thick where we were, so that the sunlight did not come through ; 
and I could not make Albert believe that it-was growing late, till 
at last we came to an open glade, where the sun glanced through the 
tree-boles, and lay upon the ground in long level rays of red light ; 
and he could not help seeing then that it was nearly sunset. Pre- 
sently, while we stood watching the light upon the ground, it faded 
before our eyes and vanished, and in its place fell the long shadows 
of the trees upon the open sward. 

Albert looked blankly into my face. " Who could have thought 
sunset would come so soon ?" he said. " We must go home, Madge ; 
I wish we were there now." 

He put his arm around me tenderly, and then silently we retraced 
our steps — as well as we could remember, that is — for we had wan- 
dered very far, and in many ways, from the old familiar paths. 
Every gleam of brightness by this time had faded from the dusky 
trees, and long twilight shadows were gathering thickly around us. 
Albert was very silent, and when I looked up into his face, I saw it 
wore a very anxious and troubled expression. My heart sank within 
me with a sense of strange fear and desolation, for I had trusted in 
my brother, and if he was at a loss, what would become of us % 

We went on in silence still, but with eager, hurried footsteps, now 
running on fast and hopefully, and again stopping to look around us, 


uncertain and half-despairing. We were tired and cold, for as the 
evening drew on, the air became very chilly, and our heads were 
uncovered, for we had left our bonnets where we had eaten the 
chestnuts. The twilight grew thicker around us, and the wind came 
sighing through the trees so mournfully and drearily that we shivered 
as we listened with a wild, vague terror. Albert threw himself upon 
the ground at last, and cried bitterly and despairingly. 

" It's no sort of use, Madgie," he said bitterly ; " we shall never 
find the way home, and we might as well give it up. Plague take 
the mean old wild grapes !" 

I had read about " sour grapes," but I was too miserable to smile 
then, and I could only sit down by him and cry drearily too. I don't 
know how long it might have been that we sat there so hopelessly ; 
I know that it was quite dark, however, and that we had drawn closely 
together in a perfect agony of fear ; when suddenly we heard the 
sound of wheels that rapidly drew nearer to us. A rapturous hope 
sprang up in our hearts, and with one impulse we bounded to our feet 
and shouted, " Halloo ! halloo ! stop ! halloo !" with all the strength 
of our lungs. A voice answered back : 

"Halloo to you! Who are you, where are you, and what do you 

"We are lost, and we want to get home !" we shouted. " Show 
us where you are." 

" This way," the voice replied, in a kindly tone, and we started 
immediately, following the sound ; and running through the trees, we 
soon came to a road where stood a horse and gig. " Is it possible," 
said a man, jumping out of the gig hastily, " that you children are 
alone in the woods at this hour 1 Jump up there, right away." And 
glad enough we were to obey him. He sprang in after us, and while 
he drove through the woods, we told him how we had happened to 
get lost, and how miserable w T e had been. 

" Did you kneel down in the woods, little one, and ask God to 
show you the way ?" he asked gently ; and I hung my head in shame, 
for I had done no such thing, but only cried hopelessly and despair- 


"That is the way to do always," he said, more gently still, laying 
his hand on my head. " Whenever we are in trouble, there is no one 
who can help us so well as God, and He will always aid us if we ask 

He soon got out of the woods, for the gentleman drove very fast : 
he said our parents would be alarmed about us, and we must get 
home as quickly as we could ; and I longed to tell him, though I was 
too shy to do it, how much I thanked him for his kindness and 
thoughtfulness. Mother was standing at the door of our cottage when 
the gig drove up, and we could judge of her anxiety on our account 
by the unconcealed joy with which she received us from the hands of 
our deliverer. 

" I believe they are your children, Mrs. Rogers," he said. " I 
found them in the woods, and have brought them home. They will 
tell you their own story, however, better than I can." 

" I cannot thank you enough, Mr. Churchill," my mother said, 
energetically, " for taking charge of my children. I shall never forget 
your kindness." 

" Oh, there was no kindness in the case, Mrs. Rogers," he said 
lightly, " and no need of thanks. I did only what any one must have 

And bidding all good-night hastily, he sprang into his gig and drove 
away. I stood still, gazing after him in utter astonishment. " Mr. 
Churchill," my mother had called him — that was our new minister ; 
and to think that he had brought us home, and we had not found it 

But I could not stop to wonder over that, for I had to go in and 
tell mother all about our adventures. She was too happy that we 
were safely at home again to scold us much ; and we sat together 
around our little tea-table that night, a very happy little family ; all 
the happier and more grateful for present blessings, for having been 
lost in the woods. 



Chapter y%%$. 

N the following morning the children 
awoke to deplore leaden skies and 
fast-falling rain. They had planned a 
wood-walk, to hunt for those very early 
flowers which give us the first promise 
of springtime. They did not say much 
about their disappointment, or any 
thing else, when they assembled in the 
breakfast-room ; the unusual silence 
attracted the attention of the older members of the family, and called 
forth some pleasant raillery from Mr. Clayton. Arthur and Herbert 
quite indignantly repelled the idea of amioyance or vexation on ac- 
count of the weather — one " was occupied with thinking over a hard 
lesson," and the other " had slept badly." 

Mr. Clayton spoke quite seriously to Herbert when he said this. 
" Do not, my boy, indulge yourself in morning ill-nature. I believe 
some people always awake with an uncomfortable feeling ; whether 
it is that they sleep so soundly as to render the internal functions 
.inert, and find rousing from such a lethargic state painful, or whether 
it is simply the disagreeable consciousness of a return to active 
exertion, I know not ; but morning crossness seems constitutional 
with them, and makes them any thing but genial companions at the 
breakfast table." 

Herbert coloured, and replied ingenuously that he did feel uncom- 
fortable in the morning, and had hard work to speak pleasantly, 
especially in the spring morning. 

Mr. Carey recommended that they should all rise for an early walk 
whenever the weather would allow, as they had planned to do that 


morning. The proposition was generally assented to, and Miss Donne 
whispered to Herbert, she was sure that was the specific his case 
required. Life and vivacity seemed restored by this little discussion, 
and after morning prayers in the library they separated for their 
usual pursuits, quite gay, and entirely regardless of the rain which 
dashed against the windows till late in the afternoon. 

Friday came in with a glorious burst of sunshine, which appeared 
redolent of springtime. Wherever there was a raindrop remaining, 
it seemed to imprison a ray of light, and the twittering of countless 
birds heralded the advent of a more joyous season. Wind and clouds 
seemed impossible, and gloom was everywhere annihilated. 

When Mr. Carey entered the library, he found Miss Donne sitting 
by its oriel window, leaning her small, graceful head on her hand, and 
sending her soul out through her eyes to greet the gladness of the 
sunshine. At least so thought the gentleman, as he entered, unper- 
ceived, and came towards her. 

" Up rose the sun, and up rose Emily," 

said he, with a tone that showed he comprehended the significance of 
the association of ideas. Miss Donne turned smilingly, remarking — 

" You are quoting Chaucer, Mr. Carey : it is a suspicious circum- 
stance. I shall know your choice for to-night." 

" You are right, Miss Emily, and it was the memory of that line 
which attracted me to old ' Geoffrey.' Are you thinking of to-night's 
requirements, that you recur to the subject so quickly V 

" I was thinking of to-night's pleasures" replied she, a warm glow 
overspreading her fair face, and casting down her eyelashes as though 
afraid Mr. Carey should read more in her eyes than her lips chose to 
express. There was a momentary silence, of which both seemed 
unconscious ; how it would have ended cannot be told, for it was 
broken in upon by little Alice, who came running in, exclaiming — 

" I have found one at last ; a family name, too." 

" What is it, Alice 1" 

" You shall see to-night, Mr. Carey : a charming name, beginning 
with C, and the first name begins with R ; you will know to-night." 


At this moment Matthias' breakfast-bell summoned all to other 
duties and thoughts, though there were emotions in the hearts of two 
of the party which had small affinity to the commonplaces of the hour. 
" I have thought of two names, papa : may I give both when it 
comes my turn V said Herbert eagerly, when the game commenced 
that evening. 

" The only trouble will be, that you may thus forestall the choice 
of another of the party." 

" But I have two also, Mr. Clayton," said Arthur. 
"And I." 

"And I,"- said others. 

" Very well, you may try it thus to-night, but when you come 
by-and-by to Q's and X's, you cannot afford to be so lavish," said Mr. 

He then bowed to Miss Donne as a signal that all were ready to 
give their attention to her, and she said : 

"A painter, Claude of Lorraine ; and if I may give two, I will add 
as a worthy companion the great modern sculptor, Canova." 

" What a charming pair, Miss Emily ! we must thank you for the 
graceful combination ; enriched by the genius of these two artists, my 
library might vie with the proudest saloons of Europe. As I cannot 
command a ' Claude,' or a ' Canova,' in the living beauty of their 
works, I am glad to be sent back in thought to their presence : they 
have so fascinated me in times past that I have imagined I could live 
always in Claude's atmospheres, and never weary of Canova's exquisite 
delineations of all that is noble and beautiful in the being created a 
' little lower than the angels.' " 

" Do you think, papa," asked Herbert, " that you would never 
weary of beautiful painting and statuary 1 It seems to me that there 
is nothing in the world but would tire me in the course of time." 

" We do readily weary of that which is the simple result of unin- 
spired art, Herbert, but the work which bears the almost divine stamp 
of genius — that which indicates the nearest approach a man can make 
to perfection — seldom wearies the true appreciator of beauty. Wait, 
my boy, till you are familiar with the works of such men as have 


shown by their pen, pencil, or chisel, that they were possessed by the 
power which constrains them towards perfection to a degree that no 
effort of reason could have effected, and judge for yourself whether 
we soon weary of the lofty and serene repose which sinks into the 
soul before such contemplations." 

" How would you define genius in a few words, Mr. Clayton V 
" I will answer you in the language of De Quincey, one of the most 
analytical and exact of our modern essayists. I have already used 
his idea : ' That power which possesses a man is genius — that which 
he possesses, can command and use at will, is talent.' I am not sure 
now if those are De Quincey's words. The most eminent and the 
most readily recognized geniuses are those who have also talent ; 
this latter is necessary to give to the former the stamp of character." 

Chapter EX. 

BEG your pardon, papa," cried Alice with great confu- 
sion, as Mr. Clayton ceased speaking. " I did not mean 
to yawn out loud — but — I did not quite understand what 
you said, and — " 

"You grow tired and sleepy, my dear. Well, you 
are very pardonable, Alice. Metaphysical distinctions 
are tiresome things all over the world, except to grown- 
up people who have cultivated a taste for such topics. I 
am not quite sure that any of you young people understand me, so 
we will drop the subject and go on with the game more rapidly. For 
my little Alice's special edification, I have selected a great man with 
a long, unfamiliar name. Alice, do you know any thing of St. Chry- 
sostom, as he is called V 

" Yes, papa, he made a prayer in the prayer-book." 
"And a great many that were never put in the prayer-book, I am 
sure, Alice," said Miss Donne. "Your father will enlighten you 
about him : let us listen." 

"Well, he was a learned and pious man, Alice, who lived about 



three or four hundred years after Christ. He was a very good and 
eloquent preacher, and brought down upon himself great persecution 
from the authorities by his fearless denunciation of all sin. His real 
name was not Chrysostom, but he was called so, perhaps, after his 
death, because of his wonderful eloquence ; for Chrysostom is a Greek 
word, and means ' Golden mouth.' " 

" You have to give another one papa, too, remember." 

" Oh, I must ! that is hard — but I am equal to it this once. I will 
offer my favourite CowperT 

" Miss Emily," said Maude, eagerly, " I have been learning that 
fine poem of Mrs. Browning's, called ' Cowper's Grave.' " 

" Repeat it for us, please, my dear Maude," said Mr. Clayton. 

" It is too long, I am afraid, Sir, but I can repeat some lines which 
particularly charmed me ; they are : 

: O men ! this man in brotherhood, 

Your weary paths beguiling, 
Groaned inly while he taught you peace, 
And died while you were smiling. 

And now, what time ye all may read 

Through dimming tears his story — 
How discord on the music fell, 

And darkness on the glory ; 
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds 

And wandering lights departed, 
He wore no less a loving face 

Because so broken-hearted. ' 

He shall be strong to sanctify 

The poet's high vocation, 
And bow the meekest Christian down 

In rneeker adoration ; 
Nor ever shall he be in praise 

By wise or good forsaken ; 
Named softly as the household name 

Of one whom God hath taken ! 

With sadness that is calm, not gloom, 
I learn to think upon him ; 

With meekness that is gratefulness 
On God whose heaven hath won him ; 

Who suffered once the madness-cloud 
Toward his love to blind him, 

But gently led the blind along 
Where breath and bird could find him. 

The very world by God's constraint 

From falsehood's chill removing, 
Its women and its men become 

Beside him, true and loving ! 
And timid hares were drawn from woods 

To share his home-caresses, 
Uplooking to his human eyes 

With sylvan tendernesses. 

And while in blindness he remained 

UncQnscious of the guiding, 
And things provided came without 

The sweet sense of providing ; 
He testified this solemn truth, 

Though frenzy desolated : 
Nor man nor nature satisfy, 

When only God created." 

" That is a worthy and very beautiful tribute to Cowper, with its 
tender reference to his insanity, and its keen appreciation of his 
peculiar temperament and his humble piety. We are much obliged 


to Mrs. Browning and to Maude. And now," continued Mr. Clayton, 
" Mr. Carey, we are ready for your philosophers." 

" I have chosen poets also to-day, Mr. Clayton, though one is very 
much of a philosopher ; indeed, both aver the true poet is a philoso- 
pher — half the time against his will, however." 

"Ah ! Mr. Carey, the poetical temperament is any thing but philo- 
sophical, you must acknowledge." 

"True, Mr. Clayton, their nervous system is generally excitable, 
for they are usually persons in whom the intellectual masters the 
physical ; but in the teachings of the true poet, in the glimpses which 
his inspiration affords him of the inner nature of all things sentient, is 
often found most profound philosophy. Coleridge you will acknow- 
ledge to deserve both titles, of philosopher and poet." 

" Granted readily to the author of ' Genevieve,' and the writer of 
'The Friend.'" 

"And my second choice to-night is Geoffrey Chaucer, the father of 
English poetry ; few have penetrated further behind the inner veil 
than this old Chaucer." 

" Unquestionably you are right in giving to both Chaucer and 
Coleridge the double titles of Poet and Philosopher. Arthur, my 
boy, you choose heroes ; who is it now ?" 

"And orators also, Sir ; to-day I give you Cicero the orator, and 
Julius Csesar the hero." 

" How do you prove the real greatness of Cs&sar, Arthur 1 Do 
you count him great simply because he attained great power V 

" Oh no, indeed, Sir, not entirely because he controlled others ; you 
know he controlled himself." 

" He was assassinated, Arthur, because the people of Rome feared 
he intended to subvert their government and establish himself upon a 
throne, with a view to his own aggrandizement, rather than their 
good ; this shows no self-control on his part." 

" But surely, Mr. Carey, those Eomans wronged him ; what a 
noble defence Mark Antony made of his ' faithful and just friend !' " 

"Arthur, you haye been reading Shakspeare, I perceive," said Miss 
Donne. The gentleman smiled, and Mr. Carey said : 


" Go on, Arthur : 

1 When that the poor have cried, Caesar hath wept.' " 

Arthur acknowledged that he had in his mind the Caesar of the 
dramatist more vividly than the Caesar of history, but still he could 
not withdraw his choice ; upon which Mr. Clayton told him that there 
was no necessity for him to do so, as the bravery and statesmanship 
of Caesar were as memorable as the eloquence of his contemporary, 
Cicero. He then turned to Herbert, whose patriotic propensities 
were sure to appear in the persons whom he chose to consider his 
great men. 

" Come, Herbert, some good American has taken possession of 
your imagination to-day, I know." 

" Yes, papa, that is true ; but please remember that my last even- 
ing's choice was no American, but Edmund Burke." 

"Ah, well ! he was a good friend to this country, you know, and 
you said ' he belonged to mankind.' " 

" Goldsmith said so, papa, and I agreed with him, that was all. 
But I can't keep Henry Clay shut up much longer. What a man he 
was ! How I wish I had known him as one man knows another ! 
How I wish I had heard him deliver one of his great speeches !" 

" I could quote Mrs. Browning for you now, Herbert. You think, 
if only you could have listened to him, your soul would have 

' Sprung full-statured in an hour.-' " 

" I do, Miss Emily, believe it would ; but he is dead, and I am only 
a boy still. My second choice is Cooper, the novelist, an ' ornament 
to American literature.' " 

" Very well, Herbert ; now ' clear these ruder souls from off the 
stage,' for Maude is coming with some good man or other." 

" No, Sir, not to-night. I wish to follow Miss Emily's lead on the 
last evening, and name a woman. The • proud, noble, but most 
tender and motherly Constance, mother of little Prince Arthur." 

" My dear Maude, like Arthur, you have selected your heroine from 
Shakspeare. From his historical plays, it is true ; but none the less in 


this instance have you invested a name with noble attributes, because 
the poet did so." 

" If you will allow me, Miss Emily," said Mr. Carey, " I will plead 
that Constance be admitted on our list. The character has always 
won my admiration, and I am glad to find it can appear so real as it 
does here in this list of those ' who being dead yet live.' Cannot we 
-enroll Constance, Mr. Clayton V 

" Oh, I have others, Sir. I have Cornelia, the glorious Roman 
mother, worthy daughter of Scipio ; or Anna Co?nnena, the daughter 
of the Greek Emperor, whose history Miss Emily says is still good 
authority ; Christina of Sweden, too, but she was not good — " 

" That is plenty, Maude. You are well informed about the great 
deeds women have performed, I doubt not. It pleases me, my child, 
to see your taste thus unfold." 

" Now, papa, Fve got Robinson Crusoe — " • 

" Robinson Crusoe ! Why, Alice, he never lived except in the 
person of Alexander Selkirk, and in the brain of Daniel De Foe !" 

" That is true ! It did not come into my mind at all that he never 
lived ; and then, there never was a ' Friday V Oh, how sorry I am ! 
But Christopher Columbus lived, papa ?" 

" Yes, darling ; and because you have thrown doublets, as they say 
in backgammon, by the two C's, you shall pay no forfeit. And now 
good-night, young people, and pleasant dreams." 

But as Alice went away, Miss Emily heard her saying to herself, 

" No Robinson Crusoe % It can't be." 


Gray mouse, gray mouse, 

Pray stay in youn house ! 

If you come and eat my bread, 

The cat will come and kill you dead. 

Gray mouse, gray mouse, 

Pray stay in your house ! 

M. P. 

Odt in the field there was a sheep 
Who thought he would take a little sleep. 
With rapid step a wolf came up, 
And would upon the poor sheep sup ; 
But faithfully the dog kept guard, 
And from the field the wolf he scared. 

m\\§ tin M\qxAI; 



HERE was once a young gentleman with whom I was 
slightly acquainted, of whom I can relate an amusing 
little history. This young gentleman was about three or 
four years old, and was such a hero that he could drive 
the largest flock of geese ; and if a big piece of cake came 
into his 
sion, he did not allow 
his hair to grow gray 
before he disposed 
of it. 

He was once on a 
visit to his grandpa- 
rents, who lived in 
the famous old town 
of Tubingen, and where, I must say, every thing went very well with 
him. This grandmother was careful, the whole 
day long, that he should not suffer from hunger . 
his aunt told him pretty stories at night, till he 
fell asleep ; and as soon as he opened his eyes in 
'the morning, she made him a windmill, which 
hummed away at the window, affording him the 
highest delight. From time to time his grandfa- 
ther would give him pennies from his vest pocket, 
to buy some dessert for himself whenever his 
grandmother neglected to provide one ; a thing 
not very likely to happen. 
So far, all was well. What more could he wish? Herz had no 



playfellows in the town, and it was altogether too quiet in his grand- 
father's house. Time hung heavily and still more heavily on his 
hands, till, one fine afternoon, it weighed so much on his mind that he 
could bear it no longer. 

" What a life this is !" thought he. " I must go and see the world. 
I will not endure this." He had heard how pleasant it was to travel 
and view the world. • 

No sooner . thought of than done ! Before he scarcely knew what 
he designed, he was beyond the limits of the town. There was a high 
wooden bridge over the river Neekar, on. which several stone steps 
were placed; and it was very pleasant to lean over the railing and 
look out upon the old town and the sparkling river, proud of its 
many windings. The bridge vibrated with a most agreeable motion 
when any one walked upon it ; and on the outside was a flight of 
stone steps, down which a bold student once rode. Our young tra- 
veller walked cheerily over the bridge, and then proceeded along a 
smooth path under fine old lime trees. Passers-by looked at him 
and wondered, but no one spoke to him, or asked any questions about 
his journey, he appeared so enterprising and self-possessed. 

I must now more accurately describe his dress and appearance. 
He wore a blue doublet, with large puffed sleeves, blue and red 
striped pantaloons, buttoned on to his doublet, and on hi*, head a 
smart little velvet cap. One might have taken him for a knight or a 
soldier, according to their fancy, or for neither of the two. Beside 
these he had a belt fastened around 
his waist, to which hung a formidable 
sword; and, thought he, "no one 
knows how I could fight !" 

It may now be well understood why 
no one took upon him to interrupt his 
passage. It only needed a beard to 
make every one run away from him. 
At the end of the lime-tree path he 
found a wide road, planted upon both 
sides with poplars, along which it was 


very pleasant and agreeable to wander ; but, after some consideration, 
he thought it was too wide for his small person. However, as the 
footpath led into fields beyond, he went courageously forward and 
followed the beaten road. Heaven knows over how many mountains 
this road might have led him, but the footpath also led into the wide 
world. At a short distance a village might be seen, which, when the 
young traveller grew a. little bigger, he could discern from the lime- 
tree alley ; but now he could not discover it till it seemed to be quite 
under his nose. He had a habit of alternately casting his eyes towards 
the ground and the sky, so that he often overlooked objects close to 
him. For example : he first became aware of his proximity to the 
finger-post on which was written the name of the village, by running 
his head so hard against it as to knock off his velvet cap. Then he 
picked it up and looked at the post, somewhat amazed. He saw 
painted upon the board some crooked strokes, but he did not trouble 
himself about them. The village now became visible to him, and 
who could be happier than he ? The first stage of his journey was 
accomplished, and he said to himself, " This is Ofterdingen, where 
Appele's father lives, and I will pay him a visit." 

You must know that in his parent's house lived a servant-girl who 
was a native of Ofterdingen, which with many other villages lay in 
the neighbourhood of Tubingen. She was named Apollonia, but 
this fine name was seldom given to her ; she was commonly called 
Appel, or sometimes Appele. The young gentleman was very fond 
of her, for she did every thing to please him ; but he would not allow 
her to kiss him, and whenever she attempted to do so, he would 
exclaim : 

"Appele ! do not come within three steps of me !" and even drew 
his sword upon her occasionally, though he never hurt her very much. 
She often talked to him of her birthplace, the great village of Ofter- 
dingen, and of her father, who lived there. She promised to take him 
with her when she could get leave for a few days, and described the 
pleasure it would afford her father to see him, and how he would 
entertain his little guest, giving him bread and butter, fruit, honey, 
and many other nice things. 


The young gentleman had, therefore, very cogent reasons for being 
uncommonly pleasant at the thought, that he had found the village 
home of his good Apollonia. For it is ever a joy to the most enter- 
prising voyager to find an acquaintance in far-distant lands, even if it 
were not Appel's father ! And it may well be conceived that the 
bread and butter, and other dainties — the honey included — were 
things not to be despised by a young traveller. Not one of my 
readers will deny that a little refreshment is very useful and necessary, 
even after a short walk ; and who does not understand how pleasant 
it must be in a journey through the world ! 

It may naturally be asked by all, " Is this truly the village of 
Ofterdingen ?" But the question was not thought of by my hero. I 
have already said that he had determined in his own mind that it was 
Ofterdingen ; therefore, Ofterdingen it must be. He drew himself 
up and entered the village with a most majestic clatter of his sword. 
The people looked at him wonderingly, but said nothing. Now and 
then a little saucy urchin would accost him, but he took no notice 
thereof. He carefully examined the houses, one after the other, and 
wondered which could be the dwelling of Appele's father. Unfortu- 
nately, his house was not to be seen. Neither was written on any 
of them, " Here lives Appele's father !" and even had this been the 
case, it could not have helped him much, for, as I have before re- 
marked, he was not very clever at deciphering writing. And even if 
the anxiously-sought father appeared at any window, it would not 
have served him, as he had never seen him. 

Thus he wandered through the whole village, and stood by the last 
houses, near which flowed a small stream. This little brook was so 
clear and beautiful that the eye never tired of looking at it. At 
length a man came out to wash something in the water ; he looked at 
the young traveller from time to time with inquisitive interest. Herz 
also regarded him ; his appearance inspired confidence, and he decided 
that this man must be he whom he sought. 

He approached him and said : 

"Are you my Appele's father V 

The man looked up surprised, and asked : " Who is Appele ]" 



"Appele of Ofterdingen," 
replied the young gentle- 
man, as he stood leaning on 
his sword. 

"I am not Appele's fa- 
ther," said the man, "neither 
is this Ofterdingen. Ofter- 
dingen is a good three 
hours* journey from here." 
At these words Herz be- 
came very thoughtful. He 
had already gone a great 
way, and how was he to go 
three leagues further 1 That 
must be a very long way, 
certainly, and then Ofter- 
dingen was not the end of 
the world ; he had no idea 
it was so large ! 

The man now asked him 
where he came from, and what he intended to do. The young gen- 
tleman frankly informed him of the whole affair, at which he was 
greatly astonished and shocked, and spoke very seriously to him, 
telling him the world was much too large for his little legs to travel 
over ; that he had better turn back, and be thankful that he had 
parents and friends to take care of him. Lastly, he told him to con- 
sider that probably his relations were already suffering great anxiety 
on his account. 

All this was very evident to Herz. The good man entreated him 
to return to Tubingen, but not in the conceited and proud frame of 
mind in which he had left it. A student would have traversed the 
whole distance there and back in an hour, but our hero had occupied 
the whole afternoon about it ; but then he had stopped every minute 
or two to look at the passers-by, or to gaze after the birds. Then 
he was often tired, and sat down to rest. 



When he reached the bridge over the Neckar it was nearly dark, and 
by the time he arrived at his grandfather's house it was quite night. 

How do you think he should have been received % His mother 
had come that day to see her son ; and he could not be found. Her 
terror and grief cannot be described. They sent to all their acquaint- 
ances in the town, but no one knew any thing of him. Night came 
on, and his grandfather ordered a boat to be got ready, and torches, 
that they might search the river. At length, in the midst of their 
greatest distress, the clatter of sword on the step was heard, and 
in walked the young gentleman ! 

All immediately overwhelmed him with questions. He acknow- 
ledged, without the least embarrassment, that he had set out on a 
journey to see the world, and had almost reached the village of Ofter- 
dingen. His aunt laughed, his grandmother said he was a hero, and 
all rejoiced to see him back again. Two, however, concealed their 
joy, his mother and grandfather. The former clasped her hands with 
sorrow at having such a little scapegrace for a son, and the latter 
compressed his lips tightly and more tightly, which our young hero 
well knew was the sign of an approaching storm. At length his 
grandfather said : 

" You young vagabond ! 
how could you set out to tra- 
vel through the world with an 
empty pocket? Wait till I 
count you out some money, 
that you may know in future 
how to travel in strange coun- 
tries. Come here, young sir!" 

He caught him by the wrist, 
and, clip ! clap ! it was heavy 
money, that which the young traveller got ! 

Appele was beside herself with wonder and delight, when, on his 
return from his visit to his grandparents with his mother, she heard 
that the young gentleman had very nearly paid a visit to her father at 

<§ tutititbt. 

ENEVIEVE always stopped under the 
window of Constance's room before she 
entered the house. Constance's couch 
lay always before the window, and she 
would see Genevieve immediately, and 
bid her come in. This time she did not 
see her at once, though, and Genevieve, 
looking in at the low window, saw the 
child sitting at the end of the room 
the knee of a young gentleman, who was talk- 
ing gaily to her, and making her laugh more than Ge- 
nevieve had ever seen her laugh before. Genevieve 
knew that it was Constance's brother, the young 
Lord Ernest. The last time she had been at the 
Hall, Constance had told her that Ernest was coming 
( home from school very soon, not to go back again ; 
and so good and dear a brother he was, Constance 
said ; so handsome, so merry, so kind ! Gene- 
ivieve stole a curious glance at him, and the mo- 
mentary glimpse left a very bright impression upon her mind. Con- 
stance saw her the next minute, and went to the window to call her in. 
" Bring Frolic too," said the child ; so Genevieve came in with hex- 
pet, a little shy and embarrassed, for she felt that the eyes of the 
young lord were fixed upon her very earnestly. She offered the 
flowers, though, to the little lady with her own gentle grace, and then 
would have taken her leave, but Constance would not permit it. 

" Oh, no," she said pleadingly, " don't go. Never mind Ernest : he 
knows who you are, and how much I love you, Genevieve, for I've 
told him all about you. What beautiful flowers you've brought this 



morning !" she exclaimed in delight as she lifted the moss which 
covered them. " Do see these lovely violets, Ernest !" 

Ernest looked at the flowers, and praised them and their graceful 
arrangement very much ; but I think he looked more at Genevieve's 
beautiful eyes than at the flowers ; at least, his gaze was so earnest 
that Genevieve, meeting it once, dropped her heavy lashes quickly, 
while a blush, almost for the first time in her life, flushed up to her 

He left the two girls very soon, however, and then Constance had 
to tell Genevieve so much about him, and repeat his praises again 
and again to her sympathizing listener. There never was so wonder- 
ful a brother in the world, according to Constance's description ; and 
Genevieve listened eagerly, quite willing to believe every thing good 
of that merry, handsome face. 

But Constance grew weary of talking by-and-by, and then she 
amused herself with making Frolic frisk and gambol about the room. 
She pelted him with flowers and sugar-plums, and held out her hands 
for him to spring upon her couch ; and laughed with real child-like 
delight at his odd, merry capers. " Genevieve !" she exclaimed sud- 
denly, as the kid for a moment laid its head in her lap, " 1 wish you 
loved me well enough for one thing." 

"And what is that, Lady Constance 1 I could do many a thing for 
love of /ou," said the girl gently. 

Constance looked up doubtfully into Genevieve's face. "Ah, but 
it would be asking so much, taking so much from you, Genevieve. I 
cannot ask it, but it would make me so happy !" 

Genevieve, curious, half-guessing, and fearful, still insisted that 
Constance should make the request, whatever it might be, and pro- 
mised that she would do any thing in her power to make her happy. 

" You are so good, Genevieve," said the child, gratefully, kissing 
the young girl's cheek. " But do you know, I wish for nothing in the 
world so much as for such a pet as Frolic — except, indeed, for such 
a sister as you, Genevieve ! I know I am very selfish, for Frolic is 
all you have, and, indeed, I won't be so selfish! Don't look so; I 
will not ask him of you; I wouldn't take him from you, Genevieve." 


The quick tears had sprung to Genevieve's eyes — it seemed worse 
than death to part with Frolic ! For a moment the idea was rejected 
with all the strength of her affection for her little dumb pet, her only 
companion. But then another feeling came. Her love for Constance 
was strong, and her pity for her very great. " It would make her 
happy," she said to herself, and in another moment Genevieve had 
made her resolve. Her face grew hard, rigid with her excitement, 
but she crushed back her tears and all token of her emotion ; and 
quietly, but with a strange voice, out of which all the sweetness and 
gladness of youth seemed to have been pressed, she offered the kid to 
Constance, and insisted that her gift should be accepted. Constance 
refused at first; but when Genevieve insisted, she thanked her so 
gratefully, and kissed her so many times, that it was very hard for 
the girl to preserve her composure. She wanted to give Genevieve 
her gazelle, her canary, any pet she had — her jewels, or some of her 
beautiful dresses ; but Genevieve steadily rejected every thing, and 
very soon made an excuse to go home. Frolic was easily persuaded 
to stay behind, for the Lady Constance had always petted him so 
much that he had grown quite accustomed to her. 

So Genevieve went away alone, with feelings very different from 
those with which she had come. The morning was just as bright as 
it had been an hour before, but all the sunshine had vanished for her ; 
and she crushed the meadow flowers beneath her heavy, rapid tread, 
as heedless of them now as before she had been tender. The noble- 
ness of her sacrifice could not bring her comfort now — she only felt 
its greatness, she only felt that she was alone ! All her life she had 
had no human thing to love, and she had given this pet, this senseless 
creature, this sole companion — nevertheless, such a rich gift of love ! 
Now to part with it, to give it up herself, to be alone ! 

Genevieve walked on and on with rapid, untiring steps. She could 
not go home, the house seemed so desolate ; so she walked through 
the lanes and down into the woods and dells, places where the kid 
had bounded after her time and again, for hours and hours, before she 
felt any fatigue or weariness. It was her first great grief, and to hex 
it was very great. By-and-by she laid herself down upon a moss- 


bank in the depths of the woods. She was quite worn out and ex- 
hausted, but all this while she had not wept at all. Now she hid her 
face in the soft cool moss, and suddenly a rush of tender recollections 
flooded her soul, and she burst into bitter sobbing and weeping. It 
was a great relief, though, this rush of tears — it seemed to cool her 
brain, and to loosen the tension, which had grown intolerable. 

So she lay there, sobbing quietly, and saying to herself now that 
she was glad of what she had done, comforting herself with the 
thought that she had given a new pleasure to Constance, who, though 
in the midst of luxuries, had so few. By-and-by, while she still lay 
there crying silently, she heard a rustle in the dry leaves near her ; 
but she thought it nothing more than some of the small creatures of 
the wood, who never feared Genevieve, because they knew her well. 
She did not raise her head from the moss, but still lay weeping softly ; 
and so, because her eyes were blinded with tears, she did not see the 
shadow that had fallen across the sunlight on the bank, or know that 
a pair of dark, bright eyes were peeping merrily at her through the 
leaves of the wild brier-bush over her head. 

" Genevieve !" said a voice suddenly, loud and clear ; and the girl 
sprang to her feet with a quick bound, frightened and bewildered, and 
looked around for the speaker. It was Lord Ernest ! 

He pushed aside the bushes, and stood before Genevieve with his 
bright face, and frank, fearless eyes sparkling merrily. He held out 
his hand, but Genevieve covered her tear-stained face with hers, in 
very shame and bashfulness. To be seen thus, and by him ! 

" What a chase you have given me, Genevieve !" said the young 
man gaily. " Do you know I have wandered for miles in search of 
you 1 ? At all the cottages, through every field in the neighbourhood, 
all over the woods, I have been ; and now that I have found you at 
last, you will not even shake hands with me, though I have spent 
myself in your service. Ungrateful Genevieve !" 

"What does Lord Ernest wish of me?" asked Genevieve, amazed 
and bewildered at his speech. 

" I wish you to put on that pretty little bonnet, Genevieve, which 
you have been crushing so cruelly on the moss, and come back to the 


Hall with me. Frolic is not contented in his new home without his 
old mistress, and as my Lady Constance cannot part with Frolic, we 
must even take Genevieve also." 

Genevieve was more than ever astonished, and her large eyes 
expressed so much bewilderment, that Ernest's merry laugh rang 
again through the woods. But he pitied her embarrassment, and 
changed his bantering tone to one of earnest kindness. " You cannot 
think, Genevieve," he said, " that our little Constance, so unselfish 
and loving as she is, could really accept such a sacrifice from you ! 
It was a little ruse of Constance's planning, only to try your love for 
her, and now she knows that it is perfect. So she has set her heart 
upon having you with her always — making you her sister, Genevieve ; 
and I, as the only person who could properly make you her sister, 
I suppose, was sent in search of you. Now, Genevieve, are you 
willing to come, willing to be Constance's sister, my father's adopted 
child, and loved as one of our own family % We know — all know you 
are worthy, Genevieve, and we can be as proud of you as if you had 
been born a noble lady instead of a little cottage girl. Will you 
come ?" 

Poor Genevieve ! all this was too much for her composure, and the 
large eyes were again blinded with tears. But very glad, very happy 
tears they were. To live always with Constance — and with Ernest — 
to be for ever surrounded by the books and pictures and music 
amongst which Constance lived — to be loved and cherished even as 
was Constance — it seemed too wonderful, too delightful, too incom- 
prehensible to be true. 

Genevieve could only cry in her excitement, and she had no word 
of reply to give to Ernest ; but he did not need any, neither did he 
ask permission to draw Genevieve closely to him and kiss the tears 
away from her beautiful lustrous eyes, and the smiles back to her 
delicate crimson mouth. " You are ours now, my pretty Genevieve," 
he said gaily — " our sister, our child, and I have a right to kiss you 
as I would Constance. So no blushing, little girl, and no refusing ! 
But come now and let us be gone, for Constance will be anxious to 
know the success of my mission." 



So they went, hand in hand, together through the woods and 
meadow-lanes to the Hall, Ernest talking all the while in his own 
frank, kindly way, and Genevieve smiling through her tears at his 
pleasant talk. It was a strange, bewildering excitement to the girl, 
the whole affair ; and her warm reception at the Hall — from the 
stately Earl himself, who kissed and blessed her, and called her 
" daughter" — her, the little cottage girl ! — to Constance, who hid her- 
self in her arms, and cried for very joy — did not any way tend to 
calm down her emotion. 

By - and - by, though, Genevieve grew accustomed to it all. As 
Ernest had promised, she was made one of them, and by master and 
servants, son and daughter, treated as became the dignity to which 
she had been elevated. She was a lady in heart and mind, and, 
beautiful as she was, Genevieve was the chiefest adornment and 
attraction of the Earl's household. And when, not many years after, 
she stood in her white bridal robes with Lord Ernest by her side, 
who could have told that Genevieve the peerless, the radiant, had 
been born in a cottage, and spent her humble girlhood with only a 
dumb companion — poor Frolic ! 

Once from a cloud a drop of ?ain 

Fell trembling in the sea, 
And when she saw the wide-spread main, 

Shame veiled her modesty. 

What place in this wide sea have I ? 

What room is left for me ? 
Sure it were better that I die 

In this immensity." 

But while her self-abasing fear 

Its lowliness confessed, 
A shell received and welcomed her, 

And pressed her to its breast. 

And nourished there, the drop became 

A pearl for royal eyes ; 
Exalted by its lowly shame, 

And humbled but to rise 1 — {Selected.) 

"fitfU fEtou, 

1 T 

My warm heart is thrilling with pleasant emotion ; 

Fond thoughts of the future arise in my soul 
As I gaze on thee, darling, with fondest devotion, 

And feelings of rapture that scarce brook control. 

In my arms I enfold thee, my life's sweetest blessing ! 

I fain would protect thee from sorrow or care ; 
And then to my heart thee so tenderly pressing, _ 

As if thou wert shielded from all evil there. 

Methinks, as I watch o'er thy soft baby slumber, 
That heaven-sent angels are hovering near 

To guard thee from dangers of infinite number, 
And whisper their sweet words of love in thine ear. 

Then when I bend o'er thee to list to thy breathing, 
Or kiss thy soft cheek with a new-found delight, 

Behold in thy dreams are those rosy lips wreathing 
With smiles, as if breathed on by spirits of light. 

Thought beareth me onward. The infant has vanished ; 

A sprite frolics round me with childhood's free grace ; 
The quick-coming tears by the ready smiles banished ; 

And ever thus changing her fair April face. 

Time flieth still onward, the child's prattle stilling ; 

'Tis hushed in the music of woman's sweet tone ; 
Thus brightly the promise of childhood fulfilling, 

I see thee in future, my darling ! my own ! 

Kind Father of Mercies ! behold me low kneeling, 
And humbly commending my treasure to* thee : 

I seek thy protection — the past but revealing 
The dangers encompassing life's troubled sea. 

Permit me, Father ! to rear this fair flower— 
This beautiful, undying bud thou hast given ; 

May it bloom in its sweetness till life's latest hour, 
And, torn from the earth, oh ! transplant it in heaven. 

Harderville, 8. C. 

teg of an <%j. 

N the evening of the day on which the little 
fete had taken place, a young man made his 
appearance in the village, whose melancholy 
looks attracted the notice of the lady, as she 
was parting with her visitors at the garden-gate. 
He was about sixteen years of age, and though 
poorly clad, his decent deportment, fine features and expressive coun- 
tenance, could not fail to make a strong impression in his favor. His 
long auburn air curled over his shoulders, and his large blue eyes 
bespoke intelligence and goodness of heart. He was evidently much 
fatigued, and supported himself with a walking-stick. 

When the children had departed, the lady advanced towards him, 
and kindly inquired the cause of his distress. 

"Alas !" replied the young man, who could scarcely refrain from 
tears, " it is but three weeks since the death of my poor father. He 
was by trade a stone-cutter, and his loss has reduced his family to the 
greatest distress. I have a brother and sister much younger than 
myself, and my widowed mother finds great difficulty in raising the 
means for our support. One of her brothers has kindly offered to 
receive me into his house, and teach me my father's trade, so that I 
may be able to get my own living, and assist my mother in main- 
taining her younger children. I have already walked twenty miles, 
and there is still a long journey before me, as my uncle lives at a 
great distance across the mountains." 

The lady, who traced some resemblance between the lot of the poor 
widow and her own, was deeply affected at the youth's recital. She 
gave him milk, some eggs, and a piece of cake, together with a little 
money for his mother. Frederic and Blanche had been early taught 
to feel for the afflicted, and their eyes were quickly filled with tears. 
" Take that egg," said Blanche, " and give it to your little sister, 
and kiss her for me." 



" Here is another," said Frederic ; " take it to your brother, and 
tell him to come and see us ; it will make us very happy to share our 
bread and milk with him." 

The lady herself selected an egg, and desired the young man to 
give it to his mother. " The maxim," she said, " which it bears is the 
best consolation I can offer her : 

' To those who on his help rely, 
In time of trouble, God is nigh.' 

If she will reflect seriously upon this truth, and make it the undevi- 
ating rule of her conduct, she will find that I have not made her a 
worthless present." 

Thankful for the kindness he had received, and refreshed by a night's 
rest, the youth, whose name was Edward, resumed his journey on 
the following morning. He had been allowed to sleep at the mill, 
and the kind-hearted miller had plentifully supplied his wallet with 
bread and cheese, that he might not suffer from want of food. 

His road lay among the mountains, and the path was often steep and 
dangerous ; but his spirits had been so raised and elated by the kind- 
ness he had experienced, that he pushed forward, and found himself 
towards evening only a few miles from his uncle's dwelling. Passing 
near the edge of a frightful precipice, he was struck with the appear- 
ance of a horse, richly caparisoned, at the foot of the cliff, without his 
rider. There was something in the manner of the animal which evinced 
a desire to attract his notice. With his head and ears erect, he neighed 
and pawed the ground incessantly. Edward was at once impressed 
with the idea that some accident had befallen the owner of the horse, 
whom he conjectured, from the elegance of the trappings, to be a per- 
son of distinction. After several ineffectual attempts to descend into 
the valley, he discovered at length the dry bed of a mountain-torrent, 
by means of which he was enabled to accomplish his purpose in safety. 
Looking around, he discovered, close beneath the ledge of the rock, 
the squire of some noble knight, lying senseless or dead. His helmet 
and lance lay upon the ground at some little distance apart, and his 
doublet Was torn in all directions. Taking his hand, and gently raising 
his head, Edward was pleased to find that he was still alive, though he 



attempted in vain to speak. He fixed his languid eyes upon his hel- 
met, and at the same time raising one hand to his mouth, signified 
that he was suffering from thirst. Catching at once his meaning, 

s> 2-V \ : -, 

Edward took the helmet, and ran with it in search of water. Some 
willows, which he had observed at a distance, directed his steps to a 
narrow, winding stream, formed by a spring of the clearest water 
issuing from a cleft in the rock. Having filled the helmet, he hastened 
back to the stranger, who had relapsed into a state of insensibility ; 
but he was soon restored to animation by dashing some water upon 
his face ; and the refreshing draught being raised to his lips, removed 
the burning fever by which he was oppressed, and revived him consi- 

The first effort of recovering speech was an ejaculation of praise to 
God for his providential deliverance ; " and, under God," he conti- 
nued, raising himself upon his arm, " my thanks are due to you, my 


kind and generous friend, for the exertions which you have made to 
save me from a miserable death. Unless God had directed your steps 
to this spot, I must very soon have perished with hunger ; and even 
now I am suffering from want of food." 

"Alas !" said Edward, " I wish that I had found you earlier. When 
I began my journey in the morning my wallet was well supplied, 
but it is now empty." 

A moment afterwards he recollected that he had still his eggs ; and 
cutting two of them into slices, he had the satisfaction of witnessing 
their nutritious effects in recruiting the strength of his patient. He 
was about to break a third, when the stranger checked him, observing, 
that after so long an abstinence, it would be imprudent to eat too 
freely ; and repeating his thanks to God and his deliverer, he attempted 
to rise from the ground. In doing this he experienced great difficulty, 
and without assistance would have failed in the attempt ; so that find- 
ing it necessary to pause awhile before they proceeded on their way, 
Edward took occasion to inquire the nature of the accident which had 
brought his new acquaintance into so perilous a situation. 

" I have been travelling for some weeks," replied the squire, " in 
the service of my master ; and being overtaken by the night, we fell, 
horse and man together, over this fearful precipice. The horse 
received no injury ; but I was so severely bruised as to be unable to 
remount. Indeed, it was a miracle that I was not killed upon the spot ; 
and I cannot be sufficiently grateful to the Almighty for my extraor- 
dinary preservation, not only from instant destruction, but from the 
more dreadful death by starvation which you have been the provi- 
dential means of preventing. Had not your notice been attracted by 
that sagacious animal, had you been wanting in that generosity which 
you have displayed in my behalf, this night must inevitably have been 
my last. And now tell me, on your part, what is the object of your 
journey over these rugged mountains." 

Edward related all that had passed since his father's death, and the 
kindness with which he had been treated in the happy valley ; produc- 
ing at the same time the egg which the lady had given him for his 


" True indeed," said the squire, as the tears started from his eyes 
" true are the words which are here written : 

' To those who on his help rely, 
In time of trouble, God is nigh.' 

Can there be a greater proof of this than my present situation ] From 
the depth of this abyss have I cried unto the Lord, and he has heard 
my supplication. What reward shall I give unto the Lord for all the 
benefits which he hath done unto me % May he pour his blessing upon 
those dear children who gave you those eggs, which have thus been 
the means of saving a fellow-creature from a miserable death ! Be his 
blessing also upon their mother, who has taught them to pity the dis- 
tressed, and stored their infant minds with such maxims as this ! Will 
you permit me," he continued, " to retain this egg, that I may keep it 
as a memorial of the danger I have escaped, and the services you have 
rendered me ? While I live I will never part with it ; and I will leave 
it to my children, as a convincing proof of God's providential care 
over those who trust in him. It may be, that this may yet be the 
means of much more good ; and when, in after years, my grand- 
children shall tell the story connected with it, the motto may comfort 
some unhappy being, and lead him to place his confidence in God." 

So saying, he took from his purse a piece of gold for each of the 
eggs which he had eaten, and was about to add two more for that on 
which the motto was inscribed ; but Edward did not feel himself at 
liberty to part with it, as it had been sent expressly by the lady as a 
present to his mether. 

" Had it been mine own," he said, " you should have had it and 
welcome ; and if my uncle thinks that my mother will not be dis- 
pleased, you shall have it still." 

The day was now declining apace ; and in order to reach the bound- 
ary of the forest before the darkness closed around them, Edward 
assisted the squire to mount his horse, and they set forward on their 

With some difficulty they passed the ravine and gained the moun- 
tain-tract which led to the open country. The sun had not yet set 
when they got clear of the forest ; and Edward observed that in a 


very short time they would reach his uncle's home. " He is a kind 
good man," said he, " and will be glad to receive you under his roof, 
and to give you that attention which is necessary for your recovery." 

Nor was he wrong in his estimate of his uncle's disposition. Th e 
honest stone-cutter received the squire with the greatest hospitality ; 
commending his nephew for the part he had acted on the occasion. 
Edward expressed his regret at being unable to gratify his friend's 
wish respecting the egg which bore the motto, which he did not think 
he ought to part with, though he had not hesitated to apply the colored 
eggs, which had been sent to his brother and sister, to the relief of a 
starving fellow-creature. 

" For my part," replied his uncle, " I cannot conceive why the eggs 
you mention, be they red or blue, should be more valuable on that 
account ; but were they made of gold, I am sure they could not have 
been better employed than in saving a man who was dying of hunger. 
You have been a brave lad, and have acted the part of the good 
Samaritan. As to the egg which you scruple to part with, I admire 
your honesty; but the gold the squire offers for it will be of much 
greater service to your poor mother, and I will answer for her con- 
sent to the bargain. Come, give me the gold, and I will give you 
change for it in silver. Your mother will hardly know what to do 
with her riches." 

Edward gazed in astonishment upon the heap of silver money 
which was placed before him. He had never before seen so large a 
sum; and his uncle, in offering to give him change for his gold, 
intended to impress more strongly upon his mind the lesson which he 
had that day been taught. " You see," said he, " that your mother 
also will prove the truth of the maxim : 

' To those who on his help rely, 
In time of trouble, God is nigh.' 

It is indeed a truth worth all the gold in the world; and I trust, my 
boy, that even without this egg to refresh your memory, you will 
never forget it." 

The squire remained some days with the stone-cutter, until his 
health was completely reestablished ; and promised on his departure 
to visit his kind friends whenever he should have an opportunity. 

t %iMtx f s Corner* 

For the convenience of many of our little riddlers who live a long 
way from us, and whose answers to our charades rarely reach us in 
time for the printer, we have concluded to defer all answers to riddles 
till the second month after they have been published. Thus all our 
correspondents. — -the far-distant ones as well as those near at hand — 
will have fair play ; .and we shall not be obliged, as now we often are, 
to pass over contributions to this department which we would gladly 
publish, but cannot because they come too late. 

After the April number was in type, we received a set of answers 
to the cluster of charades published in March, from a little girl who 
calls herself " Birdie." And although she declares that " she has no 
idea that they will ever be published," and " supposes that Inez or 
somebody else will furnish answers a great deal better," she should 
certainly have been gratified by seeing her own in print, if they had 
only reached us in time. " Birdie" must write again, and never be 
afraid to send us her correct and graceful answers. 

Our saucy little friend of last winter, Lettie Wilson, sends us for 
this month a riddle of her own, which, with her usual independence, 
she says we may print or not, as we like. We're afraid Lettie is 
what some people would call "a hard case," and we're not sure that 
we envy her governess the task of managing her ! She says in her 

" I haven't had time — that is really the truth — to write a line to you since I 
wrote last, away back in November. I've wanted to, ever so many times, but 

Miss (that's my governess's name) has been so strict ever since Christmas 

="that she has hardly granted me time to read the Schoolfellow, much less to write 
for it. It's always the case after a holiday : for six months to come she gives us 
double lessons to make up for what we lost in a fortnight. To be sure, I don't 
learn the lessons half the time ! 

" I'm writing now when I ought to be studying. I shan't know the lesson 

when it's called for, so I shall hear Miss say very sternly : ' You will spend 



the afternoon in the school-room, Miss, and study this lesson again, while your 
sister and I go out to ride.' And I shall look down very demurely, as if I felt 
dreadfully about it, which I don't a bit ; for I've got a book in my desk that I 
would rather read than have a dozen rides. Catch me studying the lesson ! 

" You may publish the riddle I send, if you choose. I don't care for it anyway, 
except as it may please Lucy. I wrote it for her, though she has not seen it yet." 

The charade is pretty, and a graceful tribute to her sister Lucy. 
Lettie may send us as many " more of the same sort" as she likes. 


My first essentially is human, 
Belonging both to man and woman ; 
And both alike my second covet, 
Though oftenest lose it they who love it ! 

My whole is one of many blossoms 
That love to hide in sinless bosoms. 

Within my first now may my second 
Dwell all the years that shall be reckoned 
For Lucy's being ; and this flower 
The emblem be of her life's hour ! 

Lettie Wilson. 

We are indebted to our attentive correspondent Marian for the fol- 
lowing graceful charade : 

I. II. 

Anon she stretched forth her hand, 

Her hand so small and white, 
And silently she wooes my whole 

Upon it to alight. 
But soon my whole capriciously 

Its spotted *wings spreads wide, 
And flieth from the fair white hand, 

In fairer flowers to hide. 

My first sits in her drawing-room, 

That looketh out upon 
A garden rich with many flowers. 

Up-blooming in the sun ; 
And low she bends her graceful head, 

As now upon her ear 
My second 's thrilling cadences 

Fall wildly sweet and clear. 

Published by Evans Sf Dickerson. 

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JUNE, 1854. 

Illustrated with Frontispiece and Three Engravings. 

The Baby's Frock, . . . . . By Mrs. Bradley. 

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ITTLE ANNIE sat by the cradle of her baby-brother. 
Millie had fallen asleep long ago, but Annie's foot, 
looking so pretty in its white stocking and little red 
morocco slipper, still rested on the rocker, ready to 
move the ci'adle if the little one should stir. Not 
that Annie thought much about his waking, either, for 
she was so busily engrossed with another employment that I don't 
think she even knew where her foot was. 

In her lap lay a little square tin box with a narrow slit at the top, 
and Annie with an old knife was working at the opening to make it 
broader. It was rather difficult work for those white little fingers, 
but she succeeded finally in making the slit as wide as she wished ; 
and then she turned the box upside down, and out rattled such a 
shower of silver sixpences and ■ shillings into her lap, that the baby 
started in his cradle at the noise they made clinking against each 

Annie rocked the cradle softly till the rosy little face within settled 
down again into calm, sweet slumber ; and then she commenced to 
count the silver pieces that lay in her lap. Such a lot of them there 
were ! New bright dimes and half-dimes, smooth, worn sixpences 
and shillings, and here and there a freshly-coined quarter-dollar. 
Little Annie was very rich. For six long months she had saved every 
penny that came into her possession, the weekly sixpences that her 
father gave her for pocket-money, and the shillings that her Aunt 
Anne, for whom she was named, gave her on holidays — all the money 
in short that she had acquired in that time, had been faithfully put 
away in that little tin box. And yet little Annie was by no means 
stingy or miserly, and she had many a time been strongly tempted to 
spend the money that was placed in her hands. She had always 



overcome the temptation, though, and hurried to put it away into the 
tin box, where she knew it would be safe, for that was not to be 
opened till a certain time. 

" I'm sure I've got enough now," she said to herself gaily, after she 
had carefully counted the whole sum. " You dear little Willie, you 
prettiest, sweetest baby in the world, won't you look sweet, and 
sha'n't I be happy !" she exclaimed, merrily, as she stooped down to 
kiss the curly hair and soft cheek of the child, in her delight. 

This was the secret then of little Annie's saving. Willie was her 
pnly brother, and the only baby that had been in the house since 
Annie herself was a baby, and now she was twelve years old. She 
had always longed much for a baby-brother or sister to pet and 
play with, and when Willie came, her delight knew no bounds. She 
had never known how to do enough for him, or how to show suffi- 
ciently her love for him ; and at last, after puzzling her little head for 
a great while to think of something that she might do, she decided 
upon the plan of saving her pocket-money till she had enough to buy 
him a beautiful little dress, prettier than any thing he had. Her 
mother had taught her to sew very beautifully, and she intended to 
buy the dress and make it herself quite alone, without; telling any one 
about it ; and then on Willie's birth-day she would dress him and 
show him in his pretty frock to his mother. 

It had taken six months of close self-denial to gain the means for 
her plan, but now its accomplishment seemed just at hand, and 
Annie's childish heart beat high in anticipation of the pleasure she 
would have in this simple gift to her baby-brother. She wasn't sorry 
that Willie woke up soon after, for she felt quite too merry to sit 
still, and she gave vent to her happiness in tossing the baby up in her 
arms, and making him laugh and crow. 

Annie had taken him to the cottage window, which was thrown 
open — for it was now the middle of May, and warm sunny weather all 
the while — and was pulling some clusters of yellow honeysuckle from 
the vine that clambered up to the low roof for him to play with, 
when a pair of martins suddenly flew out from amongst the vines. 
Annie leaned out of the window and looked up to the place from 


whence they had flown ; and then she saw that they had commenced 
to build under the eaves of the cottage-roof. Some clay, with bits of 
sticks and straws, the first beginning of a nest, was plastered against 
the wall, and the busy little martins had flown off in search of more 

Annie was much delighted: "Mamma, the martins have come 
back," she exclaimed eagerly, when her mother came into the room 
presently — " and they are building under our house. I am so glad 1" 

"The martins are teaching you a lesson, little girl," said her 
mother, smiling. " They are doing their work while my little daugh- 
ter is neglecting hers to watch them." 

" But, mother, I am taking care of Willie," said Annie. 

" Willie would have sat upon the floor or in his chair, I fancy, if 
you had been willing to let him, Annie. But I think you like to take 
care of Willie better than to sew. Still, we must not let even our 
love interfere with our duty, don't you know 1 — and the skirt of your 
new dress must be finished to-day." 

Annie blushed a little, for she was conscious that she had not been 
very diligent that day. She had been counting her money and plan- 
ning Willie's new frock, and so wasting time while her proper work 
lay undone beside her. She took up the dress skirt now, though, and 
sat down to sew ; and while her swift little fingers flew up and down 
the seams of the pink gingham, she thought all the while, with many 
bright fancies, of a certain little frock, ever so much finer and prettier 
than this, upon which she meant to be busy very soon ; and her 
mother did not know what made her face so bright and her childish 
song so sweet and glad. 

Little Annie asked for leave next day to go to the village : she 
wanted a spool of blue cotton for her sampler, she said ; and that was 
the truth, though not quite all the truth. So her mother gave her per- 
mission, and Annie put on the pink gingham dress, which was finished 
now, and her black silk apron, with her nice straw Wnnet and long 
mitts, and then she started out. She had already decided what she 
meant to buy : the dress was to be of white cashmere, very soft and 
fine ; and to be trimmed — the little sleeves and low neck and short full 

186 the baby's frock; 

skirt — with a great many rows of gold-coloured silk braid ; so it was 
soon bought, and Annie on her way home again, with the little 
bundle hidden under her apron, lest any one should see. 

Her mother was out of the house when she reached the cottage, 
and Annie ran straight to her own little room to hide her treasure, 
very much delighted at having succeeded so well. She was impa- 
tient to begin her work right away, but there were other things to be 
done first, she remembered with a sigh. " Papa's cravat to be hem- 
med : he'll be sure to want it to-morrow," she said to herself; and so 
she sat down by the window, where she could watch the martins now 
and then, and work too. 

" I wonder which will finish work first, Mother," she said as her 
mother came into the room ; "I, or the martins]" 

" Papa will have to buy a cravat ready-hemmed, I think, Annie," 
said her mother, " if you let the martins finish first. Your work is 
the w r ork of an hour, but theirs of more than a week." 

Annie did not answer, but she laughed to herself, for she was thinking 
not of the cravat, but of baby's frock up stairs, which would be a week's 
work for her, she knew. " I shall have to run a race with the mar- 
tins," she thought ; and then she looked up to the eaves and saw that the 
clay wall of the nest had growm about half an inch higher than it was 
yesterday. " They have the start," she said, " but I'll try it, anyway." 
And the fancy of running a race with the martins interested her so 
much that the long hem of the cravat did not seem nearly so tiresome. 

She got a chance that afternoon to measure the little skirt and tear 
off the breadths. And next day her mother went out, and she took 
Willie into her room, and sewed nearly all the morning ; so that 
by the time her mother came back the skirt was entirely made ex- 
cept the trimming. That was easy to do, though ; the troublesome 
part was the cutting out and shaping of the waist ; and as Annie had 
never done much of such work, it required a great deal of care and 
caution to get ©right. She puzzled it out, however, by the aid of one 
of Willie's dresses for a pattern, and after a little more than a week's 
work at intervals of time, she had it completed except for the trim- 
ming, which she thought she would not put on till she had tried the 


dress to see what alterations would be needed. She had been watching 
the martins closely all this while to see what progress they made ; 
and this morning she had discovered that the outside of the nest was 
finished, and that the birds were bringing feathers and grass to line it. 

" Never mind, little martins, I'll be even with you !" she said 
gaily, and then she ran away to look for Willie, that she might try on 
the dress. She brought him to her own room, and fastened the door 
so that no one could come in, and then she dressed the child in the 
little white cashmere. But, alas for poor Annie ! she had made the 
skirt so long that it trailed upon the floor and trammelled the child's 
feet, and the waist in the same way was so large that it hung like a 
bag about his baby-figure : all the work upon the waist was lost ; it 
would have to be taken to pieces entirely. Poor Annie ! she was so 
grieved and worried that she lost her usual good-temper completely. 
She pulled off the frock hastily, so hastily that if Willie had not been 
the best baby in the world he would certainly have cried, and flung 
it to the other side of the room, where it struck against a table on 
which stood a little bottle of medicine which Annie had been taking 
for a cold. The bottle fell to the floor with the dress, and before 
Annie could spring to save it, it was broken, and more than one dark 
drop had spattered upon the pure white cashmere. 

This was the climax to her misfortunes, and Annie sat down upon 
the floor and burst into such passionate weeping that poor Willie was 
nearly frightened to death, and set up a cry that brought his mother 
•in sudden haste to the door. Annie was obliged to get up to open it, 
and then her mother wanted to know the cause of the disturbance. 
It was some time before Annie could command herself sufficiently to 
explain, but she told the whole story at last, and her mother pitied 
her very much. 

"My poor little girl!" she said caressingly as she drew her arm 
around Annie ; and then she continued more gravely : " But it did 
not do any good, my child, to get into a passion because your work 
did not suit you at once, but rather harm. It did not help the fitting 
of the frock to throw it across the room and get it stained with 
syrup, did it ?" 

188 the baby's frock; 

" No, but I couldn't help it, Mamma : I was angry." 

"Anger is almost always foolish, my child, and makes matters 
worse than before. If you will only remember that when you are 
tempted to fly into a passion, it would save you a great deal of re- 
pentance. But let us see this little frock, and see if nothing can be 
done with it." And Annie's mother took up the white dress to 
examine it. It was after all not very much soiled. Only a few 
drops of the liquid had fallen upon the waist, and her mother told her 
that she could take out the stained piece, and get enough from the 
skirt, which was unreasonably wide, to make up the deficiency. 
Annie's face grew brighter. 

"There's another thing, Mother," she said, smiling through her 
tears ; " I was going to run a race with the martins and get my work 
done first, and now the martins are so far ahead of me that I shall 
never win the race in the world !" 

Her mother smiled too, but rather gravely : " Look out of the 
window, Annie," she said, " and tell me what you see." 

Annie put her head out of the window in some surprise, and looked 
up to the old place for the martin's nest. But what was her astonish- 
ment to find not a vestige of it there, except some bits of dried clay 
that clung to the eaves. " Why, Mother !" she exclaimed eagerly, 
" what has become of the nest f 

And her mother told her how, but a little while before, in returning 
from the garden, she had seen a boy strike the nest down with a long 
stick, and crush it to pieces ; and that then he had run away before 
she could speak to him. 

" What a bad boy !" exclaimed Annie indignantly. " What made 
him do it, mamma !" 

* " He thought there were birds in it, I suppose, and wanted to steal 
them," her mamma answered. "Boys seem to have no idea of the 
cruelty of such things. But what do you suppose the martins will 
do now, Annie V 

" I don't know — what will they do ?" 

" What will you do with this little dress, Annie ?" 



"Oh, Mamma, it doesn't seem as if I ever coukVdo any tiling 
with it !" 

"And yet I will venture to say that the martins will rebuild their 
nest as patiently and as completely as they built it at first. What 
if you run a race with them now, Annie 1 See if it is not as I tell 
you, and then, like the martins, begin your work again." 

Annie clapped her hands gleefully at the proposal : all her ill-humour 
had vanished, and she was only sorry now that she had given way to 
it at first. She watched for the martins next day, and sure enough, 
as her mother had told her, she saw them going back to their work 
with patient industry. And little Annie took hers, and with the help 
of her mother's advice and direction, all the difficulties were soon 
done away with. And some days before the poor martins' nest was 
finished, Willie had celebrated his birth-day in his beautiful little 

Very sweet and pretty the rosy little fellow looked in the delicate 
frock ; and very much pleased was Annie's father when he heard the 
whole story about it. Little Annie was happier, though, and more 
pleased with her mother's kiss and simple words of commendation 
for her self-denial and perseverance, than she was even with the pretty 
gift which her father brought her not many days after. It was a 
complete little work-box, very beautifully finished, and fitted up with 
all manner of conveniences — just the thing that Annie had often 
longed for ; and she enjoyed it all the more for feeling that what she 
had done had been done for love, and not with the thought of reward. 

Imitations of gouijr. 

Higher, higher we will climb 

Up the mount of glory. 
That our names may live through time 

In our country's story. 
Happy, when her welfare calls, 
He who conquers, he who falls. 

Deeper, deeper let us toil 
In the mines of knowledge ; 

Nature wealth and learning's spoils 
Win from school and college. 

Delve we there for richer gems 

Than the stars of diadems. 

James Montgomery. 



Chapter X. 

LICE, Alice," called Herbert to his sister as they came 
in from their walk the next morning, " there is a little 
^7 time to spare before breakfast : do you go and find out 
some better names for our game than you had last 

" Oh, don't you fear, Herbert. Once is enough. I shall not make 
that mistake again." 

" I can help you this morning — " 

" No, I thank you : I can't bear to be helped in such things. I never 
want to pass for knowing more than I really do, which I should now, 
if I used your knowledge, Herbert, instead of my own." 

" That's a girl of spirit !" said Arthur ; " why, Alice, you put to 
shame everybody who submits to a prompting. It is the most com- 
mon thing in the world to be ' prompted' in your classes at school." 

"/ never was prompted," said Maude. 

" Oh no, you always had a guardian angel, Maude : you have 
escaped a thousand ills to which flesh and spirit are heir in our 

The older members of the family entered the hall door as Arthur 
was speaking, and his remark was comprehended by them at once. 
Mr. Carey looked at Maude's "guardian angel," as though he considered 
the title well bestowed, and would not object to coming under the 
same guardianship. At least Maude, with her quick-sighted love for 
Miss Emily, thought so. 

" Speaking about prompting," said Mr. Clayton at the breakfast 
table, " it was the chief mischief of my boyhood to play pranks upon 
the unfortunate wights who depended upon such aid in their classes. I 
have more than once helped them, and myself, too, into disgrace. I 
remember one boy, however, who never studied his lessons, but who 
had such remarkable tact, that the slightest hint was sufficient for 


him. I have told him the prominent words in a Latin lesson, and Then 
he would surprise us all, and far excel us, by the very elegant transla- 
tion he would make. He was the only person whom I ever assisted 
regularly, and who was at the same time quite able to learn his lessons 
unaided, for whom I did not have some feeling of contempt. But I 
always felt as if he was making a ' cat's paw' of me, and that the 
best thing for me to do was to submit gracefully." + 

" I would like to see any one compelling me in that way to give up 
my ' thunder,' " said Herbert. 

" I would like to see you or any one else resisting the power of 
such a boy as Hench Austen," replied his father. 

" Hench Austen !" exclaimed Miss Donne : " were you at school 
with him, Mr. Clayton 1 Why, he is my own cousin, the best and 
noblest" — here Miss Donne's voice trembled, and she stopped sud 

"How much you aurprise me, Miss Emily!" said Mr. Clayton. 
" Where is Austen now ? Living still, I hope, and making great use of 
his great faculties. I have often wondered that I have not heard of 
him in the world." 

" He might have made a name for himself before this, sir, if he con- 
sulted only his own interests, but he has chosen to sacrifice himself 
for others. To have given scope to his ambition would have ren- 
dered him unable to bear the burden of all his family, as he has done 
since his father's death. A mother, two sisters, and a younger 
brother, were his only heritage ; and to surround them ever with the 
luxuries to which they had been accustomed, and to give to his 
brother the greatest advantages of education, he has yielded all his 
own hopes of distinction in life — for he has bound himself for years to 
the exactions of an ungenial business. He has suffered much in many 
ways, and has learned by suffering, I think, the great lesson of life. 
But I am sure he will yet be heard of;" 

Mr. Carey regarded the animated speaker with a curious mixture 
of painful and pleasurable interest. He longed- to know why she 
seemed so much moved when speaking of her cousin, and he experi- 
enced a half-defined feeling of jealousy towards him, " which was very 
weak and foolish," as he vainly told himself. 


When the " play -night" came, all were eager for the after-dinner 
diversion. They were soon arranged in the library. Alice was 
established upon her father's knee •, Maude was beside her friend ; the 
two boys occupied a lounge in a recess near the window, while Mr. 
Carey, asking Miss Donne if he should not serve as a screen between 
her and the fire, which was uncomfortably warm, took a seat in the 
corner of the sofa by her side. 

i Mr. Clayton rang the bell for Matthias to bring in a large screen 
for the public benefit ; and as that worthy was placing it advantage- 
ously, he studied, as he always did, the family arrangements, drawing 
his own inferences. 

" Fine times now," soliloquized Matthias ; " Master don't mope, and 
Miss Alice looks fresh as a rose. I likes that young Mass' Arthur 
and Miss Maude — Miss Emily too; only I 'spects Mass' Carey likes 
her well enough for eberybody else. She seems so sweet, and so 
like dear Mistress ; I was 'fraid Master might think so too ; but I's>s 
bery willin Mass' Carey should hab her." 

With a bright flush on her fair cheek which might have been left by 
her recent animation, or be the effect of the heat, or spring from some 
other source, Miss Donne commenced the play. 

"I wish to represent D by Carlo Dolce and Domenichino, both 
eminent painters." She stopped a moment, and then resumed : " I beg 
pardon : if you will allow me to withdraw one of these, I have thought 
of another painter whose name I think I can use, without infringing 
upon the choice of others. I would do honour to our own matchless 
delineator of woods and waters and glorious skies ; surely Durand 
deserves a place here." 

"Indeed you are right, Miss Emily, said Mr. Clayton. "There is 
almost the endless charm of perfection in some of his landscapes. 
We are proud to take him in the place of your Italian artists. Whom 
will you reject ?" 

" Domenichino, I believe. I have always had a special love for 
Carlo Dolce's Madonna and his St. Cecilia." 

Mr. Carey looked up suddenly and exclaimed — 

" Miss Emily, were you going South in the fall of 1848, and did 
you have some baggage burned in the baggage-car on the road 1 ?" 



"Precisely so, Mr. Carey." 

" Then I have seen and known you before. I met you at Sedgemoor. 
And you do not remember me V 

" I must confess to it." 

" Do you not remember a gentleman who was with you saying to 
you that your hat-box was burned ; and you said : ' Only that] oh ! I 
am quite at my ease : I was so afraid that it was my large trunk, and 
that contains that charming Carlo Dolce, of which there is not another 
copy to be had.' " 

"1 remember it all now, and that I bowed my thanks to you then 
for having saved that same trunk for me." 

" Yes, and I must tell you something laughable about it. I was so 
much excited, that when I found it contained something very valuable 
to you, I hastened back to the scene of tfre fire, pulled the trunk 
still farther out of the debris, and finally shouldered it and carried it 
off some distance into the woods beside the road, that it might be quite 
safe. When the trunks were collected again for the new car, I could 
not remember where I carried it, and the whole train was kept wait- 
ing while I, assisted by a dozen others, scoured the woods all around 
^to find your trunk." 

All laughed heartily at the effect Mr. Carey's excitement had upon 
him, and commented on the oddness of his being now thrown into 
Miss Emily's company, and hearing her dilate upon her favourite 

Y dear Alice," said Mr. Clayton, " I have no wonder- 
ful choice to-night. I have chosen a couple of staid 
and worthy personages whose merits will not impress 
you in any way. I thought Dr. Donne, of whom, thanks 
to 'old Izaak Walton,' we have a charming history, 
and the most excellent Dr. Dwight, of New England, 
were as good successors to Adam, Bunyan and Chry- 
sostom. as I could have." 


" I wonder you did not take David, papa — and let's see who else." 

"St. Dunstan, perhaps, Alice." 

" Oh no ! papa has no dealings with such as he." 

"He fought with the Devil to better purpose than David did 
always — Miss Alice, you remember the legend of the tongs." 

" Don't quote such absurd stories, Herbert. Papa does make an 
odd choice sometimes, but you know he is always quite proper." 

" Thank you, my daughter : you reassure me by your defence. I' 
was feeling quite humbled by your criticisms and Herbert's witticisms. 
Come, Mr. Carey." 

'■'•Dante and De Quincey. The former was to the Italians what Shak- 
speare has been to us, and the latter is the prince of essayists." 

" I did not know, or had forgotten it, till I lately saw it mentioned 
of Dante, that for a great many years it was the fashion for all 
writers of eminence to make commentaries on Dante's text. I re- 
member it was stated that some archbishop selected six very learned 
men to write one commentary ; and, to comment on Dante, and re- 
store the purity of his text, became the chief employment of the 
Florentine Academy.' This frenzy wound up by a man being burned 
for magic by the Florentines, for daring to ridicule that Comedia . 
which they had named ' Divina.' " 

" De Quincey's chief celebrity has arisen from the wonderful genius 
he has manifested in the ' Confessions of an Opium-Eater ;' but he well 
deserves his fame, though I am sorry to see that he dallies with it, 
by publishing less brilliant and satisfactory essays now than formerly." 

" I think you are mistaken, Mr. Clayton : the deterioration is not so 
very noticeable." 

" Well, we can forgive some absurdity in a De Quincey." 

" I almost expect Herbert will shout over my heroes, as he calls 
them," said Arthur, " but I was dreadfully puzzled, and finally settled 
on Diogenes and Sir Francis Drake. Diogenes was a hero, I think, 
because he resisted all the allurements of luxury and ambition, and 
contented himself with only the severest necessaries of life, living in 
a tub, you know. 

" I don't like him, Arthur," said Maude ; " he was very selfishly ego- 


tistic and vain. Yes, I have always thought that story -of living in the 
tub showed his vanity as much as any other quality." 

" You have fine, sensible intuitions, Maude," said Mr. Carey. " Let 
me ask you if any of you remember a large picture in the Crystal 
Palace last summer, called 'Diogenes surprised 1 ?' It represented 
Diogenes going about, as he is said to have done, with a lantern in his 
hand in the day-time, seeking an honest man. The rays of light, 
striking across the canvas, fall upon our own George Washington ! 
Diogenes has found an honest man : hence his incredulous surprise. 
In spite of poor painting and the most glaring of anachronisms, I could 
not help being amused and interested by the painter's idea." 

" Hurrah for that painter !" cried Herbert : " he knew what an 
honest man was, anyhow. But, Arthur, do you call Drake something 
remarkable 1 ?" 

"Indeed I do. I only wonder that I have not (as I feared I should 
by taking him,) taken away your choice. Why, Mr. Herbert Clayton, 
if you were a poor boy, a common sailor, and then became by your 
force of character, your skill in seamanship, your courage, enterprise — 
in tact, by a combination of rare and noble qualities — the first com- 
mander in the world, entrusted with whole fleets, carrying on the wars 
of your country upon the ocean, discovering new countries, beloved by 
the people, and a favourite with your queen, would you not think you 
had some right to be classed with great men ?" 

" I declare, Arthur, he was a great man. I had not considered much 
about the matter ; indeed, I didn't know much about Drake. Your 
eloquence, I hope, will answer for us both this time. I positively 
cannot make a speech for either Davy or Day, who are all I can 
think of for myself." 

" Can't make speeches about Sir Humphry Davy and his noble 
invention of the Safety-Lamp for miners, by which hundreds of lives 
have been saved ! Oh, Herbert, I could do that, I believe." 

" That you could, good, strong heart," said Mr. Clayton : " no noble 
conduct, characteristic, or conception, needs a defender where you are, 
Maude. We will all grant the great merit of this distinguished man 
of science. How about Day, my boy ?" 


" I meant Day who made our mathematical books, who must be 
a great man, his name is such a great torment to me. I cannot like 
mathematics in any form. I am sorry, however, that I took him, it is 
so stupid. Can't I have another Dionysius, say ? Maude and Alice 
would never choose him, because he was 'the Tyrant.' 1 could have 
Dido besides — couldn't I, Maude % You see she was not quite good 
enough for your ' list of friends.' " 

" Have you finished at last, Herbert'?". 

" 1 hope so ; for after my advice to Alice and my offer of assistance 
the other day, I feel rather small at my own performance." 

" If Herbert has finished," said Maude, " I will say Dickens and 
the Davidsons." 

" What incongruous people !" 

"I know it, sir, but Dickens is the creator, as Miss Emily says, of 
' Little Nell,' ' Paul Dombey,' ' Florence,' and many other charming 
people : to create we must have genius, so he is a great man." 

" That is true, dear ; his characters stand out perfect, full, strong 
creations. He is a genius ; but — the Davidsons V 

" Were they Hot two lovely girls of uncommon talents ? Is it pre- 
sumption for them to apj)ear here 2" 

" Not. with your introduction, you may be sure, Maude ; your 
friends and favourites are good people : they may come." 

" Now, papa, please hear what / have ready for to-night : not Robin- 
son Crusoe, but De Foe, who created Robinson Crusoe — didn't he, Miss 
Emily 1 I have found out that he wrote a good many other clever 
books, as well as my favourite ; and my other D is Philip Doddridge,'''' 
said Alice in an excited manner, and jumping down from her father's 
lap. " There are two D's — good D's, too — and I found it out all alone. 
I can thinlc a great deal better now than I did at first. I am beginning 
to know how to think of all I learn." 

" Then you have made great progress in the art of thinking. I con- 
gratulate you. Alice." 

" You see, papa, it don't take long or very hard work to think of 
what little I know." 

&{fl Sftarg of an $$$< 

©jjaptcr UK. 

OTHING remarkable occurred in the valley during the 
ensuing summer. The charcoal-burners divided their 
time between their occupation in the wood and the 
cultivation of their little gardens. Their wives took 
care of the cottages, and reared plenty of hens ; and the children 
made constant inquiries when Easter would come again. 

In the mean time, however, the good lady had many troubles to 
encounter : her old faithful servant, who had followed her into retire- 
ment, and managed her affairs, had been for some time seriously ill, 
and was no longer able to leave the valley on those journeys which 
from time to time he had been accustomed to take. His strength 
diminished daily ; and as autumn approached, he became almost 
entirely confined to the house, seldom leaving it even on the warmest 
days. Not only was his mistress grieved to witness Bertram's suf- 
ferings, for whom she had the greatest regard, but she had additional 
cause for sorrow on her own account, as he could no longer go in 
quest of information, upon which her future proceedings must materi- 
ally depend. 

Nor was this all. One day, when the charcoal-burners returned to 
the valley, they brought tidings that on the preceding night four men, 
in complete armour, had accosted them in the wood. They said that 
they were vassals of Count Stromberg, who had just arrived in the 
mountains with a large retinue, and made several inquiries respecting 
the state of the country. 

Oswald, the miller, went immediately to apprise the lady of the 




circumstance. He found her seated beside the bed of poor Ber- 
tram ; and was proceeding with his recital, when at the name of 
Stromberg she nearly fell to the ground. 

"Alas !" she exclaimed, "this Count is my most cruel enemy, and 

I trust that the charcoal-burners have not made known the place of 
my retreat !" 

The miller endeavoured to quiet her fears, by assuring her that no 
inquiries had been made for her ; that the men, who had only ap- 
proached to warm themselves at the fire, had departed at daylight, 
though it was believed that they were still somewhere in the moun- 

" My dear Oswald," said the lady, " since I became your tenant, I 
have always found you a kind and faithful friend. I will now tell you 
the story of my misfortunes, and you will find that I have no slight 


grounds for alarm. I am sure that you will not refuse me either 
your advice or your assistance ; and upon them I will confidently rely. 

"You see before you the Lady Rosalind, daughter of the Duke of 
Burgundy. Two distinguished noblemen, the Counts Stromberg and 
Lindenberg, asked my hand in marriage ; but the former, who is ex- 
ceedingly rich and powerful, was vulgar in his mind and vicious in his 
habits. Lindenberg, on the other hand, was brave and generous, but 
poor in comparison with his rival ; and though his patrimony was 
small, he was of a nature too noble to think of enriching himself by 

" I need not tell you that he was the favoured suitor. My father 
sanctioned my choice ; my marriage-portion left us nothing to desire, 
and our. happiness was complete. 

" Stromberg, disappointed in his suit, conceived an implacable 
hatred against us : and though he dared not proceed to open violence, 
he only waited an opportunity to satiate his revenge. A war break- 
ing out, my husband took arms in defence of his country, and followed 
his sovereign to the field. Stromberg was also summoned in the 
cause, but under different pretences delayed to make his preparations, 
and let them depart without him. giving his promise to join the army 
in a few days. 

" No sooner had they gone, than he treacherously attacked our 
castle, which had been left without defence, and my only resource was 
instant flight. With the few valuables which we could hastily collect 
together, I placed myself under the guidance of my faithful servant ; 
and with my two children arrived, as you recollect, after a fearful 
and fatiguing journey, in this secure retreat. Here it was my in- 
tention to remain till my husband should return, and recover our 
estates from the heartless plunderer. 

" Bertram left me from time to time to obtain intelligence respect- 
ing the progress of the war ; but hitherto his information had been 
sadly discouraging. Stromberg still enjoyed the fruits of his wicked- 
ness, and the war continued with variable success. For some time 
past, however, sickness has confined him to the valley, so that I have 
received no tidings whatsoever, either of my husband or my home. 


He may possibly have fallen in battle, or be a prisoner in the hands 
of the enemy ; and Stromberg may have discovered the place of my 
concealment. If such should be the case, what will become of me 1 
what will become of my babes % Death is the least we can expect 
from his cruelty. Oh ! speak, Oswald, I entreat you, to the charcoal- 
burners, and conjure them not to betray me." 

" Betray you !" exclaimed the miller ; " there is not one who would 
not lay down his life for you. Before Stromberg could do you the 
slightest injury, he would have to pass over the dead bodies of us all. 
Fear not, noble lady, you will have no lack of protectors, and brave 
ones too." 

Such was also the unanimous language of the charcoal-burners-, 
when the miller told them the lady's story. 

" Let him come," they cried, " let him come ; we will show him a 
shorter way back." 

Still the good lady was filled with apprehension. She dared not 
leave- the house, nor trust her children out of her sight. Her days 
and nights were passed in continued alarm, and it was not till Strom- 
berg's party were known to have quitted the mountains, that she ven- 
tured on a walk. 

Taking her children with her, she one day followed a delightful 
green path, overhung with trees and rocks, and leading to a retired 
dell, at some little distance from the cottage. It was a beautiful 
autumnal day, after several weeks of disagreeable weather. The 
children had strolled away in search of blackberries and wild flowers. 
The lady was alone, absorbed in sad reflections, when a pilgrim de- 
scended the crag unobserved, and stood beside her. He wore, accord- 
ing to the custom of the times, a black-hooded cloak, and carried in his 
hand a long white staff. His mien was noble and his step firm ; his long 
hair, which fell in disorder over his shoulders, and his unshorrubeard, 
were white as snow ; but his face had still the freshness of youth. 

As soon as she was conscious of the presence of a stranger, the 
lady's fears were instantly awakened ; and though he saluted her re- 
spectfully, it was some time before she could divest herself of the 
dread of an enemy in disguise. 



" Noble lady," said the pilgrim, seeing her dismay, " you have 
nothing to fear from me. You are no stranger to me : I know you 
better than you imagine; you are Rosalind of Burgundy. Full well 

am 1 acquainted with the unhappy circumstances which have driven 
you to seek an asylum among these barren rocks ; and your husband 
also, from whom you have been separated these three years, is per- 
fectly known to me. Since your miserable flight, he has met with 
various adventures ; but if Lindenberg is still dear to you, and you 
would wish to hear tidings of his welfare, such tidings you may learn 
from me. Peace has been concluded ; the sovereign has returned at 
the head of a numerous army ; your husband has regained his 
estates, and the traitor Stromberg saved himself by flight. At first 
he took refuge in these mountains ; but he has been driven from his 
retreat, and you are secure from any further injury on his part. 
Lindenberg has but one remaining wish, to find again his faithful and 
beloved wife." 


"This is joyful, news indeed," said the lady. "May God be 
blessed for his gracious mercies !" So saying, she fell upon her knees, 
and in a flood of tears gave vent to the thankfulness of her heart. 
"All-merciful God," she continued, "thou hast seen my tears, thou 
hast heard my prayers, thou hast granted the petitions which I have 
daily and hourly offered up to thee. O Lindenberg, Lindenberg, 
would that I were already with thee ! would that I could place in thine 
arms those dear children, who were but babes when you left us ! 
Would that you were present, to hear for the first time from their lips 
the tender name of father ! You ask me," she proceeded, turning to 
the pilgrim, " if I still think of my husband, if his memory is still dear 
to my heart." Then calling her children, who were standing at a little 
distance, observing the stranger with looks of timid curiosity, she told 
them not to be afraid, and placing Frederic by her side, she said : 
" Come, my child, repeat the prayer which we say every morning for 

The child joined his hands with reverence, and raising his eyes 
towards heaven, repeated with much feeling the following words : 

" O merciful God I have pity on two poor helpless babes. Our 
dear father is at the war : spare, oh, spare his precious life. We 
promise to be good and pious children, that papa may be pleased 
and love us when he returns." 

"And now, Blanche," said her mother to the little rosy-cheeked 
girl, " how do we pray eveiy night before we go to bed ?" 

The lovely child clasped her little hands together, raised her bright 
blue eyes, and said, with infont simplicity : 

" O heavenly Father, before we lie down to rest, we implore thy 
mercy to defend that good earthly father whom thou hast given us. 
Grant him a quiet and peaceable night, and may thy holy angels 
watch over, his repose. We beseech thee also to give sweet sleep to 
our dear mother, so that for a time she may forget her troubles and 
her sorrows. If it seem good to thine all-wise Providence, may this 
night be the last of their unhappy separation ; or at least grant to 
our dear father a speedy return." 

"Amen, amen," said the now happy mother, and she kissed her 
children with the most affectionate tenderness. 

dtralHiu's jjrolrisjs. 

Dear Marion : — 

OU know I promised to give you an account 
of our circus ; and, true to my word, the first 
minute of leisure I devote to you. Oh ! I wish 
that you had been here to share our pleasure ; 
nothing would have appeared to better advan- 
tage than your fine eyes and dark hair beneath 
the folds of an eastern turban. To the word circus, which I heard 
repeated so often, I own that I felt rather averse; for in my mind it 
had always been associated with what was quite low and unrefined ; 
but as we were to have tableaux and pantomime, I thought that we 
might elevate the tone of our circus by making it a sort of theatre, 
and yet please James, who really was the chief director, by calling it 
what he chose. You must know that Mr. Blightnot had offered us a 
large hall above the kitchen which Mrs. B. used as a store-room, for 
our acting, and when we had removed the boxes and barrels, and 
dusted the cobwebs from the walls, and enlivened it with white and 
coloured paper flowers, and tallow candles innumerable, it was com- 
pletely changed, and resembled a store-room no more. We divided 
it into three parts : one for the audience, one for the boys to change 
their dresses in, and on the opposite side, a tasty little boudoir for the 
girls. James, who was actor, manager, and every thing else, set us 
all to' work to print handbills on foolscap sheets, and I copy a pro- 
gramme of our performances for you : 



The celebrated Valdemir troupe will give their first and last performance at 
Blightnot Hall, on Monday. 

The company having performed before all the crcwned heads of Europe, will 
not fail to give general satisfaction. 


204 geealdine's holidays. 


Exercises on the Tight-rope, by Master Jamerio Valdemir. 

Chinese Sleight of Hand, by - * - - - Frederico Valdemir, 
Wonderful Feat of Horsemanship, by - - - Master Jamerio Valdemir. 
Hindoo Fancy Dance, by - - - - - Miss Amandixo Darnlerno. 
First appearance of this distinguished danseuse on any stage. 
An interval of fifteen minutes. 

part second. 

Grand Tableau of the Spanish Robbers, by the entire Company. 
Ladies of rank, - - Miss Latixia Valdemir, and Miss Geraldino Grimaldo. 
Robbers, - - Frederico, Jaj^erio, &c. 

Song, by - - - Miss Amaxdixo Darxlerno. 

To conclude with the much-admired play of the Sultana. 
Admittance, smiles and good-will. Children half-price. 
Performance to commence at 8 o'clock. 

Two or three times, alas, we came near giving up the whole affair, 
we were so often on the point of quarrelling ; and then again, while 
some of us were too lazy to rehearse, others wanted to be rehearsing 
all the time ; some thought it not worth while to take so much trouble 
for one night only ; others would betray the secrets of the company 
in showing our dresses with which we meant to surprise the audience, 
while the little children obtained possession of our box of spangles 
and strewed them all over the house, so that it took us half a day to 
pick them up. But after a deal of coaxing and scolding, the eventful 
night at last arrived. I would have given worlds could you have 
seen dear Mr. and Mrs. Blightnbt, and the guests whom they had 
invited to accompany them, enter the audience-hall. Eight o'clock 
had come upon us before we were aware of it, and James was frantic 
at the idea that the candles were not lighted, and was almost wild in 
his exertions to light them before the audience, whom we heard ap- 
proaching, should arrive. In they came, dressed elegantly for the 
occasion-, and we all peeped through the holes in the drapery to see 
what was going on. Mr. Blightnot entered first, with an overcoat on 
which he must have obtained from his grandfather's wardrobe, for 
the skirts were almost as long as a lady's dress, and the waist 

geraldine's holidays. 205 

ridiculously short. His appearance caused a very undignified shout 
from the actors, which the costume of Mrs. Blightnot increased. She 
was arrayed in a grand silk turban, white kid gloves, a huge fan and 
a long train. One young lady was dressed in true opera style, with a 
short cloak trimmed with ermine, and she used an opera-glass, to 
investigate the ceiling, lights, and drapery, with considerable effect. 
The other guests, who accompanied the charming host and hostess, 
were all arrayed in a manner either ridiculous or picturesque. Behold, 
dear Marion, another instance of the kind devotion of these exemplary 
parents to the whims of their children ! Is it not just as it should be ? 
Does not a family seem to you to constitute a sort of body whose 
chiefs or elders are bound to provide amusement and recreation, as 
well as work, for their younger members 1 But entre nous, papa and 
mamma think so differently ; mamma would have thought as soon of 
flying, as of descending from her pedestal of dignity and knitting-work, 
to be turbaned like Mrs. Blightnot ; and papa — ye stars ! fancy him 
occupying the obliging Mr. Blightnot's place. I can almost see him, 
upon being requested to be a spectator, laying down his Review and 
saying solemnly, " Put away such follies, my child, and improve your 

For about ten minutes after our laughter at the appearance of the 
audience had subsided, there was a painful silence through the whole 
suite of rooms, broken at last by James, who would forget at times 
that dignity which we had tried to impress upon him to observe. He 
had lost his balancing-pole, and nowhere could it be found ; the per- 
.formance could never go on without it ; and to increase our agony, he 
sat down in a regular fit of the sulks, and wished that there had never 
been any such thing in the world as a circus. The audience, perceiv- 
ing that something was amiss, inquired as to the cause, and Miss 
Small-waist, the lady with the opera-glass, suggested that a long stick 
that Mr. Blightnot had taken possession of when entering, might be 
the pole in question ; and so it proved. Mr. Blightnot apologized in 
a handsome speech, and order was forthwith restored. Carpets were 
then spread circus-fashion, and James, with a low bow, commenced 
his astonishing performances. To judge by the enthusiasm and 

206 geraldine's holidays. 

rounds of applause which he elicited, he was eminently successful as 
far as he went, but unfortunately, in turning a somerset he kicked 
over one of the stage-lights, which produced great confusion. He 
then became so angry with the lights, the audience and himself, that 
he would not finish the grand climax of the Arabian diversion, which 
was intended to bring down thunders of applause ; so Frederico next 
made his appearance with a cup and ball, some marbles, plates and 
knives. The ball he managed to catch in the cup about once in ten 
times, and one of the marbles, which the audience was to think that 
he had swallowed, actually came near choking him, while the knives — 
but what did not the knives do 1 The audience, for fear of being cut 
to pieces by their erratic movements, retired one or two benches 
farther off, and Frederico was not encored, as he fully expected that 
he would be. 

James, by this time having fully recovered his good-nature, was 
ready for his feats of horsemanship, and he looked very handsome 
with his blue jockey-cap, his tight-fitting jacket and striped pants; 
and the rocking-horse, which we had brought from the nursery, was 
quite a prominent part of the scene. 

Then came the fancy dance by Amanda. First she appeared 
enveloped in a kind of black shroud, dancing a slow minuet to some 
rude, melancholy music that Fred made behind the scenes with two 
sticks on a tin kettle ; then, as quick as lightning, she threw the 
drapery off, and appeared in a beautiful gauze dress all spangled over, 
and a mantilla of tissue flying about her like wings, while I played 
more lively music upon my guitar. Scuh exquisite grace, such taste^ 
such poetry of motion you never beheld. Like a real danseuse, she 
stooped to gather the flowers which the audience threw to her, and 
then courtesying to the very ground, rose up with dignity and left 
the spectators quite entranced. 

In the interval of fifteen minutes which succeeded, my own little 
heart beat furiously, for my turn had nearly come. I knew that my 
appearance, my dress, my performance, would be commented upon, 
and I scarcely gave a thought to Lavinia, who was to perform with 
me ; but the decisive moment came at last, and the curtain rose. We 

geraldine's holidays. 207 

were a little confused by a remark which we heard Mr. Blightnot 
make about the carriage in which we were discovered ; he said that one 
had to draw largely upon the imagination to realize that it was a 
carriage ; but in a moment we forgot all, and only felt that we were 
in a deep forest, infested with banditti, that we were ladies of rank, 
and very beautiful. By some contrivance behind the scenes, the 
rocking-horse, which was attached to the carriage, was occasionally 
jerked, and therefore had the appearance of moving forward, while 
the thick evergreens around us, the darkness, and a sound of distant 
thunder, (behind the scenes likewise,) increased the horror of the 
occasion. It was with no assumed shudder, then, that I beheld a 
pistol presented at the window, and heard a demand for our jewels 
and purses, or our lives. Behold the robbers, the fiercest-looking 
bandits in all Spain — dark, with long shaggy locks and ebon mous- 
tachios. With an iron arm, the taller drew Lavinia from the carriage, 
tied a handkerchief around her mouth, and bound her hands, spite of 
all her tears. In the meantime I fainted, and I believe that I did it 
very well ; I flatter myself that I fell gracefully at the ruffian's feet — 
but see the denouement ! while the horse plunged more violently than 
ever, for he was supposed to be rushing furiously through the forest, the 
coachman lying dead beside us, the sharp crack of firearms roused me 
from my stupor. In an instant I comprehended the whole scene ; the 
robbers were taking, with unsparing hand, our purses, watches and 
jewelry, and gloating over their ill-gotten booty, but deliverance was 
at hand ; all covered with blood, (a compound of brickdust and 
water,) they lay wounded at our feet, and two handsome cavaliers, 
our rescuers, knelt before us to be rewarded by our smiles. The 
curtain fell, and Mr. Blightnot made good use of another stick which 
he had procured, while cries of " Bravo, bravo, encore, encore," 
resounded through the room. 

While we were preparing for the next play, Amanda, dressed like 
a sea-nymph, with sea-weed twisted among her locks, and shells 
sewed on her muslin dress, and a nautilus in each hand, sang the 
following song. She trembled so much that nobody heard a word ; 
but Mrs. Blightnot, by whom the lines had been composed in her 


geraldine's holidays. 

early youth, declared that it was all very beautiful, and sat bowing 
and smiling when the singer did, and even imitated in her enthusiasm 
each movement of her lips, in a very exaggerated manner. 


Where the pearls, La, la, la, Twine round curls, La, la, la, 

: *=y 


mer - maid, hair, 

In the caves, 
, La la la, 
'Neath the waves, 

La la la, 
Where the red, 

La la la, 
Corals spread, 

La la la, 
Carpets bright, 

La la la, 
To the sight. 

La, la, la, 

Rich and 

Come with me, 

La la la, 
My love to be : 

La la la, 
Eyes so bright, 

La la la, 
Ne'er met sight, 

La la la, 
In the caves, 

La la la, 
'Neath the waves. 

Then came the pantomime of the Sultana — the old story of the 
favourite slave being raised to the throne, while her predecessor is 
hurried with sudden disgrace from sight : 

" When tired of these fleeting charms and me, 
There lies a sack, and yonder rolls the sea." 

When all was finished, the actors were called out, and they and the 
audience shook hands ; and Mr. and Mrs. Blightnot leading the way, 
we all followed down stairs to a most delicious supper. Now, my 
dear Marion, I have given you at some length, so far, the history of 



my holidays ; should any thing else of interest transpire, I will not 
fail to write you concerning them. Alas ! this blessed vacation is 
nearly over ; I seem in imagination once more to be poring over the 
mysteries of Algebra, the mazes of Rhetoric, the difficulties of Com- 
position. Dear Mrs. Blightnot made a singularly sensible remark 
the other day while reading the paper : " Oh, these wars, these wars," 
she said : " unhappy children, what new pages they will add to history ! 
how much more you will have to study !" But time presses; I am 
obliged to leave this delightful task to practise a second to Amanda's 

Thine, through life and in death, ■ Geraldine. 

4 I 

nxt in MzKxt/' 

Gather round me, little ones, 
While the twilight falleth : 

Not for work, nor even play, 
This sweet hour calleth. 

I have watched each lonely face, 
Bright with smiles and laughter, 

But I saw how starting tears 
Came too quickly after. 

Then I eat here listening still, 
While one voice was singing, 

And the gentle, low refrain 
Through the air came ringing. 

" Pure in heart" — to pleasant paths 
Wandering feet 'tis guiding ; 

" Pure in heart" — what melody 
In the thought abiding ! 

Checking every evil mood, 

Fearful lest remaining 
Of the heart's first innocence 

It may be the staining ; 

Or grow on to evil words. 

Harsh or angry feeling, 
Once indulged, is sure to find 

For itself revealing. 

Evil actions follow fast 
What is there remaining, 

All because one little thought 
Needed due restraining. 

See a quiet little spring 
From a moss-bank welling ; 

How its bright and limpid tide 
O'er the brim comes swelling ! 

And a sfream runs clear and cool, 
Kissing all sweet flowers ; 

Pure and bright it sings along 
Through the summer hours. 

But let stones or sand be cast 
Down the o'erhanging mountain, 

Dark discoloured waters gush 
From the once pure fountain. 

So thy heart, kept pure, sends forth 
Bright and happy fancies, 

Read in open brow, and eyes 
Clear with honest glances. 

" Pure in heart !" — oh, sweet refrain ! 

Lesson true and tender ! 
Let us, listening to its voice, 
Cherished faults surrender. 

Cousin Alice. 


" I am sure I don't know what to do with Louise and Ella, Mamma; 
they have played ' Graces,' and ' cup and ball,' and twenty other 
things ; they have examined the contents of my cabinet, and learned 
new crochet-stitches from each other, but such a long day is too 
much for them. They are tired and cross with each other and to 
me : what can I do with them ?" 

" Do with them ! why, just put yourself in their places, Cornelia, 
and think what would be likely to please you." 

"But a great many things please them that could not possibly 
please me." 

" To put yourself in their places, my daughter, you must consider 
their ages and dispositions and tastes. Above all, remember that 



they are your guests, and your duty to them must not yield to 
indolence, or irritation, or dislike in any manner. Go, now, and 
think of some way of keeping the weary little girls interested till tea- 
time, and I will talk to you this evening about the duties of a hostess, 
duties which few persons quite understand." 

So Cornelia Allston went to find the little girls who were spending 
the day with her aunt, to see what she could do to entertain them. 
Ella sat sulkily kicking her feet against the unoffending ottoman 
which was near her, and Louise was lying on the sofa looking very 
hard at the ceiling, in that sleepy way that indicates an exhaustion of 

" Come, you weary little people, I have something very nice to 
show you. Come out to the myrtle-bank with me, and open your 
eyes just as wide as you can." 

They scrambled up with some show of alacrity, and followed the 
young girl, first to the library, where she selected a superb and 
elegantly illustrated English book, and then into the garden, where 
she seated herself and opened her treasure. It was a volume of 
landscape scenery, and Cornelia Allston, who had travelled a great 
deal with her parents, was full of information concerning every 
picture they looked at. She explained to the admiring and wonder- 
ing children every thing that they were not able to comprehend from 
the engraving. She told them funny and serious stories about the 
places and the people she had known. True, they were things she 
had told many times before — often, indeed, to these very children ; 
but now her own interest was stimulated by that which they seemed 
to feel, and she actually enjoyed the hundredth repetition of her 
adventures as she watched their eager faces, and answered their rapid 
questions. The tea-bell rang before they thought of the lapse of 
time, and Cornelia considered herself well repaid for her exertion when 
she observed at the table their bright, dancing eyes, so dull and 
heavy before, and heard their pleasant chat resumed. 

The children went home after tea, very well pleased with the day 
spent at "Aunt Allston's," and quite satisfied that " Cousin Cornelia" 
was the dearest and loveliest girl they had ever seen. 


" Mamma, what have you to tell me ?" inquired Cornelia, as she 
followed her mother to her favourite sitting-room, after their guests 
were gone. 

" I wanted to talk to you about the duties of a hostess, as I said to 
you, Cornelia. You are getting old enough now to understand the 
relation which should exist between her and her guests, and I trust, my 
love, that you will always hold it sacred." 

"Why, Mamma, how seriously you speak about it !" 

" Yes, I have a purpose in doing so. I would spare you the morti- 
fication I have endured myself, and insure you against the commis- 
sion of acts of real impoliteness which might otherwise escape your 

" When I was a young girl, I was very independent in my habits and 
my ways of thinking ; I never needed to be amused and entertained, 
and I did not think — indeed, I hardly knew — how much some people 
depend upon others for what I could afford myself. If I had guests, I 
used to read, if it pleased me to do so, no matter what they might 
be doing. I often went out without knowing whether they might not 
like to accompany me, and went to bed early or rose late in the 
morning, quite independently of their habits in these matters. 

" Well, I had various experiences. Mrs. Perreneau was the first old 
lady who visited me after I was married. She was a lady quite of 
the old school, accustomed to entertain a great many people, and 
very fond of lively persons. I could talk fast enough, if I chose to do 
so ; this delighted her, but she had good sense enough to know that 
one cannot talk for ever. At night, however, she was unable to sew or 
to read, as her eyes were weak, and she always sought amusement in 
conversation in the drawing-room. I was a tireless reader, and in 
the fascination of a book could forget any thing. I actually sat hours 
during her visit, drawn up in a corner of the sofa, reading by the gas- 
light, which only availed her to ply her knitting-needles, while she 
would sit, quietly knitting, too polite to interrupt my reading by 
attempting any conversation." 

" I believe, Mamma, I should know better than to do that." 

"J hope you would, Cornelia. She never reminded me of my 


rudeness, nor did I find it out till my mother came to see me and 
remarked about it. My mortification was extreme. I made up in 
every way possible for my error. I played and sung to her, read aloud, 
discussed books or people, played at lively games of backgammon ; 
in fine, I think she forgave me, for-she said when she left me : 

" ' My dear, if you go on improving, you will make a charming 

"I understood the force of the expression 'improving,' and blushed 
as I replied, that I could only hope she would try me again in that 
capacity. She said she would write me a letter when she reached 
home, containing some hints which might be useful. I begged she 
would do so ; and we parted. 

"After she had gone, I recalled the short-comings of which I had 
been convicted in my awakened conscience, and did not wonder that 
my guests never paid a second visit. Here is Mrs. Perreneau's letter, 
Cornelia. Judge for yourself, my child, of its importance." 

Cornelia went to her room for the night, and read with great 
interest the wise counsel of age and experience. 

We take from the letter the following extracts : 

" My dear young Friend — 

Do not be offended by a few plain, honest 
suggestions which I make with an ardent wish for your happiness and 
success in life. ******** When you receive guests 
in your own house, or your mother's, especially in your own, you 
enter into peculiar relations with them. You invite them to your 
house, and your invitation is a pledge that you will consider their 
well-being and happiness, while with you, as intrusted to you. You 
have therefore no right to any self-indulgence, however innocent or 
cherished, which you cannot share with them. You have no right 
to sleep when they cannot, unless the lateness of the hour, or 
your ill health, positively demand the rest. You have no right to 
read, (I beg your pardon, my dear; an old woman may speak thus 
plainly to one she loves and watches over,) unless your guest is so 
much amused that you cannot in any way increase her enjoyment. 


You have no right to occupy yourself in any absorbing employment 
unless it is imperatively necessary, till you have ensured the happi- 
ness of her whom you are bound to render happy. 

" Much judgment is required, and much real politeness, to enable 
you to act rightly as a hostess. Do not consider, when you have 
provided generously for your table, consulted special tastes in food, 
made the most comfortable arrangement possible in the chambers, and 
placed various means of amusement within reach, that your duty is 
done. With some it would be. Many prefer the most entire feeling 
of ease and liberty that you could give them. Others, who are 
social, or who find particular pleasure in your society, you are bound 
to exert yourself to entertain. Still a third class need to be enter- 
tained, and they are the least acceptable of visitors : but we will not 
discuss them now; if you please, I will reserve the character and 
duties of a guest for another letter. ****.** 

"A good hostess must forget her own peculiar tastes, must forego 
self-indulgence, must place at her guest's disposal her house, her 
books, musical instruments, garden, carriages, horses, her time, her- 
self. There must be wo reserve unless absolutely necessary. Besides 
this surrender, she must study the tastes, dispositions, habits and 
Opinions of her visitors, and kindly — which is always politely — indulge 
them as far as possible. A selfish person cannot be a good hostess, 
neither can a thoughtless, inconsiderate person. 

"If this letter does not offend you, my dear Cornelia, and you 
desire it of me, I will write you again my opinion of the duties of a 
guest, which correspond to those of the hostess, though of a different 

I am, my dear child, 

Your affectionate friend, 
•■ Anna Perreneau." 

t %iMtx'% Comer. 

According to our new plan, we must go back this month to April 
to answer our unsolved riddles. So Julia and Bertie, and Wallie and 
Katie shall gather round us as we sit by the open window this soft 
June morning ; and we will look over the little budget of answers 
that we have received since the April number wandered far and wide 
from the Schoolfellow's office. 

Here is a letter from a little girl living away down in Florida. 
She says : " I like the Schoolfellow very, very much, better than any 
of my story-books even ; and I've been wishing ever so long to answer 
just one riddle of the Sphynx, so that something of my own writing 
might be in the magazine. And at last I have written an answer 
which I hope you will print if you can, though I'm almost afraid to 
ask it, I know the lines are so poor. I cannot make any thing out of 
the ' Charade by Emma,' specially the second verse ; but perhaps 
that's because I've always lived in the country." 

We do not think " Marietta" need be sorry if she never understands 
the meaning of that second verse ; for no knowledge of cities or of 
" ton" will ever make her happier than she now is in her simple coun- 
try home. She will see* however, that the charade has a meaning, 
which is very gracefully explained in the following solution by our 
kind friend " H." 


In crowded city or by river-side, 
The noisy mill goes on, by stream or tide, 
And by the winding stream, in rural beauty, 
It faithfully performs its welcome duty. 

In country life the second is not known, 

But in the city, fashion forms the ton, 

Where beaux and belles lounge idly through the street 

With smile contemptuous for all they meet. 

The choicest gift that ever came from heaven, 
To sightless Milton graciously was given — 


216 the riddler's corner. 


A pious mind which heavenly joys portrayed 

And gave to hell its deepest, darkest shade. H. 

Here is Marietta's 


Your foremost in heaven and last upon earth, 
Unseen in the sun, yet in light having birth ; 
No dweller in stars, but a lingerer in night ; 
Unknown of the moon, while it lurks within sight — 
Your hater of follies and worldly pursuings, 
Supporter of churches and christianly doings, 
Though a wonderful agent, to me still most clear 
As one of the alphabet — H — must appear. 

We give our readers a selected riddle in this number, which we 
have no doubt will please them very much. But according to the 
terms of the riddle, we are much afraid that Katie will be one of the 
last to guess it ! We shouldn't wonder if Julia, too, were a little 
slow of comprehension this time. We shall see, however : and here is 

From night until morning, from morning till night, 
My dress varies not, 'tis the purest of white ; 
But how shall I add what must injure my song, 
That I'm plump as a dumpling and broad as I'm long ! 
Moreover, my station I take on the head 
Of a creature large, strong, and a true quadruped ; 
But so gentle and quiet that children may dare 
To mount his broad back and lie fearlessly there. 
I said that my form was not sylph-like or slender ; 
No matter for that, since my feelings are tender : 
If friends have forsaken, or fortune has fled, 
This bosom a refuge shall prove for thy head. 
Yes, here may the children of sorrow repose, 
And drown in soft slumber their cares and their woes. 
But a caution I have for the young and the gay : 
Shun my company ever by break of the day, 
Or the roses of health that now bloom on your face 
Will soon to the pale hue of lilies give place. 
And now is there one who my name has not guessed ? 
I'll be bound 'tis that person who likes me the best ! 

When is a fish not a fish ? 
When is night not night ? 

Why are two little dogs with their tails tied together like two little dogs with- 
out tails ? 
Why is the Fourth of July like an oyster soup ? 

Books for Young People, 

Cat and Dog : 

founded on Pact. By the Author of " The Doll and her 
Friends," &c. With four Illustrations by Harrison Weir. 
Square 12mo, cloth. 50 cents. 

■' One of the most interesting and diverting juvenile works we have, perused tor a long: 
time. It is an autobiography of a fine doc, named Captain, telling a most graphic, amus- 
ing and instructive story of his life. A charming moral runs through Captain's story, and 
his adventures, travels, courtship, &c, happily illustrated by four beautiful designs, will 
delight the adult as well a' the juvenile reader.'' — Evening Mirror. 

"Adults and children may read it with equal pleasure, as the story involves an excel- 
lent moral. - ' — Com,. Advertiser. 

Gems from Fable Land: 

By Wm. Oland Bourne ; a book admirably adapted to delight and 
instruct the young. Beautifully illustrated throughout. 1 vol., 
250 pp. 

"A great deal of research, and no small degree of literary taste, are shown in the pre- 
paration of this varied and beautiful volume." It is a book that a grave parent may enjoy 
with the merriest child, so full is it of wisdom and amusement." — Neao York CnrUtiun 

"To illustrate fables by facts is a novel but useful and happy idea, and must tend to 
promote the highest objects of education when carried into effect as in the work before 
us. It is a credit to both publisher and author."— Christian Intelligencer. 

" In this volume the great lessons of life are illustrated in a uovel and useful manner. 
The book, which has numerous wood-cuts, is indeed a hive filled with choice sweets, 
gathered from many sources." — Home Journal. 

" Here is something of a novelty — a book of fables illustrated by anecdotes. The design 
is admirable, and we can but wonder that it has not before been carried out. The book 
possesses a double attraction." — Arthur's Home Gazette. 

" It is a book worthy to be universally read." — N. T. Commercial Advertiser. 

" The work is useful above other books for youth, as it is neither above nor below their 
capacity; and in all its unfoldings, it is replete with practical instruction." — Parlor 

The book is fitted at once to be eminently attractive and useful. It is impossible to 
open to any part of it without finding something to convey both innocent amusement and 
important instruction." — Albany Argus. ' 

" The poet-editor of this handsomely-published volume has made a happy selection of 
fables, graceful in literary style, and instructive in moral." — New Orleans Crescent. 

"We think that the author is the Bourne to whom readers will both turn and return." 
— Newark Daily Advertiser. 

Published by Evans Sf Dicker son 

Pretty Poll : 

A Parrot's own History. Edited by the Author of " The Amyott's 
Home," " Older and Wiser," " Tales that might be True," &c. 
With four Illustrations by Harrison Weir. Square 12mo, cloth. 
37 h cents. 

"A charming little story, and one that will captivate the little folks. "We cannot too 
■warmly recommend this little book." 

"A truly delightsome book; amusing, instructive, and calculated to open new views to 
the minds of little readers." 

"Among the many good books for children, this will take a very prominent place." 

"Just the thing for small ones in the nursery. We advise parents by all means to add 
it to their Juvenile Library." 

Natural Histories in Stories : 

Tor Little Children- By M. S. C, Author of" Twilight Thoughts," 
" Little Poems for Little People," &c. With four Illustrations 
by Harrisox Weir. Square 12mo, cloth. 50 ctnts. 

"A pleasing and instructive book for children." 

" Natural Histories, naturally told, in language suited to the comprehension of the class 
for whom they were written, and conveying important information in a pleasing style." 

" The rising generation is greatly favored in having its useful lessons presented in such 
•a captivating garb-." 

Songs for Children : 

Beautifully Illustrated with numerous fine Engravings on wood, de- 
signed by Birket Foster. Some of the songs set to Music. Square 
12mo, cloth, 75 cts. ; cloth, gilt, $1 12 1-2. 

" Wc particularly commend The Book op Songs, with its quaint nursery tales and 
quiet Hymns, Illustrated by no less a pencil than that of Birket d'obteb." — (fo'lei/'a 
Ladled Book. 

" Illustrated to the heart's coatent of any child." 

"A very beautiful collection of Songs, and beautifully illustrated." 

"One if the most interesting and attractive little books that has been published." — 
Owm. At oertiser. 

"A very excellent book for the young ones. Songs good, and music good — all in little 
round not. * that the childrea will set themselves at once to learning how to read." 

tfahlt nf €nnlnti. 

JULY, 1854. 

Illustrated with Four Ekgravings. 

The White Owls, . . . . . . Mrs. Bradley. 

Evening Pi ay 3r, from the Illustrated Book of Songs. 

Sedgemoor, . . . . . . . . Mrs. Manners. 

Morning Song, from the ...... Illustrated Book of Songs. 

Grandmother Antique's Visitor, . . . . Miss Chesebro. 

The Cross Schoolmistress, Aunt Abby. 

Saint Peter's at Rome, The Schoolfellow. 

Lilly, E.B. C. 

Niagara Falls Miss Mart Bates. 

My Mother, • . Alice Carey. 

The Riddler's Corner. 


Those of our patrons who are about to change their residences will 
do well to give early notice, either by post or otherwise, where they 
wish the Schoolfellow served hereafter. Mention should also be 
made of the place at which it is now left. Any irregularities in receiv- 
ing the Schoolfellow should be reported at this office. 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
new subscribers. Whoever will send us two dollars and the names 
of two new subscribers shall receive a third copy gratis for one year. 

For Two Dollars, two copies of the Schoolfellow, and any fifty-cent 
book upon our list. For Three Dollars, three copies of the School- 
fellow, and the volume for 1853, handsomely bound. 

For Five Dollars, five copies of the Schoolfellow, and any of our 
books to the amount of Two Dollars. 


Booksellers & Publishers, 
i 697 Broadway. 

* % * Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

\0\ v %M>^ /^Mlk 


t fflftiU <B\\)[$; 

t&z HE evening was come, and over the earth lay 
the dim twilight, like a grey cloud. The young 
owls in the barn had wakened up from their 
summer-day's sleep, and with open mouths, and 
round unblinking eyes stretched to the widest 
stare, were clamouring for their evening meal, of 
which the mother-owl had gone in search. Pre- 
sently she returned, and flapped down with heavy 
wings amongst the sticks and straws of the owl's 
nest ; whereupon rose a great chattering and cla- 
mour from the four gaping little mouths, for all 
the eight round eyes had seen a most plump and 
delicious-looking mouse clutched tightly in the 
beak of the mother-owl. 

And then such a feast as they all had ! Bit by bit, the luckless mouse 
was torn to pieces, and dropped into the voracious mouths of the young 
fledgelings, until the whole had disappeared, even to the head and tail ! 
"Ugh! what a supper! and what greedy little cannibals!" said 
young Roderick, the boy-heir of the castle on the hill. Upon the 
roof of the dilapidated old barn, which had long ago been given up 
to owls and rats and cobwebs, sat the boy, peeping in at a crevice 
to watch the white owls devour their supper. 

" Ugly little beasts !" he said, making grimaces at them ; but the 
owls never heeded him ; and Roderick, growing weary of his amuse- 
ment, slipped down to the edge of the low sloping roof, and sprang 
to the ground. He was a wild boy, this Roderick, full of vagaries as 

* For this story I cannot claim any originality. When a child, I somewhere 
read a poem — the author of which I do not know— called, I believe, : ' The White 
Owls," and I have written down now, after a lapse of years, the incidents of the 
poem as my memory retained them. I do not know if the details of the story 
agree with those of the poem, but it is to the latter that I am indebted for the idea. 



a comet, and as little to be depended on, for his moods changed with 
every hour of the day. Wilful and passionate, full of wild impulses, 
prompting him now to some beautiful action combining a man's noble- 
ness and strength with womanly tenderness, and again to some deed 
of revengeful cruelty that fiends might have suggested, he was at 
once a wonder, a terror, and a delight to those who knew him. His 
mother, herself a proud and imperious woman, was forced to bow to 
the still stronger will of her boy. 

And in all the world there was but one person who had power to 
rule and sway his heart. This was Lilias, a young orphan child, who, 
since as an infant she had been tossed upon the beach in the arms of 
a dead mother, had found a home in the castle and in the heart of 
Eoderick's proud mother. She was one of those gentle and beautiful 
children whose grace and loveliness charm all hearts irresistibly. 
About her light, yielding figure, and her exquisite face, with its inimi- 
table colouring and its fathomless blue eyes, and the small dainty head, 
with its rippling waves of shining hair, was a bird-like and flower-like 
loveliness impossible to describe, but inexpressibly fascinating. And 
Roderick's proud, imperious, ardent soul, yielded itself resistlessly 
to the charm of the child's beauty. His most fiery moods gave way 
before her simple presence, and to please her he became as much a 
child as herself. He gathered wild flowers to transplant into her gar- 
den, fed her pet chickens with her, and taught her timid canary to sing 
boldly and constantly ; and hour after hour, in the freshness of the 
summer morning, he would sit upon a bank in the woods, with Lilias' 
head upon his knee, and read to her the fairy tales that her childish 
fancy delighted in. When with her, the evil spirit that seemed to 
hold dominion over him at other times was put to flight; so that all 
the while her fair face, that seemed to him like a beautiful poem, was 
in his sight, he was gentle as a girl. 

He held in his hand, as he sauntered home through the woods in the 
twilight, a garland of those white star-like flowers, whose stems are 
long clinging tendrils, that are so easily twined into wreaths. And as 
he came to the foot of the hill on which stood the proud castle, with 
its stately colonnades and pillared porticos, Lilias, seeing him, came 


running down to meet him, with her long sunbright curls floating in 
wild grace over her shoulders ; and the garland of white flowers soon 
lay like a wreath of stars amongst the golden waves of her hair. She 
offered her lips to be kissed, but said chidingly, 

"Ah, Roderick, you have stayed away so late ! And I have had 
no supper, because' I would not eat till you came ; and poor little 
' Snowball' has got a lame foot, which you must look at. Come !" 

And she drew him away, or rather ran before him up the hill, and 
towards the poultry -yard, where her pet chicken, "Snowball," limped 
with its lame foot. Roderick lifted it, and gently extracted the thorn 
which had caused the trouble; then the two children — for Roderck 
was always a child when with Lilias — went together into the house, and 
sitting alone in the great hall-window, they ate the supper of ripe ber- 
ries and cream which Roderick had ordered to be brought. Lilias 
bye-and-bye fell asleep in the pleasant twilight, and Roderick pillowed 
her head upon his breast, sheltering her with his arms, till the nurse 
came at length and carried her away to bed. Then the boy himself 
went away to his own room, and, looking out upon the stars, gave 
himself up to beautiful dreams of the time when he should be a man, 
and take lilias to be his wife. 

Lilias met him in the morning as he came down stairs, with stream- 
ing eyes and a face full of sorrow. A great trouble had come upon 
the gentle-hearted child. In the night-time the poultry-yard had been 
entered, and poor little " Snowball" had been carried away. Her 
white feathers were strewn about the perch, as if they had been torn 
from her in ar desperate struggle, and Lilias' grief at this violent loss 
of her poor favourite was very great. Roderick listened to her story, 
and looked at her grief with fast-rising passion. It roused all his 
fury to see Lilias distressed, and actuated by an overwhelming desire 
for revenge, he suddenly left her and rushed out of the house, deter- 
mined to find out the author of the mischief. 

An instinctive suspicion led his steps towards the old barn, where 
the white owls had their nest ; and climbing hastily up to the roof, he 
looked in at the crevice from which he had watched them the night 
before. Alas, for the white owls ! about the floor of the loft, and 


amongst the sticks and straws of the nest, lay thickly scattered the 
blood-stained feathers of poor Snowball ; and when the boy's eyes 
could see clearly into the dimness of the barn-loft, he saw at a little 
distance the bodyless head of the slaughtered chicken. Alas for the 
white owls, that slept so unconsciously, dreaming not of an enemy 
near! With silent but swift feet Roderick crept to the ground, 
entered the barn, and stole up the ladder to the loft. The mother- 
owl slept stupidly upon an outstretched beam, and the young owls 
were huddled together in the nest. Roderick seized the nest, and 
leaving the mother undisturbed, crept noiselessly down the ladder, 
and turned his feet homeward. 

The young owls cried with little shrill cries, and blinked and closed 
their eyes in the unwelcome light. But their distress gave Roderick 
a fierce delight ; and with a cruel purpose at his heart, he entered his 
home, and flung the helpless, crying birds upon the marble floor of 
the hall. No one was there to speak to him or interfere : Lilias was 
not near, and the evil spirit had full power over the boy's heart. One 
by one he took up the screaming birds, and with remorseless cruelty 
tore out their eyes ; then he threw them from him, and with mocking 
laughter watched them flapping in their anguish over the marble floor, 
shrieking with shrill piercing cries of agony. 

In the midst of their wailing came another cry, fierce and wild, 
harsh and dissonant, but almost human in its expression of mortal 
agony. Roderick looked up with a sudden fear, and, behold, the 
mother-owl was flapping her heavy wings to and fro before the great 
hall-window, and echoing the screams of her tortured young. The 
boy's face grew pale, as if blanched by a sudden illness, and with 
heavy, spiritless steps, he turned away from the hall, leaving the 
young owls tumbling one over the other upon the marble floor, and 
the old owl screaming at the window. 

All day long Roderick wandered aimlessly, like one in a terrible 
dream, through the loneliest thickets and glades of the forest ; and 
all day long rang in his ears the bitter crying of the white owls. It 
haunted him with fearful vividness, and nothing could for a moment 
make him forget it. The wild birds of the woods sang perpetually, 


with joyous, thrilling notes, continual psalms of delight, and the wind 
that swept down through the pines made every leaf voiceful with a 
murmur of delicious music. The very flowers upspringing from the 
rich mould of the forest, seemed to give forth a chime of fairy bells 
as their star-blossoms swayed to the wooing of the breeze. But in 
all these, Roderick heard only the bitter crying of the white owls. 

Towards nightfall, wearily and despairingly he turned his feet home- 
ward, taking a long winding path, that he might not pass by the old 
barn. With dragging steps he climbed up the smooth slope of the 
hill that led to his home, and, shivering with an inward fear that he 
could not overcome, he lingered outside the door, leaning against a 
marble pillar, and dreading to enter his own halls. A strange sense 
of desolation was creeping over him — a dreary presentiment chilling 
his heart ; and leaning against the cold marble, he seemed to grow 
petrified, like unto it. 

Bye-and-bye, after how long a time he knew not, he heard a voice 
within — his mother's — and it said in tones of bitterest despair — 
" Where can Roderick be % why does he not come home ? And yet, 
oh God ! it will be terrible for him to come ! Let him stay still 
longer." Then it said again, wailingly — " Oh, Lilias ! oh, my child !" 
And the boy where he stood could hear the terrible sobs that shook 
his mother's proud bosom, and swayed her heart as the rising of a 
mighty tempest bends the forest trees. 

But this utterance of Lili'as' name roused him, and he sprang for- 
ward into the stately hall that since morning he had not entered. At 
the upper end, and beneath the oriel window, he saw his mother kneel- 
ing before what seemed to him a white and formless mass. The boy 
flew like something mad over the length of the hall till he came to 
the window, and then he stood as one turned to stone, for he truly 
looked upon the -child Lilias lying in her shroud before him. Her 
white arms, that had so often clasped his neck, were folded rigidly 
before her, and the blue, thin lips of the dead had no word of wel- 
come for him. Dead ! and the mother-owl flew heavily past the 
window with dismal hootings, and the night gave back the echo of her 
screams ! 

gin € bcni 113 |rapi\ 


Lord, thine eye is closed never, 

When night casts o'er earth her hood ; 
Thou remainest wakeful ever, 
And art like the shepherd good, 
Who through every darksome hour 
Tends his flock with watchful power. 

Grant, Lord, that we thy sheep 

May this night in safety sleep-; 

And when we again awake, 

Give us strength our cross to take, 

And to order all our ways 

To thine honour and thy praise. 



ffitapter XKX. 

AN I assist you in your search, Miss Emily ?" said Mr. 
Carey to that lady, as he entered the library on the fol- 
lowing day, and found Miss Donne upon the library steps 
I before the tallest shelves. 

" I don't think you can, Mr. Carey, for I hardly know 
what I am looking for ;" and Miss Donne desisted from 
her search, and descended to the floor. " The truth is," 
she continued, " that I have had some of Alice's trouble to-day. I can't 
find E's — and therefore I am considerably troubled." 

" Very naturally, indeed. Though, of all people I ever saw, I think 
you generally take a lack of ease the most kindly. Pardon the pun, 
please ; it was irresistible, and so very true." 

"A pun does n't distress me as much as it seems to distress some 
people. I have observed one thing : no one condemns this pleasant and 
often graceful play upon words, if they are able quickly to comprehend 
and appreciate puns. There is a subtlety about them sometimes 
which is very charming, and which one dull in these matters never 
finds out — therefore to him punning is only a bore. It is a very easy 
thing to rail against puns ; much easier than to make good ones, or 
even than to take them." 

" What is it that you are advocating, Miss Emily ?" asked Mr. 
Clayton. "Who is guilty here? — you, Mr. Carey? I would advise 
you to procure her advocacy oftener. She may serve you a good 
purpose sometime, with her quick woman's wit and comprehension." 
" I am afraid she will not plead for me always," said Mr. Carey ; 
" and yet I contemplate an important suit," he added, in a low tone 
which met only Miss Donne's ear. She looked up smilingly as she 


226 sedgemoor; 

caught the confidential tone, but something which she encountered in 
Mr. Carey's eyes caused her own to fall suddenly, while a warm glow 
overspread her face. There was surely an electric sympathy between 
those two then. Miss Donne's apprehension was not at fault in her 
trembling, fearful interpretation of the look. 

" I cannot find E's," said Maude that night. 

" Nor I," said one or two other voices. 

" Let me recommend a little morphine," Mr. Clayton responded. 
All but Alice smiled. 

" Why, morphine, papa — is that the great biographical dictionary 
which Herbert is talking about 1 ?" 

How they laughed at Alice's expense ! and Mr. Carey set her right 
about the uses of morphine — "to give ease to the aching invalid, 

" If you would only let us have one E, as you did at first, papa, 
I could manage to think up one : now I can't think of anybody 
but Queen Esther and Aunt ' Easter.' " 

" We can only promise not to be very strict as to the claims of 
your elections," her father replied. 

"And think, Mr. Clayton, how many capital A's and B's we might 
have had if we had doubled them ! Oh, this is getting to be more 
than play : this is as hard work as any studying ; and here my choice 
might be challenged to-night, if you were not good enough to pro- 
mise to overlook its want of merit." 

"You will do well, Maude. You always do," said Alice. "Now 
we'll see about it, I prophesy." 

" Have you looked up any great names since yesterday, Miss 
Emily ?" Mr. Carey inquired of her, when the evening came for " the 
Alphabet" to be resumed. 

" I have not thought of it since," she said quietly. " I shall disgrace 
myself, I fear. Let me think for a moment," and she covered her 
face with her slender hands. "You must help me if Mr. Clayton 
questions me, for your letter it was, that has put this out of my mind 
and deprived me of my ease.^ 

"Are you miserable, then ?" asked her companion. 


" Not very" she answered with a rosy smile. 

" Thank you, thank you ; God bless you, Emily, and enable me to 
do so also !" Mr. Carey was profoundly moved as he spoke this, 
though his voice was quiet. Their conversation was in so low a tone, 
that it was entirely unheard by the bustling, chatting children, who 
were arranging their seats, as these two " happy" people lingered in the 
embrasure of the great window. Mr. Clayton passed by them on his way 
to his arm-chair, and saw the tokens of their " exchange" and of the deep 
feelings which moved them. He did not speak for a few moments, 
to give them time to recover their usual composure ; then he said : 

"Are we all ready to begin to-night?" 

" I am," was the quick unanimous reply. 

"And I, too, am ready — for any thing — every thing," was Mr. 
Carey's last remark, as he led gentle Emily Donne to her usual seat. 
So calm was his manner, that even the tender Maude could not 
suspect the event of the last four-and-twenty hours. But Mr. Clayton 
marked all with his initiated eye, and vowed to himself to watch over 
the united happiness of those whom he had come to admire and love 
with more than a mere friendly interest. 

" Miss Emily, if you please," said that gentleman. 

" Yes, Sir — but 1 am so stupid to-night ; I can only remember Egin- 
hard, the secretary of Charlemagne, a learned man, and a celebrated 
historian for that dark age — the ninth century." 

" He was the lover of the Princess Imma, Charlemagne's daughter, 
Miss Emily," said Maude. " I remember him for the pretty poem 
Miss Mary Lee wrote about them." 

"You shall tell us about it when we get through the game, Maude 
dear. Miss Emily has to think up another." 

"And I have a good, excellent name — John Evelyn, the genial, 
accomplished, scholarly, pious Evelyn. His name has come to me 
like an inspiration." 

" I honour your choice, young lady, as I doubt not I always shall ;" 
said Mr. Clayton significantly, whereat Miss Emily looked down in 
much confusion ; but the gentleman went on to say, "What a husband, 
what a father, Evelyn was ! I remember, when his darling child 


Eichard died, Evelyn thus recorded his loss : ' Such a child I never 
saw ! for such a child I bless God, in whose bosom he is !' This is a 
bright name amongst the faithless, unruly, rough, wicked characters 
who were his contemporaries. I have very grave personages to 
introduce to you to-night. I hope, however, I shall find favour in Alice's 
eyes when I name — Eusebius. 

"The Arian heretic, Mr. Clayton 1 ?" said Mr. Carey in some 

" Oh ! there were four bishops of that name, Mr. Carey ; and, odd to 
tell — one, the Bishop of Vercelli, was always opposing Arius ; another 
of Nicodemia was his friend ; while the other two — he of Cesarea, 
who was the most celebrated and most learned, and Eusebius of 
Samosata, a truly pious man, enrolled amongst the martyrs — were, 
at various periods of their lives, the friends and antagonists of the 
Arian heresy." 

" That sounds like papa," said Alice, delightedly. " I know you 
know a great deal, papa. I like that." 

"And don't understand it. Oh, Alice, hard words command great 
respect from you, I see. Now, when I class all together, giving Mr. 
Carey his choice of bishops, and say Eusebius and — Jonathan Edwards, 
the distinguished divine of our own country, I may suppose myself 
in good standing with your ladyship." 

" Jonathan Edwards sounds so flat !" 

" That is because you do not understand again. He is one of the 
greatest writers our country has produced, and is universally respected 
in Europe, where his writings are much Fead and prized." 

" Your father can always make out a very good case, you see, Alice : 
it does not answer to criticize him very narrowly. I hope Euripides and 
worthy Erasmus will be considered admissible. For your information, 
Alice, I can only say, that the former was a celebrated tragic poet of 
Athens, before Christ, and the latter — Maude, what do you know of 
Erasmus? I have seen you reading 'Sir Thomas More' to Miss 
Emily lately, and as the intimate friend of that gentleman, you must 
have learned considerable of Erasmus." 

"Yes, he was often mentioned, Mr. Carey, but you know the book 


was called ' The Household of Sir Thomas More ;' and Miss Emily 
says, it was only an imitation of old-time style and phrase, and 
though ' founded upon facts,' as the story- writers say, it was not a 
veritable history. Erasmus was the friend of Sir Thomas, and a 
friend to the great Keformation, which commenced in England in the 
time of Henry VIII. But I have the idea that he was a cautious man, 
not so bold as Luther." 

" How sage you are, Maude ! So he was — a man of great learning, 
a Hollander, though he lived much in England. He was certainly 
friendly to the Reformation, and would have rendered it a great 
service, had he not been afraid to be strong and resolute in opposing 
the powerful, but corrupt, Church of Rome. Luther valued him highly, 

ajmjiter UKEK. 

OUND the trumpet, beat the drum ! 
Here Arthur's conquering heroes come ! 

! and that is original ; I always want martial music when 
it comes Arthur's turn," said Herbert ; " he ushers 
m such stately, grand old geniuses in the line of Mars and Co. 

" Strike on, Herbert ; neither Epaminondas, the famous Theban, nor 
Eugene, Prince of Savoy, ever shrunk from mortal combat." 

" 1 thought so, Arthur — Prince Arthur, you ought to be called, my 
valorous, eloquent cousin. I suppose, in the name of the worshipful 
company here assembled, I may signify that your friends are worthy 
and welcome ; of course, as gentlemen, they will not enter the 
presence of ladies booted and spurred." 

" What nonsense, Herbert ! you know they were great men — I saw 
papa nod his head when Arthur named them," said Alice. 

" Did he 1 Well, then, I have nothing to say. I did not know 
but that Arthur was hesitating about their claims, and I was trying to 
aeassure him." 

" Oh, you are welcome to thrust and cut, Herbert ; my heroes 


have turned aside brighter and keener weapons than yours, my good 
comrade, in their glorious days. What tame times we live in, Mr. 
Clayton ! no one performs great deeds now." 

" You are mistaken, my lad. In the darkness of the past, the few 
souls whose illumination withstood the clouds, shine forth in great 
splendour. Civilization, learning, enlightenment, and Christianity, all 
tend to destroy the great distinctions which were so evident then. A 
great levelling has taken place : the lofty have not been brought down, 
but the lowly have been lifted up. The mass is becoming penetrated 
with light. Instead of one learned man to illuminate our age, there 
are scores — hundreds. Instead of one. orator, one statesman, the 
senate-chambers of nations are full of them. As for warriors — 
war has been reduced to such a science now, that the bravery and 
daring of a single person has much less opportunity to become 
known, unless some chance favours its exhibition and fame. I vote for 
the present age oftthe world, with its sublime realities of progress ; with 
its wonderful strides into the mysteries of nature ; with its arts of 
peace, and with the blessfcig of our God upon every- humanitarian 
effort, seeking the relief of the body and the salvation of the soul. We 
have great heroes now, Arthur. Try, some other evening, to summon 
men whose daring and strength of soul have made them heroes of 
humanity.— Well, Herbert?" * 

" I am a little in Arthur's line, papa. I am hurrying along the 
gallant Edwards, First and Third, and Edward the Black Prince. 
Take your choice, as papa said of his bishops. For my part, 1 don't 
think much of any of them ; they were only great warriors, like 
Herbert's man. Now here is Edward Everett, who is more worth 

" Because he is a Yankee, Herbert ?" 

" Yes, if you say so, because he is a true-hearted, eloquent, patriotic 
American : and I just wish I was old enough to vote at the next 
election ! I hope, papa, you and Mr. Carey are going to vote for 

" Pshaw ! Herbert, what nonsense you have talked this evening ! 
What do you know about politics ?" 


" Oh, nothing, papa, now ; but I have to learn a great deal, you 
know, before I can be President of the United States, as I intend to 
be : so I thought I might as well interest myself in the right party 

" Incorrigible boy !" said his father, laughingly. " Relieve him of 
such a burden of patriotism, Maude, by diverting his attention to your 
lady. Who is it this time ?" 

"A queen, Sir — Queen Eleanor, the wife of one of Herbert's King 
Edwards — the First, I believe — I mean the queen who pleaded for the 
noble men of Calais, when they had offered themselves up as hostages 
for the city. And my second E is Miss Edgeworth, the authoress of 
so many delightful stories, the dutiful daughter and the noble-minded 

" Maude, my love, you have done very well. And so you pre- 
ferred Eleanor to Queen Elizabeth — I beg your pardon, Alice ; per- 
haps I am taking away yours." 

"No, indeed," said Alice ; " I did not think of her, it is true ; but 
I don't believe she was as good as my people are, and I know she 
wasn't good enough for Maude." 

" How do you know so much ?" 

" I've read some history, Herbert — ' Child's Histories,' and such 
things, you know," she answered modestly ; " and Queen Bess, as 
they call her, seems to have been a hard, unlovely woman." 

" You are Miss Emily's pupil, most evidently, Alice; but, do you 
know, I think she has a prejudice against Queen Elizabeth." 

'Ah, papa, Miss Emily would n't say a thing unless she knew it — 
would you, Miss Emily 1 — and she thinks what I have said." 

" So do I, Alice ; but I think the poor queen was unfortunate too, 
for she had few to love her, though many flattered her and fawned 
about her ; and she envied those who were loved for themselves alone, 
in spite of her hard heart. It was this lack of real love which made 
her grow hard-hearted. — What is your selection, Alice V 

" Papa, I have chosen Edward the Sixth, the good little king. 
Don't you remember he wouldn't let one of his courtiers stand upon 
the Bible, but took it up and wiped the dust off, and kissed it 



reverently. And besides him, I chose a heroine in your own sense of 
the word. Her history is told in a little book called ' Elizabeth, or 
the Exiles of Siberia.' You know she walked hundreds of miles over 
the ice and suow, and through strange countries, to reach St. Peters- 
burg, where she might see the Emperor or Empress, and get a pardon 
for her parents." 

" You have made a better selection, Alice, in ' Elizabeth,' than you 
would have made in Queen Bess. The heroine of your story was 
not really named Elizabeth, but Prasca Loupoloff. Madame Cottin 
told the story, and gave her the name under which you know her, and 
by which she is best known everywhere. It is a beautiful incident in 
the history of woman. And now let us have prayers ; and you, 
young people, can go dream of those whom we have discussed this 


artmtj sfflitg; 

With the dawn a - wak - ing Lord, I sing thy praise ; 
-^ N St— J S- 


Guide me to thee, mak-ing Me to know thy ways 

With the dawn awaking, 
Lord, I sing thy praise ; 

Guide me to thee, making 
Me to know thy ways. 

All thy precepts keeping 
Whole and undefined, 

Waking, Lord, or sleeping, 
Let me be thy child. 

i BUxt of ait #$#♦ 

©fcapter l T iI£. 

V^ HE pilgrim could no longer restrain his emotion ; the 
tears started from his eyes : in an instant he threw aside 
his pilgrim's dress, which covered the costume of a noble 
knight. He was young, strong, and handsome, and no 
other than the Count Lindenberg himself. Clasping 
them to his bosom, he sobbed aloud, " O Rosalind, my 
wife ! my children !" 

The Lady Rosalind stood for some time motionless 
with joy and surprise ; nor did the children know what to make of the 
sudden change in the appearance of the pilgrim. At length, when she 
had somewhat regained her composure, Lindenberg informed his wife 
that he had come in search of her, with a numerous retinue, whom he 
had left at some distance in the rear, in consequence of the difficulties 
of the journey ; and that having assumed the dress of a pilgrim, (a 
custom very common in those times with knights who wished to pass 
unknown,) he had hastened forward, to assure himself under that dis- 
guise of her health and safety, and to prepare her by degrees for the 
joyful news of his return. To her inquiries respecting his adven- 
tures, he replied in the following words : 

" Our reunion, my dear Rosalind, is the reward of your goodness 
to the poor, and more especially to the children of this valley. It is 
for this that Providence has restored to your children the father whom 
they have prayed for. Had it not been for your generous and pious 
sentiments, we should not yet have been united ; perhaps, indeed, we 
might never have met again ; for you were surrounded with enemies, 
and might in an instant have fallen into their power. Stromberg was 
in pursuit of you, even to the moment of my arrival in the moun- 
tains. Look at this," — and he showed her the egg bearing the 

motto : 

" To those who on his help rely, 
In time of trouble, God is nigh." 


" It is this egg which, under God, has been the means of bringing 
us together. For months past, I had sent squire after squire in 
search of you, but in vain. At length one, whose name is Egbert, 
returned after so long an absence that fears had been entertained of 
his safety. He had fallen down a precipice, and was at the point of 
death from starvation, when a young man discovered him in that 
frightful condition, satisfied his hunger, and presented him, in memory 
of his happy deliverance, with this egg, bearing a device so appropri- 
ate. No sooner had I seen it, than, to my great surprise and joy, I 
recognized your handwriting. We made for the dwelling of the 
stonecutter in whose cottage Egbert had found an asylum, as fast as 
our horses could carry us ; and under the guidance of the young man 
whom you relieved, I have found my way hither. If your heart had 
not suggested the idea of giving an entertainment to the children of 
the valley ; if you had not thought of mingling instruction with their 
amusement, by means of the mottoes inscribed upon the eggs ; and 
if my dear Frederic and Blanche had been less charitable towards the 
poor young stranger, this happy day might not yet have arrived. 
Thus it is that the most trifling act of goodness, performed in a pure 
and disinterested spirit, draws down the blessing of God upon the 
agent, even in this world. Remember this, my children, and be ever 
ready to do all the good in your power. Follow the example of your 
dear mother ; relieve the afflicted ; pity the distressed ; be merciful, 
and you shall obtain mercy ! Relying on the protection of your 
Maker, you will still continue to experience the fulfilment of that 
eternal truth, whereof our own history furnishes such a striking ex- 
ample. Reflect seriously on the events of this day ; place your trust 
in God, and he will never forsake you. I will have this egg set in 
pearls and gold, and suspend it in a conspicuous place in the castle, as 
a memorial of the mercies of God, and an encouragement to deserve 

As the evening now began to close in apace,' the Count accompanied 
his wife to her residence in the valley ; the children running before 
them a little in advance. On their arrival they found Egbert and 
Edward at the cottage, who had hastened to apprize Bertram of the 



happy return of his beloved master, and the tidings had already pro- 
duced a sensible improvement in his health. Edward ran gaily for- 
ward to salute the lady and her children, and Egbert respectfully 
requested to kiss her generous hand, which had been the means, by 
God's help, of preserving his life. The Count tenderly embraced his 
old servant, and grasped with affection the hand of the worthy miller, 
who was there to welcome him, and offer his congratulations to the 
Countess. They all supped together, at the Count's desire, and no- 
thing was wanting to complete the happiness of the whole. 

On the morrow, joy was at its height in the valley. The news that 
a great lord had arrived, and that this great lord was the husband of 
their kind benefactress, produced a great sensation in every family. 
Old and young were in motion towards the cottage, to pay their re- 
spects to the noble stranger. He received them with great cordiality ; 


saluted the good folks with much kindness, and thanked them for all 
that they had done for his wife and children. 

" Indeed, we have done nothing for her," they said, with tears in 
their eyes ; " it is she who has loaded us with benefits." 

The Count conversed for a long time with the good people, and 
spoke to each of them separately ; and all were affected with his 
affability and benevolence. 

Count Lindenberg spent several days in the valley ; and before his 
departure he gave an entertainment to all the inhabitants. At the 
same table were seated the miller, the charcoal-burners, the Count's 
retainers, himself and his family. In the course of the evening he made 
presents to all his guests, and gave a handsome token of his regard 
to the miller. Edward and his family were not forgotten, a handsome 
provision being made for their future support. Martha continued in 
the service of the Countess. 

Before they departed, the Count addressed the children of the val- 
ley. -"I do not wish," he observed, " that the residence of the Coun- 
tess Eosalind among you should soon be forgotten; and every Easter 
there shall be an annual festival, at which coloured eggs shall form part 
of the entertainment. Independently of her deliverance from so 
great perils and affliction, these eggs will remind you of a deliverance 
far more interesting and important, as it more immediately affects 
yourselves. This other deliverance is the redemption of mankind 
from sin and from death, by that Saviour who triumphed over both. 
The feast of Easter is therefore a feast of especial rejoicing ; and its 
celebration ought to awaken, in the breast of every one, that Christian 
love which is the very essence of religion. As God has loved us, so 
should we love one another ; and we know that the love of God 
towards us is greater than that of the most affectionate father to his 
children. Of this divine love, the egg given to you maybe regarded 
as a striking emblem with reference to the words of our blessed 
Saviour : ' If a son shall ask an egg of any of you that is a father, 
will he offer him a scorpion 1 ? If ye, then, being evil, know how to 
give good gifts to your children, how much more shall your Father 
which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him !' " 

<ira)ttat0f(].er ^tttujite's' fmtet 

-EAR GRANDMOTHER,— In two days I shall have 
the pleasure of being with you. Expect me on the 23d. 
Your affectionate granddaughter, 

Grandmother Antique laid down the note and her 
spectacles together. This was indeed a pleasant sur- 
prise ; she had not seen Fanny since she was six years of age, and 
she had now reached twelve. 

Preparations were accordingly made for the reception of the young 
visitor ; and, every thing being arranged, Grandmother Antique sat 
down with her knitting to await the arrival of her expected guest. 
At length the stage horn was heard, and emerging from a cloud of 
dust, the stage itself reached the door, and Fanny, jumping out, was 
soon clasped in the fond arms of Grandmother Antique. 

" Dear me, how excessively fatigued I am," said the young lady, as 
she threw herself on the sofa, and allowed her grandmother to re- 
move her bonnet. 

" My child," said Grandmother Antique anxiously, as she gazed at 
the drooping beauty, now reclining at full length, " let me get you a 
cup of tea ; it will refresh you, no doubt." 

"Black tea, then, grandmother, if you please," was the languid 

" Oh dear !" ejaculated the old lady : " at your age, child, I never 
knew that tea had more than one colour." 

"Ah ! dear grandmother," was the answer, " the young people of 
these days know infinitely more than those of your time ;" and the 
young person of these days bestowed a look of pity upon the vener- 
able, but, alas ! ignorant relic of the past. 

" No doubt, my dear," said the old lady submissively, " you can 
teach your grandmother many things." 



The next morning, Grandmother Antique was seated at the break- 
fast table when her granddaughter made her appearance. 

" Grandmother," she said, " I have been exploring your premises, 
and wonder greatly that you do not modernize your building. These 
doors want improving ; arches are now the fashion ; and plate glass, 
that of a pink tinge, would be a beautiful substitute for these queer 
little panes, that look as if they came from Lilliput. How can you 
stand these old fashions, grandmother 1" 

" My dear," said the old lady, " youth loves novelty, but age is 
ever averse to change. I would not exchange these little panes, 
through which the sunshine has looked in upon me lovingly for fifty 
years, for all the plate glass ever made." 

The fashionable Fanny looked with amazement at Grandmother 
Antique ; for she agreed with the adage, that " one had better be out 
of the world than out of the fashion." 

Fanny remained two weeks with her grandmother, and then de- 
parted for her home, having given the old lady a peep at modern 
times, and opened for her the door through which she could look into 
the gay world of fashion. Time sped on, and Fanny sped on with 
time. At eighteen she had visited every fashionable watering-place 
in the Union, been introduced to eveiy " distinguished foreigner" who 
had appeared in society, and had been whirled in the waltz and schot- 
tische by every moustached gentleman who pleased to do her that 
honour. She had kept pace with every fashion, however ridiculous, 
and freely partaken of every amusement that fashionable society 
afforded. At twenty, there was nothing more left for her to enjoy, 
and she concluded to pay another visit to Grandmother Antique. 

The old lady was still residing in her ancient house, the window- 
panes of which had grown no larger, neither had Time turned the 
doors into arches. Contentedly here she still dwelt, listening to the 
waves of fashion that rolled afar off, but never beat against her peace- 
ful home. 

Restless and dejected, Fanny wandered the first day over the house, 
and when evening spread itself like a black mantle over the earth, 
she joined her grandmother at the cheerful fireside, 


The old lady gazed with sorrowful surprise at the pale, dejected 
countenance of her grandchild, and heard with heartfelt pain the long- 
drawn sighs that emanated from her bosom. She naturally concluded 
that some deep sorrow had crossed the path of the young girl since 
they had last met, and moved by what, to her, seemed sad demonstra- 
tions of grief, she at length said — 

" My love, you seem very unhappy." 

" No, grandmother, only weary," was the reply. 

"Weary of what?" asked Grandmother Antique with surprise. 

" Weary of the world, grandmother : it is such a dull place." 

'• My child, my child," said the old lady reprovingly, " this world, 
with its thousand avenues of pleasure and amusement, a dull place — 
this world, created by God's own hand, and filled by his bounty with 
such numberless beauties !" 

" I am tired of amusements, grandmother ; they no longer possess 
power to amuse me." 

" No wonder, my love, that you are tired of amusements, as you 
have done nothing else since you were fourteen but amuse yourself. 
But you like balls, do you not ?" 

" Not now, I am tired of them," was the answer ; " and I have 
been in society so long that people seem tired of seeing me there, 
and no one pays me any attention." 

" You like the opera, do you not, my dear V was the next question. 

" Yes, I did, but I am tired of that too. I have heard all the 
famous singers." 

"Then, my dear,"'said Grandmother Antique, "since you have no 
relish for the pleasures of the world, you fortunately possess in do- 
mestic occupations an ever-flowing and never-wearying fount of plea- 
sure. Now there, for instance, is sewing; a woman can always 
amuse herself with her needle ; and I assure you that more happi- 
ness lies at the point of that shining little implement of industry 
than lazy people imagine." 

" Oh, dear grandmother, I never touch a needle ; they are dangerous 
things. I remember reading a description of the tombs in Westmin- 
ster Abbey, among which is a monument erected to the memory of 


Lady Elizabeth Russell, who died from a wound inflicted on her finger 
by a needle. Ever since, I have been afraid to sew, as I do not desire 
to gain my tombstone by such a catastrophe as that." 

" Well, then, there is reading, my love, which is the most delight- 
ful and improving of all the ways of passing time." 

" Reading, grandmother, is injurious to my health ; it produces a 
fulness in the head very unpleasant." 

"A fulness in the head, my dear," said Grandmother Antique, 
dryly, " would be a decided improvement to that part, which, I fear, 
is now suffering from an opposite cause." 

Eanny gazed long and thoughtfully into the fire, and at length said, 

" The truth is, grandmother, I begin to think that I partook of the 
pleasures of the world at too early an age, and at twenty I am sati- 
ated with worldly amusements ; and, oh ! what is still worse, I have 
cultivated no taste for the quiet joys of home." 

Grandmother Antique laid down her knitting, and, looking at her 
grandchild, said solemnly — 

" My love, yours is the most painful confession 1 have ever heard 
from youthful lips. Ah ! youth knows not what it does when, eager 
to grasp at the pleasures of maturer years, it cuts impatiently the 
chain that moors its bark to the safe shores of childhood, and dashes 
out into the wide and perilous stream of the world. Yours was, in- 
deed, a fatal mistake — to drink so early and deeply of Pleasure's 
cup, that at twenty you have quaffed it to the dregs, and there is 
nothing more left for you to enjoy. Oh ! would, my child, that some 
kind friend had early impressed on your young heart this truth — 

"That youth, burning to forestall its nature. 
And will not wait for time to ferry it 
Over the stream, flings itself into 
The flood, and perishes." 


t €xqsb jSrjrflfllmistnss. 

T is almost forty years since sister and I went to school 
to the cross teacher, yet I can distinctly remember her 
personal appearance. She was rather large, had black hair, 
and eyes quite too black to be pretty ; then she always 
wore a frown that made us afraid to speak to her. To 
the older girls she was more indulgent, but we little 
ones of four and six years old must sit perfectly still, or 
punishment would follow. We were learning to sew. I 
was making a patch-work quilt, and can almost see now the two pieces 
that were given me for a start on one hot summer's afternoon. My 
poor eyes were half shut, the thimble would drop, the needle lose 
itself, the thread grow soiled, and the stitches lay one over the other. 
But at length the task was finished, and with an aching back and head 
I carried it to the cross schoolmistress. She told me that the work 
was very badly done, and as a punishment a boy's hat was placed 
upon my head, and I was compelled to go to every boy in the room, 
showing him the work. One would snatch it from me, and throw it 
across the room ; another would drop it behind the desk ; another 
would spit upon it, and throw it in my face. Each time I was obliged 
to pick it up and go to the next boy, while my cruel mistress stood 
laughing at me. Oh, how my heart swelled with anger towards her. 
I have never truly forgiven her, and have almost hated boys ever 
since that day. 

The school-room was in the second story of the building, a store 
being kept below. One of her punishments was to shut us up in a 
dark garret, the stairs to which led from the school-room. To this 
place I was often sent, for, being no favourite, almost any trifle would 
serve as an excuse to send me from her sight for an hour. When 
there, the door was shut, and she could not see the frightened child 
that clung in terror to the door-latch, afraid to venture up even one 
stair. What was it to her that there was a small hole in the roof, 


that let the light in like a star, but which to my imagination seemed 
ever like an evil eye 1 What cared she that fright brought the per- 
spiration from every pore, or that anger and hatred were taking pos- 
session of a heart that might have been led much more easily with a 
kind word ? It was well for us that we had a mother then. This was 
not allowed to continue, for we were taken from the school, having 
attended but three months. 

In the school were two little orphans. Their parents had died a few 
months before, and they were left to the care of an intemperate grand- 
mother. Fannie, the eldest, was a sweet child, but very diffident, 
almost afraid of her own shadow ; yet of such a loving, trusting dis- 
position, that a harsh word would almost break her heart. Luther 
was a noble boy, full of fun and frolic, caring for nothing but his sis- 
ter and play. One day he made Fannie laugh aloud in school, and 
for this dreadful crime both were sent into the garret. A long time 
passed. They heard Miss P. dismiss the school, and leave the room, 
yet were afraid to make a noise. At length they gained courage to 
come down into the school-room, and seat themselves very quietly by 
the window, thinking that she would come presently and let them go 
home. But, alas ! she had forgotten them ; her day's task was done, 
and not one thought of the lonely orphans crossed her mind. They 
watched the setting sun, then the stars as they came out one by one, 
then the lighting of the street lamps ; but they grew hungry and 
sleepy, and as the room grew dark, drew closer to each other, and 
talked in whispers. Fannie tried to cheer her brother, and even went 
so far as to lie down upon the bench, saying that she was going to 
sleep ; but as she did so, a shadow from something passing in the 
street was thrown upon the wall. It frightened her so much that she 
gave one scream and fainted. The cries of. Luther soon brought 
assistance from the store below. The door of the school-room was 
broken open, and the almost lifeless child taken to her home. She 
had received a shock from which she never recovered. In two shori 
weeks they laid her in the grave. Luther has lived to be a man, and 
is now in South America. I often wonder if he has ever forgotten 
the cross schoolmistress. 


Saint IJrfwr's at %mt 

NY written description of this, the most magnificent 
cathedral in the world, must fail to convey a full idea 
of its extent and grandeur to the mind of one who 
has never seen it. It is as unequalled, perhaps, among 
churches, as Niagara is among water-falls ; and it is 
proverbial that the descriptions of Niagara are inade- 
quate to give the reader a just impression of the won- 
drous scene. Comparatively few of the young readers of this Magazine 
will ever have the pleasure of beholding for themselves the glorious 
dome of St. Peter's, albeit it may be now the dream of their young 
imaginations and ardent hopes that they will some day visit "La bella 
Italia" and see Rome, once "the proud mistress of the world!" 
Whatever may be their aspirations, they will not turn away indiffer- 
ently from the beautiful picture which prefaces this article, and which 
presents as fine a coup d'oeil* of St. Peter's as it is possible, perhaps, 
to give in a single view. 

This grand cathedral is called a Basilica, and is one of seven which 
are found in " the Eternal City." Basilica was the name applied to 
a public tribunal in the latter days of the Roman Empire, and the 
early Christians it is supposed used these courts of justice (Basilicce) 
for places of worship. The first Christian temples were constructed 
after the same model, and perhaps upon the very sites of these Basilicse ; 
and the old St. Peter's had all the peculiarities of a Basilica. Though 
the new cathedral retains none of these, it has not survived the old name. 
In the year 306 of the Christian era, Constantine built the Basilica 
of St. Peter, on the spot where it is said the body of the apostle was 
buried after his crucifixion. 

Twelve centuries afterwards, Pope Julius II. began to rebuild it ; 
but very little progress was made during the first half of the sixteenth 
century. About that time the rebuilding of the church was entrusted 
to Michael Angelo by Pope Paul III. ; and when he died in 1563, at 
the age of eighty-nine, the drum of the great double dome was 
just finished. The dome itself was completed in 1590, under Pope 

* Pronounced coo-deul, and means a general view, 


246 saint peter's at Rome. 

Sextus V., who employed six hundred men upon it day and night, 
and spent a hundred thousand gold crowns every year. 

Thirty-six years later than this, (in 1626,) the church was solemnly 
dedicated by Pope Urban VIII., but the grand colonnade which sur- 
rounds the piazza was not built until nearly fifty years afterwards ; 
and so late as 1780, Pope Pius built the sacristy, and gilded the in- 
terior of the roof. From the time that Nicolas V. laid the founda- 
tion, (1450,) three hundred and thirty years passed before the whole 
was completed, and sixty millions of dollars had been expended upon 
the works. 

This grand cathedral covers an area of 240,000 square feet, or a 
space larger than the square upon which the New York Crystal Palace 
stands. The extreme length of the interior of the cathedral is over 
600 feet. The height of the nave is 152 feet. 

The dome is the great glory of St. Peter's. It is supported on 
four vast columns, and its height from the tesselated pavement to the 
lantern is 405 feet, while the cross rises yet 30 feet above. There 
are two domes, between which winds the staircase that conducts the 
visitor to the lantern. The diameter of the inner dome is 139 feet, 
while the extreme diameter of the outer dome is 195 feet. These 
measurements much exceed the dimensions of St. Paul's Cathedral 
in London, the next grandest religious temple in the world. 

The facade or front of St. Peter's is very imposing, though it some- 
what conceals the dome, and was no part of the great Michael Angelo's 
plan. The colonnade around the Piazza is worthy of the building. 
It is semicircular, and embraces nearly 300 columns, in four rows, 
between the inner two of which two carriages can drive abreast. On 
the cornice are 192 statues of saints, each 12 feet high. These colon- 
nades are connected with the cathedral by two covered galleries, each 
360 feet long. 

Of the interior wonders of St. Peter's — its vaulted and gilded 
naves, and its vestibules — its pavements and its crypts — its piers and 
pilasters — its statues and its bas-reliefs — its wonderful relics and 
shrines — its monuments and mosaics — it is impossible to speak, in 
detail, in this brief description. The pen cannot describe, in three or 



four pages, what the eye grew tired with seeing in a whole day, and 
still left the half unseen. Every thing is stupendous, except, strange 
to tell, the first impression of size which the visitor receives. St. 
Peter's does not appear in its full magnitude at first, and this is 
accounted by some as a beauty in its effect. The huge size of the 
statues — of dimensions to which the eye is not accustomed — helps to 
diminish the whole building at the first view, and some time elapses 
before the colossal proportions are seen in their real grandeur. 

Here are celebrated the most splendid pageants of the Roman Ca- 
tholic religion, under the very eye of the Pope, who calls himself 
God's vicegerent. The festivals of St. Peter's are as wonderful as 
the building. On Easter Sunday the cathedral is illuminated, and 
the effect mocks the feebleness of words. Every part of the edifice, 
including the dome, is converted into a blaze of light, by about seven 
thousand lanterns and flambeaux, which are kindled almost instantly 
by nearly four hundred men. A full description of this splendid 
temple, and of all the ceremonies which are performed within it, 
might fill a volume of our Magazine, but we have even now ex- 
hausted all the space we can command for it. 


A little child, with gentle heart, 

Is this sweet child of ours, 
Who dwelleth 'mid her sister band, 

A bud among the flowers. 
Her voice is ever soft and low, 

Her ways so calm and stilly ; 
What angels call her we know not, 

But we have named her Lilly. 

She is to us what lustrous stars 

Are to the*azure heaven, 
A something bright and holy too, 

A precious glory given ; 
A joy, a hope, a present good, 

And, aye, the future's blessing ; 
A child on whom to shower love, 

And all the heart's caressing. 


We know the angel band above 

Have many a shining treasure, 
Gems pluck'd from crowns of earthly love 

By God's own sovereign pleasure. 
Earth, too, can boast of lovely buds, 

Fresh blooming in her bowers, 
But few have such a perfect grace 

As this sweet bud of ours. 

Kind angels watch this precious child, 

And keep her pure for heaven, 
That we may yield the jewel up 

As bright as it was given ; 
That she may stand with harp in hand 

Amidst seraphic choir, 
A seraph-child, who, when on earth, 

The angels scarce were higher. 

E. B. C. 

Itiapra $%[[&. 

Cataeact House, Niagara, 
6th June, 1854. 

Y DEAR PUPILS,— Beside the Falls— the "Thun- 
der of waters" — I write to you. You know Niagara 
is, in Indian parlance, " Thunder of waters ;" and as 
I sit by my window with the rapids beneath, 1 think 
the Indian name most expressive. You must not 
think I am going to attempt to describe Niagara. Oh, no ; more able 
pens than mine have failed. If you would have an idea of them, you 
must come and see them. 

I know not why descriptions of Niagara have often been such 
failures. I am inclined to think one reason may be, that its beauty 
and grandeur are not concentrated — that its scenes of surpassing in- 
terest are varied, scattered, and not uniform. Here is a cascade 
wreathing the waters into pearl — there is a vast cataract of emerald 
hue, contrasting with the silvery foam at its feet ; and then the heavy 
fogs ascending, and the magic mists, and the leaping spray rejoicing, 
give wondrous beauty to the scene. 

The waters are studded with islands, and none are more picturesque 
than the " Three Sisters." Iris, or Goat Island, held us captive for 
several hours. On the American side it affords some of the finest 
views of the Falls. The island itself is a spot of rural enchantment, 
fit abode for Iris — the rainbow. We saw an Indian woman at work 
with beads, and purchased some of the ornamented articles. On this 
island, too, we found a man with a table covered with specimens of 
minerals — some very fine ones of dog-tooth spar, and some seals cut 
out of the gypsum from about Table Rock. 

After we had again and again contemplated Niagara from the 
American side, we descended about three hundred feet in a car moved 
by a water-wheel, and entered a small boat. In viewing, from the 
eminence from which we went down, these small craft tossed upon 
the waters, some doubt of their safety would enter the mind ; but 
when we were really in the boat, although it careered on the current, 
we thought not of fear. The amphitheatre of cataracts around us 




filled the mind ; but, as I said before, I cannot describe the Falls. 
Our boatman turned aside to take up from the wild waters a poor 
little duck which had perished in coming over the Falls — a passage 
which neither bird nor man can take and live. 

We were soon landed in Victoria's dominions ; and after winding 
up a steep ascent, we took a view of Table Rock, and wondered while 
we gazed on the works of an Almighty hand. 

Here " deep calleth unto deep." It was fit, as a dear friend has 
said, that our beloved father, *before he was exalted to behold hea- 
venly glory, should have looked on earth's "Gloria in excelsis." 
" Oh, Lord ! how manifold are thy works ! In wisdom hast thou 
made them all : the earth is full of thy riches." 

Near the cataract, I gathered some small flowers, exquisitely deli- 
cate. Flowers have been called the smiles of God's goodness ; and 
beside those august and majestic cataracts, did not these little perfect 
flowers speak as impressively of their Creator as did the roaring 
waters 1 Did they not bid us trust Him who " clothes the grass," 
and who has said, " Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow : 
they toil not, neither do they spin, and yet I say unto you that even 
Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these." And 
now, my dear pupils, adieu ! 

Your affectionate teacher, M. B. 

5 Itdjrn\ 

'Twas in the autumn's dreary close, 

A long, long time ago ; 
The berries of the brier-rose 

Hung red above the snow, 
And night had spread a shadow wild 

About the earth and sky, 
When, calling me her orphan child, 

She said that she must die. 

She rests within the narrow tomb, 

The narrow and the chill ; 
The window of our cabin-home 

Looks out upon the hill. 
Oh, when the world seems wild and wile, 

And friends to love me few, 
I think of how she lived and died, 

And gather strength anew. 

Alice Carey. 

* The Rev. Dr. Bates visited Niagara only a few months before his death. 


%\i %i^\tx t % €txttx. 

N answer to Lettie Wilson's charade, published in 
May, we have received the following note from 
" Willie." We've a fancy that we have heard from 
Willie before under a different name, but we are 
always glad to hear from him, whatever title he may 

assume ; and doubtless our little readers will listen as willingly as our 

self to his clever lines. 

Dear Schoolfellow: — 

I have puzzled my brain over Lettie's charade, 
'Till I fear she has followed the footsteps of Praed, 
Who caused his enigmas to be so involved 
In mystical words, that they cannot be solved. 

Hearts truly belong both to man and to woman, 
Yet a heart is by no means " essentially human," 
Since it throbbingly beats in the bosom of all 
The animal kingdom, gigantic or small. 

But we all love our ease, with a proneness to use it 
With too much indulgence, by which we oft lose it ; 
And when it is vanished, we weep, but in vain, 
Over withered enjoyments which bloom not again. 

That Hearths-ease may dwell in her dear sister's breast 
Till called from this world to her heavenly rest, 
I join in fair Lettie's affectionate prayer, 
And trust it may pass not unheard in the air. 


P. S. — "• Lady-bird" is the answer to Marian's pretty charade ; but 
as some of my school-mates are waiting for me to go out of town to 
fly our kites, I haven't time to write an "answer in verse now. I'm 
no great hand at poetry any how, as you will see by the sample 
above, which is nothing more, after all. than plain prose with jingling 
ends to the lines. 



Our thanks are due to " Little Ned" for his answer to the same. 
We cannot answer for Miss Lettie, whether she will extend her good 
wishes to him or not ; but should she be so hard-hearted, 

We ourselves, " though we don't know his name," 
Will heartily wish Little Ned "just the same!" 

The next answer is — 



My lady in her drawing-room, bedecked with gorgeous things, 
Grows weary of the mockery of rich apparelings, 
And weary of the flattery of gallants at her feet- 
She better loves the garden flowers and bird-song wild and sweet. 

And in the fairy little hand so many strive to win, 

She 'd rather hold the Lady-bird shut tenderly within, 

Than diamonds radiant with the light, and worth an earldom wide, 

From that false-hearted cavalier who wooes her for his bride ! 

Having now disposed of the unsolved riddles of our May issue, we 
will leave those of June for August, so that all our little friends who 
take an interest in our "Riddler's Corner" may have time to prepare 
and send us their solutions. We hope that we shall receive abundant 
answers to them all ; and also to the following beautiful charades by 
our ever-attentive friend H., whom we cannot sufficiently thank fox 
his interest in this department of our little magazine. 

My first is found with many fish at sea, 
With merry blackbirds singing in the tree ; 
And though a bugbear to our early days, 
In after-life commands our highest praise. 

My second part, a double sense revealing, 
Expresses oft a kind and friendly feeling ; 
But when applied to those we do not love, 
A common term of deep contempt will prove. 

252 the riddler's corner. 

My whole comes richly laden with his sweets 
Within our doors, and warm reception meets ; 
A welcome friend, whose pleasure seems to be 
To keep our hearts from sin and sadness free. 

A friend to the feeble, the faint, and depressed, 
The weary from toil in my bosom find rest ; 
O'er sorrow and care my deep mantle I cast, 
With a prayer for the future, a sigh for the past. 

Though others delight o'er the wide world to roam, 
My taste is domestic, my throne is at home ; 
I never am out — never pass the front door — 
But welcome within both the rich and the poor. 

I sweep o'er the ocean, I range o'er the land, 
Dismember tall trees, and hold ships at command ; 
When gentle, I soften the sun's scorching ray, 
And sport in the curls of sweet children at play. 

My whole, unassuming and modest of mien, 
Lives daily secluded, and seldom is seen ; 
A skilful musician, whose voice we all praise, 
Ever cautiously shunning the popular gaze. 



I'm ever on the tongue of scolds, 

I dwell with discontent, 
I speak in all the vain complaints 

Which grumbling lips invent ; 
I wander with the rippling streams, 

I sport in every rill, 
I whisper in the gentle breeze, 

When all around is still. 

But when you turn me " end for end," 

To use a sailor's phrase, 
I often greet the sailor's lips 

That loudly sing my praise. 
Weak mortals fondly dote on me, 

Embracing me with joy, 
Though sent by crafty Satan forth 

My votaries to destroy. 

H. O. 


Why is an English wit like an old inebriate ? 
What style of dress is like a drunkard's nose ? 
Why is a shoe on a level with man ? 
Why is a lady like a loafer ? 

Published by Evans Sf Dickerson. 

Naughty Boys and Naughty Girls. 

Comic Tales and Colored Pictures. By P/r. Julius Bahr. 4to, 
in picture binding. 75 cents. 

Funny Leaves for the Younger Branches. 

By the Baron Krakemsides, of Burstenoudelafen Castle. Illus- 
trated by Alfred Crowquill. Colored Plates. 75 cents. 

A Laughter Book for Young Folks, 

From the German. By Madame de Chatelain. Eighteen large, 
colored, comic Engravings. 4to, picture binding. 75 cents. 

The Careless Chicken. 

By the Baron Krakemsides. Sixteen large colored Illustrations 
by Crowquill. Uniform with " Funny Leaves," " Laughter Book," 
&c. 75 cents. 

" Highly amusing books for children. Tho moral of the stories is unexceptionable, and 
the fun, if we may judge from the merriment Of a little critic to whom we submitted them 
last evening, is of the most exciting character." — N~. Y. Oommeroial Adve-ftiser. 

"These are indeed excellent books for children, and will make the little people, open 
their eyes and clap their hands with astonishment. We can highly commend them as the 
most attractive books we ever saw." — N. Y. Times. 

The Favorite Picture Book. 

A Gallery of Delights, designed for the Amusement and Instruction 
of the Young. Several Hundred Illustrations by Eminent Artists ; 
being the cheapest and most attractive Picture-book for Young 
Children published. 4to. $1 00. 

The cheapest and most attractive picture-book yet issued. The engravings are of the 
best character. 

Adventures of a Dog. 

By Alfred Elwes. Eight large Illustrations by Harrison Weir. 
Uniform with "Adventures of a Bear," " Comical People," " Comi- 
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edges, $1 50. 

Books for Young People, 

Cat and Dog : 

founded on Fact. By the Author of "The Doll and her 
Friends," &c. With four Illustrations by Harrison Weir. 
Square 12mo, cloth. 50 cents. 

_ " One of the most interesting and diverting juvenile works we have perused for a long 
time. It is an autobiography of a fine dog, named Captain, telling a most graphic, amus- 
ing and instructive story of his life. A charming moral runs through Captain's story, and 
his adventures, travels, courtship, &c, happily illustrated by four beautiful designs, will 
delight the adult as well as the juvenile reader." — Everting Mirror. 

" Adults and children may read it with equal pleasure, as tho story involves an excel- 
lent moral." — Com. Advertiser. 

Gems from Fable Land: 

By Wm. Oland Bourne ; a book admirably adapted to delight and 
instruct the young. Beautifully illustrated throughout. 1 vol., 
250 pp. 

"A great deal of research, and no small degree of literary taste, are shown in the pre - 
paration of this varied and beautiful volume. It is a book, that a grave parent may enjoy 
with the merriest child, so full is it of wisdom and amusement." — New York Christian 

"To illustrate fables by facts is a novel but useful and happy idea, and must tend to 
promote the highest objects of education when carried into effect as in the work before 
us. It is a credit to both publisher and author." — Christian InteUigenoer. 

" In this volume the great lessons of life are illustrated in a novel and useful manner. 
The book, which has numerous wood-cuts, is indeed a hive filled with choice sweets, 
gathered from many sources." — Home Journal. 

" Here is something of a novelty— a book of fables illustrated by anecdotes. The design 
is admirable, and we can but wonder that it has not before been carried out. The book 
possesses a double attraction." — Arthur's Home Gazette. 

" It is a book worthy to be universally read."— -N. Y. Commercial Advertiser. 

" The work is useful above other books for youth, as it is neither above nor below their 
capacity; and in all its unfoldings, it is replete with practical instruction." — Parlor 

The book is fitted at once to be eminently attractive and useful. It is impossible to 
open to any part of it without finding something to convey both innocent amusement and 
important instruction." — Albany Argus. 

" The poet-editor of this handsomely-published volume has made a happy selection of 
fables, graceful in literary style, and instructive in moral." — Neva Orleans Crescent. 

"We think that the author is the Bourne to whom readers will both turn and return." 
— Newark Dally Advertiser. 

€Mt nf Content*. 


Illustrated with Four Engravings. 

Milan Cathedral, . . .... . W. C. Richards. 

Sedgemoor, . . . . . . . Mrs. Manners. 

Obstinate Chicken, Selected. 

Geraldine's Holidays, Caroline Howard. 

Whj do you .sing ? Mrs. Richards. 

Legen 1 of Pansy, Mart E. 

Sailor Brothers, E. B. C. 

The Riddler's Corner. 


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do well to give early notice, either by post or otherwise, where they 
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697 Broadway. 

*V* Mr. Thomas C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

ikit Calfj^trraL 

/^^^HE following sketch of the Duomo at Milan, and the 
* ''' beautiful picture which precedes it, will form an appropriate 

pendant to the picture and description of St. Peter's at 
Eome, which we gave to our readers, in a recent number 
of this Magazine. Of Milan itself, we have not space to 
say more in this sketch, than that the city is a little over 
seven miles in circumference, and contains a population 
of about 150,000. It is the capital of Lombardy, and at one time was, 
in point of splendour, the second city of Italy. Our little readers 
may not know that our word Milliner is derived from Milan, which 
once " set the fashion" to all Europe. 

The Cathedral of Milan, called the Duomo, is situated near the 
centre of the city. Although nearly 500 years have elapsed, since the 
first stone of the present structure was laid, it is the fourth rebuilding 
of the original edifice that was destroyed by Attila, the King of the 
Goths, and being rebuilt, was burned in 1075. In 1162 it was again 
destroyed, this time by Frederick I., and the destruction was not 
complete. The Duke Giovanni Galeazzo Visconti, undertook the 
present edifice in fulfilment of a vow, and he employed a German 
architect to superintend the great work. To Heinrich Ahrler, and 
other architects from beyond the Alps, belongs the chief glory of this 
splendid structure, for they were preeminent in the work, although 
distinguished Italian architects were also employed. Like other vast 
structures of Europe, it was built slowly, and is not yet completed. 

The external appearance of the Duomo is exceedingly beautiful. 

The marble of which it is built was originally white, from quarries 

near Lake Maggiore, but time has given to it a rich yellow tint, which 

heightens the delicacy of the tracery upon its pilasters and pinnacles. 

The ground plan of the Duomo is a Latin cross, and terminates in 


what architects call an apsis, which is a figure represented by five sides 
of an octagon. The body of the church has an extreme length of 
485 feet, and a breadth of 252 feet. It is divided into a nave and 
four aisles, by four ranges of splendid columns, called clustered pillars. 
The height appears very great, from the way in which the vaultings of 
the roof spring from the pillars ; and the measurement, from the pave- 
ment to the crown of the vaulted roof, is 153 feet. The statue of 
the Madonna, which crowns the spire, rises still 200 feet above the 

Flanking the great door- way of the centre, are two granite columns, 
each a single block. These immense stones are 35 feet high and 
nearly four feet thick, and the two cost nearly $10,000. 

The painted windows of this cathedral were formerly of extraor- 
dinary beauty ; but much of the glass was shattered by the firing of 
cannon beneath the windows — which some historians charge to the 
French, but which, if the Italian annalists themselves are to be 
credited, was the work of the Italians, before the French occupied 
Milan. The Austrian government is restoring the beautiful windows, 
among other important labours upon this edifice. 

The whole effect of the interior is fitly described in the word 
sublime — though there is a mingled sense of bewilderment at the 
lofty and massive grandeur of the scene. The three gigantic windows 
of the eastern apsis, behind the grand altar, admit a flood of morning 
sunshine, and afford much the finest light in which to view the many 
striking objects of the interior. Its great, dark bronze pulpits have 
almost a gloomy air. There is one grand altar, and should be only 
one, according to the Ambrosian order ; but the genius of Romanism 
has introduced others, though much fewer in number than is usual 
in Romish churches. 

The chapels of this cathedral are less striking than they are in the 
corresponding cathedrals of Europe. That of San Giovanni Bono, 
at the end of the south transept, is the most beautiful. Tombs, 
statues, and monuments, constitute the principal objects of interest. 
Like other great cathedrals, it abounds in sculptures — not only in 
tombs and statues, but also in bas reliefs. 


The choir is very beautiful, fitted with richly-wrought stalls of black 
walnut wood, and the organ cases are elaborately carved and gilded. 
In the same manner are the singers' galleries finished. 

Beneath the choir is a lower church or croft, where winter services 
are held. It opens into the chapel of St. Carlo, which subterranean 
hall is only dimly lighted by an opening in the mosaic pavement of 
the cathedral, and tapers are necessary to inspect its oval bas-reliefs 
in silver gilt, which are eight in number, and represent events in the 
life of this Romish saint, some of which, as is commonly the case 
with these wonderful worthies, were quite miraculous. The most 
curious object, in this underground chapel, is. the body, of the saint, in 
a gorgeous shrine of gold and silver, the costly gift to the cathedral 
of Philip IV. of Spain. The corpse is displayed in all its ecclesiasti- 
cal trappings, through very large panes, which are said to be of rock 
crystal, though it is more easy to believe that they were constructed 
of. fine glass. The shrunken body of the saint is not an attractive 
object, in spite of the splendours which surround it — and which are 
in singular contrast to the repeated inscription, upon the coffin and upon 
the arras, of the favourite motto of the saint, a HumilitasP 

We have not space in which to describe other special objects of this 
grand Duomo of Milan, which, like all Romish cathedrals, has its 
precious relics, its vessels of gold and silver, its crucifixes, its pax, 
its mitres, and the numerous appliances of papal worship. We ought 
to say here that the ritual of this cathedral is not the Roman service, 
but the older one of Ambrose, which is maintained with a zealous 
devotion, especially in its minor details. This ritual is in use through- 
out the whole of the old archbishopric of Milan. 



Chapter XV$. 

ATURDAY was one of those variable days which 
furious winds and stormy skies sometimes leave. At 
times the serene deeps of the blue heavens were 
discernible, and then scuds of dark clouds drifted 
along, accompanied by a gusty wind, which chilled 
one, and made the pleasant rooms of the comfortable 
mansion of Sedgemoor doubly attractive. It was 
no hardship to the gay young people to stay in the 
house, although they had exercised much in the open 
air recently, and loved the freedom and exhilaration 
which followed such exercise. Herbert and Alice were rapidly gain- 
ing in character, as well as physique. They were growing in body, 
and developing powers of which they were before unconscious. 

Herbert found Arthur enough his superior in skill and strength, to 
induce a generous ambition in his soul ; and Alice awoke from her 
house-loving, though playful propensities, to a glad delight in the 
freedom of out-of-door walks, swings, and even certain gymnastic 
exercises, which Miss Donne, assisted by Mr. Carey, had proposed and 
arranged for the girls. 

But this charming day at home was rich in gain to them all, How 
the elder portion of the family passed their time I need not say. 
Maturity brings with it such rich resources, the fruits of wise, early 
cultivation, that the days grow all too short to accomplish half of 
what the head can plan. Miss Emily and Mr. Carey passed a couple 
of hours in the library, but the result of their conversation was not 
known to others then ; and the young people were, much of the day, 
occupied in thinking of, and looking up material for Monday night's 
demand. After dinner, they went to the library for a little chat, and 
Mathias declared, as he shut the kitchen door, that he had "just seen 



the blessedest sight his eyes had ever looked upon — master so happy, 
and all around him as bright and laughing as beautiful young facets 
could be. If only the mistress could know it." 

" Miss Emily," said Alice, drawing a low seat close to that lady, 
" what did you mean, the night before last, by saying I was proud 1 
Am I proud of- papa, do you mean 1 ? or Herbert?" 

" I think you are, dear, a little proud of them ; but that was not 
what I meant," said Miss Donne. 

" Perhaps you meant I was proud of myself?" 

" No, Alice ; then I should have called you vain." 

" What could' it be, then ?" 

" I wanted to say, my dear Alice, that you had a self-respect, which 
forbade your depending on others for what you could do for yourself, 
which made you self-reliant.'''' 

"And you don't think that is right, Miss Emily V 

" Oh, yes, I do, Alice ; it is very desirable to be self-reliant, pro- 
vided you are modest, and regardful of the claims of those older and 
wiser than yourself. In gaining self-reliance, you learn to think for 
yourself. This quickens your observation, strengthens your judg- 
ment, and gives you decision, which is one of the grandest elements 
in the formation of character." 

"A lack of decision is not especially the characteristic of women 
of the nineteenth century. Miss Emily will understand to whom I 
allude," remarked Mr. Clayton. 

" Certainly I do. You refer to the misguided Woman's Rights' 
party, as they style themselves. They are more self-reliant than 
well-informed, Mr. Clayton. They are guided only by their 
strong wills, quickened by a discontent with home, which amazes me. 
Judgment, the serene, regal quality which should control them, is 
perfectly dethroned by them." 

" I cannot possibly understand why a woman wants to do such 
things," said Maude, " and I am quite sure I don't see how men can 
help them ; yet I like to see strong-minded women, too," she conti- 
nued, musingly. 

" No, Maude," said Mr. Carey, " it is strong-hearted, right-minded 
women whom you admire. A woman may be gifted with strong. 

296 sedgemoor; 

masculine intellect, and yet, by the stronger impulses of her heart, 
be all that we admire in her sex." 

" If highly-educated women get such curious twists in their heads, 
papa, I suppose it is not well for them to study so much, and learn 
the same things that men learn." 

Herbert said this with an arch look at Alice, who only laughed, 

" Papa can answer that for me, Master Herbert. He knows just 
what I want to say." 

" Just what ought to be said, you mean," said Miss Emily. 

" Yes, Miss Emily, of course he does," answered Alice. 

" Then, I shall say," remarked Mr. Clayton, " that if women were 
better educated, more thoroughly cultivated, and had educated hearts 
as well as minds, there would be no ' woman's rights' party." 

" No danger of any additions from this company," said Arthur, 
bowing to Miss Donne. 

" Thank you, Arthur : with such gallant knights around, there will 
be no temptation to enter the lists for ourselves;" and for some 
reason or other Miss Donne blushed as she spoke, and Mr. Carey 
looked at her as if very well pleased. 

But the evening soon came to an end, and all discussions and dis- 
sertations were forgotten in the profound repose which blessed each 
member of the Sedgemoor home circle. 

©Japter X17XS. 

The two following days passed pleasantly and quickly, and the 
evening of Monday found our friends in their accustomed places, 
" brimming with learning," Herbert said. Miss Donne opened the 
play for the evening by saying — 

"Guido commends himself to me by his extraordinary genius, 
although, like many other geniuses, he was not a very good man. I 
was struck recently by a personal description of him. He must have 
been remarkably handsome. This account of him said that Ludovico 


Caracci took him for his model in painting angels. His own style of 
art somewhat resembled Michael Angelo's, but was free from his 
faults. His Madonnas are all charmingly graceful, and his pictures 
are amongst the wonders of art. Have I not made a long speech 
over him," she added, laughing ; "but my second G had slipped from 
my mind, and I continued talking to try and recover it. Ah ! here is 
one that will do. He was a poet, as his ' Deserted Village' will tes- 
tify. I mean Goldsmith, Mr. Clayton." 

" So I imagined," said that gentleman ; " but I suppose that children 
would not have thought so quickly of the author of that charming 
poem. Alice, do you not remember reading something about Gold- 
smith, which amused you very much, not long since f 

"Yes, papa; about his peach-blossom-coloured coat. Did any one 
ever hear of such a coat for a gentleman ?" 

" Joseph's coat had peach-blossom pieces in it, I fancy," said Arthur. 

"Ah ! but that was out of the world, in Bible times, you know," 
answered Alice. 

" Goldsmith lacked consistency of character," remarked Mr. Carey. 
" Dr. Johnson said of him, that ' no man was wiser with a pen in his 
hand, or more foolish without it.' " 

" He was a delightful writer, in spite of his lack of common sense," 
said Mr. Clayton. " But he was a very different person from the 
staunch old men whom I shall name to-night. Grotius is one, the great 
German scholar, statesman, and poet. His life was long, eventful, 
and honourable ; and Gesner, the eminent naturalist, the Pliny of Ger- 
many, as some one very justly calls him, is the other." 

" There were several noted scholars of that last name, Mr. Clayton." 

" Yes. Conrad, to whom I refer, was the only naturalist, however. 
The others were chiefly noted for scholastic research and acquirements, 
except Solomon Gesner, the painter and engraver, and the author of 
that prose poem, 'The Death of Abel.' You have seen it, Miss 
Emily T said Mr. Clayton. 

" Oh, yes, and admired it ever since I was a child." 

" Well, Mr. Carey, of whom are you thinking V 

" That is hardly a fair question, Mr. Clayton," said that gentleman. 

Mr. Clayton smiled, and said — 


" With what names will you illustrate the honours of the letter G, 
in this game of ours 1 That is fair, I'm sure." 

" Yes, but it finds me very undecided, and very much dissatisfied. 
There is Gainsborough, the careful delineator of English life and the 
landscape of Old England." 

"A very good man, Sir. Have you his match ?" 

" Not in his own line ; but I believe Edward Gibbon was almost 
unequalled in his way." 

" Yes, as an authentic and eloquent historian, Gibbon was most 
eminent. It was a great pity such a man should have denied the 
truth and power of Christianity," said Mr. Clayton. " Did you ever 
notice, Miss Emily, how the attachment which he conceived to Made- 
moiselle Curchod, afterwards Madame Necker, the mother of Madame 
de Stael, which did not lead to marriage, because the young lady's 
father opposed it, is always mentioned of Gibbon, no matter how 
short the sketch of him may be ? It seems to have been the great 
event of his lifetime, next to his writing that remarkable history." 

" Yes, I have observed it," said Miss Emily, " and have often 
amused myself with wondering how De Stael would have differed 
from herself, had Gibbon been her father. I doubt if she would have 
written ' Corinne.' " 

" Some time hence you shall tell me why you think so, if you will, 
Miss Emily," said Mr. Clayton. " Now we will go on to Arthur's 
knights. Who are they, my lad 2" 

" They are wonderful men, Sir ; almost demigods, after the fashion 
of the ancients. Indeed I do not doubt that the Greeks would have 
deified Gonzalo or Gonsalvo of Cordova, and Godfrey of Bouillon. 
Godfrey was worthy of being placed in a loftier rank than some 
heroes whose exploits have made them famous." 

"What did he do, Arthur?" inquired Maude. 

" Why, after the Crusaders had taken Jerusalem — you know, 
Maude, he was a leader of the Crusaders — the Christian hosts elected 
him ' King of Jerusalem ;' but he was so pious or humble-minded, 
that he would not accept the title, calling himself only Baron, or De- 
fender of the Holy Sepulchre." 

"What of the other man you mentioned, Arthur 1 ?" asked Alice. 


" I am trying to learn all I can about other people, besides my own 
in this play, papa," she added, apologetically. " My head is full of 
great names, which I am trying to remember." 

" Oh, Gonsalvo was not remarkably good that I know of. He was 
a great Spanish captain in the days of Ferdinand and Isabella, and 
helped them to drive the Moors out of Spain. I hesitated between 
choosing Gonsalvo or Genghis Khan, who was a warrior also. He 
was a tremendous King of the Tartars, Alice ; and oh, Mr. Carey, he 
married a daughter of Prester John. I always thought Prester John 
and his great empire was only a myth." 

'' Live and learn, Arthur. Any thing more ? If not, we will give 
Herbert a chance," said Mr. Carey. 

" I am content to be left out this evening," said Herbert. " I had 
bad success in looking after Americans. There is only General 
Greene. He is a great man, though, for papa says he was the second to 
Washington only, in the time of the great Revolution. He was ' the 
defender of the South,' too. I guess I will take Galileo for my second. 
He tried to set the world right about its place and motion, Miss Clay- 
ton, saying it moved round the sun as a centre, for which piece of intel- 
ligence the Inquisition got hold of him, and almost put an end to him." 

" Oh, I have read about that," said Alice, complacently. " No ; I 
have heard papa and Mr. Carey talking about it ; and he went out, 
saying to his friend, '7i moves for all that,'' after he had taken an oath 
against some system." 

" The Copernican," suggested Maude. 

" Oh, yes, the Copernican system, which told all about the planets' 
motions; didn't it?" 

" Yes, Alice, you are very learned," said Herbert. " I need never 
tell you any thing again, I see. There, I meant to have said Galen, but 
no matter, I have done enough ; but it's quite provoking to forget and 
get bothered so." 

" I sympathize with you, Herbert. I was intending to say Goethe, 
the great German poet, but forgot it. We are keeping Maude wait- 
ing', however," said Mr. Carey. 

" I," said Maude, " have been thinking of the good Godiva, Countess 
of Kent, who begged her husband to release the people of Coventry 


from very heavy taxes, which he had imposed upon them. He con- 
sented to do so, on condition of her riding naked through the streets 
of the city. She did this, finding that nothing else would save them 
from the ruinous tax. All the people were commanded to go into their 
houses, and close the windows and doors ; then, letting her luxuriant 
hair fall down around her like a veil, the noble Godiva performed the 
condition, which, I am sure, the Earl must have repented imposing." 

" Bravo*, Maude ! Put her name down on this list of immortelles. 
Who was worthy to keep her 'goodlie companie,' Maude?" asked 
Mr. Clayton. 

"Madame Guyon" replied Maude. 

" Oh, she was an arrant enthusiast, my dear." 

" She wrote the beautiful hymn commencing — 

' Father, whate'er of earthly bliss 
Thy sovereign hand denies,' 

and she must have been a Christian woman, Sir," said Maude. 

" Keep your faith, my dear child, in the spirit which penned those 
verses. They do, indeed, breathe the devout resignation of a Christian. 
We will not quarrel with their author. Well, my little Alice, are 
you ready ?" said Mr. Clayton. 

" Yes, Sir ; I have two great names. Lady Jane Grey. — I found 
out about her ; how good she was, and how learned she was ; and how 
her father and his friends persecuted her till they made her Queen, 
and then how she died upon a scaffold. It is a very sad story, papa." 

" Very, Alice. That was a strange, bad, ambitious father. Was 
he not ?" said Alice's papa. 

" Very different from you, papa. And I have chosen, besides her, 
Madame de Genlis, who has written so many pretty stories for 

" She had other accomplishments than that of the pen, Alice. She 
said of herself that she had thirty ways of getting a living." 

" Dear me, what could they be ?" began Alice ; but her father 
pointed to the clock, which showed bed-time. So he called all to 
prayers, and then they parted, to resume the discussion of Madame de 
Genlis at some other time. 

%\t (IMhrate C|ita, 





I need scarcely tell you, after you have seen an account 
of the last week of my stay at Mrs. Blightnot's, that it 
proved one of the most exciting and delightful in my life. 
We acted a play — yes, a real play, with a prologue and 
an epilogue; with acts and scenes. When I think of 
the time, the trouble, the care, and the expense which attended even 
our humble performance, I look with amazement upon the exertions 
of real actors, for with all its pleasures it really was a trouble. I 
cannot tell you, dear Marion, who the author of our play is, for that 
is a secret known only to the parties concerned, and she made us 
promise most faithfully that we would not divulge her name. You, I 
suppose, cannot understand such modesty, for you will think that it 
is a very fine play ; and then it was acted so well ! Perhaps you do 
not yet know the charm of authorship, for ah ! there is a charm ; and 
if you will never tell what I am about to impart to you as long as 
you live, you shall hear the greatest secret in the world. It is this; 
since I have been here, I have written a sonnet to the moon, and 
Mrs. Blightnot has promised to have it published for me. My nom 
de plume is Clementina ; so, dearest, you will be among the privi- 
leged when you hear the world speaking about the new authoress. 

But about the play. — Mrs. Blightnot, with all her duties, — babies, 
housekeeping, and company, — undertook to drill us, and her task, I as- 
sure you, was no slight one ; but her untiring good-nature, her patience 
and perseverance, and her voice, which never rose above a calm, dig- 
nified tone, made us at last all that she wished us to be — perfect. 
You can have no idea how hard it was to inspire us with earnestness 
or passion in our acting ; for instance, when Mr. Manly in the play 
comes to inform Mrs. M. of the news that her children are drowned, 


geraldine's holidays. 303 

it was intended that she should whisper hoarsely, and with horror on 
her countenance, "Are my children drowned ?" but, alas! I, who acted 
the part, could Hot get the right expression or tone. Sometimes they 
told me that I received the intelligence with a calm smile, and some- 
times with an air which seemed to say, " Well, what if they are f 
Then again, Lily and James, the lost children, two of Mrs. Blightnot's 
youngest hopes, (the baby excepted,) cut all sorts of capers in the 
rehearsals, and made us laugh in the tragic parts ; then James and 
Ered had a quarrel, and would not come to the rehearsals for two even- 
ings, which made every thing go wrong ; for Mrs. Blightnot had to act 
their two characters in their absence. 

One day Mr. Blightnot, that dear good man, happened to peep into 
the room where the indefatigable Mrs. B. and her corps dramatique 
were spouting forth their parts. He looked in with a smile, and no 
doubt he expected to see answering smiles, and Mrs. Blightnot as 
genial as a spring morning, urging us on to perfection — but his 
countenance changed, at once, when he saw how things really stood. 
His wife, the picture of despair, had just announced to us the fact 
that there was no use to go on, the thing could not be done ; Mr. 
Manly was too tame, Mrs. Manly spoke too fast, and Bridget had 
none of the Irish brogue, and moreover did not cry hard enough. 
We all looked vexed with Mrs. Blightnot, and in loud voices blamed 
each other ; then with one consent we all declared that " we were very 
glad that we were not going to act the old play." But Mr. Blight- 
not threw oil upon the waters, and taking the manuscript in his hand, 
he gave us new hope and life ; and then we went on grandly to the 
end ; and after two or three more rehearsals, came the night of our 
grand debut. Mrs. Blightnot invited some company to witness the 
performance, and the result was, that all were pleased. I send you a 
copy of the play, because no words of mine could answer so well as 
a real sight of it. We had appropriate dresses, of course, and I, as 
Mrs. Manly, looked so well with a cap, immense ear-rings, a watch 
and a long dress, that I wish sincerely for the time to come when 
it will be my privilege to be ranked among grown-up ladies. 
Bridget's part was admirably performed by her, and her dress was in 



excellent keeping ; while Fred, as Mr. Manly, looked famously in a 
false moustache, a dress-coat, and beaver hat. I cannot forget the 
Town Crier who said the prologue ; his part was most excellently 
performed ; nor the Sailor Boy, who looked as if he was just from 
sea. Even the Watchman and Dick the waiter, though they had but 
little to do, were faultless in their parts ; and thus, after some ices and 
confectionery were partaken of, and a most excellent charade, consist- 
ing of the syllables of the word Washington, was performed by two 
or three of the guests, and a polka, schottische, and quadrille danced by 
the children, the evening ended. My only reget, dearest Marion, was, 
that you were not among us. Never mind, dear, I shall soon clasp 
you in my faithful arms, and every day during recess we will talk 
over these pleasures ; and even the hours at Mrs. Jay's boarding-school 
will be made lighter by our constancy and love. Be mine forever, 
as I am thy Geraldine. 



Mr. Manly. Town Crier 

Mrs. Manly. Watchman. 

Jamie and Lily, their children. Dick, 

Bridget, a nurse. Neighbours. 

Sailor Boy. 

a servant. 


How glorious is the histrionic art ! 

You'll feel it more than ever, ere we part. 

Who like an actor smiles and tears can win, 

And point the path to virtue or to sin 1 

I meant to say a prologue long, sublime. 

Whose words would triumph o'er the wreck of time ; 

geraldine's holidays. 305 

I meant to utter axioms -wise and true — 
But I'm convinced that this would never do ; 
For our stage-manager bade me beware 
I did not take more time than was my share. 
Ah — one thing more — he bade me surely say, 
Don't be too critical upon our play. 


A cliamber in Mr. Manly' s house. Mrs. Manly discovered reading 
a book. 

Mrs. M. Well ! I declare this everlasting thought about children 
gives one very little time for improving one's mind. Ah ! for the days 
of girlhood once more, when I could devote at least half an hour to 
the morning's paper, a day now and then to a novel, (pointing to the 
book,) and could sometimes indulge in doing nothing. Ah ! the times 
are changed. 

(Calling.) Bridget, bring the children. 

Enter Bridget. 

Bridget. And is it me that you're calling, ma'am % 

Mrs. M. Yes, Bridget ; I wish to send the children in the court to 
get some fresh air, it is so close here ; but we must have them looking 
neat, you know. 

Bridget. And it's never neat that they be, Misthress Manly, 
Masther James' nose most especially. My ould father used to have 
a bit of a joke upon that same subject, and if ye'll not object, I'll 
jist enlighten ye a bit consarning it. 

Mrs. M. Ah, Bridget, how many things that old father of yours 
has to answer for ! Well, I suppose I must have patience and listen to 
it, for you are a good, faithful creature. 

Bridget, (bashfully.) Ah, Misthress Manly, and isn't it that you're 
blarneying me this morning 1 

Mrs. M. By no means, Bridget ; but quick ! the story. 

306 geraldine's holidays. 

Bridget. I was agoing to fetch the children jist, but here comes 
"the darlints themselves. St. Patterick ! and how soiled they be ! 

{Enter children.) 

Mrs. M. Alas ! there's no denying that we poor mothers are an 

ill-used race. 

Bridget, (washi7ig the children's faces, brushing their hair, and 
putting on clean aprons, dec.) Well, my lady, the story that I was 
about to tell you was the like o' this. (Be quiet, Masther Jamie.) My 
ould father used to tell me that he met me one day walking very fast 
in the street, when I was a wee bit of a child, and he says to me, Well, 
Biddy, and what are you racing at that rate for, my girl 1 ? (Masther 
Jamie, be aisy, won't you?) Oh, father, says I, says he, isn't it my nose 
that's a running, and it's I that's obliged to kape pace with it ? 

Mrs. M. (laughing.) As usual, Bridget, your story about your 
ould father is of a style peculiar to yourself. And now, Lily, you are 
going to play in the court ; remember, you must take the best care in 
the world of Jamie, for you are growing very old : you are four years 
old to-day. Don't let the carriages run over him ; don't follow the 
soldiers ; don't let him play unnecessarily in the dirt ; don't — let me 
see, are there any more don'ts % No, I think not. Now give mother 
a kiss, you precious ones, and Bridget will take you to the court : and 
remember, Lily, don't come home until I send for you. Do you 

Lily. Yes, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. There, Bridget, take them now. They will be out of 
your way all the morning, and you can accomplish a great deal of 

Bridget. Oh, yes, Misthress Manly, I will do a dale of that same, 
when they are foment the house. My ould father used to say — 

Mrs. M. Never mind another story now, Bridget ; to-morrow will 
do as well. 

Bridget. And surely the time that's convanient to you, Misthress 
Manly, will be jist as convanient to me. 

[Exeunt Bridget and children. 

geraldine's holidays. 307 

scene n. 
Mr. Manly' s house — Table set for dinner. Mrs. M. sewing and 
singing at her work. 

Enter Mr. Manly. 

Mr. M. Well, wife, how goes the day with you here % It was 
bright enough outside this morning, but these gathering clouds betoken 
a stormy, dismal night. 

Mrs. M. Good-day to you, husband. God help the poor and all 
who may be exposed, then ! 

Mr. M. Well, words won't help them, at any rate, neither will they 
altogether bring in dinner ; is it ready 1 And the children, where are 

Mrs. M. They were playing awhile ago in the court with the 
neighbours' children ; but as you always like to have a little frolic with 
them before dinner, and moreover as the clouds threaten rain, I will 
send Bridget for them. (Raising her voice.) Here, Bridget. 
Enter Bridget. 

Bridget. And it's here that I am, ma'am. 

Mrs. M. Bridget, go into the court and bring the children home : 
it is nearly dinner-time. 

Bridget. Yes, ma'am, they're dishing it up; and it's jist now that I left 
the wash-tub to go for the childer ; and tossed enough it is that I'll 
find them, I warrant ye, which all comes of their playing out in the 
court ; nearly a week it will take me to scrub their hands and faces, 
and comb out their tanglesome hair. 

Mr. M. Well, well, Bridget, bring them quickly, and tell Dick 
that we are waiting for dinner. 

Bridget. Yes, Sir, he's coming now. (Enter Dick with dinner.) 

[Exit Bridget. 

Mr. M. Well, my dear wife, with due reverence to your opinions, 
pray permit me to say, that I find your Bridget, whom you cry up to 
me as perfection, the veriest bore in creation. Somehow or other, one 
must listen to what she says ; and although she talks forever, all that 
she does say might generally be summed up in three words: ' my ould 
father.' But I will forgive her all her faults, if she will only hasten with 

308 geraldine's holidays. 

the precious ones, for the hours have been very long since I saw them 
this morning. I declare it is worth a day's toil to have a peep at 
them when I come home, wife. I hope that I am not too proud of the 
treasures, though. When I am most tired and puzzled with business, I 
have but to think of Lily's bright eyes and Jamie's lisping efforts to 
speak, and all goes right with me again. What with the thought of 
them, and you too, dear wife, {laying his hand affectionately upon her 
shoulder,') I do believe that I am the happiest man in creation. — But 
the children, where are they ? 

Enter Bridget, sobbing and breathless. 

Bridget. Ma'am — the — childer's — gone ! 

Mrs. M. (Quite composedly.) Well, Bridget, they cannot be far 
off: go and bring them. They may be at Mrs. Smith's or Mrs. 
Brown's; be quick, for we are waiting.' 

Bridget, (still sobbing.) I've been to both, ma'am, and they say 
they have not been there to-day, but they saw them playing in the 
court this morning, and if they're not in there, that they must have 
strayed out after the souldiers. I was sure that some evil would come 
over them to-day, Mr. Manly, your honour, for I could not slape for 
dhraming of them last night. My ould father used — 

Mr. M. This really looks, serious, wife. I will go myself after 
the runaways. (Exit Mr. M., followed by Bridget.) 

Mrs. M. Well, after all, children are a trouble, from the first 
minute they enter the world, till they fly from the paternal roof to 
matrimony. Talk of maternal pleasures to the winds ! Nobody 
knows — ah, nobody knows the responsibilities of a mother, until the 
trial is really undertaken ; what patching, what pieceing, what length- 
ening, what shortening of little garments, what anxieties, what tears, 
what prayers ! Oh ! children, children, you will be the death of me. 
Reenter Mr. Manly. 

Mr. M. Wife, the children are really nowhere to be found; 
quick, put on your bonnet and look for them at the east end of the 
town, while I take the west, Dick the north, and Bridget the south ; 
then, should our search prove unsuccessful, and the worst come to the 
worst, we will send for the town crier and get the neighbours' help. 

i8|$ iro \\)t ^uxft? 

OU will never make a Jenny Lind, either of you," said 
! Mr. Counsellor Burger to his two daughters, Lina and 
Fanchette, who were practising a duet for two voices in 
the little parlor of the Counsellor's house. 

"Ah, papa, how can you discourage us so V said the 
lively Fanchette; " we were pleasing ourselves to think that 
in some future day, when the wonderful ' sisters Burger' should be turn- 
ing the heads of all Frankfort — nay, I mean of all the world, and 
especially of that beautiful America — how proud you would be, and 
how grand it would be for us to come to you and say, ' Here are our 
laurels ; we lay them at your feet, good papa. Thus the world has 
enriched us with fame, and with the gold which shall bless your age 
with comforts, and make you a benefactor to all the poor who can hear 
your name.' Yes, the good papa shall be our almoner, Lina," she said 
to her more strict elder sister. 

Lina looked kindly at Fanchette, and said to her archly, " Ludovig 
also would bestow alms rightly, Fanchette. I see you find him a 
pleasant mate, and I know he helps you much in these lessons which 
Mr. Englehardt gives to us. Mr. Englehardt says Fanchette has a 
voice for a prima donna, papa ; I can only support the most illustrious 
soprano with my poor alio singing — it is she, our little Fanchette, who 
is to surprise this world again when Madame Goldschmidt's form has 
died away." 

" Don't say that, don't say that, Lina ; who would listen to those 
wonderful compositions of Rossini, and Donizetti, and of Mozart, 
and Handel, our own glorious Handel, if your brave alto did not render 
their deep notes. My thin little voice will never fill the playhouse, 
or the cathedral without the aid of Mademoiselle Lina Burger, the 


310 ' WHY DO WE SING? 

good elder sister," and here Fanchette lovingly clasped Lina about the 
waist, and whirled her to the open piano, to catch the key-note of a 
brilliant passage from Lucia, which she rendered with extraordinary 
skill and beauty. 

The worthy Counsellor listened to his daughter's wonderful singing 
with feelings which were a grave mixture of pride, delight, and fear. 
The last feeling was in nowise called out by the sedate little maiden 
whom he called Lina, and who only heard her sister to admire her. 
She was his heart's comfort, and she looked her devotion to him out of 
eyes like those which had won him to fold her mother to his heart. 
Lina was staid and cheerful, and most necessary to the Counsellor's 
happiness, but Fanchette, the merry, laughter-moving, frolic-loving, 
gifted Fanchette, was often a weight of care to her father, and most 
so when gayest and most frolicking in her bright moods. So this 
poor Counsellor, who had to bear the anxieties alone which a mother 
generally shares, sunk on a couch to meditate upon the weighty burden 
which the care of such a child was to him. 

"Aunt Rhetta teaches them some little matters of etiquette," he 
said to himself, " and Mr. Englehardt and the good Madame Von 
Eisen trains their mind and tutor their voices to harmony and their 
movements to grace. But what does Fanchette sing like a night- 
ingale, and carol like a lark, and witch like a fairy for 1 Will she be 
a syren, tempting souls to follow her over to pleasure, ending in death ; 
or will she be an angel, and lead upward human visions to the blessed 
light of heaven 1 Heaven bless thee, my gay one, and crown thy 
gifts with grace !" he murmured. 

And then, at the moment the prayer ascended, a rich, pure harmony 
stole through the open window above him, and he became conscious 
that he was alone in the room, and that his children were beneath the 
window singing to him again, but in the open air. For a few moments 
he continued motionless, bathed in the melodies which floated around 
him ; then he arose and called from the window to the now hushed 
musicians to come nearer, while he cast at their feet the freshly-culled 
boquet beside him on the table. 

Lina and Fanchette bowed gracefully at the playful acknowledgment, 



and Lina bent to raise the flowers while Fanchette made a short 
speech expressing the thanks of the singers. 

"I want to speak to you, children," said the father, "and you may 
lean there against yon vase, or you may come to the room again ; but 
I would ask you some questions about your music." 

"We can bear a questioning pretty well," said Lina: "Mr. Engle- 
hardt says — " 

" It is not such questions as he proposes, my children. I want to 


speak to you now, in this holy evening hour, of a higher theme than 
he discourses upon. Why do you sing, children ?" 

" Because — because — " said Lina. 

" Because we cannot help it, papa ; just as we talk and listen," said 

" You are nearly right, child ; then you know who made you to 
sing, or talk, or listen V 

" Oh yes, God created us so," said Lina. 

" The best use to make of a gift is, to use it in the service of the 
giver, Lina ; say you not so 1 Then they who sing should sing to praise 
God, and keep their wonderful gift of harmony for his service, and for 
his glory, not our own. All good gifts come from Him ; and none is 
more noble and more like the gifts which enrich those who dwell in 
His holy habitation, the eternal heavens, than this power and melody 
of voice here. Hear, Lina, and listen. Fanchette : say always to your- 
self, l I must praise God,'' ' I was made to praise God,' and pray always 
that you may be kept worthy, by your humble earnest faith, to praise 
Him. It is not to get fame, Fanchette ; no, not to get money for the 
poor, or bread for the hungry, that your chief concern must be — those 
be God's own ways of blessing his creatures — but praise to God is the 
worthy use of your voice, and to glorify Him is the grand work of 
your lives. Serious Lina, you will think of these things ; and you, gay 
child, remember them always in your successes now, and when you are 
a woman, and when all bow before you and give you honor ; then, 
Fanchette, praise God? 

" I will, I will, I must" said the little girl. " Yes ! we must be fitted 
for the heavenly choirs, Lina ; we must learn here to praise God. 
Thank you, good papa. I am happy that I have this gift, and can use 
it so nobly : we will sing in the grand cathedral, Lina ; we will sing here, 
everywhere, perhaps for ever in heaven, songs of praise. We are 
made to sivg, that we may praise Him with our voices" 

■apjfu; ait, tjfje Mt^md^tx. 


^§\,NE summer evening many a long year back, in that 
! olden time of the world of which so many fairy legends 
have been told us, a beautiful girl sat all alone in the 
garden-bower. The moonlight fell in a soft flood around 
her, bathing the trees and flowers in a sea of radiance, 
and shedding a halo of loveliness around the innocent brow of the 
young, fair girl. The birds were all asleep, and the June roses had 
folded up their crimson beauty amongst the shading leaves ; but the 
lids of Sophie's sweet eyes did not droop sleepily, and her glad voice 
sang out a merry song — 

" Nobody cometh to marry me, 
Nobody cometh to woo f 

The leafy branches of the vines rustled, and a quivering shadow lay 
across the moonlight ; but it is only the night wind, thought Sophie, 
and she sang again louder and clearer — 

" Nobody cometh to marry me, 
Nobody cometh to woo !" 

Tlien the vines were pushed aside entirely, a tall shadow darkened 
the moonlight, and the figure of a handsome man bent before Sophie. 
Sophie sprang up affrightedly, and would have flown from the arbour, 
but his arms were extended to impede her progress, and such a noble 
manly voice entreated her to stay, that the young maiden was beguiled 
of her fears, and finally sank back again to her seat amongst the roses; 
while he bent his knee before her most gracefully, and told her how 
the praise of her beauty had rung far and wide, how many a heart 
yearned for a sight of her rare loveliness, and how he had braved all 
danger to seek the sweet flower that an unkind brother kept ever in 
the shadow of retirement, and plead for the honour of wearing it 
friendly upon his bosom. 

Little Sophie, timid, blushing, beautiful Sophie ! never again sang, 



" Nobody cometh to marry me, 
Nobody cometh to woo !" 

For it happened that when the moon was sinking low in the heavens, 
Sophie and her handsome cavalier stole together, hand-in-hand, out of 
the garden bower, down in the shadow of the tall hedge-rows, to the 
water-side, where a gay little boat lay rocking upon the moonlighted 
waves. Lightly he lifted in beautiful Sophie, and lightly he bounded 
in after ; and then at the pull of his strong arm the little boat shot 
swiftly over the- waters, far, far away from the frowning castle and 
the cruel brother, who might now call in vain for the young falcon 
that, all unhooded and unbound, had plumed her shining wings for a 
far flight. 

And this was the way that Sophie found a husband, and this was 
the way that two young children, twin-daughters of Sophie's brave 
cavalier, found a new mother. When they reached his own proud 
castle and Sophie was made his bride, he told her of the young wife 
of his first love, who had died when Erne and Eunice were mere in- 
fants ; and he won Sophie's promise to be a mother to his two little 
girls. Sophie meant to be a watchful, tender and loving mother to 
Effie and Eunice when she gave this promise, and for a time she was. 
The little girls learned to love her fondly, for Sophie loved them, and 
dressed them in beautiful garments, and kept them ever at her side 
or nestling in her bosom. She, herself, would take them nightly to 
their little white beds, and sing them softly to sleep ; and ofttimes in 
the morning they were awakened by light tender kisses from the lips 
of their step-mother. 

But after awhile, Sophie grew somewhat weary of the constant care 
and watchfulness her young charge required. Perhaps it was that her 
health had grown delicate, and she was often an invalid ; but so it was 
that Effie and Eunice began to feel daily more and more Sophie's 
neglect of them. She rarely went with them to their bed now, and 
even when she yielded to their childish entreaties and accompanied 
them, she did not linger to hear their little prayers, or to sing nursery 
rhymes to them. 

When they played around her room as she had encouraged them 
to do, and clung to her knees with a petition for a story, she sent 


them away carelessly, and sometimes even with words of harsh re- 
proof, that made the little lips quiver, and the childish eyes fill with 
pitiful tears. The children grew timid before her, and felt painfully 
the change in her manner. Her husband marked it too, and Sophie 
herself was conscious of it, but her husband excused her on the plea 
of delicate health, and the young wife satisfied herself with the same 
excuse ; whereas if she had examined her own heart, it would have 
told of a growing indolence, and an increasing dissatisfaction at be- 
stowing so much of her attention upon children not her own, rather 
than of any bodily inability. 

By-and-by, after a long time of severe illness to Sophie, during 
which the little girls had not been allowed to see their mother at all, 
Eunice and Effie were one day brought into the sick-room and carried 
to her bedside. Sophie laid aside the warm cover very carefully, 
and displayed to the wondering eyes of the children two dear little 
infants, with soft silky black heads, and beautiful little dimpled hands. 
They were allowed to kiss the soft baby-cheeks very tenderly, and were 
told that one was their little brother Harold, and the other their little 
sister Clare. Then Sophie, who was still very pale and weak, leaned over 
to kiss Effie and Eunice, and then the children were sent away again. 

Their young hearts were full of delight because they had both a 
little sister and brother ; but they did not think that, because of those 
babes, they would have still less of their mother's love and care. They 
learned it afterwards, when they saw all Sophie's caresses lavished 
upon the unconscious infants, all her sweetest songs exhausted for 
them, and all her taste and skill bent in fashioning the daintiest caps 
and dresses for her twins, her own children. Sophie wore gay and 
beautiful dresses herself, and the little ones in their delicate flowing 
robes lay ever on her bosom, while Eunice and Effie w r ere pushed 
away from her with ill-concealed impatience, and angry reproving for 
every childish fault they might commit. They wandered about the 
house drearily, looking, in their neglected and unbecoming apparel, no 
longer graceful and pretty, and wearing sad, weary looks, most un- 
fitting for childish faces. It made Sophie angry to see them looking 
thus, for her conscience reproached her, and therefore she would never 
see the children when she could help it. 


For all this, by-and-by, there came a punishment for Sophie, 
Little Clare, the most beautiful of the twins, sickened and drooped 
daily, till at last, she died. Sophie's heart was almost broken when 
she saw her little one laid in its shroud, with its sweet eyes closed for 
ever to the light, and the soft carolling voice for ever hushed. But 
this deep sorrow did not cause her to love the neglected ones again ; 
her heart w T as more than ever shut against Eunice and Erne, and 
yearned with wilder intensity of love for her living child. So a great 
punishment was prepared for her. 

One still, sweet summer evening, Erne and Eunice were wandering 
hand-in-hand along the sea-shore ; not playing with the sea-nettles or 
gathering shells ; not laughing and singing as children should laugh 
and sing, but crying sadly. Eunice put her arm round her sister, 
and led her close to the edge of the water ; then she said : 

" Don't you know, Effie, that we grow more miserable every day ?" 
and Effie said " Yes," very sorrowfully. 

" Our mother does not love us," said Eunice again ; " our father 
cares for us no longer. They only think of the baby that is dead and 
the baby that is alive, and their tears are given to the one, and their 
love to the other. They do not care for us, little sister ; and no one 
will know what becomes of us, if we both walk down into this deep 
water and live with the mermaids that old Ursula tells of. They will 
love us, Effie." 

Little Effie opened her eyes wild and wide at her sister's words, 
but Eunice drew her face down and kisssed it fondly, pleading as she 
did so : 

" Let us go, little sister : Ursula says that the beautiful mermaids 
live under the water in palaces of gold and emerald, more glorious 
than one can imagine; and that they welcome gladly to their beautiful 
homes, all human creatures who sink under the water. And oh, Effie, 
think how happy we shall be, to be loved, as they will love us!" 

So Effie took her sister's hand, and the children walked out into the 
sea fearlessly and determinedly : the waves rose higher and higher 
over their childish forms; till at last, the salt water rushed gurgling 
into their mouths, the rolling billows tossed them into their midst, 


and the drowned children sunk down, down into the depths of the 
mighty sea. 

" Where are Eunice and Erne ?" asked Sophie's husband when the 
children did not appear at the evening meal. Sophie did not know : 
her baby-boy, Harold, was lying in her lap, looking ill and feverish, 
with an unnatural light in his eyes, and a crimson spot upon his deli- 
cate cheek ; all Sophie's heart was filled anxiety for her darling, and 
she knew naught d(Pfche little girls. And as Harold's illness seemed 
to increase as the evening hours passed on, and sharp cries of pain 
broke from his lips, Sophie and her husband, in equal alarm for the 
infant, scarcely spent a thought upon the other children. 

Hour after hour wore by, in bitter pain and suffering to the young 
child ; all through the night his moaning lacerated Sophie's heart ; but 
as midnight melted into the gray twilight of a summer morning, little 
Harold stretched out his stiffening limbs, as he lay in his mother's 
lap, and with one long, low moan of anguish, the breath died out from 
his breast, and the darling of his mother's heart lay lifeless upon her 

When the swelling tide of the sea rolled up upon the shore, the 
young fair forms of Eunice and Effie were tossed upon the sand ; and 
in the gray of the morning, the fishermen who went down to their 
nets, found them lying there. And when they had tenderly lifted 
the drowned children, they bore them up to their father's home. Sophie 
was wailing over her dead infant, when the men brought Effie and 
Eunice, and laid them down all wet and drowned before her. Some- 
thing in her own heart said to her, as she viewed this frightful spec- 
tacle : 

" This is your worJc, Sophie; you are justly punished/" 

and Sophie laid her mouth in the dust, and her poor heart broke. 

Her husband lived for many years, a broken-hearted man. He had 
no companions, no employment, and lived only in the indulgence of 
his deep grief and despair. Onee, when visiting the grave where his 
wife and children all lay together, he discovered a small plant spring- 
ing up from the sod. It was a tuft of green leaves surmounted by a 


beautiful little flower ; and bending down to examine it, he saw that 
the flower consisted of five petals ; one large and of a bright yellow 
colour, two small ones of the same hue growing close to the first 
petal, and two larger ones, Of a dark purple colour, growing out beyond 
the smaller leaves. 

" This little flower is the type of the step-mother and her children" 
he said sadly. " This large petal is the mother, and these dainty, 
fair-hued little ones are her own twins, that she nurses in her bosom 
and clothes with her own garments ; while the others are the step- 
children, who are coarsely dressed and thrust away from her. Ah, 
Sophie! this little blossom, sprung up from the dust and ashes of your 
faded beauty, has come to my poor heart as a token of you !" 

And so — the tradition goes on to say — the bereaved husband and 
father, through all his lifetime, cherished that little plant with tenderest 
care ; fully belie ving that, because Sophie had sinned, more from want 
of thought than want of feeling, and because she had suffered so deeply 
on earth, no punishment was prepared for her in another world ; and 
she was only condemned to be ehanged into that little flower, which 
should be the token of her sin, and in that form remain until her hus- 
band was called from earth, when both again should meet, in joy and 
happiness, at the throne of the great Father in Heaven. This belief 
was a comfort and a great solace to him, through the remainder of 
his earthly pilgrimage — and who shall say that it failed him at its close 1 

When he died, it is said that the little plant, which he had loved and 
cherished as one would cherish a human flower, withered and faded, 
and was seen no more. 

But since then, the blossom has sprung up in varied forms : some 
call it Viola Tricolor, and some call it Pansy ; children at the North 
give it the name of Johnny-jump-up, and in Virginia they call it 
Puppy-eyes. Perhaps the commonest and prettiest name of all is 
Heart's-ease ; but the true name of the flower is the Step-mother, and 
I have told you its true legend, just as it was told to me by my grand- 
mother, who had it, herself, from her grandmother, 

" A long time ago." 

%\t bailor §rcri|n\ 

T was a stormy night ; and little Annie May shuddered, 
as she listened to the howlings of the wind, and heard 
K the sound of the angry waves as they dashed in foam 
upon the beach. Silent and sad she sat, looking into the 
cheerful blaze; her merry song was hushed, she had no 
heart to sing. 

And what made Annie May so sad ? I will tell you : 
She thought on her sailor brother, " far out at sea," and 
she trembled to think how he was exposed to the fury of 
the storm. But a few short years before, and that dear brother was 
Annie's constant companion. Few have ever loved a brother as 
Annie did hers. She remembered how she used to walk about the 
beach with him, gathering the beautiful shells ; and how he would 
place the large conchs close to her ear, " that she might hear the sad 
sea moan." She remembered, too, how, on lovely moonlight nights, 
he would take her to walk in the water, and how delighted she would 
be, as the large silver waves dashed over her bare feet. He used to' 
twine garlands for her out of the sea-weed, and make necklaces with 
the shells they gathered ; and Annie, thus dressed, thought . a queen 
might envy her. But one day, and a sad day it was for Annie, that 
dear brother went to sea. She walked to the beach to see the ship 
set sail ; and as she caught the last glimpse of its flag, streaming so 
gayly in the air, she covered her face with her little hands and wept 

Three years had passed away since that day ; and he had not yet 
returned to his home. And thus Annie sat this stormy night, thinking 
of her brother, until the large tears gathered in her eyes, and turning 
to her mother, she said, " Dear mamma, suppose that Herbert's ship 
goes down to night, and he perishes in this dreadful storm !" 

"Annie," replied Mrs. May, " Herbert is as safe on the wide ocean, 
as we are on the land ; for, my daughter, does not the same kind 
Providence rule over land and sea 1 ?" 



"Oh yes, mamma," replied the little girl, "I know that you have 
taught me that God's loving Spirit rests too upon the deep ; but at 
night, when I lie in my bed, listening to the voice of the waves, I 
sometimes fancy I hear the dying moans of Herbert mingling with 
them, and I bury my face in the pillow to shut out the dreadful sight 
of his ship sinking at sea." While she spoke, the winds howled 
louder, and beat the rain against the window. Then little Annie laid 
her head in her mother's lap, and covered her face with her handker- 
chief. "Annie," said Mrs. May, "have you forgotten those beautiful 
lines 1 

" We were crowded in the cabin ; 
Not a soul would dare to sleep- 
It was midnight on the waters, 
And a storm was on the deep. 

And thus we sat in darkness, 
Each one busy in his prayers — 
" We are lost !" the captain shouted, 
As he staggered down the stairs. 

But his little daughter whispered, 
As she took his icy hand — 
" Isn't God upon the ocean, 

Just the same as on the land?" 

Scarcely had her voice ceased, when a loud rap was heard at the 
door, and directly it was pushed open, and a sailor stood before them. 

A mother can never forget her son ; and though little Annie could 
not recognise her brother Herbert in the sunburnt sailor before them, 
Mrs. May at once knew that it was the long-absent wanderer. 

Joyful indeed was the greeting between them; and when Herbert 
had taken off his cap, and seated himself by the fire, then did Annie 
know that the stranger was indeed her own brother ; for there were 
the same chestnut curls that she used to think looked as if the sunbeams 
were nestling in them, and the same sweet smile sat upon his lips. 
And now Annie heeded not the storm, as, sitting on a cushion at her 
brother's feet, she listened to a recital of his adventures. 

He told how, on a voyage to Europe, there was a sick child on board 
the ship ; a little girl, Annie's own age, with a complexion transparent 


from illness, and a perfect shower of long golden curls. He told how 
in the cool of the evening the captain would carry her in his arms on 
deck, that she might see the setting sun, — and a beautiful sight it is to 
see the sun, as he gives his last smile to old Ocean. Then he told 
how this poor sick child would lie moaning in her berth all day ; and 
how the kind-hearted sailors would gather around and try to amuse 
her, and how she would thank them with a sad sweet smile. But this 
little child only grew worse, and the breezes that wpre wafted over 
the ocean, brought no bloom to her pale cheek. The evening that she 
was dying, she begged to be carried on deck to see the sun set; and 
as she watched its glorious rays fade away, her own life went out too ; 
the sun of her existence was set, and her lovely spirit had gone home 
to the God who gave it. 

Herbert then told how, the next evening, just at sunset, the little girl 
was brought to be buried in the lonely sea ; and how she lay on the 
deck dressed in pure white, with her pale still face upturned to the 
setting sun. When the captain read the funeral-service, all stood with 
their heads uncovered, and each sailor wept when the little girl, with 
all her golden curls, was lowered into the cold deep sea. 

And little Annie felt as if she could have wept too ; and she said, 
" Oh ! how sad, to be buried in the dark sea, where no one can come 
to plant flowers on your grave, and no little bird can sing its sweet 
song over you. Could my spirit rest, mamma, if my body were lying 
in the tossing sea ?" 

"Annie," replied Mrs. May, " if the spirit be but in heaven, it will 
calmly rest, even though the body is tossing on the restless waves. 
And though no flowers are planted there, and no sweet bird carols over 
it, there is a kind Providence who watches ever the ocean grave." 

And the night grew late — and the storm raged — but still Mrs. May 
and her children sat talking by the cheerful fire. Herbert had more 
adventures to tell than he could possibly get through with that even- 
ing, so Mrs. May proposed that he should finish them at another time. 

Before retiring to rest, they all knelt down ; and their voices blended 
with the storm without, as they returned thanks to Him who spreads 
a sheltering wing, not only over the houses of the land, but over the 
tempest-tossed ships of the sea. 

t IjUfrfrUr's duriur* 

UR. pile of contributions for this corner is unusually 
small this month — few original riddles, few solutions to 
those already given ; so that for the present we have to 
depend almost entirely upon what may be called " inter- 
nal resources." One of our little friends — who has been 
an especial favourite in this department, though of late she 
has been somewhat neglectful — excuses herself and her 
comrades, by pleading the heat of the weather. 

" I have guessed all the riddles in your July number," she says, 
" and I wish I could put some of them into rhymes for you. But, 
dearest Schoolfellow, if you had any idea of the heat of this little 
room in which I am steaming, you would n't expect it of me. And 
then the mosquitoes ; — patience ! they are as a thick cloud in the air, 
as the gathering of many waters, as the sands in a wonderful desert ! 
Ugh ! there is one upon my nose, as if that feature was not sufficiently 
remarkable, in its individual length and breadth, without the additional 
charm of a red swelling. Pity me, best Schoolfellow, and absolve 
me from literary (?) labour, till the thermometer is a few degrees 
lower. I do not wonder that you have to complain of your corre- 
spondents, but I do wonder at you, for a miracle of patience !" 

" Miss Sue" is pleased to be witty upon this very serious subject, 
but we shall have to accept her excuse, for lack of a better. 

" Cousin Philip" sends us the only poetical answers to the pair of 
charades by H. We tender him thanks for his correct and well- 
expressed solutions. 

No. I. 

The fisherman rich recompense will get, 

If in a school of fish he casts his net : 

That singing black-birds keep a school, we know, 

Because they gladly shout iheir lessons so : 

All schools, alas ! are sores in childhood's eyes, 

But lost, we learn their valued aid to prize. 



A two-fold meaning fellow really has — 

A term of slander, or a term of praise. 

And none, I'm sure, the truth of this will doubt — 

That best of all the monthlies ever out, 

The Schoolfellow comes, an ever welcome guest, 

Well stored with sweetest truths, a bounteous feast. 

No. IT. 
Night, friendly visitor ! e'er brings 

Release from daily toil, 
And from her balmy, drowsy wings, 
Her opiate sweet around us flings, 

That pain and suffering spoil. 

In should the motto be of all 

Who wish to thrive in life ; 
In time for every business call, 
In favour, too, with great and small — 

In-doors, the prudent wife. 

Gales often sweep the lowering sky, 

And rend the mighty trees ; 
Great ships before their fury fly, 
Or wrecked, in helpless ruin lie 

Upon the sweeping seas. 

Birds break the stillness of the grove, 

And in the quiet vale 
Send up sweet hymns to God above ; 
But dearest of them all I love 

My modest Nightingale I 

"Little Ned" sends us a nice little answer to the clever enigma of 
H. O. He will see that the "Nightingale" charade is "dissected" 




Murmurs arise from discontent, 

And from the tongues of scolds find vent, 

Yet, strange to say, they wander still 

And sigh in every stream and rill. 

Reverse the word, and you will find 

A beverage to a sailor's mind. 

I've guessed the word, — excuse the rhyme : 

Some better verse I'll send next time. 

The conundrums come next, and are answered thus by Marian : 


English wit is like an old inebriate — 
Because it is PuncJt-ed to death. 

324 the riddler's corner. 

The style of dress most like a drunkard's nose- 
Is a Bloomer. 

A shoe is on a level with man — 
Both having soles (souls.) 

A lady is like a loafer — 
Because she is no gentleman I 

In the way of new material, comes first an 


I am a word of letters five, 
Familiar to your hand ; 

Cut off my head, no man alive 
My influence can withstand. 


My first is a small preposition ; 

My second is part of a wheel ; 
My whole, in a belle of condition, 

To the purse makes a frequent appeal. 


A welcome soother of the summer heat — 

A dainty fruit, most luscious and most sweet ; 

A substance never born of summer-time — 

A singing-bird, that sings not in our clime ; 

A colour just the opposite of white — 

An odious, screaming prowler of the night ; 

The quality that does not make this riddle bright ! 

Take now the head of each mysterious name, 

And having ranged, in order fit, the same, 

See traced in splendour in the glowing sky 

A promise that through ages shall not die ! Marian. 

With regard to the proposal made in our last number, of a prize 
for the best original charade, enigma, or riddle, sent hi to us before 
the 15th of November, we have an amendment to make. Instead of 
one copy of " Harry's Vacation" for one riddle, we now offer Jive 
copies of the book, for the five best attempts, which shall be sent to 
us. None of our readers need be afraid to try their skill, for we 
shall be glad to hear from every one of them, and trust that all our 
prizes may soon be distributed. So now good bye, little friends, till 
we meet again in " brown October." 

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€Mi nf €mlnh. 

OCTOBEK, 1854. 

Illustrated with Four Engravings. 

Mamma's Return, . . . . . . . Mrs; Bradley. 

Good Night, (Music and Words,) v.. . . Selected. 

Sedgemoor, Chapters 18 and 19. . . . . Mrs. Manners. 

Geraldine's Holidays, . . . . . Caroline Howard. 

Stewart's Sacrifice, Mrs. Philipson. 

The Tyrolean Boy, (Part I.), .... Minnie. 

Beginning the World, ./' Mrs. Richards. 

Summer Rain, . Mary E. 

The Donkey's Shadow, From " The Charm." 

The Riddler's CobSek By various Contributors. 


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amma's %ttuin. 


' OME, my little boy !" 

Arthur opened his eyes suddenly at the sound of the 
ell-known voice, and there stood nurse, with her 
air so smooth and her cap so trim, ready to say 
"good morning" to the little boy. But his heavy 
eye-lids dropped again, and he rolled over to the other side of the 

" It's time to get up, little man," nurse said pleasantly, putting her 
arms around him and raising him up in bed. But Arthur still kept 
his eyes tightly shut, and let his head fall lazily upon her shoulder. 

" Oh, Nursie, I'm awful sleepy!" he said at last, so pitifully, that 
nurse could not help laughing aloud ; and then another merry laugh 
rang out close to Arthur, and this time the little boy's eyes flew open 
very. wide, for he knew that laugh was not nurse's. No indeed! 
though he had not heard it in a long, long time, he knew it well 
enough. You never would have believed he was sleepy, if you could 
have seen how he sprang into the arms of that pretty lady by the bed- 
side, and cried out, " Mamma, mamma ! my own mamma !" 

Arthur's' own mamma it was, really. She had been away from her 
little children for a whole month: and glad as Arthur was to have her 
back, he was not half so glad as she was to be there. She looked 
very young and very pretty as she sat by the window, with the morn- 
ing sunlight, that came flickering through the jessamine-leaves, flashing 
every nd\v and then upon her hair. Her face was flushed and bright 
now with a happy excitement, but it still looked very delicate. Ar- 
thur did not know this, though, and did not understand that it was 
because his mother's health was so feeble, that she had been obliged 
to leave him this long time. 

He was Only very glad now to have her back again ', so glad and so 
happy that he could scarcely be persuaded to get down from her lap 
and be dressed. He clung round her neck, kissed her lips and her 


328 mamma's return. 

cheeks, and patted her shining brown hair with his little fat hand ; and 
finally very reluctantly gave himself up to nurse to be dressed. 
Next minute, though, before nurse had fairly untied his night-gown, he 
sprang back to his mother. 

" Where's papa 1 ?" he asked eagerly: " didn't he come, too 1 ?" 

"And you never thought of him till this minute !" said his mamma. 
" Dear papa, who brought Arthur so many pretty things ! Oh, 
Arthur !" 

But Arthur had not time to feei ashamed, for that very minute 
papa came in at the nursery door, with baby Edith perched away up 
on his shoulder, laughing and crowing in great glee. 

"What's all this?" cried papa gaily. " Not dressed yet, little man? 
Come here to me !" and then baby Edith was tossed like a ball into 
mamma's lap ; and Arthur, without understanding at all how it hap- 
pened, suddenly found himself up in the air, ever so much higher than 
papa's head, and so near the ceiling, that he was afraid of bumping 
his own head. 

Such a merry time as he had that morning ! Nurse thought surely 
she should never get him dressed, for the child was wild with excite- 
ment and delight. He could not keep still for two minutes together, 
but must be rushing after mamma, springing upon papa's knee, 
throwing his arms round nurse's neck, or kissing baby Edith rap- 
turously every other minute; and I really don't know how nurse 
managed to get him so nicely dressed as he was by breakfast-time. 

This morning he was allowed to go to breakfast down stairs with 
his mamma, and his high chair was brought from the nursery for him. 
Papa raised him in his arms to put him in his chair, Arthur thought, 
but he was lifted beyond the chair, and suddenly set down upon the 
table, and there he stood with his little slippered feet right upon the 
white table-cloth amongst mamma's cups and saucers, and just beside 
the great urn that was almost as tall as Arthur himself! 

" Papa is spoiling Arthur," said mamma with a smile. 

" Oh, no !" papa said, laughing. " Only teaching Arthur some 
breakfast- table science ;" and he suddenly took off the cover of the 
great urn by- the little boy. 

mamma's return. 329 

How Arthur jumped back, as the steam rushed out like a white 
cloud ! He was very much frightened at first, but he soon grew so 
interested in watching the white vapour, and listening to its rushing 
noise, that he quite forgot his breakfast. Mamma remembered it, 
though, and when at last his father seated him in his chair, there was 
a nice bowl of bread and milk before him: just like the nursery bread 
and milk that he always had, it was ; but Arthur thought it was a 
great deal nicer. Indeed, every thing was a great deal nicer this morn- 
ing, and the morning itself seemed more beautiful to the little boy 
than ever a summer morning had seemed before. 

The sun shone so brightly through the open windows, and the jes- 
samines that climbed so richly all round the casement, had so many, 
many flowers ! They were powdered all over with white and yellow 
stars, and how sweet they were ! Then the wrens sang so loudly, and 
down in the garden the humming-birds were glancing and fluttering 
amongst the June roses and carnations, their wings catching the light 
like rainbows. Surely there could not have been a brighter morning 
for mamma's return ; and mamma, standing at the window and look- 
ing up into the brightness of the summer sky, and at the beauty of the 
green earth beneath her, kept in her heart a silent prayer of thankful- 
ness for so happy a return to her dear, beautiful home, and her dar- 
ling children. 

Little Edie was brought in after breakfast, looking very fresh and 
sweet, and quite ready for another frolic with papa. Such a brighten- 
ing of eyes, such a dimpling of rosy cheeks, and breaking out into 
smiles, as papa held out his hands to the little lady ! Just ready to 
fly she seemed — little feet in a flutter, little hands twinkling with im- 
patience, little face so bright with an eager joy ! and then her merry 
baby-laugh rang out like a gush of bird-music, as papa tossed her up 
and down, with her white robes fluttering around her. 

While papa frolicked with baby Edie, mamma was busy unpack- 
ing a trunk that had just been brought in. Arthur did not notice her 
at first, for watching the baby ; but presently he ran to see what she 
was doing — and then such a shout of joy ! There were books and 
toys ; whips, and balls, and marbles, and horses, and dogs — and I 


mamma's retubn. 

don't know how many more wonderful things ! Arthur gathered his 
hands full, and filled his frock, and flew around to show them to 
nurse and everybody. He was surely the happiest little boy in the 

" Oh, mamma I" he said at last, when he sat down at her feet, and 
spread his treasures around, "I wish you would come home every 

" Then I should have to go away every day — would you like that, 
Arthur ?" said his mother. 

" Oh no, oh no !" he said quickly, " you shall not go away any more. 
Just play you went, mamma, and then come back again, and bring 
me lots and lots of things !" 

Arthur's mamma laughed; and by-and-bye she told him a long 
story about a little boy whose mamma went away and never came 
back, so that he had no mamma at all. Arthur listened to it very 
eagerly, and cried quite bitterly before it was finished ; he pitied the 
poor little boy so much. And always afterwards, when mamma told 
him that story — and he asked for it a great many times — he cried 
just as much as he had done at first. 

dcioft iigfjt. 


-^ f -t V V " V r f f ' 

low of ro - ses, And. 

JN ow good night ! Lay thy head on its pil - low of ro- ses, And 



sweet smell-ing po - sies, And lie down in 


If God 

plea - ses with the day, Thou shalt rise a - gain and play. 


Chapter XVXX%. 

^\1UESDAY was a very bright day, and the fresh, balmy 
g^ air which breathes of spring-time, refreshed and cheered 
&& every member of the household of Sedgemoor. Imme- 
diately after dinner, that night, Alice commenced asking 
Miss Donne about Madame -de Genlis and her thirty 
ways of getting a living, saying, " When I feel so strong 
and like to work as I have done to-day, I almost think I 
could earn my own living by hard work." 
"Are you skilful with your needle, Alice, as Miss Emily and Maude 
are ?" inquired Mr. Carey. 

" No, indeed ; for Miss Emily is very clever with her needle, Mr. 
Carey ; she can make her own dresses and bonnets, and fit Maude's 
dresses, and do fine work ; and she is a good nurse, too, I know, while 
I don't know much about nursing ; and she can write as well as a great 
many people do who make books ; she understands all about house- 

" My dear Alice, what a list of accomplishments you are making 
out for me !" remonstrated her teacher. 

"She has not told all, Miss Emily," said Maude, affectionately. 
" Why, last night I counted up ten means by which you could get a 
living, and I have no doubt but there are more, for I am sure Ma- 
dame de Genlis was not three times as capable and clever as you are." 
"Ten trades! What are they 1 ?" asked Alice. 
"Well, in the first place, she can teach; that is one. Then she 
could be a seamstress, or a dress-maker, or a milliner ; that would 
make four, you see." 

"And a nurse — don't forget that, Maude ; that's five," said Alice. 



"She made me a suit of cloth clothes once," said Arthur, "sol 
think she could be a tailoress." 

" Yes, indeed ; that's six," continued Maude ; " and she could fairly 
be a professor of music, so that is seven ; and of painting, which is 
eight ; and a housekeeper, which is nine ; and a bookkeeper, which is 

" She would be a very good saleswoman, which is eleven," added 
Mr. Carey. 

"Yes, because she is so persuasive and so pretty," said Herbert, 
with a blush at his personal and gallant remark. 

"What an enumeration!" exclaimed Miss Donne; "I must protest 
against such criticism, flattering as it is. Necessity teaches us how to 
achieve almost any thing, Mr. Carey, and I believe the whole secret of 
my knowing so much as these children make out, consists in having the 
spur of necessity applied to a practical disposition. I do not find that 
skilful handiwork has ever been intellectually deteriorating. On the 
contrary, I have often thought that the leisure which such occupation 
gave me, for thinking over what I had learned, was quite as well spent 
for mental purposes, as if I had been always book in hand." 

"Yes, very much better spent, oftentimes, Miss Emily," said Mr. 
Clayton, who had been listening to the children with an amused air, 
and who now came forward, from his reading-table, to join the group 
around the fire. " Continual reading and study, appealing only to 
memory, will make a person learned, but it requires time to digest 
and bestow what we learn, in order to become cultivated — educated, 
I mean. Books do not educate us. Their contents assist us in educat- 
ing ourselves. I imagine, my dear young lady, that you are a very 
well-educated woman, in your happy combination of the intellectual 
and the practical." 

"Oh, you must not trust these partial judges, Mr. Clayton," said 
Miss Emily. 

" No ; I am only reminded by them of my own observation ; and I 
am sure that, by which ever of your 'trades' you might undertake to 
make a livelihood, you would excel in that, if it were the humble art 
of the seamstress; acting on the principle of the old saying, that 
' whatever is worth doing at all, is worth doing well.' " 


" Thank you, Mr. Clayton ; do you remember the sermon we 
listened to last Sunday morning'? Our good minister insisted upon 
its being a Christian's duty, necessary to his growth in Christian virtues 
and graces, that he should strive, with a generous rivalry, to excel 
those who made no profession of religious principle ; and surely we 
who may ask divine assistance and a divine blessing upon our efforts, 
have reason to hope that we shall make higher attainments than those 
persons who depend only upon their own strength, no matter how 
vigorous and concentrated that may be. ' Not slothful in business,' 
is a gospel admonition, and one which I was early taught to remem- 
ber and practice." 

"What does your favourite, Mrs. Browning, say about working and 
thinking, Miss Emily, in her sonnet, called 'Work and Contempla- 
tion V '' asked Mr. 'Carey. 

" Here it is," said Maude, running to the book-case. " Shall I read 
it? No, I can't do it well enough — but will you, please, Miss Em- 
ily T So Miss Emily read : 

" The woman singeth at her spinning-wheel 
A pleasant chant, ballad, or barcarolle ; 
She thinketh of her song upon the whole 
Far more than of her flax ; and yet the reel 
Is full, and artfully her fingers feel 
"With quick adjustment, provident control, 
The lines, too subtly twisted — to unroll, 
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal 
To the dear Christian Church — that we may do 
Our Father's business in these temples mirk ; 
Thus swift and steadfast ; thus intent and strong ; 
"While thus apart from toil, our souls pursue 
Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work 
The better for the sweetness of the song." 

Thus ended the conversation on " work and contemplation," 
which name would characterize the evening's discussions quite as well 
as it does the sonnet. 


Chapter XKX. 

" I have had a nice time getting ready for to-night, papa," said 
Herbert, when the play-night came. "I have thought up almost a 
multitude of H's ;- now listen for a minute " 

"No, please don't name them now, Herbert !" pleaded Maude ; "I 
am afraid you will get some of mine, and I want them to be all fresh 
for the game. Alice and I have each been very fortunate, but Arthur 
is grumbling for a fighting man." 

" You are mistaken, Miss Maude ; I have as full a quiver as any of 
you, I know," said Arthur. 

"Will you please begin, Miss Emily? These young people are 
bubbling over with their grand preparations," said the kind host ; 
adding, " I have been puzzled myself, to choose." 

"Herbert, the quaint and pious George Herbert, is a particular 
favourite of mine, Mr. Clayton, and Thomas Hood, the good and 
gifted, the genial, humane Hood ; the first wit of the age, and one of 
our best poets ; whose clouded life made the sunshine of his soul more 
apparent; whose untimely death left a thousand mourning hearts." 
Miss Emily spoke enthusiastically, for Herbert and Hood were 
writers who appealed to her heart, as well as her intellect, and were 
truly friends. 

" They were unlike people, Miss Emily," remarked Mr. Carey ; 
" but I doubt not they would have been fast friends, had they lived 
at the same time. Hood had the more wit and Herbert the more 
piety, perhaps, as we apprehend them ; but their souls were in many 
respects similarly attuned. I am sure there would have been a 
mutual appreciation." 

" I have thought best," said Mr. Clayton, " to confine my election 
for the evening to divines. I find I seldom interfere with others' pre- 
ferences here, notwithstanding George Herbert, Miss Emily, whose 
poetical genius chiefly commended him to you. Robert Hall and 
Rowland Hill were both somewhat eccentric, and both very distin- 
guished preachers." 


" They don't sound like much, papa," remarked Alice. 

"You would have thought them a great deal, had you heard them 
preach, Alice," said her father. 

" Why don't you say ' some,' papa ?" inquired Herbert. "You 
would have thought them some, Alice- " 

" Papa never uses slang, you know, Herbert," said Alice, indig- 

" Shall I name a lady V said Mr. Carey. " I think Elizabeth Ham- 
ilton was sufficiently distinguished to be admitted. She was a very 
good, very clever, very accomplished governess, Alice ; and a very 
excellent writer upon the subject of female education." 

" Why, so is Miss Emily, Mr. Carey ; and she might be as dis- 
tinguished as Mrs. Hamilton — who can telH" said Alice with much 

"And accompanying Mrs. Hamilton," continued Mr. Carey, " I 
present William Hazlitt, one of the most brilliant writers and essay- 
ists in the English language." 

" But a very unamiable man, Mr. Carey," said Miss Donne. 

"I grant that," said the gentleman. " Still, I am afraid it will be a 
long time before his place will be supplied in the world of critical 

Nothing more was said about Hazlitt, so Arthur, taking up his 
turn, said : 

" I have on hand, my dear company, a large party of worthy peo- 
ple who lived a long time ago ; there is so little choice to be made 
amongst them, that you shall hear the whole roll called, and decide 
for yourselves." 

" You may infringe upon the rights of some one else, Arthur, by 
such out-of-order proceedings," said Mr. Carey. 

" He has none of my names amongst his, Mr. Carey," said 
Herbert. ^ 

" Then you may as well go on, Arthur. You will hardly take 
any whom Maude or Alice would choose." 

" Here they come, then," said Arthur. "Homer, ' the blind old 
man of Scio's rocky isle;' Herodotus, the oldest Greek historian; 


Hesiod, the famous Greek poet ; Horace, the celebrated Latin poet — 
there, is that enough V 

" Oh, no ! go on, Arthur !" cried Herbert, ever ready with his fun. 
" Say Heliogabalus, the dreadful, cruel Roman Emperor j Herod, who 
killed small children by way of a change — " 

" Stop! you're too bad, Herbert. I'll hand such gentry and their 
exploits to you," said Arthur. 

" Thank you, they would not be fitting company for noble, patri- 
otic John Hampden, with his stout resistance to King Charles's illegal 
taxation. And besides him, I have chosen Henry Hudson, the adven- 
turer, and the god-father of the beautiful river which bears his name. 
Then there are others— -" 

" Now won't you please to stop, Herbert ? you might tread on my 
toes," said Alice. 

" Gracious and elegant Alice," began Herbert, but looking at her, 
he saw her eyes fall as if she thought him unkind in his mocking 
politeness ; so he changed his tone, and said : " My dear little sister, 
I would not take one of your names for any thing." 

" Oh, I know it, Herbert, dear, and perhaps you have not even 
thought of them. I am sorry I spoke so quickly," said Alice, in her 
own sweet way, which made every one love the child. 

"Hemans and Heber" said Maude, in her turn. " ' The gifted and 
lovely Mrs. Hemans,' as Miss Emily calls her ; you remember ' The 
Bended Bow,' which you used to ' speak ' to Miss Emily, don't you, 
Arthur 1 And we all know ' From Greenland's icy mountains,' by 
Bishop Heber. He wrote a great deal of poetry besides that, didn't 
he, Mr. Clayton ?" 

" Yes ; he was a good poet and a good man, Maude," said Mr. 
Clayton. c< Well, Alice dear, what is your election for to-night ?" 

" Nathaniel Hawthorne, who wrote ' True Stories ' for us child- 
ren. ■" 

"And lots of other books for grown people, which give HHb. a much 
better title to reputation," said Mr. Clayton. "See here, Alice: 
' The House with Seven Gables ' ' Mosses from an old Manse,' and 


" Yes, I suppose so, papa ; but that was all I knew about, for it 
was all I had read. My second name is Mary HowittP 

"That is elegant, Alice. You could not have done better," said 
Maude; and all said, "Yes, that is capital." 

"Now,. Herbert, what others did you want to name]" asked Mr. 

" I had thought of Humboldt, sir, and HerscheV 

"And I," said Mr. Clayton, " must refer you to Hogg, the Scotch 
poet, and Harvey, who discovered the circulation of the blood, and 
Hogarth, the great painter." 

"And Hamlet, Mr. Clayton," said Arthur. " He was a real cha- 
racter, you know, though Shakspeare made him famous." 

" Very good, Arthur, — but I believe we have had enough for one 
night. Now let us sing Madame Guion's hymn, which Maude men- 
tioned the other night. 

" Father, whate'er of earthly bliss 
Thy sovereign will denies, 
Accepted at Thy throne of grace, 
Let this petition rise." 

" Give me a calmimd thankful heart, 
From every murmur free : 
The blessings of Thy grace impart, 
And make me live to Thee. 

" Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine 
My life and death attend, 
Thy presence through my journey shine, 
And crown that journey's end. 

'& loltkp; 



A retired and silent lane in the neighbourhood of the wharves. Lily 
sitting upon the ground with Jamie asleep in her lap. 

Lily. Poor Jamie ! Jamie's tired. Come, mamma. 
Enter Sailor Boy, whistling. 

Sailor Boy. Hallo ! little people, what's in the wind now 1 I 
should think that it was bed-time for you both; yes, quite time for 
you to turn in, for night is coming on, and the skies look mighty 
murky to leeward. I say — you'd better hoist sail and be gone. 
Hallo, young on;s, where might you live? 

Lily. H-u-s-h, Jamie's tired. 

Sailor Boy. But you must go home now, little people : don't you 
see how fast the rain is coming down ? Tell me where you live and 
what might be your names, and I'll give you a lift myself, though the 
captain is a- waiting for me. Now what might be your name, I say % 

Lily. My name is Lily. 

Sailor Boy. That's only the beginning: what's the end 1 I shouldn't 
wonder if she didn't know what her own name is. She's a mighty 
little creature any how, to know any thing. And what might be 
t'other one's name 1 

Lily. Jamie. Jamie's tired. Come, mamma. 

Sailor Boy, {despairingly.) Little girl, what is your father's name, 
then 1 Can't you tell a body that 1 

Lily. His name is Papa, and mamma's name is Mamma ; they 
live down yon — der. {Ponding in the distance.) 

Sailor Boy, {thoughtfully.) What's to be done 1 ? Whew ! how it 
rains. 'Tis not in a sailor's nature to leave them here to perish hi this 
lonely place ; if I did, I should expect to go to Davy Jones' locker 
next voyage. Yes, what's to be done 1 that's a poser. . At any rate, 

geraldine's holidays, 339 

they sha'n't suffer from cold. ( Takes off his jacket and lays it over 
them.) If Jamie's white face hasn't a look of our baby that's dead at 
home! [Pacing up and down as if he were on ship -board.) Yes, here's 
a regular blow, a stiff* nor'easter ; we can't stay here, that's certain ; 
and if I was to go to look for their whereabouts, the captain would 
think that I had deserted, and be as mad as blazes ; and then again 
he said that he would sail to-night, and he certainly will go when the 
blow is over: so here goes — I won't desert the little ones, I can't take 
them to their home, but I'll just bring them aboard with me and let 
them take a nap in my hammock till the storm is over ; then, if the 
captain should happen to sail when they are there, and nobody comes 
to claim them, I know somebody at home that will be glad enough 
to have them — my dear mother, that buried her own little baby. But 
that's neither here nor there. The captain's a good man, and he'll help 
me out of this box. Come, little young ones, I'll do my best by you. 
[Takes them by the hand and walks slowly out.) 

scene n. 

Watchman walking to and fro in a. street. 

Enter Town Crier with a bell. 

Watchman. Past two o'clock ! Past two o'clock. 

Town Crier. Hallo there ! stop your clatter and listen to a body. 

Watchman. What's the row 1 

Town Crier. Children lost. 

Watchman. Children been lost before to-night. 

Town Crier. Know you nought about these 1 

Watchman. Describe 'em. 

Town Crier. Boy and girl ; four years old and one year old ; had 
on hat, little aprons and so-forth ; strayed away to-day, it is supposed 
after the soldiers. 

Watchman. Never seed the like. Past two o'clock ; past two 

Town Crier. Well then, it is a gone case, and they must be where 
some of the folks think they are — in the water. Harkee, old owl, 
if you should hear tell of any thing about the babies, Mr. Manly will 
reward ye, ye know. (Going.) 

340 geealdine's holidays. 

Watchman. Hold on a bit — now I come to think on't, Jem 
Slukes, him as was on guard before me here, did tell me that he 
caught a glimpse of a rather suspicious sight about dusk — one of the 
sailor boys of the Water Witch, carrying two little children towards 
the ship : but as he knows the boy, and knows that he is a clever lad, 
he thought it was all right, and let him alone ; but if you are on that 
track, my boy, the scent is lost in the water, for the Water Witch put 
off to sea nigh two hours ago. 

Town Crier. Oh ho, oh ho ! that's something though ; perhaps a 
quarter of the money. {Exit, running) 

act in. SCENE I. 

Mr. Manltfs house. Mrs. Manly in a room, distracted with grief. 

Mrs. M. My children, my children ! has no one seen them, no 
one heard of them ? are their little heads, that have so often lain upon 
my bosom, shelterless to-night ? are they shivering with cold in some 
lonely spot ; are they hungry and tired and sad 1 Oh, my children, 
what would I not give to have you once more within these arms ! 
Perhaps I may never behold you again ; never hear the sweet prattle 
of your lips, or the gentle fall of your footsteps. My children! 
will no one bring to me my children'? (Enter Mr. M.) Oh! I 
know that you have come to tell me that they are found, that they 
are without the door. Stand aside and let me behold my children. 

Mr. M. {shaking his head mournfully). Alas, poor wife, they are 
not found ; make up your mind for the worst. (Aside.) How can 
I tell her what we dread 1 (Aloud.) Our neighbours think that we 
shall see our little ones no more. We have come to the conclusion 
that they wandered towards the wharves, and — and — 

Mrs. M. (frantically.) Merciful Heaven ! they are not drowned ! 
only say they are not drowned ; oh, not that, not that. Oh, no, no, no. 

Mr. M. Alas ! poor wife, I fear that it must be so. (Mrs. Manly 
sinks down upon a chair, and, covering her face with her hands, weeps 

Enter Town Crier. 

Mrs. M. (hearing a noise without.) The children! 

Town Crier. Alas ! ma'am, alas, Sir ! 

geraldine's holidays. 341 

Mrs. M. (hoarsely.) Are my children drowned? 

Town Crier. Worse, ma'am. 

Mr. M. (holding the town crier by the collar.) Man, tell me 
instantly what you know about them, or you shall repent of your 
tardiness. — But I forget myself: my grief makes a madman of me. 
(Gently.) Will you tell your news, my good man ? 

Town Crier. .'Tain't much to tell, after all, sir. This is it. About 
dusk, a sailor was seen carrying them towards the Water Witch, and 
about twelve in the night she weighed anchor, and is now far off to sea. 

Mrs. M. (starting up.) 'With my children? 

Town Crier. Just so, ma'am: and if I could be allowed to speak my 
mind upon the subject, I'd have that young sailor hanged, drawn and 
quartered — the youthful villain ! I dare say Ae's got his reasons for 
carrying them off, "but he didn't know at the same time that he'd have 
to die for it by the law. 

Bridget. Die for it ! to be sure he will ; but that's not half, I 
hope. My ould father, him as lives in blessed Ireland, used to tell me 
a story of a boy who was kilt twice for that same thing, because, you 
know, Misthress Manly, that he took two children, and once killing 
was too good for him. 

Mr. M. (in an excited manner.) Bridget, hush, for Heaven's sake ! 
Wife, (turning to Mrs. M.) come cheer up : while there's life there's 
hope. I will follow the vessel to her port, and hope yet to rescue 

Many voices without. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah! They're found ! 
they're found ! they're found ! 

(Enter sailor boy with children, with shells and sea-weed in their 
hands. The parents rush to the children to embrace them; the town 
crier attempts to secure the sailor boy, and struggles to hold him fast.) 

Sailor Boy. Unhand me, man, unhand me. 

Toion Crier. Didn't you steal the children, my boy, and didn't 
you mean to carry them off? and if you didn't carry them off, (in a 
low voice,) didn't you hope to get the reward? I tell you what, my 
boy, if you'll give me just half of what you get, I'll not turn evidence 
against you, and mum (with a knowing wimc) will be the word. 

342 geraldine's holidays. 

Sailor Boy, {freeing himself from his grasp.) Ay, ay, man, that's 
a bargain ; just half of what I take, you shall have. 

Town Crier. All's right, then. 

Mr. M., {coming forward and speaking sternly.) Young lad, you 
^hen are the sailor boy of the Water Witch, who wished to kidnap 
my poor little children. ( To the town crier. } Town crier, a cord, if 
you please ; such youthful villan-y it has seldom been my lot to wit- 
ness. {Commencing to bind his arms.) • 

Lily, {rushing forward and throwing her arms around him.) Don't, 
papa, he's a good sailor boy. 

Mrs. M. Let the boy tell his own story, good people all. He 
does not look to me like a villain • there is something frank and open 
about his countenance which scarcely betokens such deep depravity. 

Bridget. My ould father — 

Mr. M. Be quiet, if you please, Bridget ; and you, sailor boy, of 
the Water Witch, tell your story. 

Sailor Boy. I thank you, ma'am, for your good words, and I thank 
God that the innocents are safe at home. I found them all cold and 
wet, in Wharf Lane, and it wasn't in my heart to leave them so lone- 
some-like ; I could not bring them just then here to their port, for I 
was afeard our captain would think I was taking too long a leave of 
absence, so I took them down to the ship, and consulted with him. 
what to do. The tears came into his' eyes when he saw them, the 
boy fast asleep in the hammock, and the girl so careful-like of him, and 
so pleased with the gaudy shells and sea^weed ;for he has little ones of 
his own at home. So " Bill," says he, " we are going to sail to-night — 
presently, as soon as the blow is over ; but we must do without you 
this voyage, my lad. Just above there, not far from the landing, there 
is a boat-house of mine ; here is the key : it will never do to take the 
children out in this rain, to look for their home. Take some blankets, 
then, and turn in there, and as soon as it is quite clear, look about 
the streets for their house and some of their kin." And so I did, 
sir ; and there we all slept a bit ; and when the rain was quite gone 
over, we came out of our boat-house, and a friend of mine told me 
that there was sorrow and mourning in this house, and so I brought 
them here. Good-night, or rather good-morning, Miss Lily and Master 

geraldine's holidays. 343 

Jamie. It is nearly daybreak, and I must be gone. But maybe you'll 
come to the Water Witch sometime when she is in port again, to pay 
sailor Will a visit, and get some more coral and shells. 

Mr. M. Stop, my lad, there's a hundred dollars reward offered 
for the recovery of the children. You've made a clear statement, and 
I believe every word that you say. Here is the money ready for 
you. {Offering a purse.) 

Sailor Boy. Not a cent, sir; not a cent: my mother would cry shame 
upon Will of the Water Witch, if I as much as touched the money. 

.Mrs. M., (advancing and shaking hands with him.) Noble, gene- 
rous boy, I knew that I was not mistaken in you ; if you will not 
accept the money, then accept my everlasting thanks; and be assured 
that, through the captain of your vessel, many a gift will reach your 
home from our hands. 

Town Crier. And my share, my lady ? I half found them, you know. 

Bridget, {shaking her fist at him.) Oh, you desaiver you ; if my 
ould father — 

Mr. M. You shall be amply rewarded, my man, and many thanks 
to you all, good neighbours and friends, for your interest ; be assured 
that we will never forget your kindness while our hearts retain the 
memory of this night, and The Lost Children. 

Curtain falls, but rises again for the Epilogue. 


Friends, neighbours, ladies, gentlemen and all, 

We come obedient to your hearty call ; 

We come to thank you for your patience shown, 

And all our stage defects and faults to own... 

We know we are not Siddons', Trees or Kembles ; 

(Excuse us if our voice a little trembles ;) 

We know we are not Mowatts, Keans, O'Neills ; 

Each of our corps his own demerits feels. 

To please you was our aim, our genial task, 

And if we have, no more we wish or ask. 

S5teto art's ^uxifitt, 

. T is very delightful to see in the young, disposi- 
tions and characteristics which give promise of 
nohle-heartedness and generosity in riper age. 
Among the many trifling evidences in a boy which 
shadow forth the future man, his deportment to children younger and. 
weaker than himself, and his treatment of brute creatures, are fair tests 
by which to judge. 

If this opinion is not erroneous, I think all will allow that my young 
cousin, the principal actor in the following little incident, promises to 
be a truly courageous and fine-hearted man. 

From very earliest childhood, Stewart's favourite toy had been a 
kite ; and long before his tiny hands could manage one, he would ask 
his nurse to hold him up at the window, that he might see the boys 


Stewart's sacrifice. 345 

fly their kites on the common before the house in which his parents 
resided, and which was a favourite resort for this amusement. As 
Stewart grew older, kites maintained their place in his affections. He 
had attained the age of nine years when he saw one in the window of 
a toy-store he occasionally passed, which for size and magnificence 
excelled any kite he had ever seen or dreamed of, and filled him with 
an ardent desire to become its possessor. He ascertained the price 
of the admired toy, and returned home, resolving to put by all his 
pocket-money and any extra sixpences that might be given him, till he 
had amassed the sum necessary to effect the purchase. 

One fine morning, after several weeks' saving, Stewart set out, the 
happiest of happy little boys, to buy the long-wished-for treasure; a 
fear now and then crossing his mind as he went cheerily along, that 
it might possibly have been sold since he last passed that way. How- 
ever, as he approached the store he found his apprehensions were 
groundless : he entered, gave the money, and receiving the kite, re- 
turned homeward, the lightness of his step testifying to the joy that 
was in his heart. 

As he crossed the common I have before mentioned, he saw two 
boys disputing, and on coming up with them, he found it was for the 
possession of a poor little bird which was in danger of being torn to 
pieces in the struggle. Without a moment's hesitation, Stewart ex- 

"Boys, willy ou let me have the bird if I give you my kite?" This 
proposal was readily agreed to. The bird was given up to his young 
deliverer, who, perceiving it was not much hurt, put it on his finger, 
and had the satisfaction of seeing the poor little fluttering thing spread 
its wings and fly away. He then pursued his way home, doubtless 
happier in the consciousness of having done a humane act, than if he 
had possessed twenty kites. 

Some hours afterwards, his mamma, feeling surprised that she had 
not been shown the new kite, asked where it was, and was highly gra- 
tified to hear her little son quietly relate his adventure on the com- 
mon, without expressing the slightest regret for the loss of a toy he 
had so long desired to have. 

otljt Spelean §oj) + 

IT was a gloomy day in all Tyrol, for on that day the 
Tyrolese hero, the noble Hofer, was to fall beneath the 
sword of the cruel Bonaparte. It seemed the signal 
for the overthrow of Tyrol; and the nation mourned. 
A crowd had gathered round the place where their 
idol was to be sacrificed. They were collected in little groups, talking 
oratorically, but quietly,. perhaps for fear of the fierce-looking soldiers 
who were about, and many of whom watched the proceedings, whilst 
skulking among the rocks and trees. 

Apart from all, sat a plainly dressed, but rather handsome boy, 
who, with his face buried in his hands, was the very picture of grief. 
He was an orphan ; his mother having died some years before, and 
his father Jean HabenofF being now condemned to be shot. No 
wonder the boy felt savage, and filled with hatred against the French 
who had thus destroyed his peace ! So profound was his reverie that he 
did not heed the approaching footsteps, till, looking up, he perceived an 
armed French soldier standing close beside him. This circumstance 
did not at all tend to soothe his already excited feelings, so to the soldier's 
good-natured " What is the matter ?" he made no reply, but turned 
sullenly away. The soldier gently removed the boy's hands from his 
face, and repeated the question. " Nothing, only my father is going to 
be shot: but of course that is nothing to you," he added bitterly. " Oh ! 
come, come, do not talk that way, mon enfant. What is your name ?" 
" Carl Habenoff," said the boy, still surlily, but touched by the 
Frenchman's kindness. " My mother's dead, and now they are going 
to kill my father ; oh dear ! what shall I do V cried he, bursting into 
a fresh paroxysm of grief. 

The soldier blushed, and appeared moved. Then he asked, "Are 
you a Tyrolese? Your name does not Warrant you one." 

" Yes, I am, but my father is a German, and gave me my name ; 
but what does it matter 1 I shall be cast adrift on the world, and no 
one will care for me. Hark ! they are coming," and he again hid his 
face in his hands. The compassionate Frenchman drew him away, so 



that he should not see the dreadful sight. The first gun boomed in 
the distance, but when the sound fell upon the boy's car, he loosened 
his grasp of the strange soldier, and dropped senseless on the ground. 
The Frenchman took him in his arms, as if he had been a baby, and 
carried the friendless orphan to his tent. 

Eugene Dupont was a poor Frenchman ; his father, though poor, 
was ambitious ; he was desirous of making his sen a priest ; " for who 
knows," thought the simple father, how he may rise 2 -Cardinal Wolsey 
of England (drat her!) was a butcher's son: why should not a shoe- 
maker's son have as good a chance as a butcher's'?" So, by dint of 
straining every nerve, they managed to send Eugene to college, some- 
where in Prussia. He graduated with honour ; a good parish was 
offered him, and all things looked fair, when he was suddenly called 
home by the dangerous illness of his father. M. Dupont's illness was 
a short one, for a fortnight after he was taken ill, he died. 

During Eugene's absence, another candidate had been appointed, 
and after the settling of his father's affairs, he found himself entirely 
destitute ; so, without thought, he enlisted for two years in the army. 
Bonaparte was just rising — Eugene's residence in Prussia had rather 
inclined him to think Napoleon not quite so much in the right as the 
wrong, but he was young, and Bonaparte was just the general to dazzle 
his imagination ; besides, he did not see what else he could do : so all 
these circumstances combined, induced him to take a step of which 
he had repented, long before he met Carl. Though brave enough, 
he did not fancy snatching an hour or two of sleep on the cold wet 
ground, and then marching eighteen hours, again perhaps starting 
before dawn. Not that he was a milk-sop, or could not bear discomfort 
as well as his fellows, but he did think there were more comfortable 
means of subsisting, and which did not grate upon one's conscience so 
much. " I'll be a doctor," thought he, " so soon as lam clear of this war; 
and if I do get knocked about as I do now, I shall know that it is for 
healing, not for killing." 

Eugene's heart was touched by the distress of Carl, and though 
not a remarkably susceptible young man, the case was so much his 
own, that, as we have seen, he took compassion on him, and, without 
much thought, relieved him in the manner described. 


After Carl had recovered from his fainting-fit, Dupont was in some 
hesitation what to do with him; but the boy's imploring appeal for his 
protection, made him decide to keep him with him, at least for the 
present ; so Carl remained with the kind-hearted soldier. 

The army stayed in the camp some days, during which time the 
boy remained in the tent, amusing himself as well as he could with a 
few books the Frenchman had brought with him, chiefly dictionaries 
and guide-books. One evening, however, he stole out to enjoy the 
air a little. The sun was just setting, and shed a golden lustre all 
around. The army was going to move the next day, and Dupont had 
said he should take Carl with him. " I will go and bid good-bye to 
my friends in the village," thought Carl, and he wended his way to- 
wards the little hamlet. Carl was by no means a melancholy, effeminate 
boy, but the late events in his life had naturally saddened him. How- 
ever, as he trod down the valley with a firm step, the sun lighted up the 
shadow on Carl's heart and dispelled it. Just as the sun disappeared 
behind the hills, he arrived at the door of one of his father's old 
friends, Guillaume or William Blancange. He was a young man 
newly married, and one of the most sincere mourners for Hofer. 
He received Carl very affectionately, kissing him a great many times; 
and great was his astonishment at Carl's recital of his recent adven- 
ture, .and his proposed departure. Blancange had an inveterate pre- 
judice against the French, and would not believe that Dupont was 
disinterested in his benevolence towards Carl. "No, no," said he; "I 
know the French too well for that — a parcel of mean, skulking curs, 
with a blood-hound at their head." 

" But, William," remonstrated Carl, " what object could he have in 
deceiving a friendless lad like me ?" 

" I don't know," said the other, shaking his head : " they're too deep 
for me entirely ; but depend upon it, it's no good." 

Carl however persisted in accompanying Eugene, in spite of all the 
other's entreaties. Many and sad were the farewells gone through 
that evening. Old men stretched their hands and blessed him ; young 
men and women dropped a tear for his departure, and children 
clamoured loud for their playfellow ; all wished him God-speed on 
his journey. It was with slow and saddened steps that Carl wended 


his way back to the camp. He did not feel so sure after all as to the 
step he had taken. Eugene might be — but no, he repelled such an 
idea with disgust. " I will ask him all about himself this evening ; if he 
is an impostor — but no, that is impossible !" said the boy indignantly. 

When Carl returned to Eugene's tent, -in order to pack up the few 
things he possessed, to be ready to go the next day, he found Eugene 
sitting at the entrance with folded arms and a troubled look. 

" Why," said Carl anxiously, " M. Dupont, what is the matter?" 

" Eh? what did you say ?" returned the soldier, rousing himself from 
his reverie ; " what's the matter % Matter enough, I think : it concerns 
you, though, more nearly than it does me. Napoleon has issued an order 
that all women and children, with boys under fifteen years of age, should 
immediately leave the camp. Poor boy, what will become of you V 

" This is truly something to be concerned about," returned Carl, 
" at least for me. Unfortunately, I am only thirteen. What shall I do V* 

" It is true you are tall, Carl ; perhaps we might manage to pass 
you off for fifteen ; they would not examine you very closely, and 
if you would but offer yourself as a recruit, you — " 

" What !" exclaimed Carl, " tell a falsehood ! and offer to serve the 
murderer of my father, and the destroyer of the liberty of my country ! 
No, Monsieur Dupont, never. At present I have no means or power 
to oppose him — but serve him ! never. His edict, though it is an un- 
fortunate one for me, is a just one, and I will not pretend to dispute it. 
I am very grateful to you, M. Dupont, for your kindness, and shall 
never forget it, yet I must leave you. Farewell ! I will endeavour 
to make my way to Paris by myself, and seek my own fortune." 

Carl had caught up his little bundle, and was striding off, when 
Eugene caught him by the arm. 

" Stay, rash boy !" said he ; " where are you going ? A mere child 
like you, talking of going to Paris, as if it were a pleasant little excur- 
sion ! what nonsense ! Stay here, and in one short year I will come 
and fetch you ; surely you have friends with whom — But the boy 's 
gone! Carl— Carl!" 

Eugene dashed out of the tent and hallooed loudly after his pro- 
tege ; but it was of no use, and he returned disappointedly to his tent. 
[conclusion in our next.] 

ejgiittixrcjg i\t SSjrrlfc 

VERY man has his calling, has he 1 ?" said Frank Hard- 
ing to himself as he went out of the sitting or family 
living-room, to go to bed. "1 shall be a man accord- 
ing to the law in five years from to-day — twenty-one 
years old then, and free — free to do what, I wonder ! 
Mr. Harrison says, 'every person has a taste or propensity, or, in 
some cases, genius, for some particular kind of business ; and there 
would be a great many more able men in the world if each person 
were to consider for himself, or by the help of parents or guardians, 
what his special vocation was.' These were his very words." Frank's 
reverie, or mental dialogue, was broken by the melted tallow, from the 
candle he was holding, running down his fingers. An expression of 
disgust rose upon his face, and he said to himself, " I don't believe^my 
calling is to spend my life earning fifty cents a day on a farm, and 



going to bed in a garret by the light of such a candle as this. If it 
was, I should not feel so disgusted with it. What shall I do V 

And so Frank went to bed, but not to sleep ; and what the result 
of his cogitations was, we shall learn after we have found out who this 
discontented boy was. 

His father had been a clever, well-educated man, whom delicate 
health, and a lack of capital, kept tied down to the — to him — very irk- 
some post of schoolmaster. Frank's mother died of consumption 
brought on by a cold taken at the wash-tub ; such was their poverty 
and their needs. The father did not long survive her, and before 
Frank was twelve years old, he was an orphan and penniless. There 
was something in this which was a mystery to him ; he wondered why 
his father, who had the education and manners of a gentleman, should 
have so obscure and irksome a lot in life, where his fine tastes were 
crushed, his health ruined .by labour, and every sympathy marking his 
delicate perceptions, and even genius, could it have revealed itself, was 
buried beneath the harshest and bitterest realities. 

The fate of his mother, too, troubled him. He remembered her 
lovely in face, gentle in her whole bearing, embodying all the graces 
of womanhood, and yet exposed to privations, and compelled to toil 
in common with the rudest and hardiest of her sex. As Frank grew 
older, these incongruities occupied his thoughts, and served to render 
him more than ever discontented with his present position on the farm 
of his uncle. But what should he do 1 He would not stand behind 
a counter in a store, and measure smiles, soft words, tapes and rib- 
bons, for rude, or frivolous, or flaunting women — not he ! As for 
the various trades which arose to his mind, he turned them all over 
and over again, and thus settled their claims : — 

" I'll not be a tailor, sitting and sewing like a woman — nor a black- 
smith, burning out my brains over those forge-fires — nor a mason, 
even with the prospect before me of the first rank in that manly 
trade. I'll not sew leather for horse-trappings all day, nor handle a 
paint-brush upon the outside or inside of senseless houses. I never 
had any taste for hammers and nails, so I am afraid I shouldn't make 
even a boss carpenter — but — yes, I have it! hurrah!" and Frank 


jumped out of bed at the fortunate thought, and swinging his arm in the 
air — " I'll be a printer ! It's next to going to school, I've heard peo- 
ple say ; ' sticking types' all day, it's true, but copying men's thoughts, 
reading their souls in their words, living over their lives, and looking 
forward to the Franklins, Taylors, and — and — oh, there are lots of 
them — who have stepped from printing offices into high places !" 

This was conclusive, and Frank pondered only a few minutes more. 
He knew it would be greatly against his uncle's wishes and judgment, 
but he knew his uncle was not .a liberal-minded man, and only did as 
well by him as he did, because he felt a little remorseful when he con- 
sidered his own ample barns and good securities, and thought of his 
bright, gifted, generous-hearted brother and his lovely wife dying in 
almost starvation, cruelly ground down by the iron heel of poverty. 
He thought he was doing well by Frank now, and the boy should be 
content. Doing well! Yes, Frank had fifty .dollars saved up from his 
wages. It was something for a boy : it would pay his way to the city, 
and keep him till he could accomplish his purposes. He was ignorant 
of all steps to be taken, but no matter — he would find them out — his 
energy was wonderful, his hopes unlimited, his determination immov- 
able, and his purse had fifty dollars in it J 

Just as the gray dawn was streaking over the world, Frank Hard- 
ing, with a pack of clothes upon a good stout stick, and a load of 
resolution upon, an unflinching spirit, started upon the road to this 
great city. He stopped at the stile and looked back a sad, almost 
bitter, farewell to the scenes he was leaving. 

" I will make a name and a position, and by my own fame avenge 
the obscure fate of my father and the untimely death of my mother. 
Work ! ay, that I can ! With such a purpose there will be no toil for 
me : the days will be all too short, that will lead me to my proposed 
end. My trade will be — not the pittance I shall gain by it — but my 
education, my capital, my experience, the stepping-stone to a wide 
future, which shall be honourable, and find me then in my proper 
calling. It will not be for fifty cents a day ! but for invaluable 
improvement. True, I'll wash rollers and stick types, bear fatigue, 
privations, and rebuffs. That is not all of life — that is the stile lead- 



ing over into the high-road, or the stepping-stones over yonder brook — 
there is so much beyond." 

The boy's heart swelled, and his soul expanded ; his pack did not 
weary him, or the long walk of almost twenty miles tire him. And 
thus Frank Harding began the world, in which we may be almost sure 
he will find that for which he seeks ; for he will work with the patient 
industry, the strong purpose, the steady resolve, and the untiring en- 
ergy which, when worthily exerted, man acknowledges and respects, 
and God honours with His blessing. 

t JSitmtiur |iartL 

How soft the rain falls on the leaves- 

So soft and sweet to me 
Come, like a shower, the memories 

Of things that used to be. 
The years go back as in a dream, 

I am a child again ; 
I sit beside my mother's knee 

And hear the summer rain. 

How well she loved its gentle fall, 

Like fairy music sweet ; 
Or sometimes she would liken it 

To sound of childish feet ; 
But that was when the little feet 

That she loved best of all 
Came bounding lightly, airily 

In answer to her call. 

Those little feet — the little hands, 
(So small and white they were,) 

The little pouting crimson lips — 
How dear they were to her ! 

How rain-like fell her kisses down 

Upon the baby-face, 
That hid itself from such a shower 

With shy, capricious grace ! 

I see it all so plainly now — 

The blessed summer rain 
Hath brought me back my mother's look, 

My sister's laugh again ; 
And I forget how many years 

Since that sweet time have fled, 
And all the wild and bitter tears 

That my own eyes have shed ; 

Forget that now the baby's laugh 

Rings never more for me, 
That now my mother's loving look 

I never more shall see — 
And losing in sweet memories 

All loneliness and pain, 
Hear child-like at my mother's knee 

The falling summer rain. 

Mart E, 

%\t gjfitfuj's ^Ijafrah), 

COUSIN of mine, lately returned from Italy, paid 
me another visit yesterday. As often as he comes, 
he tells me some of the adventures that happened 
to him while in foreign lands. Many of these 
would amuse you vastly, especially the story of the Donkey's Sha- 
dow. I shall give it in my cousin's own words. 

" I once wanted to go from Rome to Tivoli, a little village in the 
mountains, where a number of beautiful cascades fall down, through 
the windows of a ruined castle, into a lovely valley far below. The 
distance is not to be got over with a hop, skip, or a jump, being 
some four miles off, so I hired a donkey, according to the custom of 
the country. 

"The donkey came at the appointed hour, accompanied by his 
master, the ass-driver Antonio. You well know what a lazy animal 
Master Long-ears is. He does not obey his rider's least word, like 
that noble animal the horse, neither does he attend to the reining of 
the bridle, nor the pressure of the knees. Not he! — no, a man or 
a boy must needs run behind him, and lay on to him, every now and 
then, with a thick stick, or he would be for ever stopping short either 
to sleep or to eat. But, to be sure, it must be confessed that an ass 
has a tough hide of his own, and a dozen blows are often scarcely 
sufficient to force him away from a thistle that he has once set his 
heart upon. 

" Well ! I mounted the animal, and off we set, while Antonio ran 
merrily behind, and kept bawling out, ' Gee ho ! on with you. lazy- 
boots !' and so we got on famously at first. 

" Now it happened to be dreadfully hot that day, as it often is in 
Italy. The road to Tivoli lies through a barren, desert country, 
where you scarcely see a house or a tree, or hardly as much as a 


the donkey's shadow. 355 

shrub by the wayside ; so by the time it was noon, the sunbeams 
had scorched my straw hat through and through, and I did not know 
what I should do to bear the heat. The ass was tired of trotting, the 
driver of beating, and I of keeping my seat. Moreover, I felt very 
sleepy, but whichever way I turned, not a corner could I discover 
where there was shade enough to allow me to lie down at full length 
and take a nap. I then hit upon a capital idea. ' Stop !' cried I, and 
forthwith my donkey stood as stock still as though he were rooted to 
the earth ; for an ass always knows full well the meaning of the word 
' stop ;' — he never can manage to understand the words ' go on' as long 
as he lives. 

" On the roadside stood a withered aloe, and methought that if I 
tied Master Long-ears to its stalk, I could then lie down very com- 
fortably in the shadow he would, throw upon the brown, scorched- 
looking grass. 

" But before I carried out this cunning device, I wiped away the 
perspiration that was running down my face, stretched my legs, which 
were as stiff as a couple of matches after my ride, and took another 
look at the beautiful blue mountains that lay far behind me. ' 

" On turning round to lay myself on the ground, who should be 
already lying in the ass's shadow, and snoring like a top, but Master 
Antonio himself ! He had beaten me in cunning ■ he had done what 
I only intended doing. 

" That the fellow should lie there and sleep quietly was all very 
fair, only, you see, I happened to be the principal person in this case, 
while he had only been taken on account of the animal ; besides, he 
could bear the heat better than I, being more accustomed to it. 

" ' Holloa there, Antonio ! get up !' cried I, shaking him. He 
opened his eyes, stared at me, and turned round on his other side. 

"I shook him somewhat more violently. 'Antonio!' said I, 'get 
up. The shade in which you are lying belongs to me and not to you.' 
But this time Antonio did not so much as trouble himself to open his 
eyes, but merely moved the fore-finger of his right hand to and fro, 
which, amongst Italians, stands for ' No, Sir !' I again bawled into 
his ear, 'Antonio, now do listen to reason. I hired the ass, and con- 

856 the donkey's shadow. 

sequently his shadow into the bargain; therefore get along with you, 
for the shadow is mine !' 

"Antonio then replied : ' Sir, first convince me that you are your- 
self an ass, and then you will be in the right ; but this shadow belongs 
to an ass, which ass belongs to me; therefore I won't get up, but shall 
go on sleeping in the property of my property.' 

"And he was again going off to sleep ; but I was in a passion, be- 
cause I had nothing to urge against the truth of his words, and I 
seized him by the throat, and dragged him away from his resting- 
place. He grew angry in turn and jumped up, and we began to 
struggle to try who should eject the other from the coveted patch of 
ground. And a regular wrestling -bout we had of it, for neither of 
us would yield, till at length we stumbled over a stone, and down we 
fell, and floundered about in the noonday heat, and finished by rolling 
over a slope some two feet high, down to the soft soil below. There 
we lay like a couple of broiled chickens, still fast hold of each other, 
like brave wrestlers as we were. 

" ' Sir,' quoth Antonio, ' I see that we are a match for each other, 
both as to strength and skill. Therefore, why should we bother one 
another any more 1 give me a paolo (that's the name of a Roman coin) 
and I will sell you the Donkey's Shadow.' 

" ' If that's all, you silly fellow !' cried I, ' you shall have the paolo; 
and if you had said so a little sooner, we need not have taken so much 

" We then left hold of each other and rose from the ground. I 
gave Antonio his money, and we climbed up the steep down which 
we had rolled but a short time before. 

" But on reaching the platform, only think of our dismay ! The 
Donkey's Shadow which I had purchased with a hard Roman paolo, 
was gone, and with it the donkey himself. Antonio had outwitted 
me, but the ass had outwitted Antonio. The animal had easily up- 
rooted the aloe to which it was tied, and had taken itself off, and I 
could just perceive it in the distant horizon quietly ambling back to 

" On missing the ass from his proper place, Antonio at once con- 

the donkey's shadow. 357 

eluded it must be lost for ever ; and, in true Italian fashion, he gave 
himself up to the wildest demonstrations of despair. He bit his 
thumbs, tore his hair, threw his pointed hat on the ground and 
stamped upon it, and behaved, in short, like a wayward, passionate 
child. And all the while he kept exclaiming, ' Oh ! my donkey, my 
poor dear donkry ! you were all that poor I possessed in this world ! 
The only fault that you had was that confounded shadow of yours. 
If you had but had no shadow at all, then you would still be here, and 
not far away.' 

" ' Don't be so childish !' said I : 'your donkey is going home quietly 
enough ;' and I pointed in the direction where the ass was to be seen 
wending his way back. 

" In a moment Antonio was completely changed. He uttered ah 
exclamation of delight, stuck his hat on his disordered locks, threw 
his black jacket over his left shoulder, seized his cudgel with his right 
hand, and away he flew like the wind in pursuit of his donkey. Never 
in my born days did I see a fellow run so hard ! 

" Here was I left in the heat of a burning Italian noonday sun, with 
nothing left me to do, but to gaze sadly after my two companions. 
' It is to be hoped, at least, that they will soon come back,' thought I, 
as I sat down and began involuntarily humming the air, 'All is lost 

" But my hope was vain. I waited one hour, then another, but 
neither Antonio noijhis donkey made their appearance. I shall never 
forget those two hours as long as I live ! At length I was delivered 
from my disagreeable position. A vintner's dray, drawn by a pair 
of oxen with branching horns, happened to pass that way. If the 
drayman had not taken pity on me, and given me a lift in return for 
a handsome consideration, I should, perhaps, be sitting there still." 

Thus far my cousin. And what is the moral of his history 1 Why, 
simply this : — When the weather is hot, and you have secured a don- 
key, be thankful, and ride on till you reach your destination. For he 
who quarrels about a Donkey's Shadow, reaps nothing but vexation, 
and loses the ass into the bargain. 

<f ABRIELLE," from "Oaklet Hall," sends us the only 
W poetical answer to the selected riddle of August. Her 
answers to the conundrums are quite correct ; but the 
2^^s^^ riddle that she offers for the prize is scarcely eligible, as 
Gabrielle herself confesses that it is only a " a poetical version of a 
very old riddle." We remember the riddle well : it was one of our 
favourite puzzles to every playfellow who had not heard it ; and our 
merry fireside, bright with the blaze of huge hickory logs, has often 
echoed with our childish laughter as one and another was puzzled by 
its queer propositions. Gabrielle must try again — and we do not 
doubt that she can produce something entirely original that will be 
quite worthy to compete for the prize. This is her 


Precisely the same is your breadth and your length — 

And you might hare said, neither way famous for strength - u 

But as little things make up the sum of existence, 

It is true that we can't do without your assistance. 

For whether the weather is freezing or hot, 

Whether we're sick, or sorry, or not, 

A Handkerchief always ready, 
Is an indispensable thing, we wot, 

To gentleman or to lady. % 

" Gertrude" sends us the following 


Glass is a word of letters five, 

And often casts reflections ; 
Its panes we in the window see ; 

Its contents bring destruction. 
Take G away — we leave it lass, 

Whose spell all hearts must own ; 
Then L, and you will find it ass — 

I hope you are not one ! 


S. M. K., of " Pleasant View," is right in his guess at the last co- 

"A literary man is like a pig in a stye," 
Because he is confined to a, pen. 
But a " lady wearing tight shoes is like a vegetable," 

Because she is a toe-martyr, (tomato !) not because "she cultivates com)s," 
as S. M. K. has it. He will grant that it is an excruciating conundrum ! 

Our thanks are due for the " original riddle ;" but we have so re- 
cently published one on the same subject, that — in justice to our little 
readers who desire a perpetual variety in this their especial corner — 
we have concluded to withhold it. He will find in the September 
number an answer to a like riddle. 

Lettie Wilson — we're always glad to hear from you, dear Lettie, 
however you scold — expresses herself thus indignantly in a curt little 
note dropped at our sanctum a while ago. " You don't deserve a line 
from me, you wicked Schoolfellow — not another one ! No one you 
treat so ill as you do me — calling me all manner of saucy names, 
printing my notes — and every thing ! I've a great mind to say I shall 
never write to you again, unless you mend your manners. I shouldn't 
have written this time, only I picked up the other day the funniest 
little 'charade,' which I'm sure your readers would like. / should like 
to see it in the Riddler's Corner — and I'll be very good, and promise 
to answer it for you, if nobody else will. But mind you don't print 
this note — for if you do !" 

And there Lettie breaks off, leaving her alarming threat unfinished ; 
— so we concluded to risk the consequences of her displeasure : and 
here is the charade, which is really very clever, and does justice to 
Lettie's taste in selection. 


In the word you're to guess, it has ever been reckoned 
My first is not only my first but my second : 
And another remark too, by no means the worst, 
Is, my second 's not only my second, but first. 
Turn both in your mind, all folks will agree 
That, you've hit on my whole by catching. of me. 
But the best of the jest is, though odd it may seem, 
That I don't afford milk, though I do afford -cream. 

360 THE riddler's corner. 

Thanks to Marian for her 


No. l. 

My first, all over the world, is the type of a fool ; though we have been told 
that it once had wit enough to save the queen-city of the world : my second feeds 
the wild-birds and the wayfarers : and my whole is a favourite fruit. 

No. 2. 

My first is an abbreviation ; my second is a prisoner ; my third is a part of the 
ear, and yet deafens the ear ; my whole is a puzzle. 

No. 3. 
If my whole were obliged to swallow my first, his face would doubtless wear 
the expression of my second. 

Our old friend Lily C, from whom we have not heard in so long 
a time, has again made her appearance,' and sends us the following 
pretty charade ; for which our little riddlers as well as ourself will 
give her hearty thanks. 


My first shines in the sunset skies, 

Or in the fireside light, 
And sometimes rosily will rise 

To ladies' faces bright. 

My second creeps upon the earth, 

A creature weak and small, 
Despised from its very birth, 

And trodden down by all. 

My whole is but a " lesser light," 

Not e'en a little star, 
Yet through the darksome gloom of night 

Its radiance sheds afar. 

And now adieu — till we meet again round the fireside of November. 

Published by Evans Sf Dickerson. 

Naughty Boys and Naughty Girls. 

Comic Tales and Colored Pictures. By De. Julius Bahr. 4to, 
in picture binding. "75 cents. 

Funny Leaves for the Younger Branches. 

By the Baeon Keakemsides, of Burstenoudelafen Castle. Illus- 
trated by Alfred Crowquill. Colored Plates. 75 cents. 

A Laughter Book for Young Folks. 

From the German. By Madame de Chatelain. Eighteen large, 
colored, comic Engravings. 4to, picture binding. 75 cents. 

The Careless Chicken. 

By the Baeon Keakemsides. Sixteen large colored Illustrations 
by Crowquill. Uniform with " Funny Leaves," " Laughter Book," 
&c. 75 cents. 

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the fun, if we may judge from the merriment of a little critic to whom we submitted them 
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The Favorite Picture Book. 

A Gallery of Delights, designed for the Amusement and Instruction 
of the Young. Several Hundred Illustrations by Eminent Artists ; 
being the cheapest and most attractive Picture-book for Young 
. Children published. 4to. $1 00. 

The cheapest and most attractive picture-book yet Issued, The engravings are of the 
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Adventures of a Dog. 

By A^lfbed Elwes. Eight large Illustrations by Harrison Weir. 
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Published by Evans 8f JDickerson 

Pretty Poll : 

A Parrot's own History. Edited by the Author of " The Amyott's 
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With four Illustrations by Harrison- Weir. Square 12mo, cloth. 
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"Just the thing for small ones in the nursery. "We advise parents by all means to add 
it to their Juvenile Library." 

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For Little Children. By M. S. C, Author of " Twilight Thoughts," 
" Little Poems for Little People," &c. With four Illustrations 
by Harrison Weir. Square 12mo, cloth. 50 cents. 

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for whom they were written, and conveying important information in a pleasing style." 

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Songs for Children : 

Beautifully Illustrated with numerous fine Engravings on wood, de- 
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€Mt nf CnttfrtttH. 

DECEMBER, 1854. 

Twelve Engravings and. Vignettes. 
The Story for Arthur, Mrs. Bradlhv. 

The Tyrolean Boy, (Conclusion) 
Sedgemoor, Chapters 22 and 23, 
Every Thing good in its Place, 
Conscience Answered, . 
The Baby Correspondence, 
Johnny Lawson's Hard Lesson, 
The Riddler's Corner, . 
Last Words of the Year, 

Mrs. Manners. 
Aunt Mary. 
Caroline Mat. 
Mrs. Richards. 
Mrs. Manners. 
Various Contributors- 


Postmasters and others are requested to act as agents in procuring 
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For Five Dollars, five copies of the Schoolfellow, and any of our 
books to the amount of Two Dollars. 


Booksellers & Publishers, 

697 Broadway. 

* lk * Mr. Thoma» C. Evans is our authorized Travelling Agent. 

J£3T We would call especial attention to our Prospectus for 1855 
on the last page of the cover. 




%\t Sforg for galjnm 

l>Ss] i)Sl HEY were going to have a pic-nic in the woods, 
papa and mamma, nurse, and Arthur, and baby 
Edith. They were all down stairs ; — nurse very 
busy packing biscuit and pie, and cold chicken 
and ham, into a big basket that stood on the 
dining-room table ; baby Edie playing quietly on 
the floor with Arthur's box of nine-pins ; and 
Arthur himself jumping and dancing round the 
room, too full of glee to stop longer than one minute in any place. 

"Isn't it nice, nursie 1 isn't it de-light-ful'?" he exclaimed, at last, 
quite unable to restrain his feelings, as he saw the last plate of cakes 
stored carefully in the basket, and the lid shut closely down, all ready 
to be sent away. 

Nurse laughed. "Very nice, indeed," she said ; " but you needn't 
be so very happy as to run over your little sister. See there ! you've 
tumbled her over, right upon her poor little nose !" 

Edie began to cry, not liking that sort of treatment, and nurse 
picked her up to comfort her. Arthur stood by a moment with a long 
face. " I didn't mean to run over her, nursi#," he said. "Why didn't 
she sit up "? Babies are such foolish little things ! I wouldn't be a 
baby !" 

"You never were one, I suppose," said nurse, laughing. 
" Never such a little, little baby as Edie !" Arthur exclaimed : "be 
sides, I'm almost a man now. I shall be as big as papa some day, 
and Edie never will be any thing but a girl !" 

Baby Edith didn't seem to think this was such a terrible thing, for 
she began to "pat-a-cake" with her little hands, and to laugh and crow to 
Arthur. She had quite got over the little trouble of her fall. 

Papa and mamma came in presently, all dressed to go, and next 
minute the carry-all drove up to the door. Then the big lunch-basket 
was packed under the seat, the children were tumbled in, and papa 



and mamma, and nurse got in last. Old Ben, the driver, snapped his 
whip, and then the horses sprang off, tossing their heads as gaily as if 
they were in for a frolic with all the rest. 

The woods were only about two miles distant, and the horses went 
so fast, that Arthur thought it was hardly a minute before they were 
there. He was a little sorry at first that they had got to the woods 
so soon ; but when he saw how beautiful they were — the trees so 
grand and high, and the grass and moss so green, and dotted all over 
with white starlike flowers— he was very glad to be there. 

Mamma told him that he might run just as fast as he chose, and 
shout as loud as he could. So you should have seen the little fellow 
running through the wood-paths, springing over the fallen logs, and 
rustling his little feet amongst the withered leaves that had lain there 
ever since last autumn. He thought it was rare fun, and his merry, 
childish voice rang through the woods in shouts of laughter all the time. 
Sometimes he would run so fast that he would be quite out of sight 
of the others, and then they could only tell where he was by the 
sound of his laughing voice. 

Once he was away from them quite a long time, and they did not 
even hear his voice. Mamma grew a little frightened abouthim ; so she 
took baby Edith from nurse, and sent nurse away to look for her 
little boy. Nurse ran down into the woods, and called "Arthur ! 
Arthur !" two or three times ; but nobody answered. Then she ran 
on farther, and called again louder, and this time she heard the little 
boy cry out in answer — 

" Here I am, nursie ! right down here ; come and see me." 

And there he was, sure enough, but what a pickle he was in ! 
There was a little brooklet running through the woods, and Arthur, 
in his rambles, had found it out, greatly to his delight. When nurse 
came across him, he was sitting plump down upon the wet mossy 
bank of the little stream, his shoes and stockings pulled off, and his 
little white feet paddling in the water. He had thrown his stockings 
aside without looking where they went, and as it happened, they had 
fallen partly into the water, so that, of course, they were all soaking 
wet by this time. But Arthur was perfectly unconscious of having 


done any thing wrong, and sat there upon the clamp moss, playing 
with a small mud-turtle which he had found in the water, as happy as 
a little prince is supposed to be. 

Nurse was quite shocked, however. " Why, Arthur, what are you 
doing ?" she exclaimed so sternly, that the little boy fairly dropped 
his turtle in fright and astonishment. 

" Only see your bare feet !" nurse went on, " and your stockings 
dripping wet, and your frock all dirty and damp, where you have sat 
clown upon this wet bank ! Oh, Arthur, I am ashamed of you ! I 
don't know what your mamma will say." 

" Nursie, what makes you talk to me so 1 I don't like to listen to 
such things !" Arthur exclaimed indignantly ; and then he turned 
away and burst into passionate crying, for he could not bear that his 
dear nursie should be angry with him. 

But nurse gathered up his shoes and stockings, and then took up 
the little boy in her arms, and hurried away with him to his mother, 
without saying another word to him. And how surprised his mother 
was to see him in such a plight ! his feet and legs bare, his frock all 
wet and stained, and he hiding his face upon nurse's shoulder, crying 
as if his little heart would break ! 

" What has happened to Arthur V his mamma asked eagerly. 
And then nurse told how she had found him, and showed his dripping 
socks and soiled slippers, and set the little boy down in his shabby 
clothes and bare feet before his mother and father. Poor Arthur, he 
was terribly mortified, and mamma saw this, so she did not scold 
him at' all. She took off his wet frock, and wrapped him up in her 
own large shawl, that had been brought in the carriage ; then she laid 
him down upon a heap of dry pine leaves, that he might rest there 
till his clothes were dried. Nurse hung up his frock and each of 
his little socks upon the bough of a tree, where the sun shone 
brightly down, and it was not very long before they were dry as ever. 

But Arthur, ashamed and distressed, lay sobbing to himself, with 
his face hidden in mamma's shawl. Baby Edith was tumbling and 
rolling about the grass, crowing in great delight as papa played with 
her ; but Arthur never once looked up. The little boy was quite 


miserable. So mamma went to him, and sat down by him, and 
lifted his head into her lap. 

" Now Arthur must stop crying," she said gently ; " he has cried 
quite enough, and mamma is not angry with him, so there is no need 
of any more of this sobbing. Look up, Arthur, into mamma's eyes." 

Arthur looked up, though his eyes were quite full of tears, and he 
saw such a sweet, kind smile on his mother's face that he could not 
help smiling himself, to save his life. 

" Now that will do !" said mamma gaily, and she leaned over 
and kissed the red smiling lips. "My little boy looks more like 
himself, and now I will tell you something. You did not do any thing 
naughty when you went down to the brook and got yourself so wet, 
because I had never told you not to do it, and you did not know that 
it would be apt to make you sick. But if you were to do such 
a thing again, it would be very wrong indeed, for now you know that 
I do not wish you to do it. Do you understand ?" 

"Yes, mamma," Arthur answered. 

"And you will never go into the water again, now or any time, 
without coming first to see if mamma or nurse is willing ?" 

" No, mamma," Arthur said again, and then he lay quiet for a little 
while ; but presently he said, " Mamma, I wish you would tell me a 
story, until my frock dries." So his mother told him a little story, 
all in rhymes, which she made up as she went along, and the story 
made Arthur laugh very much, and put him into his best humour 
again. This was the story, just as she told it : 


A little boy once was out at play- 
In the beautiful woods one summer day. 
The birds were singing high up in the trees, 
And the breath of flowers Avas sweet on the breeze, 
And the wind swept by with a voice of song, 
As the little boy merrily danced along. 
He danced around, and he jumped about, 
Here and there, with many a shout ; 


Till at last, in a mischievous thought of play, 
He said, " From my nurse I will run away !" 
So he watched his time, then away he ran 
Through the woods, as fast as a little boy can. 
With a jump, and a bound, and a cry of delight, 
He was soon away from his nurse's sight ; 
He gathered the flowers as he ran along, 
And gaily he sang his own little song ; 
He felt as happy as any king, 
But he fell into mischief the very first thing ! 

At the foot of a hill was a little brook, 
Which the little boy spied with delighted look ; 
And quickly he slipped down the hill to the bank, 
Where the green moss grew so wet and rank. 
He seated himself by the streamlet's side, 
His little heart beating with joy and pride ; 
And eagerly now his little hands drew 
From each little foot the stocking and shoe ; 
Then, splashing about in the water, he 
Was happy as ever a child could be. 
Stockings and shoes were dripping wet, 
And the bank was wet on which he sat, 
And his feet were bare, and his frock a sight- 
He was altogether in terrible plight ! 
But the little boy didn't care a thing, 
He was just as happy as any king. 

But bye and bye, for him nurse was sent : 
To find him out was her full intent ; 
So over the woods she shouted his name, 
Till, at last, on the little boy she came. 
There he sat, such a picture to see, 
That it shocked his nurse's propriety. 
Dirty behind and dirty before, 
Dirty the dress and apron he wore ; 
Feet and hands, and face and hair — 
They fairly made his good nurse stare ! - 

She caught him up from his mischievous play, 
She carried him fast in her arms away, 


And just in the shocking clothes he wore, 

She set him down his mamma before ! 

Then how they all stared, and the little hoy cried ! 

He was so ashamed that he almost died ! 

And he had to be undressed, right away, 

And wrapped in his mother's shawl to stay, 

While nurse hung his clothes up one by one, 

On a branch of a tree to dry in the sun. 

And there he lies still, covered up with the shawl, 

Like a little gray kitten rolled round to a ball ! 

" Bravo ! who would have thought mamma was such a poet 1 
cried papa's merry voice, after the story was finished. Arthur 
laughed at it very much, and nurse laughed, and baby Edith, though 
she didn't know at all what was the matter, crowed with all her 

" I think, after all this, we might refresh ourselves with some dinner,' 
papa said presently. And so the lunch-basket was quickly produced, 
and all its nice things spread out upon the grass, under the shade of 
a fine old tree. Everybody had quite an appetite, and Arthur, who 
had entirely recovered his good spirits, thought there never was such 
a delightful luncheon before, and wished they could have a pic-nic in 
the woods every day ! 

at I] i %. % x o 1 e a n § o | . 


UGENE and Carl wound about little, narrow, dirty 
streets, where babies played in the gutter, men 
fought on the side-walks, and women scolded in the 
doorways. At every corner Carl thought, " I hope 
he don't live anywhere here," — and still Eugene 
went on. Presently they turned into a large open square. Tall 
houses with marble fronts stood at the side of the street, with glit- 
tering shop-windows at the base. Before one of these Eugene stop- 
ped. Carl hoped he lived here. They went through a portal, turned 
into a long narrow passage, from thence into a large court-yard, with 
high brick walls around it. They entered a small door ; and after 
climbing winding flights of stairs till Carl thought they would never 
stop, they reached Eugene's two rooms, which Carl liked very much. 
They were very clean and neat, and quite tastefully arranged. A 
book-case stood in one corner, filled with choice reading. Both the 
rooms had only one look-out, the courtyard. This was not very inte- 
resting — nothing but high brick walls and stone pavements : now and 
then some children played there, but frequently there was nothing to 
see but women working at the windows. Eugene bustled about, get- 
ting out his tea-caddy, setting the table, and doing every thing to 
make his guest comfortable. When they had sat down to tea, he 
said for the third time, "Yes, you'll just suit Mr. Crabstick." 
" What a horrid name! — is it worthy of his nature ?" 
"Not at all," rejoined Dupont ; "a very worthy old gentleman: 
a little impetuous perhaps, but that is nothing ; you'll like the place 
very much, Carl." 

Carl rather doubted it. The drudgery of running of errands he 
did not think would suit him at all, but it- was certainly a grade above 
a shoe-black : he thought he might get along. 

" But, Eugene, they don't very often give wages to boys." 
" They do here, though : Crabsfick said so," answered Eugene. 



The next day they started for the office. It was a beautiful day : 
one of those when the mere sense of existence seems a superlative 
pleasure. The fountains sparkled in the sun, the children shouted with 
joy, and Carl felt a sensible elation of his spirits. They stopped at 
the office, and walked up to Mr. Crabstick's apartment. Eugene 
tapped at the door, and entered, leaving Carl outside, exposed to the 
stares and whispers of several rude boys. About half an hour 
elapsed ; Carl began to grow impatient under the sneers of the boys 
who gathered round him, making audible remarks. Carl turned away, 
and tried not to listen to them, but he was peculiarly sensitive, and 
felt them keenly. At last, to his great relief, the door opened, and he 
was called in. Mr. Crabstick was a fat man, with a face which would have 
been expressionless but for the eyes brimful of good-nature, which 
relieved him from an indolence almost amounting to imbecility. 

" Explain to him, Dupont : you know I hate explanations — but 
stay !" and he proceeded to ask Carl a few preliminary questions, and 
then pausing, motioned to Eugene to go on. 

" Mr. Crabstick," said Eugene, " has determined to take you on 
trial for a month; what wages would you demand f\ 

" Whatever Monsieur would be pleased to name," modestly re- 
plied Carl. 

Mr. Crabstick named a small sum — but large enough for Carl — to 
be paid weekly. He would now be able to maintain himself, and he 
was in raptures. 

" When shall I begin, sir V* 

" Well," said his employer, " suppose you begin to-day. M. Du- 
pont will instruct you in your duties :" and he bowed them out. 

Carl was too busy to think much, all day. But as he was walk- 
ing home, the thought occurred to him that he was making a large 
hole in his proposed vengeance against the French, and questioned 
whether he was not a great traitor to his country to be in the French 
service, (albeit it was civil, and not military,) serving a Frenchman, 
and bestowing the favour of his company on the whole French nation 
at large ! But then, indeed, he didn't know why all Frenchmen should 
be his enemies. Two had done him essential service, and several 


others had been kind to him. True, he hated Napoleon, though his 
vindictiveness had considerably abated ; but he, though the supreme 
head, did not represent the entire French nation, and so he wouldn't 
make much difference; and upon the whole, he thought he would do 
the French the great honour. 

Carl lived contentedly and happily with Eugene for six months. 

One day they were eating their dinner, when Eugene glanced at 
the clock, and remarking that he would be back in an hour, rose up 
and left the house. Carl waited for him, and at the appointed time 
he returned, and set off for the office without speaking. One of Carl's 
weaknesses was curiosity, and after they had walked some minutes 
in silence, he was just going to ask his companion the reason of his 
abrupt visit, when Eugene himself broke silence. 

" Carl," said he, " Carl, I am married !" 

His astounded companion leaped — actually leaped two feet in the 
air at this piece of intelligence. 

" You don't say so !" exclaimed Carl. 

" Indeed I do. We have been waiting a long time, but yesterday 
Mr. Crabstick nearly doubled my salary ; so, by an easy process in 
arithmetic, we calculated that where half could maintain one, the 
whole would safely bear two ; every thing was ready, and I have 
been in Hymen's chains about half an hour. To-morrow I will bring 
Marie home." 

And the next day Marie came. A pretty little modest woman, 
Carl thought, but not remarkable. But he liked her very much, 
and she him. So they went the even tenor of their way ; and at 
length two children were born — twins — a boy and a girl. Carl thought 
them the loveliest little things he had ever seen — his first nephew 
and niece, as Eugene said. The day after the happy event, the father 
came in, gleefully rubbing his hands. 

" I am taken into partnership, Marie. Hear, Carl, hear ! Now 
we shall live famously. You came just in the nick of time, little 
strangers, (bending over the cradle,) for I am a partner. As soon 
as you are well, Marie, we'll move into a house of our own." 

But Marie didn't get well. Slowly she drooped, but surely. And 


when the spring came, and Eugene began to look out for a house, the 
gentle Marie was dead. This only hastened their departure, and in a 
month they were established in their new home. It was a cosy little 
place, suited to the means of its owner, but a little snug nest of a 
great deal of happiness. If Marie had only been there to grace the 
head of the tea-table, and if he could have heard her light step, instead 
of Brigitta thumping about in wooden shoes with the keys, Eugene's 
cup of happiness would have been full. But time and his twins healed 
his grief. Meanwhile the twins grew and flourished, and Carl had 
shot up into a tall strapping youth of fifteen. About six months 
after, Eugene said, 

" Car], I have got to go to India on business, and shall be gone 
several months." 

" Oh, Eugene !" exclaimed Carl, "I am so sorry ! I shall miss you 
so much ! What will become of Corinne and Hugo V 

'* I shall leave them with Brigitta. They will be safe enough. I 
am going next week." 

It was a very busy week ; but Carl only felt that he was about to 
lose his only friend for a long while, perhaps for ever. 

" I shall miss you so much !" said he, as he was assisting Eugene 
to pack a trunk, the day before he went, " It is such a long way off! 
and I shall feel as if I had the whole responsibility of Corinne and 
Hugo on my own shoulders." 

" Why," said his companion playfully, " we're getting big. The 
children will do well enough, and I can write, you know. I shall 
write very often, and you must tell me all about my little ones. 
But, Carl, if any thing should happen to me, promise me faithfully 
never to desert my children. Cherish them as you would your 
own life ; keep them as the apple of your eye. Promise." And 
Carl promised ; and years afterwards, he remembered his solemn 
promise, and made a fresh vow to keep them safe. 

The next day the vessel sailed. Carl watched it till it faded from 
his sight. His heart seemed to leap into his throat ; but he chided 
himself for what he deemed girlish sentiment, and strode manfully 
away to his duties. 


He received one letter from Eugene. It was written on board the 
vessel, and in a cheerful, hopeful strain. That was the last he ever 
wrote. Weeks, months rolled on, and no news came. Carl went 
his daily round, now become so monotonous, with an aching void at 
his heart, the sickness of hope deferred. At last the blow fell. A 
steamer came in, reporting that the "Ariadne" had sunk, with all on 
board, save one sailor left to tell the tale. Carl's sorrow was intense. 
Dupont had been a benefactor, friend, and brother to him, and now 
he was gone, his last friend was taken from him. " Poor little thing !" 
thought he, as he saw little Hugo crowing on the floor, " Poor little 
thing ! you little know you have lost your father. But I will be a 
father, brother, all to you, even as he was to me." 

The next day a visitor came, M. Deschamps, Marie's father. He 
talked with Carl a long while, and finally said, 

" I am rich now. A week ago, a rich uncle of mine died, and 
left me all his property." 

" Yes, Carl, I shall take you and the babies to live with me. I 
can well afford it, thanks to to Heaven. You were wishing to be a 
doctor. Eh bien ! I will educate you for medicine. You are a nice 
boy. I like you. Come." And Carl went. 
And Carl was educated for a doctor. 

Ten years passed away. M. Deschamps went the way of all flesh, 
but not before he had seen Carl firmly established as a physician. At 
the latter's earnest request, the property was laid out for Corinne and 
Hugo, who were placed under Carl's chai'ge. And when he became 
a rich and celebrated doctor, he went back to his native land with 
his young charges, now grown up. And as years went by, an old 
grayheaded man might be seen sitting at the minister's door, playing 
with the minister's children. And a twin house stood side by side, 
with other rosy-cheeked children playing round the door. And this 
house was Corinne's, and the parsonage was Hugo's, and the minister, 
Hugo. And the grayheaded old man was Carl, our little hero ; the 
camp-follower, boot-black, errand-boy, doctor, and grandsire. 



Ctljaptct XXfifi. 

pTlHE mail was left at Lowton, the nearest post-town, and 
|L was brought to Sedgemoor by Mathias in a small leather 
|M| post-bag. Its arrival three times a week was quite an 
^M event to our studious and quiet family circle. All the 
~//f good reviews and monthlies of our country, and of Great 
Britain, found their way to the library table, with a choice 
ilpg;; w . number of newspapers. But it was the letters that 
?^~-j claimed and received the warmest welcome ; Miss Emily, 
Mr. Carey, the master of Sedgemoor, even the children looked eagei'ly 
for Mathias's return from Lowton. 

On this particular Saturday morning, Miss Emily's packet was a 
large one, and she read the superscription with a start of surprise. 
It had been forwarded to her by the postmaster of the town in which she 
had formerly lived, and therefore it must have been written by some 
one who was ignorant of her movements, and of her present home. 

" It looks like the writing of my Cousin Hench," she exclaimed ; 
" and sure enough we have it here — ' Hench Austin,' in his own good 
bold hand ;" and she seated herself in a large arm-chair to a comfort- 
able reading of the thick epistle. 

Mr. Carey, partially occupied in letters of his own, heard and saw 
all that passed, though he made no remark upon it ; but he envied 
the writer whose letters should receive such a warm welcome ; he 
envied the very paper the smiles which fell upon it. " He is com- 
ing here !" she exclaimed at last*; " he is coming to see me. He will 
be here next week. How glad, how thankful I am !" She looked up 
as she spoke, and saw that she was alone with Mr. Carey, who was 
watching her with various feelings contending for mastery in his heart. 
"Are you not glad, too, that this noble cousin of mine is coming 
here, Mr. Carey % You do not look so. Why is it 1 ?" 

" I am a traitor to my heart if I do not look so, Miss Emily : to 



see you happy is all I wish, and I know Mr. Austin's coming will 
make you so ; therefore I am very glad," said Mr. Carey. 

"And what else are you V questioned she, naively..* 

"Why do you ask?' 

" Because your tone keeps your looks company, and it is not cheer- 
ful," she answered. 

" Forgive me, Emily, if I must confess it, for the selfish feeling, 
the half-defined fear which arose in my heart that this well-loved and 
long-absent cousin will absorb you for a while, and throw us all into 
the shade." Mr. Carey spoke hesitatingly, for he was ashamed of his 

"And you distrust me 1" she asked, in some surprise. 

" No, no ; not a moment," he replied, hastily ; " but I am very 
greedy of your smiles." 

" Then you are not jealous of Hench 1 Are you of a jealous nature ?';' 

" I have never considered myself so, but I begin to fear I may be 
guilty of such a mean feeling. But is it mean, Emily 1 Is it not the 
inevitable result of a profound and tender affection V 

" I grant that, but it can only arise from a disposition to distrust 
the object beloved ; it is inconsistent with perfect trust. It is not 
' the perfect love which casteth out fear.' And you believe what I 
have told you, that though we met for the first time so recently, I have 
lived years since that hour in the growth of my confidence in you" 

"Again, I beg you will forgive me, Emily," cried Mr. Carey, ear- 
nestly. " I will not so wrong you again. I will give your cousin 
as warm a welcome as though he were your brother, and make him 
my friend, that he may sanction my feelings for yourself by his ap- 
proval. When will he be here V 

"About Tuesday next, to remain a week, he writes me. I must 
go and tell Mr. Clayton of his proposal to visit me. I had forgotten 
that this was not my own little home ;" and Miss Donne, releasing the 
hand which Mr. Carey had imprisoned,, when she had extended it in 
token of the forgiveness he sought, made him a courtesy of thanks 
with playful grace, and went to find Mr. Clayton. 

His pleasure at hearing from Austin, and in knowing that there 


was a prospect of seeing him and holding him as a guest, was almost 
equal to Miss Emily's, and he instantly wrote a letter, to meet him 
at Harleyville, where he was expecting to find Miss Emily, inviting 
him most cordially to Sedgemoor. 

" We cannot go on with our game at night, if there is company 
here, Miss Emily," cried Maude, when she heard of the expected 

" Not at once ; but perhaps he might like to join us," was Miss 
Donne's reply ; " and even if not, a little respite will bring you to it 
again, with a fresher enjoyment of its attractions after his departure." 

There was much talk amongst the children concerning Mr. Aus- 
tin. They had settled it, that as he had been at school with Mr. 
Clayton, he must be very old ; and besides, Miss Emily said he had 
assisted her to get her education, so he was probably about forty 
years old, and somewhat gray -headed. They all agreed that he must 
be a very large man, with a great deal of dignity and strength in his 
appearance. Alice expected to be very much afraid of him ; Maude 
longed to see the noble man who had done so much for her best 
friend, and both of the boys, remembering Mr. Clayton's account of 
the power Mr. Austin had over him as a boy, were very anxious to 
see how he would impress them now. 

Mr. Carey could not feel any anxiety about the nature of Miss 
Donne's feelings for the expected guest, but he foresaw interruptions 
to the pleasant routine which so often drew them together ; he did 
not wish a third person in their walks or talks, and he rather wished 
" Cousin Hench" were not coming, though he reproached himself con- 
tinually for the selfishness of his feelings. 

" Will this be our last play-night for the present, papa ?" inquired 
Alice, as they were going from the dining-room to the library on the 
Monday after the day of the conversation just recorded. "You 
know it might not please Mr. Austin, sir, and I am certain that will 
be a first duty then. Don't you think so, papa ?" 


"I do, Alice," replied her father; "but if I think it best to omit 
this game on Wednesday evening, I will try to have its place supplied 
by some entertainment in which you also can share." 

" I don't believe Mr. Austin plays plays, papa," said Alice. 

" He was hearty enough at it once," was Mr. Clayton's answer. 
" He must indeed have changed, if it is impossible for him to unbend 
for a couple of hours of sensible though playful recreation." 

" Come, you must get still and composed in here," he continued, 
as he tried to call to himself the attention of every one of the group. 
" If this is to be our only game this week, we must try our best to do 
this well. JYoio, if you please, Miss Emily," he said, in reply to her 
qaestioning look. 

" Then I will lead off with Klopstock,' 1 '' said Miss Donne, " the 
author of ' the Messiah,' a poem which ranks with ' Paradise Lost,' 
does it not, Mr. Clayton ?'•' 

"I believe it does," he replied; "but from its great length, I have 
never Keen able to read it with the close attention which one must 
give to a poem like that, to comprehend and master its great ideas. 
I think it was Lessing who said in an epigram, referring to the length 
of the Messiah, ' Everybody praises Klopstock, but no one reads 
him.' Yet his genius is unquestioned, and 1 believe he was personally 
a very admirable man." 

" 1 was much interested," remarked Miss Emily, " in the account 
given of him, and of his wife Margaret, or Meeta, as he affectionately 
called her, by Mrs. Jamieson, in her ' Loves of the Poets.' Besides 
Klopstock I choose Angelica Kaufman, that being the name by which 
we know the gifted woman who has reached such high rank as a paint- 
er. She was twice married, I find, but her maiden name always re- 
presented her in her character of artist." 

" They are both interesting contributions, Miss Emily, and so to me 
is the good Thomas h-Kempis, whose piety, humility, and indeed 
every Christian grace, are so undoubted." 

" I have seen his name on a little book" which lies on the table 
by your bed, papa. I have forgotten what the book is, but it don't 
look very interesting. Why does it please you, papa?" asked Alice. 

414 skdgemoob; 

" Because, to use the words of another, ' it breathes a spirit of 
tender, solid, and enlightened piety.' The second name which I have 
for to-night is Emmanuel Kant, the great German philosopher, and 
founder of a peculiar school of metaphysics. Alice, it would take 
you a great many years to understand Kant's books ; and if you will 
read a chapter of, say, 'The Pragmatical View of Anthropology,' I 
think you would have a great respect for him." 

'' Oh, papa, dear, you are just joking — you know I only want you 
to show what you know ; I don't care so much about other great scho- 
lars," said Alice, deprecatingly. 

" Well, I think I have done enough of that this evening. So we 
will give Mr. Carey a chance to do as much." 

" I am very grateful for the opportunity," said Mr. Carey, " and I 
shall name two K's, neither of them remarkable scholars, however, 
Alice. You know my learning does not equal your father's." 

" Well, of course not, yet," said Alice, looking complacently at 
her father ; " but I suppose you will know almost as much when you 
are old, too." 

"Alice has no mercy on my age, thanks to these silvery locks," 
said Mr. Clayton, laughing. " But proceed, if you please, Mr. Carey." 
That gentleman then said, 

" I can actually remember no one but Theodore K'drner, the lyric 
poet and ardent young soldier, and Kolzebue, the German dramatist. 
They are not particular favourites of mine, though I honour young 
Korner's bravery. I think he was but twenty-one years of age 
when he perished on the plains of Leipsic, a victim to his patriotism. 
Arthur, you must remember his fine ' Sword Song,' which I read to 
you not long ago." 

" Oh, yes, sir," replied Arthur. " So young, so brave, so gifted ! 
his was a hard fate. Shall I take my turn now, Mr. Clayton ?" 

" Certainly, my lad." 

" Then here comes John Knox. The greatest man named yet — / 
think. I leave it to you all, if Knox was not a hero in the way he 
defied the Romish Church, the power of the Court, and the displeasure 
of Queen Mary. What are you laughing at, Maude 1 ?" 


" I was thinking," said Maude, " of taking Knox myself, and so I 
was trying on Saturday to find out all I could about him ; and there 
in the account of him I read the name of a book — wasn't it, Miss 
Emily ? — which he wrote, called — I think I can remember it — ' The 
First Blast of the Trumpet against the Monstrous Regiment of Wo- 
men.' Do you know what it was about, Miss Emily V 

" He was moved to write this," replied Miss Donne^' by his hor- 
ror of the cruel, bloody rule of Queen Mary of England, and of the 
wrong measures which Mary of Guise, the Queen-regent of Scotland, 
was taking to establish a harsh government in that country. I have 
never read his book, but we have reason, from what we know of Knox, 
to believe it was a thunder-blast." 

" I would like to have heard John Knox preaching before Mary 
Queen of Scots, denouncing the wickedness of her court," said Mr. 
Clayton. " He was a fearless, grand old man !" 

"And my second name," continued Arthur, " is the brave and gen- 
erous Kosciusko, to whom our country is indebted for his aid during 
our Revolution. He sleeps in an honoured grave in the vault of the 
kings of Poland." 

'• I had him on my list, Arthur, but I am glad you took him first. 
I should not have spoken so finely of him — in justice to myself I 
should have said, 'I could have spoken no better of him.' I can't in 
fact make much show with any one to-night. Here I have Kean, the 
actor, of whom Mr. Carey knows much more than I do. I only know 
that he was an actor; and it would have delighted me so much to 
have known about young Korner, and expatiated on his bravery and 
early death. Whom else can I take V' continued Herbert, musingly. 
" Oh, I have it — Kepler. He was a wonderful astronomer and mathe- 
matician, and wrote a whole column of books, to name which, if 
I knew them, would exhaust me, they are so very full of learning, 
which has run out all over the title-pages. He discovered some great 
principle in astronomy ; what was it, Mr. Carey V 

"Ask Arthur or Maude, Herbert," said his teacher ; " I shall be 
amazed if you have all forgotten it." 

" It was something about the planets," said Maude, " the laws of 
their motions, I believe." 


" Yes, I remember now. Well, the name of Kepler always has had 
an uncertain sound about it, at the same time that it is perfectly fa- 
miliar to me. I will try to have a more sensible idea of him than 
I used to have." 

" Mr. Clayton," said Maude, " you can help me to recall the name 
of a poet of whom I have been thinking ; it was like Kean, only that 
was not the name — I remember one line of his : it is, 

"A thing of beauty is a joy for ever." 

"That of itself would help me to the name of the poet, Maude," 
said Mr. Clayton. " You are trying to think of John Keats — poor 
fellow ! He died most untimely, the victim of a decline, hastened 
in its progress by the severity of the criticisms which some of his pub- 
lished poems had elicited from the reviewer." 

"My other K," said Maude, "is Mrs. Kirkland, who wrote a very 
funny book called 'A Home in the West, or Who'll follow V I 
believe she has written a great deal besides, for the magazines, but I 
have not read what she has written, and I should be a poor judge of 
it, if I had." 

"I can help you in your estimate, Maude," said Mr. Carey. " I think 
Mrs. Kirkland the best female prose writer in our country." 

"/ have got Keble, who wrote the ' Christian Year' book," cried 
Alice ; "and — and — there, I cannot think of the other name — but what- 
ever it was, I did not know any thing but his name. K, K — why, see 
here ! K. K. stands for Kriss Kringle! I know a great deal more what 
he does, than what Keble did." 

Alice's choice was received with much laughter, and the evening 
ended with a great discussion about Kriss Kringle, Santa Claus, St. 
Nicholas, or whatever else people choose to call the good genius who 
fills the children's stockings at Christmas. 

The only interruption to the conversation was an exclamation by 
Arthur of the profoundest regret that he, and all in the room, had com- 
pletely forgotten Kossuth! In this regret he was heartily joined by 
the rest of the company. 

<$te| tpj 05ootr in its |laa; 



I have had a present of some crocus bulbs, and I 
have taken the liberty to send you some of each 
kind — yellow, blue, white and striped. It is so late 
in the season, I would advise you to plant them in 
boxes in the green-house, and then you will have the pleasure of 
watching their growth every day, and can love every little bright, 
beautiful bud, as it opens and holds up its sweet face to bless you, 
speaking as plainly as flower can speak, " Nelly, you see how beauti- 
ful we are ; your Father in heaven gave us this beauty, but he will 
make you far more beautiful than we are, with a beauty that will last 
always, and never fade away, as ours does, if you will only try to be 
good every moment, and do all the good you can." I often think how 
glad I am that you are so kind, pleasant and truthful, because you 
are in the midst of so many children at school. I feel that your 
advice and example must help them a great deal to become good. 

I used to think, when I was a very little girl, that no one could do 
good without they had a great deal of money ; and I thought, if I were 
only rich, and could buy shoes for poor children, it would be one of 
the grandest things in the world. The reason I selected shoes was, 
because I wore out so many myself; but when I became older, I was 
delighted to learn that God never made anybody, young or old, rich 
or poor, simple or wise, lame or sick, but he gave to them each the 
power to do good if they would use it. And it is so beautiful a 
thought, that if we have not money to give, God has given that of 
which we' ought always to have an abundance, and to spare — kind 

* Dear Schoowkllow : The foregoing letter has just been shown to me by a dear little girl, 
and I send it to you just as she received it from her aunt, thinking that it may interest and bene- 
fit many of your readers., If you please to publish it, it is at your disposal. 



and loving words and encouraging smiles ; and if we try constantly 
to do right, they will gush out of our hearts almost without our knowing 
it, because, the kinder and more obliging we strive to be, the easier it 
becomes. You make me think of a little story or allegory I read 
some time ago. I'll tell it as quickly as I can, for I only meant to 
write you a short note when I began : A certain king had a beautiful 
garden, adorned with shrubs and flowers of every variety, in which 
he took great pleasure. One clay the head gardener came to the king 
in great sorrow : " O king ! come to the garden — your grand old 
oak, that can be seen for miles around, is withering and dying." 
Then there came other gardeners, reporting the same of his favourite 
rose-bush and grape-vine. The king hastened to the scene of destruc- 
tion. He approached the majestic old oak, and exclaimed, " What 
means this, all so wilted and dead V The old oak replied, " I am 
so large and cumbersome, spreading my branches so wide, and 
making so much shade, that nothing can grow near me. I bear no 
fruit or flower — I am of no use in the world. If I had only been a 
little rose-bush, with sweet, fragrant flowers, then my life would have 
been worth something." The king passed on farther, came to his 
favourite rose-bush, all wilted and dead,and asked, "What means this V 
And the rose-bush replied, "I was such a poor little bush, that I 
thought I was of no use in the world, and that it was best to die ; I 
bear only flowers, no. fruit. If I had only been a beautiful large oak, 
giving shade to man, and a home for the birds to rear their young, I 
might have been of some account in the world." The king walked on 
still farther, and came to the grape-vine, trailing all over the ground, 
withered and dead, and he asked again, " What means this ?" The 
vine replied, " I am a poor, weak thing ; I cannot even support my 
own weight ; I am obliged to cling and lean upon others. If I had 
only been a nice little rose-bush, I could have held up my own head, 
and taken care of myself, and done some good in the world." The 
king passed on a little farther, and espied a bright, beautiful heart's- 
ease, and he exclaimed, with delight, "Sweet little, happy heart's- 
ease, how came you here V " Because, O king ! I knew you wanted 
me to be a heart' s-ease ; for if you had wanted an oak, you would have 



planted an acorn ; or if you had wanted a rose, you would have planted 
a rose-bush ; but you wanted a heart's-ease, and so you planted one, 
and here I am." 

The moral of this little story is beautiful : that we must be con- 
tented to be just what God intended us to be — for each one has just 
the talent for the work that is expected of him in the station where he 
is placed, if he will only use his powers. And, Nelly dear, it struck 
me you were a precious little heart's-ease to your dear mother, and 
all your family ; and that you were as pleased and as happy as that 
little flower to be just what you are. You will forgive my writing 
you so long a note, I hope. One thing more — you will ask Charles 
and Johnny to accept of the bulbs directed to them. 

Good-night, dearest Nelly, says your 

Aunt Mary. 

flUwuun g^itsttunih 

Dost thou ask me what I'm doing, 
querulous Voice within ? 

What begun am I pursuing — 
What intending to begin ? 

Though the truth may give thee pain, 

I will answer thee quite plain. 

Nothing more than fondly watching 
The ten thousand merry blades 

Of the emerald grass, that's catching 
All the light and all the shades 

That the wind in frolic fit 

Scatters freely over it. 

Nothing more than idly musing 
(But with busy heart and head) 

On the colors interfusing 
My beloved garden-bed ; 

The dark purple and the light, 

And the crimson flowers and white. 

Nothing more than ofttimes glancing 
From the earth up to the sky, 

Where the clouds with light entrancing 
Shine like Alpine summits high, 

On whose tops my soul doth climb, 

To make clear some cloud-born rhyme. 

Nothing more. But oh ! have mercy ! 

Blame me not, thou Voice within ; 
Say not," Idleness shall curse ye, 

And your reverie is sin ;" 
For although I've nothing done, 
Yet I istill have something won. 

It is God that clothes the grasses 
And each many-tinted flower ; 

And' above the clouds God passes, 
In His glory's silent power ; 

And while gazing thus abroad, 

I've been learning more of God. 

Caroline Mat. §aig Comspithnn* 


WAS very glad to hear from you, my dear cousin Sam. 
I have felt very anxious about you, as you seemed so 
languid and listless when we left your house. I had ex- 

perienced a strong interest in you on meeting you again, 
which I could ofily account for by the impression your 
great beauty made upon me. I am sure, with all her 
desire for me to be a beauty, my mamma must have felt 
quite miser-able to see how you surpassed me in the re- 
quisites. Such a complexion ! such hair ! such eyes ! My mamma talks 
of them incessantly ; and when nurse holds me up to the glass, I look 
in vain for any thing like them in myself. 

I try to make up for my lack of beauty by my great vivacity. I 
must be talked about for something, and I am learning to talk myself 
— at a great rate. I have twice said " papa " distinctly, and shall 
learn to call my mamma next, though she seems now to understand 
my summons of herself very well. You don't know how good she is 
to me, and how sorry I felt for you, when I saw you take your dinner 
from that ugly pap-boat, which no gilding could make beautiful when 
it has to supply the place of my mamma's warm arms. Nurse tells me 
I must come to that yet, but I think I would starve first on the hard 
crackers I try now to eat. There are some things which I don't 
like so well in this growing-up. In the first place, my dresses all 
became too tight around me, and then their places were supplied by 
such queer short frocks, which showed my feet and ankles very plainly ! 
It 's true I wear embroidered stockings, and my beautiful slippers 
fastened about my ankles, but I am shocked continually by hearing 
people remark upon my legs — they never say limbs ! and my feet. 
Then mamma seems so pleased when they say my feet are small, and 
that the leg tapers beautifully to the ankle ! Is it not dreadful, Sam ! 



I like sitting upon the floor, however, and trying to turn around and 
ereep about. I can manage very well now, though I used to tip up 
and knock my nose at first. I have learned to shake a " bye-bye" too 
as I saw you do, and I can " cluck" — drive the horse. I have given 
up " pat-a-caking," it was so tedious, having everybody calling out for 
me to do it : it is vulgar business, playing baker, I'm sure. 

I enjoyed my visit at your house extremely. You are truly very 
rich in toys. They gave me a variety of rattles at first, till I could 
rattle for myself ; there was the great silver rattle — oh! how I have 
thumped my head with it ! Then the little straw rattle which my 
grandmamma brought me, that was much pleasanter; and my brother 
brought a loud tin rattle, which pleased him with its horrid din far 
more than me. No one has ever given me a doll yet. I have tasted 
of every other kind of playthings. I don't like the taste of them very 
well, but my brother puts very little bits of something like sugar in 
my mouth, which is far nicer. If it is " candy" which he gives me, I 
shall eat a great deal of candy when I grow larger. 

I like your toys, Sam; if I were you, I would not have any shop 
toys, with their nasty paint coming off in one's mouth. I don't have 
my papa's shaving-box cover — I don't think he has one — but I have 
his slippers, and the brushes, and Bertie's belt, and — oh, Sam ! do look 
about your house and see if there are not two huge books there — not 
books exactly, either, but a beautiful box, full of black and white blocks, 
with two leather cases in them also. Such a merry time as I do have, 
rolling them about, and sucking the cases ! Papa says it is not right 
for me to have them, but mamma says it's the best use she ever saw 
them put to. 

I believe my hands, like my feet, are smaller than people thought 
they would be. My mamma likes them now, but she keeps cutting 
my nails all the time, and says I scratch her till the blood comes. I 
only do it to show her how much I love her. If I had teeth, as you 
have, I'd show her in a better way still ! 

Getting teeth seems to be dreadful business. I am putting it off as 
long as possible ; but how beautifully they will show when I laugh, 
after I do get them ! Now I have only this one little dimple to laugh 



for. My papa and mamma, and my aunts and uncles, are very fond 
of showing me off. I suspect I must be nicer than other people's 
babies ; indeed, they tell me every day that I am " the sweetest baby 
in the world ;" and then how they do kiss me ! Sometimes, when they 
kiss my mouth, I catch hold of their lips between mine, and show them 
what / can do in that way ! 

My nurse thinks your friends are mistaken about your beauty. She 
and Fanny, who was my first nurse, are sure nothing could be as 
beautiful as my eyes. But mamma says very decidedly that you 
'' would do for a picture — a Sir Joshua Eeynolds," or something like 
that ; and then papa said I was only 

For human nature's daily food." 

That sounds very funny, Sam. Do you think I ought to resent it ? But 
perhaps they don't mean to eat me any more than mamma does when 
she says " she loves this* baby so much, she must eat it up." I only 
laugh and pat her when she says so. 

What did make that beautiful hair grow on your head, Sam ? I 

want some very much. I know any one else would look horridly, as 

bald as I am. Do let me hear from you very soon, and tell me that 

your cough is better, and that you are reconciled to this cold weather. 

Your loving cousin, Edith Newcome. 

laljuttg % atom's §arlr $$si% 

HE grass was very green, and the dandelions gleamed 
amidst it like flakes of gold, cast by the prodigal hand 
of lavish wealth over an emerald robe. Altogether the 
meadow was extremely tempting to Johnny Lawson, 
and he could not but look admiringly and longingly 
through the bars of the stile. He did not compare 
the vivid green of the grass and the golden glory of 
the flowers to gems or gauds, as I have done ; such thoughts were not 
in the simple heart of the child. But he was as irresistibly attracted 
by the beauty as if he could define the spell it had over him, and he 
drank it in till he had forgotten, or had gained courage to defy, his 
mother's warning, which had been — 

" Now, Johnny, as sure as you cross that stile, farmer Bell's bull 
will run after you. Remember !" 

" Pooh ! no, it won't," said Johnny to himself: " don't I see him 
away off yonder 1 ? I can get a whole handful" of the dandelions before 
he could get to me:" and the little boy leaned his forehead against the 
rail and peered all around. 


424 JOHNNY lawson's hard lesson. 

At last the desire for the flowers conquered. He dashed over the 
stile, and began hurriedly to gather the coveted flowers. "Here, 
these long stalks will curl up so nicely for ear-drops for Jenny ; and 
I'll find out by these flowers if baby 'loves butter:' how her little 
white chin will shine yellow ! And Johnny had his hand almost full, 
and still the old bull had not moved. So Johnny grew bolder, and 
darted off a few yards from the fence to get some stalks, whose 
feathery tops might prove of use to his tall sister, Margaret ; for he 
thought of how he had seen her blow off the gossamer crown, saying 
to herself, " If I blow it off in one breath, I shall be married this year ; 
and if in two, within two years I shall be Eobert's wife, I'm sure." 

Alas ! Johnny had ventured one step too far. The uncourteous 
animal caught sight of him. He rushed forward with a prodigious 
roar, which startled the busy child and quite confounded him. In his 
fright he ran the wrong way, and only got farther and farther from 
the stile. The bull was closer behind him : he heard the furious breath 
ing, the loud snort, the final bound which placed him in the power of 
the creature. 

"Good-bye, mother," said he to himself, and then he only remem 
bered thinking of his little prayer, 

" Now I lay me down to sleep." 

All was darkness : then he slowly opened his eyes and found his 
mother, and Margaret, and Jenny, with the baby in her arms, all 
standing around him as he lay upon his own little bed, whither the 
strong and careful arms of the good Robert had brought him. Poor 
Johnny was very much hurt and dreadfully frightened by the tossing 
the bull had given him, but he had learned this lesson: "Mamma," 
said he, " I am sure you know what is best, and I will never forget 
what happened when I disobeyed you." 

t mMIer'a ($>»tnt£ 

NCE more, and for the last time in this year, dear little 
readers, we will gather together for our pleasant task of 
guessing and propounding riddles. It may be that some 
of the number whom we have loved to greet in this 
corner, may never see our face again ; so to them and to 
all, in this our last meeting, we must show a smiling countenance ; 
and indeed we have reason to be happy and grateful for the many 
tokens of interest and affection that we have received of late from our 
little friends. Letters full of expressions of interest and delight in our 
dearly beloved magazine, have come thickly ; and to this present 
corner we have for this month many welcome contributions. 

The first that comes to hand is a note from Lettie Wilson, written 
in her usual piquant style. Lettie may scold as much as she likes, but 
for all that she can't help feeling and expressing a very warm interest 
in our Schoolfellow ! True to her promise, she has sent us an answer 
to the selected riddle, which is clever enough to do justice even to 
Lettie's sprightliness. 



If you were a woman, and I were a man, 

And I were desirous to marry, 
I think it would be a most dangerous plan 

In your neighbourhood long to tarry. 
For if I should, unguarded, be carried away, 

And to you and sweet Hymen made martyr, 
All through my life long I should painfully pay 

The penance of catching a Tartar ! 

To the first and the second of Marian's prose charades, many an- 
swers have reached us; but most of the little people have been alto- 
gether puzzled by the odd propositions of the third. " Lily Montrose," 


426 the riddler's corner. 

Mariette, Julia, George Wilson, and Herbert, have all sent correct 
answers to the first and second ; but we are indebted to Master Frank 
Lee for the only complete set of solutions. We would like to copy 
Master Frank's clever little note, if we had room. We hope he will 
let us hear from him very often. And now for the answers. The 
first comes in verse : 

'Twas the cackling of a goose that saved imperial Rome, 
And the wild berries grow in the woods and by the way : 

In the trim little garden of any cottage home 

You may gather gooseberries all the sunny spring day. 



Lucy Wilson sends a pretty 


How soft the glow in summer skies ! 

How bright in winter fire ! 
How red on ladies' cheeks it lies, 

The sign of love or ire ! 

But sometimes the deep flush will turn 

To pallor of disgust, 
When they behold the loathsome worm 

Creep trailing through the dust. 

Yet still the glow-worm's mystic light — 

The star on darkness' pall — 
The jewel at the feet of night — 

Is beautiful to all. 

And now we must take up November's riddles, though we have 
scarcely given our little readers time to send in their answers. It is 
necessary, however, as they will understand, to close up all accounts 
at the end of the year, leaving nothing unfinished or unanswered. And 
for the same reason we have concluded to withhold the publication 
of the prize riddles until January ; so. for a little while longer yet, the 


field is open to competitors. In the first number of the new volume, 
we will publish the five successful riddles, and their authors will im- 
mediately receive the promised prizes. 

" Willie's" riddle reads very nicely, but we do not see any aptness 
in the answer; any thing else almost would be as appropriate an 
answer as " a pin." Will he let us know if we have made any mis- 
take in reading it? 

" Titania" sends no answer at all to her long prose enigma, so we 
cannot decide whether it is clever or not. But we think it is, and 
wish that she would send us the clue to it ; also her real name and 

We are indebted to Marian — our good kind Marian, who is always 
ready to aid us, whoever fails — for replies to the two riddles which 
the November number offers. She says in her kind little note : " I 
have found it impossible, dear Schoolfellow, to put into verse your 
unmanageable numerical riddle. But taken in plain figures, I can 
solve it thus : — 


Six Four Five One 

" I have treated Miss Harriet's beaux in this manner : 

Two beaux has Harriet — it is true 5 
For ever constant to her, too ; 
But I have heard it said in jest, 
(And truly it must be confessed,) 
So sharp theEe elbows do appear, 
No other beau dares venture near !" 

And now, at the close of our work for the year, we must offer our 
most loving thanks to the little friends who have aided us in this de- 
partment. And we trust that if another year be spared to us and 
to them, we shall miss no familar face, but welcome many new ones 
to our Riddler's gatherings. With heartiest Christmas greetings and 
wishes for a happy holiday, the Schoolfellow bids his little readers 

fast Uorfe of 


HE close of a volume of our little Magazine is an occasion for a 
I few particular words to its readers, which we cannot properly omit 
to say. We have to thank them for the favour they have shown 
to the work of our hands, and of our hearts also, (for if we did not 
love the Magazine, we should long since have ceased to prepare 
it,) and we have to express the hope, that they have derived from 
it " pleasure and profit." This is the last number of the sixth 
annual volume of the Schoolfellow. It is one of seventy-two 
monthly messengers which we have sent over the land, to the east 
and to the west, to the north and to the south, to carry to young 
minds instruction, and to young hearts gladness. We hope we have not laboured 
in vain. If we had not good reason to believe that we have not, we should not 
certainly continue our efforts yet another year, as we intend to do. " Cousin 
Alice," " Mrs. Manners," " Mary B.," " Caroline Howard," " E. B. C," and other 
dear and welcome contributors to the pages of the Schoolfellow, declare that 
they cannot give it up, and their good-will and love encourage our heart to 
pursue the labour of love which we began six years ago, beneath the sunny skies 
of Georgia. 

In Yolume Seven we shall continue and complete the charming story of 
" Sedgemoor." The amusing " Baby Correspondence" will go on at shorter 
intervals, we hope, than that which occurred between the first and second instal- 
ments of it. "MaryE." will not only contribute her pleasant stories and 
poems, but we may as well whisper to our readers, that she will preside over the 
" Riddler's Department,'' which has flourished under her care for six months 
past. We — that is, l 'The Schoolfellow" our self — intend to do our very best to en- 
hance the attractions of the new volume, and we are permitted to say, in behalf 
of its generous Publishers, that they will give it increased beauty of embellish- 

What will the readers of the work do to show their love for it ? Doubtless, 
the very first thing they will do, will be to send on their subscriptions for the 
year 1855 ; but we hope this is not all. Is there one of them who cannot make 
one dollar two dollars, by persuading some companion or friend to take the 
work ? We think not ; and, dear readers of the Schoolfellow, we will count it as 
a Christmas or New- Year's gift to ourself, if you will send on a new subscription 
with your own to the Publishers. Is it asking too much of you, that you make 
this little endeavour in behalf of the magazine we all love so well ? But the 
last page of the volume is full, except the line which is to contain our greeting 
to every one of you, and that is, 

"A merry Christmas and a happy New Year." 








Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1854, by 


in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the United States for the Southern District of 

New York. 



114 Nssssu St. 



Anecdotes of the Fox, 5 

A Song 25 

Aspirations of Youth, 189 

A Lesson for a Young Hostess, 210 

Across the Jura, 284 

A Walk in a Churchyard, 389 

Beginning the World, 350 

Child Life in England, 10, 59, 75, 138 

Chinchopper, 65 

Conscience Answered, 419 

Death and Sleep, „ 286 

Evening Prayer, 224 

Evening Songs for Little People, 255 

Everything in its place, 419 

Genevieve, 127, 166 

Ceraldine's Holidays 203, 302, 338 

Grandmother Antique's Visitor, 237 

How to make Presents, 29 

How to avoid Drowning, 282 

Johnny Lawson's Hard Lesson, 423 

Little Kate, 131 

Lost in the Woods, 1 47 

Little Manie, 172 

Lilly, 247 

Little Charlie, 280 

Legend of the Pansy, 313 

Lost and Found, 378 

Last Words of the Year, 428 

Morning Song, 232 

My Mother, ' 249 

Milan Cathedral, 291 

Mamma's Return, 327 

New-Year's Day at Rose Hill 20, 57 

Now and Then, 25 

Niagara Falls, 248 



Obstinate Chicken, 301 

Pictures of the Seasons, 1 37 

Pure in Heart, 209 

Philosophy at Home, 363 

Sedgemoor, 1, 47, 89, 113, 152, 190, 225, 258, 294, 331, 379, 410 

St. Peter's at Rome, 245 

Sailor Brother, 317 

Stewart's Sacrifice, 344 

Summer Rain, 353 

The Archer, 9 

The Pet Lamb, 20 

The Annual Message, 36 

The Story of an Egg, , 89, 97, 131, 173, 197, 233 

To a Bird, 53 

The Dove, 64 

The First Snow-drop, 78 

The Baby Correspondence, 82, 128, 386, 420 

The Cock and the Spaniel. 85 

The Fatal Effects of Disobedience, 104 

Tit for Tat, Ill 

The Cloud, 121 

The Pearl, 171 

The Baby's Frock, 183 

The White Owls, 219 

The Cross Schoolmistress, 241 

The Traveller and the Lark, 265 

The Bird's Nest by the Window, 266 

TheDuties of a Guest, 268 

The Flood in the Desert, 277 

The Palace of Ice 283 

The Tyrolean Boy, 346, 370, 405 

The Donkey's Shadow, „ 354 

The Hot Sponge Cake, 375 

The Cunning Thrush, 388 

The Story for Arthur 399 

The Riddler's Corner, 34, 67, 107, 143, 179, 215, 250 322, 358, 394, 425 

We, Us and Co., 79 

When I'm a Man, 122 

Winnie, 279 

Why do you sing? 309 

§, Capital §rak for % Jwtitt-Cirdt atfo fir % f jrfitap." 



Illustrated with Six Elegant Engravings, from Designs by Thwaites. 


This book is designed to instruct as well as to delight the young reader. It 
seeks to teach the most beautiful and important truths and principles of natural 
science in the fascinating guise of a story. The incidents which occur in the 
experience of a happy family group, during the Christmas holidays of the young 
people, are all made to minister to their knowledge of philosophy. The accidental 
fall of a dish from the lingers of a careless servant forms the text of a discussion 
on gravitation. The frost-work upon the window-panes, a soap-bubble rolling 
upon the carpet, a school-boy's sport with " a sucker" — these and a hundred other 
apparent trifles are pegs upon which are hung the most valuable lessons of practi- 
cal wisdom. Almost all the branches of physical science are illustrated in the 
development of the story ; and the intelligent child may gather more distinct and 
accurate ideas about them, almost unconsciously, while following the sports and 
pastimes of Harry and his companions, than he could possibly derive from text- 
books on science in a quarter's hard study. The authors familiarity with the 
sciences has enabled him to interweave their leading facts into the thread of the 
story, with due regard to philosophical accuracy, while it is never burdened with 
the technicalities of science, or made dull by dry and tedious explanations. The 
days of " Harry's Vacation" flew not more rapidly by to the delighted inmates of 
Beechwood, than will the hours to those young people whose good fortune it may 
be to read the charming story of their experiences and pastimes. Probably no 
book lor the young has ever been published in which amusement and instruction 
are so happily and successfully blended, and which deserves to obtain a larger 
degree of popularity than this beautiful volume. Nor will the young alone find 
interest in its pages, but " children of a larger growth" may derive both know- 
ledge and gratification from its pleasant "Philosophy at Home." 


Any subscriber to the Schoolfellow remitting with his own subscription for 
1855 three dollars for three new subscribers for the year, shall receive a copy of 
"Harry's Vacation" as a premium gift, free of postage. 






A MJBL\x&%Zm& j?GB (xI3&£© AHD BGY§| 


Mr. W. C. Richards and "Cousin Alice." 

This work has been in existence for six years, during which time it has 
acquired a degree of popularity unrivalled in the history of juvenile works, and 
frequently been pronounced by the press, both North and South, " the best and 
cheapest Juvenile Magazine in the United States." 


is devoted to the instruction and gratification of the young of both sexes, and 
aims at the cultivation of the heart as well as of the mind. It is an original ma- 
gazine, and its articles are prepared for its pages by many of the best writers for 
the young in the country. Heretofore edited by Mr. Richards, it will continue 
Under his general superintendence, with the constant aid of "Cousin Alice," 
(Mrs. Alice B. Neal), the popular author of the " Home Books," whose name alone 
is a talisman to command the love and favor of children, supported by a large 
number of favourite writers. 


of the work are engraved from choice and original designs, by skillful artists, and 
are unequaled in variety and beauty by those of any other Juvenile Magazine. 

Postmasters are requested to act as agents for the work, and may retain the 
usual commission for new subscribers. Specimen copies sent gratis on application, 
post-paid, to the Publishers. The volume commences with the January number, 
and back numbers of the volume will always be forwarded. To any who wish 
them, we can supply botnd volumes of the " Schoolfellow" from the first, »t 
$1 25 per volume, or six dollars for the entire set 

TERMS— One Dollar a year, in advance, 

EVANS & DICKERSON, Publishers,