» CHARLES R, SANDERS, JR, Americana- Southeastern States £23 Montgomery Street Raleigh, North Carolina e i a * , t r a = re , ' a PINKS & WILD LE, LUPINE YSUCK 1 4 THE HONE WRONY, MAJOR tt KNAPP 449 BROADWAY va Mat te Wi aN a RIE AEA a eR lt ceo i i UT. OF SARONY, MAJOR Mt HNAPP 449 BROADWAY v for ae. eee eee res ae * e ae n J ie " % * ¥ é ro see Sivan arate it ae ee Se eT Se ee RT eT eee ee Sea * f ‘ apt Oe ~ —— methane lt ies cnt ) q PREFACE. Tur writer of these stories has always considered Flowers a q i most happy and charming medium through which to direct the ; 3 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by the . | GENERAL Prorestant Episcopan Sunpay Scnoot Union, anp Caurcn Boox Socrery, t opening minds of children to love and adoration of their great | In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the — Oreator. Prompted by this consideration, and hoping they will . \ Southern District of New York. d afford pleasure as well as profit to the youthful reader, she now 4 presents them in a volume, illustrated with engravings of the beautiful Wild Flowers connected with each story. ene” i, Wit1ram Denysz, PUDNEY AND RUSSELL, . STEREOTYPER AND ELECTROTYPER, PRINTERS, 188 William Street, N. Y. 79 John Street, N. ¥ * 4 ae PAGE Bessie WluesBell ........ pbvhéxdccnas Dee: TO ck os Saw dak Fea k vs VRRWCRV bs OP hd hive i Secwwkeaeks vechiewa. ae ee Ms OE Ee SE von bods since cade bhbekiekiccccnh ee fhe flagnolia and Violet ...... Swe kage oh 80 hake Ub LSS 0404055 055500 LR Or ee She Trumpet Plower............. die Se eC ROC EUS Ks ONS AON Sabb es eaale Fhe fhe Triumph of Truth............ C0 RCT EA SPER S Ee 656 6 0 Bae COR Ra oS 64 The Lily of the Valley ........ apie ee sowde’ seb eeesby 6eRs Channoine 81 The Clematis and TWoodbine ........... (wen s$ee 6aabeneis bike Rohene, or the THild Crab Blossom........ ide soe ba dial s4need eee 110 Porget=me-Not and fMorning Glory..... de cn cWse vdtgeadeves eeyeseeese eee fHovesty ........ Ch Rbk CN UHRS thc’ bis 016 bw hORS eee ck eis Whedor Neth eee eee eR a aT ANAT PG ERE ME gO Te ETE se a PO POR eS Pig IRENE NS Ree en See - i E 4 at > s - L170. OF SARONY, MASON & NWAPP. F493 BROADWAY WF THE BLUE JESSAMINE | A WREATH FROM THE WOODS OF CAROLINA, PHessiec Hlue Bell. “Our Father who art in Heaven.” E* On the borders of a small creek, running into the Trent 4 River, just out of New-Bern, dwelt a blind widow, with two small children—a little girl eight years old, and a little boy just three. This widow was a good woman, and taught her chil- dren to love God, and pray to Him, as soon as they could lisp His name. She was quite young, and, although blind, was very lovely—her countenance being expressive of great gentle- * mi oe s oF we Me gg? a ‘ : Pe Be, Tp ae + we $ is Migs ay Bree aT a ; hee Sef tbat eee ees ee ae aa Bea -— — é 8 BESSIE BLUE BELL. ness and benignity. Her children’s names were Bessie and Edward. Little Bessie’s thoughts seemed to be centred in one untiring effort to amuse and console her sightless parent. This good girl never rested till she had learned to read, that she might beguile and sweeten the lonely hours of her blind mother, by reading to her from the Bible, and other good books, which she had so much delighted in before she lost her sight. Morning, noon, and night found this young girl on her cricket at her mother’s knee reading her chapter—and, oh, what a cordial it was to that mother’s heart! In the morning, as soon as Bessie was dressed, she said her prayers, read her Bible to her mother, and then tripped out into a beautiful wood near by, and culled an apronful of flowers; and returning, placed them one by one in her hand, describing the beau- ties of each in her simple, child-like way, while she in- haled its rich perfume; prattling all the while of the bright blue sky, the soft sweet air, the music of the birds, and the beauty and fragrance of the woods, till her blind mother really seemed to enjoy them all, as:much as Bessie herself. And now, when these precious duties were performed, she partook of the morning’s repast, with that dear BESSIE BLUE BELL. Y mother and her little brother, while the silvery tones of her innocent voice still filled the gentle soul of her mother with the sweet music of joy and thankfulness. The repast being ended, Bessie took another kiss from her dear ones, and then tripped gleefully off to school, where she strove to make herself wiser every day, and more capa- ble of enlivening the spirit and lighting the path of her who sat in her blindness at home, waiting for her return. At noon, when she entered her peaceful home, the first thing she did, after kissing her dear mother, was to re- sume her seat at the accustomed place, and read another chapter in the Bible; while her heart swelled with glad praise and gratitude to her “ Father in Heaven,” that she ‘was thus enabled to comfort and cheer the lonely hours of that beloved mother. Thus, day by day, did this good child verify the words of the blessed Saviour—* Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings Thou hast perfected praise.” And so did she beguile the lonely hours of the patient, pious woman, on whose knees, and from whose dear lips, this little lamb had learned to love “the Good Shepherd.” “T wish I could see your happy face, my child,” said her mother to her one day, when Bessie was more than 2 10 BESSIE BLUE BELL. usually joyous, and eloquent in her praises of the surround- ing beauties of nature. “Do but smell this Blue Bell, dear mother,” said Bes- sie; “just like its perfume is the face of your child, grate- ful and joyous.” “ Ah, yes!” said her mother, “here is your favorite— the beautiful, the fragrant blue jessamine; there surely is, in its perfume, something so like the purity and inno- cence of my little daughter—so enlivening, so like incense meet for Heaven—I can well imagine it an emblem of her sweet face. The Blue Bell is really and peculiarly worthy of your guileless love, my child. It is a princess among flowers. It was meet my darling should have chosen it for her favorite.”* One morning Bessie rose very early, before her mother was awake. She seemed to sleep so very sweetly—a smile played round her placid lips, and the little child won- dered if mamma was not in her sleep beholding the dear Blue Bell, and the many beautiful flowers her little daugh- * Tue Bror Berr.—Petals delicate white, edged with deep fringed violet, shaded gradually into the white centre. Stamens dense, high, delicate straw color. Perfume, delicious—resembling the violet, but more lively. Color, a variety of shades—some delicate blue, some deep purple—violet predominates, An annual, BESSIE BLUE BELL. 11 ter had placed in her hand, and described to her. And the thought, too, flashed through her guileless heaven- taught mind— “Perhaps mamma is looking at the beautiful undying flowers of Paradise; it may be that her spirit has ascend- ed to the regions of the blest, and she beholds her Saviour, and ‘Our Father in Heaven.’ I would not for the world wake her from the glorious view. Sleep on, dearest mother, sleep on.” And the little child dressed herself noiselessly, said in quiet her innocent prayers, read her Bible, and then hast- ened out into the beautiful wood near by, intent on giving her dear mother a sweet surprise, by guiding her hand into her apron of fresh dewy flowers, just as she woke from her sleep. Now, the cottage was on a green slope, extending to the margin of the creek, over which was a bridge, and from the bridge extended a causeway over a marsh some fifty yards, to the “ Wilderness of Sweets,” as this flowery wood was called. Little Bessie never feared to cross the bridge or marsh alone, after having said her prayers, for she said to her- self, “‘Our Father in Heaven’ will take care of me.” So on she went after she reached the woods, singing 19 BESSIE BLUE BELL. merrily, plucking the choicest and most beautiful flowers of every hue, and filling her apron as fast as she could ; but, alas, she found not the Blue Bell! “Oh, dear !” sighed Bessie, “I must not return without mamma’s favorite flower. She will not think she sees mMé, if she does not smell the dear Blue Bell.” So on and eagerly she advanced, deeper and deeper, amid the tangled vines and dark, thick foliage of the overhang- ing trees. “Oh,” said she, again and again, “I cannot return without the blue jessamine, just one for dear mamma.” So, on and still on flew Bessie, her bright, quick, anx- lous eyes peeping into every mass of bushes, or cluster of vines or flowers, in hopes of finding her favorite. But, alas, she found it not. So intent was she on the search, she did not perceive that the sun had climbed to his me- ridian, and dried up all the dew, and that all the pretty flowers in her apron were withered and faded; and then, in a short time, the little child found that her tiny feet were aching and swollen, and that she was sick and faint with hunger. All at once it occurred to her she had lost her way. She stared wildly around, and endeavored to retrace her steps; but, alas, there was no appearance of a path, BESSIE BLUE BELL. 13 and no opening in the dense forest, the thick tangled underwood. Bessie looked up to the bright blue sky, and thought, as she gazed on the glorious sun— “Ah! [am not alone; yon bright sun that shines on me, shines too on the cottage of my dear mother. I am not alone; ‘Our Father who is in Heaven’ sees me, and will take care of me.” So little Bessie, being very thirsty, hastened to a clear, bubbling spring, and drank out of the hollow of her tiny hand, and then, seating herself on the grass, bathed her swollen feet. After she had rested her- self awhile she arose, and searching about, found some berries, which she ate heartily; and when her hunger was gone, with an innocent, grateful heart, she seated herself to rest and think of her dear mamma and little brother. “ Alas!” said she, “my poor mamma! She will think she has lost her little girl. Perhaps she will think I am drowned in the creek, or some wild beast has devoured me, or some serpent stung me to death. Poor, dear mam- ma!” And Bessie wept bitterly when she thought of her grief. At length she knelt down on the grass, raised her innocent hands and weeping eyes to Heaven, and prayed earnestly to “ Our Father who is in Heaven.” After this, ea - Ale Ae eee en a eae eae ae 14 BESSIE BLUE BELL. - she became calm, confiding, and even cheerful. Again she searched the bushes for the sweet Blue Bell. _ And now the sun went down, and the bright stars came twinkling, at Bessie through the moving foliage. She chatted awhile with the little stars, and then, being very weary, she said her prayers, and laid her down on the soft grass, beneath a thick-leaved cedar, and slept as tranquilly as if she were in her mother’s cottage. Nor yet in her slumbers did the Good Shepherd forget this little lamb of His fold. In her dreams she was gath- ering flowers, and rejoicing amid their fragrance and beauty, while gentle angels, with snowy wings and radi- ant faces, held each a hand of the innocent child. And, indeed, it was well that Bessie had prayed to “ Our Father in Heaven.” An enormous rattlesnake emerged from the thicket, and coiled himself near the sleeper—so near, that had she moved, his fatal fangs might have been fastened in her tender flesh. A sudden noise in the woods startled the terrible reptile, and he instantly darted into the bushes, giving little Bessie’s arm a stroke with his tail, and she woke in time to see his fast receding form, as it vanished in the briers. The good little girl instantly arose, and falling on her knees, before “Our Father who is in Heaven,” poured BESSIE BLUE BELL. 15 forth her gratitude for this escape from death, in the silent night—and then calmly laid herself down again to sleep. Again, in her dreams, she sought for her home. Two gentle angels, holding each a hand of the little wanderer, led her through the thick bushes of the pathless woods, to the arms of her beloved mother. Just as the rosy-fingered morning was unbarring the gates of light, to let forth the glorious sun, and the mock- ing-bird, perched on the topmost bough of the cedar, was pouring forth his rich and varied notes of praise, little Bessie awoke; and, with a blithe and trusting heart, joined with that melodious song. “Sing on, sweet bird, I'll join with thee— Our notes shall fill the rosy sky ; Before the morning star, shall we Waft our Creator’s praise on high.” Then she said her prayers, but she greatly missed the beloved Bible she was wont to read each morning, though she sat down and thought over the beautiful beatitudes of the blessed Jesus, and felt a peaceful confidence in “Our Father who is in Heaven,” and a consoling belief that He would send the same bright messengers she saw in her dreams, to guide her footsteps homeward. Bessie now went cheerfully to work, gathering berries 16 BESSIE BLUE BELL. for her breakfast. As soon as she had eaten, she set off in search of her mother’s cottage. She directed her steps toward the rising sun. All was bright and joyous. The birds singing, the flowers blooming, the zephyrs fanning the leaves gently but cheerily—the dew-drops glittering in the sunbeams, as little Bessie glided on cautiously among the matted vines and shrubbery, hoping soon to find the woods open and see the white cottage appear. She could not resist her old habit of gathering flowers, as usual at this delightful hour. “Oh,” cried she, at last, “there is a beautiful Blue Bell!” She bounded forward to pluck the flower, and Jo! at that moment, through an opening in the woods, the dear cottage of her mother was in sight! Oh, how her heart leaped with joy! Her little feet seemed to have wings to them, so rapidly were the marsh, the bridge, the green slope passed over, and then, Bessie was indeed at her own door. While she was enjoying the rapture of her fond mother’s embrace, something seemed to bind her around the knees—and what do you think it was, my dear readers? It was her sweet, affectionate little brother, who was clasping his chubby arms about his darling BESSI£ BLUE BELL. 17 sister, while he shouted with joy at her safe return home. “Let us return thanks to our Father in Heaven,” said the blind widow to her children, “for all His goodness, especially for preserving and restoring my darling little daughter to her home again.” And then, the pious mother knelt down between her two young lambs of Christ’s fold, and poured forth her gratitude to “Our Father who is in Heaven,” for his infi- nite mercy and goodness, while their little hands and hearts were raised in meek, innocent, and doubtless acceptable devotion to “the Good Shepherd.” Soon after they had risen from their knees, the mother said— “I smell the Blue Bell! surely, Bessie, you did not stop to pluck one at such a time 2” “Oh, yes, dear mother,” said Bessie, “it was the dar- ling Blue Bell that showed me the way out of the woods. As I flew to pluck it, there was our sweet cottage just in my view.” Little Bessie now sat down by her mother, and told her all that had befallen her since she left her side the morning before, and then read her chapter as usual, be- fore breakfast. 3 18 BESSIE BLUE BELL. a “You shall be called Bessie Blue Bell,” said the widow, q smiling; and ever after she went by that name, sure 4 enough. me ] Bessie grew up to be a good and useful woman, and q was always a comfort and delight to her blind mother, | ee : who had taught her to pray, “Our Father who art in | | emis JESSAMINE . WILD ORANGE & VIRGIN BOWBR. siiah iemaiiiinieneten ree On the first day of this delicious month—in which the woods of our beloved Carolina are radiant with flowers and redolent of sweets—on the May-day of my happy childhood—little children used to assemble in some shady nook, and celebrate the coronation of their chosen Queen autumn of life has crowned my brow wi yellow leaf,” yet, when I recall the inn amid delicious shades, and bloom- spring-time of my being, and murmuring rills, and ing flowers, and singing birds, gentle zephyrs’ soothing whispers, my buoyant spirit is young again, and laughs and gambols through the maze of flowers, mid bees and butterflies, in despite of the grav- ity of age. In this story, then, my dear young readers, 20 THE MAY QUEEN. I shall tell you of our May parties, and of three of our most beautiful native wild flowers—the Virgin’s Bower, the Yellow Jessamine, and the Wild Orange. The Virgin’s Bower is one of the most royal-looking of all Dame Flora’s sylvan favorites—being a vine of most luxuriant growth, of massy rich green foliage, over whose whole outer surface are dense clusters of purple flowers, glowing and brightening in the sunbeams—appearing like a canopy of purple velvet above the throne of royalty. It is supposed by some that when Sir Walter Raleigh first visited Carolina, being enchanted with the splendor of these native vines, he gave them the very appropriate name of “ Virgin’s Bower,” in honor of his royal mistress, Elizabeth, the virgin Queen of England. Sir Walter Raleigh was a brave knight and accom- plished courtier in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. He was also commander of a fleet of ships sent by that noble sov- ereign across the wide Atlantic Ocean, with directions to explore this continent, and see if it would be a good and comfortable home for her subjects. Historians say he landed on the coast of North Caro- lina, and thence advanced sufficiently into the country to enable him to report satisfactorily to his royal mistress THE MAY QUEEN. 21 on his return to England. His account being favorable, the Queen forthwith dispatched other ships laden with emigrants to occupy our beautiful land, and establish her dominion over it. The Yellow Jessamine, or Golden Climber of Carolina, equally beautiful and luxuriant, often extends to the top- most boughs of the stately Pine; and there, as if jealous of the sunbeams, expands her massy, golden beauties to the skies, crowning the head of her proud supporter, and thus heightening its grandeur, It is not unusual for these magnificent vines to twine themselves amid the luscious white blossoms of the Wild Orange tree, whose bridal wreaths are often laden too with the splendor of the Virgin’s Bower, thus uniting the appropriate emblems of royalty—wealth, splendor, and purity or integrity. The Wild Orange resembles, both in appearance and odor, the bearing Orange of the tropics. The white blos- soms cluster thickly around a long, slender branch, which I have seen as long as my arm, studded from one end to the other with flowers, waving in the breeze and shedding their exquisite perfume. In one of these natural bowers, we children held the court of our May Queen. We reared a mound of earth ee a ee ee eS OD 22 THE MAY QUEEN. within the bower, and covered it with moss, which became in time like a carpet of rich green velvet. It seemed a real pity to tread upon it, though it was prepared ex- pressly for the feet of our chosen Queen; and from there she pronounced her coronation address, after having received a chaplet of flowers on her fair and beautiful brow. It was our custom, a few days before the first of May, to assemble in the woods near our sylvan throne, and choose our Queen. What a sweet delight it is, at this distant hour, to reflect how lovingly, how innocently, and how joyously we performed our several parts! And here let me counsel you, dear children, if you would wish in maturer years to look back with unalloyed pleasure on the spring-time of your life, to love one another; for love will protect your tender minds from aJl unamiable feel- ings towards your playmates, and infinitely enhance your own happiness. Remember, it was love which brought your gentle Saviour from the bosom of his Father in Heaven, in order to gather such precious lambs as you into his heavenly fold. There were always two candidates for the throne of May, and we conducted the election in this wise: One little girl sat on the grass, and suggested the flower to THE MAY QUEEN. 23 represent each candidate; usually yellow and_ purple. Each voter then threw the flower which represented her favorite into the lap of the little girl on the grass, who proceeded to count them, while the rest stood around her in a circle, holding hands, with faces beaming with delight, and ready to dance round the chosen Queen as soon as her election was announced. “'The Queen is Purple!” or, “The Queen is Yellow!” soon greeted their anxious ears, and instantly a shout of joyful approbation arose from their innocent voices; the Queen was placed in the centre of the ring, the little girl on the grass took her place, and all danced round her, singing and lJaughing—every now and then kissing her pretty lips with guileless love, such as the angels know. After this, our kind mammas went to work making cakes, and other nice things, besides loading us with fruits, nuts, and sugar-plums uncountable; and when the happy day arrived, helped us to arrange our table in the woods. Our Queen had her maids of honor, her pages and high officers of state, among whom figured most conspicuously the almoner, who bore on her arm a basket wreathed with flowers, from under whose cunning beauties she from aan + ead a ee 94 THE MAY QUEEN. time to time drew forth a liberal handful of sugar-plums, and, tossing them high in the air, was the first to scramble for their possession. In this she was followed by the whole assemblage, not excepting the Queen. ‘This, per- haps you will say, was rather unqueenly ; yet I can see no reason why she should have been excluded by such use- less etiquette from the participation in every enjoyment of our jubilee. Indeed, the scramble was regarded as the choice pleasure of the occasion, and was accompanied with merry peals of laughter, while every face glowed with innocent delight and good-nature. These joyous occa- sions were never marred by the presence of the deformed visages of discontent, ill-humor, or fretfulness. In the May party I now recall to remembrance, a beau- tiful little girl, called Annie L——, was chosen for our Queen. She came dancing into the ring we had formed for her, her blue eyes sparkling, and her bright, intelli- gent countenance glowing with pure delight. She had lovely golden hair, falling in rich curls around her fair shoulders, which were always tempting one to-kiss them. We all loved sweet Annie L——, and no one dreamed of supplanting her. It was one of our chief pleasures to caress the sweet child, whose little heart was so guileless and so lovely, even as her face was beautiful. “Of isan isa aay os See aR oe aot es ee SEE OT Ss pe eT ae CECE LRM oe eee Se ere sgn 8 eee et Pap ame SURE Is lah ra ate et Am ae Lr Peer Cn CaN Mee Wes MR CRRA TT ye eS a Ree GLEE Rae Tea ae a, Es FORE Crate hat an anne ae Rs sb a aes SS wea 4 Fe & THE. MAY QUEEN. 25 such,” said the blessed Redeemer, “is the kingdom of Heaven.” Clad in a pure white robe, with her chaplet of white flowers shading a countenance of exquisite loveliness and sweetness, with a glow of health and delight illumining her beauty, she was the express picture of an angel. And Annie was not only a beautiful but a good little girl, obedient to her parents, and always amiable to her dear little playmates. We conducted our Queen to her throne, singing and strewing flowers before her, and here is our May Song. Oh, come, let us strew with sweet flowers The path of dear Annie our Queen, To her throne in these beauteous bowers Awaiting her, fragrant and green. a The morning shines brightly ; oh, come, let us lead her To grace with her beauty their shade, And on her fair brow place the chaplet decreed her, Then hail as our Queen the dear maid. Oh, strew there bright buds of the morning, Sweet emblems of beauty and youth, Of every fair virtue adorning Her young heart of goodness and truth, Through life may her pathway be brightened with roses, As this for her feet we now strew ; May morn bring her rapture—and eve as it closes Bring peace, in the light falling dew. + OE Ne Sag ay an ee ee See a ee Oe wee ‘; > ‘2 4d > eee ee PL SE eT Te ne ROE a NT ee ees Fo tee a IE Nt REEL A RN RR SUS 26 THE MAY QUEEN. 7 ae NERY K ¢ JCS MKS OS be Little Annie L—— grew up a charming and excellent 3 } j oF ; woman, enjoying the esteem and blessing of all who knew 4 : (jp a) her, even as she had been good and lovely in her child- 7 { < eats ITl. ma hood, possessing the love and admiration of her little : | playmates. Sweet, lovely Annie L——! she was a child € he c Mp of Colt ddl ater, of God—and “ God is Love.” q q For whosoever shall give you a cup of water to drink in my name....he 4 i" shall not lose his reward.— Mark ix. 41. On a certain bright morning, while the Honeysuckles, Lupines, Wild Pinks, and Roses literally carpeted the @ forests of our dear Carolina, three little boys'set out on a ; ramble in these flowery wilds—on the borders of the winding Trent. Their fishing-tackle was not forgotten, as j 4 they knew that the river abounded in robins and silver 4 : perch and others of the finny tribe, meat for their moth- ers frying-pan, and an acceptable offering to maternal care. ach little boy carried a small tin bucket, within which was his dinner, and which on his return home would é contain a goodly number of Honeysuckle apples or straw- berries, or at all events a bright nosegay of wild flowers | for his mother or sister. 4 : The names of these boys were Tommy Fearless, Sammy . : 4 Careless, and Harry Heartless. Of course my readers will readily perceive, from the diversity of their names, that 28 THE CUP OF COLD WATER. they were not all the children of the same parents. How- ever, they were next-door neighbors. The father of Tommy Fearless was a carpenter, that of Sammy Careless a shoemaker, and of Harry Heartless a day-laborer—all from the humbler walks of life. Only one of these boys attended Sunday School, and this was Tommy Fearless, being ten years old at this time. Sammy and Harry were a year or two older than Tommy, having advanced thus far in the journey of life without the soul-nurturing care of a Christian mother, or even the oceasional teaching of a Sunday School, though this great privilege had been repeatedly offered to them. Their parents were thoughtless, ungodly people, totally unmind- ful of their responsible office, as representatives of the great Parent and Governor of all, to guide their offspring in the path of duty. Having stated these melancholy facts, you will at a glance perceive what kind of boys these were ; particularly:as [ have no doubt you all are ac- quainted with the words of the blessed Saviour, who said : “A good tree cannot bring forth evil fruit, neither can a corrupt tree bring forth good fruit!” and, “Men do not gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles.” Therefore rejoice, and be thankful, you who have Christian parents, or faithful teachers. THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 29 Well, these three boys had enjoyed their day’s ramble— had angled in the river, had filled their buckets with Honeysuckle apples* and other products of the woods, and had turned their faces homeward; when suddenly they heard piercing groans, and at intervals shrieks of agony, mingled with the blithe notes of the never-silent mock- ing-bird. Our little travellers paused and looked at each other in consternation. “Oh, what can that be?” said Tommy. “What can it be?” responded Sammy. — “We must search and find the sufferer,” said Tommy ; “perhaps we may give some relief.” “TI can tell you,” answered Harry; “the groans come from a poor sailor in yonder cabin. Do you not see it just beneath that large oak tree ?” “Oh, yes, we see it,” said the other boys; “but who is this sailor ?” “He isa man,” replied Harry, “ who was brought from on board a vessel from the West Indies; and he has that dreadful disease, the small-pox. He is placed here to be attended to till he either dies or recovers; for if he were * Sweet, juicy excrescences on the branches of the Honeysuckle, very cool and grateful to the taste. A A A tl a oR no ah a t Ps te tase ti, ide hcl Di ee * PRAT 0b oe: Weare 7 . . ne a eh lag itl alia, ti - e ps > . : 7 7 ae 5 ’ " . ¥ 7 * oo : ‘ = p . capil F ke it i Pace aa ete aes Sallie ae aa emer i ala A aa eee ee ene a it. Ae Rt re SM lee RE a lat ls A ONE a mm eae a - aonb : - “ omen as “ en ee a . re Seale - ° A a A Mls a ie 1» a O60 pare eee 2 pay = na a a ine sma? my rr 4 30 THE CUP OF COLD WATER. suffered to remain in town, a great many persons might take the disease and die. Let us run away as fast as we can, boys, or we shall have the small-pox, too.” “Oh, how dreadfully he moans!” said Tommy. “ Poor fellow !” said Sammy, though he began to move off after Harry, who only paused a moment till the others should follow him. “Let us go to the poor man,” said Tommy, who stood still, as if thinking if it were right to leave the sufferer without seeing that he could render him any assistance. “Come along, boys,” urged Harry, “or we too shall take this terrible disease, and be left out here in the woods to die.” “ Let us run as fast as we can,” said Sammy ; yet Tommy stood still. “You had better come along after us,” said the two boys, “for if you get this disease, even your father and mother will not be permitted to nurse you, or even visit you, and you will surely die out here in these woods.” “Oh, come along, come along,” urged both the boys. All this while the piteous cries continued, and the boys were near enough to hear the words which issued from the sufferer. THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 31 “Oh,” said the voice, “for one drop of cool water on this burning tongue! I shall burn up with thirst. Is there no one who, for the love of Christ, will give me one drop of cold water before I die.” The boys listened and turned pale with horror, if not with compassion. “ J cannot go on, boys,” said Tommy Fearless; “if you are afraid, go on; I shall give this man a cup of cold water before I leave the woods; and I am sure if you had been to the Sunday School, and heard and read what I have, you could not find it in your hearts to run away from the cries of this sufferer.” “What was it you heard ?” asked the other boys, whom the earnestly compassionate countenance of ‘Tommy had compelled to pause in their heartless flight. “My last Sunday’s Bible lesson,” continued Tommy, “ contained words which will be addressed to the wicked ‘at the great day of judgment by our Redeemer and Judge— I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink; I was sick, and ye visited me not’—‘ Verily I say unto you, inas- much as ye did it not unto one of the least of my breth- ren, ye did it not unto me.’ And there is another place where He said, ‘ Whosoever shall give a cup of cold water to a disciple, to drink in my name, verily I say unto SRS mee ARN NN TN EE ES on Y 39 THE CUP OF COLD WATER. you, he shall not lose his reward.’ I cannot deprive myself of this promised blessing, or incur the condemna- tion of the wicked; so I shall go to the relief of the sick man, and you can go home if you choose.” So Tommy Fearless turned resolutely towards the hut, while Harry Heartless led off Tommy Careless, laughing, and taunting Tommy as they ran. “Now,” thought Tommy, “they say this is a very ter- rible and dangerous disease—I may take it and give it to my parents, and brothers and sisters, and if they die, I shall be the cause of their death. If I die myself, that is nothing, because the Good Shepherd will take me into His heavenly fold, when I obey His voice. But ought I endanger others—what ought [to do?” And now Tommy remembered that his good Sunday School teacher had told him always to pray when he needed guidance, and that God would hear him, and direct his steps aright. So Tommy kneeled down, and prayed the Good Shepherd to guide him in this hour of peril and doubt. All the while the little boy was communing with his Saviour, the shrieks of the suffering sailor were piercing his ears and heart. Tommy rose from his knees convinced that he ought to disregard his own safety, and obey the injunctions of his divine Saviour. He was walking firmly towards the = . a A Pi - ‘ . . f ~ . Re ge MO ee LR ee ee ee eee oe eee eee Tent OE ORS aia en Ce waa ke ey Sat RRR Be eRe ag Cre" RRO acid deer RR NG Fea cke ay Cg Yea tet las, SMO eas ras eee sce P 9 ag a LN ly I ee ae cz Bee ies har we Se ae Pa ae Ces. rahe Ge eee RP ie ONE THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 38 hut, when, the door being wide open, the sailor saw him approaching. “Little boy,” he cried out, “stop! stop! where you are, and listen tome. I would not, for the world, endanger your precious life for my own relief; therefore listen, and I will tell you how you can give me all I require without danger to yourself. And may God bless and reward you for your compassion and bravery. Take your tin bucket; go to yonder rill; fill it with water; then walk in care- fully, touching nothing as you come. I will hold out my mug, and do you pour the water in, and return to the woods as speedily as possible, and rub the soles of your shoes well into the fresh earth before going home. After this there is no danger, and surely you shall not lose your reward in time and eternity, my brave little 7 boy. Trusting in his divine Redeemer, Tommy followed the careful directions of the sick man, and relieved his burn- ing thirst amid the outpourings of his grateful heart, and the comfortable assurance of his Master’s favor. The face of the sailor was hideous from the disease ; quite enough to frighten a less pious and brave boy from a benevolent purpose; but with such motives, and under such guid- ance, the little Christian is as brave as a lion. So Tom- 5 ae ee 34 THE CUP OF COLD WATER. my’s courage did not fail, and his heart was filled with holy joy. The sick man informed Tommy that he was placed there by the authorities of the town, under the charge of a nurse, who had cruelly left him all day alone, and might not return at all; for he was aman fond of drink, and such are not to be depended upon. “I will go home and ask my mother to let me return ward.” So, with the blessing of the sick sailor, Tommy departed, taking care to follow all his directions for his safety. Perhaps my young readers may suppose that Tommy kept this adventure from his parents; but not so: his THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 35 Sunday School teacher had instructed him to submit his conduct entirely to his parents’ judgment, and never for one moment to deceive them. For although, through their ignorance of the precepts of Christianity, they may not understand or appreciate such motives, they will excuse the action in consideration of the child’s confidence and truth towards them. Besides, Tommy knew he was following the commands of his divine Master and Re- deemer, who could direct the unruly wills of all sinful men. As Tommy approached his father’s house, he saw one of his little sisters standing before the door, and as soon as she perceived him, she ran in, crying, “Oh, go away! go away, Tommy! you will kill us all—Oh, go away !” But Tommy stopped, and waving his hand to her, said, “Tell my mother to come to the door, if she pleases.” His mother immediately made her appearance at the door, pale with affright. “ Mother,” said Tommy, “ the boys have told you where I have been; do not be alarmed, mother, I have not touched the man, though I have seen him, and given him water.” So Tommy told his mother how carefully the sick man had instructed him to avoid the dreadful disease, and how cruelly the other boys had run away and left him. 36 THE CUP OF COLD WATER. Now Tommy’s mother, though not a religious woman was sensible as well as reasonable, and did not sdivabaay reprove her little son, though she could not refrain from expressing her disapprobation and fears; and when Tommy explained his motives and good Christian feelings, she not only did not condemn him, but seemed deeply moved at the sufferings of the sailor, and the truly Christian conduct of her little son. Although matters proceeded thus far so smoothly with our little hero, there was yet a severe trial awaiting him. His father came home from his workshop that night out of humor, and being a stern as well as an impulsive man, without the grace of Christianity to control his actions, would not listen to his little son’s account of himself, but yielded to his angry feelings, and gave the boy a severe chastising. Tommy endured his punishment meekly, nor did he allow any feeling of resentment to take its place in his dutiful heart, but was willing to suffer for well-doing rather than to disregard the injunctions of our Saviour, who had given His life for our salvation. These heavenly seeds had been sown in his infantile heart by the Spirit of grace, through the diligent instructions of his good Sunday School teacher, All the neighbors, including the Careless and the THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 37 Heartless families, for some time shunned the company of Tommy Fearless, but in due time he was looked upon, as all such good boys should be, as a Christian hero. Harry and Sammy, it is true, did not confess it, but it was nevertheless very plainly to be seen that they were both ashamed of their cowardice and unkindness. There is, doubtless, great allowance to be made for the alarm under which they acted, without the possession of Christian knowledge, such as had guided their little companion on the late occasion; yet the utter absence of feeling they displayed, and selfishness, with the ridicule which they poured upon Tommy, evinced a heartlessness and careless- ness of disposition at variance with the feelings of common humanity. May the good Spirit guide some faithful Sun- day School teacher to the desolate homes of these boys, and draw them into the fold of peace and of heavenly knowledge, which will make them wise unto salvation. Years passed on, and Tommy Fearless grew up to man’s estate. His father died and left his mother with a large family and small means. Consequently, it became the duty of Tommy, as her eldest son, to devote his earnings to her support. This he did cheerfully, like an affection- ate and dutiful son; for obedience and devotion to the great heavenly Parent will naturally lead to the same iho tee a ae a a — po tna iA il Banish heey th Ts pital sores: 38 THE CUP OF COLD WATER. plous course towards the earthly parent, to whose nurtur- ing care God has confided His children. “Honor thy f: . : ather and mother,” is the commandment to which our Maker has vouchsafed a pr omise, Still, Tommy Fearless was not without trial to strength- en his faith in the blessing of Divine Providence. There was an attachment existing between himself and a certain pr | , by the name of Mary Gray—yet, from his obligations to his mother and her young family, there was little prospect of a speedy arrival at the con- summation of his hich the young man bore like the same youthful hero we have seen him before, upheld by faith and love, On a certain bright morning, the first of May, when our beautiful woods are thronged with admirers of ture’s loveliness, the holiday was seized by all the laboring classes as one of the few allowable to them throughout the year. Tommy Fearless with his pretty Mary were among otaries of the Queen of Flowers. Our hero had sauntered on by the side of Mary, wr eath- ing her hair with flowers, and plucking another and ane other for her hand, of every hue—which she continually THE CUP OF COLD WATER. 39 pointed out and admired—till suddenly he found they were before the cabin in which he had some ten years before relieved the thirst of the suffering sailor. He paused and directed the observation of his compan- ion to the tottering ruin—and seating her on a log, and himself beside her, he recounted the adventure. Wholly absorbed with their own affairs, the lovers did not per- ceive a third person near them, till, on hearing a crack- ling of the leaves under foot, they looked up and espied an old man approaching them. “Young man,” said the stranger, “while resting after my long walk, on yonder log, I accidentally heard your little story of the sick sailor and yonder hut. Can you tell me what became of that sailor ?” “Indeed I do not know, sir,” answered the young man; “Twas quite a little boy at the time, and I do not remem- ber what became of him, beyond the fact that he recov- ered and left in the same vessel that brought him here.” The old man then touched his hat and moved away, while the two young people soon forgot that an old man of so ordinary appearance had ever accosted them. On the following morning, just as Tommy Fearless was preparing to resume his labors, still trusting in the good- ness of Divine Providence, and nothing doubting that in as ae ct le a act ae Sa 40 _ THE CUP OF COLD WATER. a , His own good time his industry and faithfulness would be a ’ . rewarded by the completion of his heart’s desire—a union with his beloved Mary, a note was put in his hand. He broke the’ seal, and read these words: a «“ Whosoever shall gir : 10 drink unto one of these little a ones, a cup of cold water only, in the name of a disciple, | verily I say unto you, he shall in no wise lose his reward.” A check on the State Bank for ten tl note, and the blessing et as Batt ‘ that Fi oe of the log ca a - ————— ae a aie asales ent DE OMNES Bara SE NE Na ie Ae AER eM AI Ay Ae aR. tO RA NRT aE IIE AN a BN ne el a oe ea ae ee - fit PI ed e " - e . P rs s CAN call LI as Ss Sa a FRSA NMR CEE oe Bo oa 4h ee P ad a 2 oa, Be sie Let * ay " ee ae fete, 24 IV. Che Magnolia and the Violet. 4 / The rich and the poor meet together; the Lord is the Maker of them all.— 7 4 Proverbs xxii, 2. j Wuen I was a little girl, I attended a school in which ‘ the high and the low, the rich and the poor, met together, | 4 | without distinction, save that of merit. Yet there were in this school some pupils who looked with envy or con- 4 tempt on many of their companions. ; There was a beautiful little girl, from the highest grade of society, with bright blue eyes, sunny curls, and features “aa ny of faultless moulding. Her countenance beamed with " 4 innocence, benevolence, and good nature. Charity, like : 4 a gentle dove, nestled in her guileless breast. She wei 4 the admiration of the whole school, though a few naughty a girls envied, and pretended to dislike her We will call her Magnolia. And then, in the lowest grade of little girls, there was MAGNOLIA & VIOLET . one, quiet, modest, amiable, and lovely, who soon won the 6 TH. OF SAAONY MAJOR & APP 449 AAOAIWEY VO vw S 49 THE MAGNOLIA AND THE VIOLET. regard of most of her schoolmates, notwithstanding her plain clothes and humble origin. We will call her Violet. As might be supposed, these two little magnets soon attracted each other, and became firmly attached, though occupying such extremes in society. They were in the same class, sat on the same bench, and their loving arms were ever around each other. There was another little girl, in the same grade with Magnolia, who was very much annoyed at the union of these two little friends. Sometimes she would thrust her- self between Violet and her classmate, and endeavor to supplant her in Magnolia’s affections; and she has even gone so far as to threaten Magnolia, to tell her mamma of the low company she kept. One morning, when the roll was called, at Violet’s name there was no response. Magnolia quickly perceived the pause, and with glistening eyes she watched the door, with the hope of soon seeing the tardy one enter. But, alas! she was several times reproved for looking off her book, and then for crying. “What are you crying for, Magnolia?” asked the teacher. “ Because, ma’am,” she replied, “I am sure Violet is ill, or she would not stay away from school.” THE MAGNOLIA AND THE VIOLET. 43 “Well, my dear,” said the teacher, “suppose she is, it will do her no good if you spend the morning in crying. It will be far wiser to mind your lessons, and when you return home at noon send and inquire after your little friend. Now wipe your eyes, and come and Say your lesson.” Magnolia did as she was bid; but in spite of her efforts, the tears would trickle down her cheek. She wiped them off quickly, for fear of offending her teacher, who liked to be obeyed by her little pupils in everything. “Do, Annie, just look at Magnolia,” said the jealous and proud little girl I have mentioned before, addressing the little girl who sat next her; “do look at that silly child, crying for a poor creature like Violet, I dare say she has no frock to come to school in, and is now making dirt cakes at home, and not caring one pin for her lady- friend who is shedding so many tears on her account. I am sure if I were Magnolia’s mamma, I should wish Violet dead, to rid my child of such a poor, mean com- panion. Would not you, Annie 2” ¢ . . . . . ‘No,” said Annie, “for my mamma says it is a sin to wish any one dead; and besides, I like Violet—she is a good little girl, and a pretty one, if she is poor. I do not wish her dead.” ; a ha ee ee ee ee ¥ Wi ah A aN cl Re al NAc AT i 8 ae sas pices lk hee ML ne tc i ali Sei iy EC ae RMN Leia a itn EE ast Ate edicts 44 THE MAGNOLIA AND THE VIOLET. “ At any rate, I do,” said the proud and now cruel girl ; for pride and jealousy are very apt to make little girls think ‘and say cruel things of their playmates. Magnolia hastened home at noon, and acquainted her mother with her fears for her friend. So after dinner this good lady, with her little daughter, visited Violet in her humble home. Although rich and elevated, Magnolia’s mamma was of a meek and humble spirit, and ever strove, both by pre- cept and example, to impress her children with the truth that the poor, alike with the rich, are the creatures of a kind Providence, equally beloved and cared for; and, moreover, that the Divine Redeemer of mankind had, in an especial manner, sanctified that lowly station, by being born in its midst. So came this good girl to disregard station in choosing her favorite friend. Magnolia and her mamma found Violet indeed very ill; so ill as to be wholly unconscious of the presence of her friend. Magnolia’s mamma sent at once for a physician, and supplied abundant means to render the little sufferer as comfortable as possible, and to gratify every wish she might express, rk THE MAGNOLIA AND THE VIOLET. 45 Every day these benevolent visits were paid. Violet’s pillow was smoothed, and her every pain soothed by the endearing attentions of her little friend. The oranges were more delicious, the lemonade more refreshing, be- cause these delicacies were held to her fevered lips by the gentle hand of her beloved playmate. And then, when Violet was pronounced convalescent— when the burning fever, the racking pains, the appalling delirium, were past—how delightful to little Violet were the silvery tones of her friend’s voice, as she sang her restlessness into calm repose ! How pure, how heavenly was the joy of Magnolia, while thus attending the suffering couch of her humble friend! Children! beloved of the meek and lowly Jesus, go you and do likewise! Magnolia had been taught that her gentle Saviour loved young children that tried to please Him. It chanced the next Saturday, that the proud little girl who was so jealous of Violet, came to spend the holiday with me; so we re-arranged the doll-house, dressed all the dolls, gave them a handsome entertainment of fruits, sweetmeats, nuts, and cakes, which we very obligingly ate for them, as they could not do this for themselves Several times in the course of our feast, my little com- ee nT Tea e as 46 THE MAGNOLIA AND THE VIOLET. panion spoke fretfully, unkindly, and scornfully of Mag- nolia, on account of her low propensities, as she called her intimacy with Violet, particularly since her frequent visits at her friend’s lowly home. Nay, she again expressed the unchristian wish that Violet might die, because Magnolia loved her. The closet in which our doll-house was arranged, opened into the chamber of my mother, and she overheard our whole conversation. After dinner my mother mentioned Violet, and asked my little visitor if she was not grieved to hear of her extreme illness. “No, indeed, ma’am,” answered my little playmate, “I never trouble myself with such low people; and I am sure my mamma would be very angry if I were to put my foot within such a dirty hovel as Violet lives in.” “Yet, like all good-hearted little girls,” insisted my mother, “I should think you would be sorry for your playmate.” “She is no playmate of mine, and I am not at all sorry for her, for mamma says such people are always pretend- ing to be sick; and besides, they are accustomed to it, and do not feel it as we do.” “] think, my dear,” replied my mother, “there is some- what of a contradiction in what you say; how do they get ~ f . - : Vetgiah Ot erage adanneenranay — - pRB sae Si Cte Aaa ai AT Raa aR Es ah gai a a aa caer ekg cegty tt pin ats dete es res Rae ey pee art Te Gare ee - lies eee oe Pett wont Meee ts 2 bag 22 ae ee ie ce Paves, ae ae sae eC, aesthetic ee ite, Seek Aire Gets aunt clear — SN heb a LE St A Eas CR a why ee ; nt ot As see ch we ti on A eA eA a a ct A Nl te eat 60 THE TRUMPET-FLOWER; OR, “I must have it,” said Gertrude, and so she climbed up to the flower, and, although she saw it wet with the pois- onous dew, she did not hesitate to pluck it, while her face and hands were sprinkled all over. “So now I have you, Master Trumpet, in spite of those cowardly children, and mamma shall not be long without the pleasure of beholding you. Come along, sister, and see how happy I shall be when mamma gives me a kiss for my pretty offermg. Will you not envy me?” “I do not at all envy you, Gertrude,” said Alice ; “and as for the kiss, [think you will be far more apt to receive some punishment for disobedience. But come, we shall soon see who is the happiest girl; though to tell you the. truth, I shall not be very happy to see my sister in dis- grace or pain, for she is in danger of both.” “ Nonsense, I have no fear of either,” said Gertrude. Charles and Helen walked on quietly, not feeling them- selves well enough acquainted with their little cousins to speak their minds fully. As soon as they all reached home, Gertrude flew up to her mother with Joy dancing in her bright eyes, and exultingly cried— “Oh, mamma! see what a beautiful flower I have brought you. Are you not glad 2?” When her mother first beheld the flower, her coun- GERTRUDE AND ALICE. 61 tenance brightened with delight, but the very next mo- ment it grew sad, as the reflection of her little daughter’s disobedience, and consequent danger, came to her mind. “Tam sorry my little daughter so soon forgot to obey her mother,” she said; and the pleasure she might have felt on seeing this splendid blossom was entirely destroyed. “I should feel it my duty to punish you, Gertrude, were it not that I know your fault will punish itself. Already I see signs of your self-inflicted chastisement—your face and hands are covered with spots.” “Oh, mamma, I do not mind the spots, so you are pleased with your flower—it is so beautiful! Only for- give me, dear mamma, for forgetting your command, and I shall not care how sore my hands are—forgive me and kiss me—I plucked it for you—for I love you so dearly, mamma.” Mrs. Livingston, though deeply touched by her little daughter’s affectionate ardor, was nevertheless too much displeased with her to give her either a kiss or a smile, but taking her by the hand she led her to her chamber, where she bathed her face and hands with pure water, in the hope of removing the poison; but it was too late. Gertrude’s face began to swell, and her beautiful large eyes were in a short time almost closed, and, at last, her 62 THE TRUMPET-FLOWER; OR, lovely features were hideous to behold. Her fingers be- came double their natural size, and the pain was intoler- able. Poor girl, how bitterly did she repent of her rash- ness and disobedience when it was too late! This was her punishment. Mis. Livingston did not aggravate her sufferings by re- proaches while she remained ill, but as soon as she r ered she said to her— e€COvV- “ Now, my dear little daughter, since you have experi- enced such painful effects from your waywardness and dis- obedience, I trust you will always remember that nothing can give your mother pleasure which is obtained through your wrong-doing. The implicit and sweet obedience of your sister Alice was far more acceptable to me than that splendid flower, which was obtained at such a fearful sacrifice to yourself. ‘ Obedience is better than sacrifice ;’ and more acceptable to your heavenly Father, as I assure you it is to me, whom God has placed over you, for the purpose of having His divine precepts inculeated upon your tender mind.” This was a severe lesson for poor Gertrude, but it was one she never forgot, and from that time the ardor of her disposition was directed to a better and a happier, a more GERTRUDE AND ALICE. 63 obedience, sweet obligingness, and diligence; for Ger- trude was in truth a noble-hearted little girl, erring only from thoughtlessness, and a want of control over her will. The Trumpet-Flower became to her like a talisman; the thought of it never failed to check any rising impulse to rashness or disobedience. Whenever she saw it, almost it seemed to sound into her ear, “ Obedience is better than sacrifice.” 2S RE A AR EIN NRE RNAI J AN SR mA nA NC RAN ci eat ENR — delight.— Proverbs xii, 22. Hven Grenvitie was a boy worthy to be imitated by 1 my young readers. From his infancy he was remarkable for truth and obedience to his parents—two most estima- ble traits, the very best foundation for “that noblest work of God, an honest man.” Hugh was about ten years old, when, on a calm sum- mer evening, his father took him, and his almost baby- brother, to walk on the borders of a creek that ran through a beautiful wood, near his dwelling. There was a lovely green meadow near the creek, too, bespangled with delicate White Lilies, and many other flowers, which attracted a multitude of butterflies, whose aerial motions gave life and cheerfulness to the scene. PASSION FLOWER & MEADOW LILY . la day Ps BO A i MO aR AT ma: At se Sart ag MA een ee si _ wi THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. 65 seldom suffered an occasion to pass unimproved, for the benefit of his children’s minds and hearts. After leading , | them along the creek, to admire its sparkling waters, as they rippled among the tufts of grass and over the pro- jecting roots of the overhanging trees; to watch the little silver perch as they timidly stole along, in the shallow water, to catch the tiny minnows that sported there in multitudes; or listened to the tapping of the erizgson- it tat ca mca: —— te ne imonitor yrs ee ie Li. Sa 139 iz iia ae i ; . 7 hunter perch, that had just devoured a hapless minnow ; 4 he at lengt: 7 seated | it self upon a mossy bank, beneath 5 the trees, while his ittle boys amused themselves | : butterflies. and gathering flowers. | Little Eddie came bounding up to his father, almost € out of breath from running, with innocent joy sparkling \@ in his bright blue eyes. “Look, papa! look here,” cried i” he, “at these beautiful flowers ! will nop mamma love to ia see them in her pretty vases? Oh, I will take them to 4 her.” ; “Yes, my darling, take them to mamma—they are beau- i" tifal indeed; but first let me look at them for awhile,” i said his father. “Hugh, come here, Hugh; you are old i ‘ enough to learn a lesson from these lovely Lilies. See {| Ss 9 oe * — be ae ee — Rp er per Renae reign — ry Deck Me RLES or! x Be > id PO ak Og ane: aah Aa g oe ae Pa et A 4 +5: 9 ee mere ar ‘ eh a eS a ae % ae. “ ‘ 3 at zh ie ee woe bea Pac OR 8g es ee ee ag ie Pee oR ee a 5 nd FEC, i ah ee oo ae ye ee ee é r = ins <5 ET DO a) OAR IED! ARS: “aed iGO ae a eit ip... a 2 . - a — a poe a FF PRAT ae AERA ER nO ORE ee Seen ER ET Ee 66 THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. how pure, how delicate their texture! how wonderfully beautiful! See, too, the bright golden stamens, in the midst of these petals of exquisite purity !” ‘And ‘now tell me, papa,” said Hugh, “ what lesson you can draw from these pretty White Lilies? Iam sure I have not sufficient wisdom to perceive in them anything but beauty and sweetness.” “Think again, my son,” said Mr. Grenville; “ you say you can perceive beauty and sweetness; and do not these delightful qualities suggest to you some religious thought 2?” “Oh, yes! papa,” said Hugh; “I now remember you have often told me that every good and perfect gift was from God; and that these pretty flowers were made to gladden the hearts of His children.” “Right, my son,” was his father’s answer; “and yet another and more special lesson may be learned from this flower—the White Meadow Lily. See these delicate petals, so easily marred by a careless or rude hand! So it is, my son, with the innocent heart of a child; a wicked companion, or an unfaithful guide, may mar and deform that innocency in which its Maker formed it; and when once that heart is contaminated by evil, only the divine grace of Christ can wash out the stain, as nothing could THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. 67 restore the perfection of the injured Lily but the hand of God.” “ And now, father,” said Hugh, “tell me what these golden stamens in the centre of the Lily teach.” “The golden stamens,” said Mr. Grenville, “convey to the thoughtful mind a lesson of wisdom also, See how these pure and delicate petals surround, and are exalted above the. golden stamens! So are purity of heart, in- nocency of life, and holy truth exalted above the treas- ures of this world.” At this moment little Eddie came flying up to his fath- er, and with childish haste thrust into his hand a purple flower, known as the emblem of the Crucifixion. “ Ah, my children,” said Mr. Grenville, with emotion, “here is the grandest, the most awful lesson, of all that is taught by the flowers of the field! This is the Passion- Flower. See here these pale green leaves, that form the outer circle around the flower—these we will suppose the timid disciples of our Lord! Then here are the three cruel nails which pierced His blessed hands and feet, and in their centre is the ponderous hammer which dealt the agonizing blows—and underneath these are the five mor- tal wounds endured by the great Redeemer! See the glory surrounding the whole, and the crown of thorns! 68 THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. See the crimson spots sprinkled on the leaves, memorials of His blood-shedding ! And here, at the base of the stem, is attached a tendril, representing the cruel cord with solemnity of his father’s countenance, paused at his knee, and listened with awe-struck expression to the mournful lesson of the Passion-Flower. Tears glistened in his beautiful eyes for awhile, and then he darted off again, in chase of the but- But Hugh, the contemplative Hugh, still looked intently at the Passion- significance, Flower, as if deeply weighing its mournful “T hope I shall never forget what you and these beau- tiful flowers have taught me this day, dear father,” at length he said, “J hope the White Lily will always re- mind me of the holy beauty of purity, innocence, and truth; and I shall always look on the Passion-Flower with reverence, as nature’s memorial of the Redeemer’s sufferings and death.” By this time Eddie had filled his apron with flowers THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. 69 for his dear mamma, and Mr. Grenville, still conversing or with Hugh, led the children home. On the following morning Hugh was at sce ge ally, and there gained the apptobehhs of aus — ° correct deportment and industry. ‘This excited the at ousy of his classmates, | am sorry to say ane they de- termined by some means or other to bring disgrace upon ee school was over, these wicked boys proposed * Hugh to take a walk with them, before gomg home. = he was permitted to do by his kind parents, mnees ” i dence in him was unbounded. So Hugh accompanied his classmates on their walk, and they soon arrived at the little stream in which the boys were accustomed to bathe, and sometimes angle for silver perch. “Look here, boys!” shouted Harry Reckless, “look here! a boat! a boat! Let us take it, wise go over the creek and get plums and berries; and besides, there are birds’ nests in abundance in yonder wood. Let us go, boys.” . a ” suggested Hugh Grenville, “ the boat is locked ? ro) ra 14)? fast to this post, and we cannot take It. “Oh. we will soon manage that matter,” said Harry ; Oi Rel Bh a a a ROCCE 8 bata 1 ote " ies ss A ER as A EO SA a A NNN ata tek! A I hl Cl a oe AA mt aoe atinnasinanenat nad cinco ete endeetse tsi oardmanaainatie © isin oer sera a ct ant " ia re a di te ee ee ee iE | 7 7 | MH) i i ' ia 7 H ' } We. i; ‘7 | ; AE it . | et? ii ii ne ; : ila. i ag ial 4 i ; et i : ? ii i? ie ee i PE ih “ q ‘ a : - if HAE , HEY ia ; na pil He ‘ ‘q ii TS it | 1 ng ; 3 a) vig ; : Ph | i ig : i \d is ae | . . las | | | | i i 70 THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. and with this he picked up a great stone and advanced towards the boat. “Hold!” said Hugh, “you are going to break old Joe’s lock, and «you know, boys, he is a poor man, and a new lock will cost him a day’s fishing; and besides, it is wrong to take his boat without leave.” “Who cares for leave?” shouted Harry—and “Who cares for leave?” responded all the boys save Hugh. And so, with a few strokes of the great stone the lock gave way, and the boat was free. All the boys were soon in the boat except Hugh, who stood hesitating on the bank, “Come along, Hugh!” shouted the boys. “Don’t stand there, grieving over old Joe’s lock; you did not break it, and we can bear the blame; so come along.” T4 9 Yes, come along!” shouted Harry Reckless, “or we shall call you coward; or perhaps you are mean enough to tell upon us.” “Yes!” shouted another, “he means to be a téll-tale. Well, go along, tell-tale, we will have our fun, blame or no blame, tell-tale or no tell-tale,” But the brave and honest Hugh scarcely heard their taunts, so earnestly was he arguing with himself on the propriety or impropriety of accompanying the boys. At THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. 71 last he concluded to go, with the hope that he might in- duce them to purchase a new lock for the poor old fisher- man, and take his boat back safely to its mooring, instead of letting it drift away and be lost to its owner. Hugh stepped into the boat, and then, amid shouts of triumph and merry peals of laughter, the party were soon in the woods on the opposite shore, enjoying a pleasant ramble in the refreshing shade, amid the perfume of innu- merable flowers, and the melody of birds. During the ramble, Hugh several times surprised the boys holding a consultation, which on his appearance ceased, and myste- rious glances passed among them. Still the innocent boy suspected no evil to himself, but continued to converse with frankness and good-humor. On their return, just as they approached the landing, the conspiring boys began shaking and rocking the boat from side to side, till at last it was upset, and all were thrown into the water. After they had scrambled out, Harry Reckless exclaimed, “It was you, Hugh, that upset the boat, while we were off our guard. Now you will get a good whipping, and that is a consolation.” “T? said Hugh, with astonishment; “why, Harry, I did not move of myself while I was in the boat. Are you not ashamed 2” ; : ; 7 He j it iia! Hy Hy ii J ; ‘ i Tt oh ig! al nal veh isi il } H vital ' WHET WET tail ian pie EE ‘ Fiig TE THE 4 Hi Hi rE | We Pig i hi hie Wh 3 ie fil 7 qi i iis 4 ie | - ; a im) ia if a ‘a iq a ai | 4 aii - | : "9 THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. “That makes no difference, Mr. Demure; we all intend to say you did it, on purpose to make us sick. We are too many for you this time. We shall be believed, and you will have-the rod upon your fool’s back. Ha! ha! ha!” “So be it, boys,” said Hugh, “yet I shall tell the truth.” “That will do you no good, as we are five against one. We shall be believed. Harry. r . There is no fear, boys,” said “ But what you say will be a falsehood,” returned Hugh. “Who cares for that?” shouted this wicked boy ; and “Who cares for that?” echoed all the rest, “so the whipping, and we escape it.” a lie I hope never to tell while I live. And how about the broken lock ?” asked Hugh, addressing Harry. “Of course you broke it,” said the false and daring boy. Still calmly Hugh looked this bad boy in the face, and said, “ Harry, if I were you, I should fear the thunders of heaven would strike me dead! And as to the punishment you threaten me for your offences, I would much rather you get THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. 73 bear it for truth than for falsehood. I shall tell the truth, and be far happier with my whipping, than you will be with your guilt—though the whipping I shall never feel, if my father is to give it to me. He is too just, and knows me too well.” “Then we will whip you ourselves,” said Harry Reck- less, “‘ will we not, boys ?” “Yes! yes!” shouted all, save one. This was Willie Kindheart, who, though accidentally thrown among bad companions, was really better disposed than they. “T should be sorry, boys,” said Willie, “to see Hugh beaten for nothing. I cannot join you any longer. I am ashamed of what I have done.” On the following morning Mr. Grenville was waited on by the fathers of these wicked boys, with a demand that Hugh should be punished for upsetting his playmates in the creek, and endangering their lives. “My dear sirs,” answered Mr. Grenville, “immediately on Hugh’s return home, yesterday evening, he came and told me the whole affair; and I know his account is true, for this one reason—he has never told me an untruth in his life; and if you can all declare the same of your boys, then I will take the pains to inquire into the guilt or inno- cence of my son. If you cannot conscientiously place them 10 quiry into the matter.” The fathers of the dishonest boys, one after another, were compelled to own that their sons had not always adhered to strict truth, and after hearing Mr. Grenville’s testimony to his son’s undeviating truth, unanimously agreed that such a boy ought not to be condemned for the first alleged offence without more certain evidence than now existed against him. At Mr. Grenville’s suggestion, these gentlemen joined with him in purchasing a new lock for the poor fisherman, and rewarding him for the use of | his boat, to the great delight of Hugh, and the confusion of his enemies, After this ; but one evening, as he was passing by a neighboring orchard, not dreaming of evil, suddenly his wicked classmates came bounding over the fence with their hats full of apples and. peaches ; then hastily throwing a quantity of them at Hugh’s feet, and at the same time shouting “thief!” as loud as they could, they made off with speed behind a high fence, The farmer came out with his great bull-dog, and seeing Hugh in the midst of piles of peaches and apples, called ~ THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. 65; to him, and pointing to the great dog forbade him to move 7 at his peril. So Hugh waited till the farmer and his dog came up. ae farmer, “is this “Dear, dear me!” said the dismayed you, Hugh Grenville—the son of a good and honorable . deal of trouble is in store for him! Come, pick up your apples and peaches and follow me. I must undeceive your father, before it is too late to reform so wicked a 9 boy. oe ates saw the full difficulty of his situation, and burst into tears. | 7 : “ Ah, well you may weep, child,” said the farmer, “to ? grieve so good a father. Pity you cannot grieve for your ” deceitful heart. But come along, come along. : ? . Stop one moment, sir,” cried Hugh, “and hear me. ‘—these “No, no, not a moment; not a word will I heat inti it on the ground. are my witnesses,” pointing to the fruit o g “Come, fill your hat, and follow me.” “That I cannot do, sir,” said Hugh, “as I have never touched this fruit in my life, and if I were to do so om, it would seem indeed as if I had been the thief, when, in ij | ij : = ‘ : ; | “ But you see,” ret » returned the farmer, “I have no proof of this, and therefore shall consider you the thief, as I have ) of the farmer, and said, “ But, sir, you must. admit heard the ery of ‘thief? ” “ 66 ” 1 Yes,” said the farmer, “I do.” c¢ ~ Then, sir, how can you believe it, Since you do not see the person who cried thief?—he is not here.” ti r Py) ue, boy,” said the farmer, “and you are a shrewd fellow, wi , with an honest face, or you are a great deceiver But come alon 7 g, at any rate, we will fathom: shi cae” ; hear what your Hugh remained perfectly silent, while the farmer cused him to his father of theft. But his face had a same calm, honest expression as when he left his home i noon. Mr. Grenville’s. confidence was still unshaken in Hugh, and he concluded that the same wicked boys. had laid another plot to destroy his good name. “Well, sir,” said Mr. Grenville, “I have heard al] you have to allege against my son, and my answer is, that ? ee “a | : i THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. q7 nothing can shake my confidence in a child that was never known to depart from the truth, or otherwise to deceive his father, or any one else in his family. You must con- vince me that he was over your fence, or that he was seen to receive the fruit voluntarily from some one coming from over the fence, before I can consent to punish him. With his religious training, and his correct, conscientious habits, sir, the thing is ¢mpossible /” The farmer departed, determining to seek further into the matter, and Hugh gave his father a faithful account of the plot against his character. That very night, after playing this heartless trick upon Hugh Grenville, Harry Reckless was taken extremely ill, from the quantity of unripe fruit he had eaten. His life was almost despaired of. On the following morning, while he continued in great danger, Willie Kindheart came and begged to see him. Willie had attended a Sunday School, and had learned somewhat. of the graces and virtues of our holy religion, though these salutary lessons had not. been confirmed or enforced at home; still, the good seed had taken sufficient root to make him repent having joined a plot to injure the innocent, as well as to desire the salvation of his wick- 78 THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. ed companion Harry. This little boy appronclet the bed of his classmate with tears in his eyes. “Oh, Harry !” said he, “I am so sorry for you. What has made ‘you so ill 2” “Oh, Willie,” he replied, “I ate too many apples and peaches yesterday afternoon. I wish I had not- eaten them. Oh, I shall die, and, Willie, I am so much afraid to die !” Just at this moment the boys were left alone, and Willie said to Harry, “And now you are sorry for what you have done to Hugh Grenville, are you not, Harry? Iam surelam. And if you are afraid to die, you will be much less afraid if you own your faults and do justice to Hugh, who is a good boy, and never did us harm.” Poor Harry was extremely ill and in terror at the near view of death in his wickedness, yet his pride and obsti- nacy were sadly in his way. “Oh, I cannot, Willie!” he _ cried, “it will so distress my father and mother to know of my guilt. Will I be lost, Willie, when I am sorry for injuring Hugh? will not that be enough, without con- fessing ?” “No, Harry,” said Willie, “not if the Bible is true; for it teaches that you must own your faults to your re THE TRIUMPH OF TRUTH. iv brother, as well as to God. Own them, Harry; be just to Hugh, and then you may hope that the good Saviour will pardon your sins, and take you into Heaven if you die.” Willie had time to say no more, as Harry’s attendants returned to the sick room, and so, shaking hands with his unhappy companion, little Willie Kindheart bade him good-bye. Harry became very silent after this, though he was ex- tremely restless, and it was very evident that his mind was severely exercised—most especially to the watchful and anxious eye of his mother, who earnestly besought him to tell her what it was that distressed him. Harry burst into tears, and, burying his face in his mother’s bosom, told her all. His mother was pained exceedingly, and shed a flood of tears over the depravity of her child, though, to tell the truth, she had herself to blame, for neglecting his moral and religious training. Soon after this, Harry’s father came in, and shared the grief of his wife and child, bitterly lamenting their neglect of their own and their children’s highest interest. At Harry’s request, Mr. Grenville and Hugh were sent for, and ample justice done to the innocent victim of false- hood and wrong. Harry Reckless was spared to prove : bial Hy ia Hilt TE ia} Hid ye ‘i Bh Hy Wy 1 sen scab thc Senn te NN i ln ll te ee ee eee ee er ey er naan mel elt em iene eae toot the pious efforts of Willie Kindheart. See what children can do for the Triumph of Truth! Bet Fh Nance dit ren SR —— aa 2 oe . ae ili in mt th Raa met I write unto you, little children, because your sins are forgiven you, for His name’s sake.—First Hpistle of St. John, ii. 12. Tur beautiful village of Aye is surro phitheatre of hills, from whose green slopes descen m, murmuring its music unded by an am- d the crystal waters of a gentle strea of praise in unison with the grateful voices that daily ascend from this peaceful valley. Within these circling hills the scene is evening by bleating flocks, and bells, “ the plough-boy’s > The inhabitants, too, are and pursuits. Removed ‘| and strife of the busy pastoral and serene; enlivened at lowing herds, and tinkling whistle and the echoing horn.’ The mini IS $] Inister at this simple altar is one of the excellent e " . iJ — earth; and his wife was indeed “a help meet fr e Lord.” iS pi Be r This pious couple were blessed with two sweet chil dren, Lily and Rose; the former seven. the ) latter fi ve years old, when my story commences Lil i _ se a fair, beautiful, yet delicate child: her s “Lily of the Valley,” as he called her: Resi a blooming ¢ § contrast to her fragile sister, a dear, affectionate litt Sein agp that sister for support and guid- HAGA their sports and rambles, as in their ee nen for Lily was a child of uncom- wid is i Lg pevend her years; though, alas! Lage e es 0 will appear in this narrative. rst-born children of promise, the education of Lily was commenced at an ear] y age; so earl three years she could read very well = ellie As T; 2 wep d pin little sister about the garden, she used beesomenitas ne pretty stories she had read and heard; tte - ey went hand in hand along among the wers, beneath the shady trees, and by the murmuring waters of the rivulet, this littl THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. a heart of pure and earnest devotion, would speak of all these pleasant things as bountiful gifts from “ Our Father in Heaven.” “See! darling sister,” she would say, “see what beauti- ful flowers, blue, and white, and pink, and yellow, and purple! How sweet they are, too! God made them all for our good papa and mamma, as well as for all good children that love and obey Him. Must He not be good and kind? Listen to those sweet birds! Look at that bright sky, and see how gayly this pretty water flows bles and the grass, and then dances away to make som our Father in Heaven good, say, darling ¢ “Oh, so very good !” the little listener would respond. “ And we ought to love Him, and say our prayers, and mind our papa and mamma like good children, so that He will love us.” “Oh, yes, yes! and we will be little Rose would say. | Now at the foot of the big rock was @ spring of clear, delicious water, overshaded by noble elms, beeches, and chestnuts, which almost entirely excluded the rays of the sun, rendering this spot a delightful retreat when the 84 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. — of the day were over; and here it was that the minister and his wife led their little children, as the most favorable spot to converse with them on the goodness and mercy of their Maker and Redeemer. Yet do not sup- pose, my little friends, that these parents were grave or gloomy because religion was their theme. These faithful ee were ever mingled with pleasant sports and pas- times, A favorite dog, called Beauty, was always of this family party. Mamma joined the children in wreathing his neck with flowers, and papa threw sticks far upon the water, so ? that Beauty was obliged to swim beyond his depth to get them, with only his nose out of the stream—and then — he came triumphantly up the bank, almost laughin : with his knowing eyes, shaking the water out of his sha ; hair, rolling over the grass, and barking with retin eS the merry children—then they cheered and clapped their hands, dancing around their saucy favorite. Pretty flowers grew around the little rivulet, among which were numbers of Blue Iris and Lilies of the Valley the latter being the good minister’s peculiar favorite. To please his dear little girls, he had formed a pool, from the waters of the spring, and transplanted around it his favor- ite flowers, besides filling it with gold and silver fishes tomed meals. for these good children preferred seel ‘anches, and hopping about the cages, ng them flit- grass, them by their little benefactresses. Lily knew every word of her At the age of seven years, e lessons, which catechism, and many hymns and Seriptur were recited in Sunday School. Lily had a great fond- ness for poetry, and consequently took peculiar pleasure in learning hymns. “ Softly now the light of day,” was her favorite, and often at the close of day, when this happy family were about to leave their pleasant seat be- neath the shadow of the great rock, Lily would say— “Oh, please, papa, let us first sing— ‘Softly now the light of day,’ before we leave the garden.” And so the hymn was sung by all, not excepting little Rose, who strove and loved to do all that her sister did. 86 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 87 take up her books, the maid came into her little chamber with her new bonnet, which she had not yet seen. This new temptation sealed the fate of the lessons, and Lily’s mind was for once effectually drawn off from her duty. Now, the prayer-bell rang, and then, after prayers, she was obliged to read her accustomed chapter to her father, before breakfast. Immediately after breakfast she was compelled to prepare for Sunday school and church, so I have just told you, my dear friends, that Lily always knew her lessons. It was a very common thing for her teacher to say to other scholars, “Why do you not get your lessons like Lily Dale 2” One Saturday, two circumstances transpired most un- fortunate for Lily. Her new bonnet came home from the milliner’s, and a little friend came to spend the day with her. Now you will doubtless ask how these two circumstances could be unfortunate for our little friend. 2 | there was an end of her study. Such a thing as Lily’s not knowing her lesson was never thought of by either father or mother, and so no questions were asked her, and Lily set out for church, leading her little sister as usual by the hand. After walking some time in silence, Rose said to Lily, “ Why don’t you talk, sister? you never walk with me without talking ;” and, looking up into her sister’s face, the child perceived that I will tell you how. Lily had not yet learned her Sun- day lessons, for her visitor arrived just after breakfast. So Lily, not knowing her intention to spend the whole day, thought she would defer getting her lessons till after she had left. Lily took her out into the garden, and showed her the flowers, and the gold and silver fishes, and from one thing to another, the children continued to amuse themselves till the close of the day. The little aa | her eyes were full of tears. oe ? r ” gaj mforter. visitor was so well entertained she remained till bed-time, “ Oh, don’t cry, dear sister, said the little co “ What is the matter with you ?” “I have been a naughty girl, dear Rosie,” Lily replied, “and have let a love of play and a new bonnet prevent me from getting my Sunday School lessons. My teacher will be displeased with me, and, more than all, my Saviour will not love me, and that is what makes me cry.” and then Lily had to say her prayers and go to bed, according to her mother’s established rule. Lily was very much troubled, though she resolved to rise earlier in the morning, and commit her lessons, Alas! her unusual exercise the day before, caused her to sleep beyond her time, and then, just as she was about to 88 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. “Oh, don’t cry, sister,” answered little Rose; “our Saviour is so good, He will forgive you this time; you know it is the first. So don’t cry any more, sister,” and little Rose threw her arms around the weeping Lily, and strove to kiss away her sorrow. As Lily feared, her teacher was very much troubled when, in the simplicity and ingenuousness of her heart, the dear little child told her sorrowful story. She thought it necessary to speak gravely on the occasion of this first omission of duty, though in her heart she sorrowed with the repentant Lily far more than she blamed her. “ And now, my dear little girl,” said the kind teacher, “when you retire to-night, do not forget to add to your usual prayer a petition for pardon, and grace to enable you to resist the like temptations.” But Lily’s own heart did not so easily excuse her; no penitent of maturer years could have been more sincerely or more deeply grieved for a deliberate sin, than was this little child for her first fault. She determined not only to pray earnestly for forgiveness, but to perform some act of self-denial or penitence in proof of her contrition. After spending many sleepless hours in determining what punishment to inflict upon herself, she finally fixed upon a resolution to go out in the rain, kneel down, and THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. ‘89 pray for forgiveness. This she accordingly did, and in she took a severe cold. In the middle of the night Lily’s mother was awakened by hearing her breathe in a most alarming way, and immediately rising, she applied every remedy within her knowledge, but without avail. The physician was then called, without a minute’s delay. A violent attack of croup had seized the child. As soon as her father had gone for the physician, Lily said to her mother, “ Mother, do you think I shall die ?” “JT trust not, my darling,” her mother replied; “ God ‘5 so merciful and kind to us, I trust He will spare our dear daughter.” “ But, mother,” whispered the poor child, “‘ God is angry with me now. I have sinned against Him.” “Oh, my daughter! you do not say so? pray, tell me what you have done,” her mother answered, weeping, while she beheld the streaming eyes of her darling. So Lily, as well as she could, with her choking voice, poured her penitent soul into her mother’s ears. “Tf you had only come at once to your mother, dear child, or to your father, we could have shown you a more effectual way of regaining your Maker’s favor than the echosen. Your good and gracious dangerous one you hav 12 slain isiaieieenianne diamante eraies cei te ee ee ee pi 9() THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. Saviour does not require of His servants a sacrifice of their lives. It does not please Him. He is so kind as only to require sincere sorrow and amendment. You should have come at once to your parents; they are given you by your heavenly Father as guides and guardians for your tender, inexperienced years. Why did you not come at once 2” , “ Because, mother,” Lily answered, “I did not like to make you ashamed of me, and I hoped not to do wrong any more, for I thought I should have the help of the Lord, if I prayed for it.” Lily continued very ill throughout the night; the good physician did not leave her side till morning, when the child’s breathing became better. Lily was very patient in her sufferings, never murmuring or complaining, though many tears flowed from her bright blue eyes. At aconvenient time, Mrs. Dale took her husband out of the room and acquainted him with the cause of the child’s weeping and illness. She entreated him to endeavor to soothe her wounded little spirit, as only he could do, for it was agony to behold her thus. “ Alas, my love,” said the good pastor, “our physician tells me there is little hope for our darling. ‘The disease had taken fast hold on her before the remedies were ap- plied. Our Father is wiser than we, and knoweth what is best for us; our child is of a mind sufficiently mature solemn change.” “Thy will be done,” was the mother’s only reply, as she devoutly raised her eyes to Heaven. When Mr. Dale re-entered the chamber of little Lily, she raised her hand and beckoned to him, for she could “ My precious lamb,” he said, “do not be alarmed, your mother has told me all. Your sincere sorrow for your fault, together with your unshaken faith in your Re- deemer, convinces your father that you are truly a child of God, and an heir of His blessed kingdom in Heaven. Rest assured your sins, whatever they are, are forgiven. No punishment you could inflict on yourself could atone for sin, but Christ, the Lord, has redeemed you. Trust only in Him—I know you love Him and wish to serve Him. And now join with your father and mother in prayer to that gentle Saviour who calls little children to His breast—” a thet eh Na i OR NO FE i BAN NE OE MN te 92 THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. ‘He folds them in His gracious arms, Himself declares them blest ;” responded the little Christian child, in a low, whispering voice, when a sweet smile of ineffable joy illumined her lovely countenance; after which she joined in the offered prayer with fervor and evident delight, though no sound issued from her voiceless lips. And when the prayer was ended, a song of praise arose on the astonished ears of all from those hitherto silent lips—sweet and low, like music of softest zephyrs. It was the hymn which she had last learned in the Sunday School. ‘Glory to the Father give, God, in whom we move and live, Children’s prayers He deigns to hear, Children’s songs delight His ear.” After this, Lily turned her eyes upon her little weeping sister, her darling companion, her baby-charge. “ Come here, sweet sister,” said she; and then throwing her arms around Rose, for the last time, and kissing her fondly, she said, “ Darling sister, your Lily is going to live with the Lord Jesus and the lovely angels; so you com- fort papa and mamma, and take care of Beauty, and the birds, and the fishes, and the flowers. All this I know you will do, dear Rose, for you are so kind, and tell all our little playmates in the happy valley ‘farewell, till we THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 93 meet in the Saviour’s home. You will do all this for pour Lily, precious sister, and when Lily is with her Saviour and the angels, she will still remember and love her sweet little Rose.” Lily bore all her illness with the sweetest patience, en- deavoring to conceal her sufferings as much as possible from her afflicted parents. Lily’s chamber window looked out on the setting sun, and when his last bright beams vanished, and the rosy twilight veiled his brightness and spread its softened radiance over the happy valley, little Lily said to her father, “ Dearest father, it is time to sing ‘Softly now the light of day.’” So her father, mother, nurse, and little Rose joined with Lily, for the last time on earth, in singing her Redeemer’s praise. “Softly now the light of day Fades upon my sight away ; Free from care, from labor free, Lord, I would commune with thee. “Thou, whose all-pervading eye Naught escapes without, within, Pardon each infirmity, Open fault and secret sin. a ee THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. ‘Soon for me the light of day Shall forever fade away, Then from sin and sorrow free, Take me, Lord, to dwell with thee!” And just as the last word died on the lips of dear little Lily, her spirit was borne away to rest, we trust, in Paradise. On the following morning all the little children, in the now sorrowing valley, came clad in white to pay their tribute of love to their lost playmate, with streaming eyes and hearts bursting with their first grief. They approach- ed the bier of their little friend, who, with an expression — of almost angel beauty, seemed to smile upon them as they laid upon her snowy couch their offerings of flowers— roses, and jessamines, and valley-lilies. Some were placed on her-tranquil breast, some around her curling hair, and others in her cold, white little hand; the rest lay in beau- tiful profusion around her silent form. As the procession of- villagers passed through the grove of elms and willows, around the church, to the open grave of the little believer, a sweet chorus of birds broke the solemn stillness of the air, as if chanting the requiem of their lost benefactress, while ever and anon the solemn service arose from the voice of the man of God, as he slowly approached her last earthly resting-place; and THE LILY OF THE VALLEY. 95 many were the tears that fell that morning on the grave of sweet little Lily Dale, her father’s Lily of the Valley. ‘Neath the mold of the valley she sleeps, In her loveliness waits for the morn, An angel the precious one keeps, Till the day of redemption shall dawn. There roses and lilies, sweet flowers, With the evening dew seem to weep, As they blossom and wave ’mid the bowers That shade our darling one’s sleep— Seem to weep for the light of that eye, Ever beaming with innocent glee, When their petals first oped to the sky, And she smiled on them joyously. But now, their fair Lily is gone To bloom in the bowers above, And their perfume to Heaven is born, Fond breathing of sorrow and love. rt a la NOE ee el RO at. THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE . MARY MORRIS, ETC. 97 barely eleven years old, and quite small for that age, ap- parently very delicate, yet possessing a degree of nerve and energy astonishing for so fragile a form. This child had racked her brain for many sleepless nights and anxious days to discover some mode of giving relief to her mother, her little sisters and brothers. At last, one night, she sprang up from her pallet upon the floor, exclaiming, “Oh, mother! I have it! I have it, at last.” “Why! what is the matter with you, Mary?” cried out her mother, “are you crazy ?” “Yes, mother,” the child replied, “almost with joy. I now know how I can help you.” “ You, Mary ?” exclaimed her mother; “how can a child like you help me?” “Oh, you must not ask me, RS I cannot tell you my plan till I have tried it. But I am sure I shall succeed.” “You are dreaming, poor child!” insisted her mother ; “so go to sleep. What can a child of eleven years. do to support a family of the like number ?” “Oh, I know I can do it,” persisted Mary, “I feel it here!” and, striking her child’s breast with the energy ot a determined mind, she cried, “ only let me alone, mother, and all will be well.” But Mary’s mother still insisted 13 98 MARY MORRIS; OR, she was dreaming, and bade her go to sleep again, and not wake the children, who would straightway cry for bread. Such was the miserable state of this family when it pleased Providence to rescue them by the hand of a little child. Little Mary’s mother was a Christian woman, and amid all on sore trials was patient, eomasbiaitids and ever praying for help from on high. Her trust was yet un- shaken in her Maker and Redeemer. In the morning Mary was up at the peep of day, and after assisting her mother in dressing the younger chil- dren, in gathering chips, and preparing their scanty break- fast, she put on her bonnet, and taking a little basket on her arm—by permission of her mother—she set out on her secret expedition. geek was the established character of this little girl, her mother was not afraid to confide in her correctness. There was a large hotel very near, from the kitchen of which the family had sometimes obtained such morsels of meat and bread as the charitable cook felt disposed to bestow. hither Mary repaired, and presenting herself before the bustling cook, as she fretted over her unruly fire, she proposed to fetch baskets of chips for her from a neighboring lumber-yard. aes a RS ioe e ig oe : ae # Pa + . % at a a “Es 2 ie ‘ 99 THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE. “ Only say yes, cook,” entreated Mary, “and I will an- swer for it, you have no more trouble in getting your breakfast ready in good time.” “Very well, child,” the cook replied ; gladly employ you, if you can promise me this. do you expect in return ?” “Do you think a cent a basket too much ” “T am sure I will But what asked the modest little girl. “No, indeed; on the contrary it is very moderate,” said the cook; “so now make haste, and get your basket of chips as soon as possible, for my fire is very obstinate this morning.” So, off set Many, and soon returned with her basket full which were very soon blazing and of nice pine chips, and pans of the delighted crackling under the pots cook. In this way little Mary not only secured five cents a day, but a full basket of provisions every evening for her famishing little brothers and sisters. On Saturday even- ing (for Mary had commenced her labors on Monday she found herself the mistress of thirty-five cents, for she had made great exertions on Friday and Saturday to gather the five baskets for Sunday. This good Christian child could not on any account be induced morning) Ra ta a nk a tara c a ee 100 MARY MORRIS; OR, to break the sacredness of the Lord’s day by gathering chips. The next week Mary took her two little brothers with her, introduced them to the kind cook, and induced her to accept their services, as she had found a more speedy way of assisting her mother. And we find our little hero- ine very busily engaged in the little yard round her mother’s cottage. Her own little hand, some two or three years before, had planted the Clematis and Woodbine by the side of the door. They had grown luxuriantly, and now completely embowered the little space between the house door and the fence, which was about as wide as a porch would have been. Underneathy this shade she nailed against the fence a bit of board, which she called a shelf, and on it she placed a clean sheet of white paper, and then covered it with sticks of nice white candy, which she had learned to make at a kind neighbor’s. Little Mary now seated herself patiently under her little shelf at her knitting, with one eye on her work and the other on a little opening in the fence—from which she could see the passers-by. Presently her sweet, modest voice was heard offering her candy for sale. You may suppose, my dear young readers, it was not long before the gentle voice of little Mary, from her novel candy-shop, “4 ze A BS eae Bs oa ; Ms s ca as : a 2 3 THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE. 101 attracted the passers-by, and that before the day was over her candy had disappeared from her little shelf, while : seventy-five cents jingled in her pocket. It needs not to tell how proudly the little shop-keeper displayed the rewards of her industry to the admiring eyes of the little group within doors. You will not be surprised, my dear friends, to learn that no great length of time elapsed before Mary was the happy possessor of a sufficient sum to furnish a real and nice little shop of candy and other confeetionery, or that so good and dutiful a child enjoyed the patronage of all the worthy people of the village in which she lived. Little Mary Morris was one of the happiest of children, because one of the best. Providence blessed her, her parents blessed her, amid the smiles of prosperity and peace. Very soon the family removed to a more comfort- able house, while want and its attendant anxieties were banished from their peaceful fireside. When Mary arrived at her sixteenth year, a severe calamity befel the family, involving the little shop-keeper in total ruin. Her father, who for several years past had apparently applied himself to business, and contributed to the general prosperity of the family, was suddenly found to have run heavily in debt at the tavern for drink, be- Lf NR LET PIGLET OT gt ae A ar a : ‘ Fr eT ae hoa MA ll AO III ES i ie li 102 MARY MORRIS; OR, sides having incurred a considerable debt at the gaming- table. The sheriff seized poor Mary’s shop and all its con- tents, and grief and disappointment in consequence well- nigh broke the buoyant spirit of this heroic little girl. But Mary was a Christian girl, and did not faint in well- doing, but at once set her ready wits to work devising another way to assist her broken-hearted mother. One morning she appeared. before her mother, with the brightness of hope and a resolute purpose beaming from her intelligent eyes. “What now, daughter?” asked hef mother, “for I see your heart is full of some noble design.” “Dear mother,” said the affectionate child, fondly kiss- ing her, “do not despair—God has again opened a way for me to help you.” “ How, my daughter ?” asked her mother. “This time, mother,” Mary replied, “I must acquaint you with my plans, to accomplish which it will be neces- sary for me to leave home—I must go to the distant city.” These plans were forthwith disclosed, and preparations made. In another week Mary Morris was on board a vessel bound for the distant city. The captain was a kind- hearted man, and gave the young girl her passage, in con- sideration of some slight services rendered on board the THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE. 108 vessel, and, in addition to this, when arrived in port, allowed her to retain her berth in the vessel during her continuance in the city, so as to avoid the expenses of a boarding-house. The vessel arrived at night, and at an early hour in the morning this enterprising, though timid and modest little girl, presented herself before one of the prominent whole- sale merchants of the city, and with an air of modest self- possession, made him the following address: “ You see before you, sir, a young girl, who is the only hope of her mother and eight needy brothers and sisters. She does not come to solicit charity, save only in credit for goods, to establish herself in the milliner’s business, so that she may seek for herself and family an honorable support. “ She has no money, and no friends to stand her security. Her only trust is in God, to incline your heart to confide in her honesty. Will you kindly lend her your aid in the way she proposes?” And now the trembling girl awaited the merchant’s reply, with a countenance glowing with anxiety and hope. The merchant was at once struck with the enthusiasm and honesty of her countenance, and without a moment’s delay replied, “ Your face, little miss, 1s sufficient secu- a ROLY i eo 3 Di th te tied 104 MARY MORRIS; OR, rity. There are my goods; make your selections to any amount you desire. Your word is sufficient guarantee.” The benign expression of this good merchant’s counte- nance, together with his kind, benevolent words, so melted the grateful heart of Mary, that she burst into tears, and was thus unable to thank her benefactor for his extraor- dinary goodness. Her selections were made, and now the joy of the delighted Mary was damped by the sudden appearance of a new difficulty—she had no money to pay for the packing and drayage of her goods to the vessel. As she was threading her way through the intricate streets and lanes to her little berth in the vessel, it sud- denly occurred to her, in the midst of her trouble, that she would ask the good captain to inquire at the post- office if there was a letter for her from home. It so hap- pened that the captain was just leaving the deck of the vessel to visit the city, and readily assented to this What was the delight of Mary, on his return, * request. sed from her beloved to receive a letter, as she suppo She immediately went to her little state-room, and, closing the door, sat down, with a beating heart, to read the letter. But what a new and extraordinary emo- tion was awakened in her young heart when she found that the letter was not from her mother, but from that THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE. 105 profligate father who had caused her recent overthrow ; and, to add to her surprise, it actually contained a ten- dollar bill. Tears again came to the relief of the full heart of this young adventurer, so signally assisted by the good provi- dence of the God in whom she trusted ; and when her tears began to subside, her spirits arose to such a height, the child actually clapped her hands and shouted for joy and gratitude. The next impulse was to throw herself on her knees and thank her heavenly Guardian, the Giver of every good and perfect gift. The letter perhaps you would like to read, my young friends, and so here it 1s. “My BELOVED CHILD: “God has seen fit, in His infinite goodness, to touch this hardened, wicked heart, by the instrumentality of the best and noblest of daughters, and to fill it with the deep- est contrition and selfabasement. As soon as I had your excellent mother your departure and nt to work at once like an honest man, and learned from purpose, I we the inclosed ten dollars, my first earnings, I dedicate with the first pure delight I have ever experienced in all my reprobate life, to the partial payment of the great debt 14 ee ee Leh TRIE OTE RE ag AER PRETO GE Ee ELEM > NRG PRE SI RL ONY “Rt BGs RTL 106 MARY MORRIS; OR, due you, both temporally and spiritually, from your most unworthy, but now repentant, father. No doubt God has heard your innocent prayers for your father. Pray for him still, beloved daughter; such prayers will surely be heard and answered, for the salvation of your unworthy, but loving father, JoHn Morris.” And now little Mary Morris returned to her beloved home with a grateful and joyous heart, to embrace her restored father, her dear mother and sisters and brothers, and to enjoy that delightful repose of mind which only a pious heart and sterling integrity can give. Mary then rented one of the best stands in the village for her purpose, and her father, who was an excellent workman, remodelled the shop, painting and papering it, and thereby rendering it neat and airy in appearance. This greatly enhanced the beauty and attractiveness of the numerous bonnets, ribbons, and flowers which the young milliner, with great taste and ingenuity, displayed to the admiration of her customers. The industry, amiability, and obligingness of the youth- ful milliner attracted the best patronage of the Village, and she was soon enabled to place the family in a moderate independence, and all her brothers and sisters at school. THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE. 107 At the expiration of six months it became necessary to pay a second visit to the distant city, and on collecting her bills, Mary very soon discovered that she would not only be enabled to pay to the kind merchant the stipu- lated instalment upon the goods she had bought, but sufficient would remain in her hands to make all necessary purchases, without again resorting to credit. ‘This was a matter of rejoicing and thankfulness in the family, partic- ularly as it was in part produced by the effectual refor- mation of its head, and his steady, persevering industry and carefulness. With a grateful, buoyant heart, and the sweetest voice imaginable, our young heroine made her second appearance before the benevolent merchant, her creditor, and thus addressed him: “You see before you, noble and generous sir, the little girl whom you have enabled to rescue a large family from penury. She has succeeded even beyond her hopes, and, with a grateful and joyful heart, appears before you a second time with the fruits of your generosity in her hands. Here is the stipulated instalment, besides sufl- cient to make my next purchases, without again resorting to credit. And may God forever reward and bless you, my noble friend, for your great kindness to me in the day of my need.” hE RE a a NAP Eman PSE deco cee Are li kine i a eae aie ibaa he ——< - yes - - - - tes ae * 1 4 ae iy ‘0 2 if rr 3 ey a i” or +i es 1 4 a So i ' ;2 i we. ‘ ‘zg a 7 3 ie ig ia % a 2 ia mo iis 4 ee : 3 i 3 ia - 3 nA” ; oe L a : TT iyi i 3 } | eg ar. 6h - eri ' a, ee + ‘ . 108 MARY MORRIS; OR, The good merchant instantly recognized the honest face of little Mary Morris, and, with a most benignant smile, and many hearty shakes of the hand, greeted and con- gratulated her like an affectionate and warm-hearted father. He then insisted on her accompanying him on a visit to his family, with whom he said he would take a pride as well as pleasure in acquainting her, In another year Mary had purchased the house in which the family resided, and furnished it in a neat and com- fortable style. The blessing of a dutiful daughter had descended upon her head, bringing peace and prosperity to all around her. After having purchased her house, and made several pretty and convenient improvements around it, Mary resolved to accomplish a long contemplated design, which was to seek a removal of her beloved Clematis and Wood- bine (under whose shade her first efforts were made) from the door of the humble cottage to that of the neat and pretty dwelling of which she was now mistress. The proprietor of the cottage made no objection, and with the assistance of her clever brother, the cherished vines were speedily transplanted, and still afford a delightful bower, under which this now happy and prosperous family assemble at evening to acknowledge the mercies and THE CLEMATIS AND WOODBINE. 109 blessings bestowed upon them, since it had first shaded their humble door. My dear readers, this is a true story—and now see what piety, duty to parents, honest industry, and perseverance may do, and if you should ever find yourselves in the cir- cumstances of little Mary Morris, go resolutely to work, trusting in your gracious Saviour, who will not fail to bless your faithful efforts, though your only shelter be a bower of Clematis and Woodbine. SE A i Nel ORME RR yl. all: il al lili ik Cs ue WA eS Hhéne; or, the Wils Crab Blossoms. A child left to himself, bringeth his mother to shame.— Proverbs xxix. 15. Wuen Khéné was an infant, she was as lovely as an angel; and every one who beheld her wondered if she was mortal. Her parents idolized her, seeming to antici- pate a glorious future for so exalted a specimen of human nature. As she grew, no expense was spared in her adorn- ment, no bounds set to her indulgence. Every wish was gratified, almost before expressed, and the child knew not the feeling of disappointment. Now, my reasonable little friends, you who have enjoyed the benefit of parental discipline and Christian care, do you not already anticipate sorrow for this spoiled child ? You, who have been taught to expect and endure disap- pointments, surely must pity poor little Rhéné, who had never, from her infancy, been accustomed to anything but flattery and boundless indulgence, till her naturally lovely LLL IONE TONER EERE PERO EE ERT AO inal 7 — ~ : ara ary oa TH I® SARONY, MAAJSOA & ANAP P.O BROADWAY. © FY. WILD CRAB BLOSSOM S RHENE, ETC. 111 disposition had become sour, and extremely irritable at the slightest delay in the gratification of her wishes. As soon as she had obtained one object of desire, she eagerly reached after another, till everything attainable became unsatisfying, and the miserable child began to ery after impossibilities. ‘The moon and the stars were objects of Pa we ee ee ee roe. f 3 Z ow Sean x i Oe ee teak 2 yctits canoe an ee eee ees | sie tad SY : pets og. aie : : wine Se : as i pietMamiae: Ris Sa) vl Wa oad a alli 3S ida cite 1 ea bat ae PR ly aa A ab craw Gy ANTS tt * ‘ TS " ‘3 ie BNE 5 aS desire to this unhappy child. If a pretty bird happened to perch near her for a mo- ment, and then fly away, Rhéné would scream and scold, till every one in the house was perfectly miserable. old, her faultless features by passion and caprice, SO once thought her an angel, now wondered if it could be the same child. All this sad change, my dear young readers, was caused by the weakness and morbid affection of Rhéné’s misjudging parents ; who were still, it is strange to say, as much infatuated as ever. At this important period of childhood, when the re- of wholesome discipline are so necessary, and the , poor little Rhéné was straints deprived of her 1 Rhéné cried passionately at first, afflicted at her loss as one might suppose, considering the but she was not so much ——— : i Hine a ——— (ie a ae ge Ow e SEA Tine ETE YT RE acral nee ROOTED RE RR ERT OT TKS , . Boi aati Se Te Perera a pa wer = ~_ r fe 43 3 : prnpsent a AS et int i a , pg a an _ 3 m . 4 oe ' rar eens as ahaa: 1 Daa li i hat i. ai A this Ate ah th Mh i LS A I ih tii ll TET «BE ie a = 9 kk ty - sas. 112 RHENE; OR, excessive affection of her mother for her, and her unceas- ing care and kindness. The fountains of love and orati- tude are choked, if not dried up, by that all-absorbing thought of se/f, which is the inevitable consequence of excessive indulgence. If another procured her the same enjoyment, without ever crossing her wishes or whims, Rhéné was as well satisfied, and soon forgot her tender parent, who had only lived for her. Rhéné’s father was overwhelmed with his loss, and the double care of his darling child, to whom he was more devotedly attached than ever, more entirely enslaved. His child, instead of becoming a blessing and comfort to him, was the torment of his life, for in a short time it became impossible to please her, and despair took pos- session of this weak man’s heart. THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 113 was now of an age that required female guidance, as well as affection, and that the beauties of her nature would fail to develope themselves without that influence which a man could neither exercise nor comprehend ; and stating that every care and attention should be bestowed on the child that her own children enjoyed. Than this, no more could be reasonably expected by her confiding brother. After long delay and much hesitation, the reason of Mr. Linden was convinced of the advantages offered his child, and a day was appointed for her transfer to the care of her aunt. Several days elapsed before this fond father could bring himself to bear his own painful feelings or his child’s tears on the announcement of his determination; but, in the mean time, his more judicious sister had taken Rhéné on her lap, and while busily engaged in the mysteries of doll- dressing, had talked the child into an impatient desire to live with her two little cousins, Lionel and Leucé; who Fortunately Mr. Linden had an intelligent, pious, and prudent sister, who soon came to the conclusion that it now became her duty to save her brother from the utter would make two such nice playmates, and who, Rhéné ruin of his happiness, and his child from misery, if not added, “ would never contradict or disobey her.” _ Which destruction. } most amiable inducements the good aunt did not make it convenient to hear; knowing that a controversy on the subject would put a total end to the plan so much at She therefore proposed that Rhéné should be intrusted to her care till she had attained to that age and discretion which were necessary before she could be placed at the yy heart. She would wait a more favorable time. Such were the delightful anticipations of Rhéné, at her aunts 15 head of her father’s house; representing that the child SS, ec a thin Ml ARAB ei a. i Si i it: i a iN i ak A Sl AER AISLE BS A i Ak a am a Bs 8 a tage a aaa a a aoe’ and, tossing down her beautiful doll, flew into her father’s library to say—*“ Oh, papa! I am going to live with my aunt and cousins, and then I shall be so happy. I do not wish to stay with you; there are no children here to play with me, so I am going now, this moment—good-bye, THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS 115 “No, my dear brother,” she replied, “it ,is not at all surprising to me; for I well know you have never allowed a wish of hers ungratified, and therefore have taught her only to love herself. If, on the contrary, you had accus- tomed her to restrain her unreasonable wishes, and to keep her feelings under control, she would have been constrain- papa; you can come and see me, and bring me all the ed to esteem as well as love you. I have always found pretty things, and all the nice things you can get. You those children most devoted to their parents who have hear, pa ?” 7 | been subjected to wholesome discipline. Yours has been Poor papa was so deeply grieved at this total absence the most effectual mode of making your child love herself of affection in his cherished darling, he was for some time supremely, and look upon you as only an agent to procure unable to speak; but big drops of sorrow fell from his i her gratification. Henceforth the difficult task of undoing eyes upon the little hand of the thoughtless child. “ Why, pa! what are you crying for?” asked little Rhéné, in sur- what has been done must be resolutely undertaken.” The weak but kind parent sighed as he looked at his prise. Her father replied, “'To think that my only little idol, who was busily gathering up her numerous play- child, whom I have loved so well, and been so kind to, things, wholly insensible to everything but the near pros- should be willing to leave her poor papa all alone. Oh, | 7 pect of additional and new gratification. He saw the Rhéné, you do not know, poor child, what pain you give 7 | truth of his sister’s reasoning more and more clearly, and me.” | wy wisely determined to yield to her the sole and whole man- Just then Mr: Linden’s sister came in, when he said to agement of the little girl, till she should attain a responsi- her— ft | ble age. Rhéné was forthwith conveyed to the house of “Do you see how unhappy I am, my dear sister, to think that all my love and tenderness for this child has failed to secure her affection? Is it not surprising ?” her good aunt, in the best of humors, for she could remain gentle and pleased while anticipating enjoyment. And in those rare moments the faultless mouldings of her features ee 0 a ait i eS aR ete ‘ 5 = j : ee ee ¥ * ue . ee ae An RR EE ch LR ARN! Sl aR 2 A Me at ea a ee eT TA A NNT ~ “Ra See RR ET | 116 RHENE; OR, would appear almost as if an angel might indeed inhabit their fair proportions. But, alas! those moments were fleeting and transient. As soon as she arrived, her little cousins, Lionel and Leucé, came smiling up, offering to kiss her, when she rudely pushed them off saying— “I do not wish to kiss you; I wish you to draw me in that little carriage. You two will make a nice pair of little horses for me—so come along.” And with this Rhéné ran off, and springing into the carriage screamed out, “Come along, I say, both of you, and draw the ear- riage ; that is what I came for, and you shall do what I want.” But Lionel, who was a proud, although an obliging boy, when kindly dealt with, felt wounded at the unkind repulse of his naughty cousin, and was slowly walking off in another direction, when Leucé ran after him, entreating fa) him to come back, and humor their little cousin for this one time, as she had come away from her poor papa and her dear delightful home. “Tf she has just left her home and her papa,” replied the indignant Lionel, “that is no reason for her treating us as if we were her inferiors, and I shall not humor her.” “ Oh, but, dear brother,” insisted the little warm-hearted THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 117 Leucé, “just this once, for my sake and mamma's, and you will see how soon your kindness will make Rhéné sorry for what she has done.” Now, my dear readers, it was very natural little Leucé, educated as she had been, according to the law of Chris- tian love and kindness, should suppose her cousin capable of the same generous impulses as herself; but Leucé was ignorant of the neglect of Rhéné’s parents, and the self- ishness and hardness of her little heart. After a good deal of persuasion, Leucé prevailed with her brother to return to where the tyrannical little Rhéné sat storming in the carriage. “ Oh, cousin !” said Leucé, “ dear cousin, only be patient, and you will see what kind cousins we will be for you. Just stop crying; here is Lionel, and here am I, ready to draw you in the carriage.” “You shall not draw me in your horrid carriage. | will not ride in it now.” And springing out of it, she kicked it over so violently the wheels came off, and the carriage was otherwise broken. “Now,” said the little virago, “I have broken your shabby carriage to pieces, and the next time I bid you draw me I think you will do it.” So, bridling herself up, she marched haughtily into the house, still swelling with FY ee a a al ishment and disgust. All this time Rhéné’s aunt had been putting away her clothes and numerous playthings, and therefore knew nothing of her improper behavior in the yard; but as soon as she saw her flushed face, her beautiful blue eyes flashing with anger, and at the same time streaming with tears, she thought to herself, “ Well, already the contest must begin—the passion of this child must be conquered ? at once.” So she called her to come, saying, in a mild, calm voice, “Oh, my dear Rhéné! what has happened to you? Have your cousins cruelly left you to the fury of the bull-dog in the barn-yard, or the impudence of the old turkey gobbler in the poultry-yard? Naughty children! I thought I saw them kissing you when I entered the house. Come here, and tell me your troubles.” And now Rhéné’s good aunt took her on her knee, wiped her eyes, kissed her, and entreated her to tell her what was the matter. “There is enough the matter!” screamed the naughty child. “T have not seen your dog or your turkey gobbler but those hateful children would not draw me in their carriage, and I hate them, so I do; and I am going straight home to my papa—he makes everybody mind me. I will THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 119 be minded, and I will have what I want. So now let me alone.” And springing out of her aunt’s lap, and running towards the door, she cried, “I am going this moment to my papa.” Mrs. Clayton instantly arose and closed the door; then looking the excited child calmly in the face, said, “Oh, Rhéné, I am deeply grieved to see you such a naughty child; and you must know your papa has given you to me, that I may, if possible, make a good child of you; therefore I have no intention of parting with you so soon. I think you are old enough to understand whatever is said to you, being fully eight years of age. Listen, then, and I will tell you what my intention is.” At this Rhéné threw herself on the floor, and screamed so loud that she could not possibly hear one word her aunt said. Mrs. Clayton expected nothing less, so taking her in her arms she carried her into an adjoining room, placed her on a sofa, walked out, and closing the door locked it, and put the key into her pocket. Rhéné cried for a long time, at first passionately, then gradually more sorrow- fully and less violently ; at last, to her aunt’s relief, she became silent, having yielded to the composing influence of that sweet soother of woes—“ balmy sleeep.” Lionel ee IR et a ei et Or ils aa ae ea A Nit Pi ne is RE ac ie cme sami = _ 120 RHENE; OR, and Leucé, who had from their infancy been accustomed to obedience and propriety of demeanor, had no sympa- thy with their naughty little cousin, yet they could not help pitying her. They well knew their mother was act- ing for her good; yet it made them so sad, they could not bear to listen to her cries, and they ran into the garden, out of hearing, till they were assured Rhéné had ceased crying; then they entered the house on tip-toe, and found their mother seated calmly at her work. Lionel gave his mother an account of the difficulty with Rhéné, and Mrs. Clayton knew she could rely on what he said, for he was always a boy of truth. “Now, my dear children,” said she, “ you see a sad example of what I have always told you respecting spoiled children. They are utterly miserable themselves, and the cause of unhappi- ness to all around them. Is it not much more for your happiness that you have been taught to restrain your tempers and desires?” “Oh, yes, indeed!” they both exclaimed, fondly kissing their mother. “ We are a thousand times happier than Rhéné, with all her fine clothes and hundred playthings,” “Still, for all this, my darlings,” said this excellent mother, “you must love your poor little cousin, and con- tinue to have patience with her ill-humors and caprice; THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 121 remembering that she has hitherto been a stranger to con- tradiction or control, let us hope that in time, with the blessing of God, she may become an obedient and self- denying little Christian girl. And I trust, my dear chil- dren, your good example will greatly assist me in accom- plishing this most desirable change. It will not be long before she will perceive the contrast, and must give the preference to that course of conduct which procures the greatest happiness. Her own life is certainly one of rest- less discontent, while yours is peaceful and joyous. She is a bright, observing child, and one of noble traits of character, needing only firm and regular discipline.” “Oh, mother!” said Leucé, “will it not be dreadful when she wakes? Oh, oh, I am afraid she will die of passion.” “No danger of that, my dear,” her mother replied ; “my first lesson has had some effect. Rhéné has already learned that the power is in her aunt’s hands, and that she intends to keep it. Hark! I hear her sobbing—she is awake.” “ Oh, mother!” said the little kind-hearted Leucé, with tears already glistening in her pretty black eyes, “oh, mother, pray give her a sweet kiss, and forgive her this time. She has no kind mother to teach her to be 16 122 RHENE; OR good; and now she must be so hungry after crying so much.” Mrs. Clayton smiled at this compassionate speech of her little daughter, and consented to consider all these exten- uating circumstances in dealing with her little charge. Then entering the door of the apartment in which Rhéné was, closed it, and approached the sofa on which she still lay sobbing, though in a softened mood. “You will be a good girl now, I hope, Rhéné, and then aunty and everybody will love you. But, then, if you should ever get into such another passion, I shall be obliged to shut you up again, till you are good. I do not spoil my children, and if I were to allow you to behave in this way, I am afraid they might expect me to bear with them, too, should they take an evil turn of the sort, So you must not expect me to bear more from you than from them, as I have promised your father to treat you precisely as my own. My children are very happy, be- cause they are good and obedient to me, and kind and obliging to all. They will love you dearly, if you will let them, and be ready to share all their sports and pastimes with you, if you are good-natured and obliging; but oth- erwise you will have to keep to yourself, for they can take no pleasure in your society. So, now, I hope you will THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 128 make up your mind to be pleasant, and we will forget all that has passed. Kiss me, and come into the next room and get some supper, for I am sure you must be hungry by this time.” So Mrs. Clayton placed the little girl on the floor, and led her from the room. All this while Rhéné was silent, though showers of tears fell from her eyes. The child really seemed awed into submission by the, till then, unim- agined presence of superior will. Mrs. Clayton now kindly led the child to a table, on which were placed some cakes, bread and butter, and milk; and Rhéné, after some effort, suppressed her tears, and ate with her usual appetite. While she was eating, Mrs. Clayton talked cheerfully to her of the flowers, Leucé’s pet birds, and her pretty little white kitten. After a while her countenance relaxed, and she seemed interested, though the same immoveable silence was preserved. As soon as her supper was ended, Mrs. Clayton took her to her chamber, heard her say her prayers, and then resigned her to the care of her old nurse previous evening’s discipline had vanished; and Rhéné came down stairs with quite a scornful and lofty air. It was very evident that nurse had sympathised with her, to 124 RHENE; OR, the disadvantage of her aunt’s mode of training. How- soon as she had left the breakfast-room, as she saw Leucé caressing her little white kitten, she darted towards her and seizing the kitten, said, | “This is my kitten, now. Aunt gave it to me last night, so you shall play with it no more.” “Oh, no, cousi sné,” gai usin h , 00, n Rhéné,” said Leucé, “I am sure mamma could not have given you my kitten—she would not have done such an unjust thing; though [ | am willing you should play with it sometimes. ) | But pray do not squeeze it so, poor kitty has been used to nothing but kindness.” “Well,” said Rhéné, dog. I shall tell my papa, and nurse says he will not suffer me to remain here, when he knows all.” “Oh, Miss Rhéné,.” » said the nurse, “you promised me to say nothing of this—you have broken your word.” “ Well, I do not care if I have broken my word,” said the naughty child; “I shall break my word when I please, and you may help yourself if you can. - THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 125 Just at that moment Mrs. Clayton returned to the breakfast-room, and every one was silent—the old nurse from fear; Rhéné from awe of that same superior will, the power of which she had felt the night betore, and Lionel and Leucé from the pure motives of peacemakers ; hoping that their little cousin would think better of what she had said, and be more agreeable and rational. Mrs. Clayton plainly perceived that something was amiss, but determined to let it pass, as she well knew that abundant opportunities would occur for the discipline of her little niece, without her seeking. Lionel and Leucé now prepared to go to school, and after kissing their mother set out. “Well, well!” said Lionel, as they walked on, “I do not see what mamma wants with such an unprincipled girl in her house. She is a story-teller, and boasts that she will break her word whenever she pleases. I cannot associate with such a girl.” “T know it is very dreadful, brother,” said little gentle Leucé, “ but then, you know, she is our poor little orphan cousin, and mamma thinks in time to make her a good Christian girl. Remember, Lionel, she has not had such a good Christian for a mother as we have had, and she does not know any better. Let us pray for her; who 126 RHENE, OR, knows but her gentle Saviour will make her a good child after al] 2” “Well, I hope so, I am sure,” said Lionel, “and I am very willing to pray for her; but I do not wish to asso- ciate with her till she is changed for the better.” » “I shall do just as mamma says,” quietly observed Leucé. What a beautiful creature she would have been.” : ’ said Lionel, “if mamma had taken her when she was an infant !” | 4 n 7 4 . Yes, indeed,” Leucé replied, “for when she first came smiling up to the door, I thought her the prettiest little girl I ever saw. But how that terrible anger spoils her beauty !” “She is the exact picture of a thunder-storm all the while, as far as a little girl can be. I shall be very glad when mamma can change her into a gentle zephyr, but I am afraid it will be a long time first ; but, ah!” contin- ued the thoughtful Lionel, “ what a blessing it is to have a good Christian mother, such as ours !” “Oh, yes!” said Leucé; “I would not exchange our mother for any other in the world.” Now, my dear readers, you perhaps will think this con- versation rather out of the way for such young children ; THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 127 but when you come to reflect that Lionel and Leucé had been accustomed to act and think as Christians, you must acknowledge it is natural they should express themselves in rational Christian language. With parents it rests to guide the tender, susceptible minds of their offspring into right modes of thought, speech, and action; and if com- menced in énfancy, it is quite as easy, relying on the grace of God, to direct the current of their minds in a right channel as a wrong one. So that unchristian parents must receive a double condemnation at the great day of ac- counts, inasmuch as by the neglect of their own soul’s sal- vation, they were incapable of bringing up their children for the kingdom of Heaven. Lionel was at this time ten years old, and Leucé eight; both of them quite old enough to be sensible of the ad- vantage they possessed over their little spoiled cousin. As soon as the children had gone to school, Mrs. Clay- ton took little Rhéné by the hand and walked around the garden, pointing out the various beautiful flowers, and directing the child’s attention, through them, to the gra- cious Giver of all good. This was a favorite mode of this excellent woman to awaken the feelings of gratitude and love towards the bountiful Creator; and well it might be, for she had found it most efficacious in the education of lente in Se: A ic ii iM i a a ica AE in i Pa te: le ale A A A ka a a 128 RHENE, OR, 4 THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 129 “JT do not know but Lionel is right,” said his mother, who now entered the hall where the children stood con- versing. “I think, in your cousin’s present mood, Leucé, rich and varied beauties they saw the impress of His she is best left to herself. Her imagined importance will hand. , 4 be lessened, to her great and real advantage, by an ap- her own promising children. Their innocent love was easily transferred from these beautiful objects to their great, wise, and beneficent Maker, while through their Rhéné still preserved an unbroken silence, though she pearance of indifference on your parts to her company. could not withhold her attention from her aunt’s interest- So go on, my children, in your usual duties and pastimes, ing conversation, When Mrs. Clayton returned to the without any reference at all to her being in the house. I house, she resigned the little girl to the care of her nurse | did not take her for the purpose of embittering the lives for a time. iS of my children. I have formed my plans, which I shall When the children returned from school, after kissing pursue firmly and regularly ; so forget, as far as you can, their mother as usual, they hastened to join their little that she is here, till I request a change, or Rhéné herself cousin in the play-room; but as soon as they approached .:. desires it. In either case it will be time enough to inter- her, she turned her back upon them, and threw herself rupt your usual course of action.” : iii | is at ae : Pe Re Fy i iia ici ; er, iii i 3 oh * ) ‘i= iain t ia te ‘| +) i } iia 5 i a Bh + 2 oo t t % | ate : 7 : & oF ian | oF iad i Ld 4g i MW ) i} H 2 iat : 4 iz : ¥ 1a eee ee ee erent wernes see be oe t eh : fo és ee a eae : PRE ta to ts teh: meen = - * —< into her nurse’s arms. Lionel, who had sought her com- pany at the entreaty of his kind-hearted little sister, instantly turned and walked out of the room, saying, “ You see how it is, Leucé—next time, listen to me.” “Oh, Lionel,” whispered Leucé, “do you not see it is all the fault of that old nurse. If cousin Rhéné was only away from her, I am sure she would soon be a good girl.” “Perhaps so,” said Lionel, “ but you must not ask me to play with her again. I shall keep my distance in future.” IY FTI LAR WR RTI A ETIS CHIE APTN EMP OIRO oR Sn eo “Oh, mamma,” said Leucé, “I am sure it is all the fault of that cross old nurse that our little cousin dislikes us so much. I wish she was away, and then all would be well.” “What makes you think so, my dear?” asked her mother. Leucé did not like to be what is called a mischief maker, and therefore for some time remained silent, for she had spoken without reflection: at last she answered— “Somehow I think so, mamma.” 17 130 RHENE; OR, “You must not indulge in suspicions, my daughter,” said Mrs. Clayton; “they can only render yourself un- comfortable, while they may make you unjust to others.” No more was said on the subject, and the children ate their dinner and returned to school. However, it was not long before Mrs. Clayton discovered that Leucé’s suspicions were well founded, and she did not hesitate to dismiss the nurse of her little niece. Rhéné, of course, was ia another rage at this; but her aunt paid no attention to her screams, leaving her, as_be- fore, to exhaust her anger in sleep. From this day forward a regular system of wholesome discipline was pursued; though some months elapsed before the little Rhéné’s naturally noble traits of character were rescued from the deadly influence of erroneous train- ing. After a while the child became wearied of her per- verseness, and the consequent loneliness to which it sub- jected her, for every one was glad to escape from such disagreeable company, as you must suppose. If an occur- rence was stated by any one of the family, great or small, Rhéné instantly contradicted it, though the moment any one presumed to retaliate, no matter how truly, a raging storm would quickly overspread her countenance, destroy- ing for the time every trace of comeliness. Every morn- Pape ne & rtd tog or tte eners et eee ae z in re 7 or fe ae a SPT ae eee ee ee “rr < . Vee Pay 136 RHENE; OR, Lionel treats me as unkindly as the rest. And now I will never go back to that school again, and I’ll never speak to you again, Master Lionel.” “Very well,” quietly replied Lionel, “I can do very well without you.” And he walked out of the door with Leucé, leaving the angry Rhéné with his mother. “Tam very sorry, Rhéné, that you cannot yet see the true cause of all your unhappiness—sorry that I have not yet succeeded in enabling you to control your temper. Temper, Rhéné, and pride, are at the root of all your troubles. Until you make up your mind that others have rights as well as yourself, and are entitled to respect, you will always be in difficulties, for you will find no one submit to your commands. If you wish to leave the school, you can do so; but then you must remember how unhappy you were at home without companions, and be- sides this, you are growing a great girl in ignorance, while your little cousins are rapidly advancing in learning, and deriving so much pleasure as well as profit from this ad- vancement. I give you till to-morrow morning to determ- ine respecting this matter; and then you will remain at home for several months, without companions, and your education must cease. Just think how this will mortify your dear father and aunt !” Pad tc a a ae ie THE WILD CRAB BLOSSOMS. 137 Rhéné left the room pouting, and Mrs. Clayton said no more to her on the subject that day. , On the next Saturday, a little friend came to spend the day with Leucé and Rhéné. Their sports went on pleas- antly for a time, and Mrs. Clayton was congratulating her- self on the improvement of her little niece’s temper, when, alas! as she sat composedly at work in her room, in rush- ed Rhéné, with lowering brow, flushed face, and her voice discordant with passion, complaining of Leucé and Mary. “Neither of them would allow her to play with them. They had gone off by themselves, and she had to be all alone. Would not aunt Clayton make Leucé let her play with Mary 2” “ Certainly, my dear,” said Mrs. Clayton; “ Leucé shall not do any such selfish, unkind thing to you. Call her here.” When Leucé came in, her mother said to her, “ Why, my daughter, is it possible you can be so unkind to your cousin, and so unjust to yourself, as to take your little guest off, and leave Rhéné alone? Surely there must be some mistake !” “No, indeed, mamma!” said Leucé, with an expression of surprise on her face, “I did no such thing. Cousin Rhéné quarrelled with Mary, and ordered her about, till 18 er ere il lore a eee - Pe ee eee apie ee aa ee : a “i = he ay See ES ate ak “ ge ae sm ee ee : aE i Ps aN - aisanii - ee Ee ae . nee “teeta? setts a = ine * a ee i " ye te * e iaiieth. “saat “— ™ a — Oe eS eed ah: i aie ey Ree TPE, ” - . ee, PORE TENT EERO AT LE aa ana REET IRIE EE SE: . : ee ae ee Ae a i ha ees Hie.’ fe re eee 7 — 6 pe pes ee He: ohm é s i ee COT ME ee ee a ee Ree eee pupae bia Se oy > yas i > ’ ee ee — 7 vases — . . - ees ee Pia. bite ee ae nag ese Cae * 4 i . oe ; . ? sie a eee 7 a ans a . : 3° a ¢ 4 i. cre CE = ning ee 6 n . ie » ‘ a hy ¥ ice ca ta ag ine te Se NY LN kN A NN EERIE AR I NON NBR eNRe t NENN CS A UENCE Re AE tO IN Th aH BR 5 { t & <.,,.\* oee e 5 sl a le aT es 2 fa dae ot ae ‘a aie = eer ne Our " 2 > x ar tag “if Ta eet a= a Bar ee ek 3 Reef as Fea 2 ae > a bv es / ni = ws Ay noe a pee © + a oa Pte sie 5 ed a. tae ee ee CN SN Ee A oe A eR i Satin aT ATE i RO Nhe ee a NR a cm ARR acre RT REAR Se _— ae ee LL —_——- . = ee a Snnananpeenet ae el Se Re ee ee Lae, eae 8 ORM ee a wed . ie i A ie , ’ a . a ; RTD: OTOL LAELIA ARETE Bie a eg Sad . ack Sar Se iP a pote ‘ Seay ; ; Basel Myre DE Eh ns SE Ss a - et a: Sen eR ena NE aN ne ee o - m ethos pa ee ee ee scence cite: A er 86 i CN ARO AR SNL ONE EL LAD AE ALL AEA iad oe ' —— i a Sc _oeme = = —_ = SS i Ae a ne a ne ER A A A LE SC SR ee a ee a eS Se RASA SONS ab Se NRAN nase meee ae . > ~ « . “ — = = — — — + - = — —— = SS leew ee eee nr SS = a aes eCeneeNE en —s _ : ™ ———— —— . - os a: aten — cena - — - cn - — nS - . aw = he Pa ls lari [oe 7 — ca ue “ 2 aia aad a WRN e Mak a adele iit . ~ ——~-- - - _ to a eee - se na 2 nN ——ws ps a ; a a eee mae A — oo * wh ed Sear er sve as nine 23a eal — ; : - _ - - “ ‘ eA aah pe Big : Pht. A wit i it ng i , . + ? " ~ A - - Silke sak Al LR sid Bee eure s _ me Sena ee ne we 138 RHENE; OR, she declared she would go home if cousin Rhéné stayed with us. Of course I asked her to stay, and when she insisted on leaving cousin Rhéné, I was obliged to follow her. It would not have been civil to leave her, would it, ma’am 2” “Certainly not, my dear—and I am glad to hear you were not guilty of such unkindness and selfishness.” Just as Mrs. Clayton said this, and Rhéné was preparing to contradict her little cousin, Mary Clare came in, and con- firmed all Leucé’s statement. The two little girls left the apartment, and Rhéné stood confounded and silent, though still swelling with passion. Her aunt now said to her— “Oh, my dear Rhéné, when will you leave off these naughty ways, which make you so very unhappy, besides losing you so much real enjoyment and so many nice little friends? I am truly sorry for you, my dear. There is but one thing to be done to remedy this evil, and that you must do yourself—that is, control your temper, and respect the rights of others. You cannot expect to com- mand everybody, and so long as you quarrel with your little friends, they must dislike and shun your company.” Rhéné burst into a flood of tears; not of passion this time, but of real sorrow; and after listening to her aunt’s \ ieee cng Reece een mre RET nm IeseR NEE or seem ue meme rm ar nmmnens om me ARS + ed er . = ¥. : ~— _ PG Se eet nee $ a ee Le eens eee ans st tnt - 9 a = : oa 4 : i a — — a oe a ‘ i " Sip seettligpiae ; ere os hee ee Age “ " ta iii 5 [HO HOP ee —sreeneneanancssssesteenmnenitias ' Te ar ya Pm, . ~ EES ALLER, PAIGE SL PBEM eR acme Rl s ae ee igs eS * "3 atest in a ee. ’ oy “ se. *, I eh is 4 a Ot alae Teal cit me: 5 ee ee ph dpe on Reena s ae eeidiciniciedeaied ieaeniaentl a of her aunt’s meaning. Rhéné had been with her aunt one year, when, accord- ing to agreement, her father paid his in raptures with his first visit. He was little daughter, and amazed at the wonderful change effected by the judicious of his excellent sister, ee oe soa management He was entirely convinced that children betimes to Christian dis- uest friends, and in enabling them to a 7 : ee BL i 6 at oa las Pre Se ee a ee ee SF Eom es eee acer Se pe ac ee ee Pa ee se pili da iogealt 29, 8 i ais els tag: sia eae iit Rees WSs 3 & : ath ae adi ata tae RS aah, ae ae 7 aie, a eee a ings mm nana ss) gins: 8 ehes oe Seay kee oS ‘ : eg, anak Sam by ai & . a 2 he! wee: ae Y those who subject their cipline are their tr aR ee a ee nee > < ber aes tet 5 er) o) =a ar 2, ct oa fe) 5 ea) (ee) 7 fe) R 7) fe) 7) S m3 © o ar co aad Sl fom a @ = =) = @ oy | © mh ar © 5 or fee) r a . vs ba, as asi Wf wie te Pes S 5 = b o a co b ® << @ 5 @ if) oe © ct © oF ¥ ee Bi ‘ 4 TS, 4) fe ~ a F nae) pia, fh ot Ff oa —— | a | pet mae = | a a * Sty h, a “ai & Ee, J 4 pom re iJ . isp “9 cs ae, ae oe fing Fa ote ged ie “a ee | Lr s % fe tS. ee > a a on eet > » Be. a rc. ee eee ek sate le Fuh Sy wget pees ‘ * epee the ee ene eee Ce es eee RR eae a 8 Po a we Se OE ot ce aS a ¢ ES * 3 : aX iA ad aR gs . ae has 5 ee ey : ate! 7 ie yt sie, ane i it nye + ~ Bares . Sr a, al ee) se on 5 ee ; ] 7 3 E - he . ; > - ™ ' } + ie q - Ls ~ o j ee : 3 ; e ’ Poy es oe 7 z “my Fa” . a Fr 4 F%& ri! Zs 1 7 segs t z4 4 * ° we 4 es a | un ‘" _ ‘ { . . — . os. 7 a iced eerie ne ——— - — Pe ee yx Pe ee ee gs a ae eee ey Pe ee a pete ee oa nde , “ Bi An Oy ae ee aT Fy” a i NOS aol tie ag ea ats ee en oe aie Sieve tine. ca BE ake A age Rie ee Ligh teh Auta chain eS Sik a Mics a ae ee ; gg : : i ee eee ipa nn ede a ie ne SaaS TS le i nat ail. vel ab Re a be * " Sr 3 a Ae . Fg k tem ps ae ye i Moot re Tt Sug roe ee a oe So err ee” fe Mee DL es ayo cane tie ean NOR SSR ORT egw ee aes FORGET MEK NOT & MORNING GLORY . xX. The Forget-me-not and Morning Glory; OR, THE TWO LITTLE GRAVES. Can a mother forget her sucking child.—Jsaiah xlix. 15. I was once journeying through a retired part of the country, and stopped to rest and refresh myself at a small moss-covered cottage by the road-side. While my simple meal was preparing, I was tempted to stroll in the grounds surrounding the house. A little way removed from its side I perceived, in an orchard, a small inclosure, embowered with vines. On approaching nearer, I discov- ered within it two little graves, of precisely the same length. They were covered with smooth, green moss, reminding me of a pall of green velvet—intended as a symbol of undying love. At either end of the graves was a White Rose-bush, over whose branches twined luxuri- antly the White Morning Glory, covered with blossoms. Perhaps each morn the heart of a sorrowing mother was * a ete ————— 144 THE FORGET-ME-NOT. thus reminded of that joyful resurrection when those dear little tenants of the moss-covered graves would arise and flourish in eternal youth and beauty.. Around the margin of the graves, on observing closely, [ beheld the modest Forget-me-nots, peeping up with their soft blue eyes, as, hand in hand, they lovingly encircled the silent abodes of the innocent dead. The space between the graves and the vine-covered inclosure was thickly planted with ivy, interspersed with the two favorite flowers of the country people—the Hearts- ease and Sweet William. The vine which covered the reason why it was chosen to encircle these little clay ten- ements of the loved and lost ones—an expressive token of the sorrowing survivor's undying love. This was truly a lovely spot—speaking in beautiful though silent language the purity and elevation of a Heaven-directed mind, though animating the simple, rustic form of a plain, untu- tored woman. She was a tall, thin woman, whose features bore the marks of age, cut in by the cares and sorrows of some forty years. Her full gray eyes were shaded by long, il . @ _ = j 4 ‘ 4 q é Ae ahr, a 1 a ee ata Cee sty Eee Sra note SIS aaa ‘ er ee eet ee ee ae i” AND MORNING GLORY. 145 black lashés, which imparted an expression of pensive mel- ancholy when at rest, but when animated by conversation, they lighted up with a beam of enthusiasm, which unmis- takably revealed the soul of genius, although untutored and unrefined. ti To my inquiries péepedting the two little graves, at she listened with averted eye and reluctant manner, though gradually she became won to confidence, probably by my tone of sympathy and interest, rather than cu- riosity. | . Seating herself beside me, she first wiped her eyes re: the corner of her homespun apron, and then paused as if collecting her thoughts and controlling her rising emotion. At length she said— 3 “Those two little graves, ma’am, contain all that re- mains now of two dear children. They are not both mine. One ig my dear little Ellen, and the other is her playmate, who died just two weeks to a day after her. So I seas of the parents of little Mary to let her come and - by my Ellen, for company. She did look so lonesome-like out there in the orchard, all by herself! And w they es sented; and the two little friends sleep side by side. They were never parted in their lives, and I could not ; * -bear to see them parted in their cold graves. 19 Se ete ee eee THE FORGET-ME-NOT “ My little Ellen was ten years old when she died, and little Mary one month younger. Alas! she followed her playmate in half that month to the grave the road, only a stone’s throw from here, and the neigh- boring school-house is half a mile on the main road; so my little Ellen and little Mary Mosely, from the time they were five years old, have met at the fork every morning, and gone on, hand in hand, lovingly and joyously, together to school. the same book, and when the school was out, spread,their little napkin on the grass under a tree, and ate their din- ner out of the same basket, Then, in the evening, hand in hand, as lovingly as ever, they walked back to the fork of the road, and parted to meet again in the " GTR Fee ab an ie cep orm ere 7 147 AND MORNING GLORY. he fever, and her she died. When ing child dropped a bune imal t-me-not into the grave, saying, ‘ Good-bye, —_— et-m he &; ‘ Oh, how I do wish I flowers never fade or the Forg Ellen. Oh, forget me not. ile, and then she said— ss “i rm only the next day when little Mary, too, fell ill “Tt was id to her mother— 1 d her, she said to s you weep around my bed ? aroun hat make “ + | = ” her silence and unceasing tears. ‘Oh, I a 1 , , 1 am so g I am so glad!’ the child repeatedly cried. ‘Oh a ? Ell ty sg Tam coming to your happy home in the beau a . les at last. Oh, I am SO happy! Iam so glad! r father and mother, do not cry. God and shame t] ! ntle S . . . — will be so kind to us till you come to share our a Y wi ppiness, and dear Ellén’ will be no longer alone, am , AMONS strangers; her own M ary will be th bear her company.’ ere to love her, and 74 Well, so the dear. child died; and that is her ora | ‘av > the side farthest from the house: for I love to - | | sit a e window, and talk with my own little Ellen while I am at work : or : as I used to do when she slept in her little bed my side, to soothe her to her slumbers.” So t was — m minded hake he story ended—and the simple-minded narra gave way to uncontrollable weeping, while I sat by 7] her side, silentl y musing’ on the j . , the mother. 5 é Inextinguishable love of ump : ees Is-one question I would like to ask of yo ma’a id t : : » said the weeping mother, wiping her eyes as b 3 ore with the corner of her apron | “Oh, yes!” I replied, “a lovely memento.” é Fes Oe : Se eS er ase ee : Sa ROL, ae ea sa a» , Se i a th Se ae Vee ee ee Da i . | ™ vn items eit ee ee ee Ie te ade ight i Ee. a ane See SORTER eam a its Saou AND MORNING GLORY. 149 “They were the favorite flowers of little Mary! And the Morning Glory on the White Rose-bush 2” “Oh, yes ” J answered; “how pure and lovely they are |” «They were the favorites of my little Ellen. Every morning in the summer, after she had said her prayers and read her Bible (she dearly loved her Bible), she would go out into the garden, and return with the White Morning Glory in her hand, and say— “See, mother, again they bloom! And ever they bloom afresh each morning, as ‘¢ to remind us that, though we, too, must wither and die in this world, we shall live again when the bright morning of the R d we shall there, like these snowy blossoms, be esurrection shall dawn; an clothed in a pure robe of righteousness. «My little Ellen, ma’am, was a child of wisdom beyond and it was her Bible that made her so. That mfort left me, now that she is gone—that I e, while she was with me. It and made fit for the her years, is the only co kept her reading her Bibl was there she was prepared to die, company of angels.” I asked how long the children had been dead, and she» Ten long years had this fond mother answered ten years. wo little graves, preserved in beautiful quietude these t A TE AR BEL RS el ° 4 151 : ; 150 THE FORGET-ME-NOT 2 || -pallcaehsoe score gti : ff “ME- 1 | ing, and 7 , q , morning ‘ad evening, E surrounding them with summer flowers and winter- q Read your cata neta rthly de ng, like those 4 ; - : : gg a eatest ea Be greens, that their freshness and loveliness might be per- ’ —neappeetalhlecael ll beneath the moss-cov- t petual ! a two little children who now sleep be | : —— ered graves, amid flowers and evergreens. : And now, my gentle readers, lef the love and har. mony of these two little friends inspire you with the same heavenly affections—love, gentleness, kindness to all; [| obedience, gratitude and reverence to parents, teachers, | ; pastors, and, above all, devotion to your Maker and Re- deemer ! i eR RO inese mea Think what unchanging, undying love and tenderness a for you inhabit the breast of the mother, and never, while a. . you live, do aught to bring a pang to yours. Rather strive to comfort and cheer their hearts, as they pass through this world of trial and uncertainty. My dear children, believe me, it is pure Christian love which inspires your parents to strive so earnestly to 1 incline your young hearts to the path of truth and holi- i ness. Give ever heed to their faithful, affectionate coun- sels; love and venerate them, and then the Great Parent : of all will bestow his unspeakable grace and love on you, J i so that when your bodies rest in the silent tomb, your y ; joyous spirits will rise, on angels’ wings, to live forever in the presence of your dear Redeemer. Pro ers pap ag oe Pei, er teS MODESTY. 153 The Jasmine, Carnation, and Woodbine, 4 For favors of royalty vie; " at The Dahlia, in hues rich and varied, 4 Ig Exalts her proud head to the sky. 4 The meek little Violet retiring F A swext little Violet, blooming " - B . Beneath her thick heart-leaves unseen, 4 eneath her fair sovereign, the Rose * Fe — Though all the bright . Unambitious, ne’er dreams of aspiring o right parterre * Yet h P perfuming, To a place in the heart of the Queen. ie et humble and modest she grows. The beautiful Rose, proudly blushing, Now, it chances a Butterfly passes 4 Beholds herself mirrored in dew ; In gambols of sca aeasaeer te by, , . And while the rich moisture is flushing Takes a sip from the lip of = ealix, 4 Her cheek with a brilliancy new, Whose bright color pleases his eye. 4 As the flowers their perfume now scatter, a She smiles in her pride and her beauty, As round her fair votaries throng, Ser queenly head bends to each fair one, As her eye o’er them passes along. He fans them with rich silken wing: The gay beauties cunningly flatter, While enchantments around him they fling. First in snow . ° y array comes th | tes ‘a i e Lily, Yet their witcheries fail in securing This gay rover’s homage or love, Though their wiles they exhaust in alluring, No Nymph his fine fancy can move. 20 As next in refinement and grace; Then the Tulip, in gaudiness silly, Aspires to that same envied place. ° ‘a a :