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The Baldwin Library

University | |
RmB w|i
Florida

















BUSINESS AND PLEASURE





LONDON, £.

EXTRAVAGANT FANNY





—Sigihete—
WHICH IS MY LIKENESS?

— tw prtir







WHICH IS MY LIKENESS?

Seeing Ourselbes as we See Others.

BY

COUSIN KATE

(THE LATE MISS C. D. BELL.)



LONDON:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH ; AND NEW YORE.

1873.





GXontents.

enero
THE CHATTER-BOX, ... = ae rH a 9
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK, se a 42
THE VIOLET, = A - = e 76
THE PIN, ... ae = os = See lid
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, ... = oS ne 148
THE PIGS, ... - es cf aa = 185
NEGLIGENT MARY,. ... a = = ve 296
FINERY, ... cS a i a =. °266

THE SNAIL, ee = = She waa > 805







WHICH IS MY LIKENESS?



THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Mamma! mamma! what do you think Uncle
Charles has sent us for our Christmas present ?”
cried little Harry Lindsay, as he ran into his
mamma's room one fine Christmas forenoon.

He was followed by his two sisters, Caroline
and Lucey. Their mamma glanced smilingly
at a large portfolio which Lucy carried, and
answered,—

“Perhaps some of Uncle Charles’ pretiy
pictures.”

“Yes, mamma; but what are the pictures
about?” cried both the girls,

“Oh! that indeed I cannot say; they
might be about so many things.”

“But guess, mamma, only guess,” Harry
urged.



10 THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Perhaps pictures of you three children,
and of baby, Charles, and Helen.”

“No, no, mamma; guess again,” theyall cried.

“ Likenesses of Shaggie, Touzle, and Wee-
wee—of the turtle-doves—of—”

“No, no, quite wrong,’ said Caroline,
laughing.

“T should like to have a likeness of dear
old Shaggie, though, and Touzle too,” added
Harry. “TI shall ask Uncle Charles to draw
them.”

“You nonsensical boy!” said Caroline.
“Why, we have Shaggie already with you on
his back, and Touzle jumping up to catch the
bridle. And such a pretty picture of Wee-
wee, mewing for her kitten, which baby has
all huddled up in his pinafore. But, mamma,
pray guess again.”

“No, indeed, I shall not,’ Mrs. Lindsay
answered, laughing. “ Why, children, I might
guess all day——Uncle Charles can make pictures
of anything, of everything. You must tell
me if you wish me to know.”

“Well, mamma, they are pictures about the
poems he made us learn last summer,” said
Caroline. “There are nine of them, and



THE CHATTER-BOX. 11

Uncle Charles says that if we make a good
use of these he may perhaps send us more.”

“ Mamma,” asked Lucy, “what does Uncle
Charles mean by making a good use of them?
what use can one make of pictures except to
look at them ?”

« And to get pleasure out of them,” suggested
Caroline. ;

“Perhaps Uncle Charles means you should
get good as well as pleasure out of them.”

“But how, mamma? I don’t see how,”
Caroline said.

“Perhaps he expects that the picture may
help you to remember the moral of the poem—
may help it to make a deeper impression on
your mind.”

“Do you think they can? I hardly under-
stand how,” Lucy said, thoughtfully.

“Am I not to see the pictures?” Mrs.
Lindsay asked, smiling. “Perhaps if I saw
them, I could tell you better how Uncle
Charles meant them to do you good. Am I
to see them, Lucy?”

“Oh! to be sure, mamma,” opening the
portfolio. “See, here is the first: The
‘ Chatter-box. Is not it pretty?”



12 THE CHATTER-BOX,

“ But now, mamma, what is the good we are
to get from it?” asked both Harry and Caroline.

“J think it is as I said. Look at the
expression of the lady’s face. How annoyed
and vexed she looks! Don’t you think the
picture tells you even more plainly than the
poem, that a constant chatter-box must often
be our ‘aversion?’ Don’t you think that the
recollection of that lady’s face might often
keep you from annoying people as the Lucy
of the picture is annoying her?”

“The Lucy—that is you, Miss. Lu,” said
Harry, laughing.

Lucy only laughed. Her conscience was
clear. She was no great talker. She and
Harry looked at the picture, and tried to imi-
tate the lady’s looks and gestures of disgust
and annoyance. Caroline did not join them.
A love of chattering was one of her faults.
She did not much like the subject.

“JT think,’ said Mrs. Lindsay, after a
moment’s consideration, “that the picture
shows us also very plainly the selfishness of
the chatter-box.”

“Oh! mamma! do you think all chatter-
boxes are selfish ?” Caroline asked anxiously.



THE CHATTER-BOX. 13

“Indeed, my dear, I do think so. The
confirmed chatter-box thinks only of what is
in her own mind, of what she has to tell, of
what she wishes to know. She cares very
little for what other people may be thinking
of, or feeling, Is that not selfish?”

Caroline turned away her head with a deep
blush, and did not speak. Mrs. Lindsay put
her arm kindly round her.

“Courage, my little Caroline,” she said;
“you are not as yet either a confirmed or a
very selfish chatter-box,

‘ While you are still young, you can bridle your tongue
With a little good sense and exertion,’

and so save yourself from ever becoming, like
poor Lucy, ‘our jest and aversion.’ Shall
Uncle Charles’ picture of the poor persecuted
lady, and the selfish chatter-box, teach you to
do that ?”

“ But, mamma, where do you see that the
chatter-box is selfish?” asked Harry.

“T think I can see,” said the more thought-
ful Lucy. “Look, Harry, how bright and
happy the little girl looks, while the lady is
so much vexed. She is quite glad to get out



14 THE CHATTER-BOX.

her chatter, and does not care a bit how much
pain or trouble her interruption may cause.
That is selfishness, horrible selfishness.”

“To be sure it is,” Harry said assentingly.
“ Mamma, was that what you meant?”

“Exactly. When I looked at the little
gitl’s smiling face, and contrasted it with the
frowning brow and forbidding gesture of the
lady, I was reminded of a poor silly selfish
chatter-box whom I knew when I was a little
girl like you, Lucy.”

“Oh! mamma! tell us about her,” cried
Harry and Lucy. Caroline was still silent.
Mrs. Lindsay smiled at the eager listening
faces of the other two. But she kept her arm
round Caroline, as if to remind her that,
chatter-box though she might be, she was still
very dear to her mother’s heart.

“Eliza was the name of my chattering
friend,” she began. “She was a pretty clever
little girl She was the eldest of the family ;
and while she was a baby, she was a great pet
with father, mother, uncles and aunts. When
very little, she spoke much more plainly than
children of her age usually do; and it was
amusing to hear long words come so distinctly



THE CHATTER-BOX. 15

out of such a little mouth. Then, too, she only
came into the drawing-room at times when
those there wished to amuse themselves with
her, and so she was encouraged and tempted
on to talk continually.

“ By-and-by, however, other young voices
came to take their share in the family noise.
Quietness came to be more of a rarity and
luxury than baby prattle. And Eliza, now
able to roam all about the house at all hours,
began to be rather a torment with her constant
rattling away,

‘ Like water for ever a-dropping.’

In neither drawing-room, dining-room, bed-
‘room, nor study, could her friends be secure of
one hour’s rest from the busy, chattering, in-
terrupting tongue.

“ Now her papa and mamma tried to check
the evil they had at first encouraged. But it
was too late. Eliza had become too confirmed
and too determined a chatter-box. Whoever
was in the room, or however they were em--
ployed, it was all the same to Eliza—chatter,
chatter wen! her tongue without a moment’s
rest, without a roment’s thought for what



16 , THE CHATTER-BOX.

others might think or wish. Her papa or
mamma might be tired or unwell, engaged
with company, busy with letters, or interested
in a book—Eliza never thought, never cared,
but poured forth her constant stream of silly
babble of what she had seen, what she had
heard, what she had done or wished to do,
where she had gone or meant to go. Ifa
positive command to be quiet silenced her, it
was only for a minute. Again the wearisome
tongue began, until one got as tired of telling
her to be silent as of hearing her talk ; and
one could only get a little peace by sending
her out of the room, or going away one’s self.

“The father and mother talked gravely to
her, and tried to show her that she gave every
one around her a great deal of trouble and
pain, and caused every one who came near her
to pass many uncomfortable hours, which she
could easily have spared them by merely
holding her tongue, and that she made people
really dislike her, and avoid her society as a
plague and a weariness. Eliza talked far too
fast, and too continually, to be able to think
of what was said to her. Her friends spoke

earnestly and entreatingly, but their words
(408)



THE CHATTER-BOX. 1?

fell only on her ear. Before they had reached
her mind, or made any impression there, the
full, overflowing torrent of her own talk had
carried them clean away, to be never more
thought of.

“Many and many a mortification had she
to bear as she grew older; and people began
more and more plainly to show that they
thought her a nuisance. Her little compa-
nions all disliked her. She was always so
busy talking, that she never paid attention to
what she was doing; and spoiled our toys,
and put us out in our games, with the most
provoking carelessness. Besides, we, too, had
our little stories to tell, our questions to ask,
our thoughts to express; and we had no pa-
tience for a companion who was always speak-
ing, never listening. So, whenever we could,
we kept out of her way, and chose another
play-fellow or walking-companion ; and many
an hour was she left alone and moping, while
we others were playing in some secret corner,
rejoicing that Eliza had not found us out.

“Her elders, too, avoided her, and would
not invite her to their houses) One charming

_ Christmas week all we young people of the
(403) 2



18 THE CHATTER-BOX.

village spent with a dear old lady and gentle-
man, in a beautiful large country-house, where
every kind of amusement was provided to
make us happy; and Eliza was left at home,
because the old lady said she could not think
of allowing her little friends to be annoyed
by such a chatter-box. Another time, one of
her aunts went to pay a round of visits among
their relations in the West of England and in
Wales. She was asked to bring one of her
nieces with her. But she chose Annie, Eliza’s
younger sister, and told Eliza plainly that she
really could not take one who she knew would
be a constant torment to every one to whose
house she went. And whenever their grand-
papa was ill, he used to ask that Eliza might
not be the one who was sent to ask for him,
because her long tongue wore him out, and
gave him a headache.

“When Eliza was about twelve years old,
her mamma had a very dangerous illness. Her
children were too young to enter fully into the
anxiety and alarm felt by their elders. But
they missed their mother’s pleasant company
and kind care, and many were the lamen-
tations heard in nursery and_ scbool-room



THE CHATTER-BOX. 18

over their long banishment from her room.
At this time came out in strong contrast the
characters of the two girls of the family—Eliza
and Annie. Eliza was, I am sure, really sorry
for her mamma’s illness; but she talked so
incessantly and tiresomely about her grief, and
was besides so noisy, heedless, and troublesome,
that every one was inclined to think that her
sorrow was nothing but talk. Annie, on the
other hand, said very little, but went about
the house so gentle, thoughtful, and good,—
was so watchful to render any little help that
came in her way, and so careful to avoid giv-
ing trouble, that no one could help seeing that
she was continually thinking of her mother’s
state, continually striving to do her service.
“The children’s aunt, Miss Grey, came to
nurse their mamma, and I remember hearing
her tell my mother, that it was difficult to
fancy how much poor chattering Eliza plagued,
or how much the quiet Annie comforted, every
member of the household, during those long
weeks of anxiety and sorrow. LTven in her
worst days. Mrs. Grey atways insisted that her
husband and sister should leave her at tea-
time, in order that the children might not miss



20 THE CHATTER-BOX.

their accustomed pleasure of being with their
father at that meal. At those times Eliza
was, Miss Grey said, a teasing, chattering par-
rot; Annie, a gentle ministering spirit. How-
ever sad and anxious Mr. Grey might be, or
however worn out with watching, Eliza could
not be quiet. On and on poured her torrent
of foolish, tiresome talk; tiresome useless
questions, and still more tiresome and useless
entreaties to be allowed to see her mother,
until many and many a night she drove her
papa from the room, unable any longer to bear
the continual wearing-out torment of her long
tongue. But Annie went about the room
quietly and softly, never intruding herself on
any one’s attention, but ever ready to give
any little comfort or pleasure that she could ;
now bringing her papa a footstool, or her aunt
a cushion, that they might rest more comfort-
ably in their easy-chairs; always ready to take
her father’s empty cup at the right time, to
pick up the handkerchief or newspaper he had
dropped, to take the little ones out of his way
when they were teasing him, or to ring the
bell when her aunt wished the tea-tray re-
moved.



THE CHATTER-BOX. 21

«When Mrs. Grey got a little better, and
wished to see her children, Annie was allowed
into her room several days before Eliza. Mr.
Grey said he was very sorry for Eliza, but that
he really could not help it. He could not
trust her to keep quiet for even five minutes,
and he did not think it fair to deprive Annie
of the pleasure of seeing her mamma because
Eliza could not hold her tongue.

“Eliza wept and begged, and wore every
one out with her incessant complaints and en-
treaties ; and at last, though very unwillingly,
Mr. Grey allowed her to go in for a few mi-
nutes, upon condition that she promised to go
away the very instant she was told. Unfor-
tunately, immediately after Eliza went in, Miss
Grey was called out of the room. She wished
to take Eliza with her, for she was afraid to
trust her with her mother alone. But Eliza
was so unwilling to go that Mrs. Grey inter-
ceded for her, and her aunt left her with many
strict injunctions to be very quiet, and not to
speak except in answer to her mamma’s ques-
tions, Eliza promised, and meant to keep her
word. But, alas! the bad habit of chattering

_ was too strong for her. Soon the stream of



22 THE CHATTER-BOX.

words began to overflow, and went on faster
and faster, until Eliza had forgotten every-
thing but her own talk. Mrs. Grey was too
weak to make her voice be heard above Eliza's
loud tongue, and after once or twice trying a
gentle entreaty that she would speak more
slowly and more softly, she was obliged to give
it up, and lying still and silent, bear the an-
noyance as best she could. Like all great
talkers, Eliza never considered whether what
she had to say might be pleasant or unpleasant
to her hearers, and often said things which
had much better have been left unsaid. So
it was now. She teased and fretted her mamma
with long stories about little family troubles
which Mrs, Grey could do nothing to help,
but which it grieved her to hear. She told
how this child had been naughty, and the
other had hurt himself,—how this servant had
been careless, and the other idle, until poor
Mrs. Grey was fairly worried into a fever,
thinking that everything was going wrong in
the house while she was confined to bed -
and unable to put anything right. And
when Miss Grey returned, she found her
patient very seriously worse, heated, feverish,



THE CHATTER-BOX. 23

cast down in spirits, and with a violent head-
ache.

“After this Mr. Grey insisted on sending
Eliza away from home. She could not be al-
lowed again to see her mamma ; and she was
so troublesome with her constant entreaties and
complaints, and it vexed Mrs. Grey so much
to know that she was kept away from the
room, that it became quite necessary to get
rid of her, and she was sent to spend a few
weeks with an aunt who lived a long way
off,

“We, Eliza’s playmates, heard all this at the
time, and were very sorry for her. Surely,
we said, she will now be cured of chatter-
ing. Surely she must now see the evil and
annoyance she gives to every one, and she will
now teach herself to hold her tongue.

“But it was not so. Poor Eliza came back
to her home a worse chatter-box than ever.
Her aunt had a silly, idle servant, who liked
gossipping better than work, and who was
ready to listen to all Eliza’s long stories, and
to hear all the gossip she could about every-
body and everything. Like most silly people,
this woman was a great wonderer and ex-



24 THE CHATTER-BOX.

claimer. Poor Eliza was not accustomed to
be listened to with much patience at home,
and her new friend’s eager attention, and
loudly expressed surprise and interest, were
very pleasant to her. Soon she began to wish
to excite the same interest and wonder in
others as well asin Jean ; and at first, hardly
knowing that she did so, she got gradually
into the habit of making her stories a little
more wonderful, a little more interesting than
the truth. That is a habit which, once begun,
it is difficult to stop; and going on quickly
from one stage to another, Eliza soon be-
came one of the worst exaggerators I ever
knew.

“Now was her talking habit worse than
ever, Hitherto she had been only tiresome,
now she had become mischievous. The most
trifling remark made by one neighbour upon
another, grew in her hands,—or rather upon
her tongue,—into the most bitter reproach or
cutting contempt; and in more than one case,
life-long enmities sprung up between those
who had been the dearest friends. I have not
time to tell you, even if I could recollect, all
the mischief the poor heedless chatter-box



THE CHATTER-BOX. 25

wrought before she left our village ; how one
servant lost a good place through Eliza’s ex-
aggerated repetition of a few words, never
meant for her ear; how our curate’s niece was
disappointed in obtaining an excellent appoint-
ment, because of a false accusation spread
abroad against her character, which was traced
to Eliza, and the original foundation of which
she could not even recollect; and so on through
twenty or thirty cases of greater or less im-
portance. But the last piece of mischief I
recollect well, for it concerned one whom we
all loved.

“Jn our village lived a Mrs. Harland, a
widow with a large family and a small income.
She was an excellent woman, everybody’s
friend, and one of the best of mothers. She
was very anxious to give her children a good
education, and laboured far beyond her strength
for the means to do so. They were good chil-
dren, devoted to their mother, and careful to
use to the utmost every advantage she could
get for them. The eldest son, William, was a
particularly fine fellow,—very warm-hearted,
and so anxious to fit himself for any situation

in which he could help bis mother. He was



26 THE CHATTER-BOX.

a hard-working, successful student, and in a
few years had learned everything that the vil-
lage schoolmaster could teach him, without
having any prospect of getting a better in-
structor. Just at this time he attracted the
notice of a Mr. Lind, a rich gentleman in the
neighbourhood. Mr, Lind was a very benevo-
lent, although a very eccentric man, and when
he heard how well William Harland had al-
ways behaved, and how anxious he was to
improve himself, he offered to give him a pre-
sentation to a school, where the sons of indi-
gent gentlemen received a first-rate education
at small expense. The offer was thankfully
accepted. It was the very thing Mrs. Har-
land and William would have most desired,
and William studied harder than ever to pre-
pare himself to pass the introductory exami-
nation,

“July came, and everything was going on
well. - The presentation had been positively
promised, though not as yet given into their
hand. The head-master of the school, who
had been visiting Mr. Lind, had examined
William, and pronounced him ready to take
a high place in the class to which he should



THE CHATTER-BOX. 27

belong. The hearts of mother and son were
full of joy and hope, when the mischievous
chatter-box stepped in to spoil it all) Thus
it was,—

“JT have said that Mr. Lind was a peculiar
man. Generous and kind-hearted he was, but
hot-tempered, and unable to bear the least in-
terference with any of his numerous whims,
—the least encroachment upon what he con-
sidered his rights. This last point was a kind
of mania with him. He had a large property,
and to guard it from trespass, even to its
most remote nook and corner, was the business
and torment of his life. Unfortunately at the
side near the manor-house, Mr. Lind’s estate
touched upon a small farm belonging to a surly
old farmer, between whom and Mr. Lind there
was a continual enmity. A slight, low railing
alone divided the farm-yard and offices from a
large, beautiful, and very favourite grass-park
of Mr. Lind’s. And although the worthy gen-
tleman had a constant series of actions for
trespasses going on against the farmer's pigs,
poultry, farm-boys, and such lawless, restless
gentry, yet neither party seemed to think of
guarding against such trespass by erecting a



28 THE CHATTER-BOX.

higher and more sufficient fence. Malicious
people said it was because they liked the ex-
citement of quarrelling.

“On this same summer of which we are
speaking, the farmer had a very fine flock of
sixteen young geese, which were in the con-
stant habit, after dabbling to their heart’s
content in the goose-pond, of taking a walk
through Mr. Lind’s grass-park. Of course
mischievous neighbours carried the news of
this daily trespass to the fiery-tempered
squire, and many a ride he took to the spot
in the hope of finding the trespassers in the
very act. But always to be disappointed, un-
til one unlucky July afternoon, when, passing
through the park by mere accident, he came
upon the geese, walking about in great state,
twisting their long necks, and turning out
their big feet with much majesty and dignity,
as if they thought they had done a very clever
and highly praiseworthy act.”

The children laughed at their mamma’s
description of the geese, and she laughed with
them, although she said she was hardly right
to make mirth of what ended very sadly. She
went on,—



THE CHATTER-BOX. 29

“Poor Mr. Lind was in a very bad temper
at the moment he espied the geese. He had
found a ragged boy stealing sticks in that very
park, and, although he had enjoyed the satis-
faction of frightening the little fellow nearly
out of his wits by threats of future vengeance,
yet he was provoked to feel that his own kind
heart would not suffer him to put his threats
into execution, against one who was a widow’s
only child. So it was a relief to his feelings
to find something upon which he could vent
his anger. He determined at once to drive
the geese up to his own premises, and keep
them prisoners until their master should pay
any fine he might think fit to exact.

“No sooner thought of than done. True,
he was alone, on horseback, and to drive a flock
of geese is, as every one knows, no easy task.
But Mr. Lind was not easily turned back by
difficulties. In a minute he was off his horse,
had its bridle over his arm, had beckoned to
the sobbing, frightened stealer of sticks, bribed
him with the promise of forgiveness to act as
his assistant, and off they set with their wad-
dling, cackling troop before them. But a sore
and wearisome work it was. The hot July



30 THE CHATTER-BOX.

sun shone mercilessly down upon them as they
toiled up the steep hill; while now on one
side, now on the other, some of the wayward
birds straggled out of the flock and turned
back; and ever and again the led-horse turned
restive, and strained, and struggled against the
bridle. The farm-yard at the bottom of the ,
park. was full of labourers, busy with some
alterations in an outbuilding. They all stood
and watched the tedious march up the hill,
and greeted every fresh disaster with shouts
of laughter and cheering, by no means sooth-
ing to poor, weary, harassed Mr. Lind’s ears.
At last the top of the park was reached, Mr.
Lind paused a moment to wipe his heated
brow, and to take rest. His ragged com-
panion went forward to open the gate. The
geese were safely hedged into a corner, and
must pass through to the other field, where
they could be kept out of sight of the laughers
in the yard, until more skilful drivers could
be sent to take them to their prison. The
worst was surely over, when—quack, quack !
whirr, whirr !—with a loud cackle of triumph,
all the sixteen geese took to their wings, flew
over Mr. Lind’s head, and never touched the



THE CHATTER-BOX, 31

ground until they were safe on the brink of
their own pond !”

“Oh! Mamma,” cried the children, “how
the people would laugh! and how angry Mr.
Lind would be !”

“ Angry, indeed, poor man! Without one
look behind him, or one word to the bewil-
dered, staring little urchin, who stood with
the open gate in his hand, not knowing
whether to laugh or cry, he rode home ina
fit of silent passion, vowing in his heart bitter
vengeance upon every one who had in any
way helped, or even witnessed, his failure.
His passions were not, however, long-lived,
and by the second day after, he had nearly
forgotten his anger, when, on riding in to the
weekly market, it was brought back in ten-
fold fury by the sight of a large, very clever
caricature of the whole scene, sketched in chalk
upon the doors of the town-hall. Poor Mr.
Lind’s infirmities of temper were well known,
and although there were few of his neighbours
who had not at some time had experience of
his kindness, there were, at the same time,
few who had not been either angered or
amused by his pertinacious pursuit of tres-



32 THE CHATTER-BOX.

passers, stnall and great, intentional or uncon-
scious. So, of course, the caricature excited
a large share of attention, laughter, and even
admiration. Mr. Lind could not stand ridi-
cule, and his rage was really most pitiable,—
most sinful. He offered a reward of ten
pounds to any one who should find out the
drawer of the caricature, and swore a terrible
oath that he would be revenged.

“Alas! alas! as our miserable chatter-box
stood that afternoon a minute to look at the
caricature, one man beside her said to an-
other,—

“«T wonder who can have done it! It is
very clever. He must be a grand hand with
the chalk, whoever he is!’

“ so cleverly,’ returned his companion, ‘was
young William Harland, and he is the last
fellow in the world to meddle in such a
business !’

“liza heard the beginning, not the end of
the sentence ; and, as ever anxious to excite
surprise, the next person she met was told
that people thought it mvight be William Har-
land who had drawn the caricature. In the



THE CHATTER-BOX. 33

mouth of a gossip, a story grows like a snow-
ball rolling down hill, and, before the evening,
Eliza had made both herself and others believe
that there was good reason to think William
had really been the offender. Of course the
story came round to Mr. Lind’s ears, and, in
the passion of the moment, without pause or
question, he sent off his presentation by that
night’s post to the son of a friend, who had
asked for it, and been refused.

“ Poor William Harland! He had for
months been working beyond his strength,
that he might do credit to his kind friend’s
patronage. He never was a robust lad; he
could not bear the disappointment, and fell ill
‘of brain fever. For weeks the doctors de-
spaired of saving his reason or his life, and
you may imagine what Eliza’s parents suf-
fered during that time. In the end he re-
sovered, but his health had received such a
shock that the medical men said he must
never think of studying for any learned pro-
fession. And thus were all his own and his
mother’s dearest hopes blighted for life! He
was a real Christian, poor fellow, and loved

his heavenly Father too trustingly to murmur
(403)



34 THE CHATTER-BOX.

at any trial He might send. But those who
have seen him since, have told me that al-
though cheerful and good as ever, he has never
again worn the bright, hopeful look, which we
all liked so much in his young, boyish face.”

“Oh, mamma! what a shame to make it
end ill!” cried Harry, as his mother ceased
speaking,

“My dear Harry, I did not make it end
any way,” she answered with a little smile,
“Thave only told you the truth. But do you
know, little as young children think of the
fault of chattering, I do not see how a story
about a chatter-box can end otherwise than
ill, At least it must, I think, end like the

poem,
“ (In her being) ‘ our jest and aversion.’ ”

“But, mamma, the chatter-box might be
reformed.”

“That may be with one who, like a dear
little girl I know,” with a tender pressure of
poor Caroline’s hand, “ is only beginning to be
a chatter-box, and is resolved in time to use
‘ good sense and exertion.’ But Eliza, unfor-
tunately, had got too bad, and most confirmed
chatter-boxes are too bad to mend, They



THE CHATTER-BOX. 35

talk so incessantly, that they have no time to
think of the evils their long tongue brings
about,—no time to make or carry out resolu-
tions of amendment. ‘So it was with Eliza.
The grief she had brought upon the Harlands,
the sorrow she had caused her own parents,
were forgotten, or thought little of, just as she
had always forgotten or thought little about
the many rebukes, mortifications, and disturb-
ances she had brought upon herself.”

“ But, mamma,” cried Harry, as Mrs, Lind-
say seemed about to rise, “ you are not going
away! You have seen only one picture, and
there are nine. Do stay, mamma, a little
longer, and look at the others.”

“Not just now, my dear; I cannot stay
now. I must go and amuse baby while nurse
gets her own dinner and prepares his. I shall
see the others at another time.”

“ At another time !” Harry repeated discon-
tentedly. “At what other time, I wonder.
After our dinner, papa wishes you to walk
with him ; and before the big people’s dinner,
Charles will be home, and make you listen to
his news. Between the old and the young,
really we poor middle ones are quite neglected.”



36 THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Oh, Harry!” cried Lucy, “ when mamma
has given us so much of her time just now,
and told us such a long story!”

Harry made a grimace, half ashamed, half
mocking.

“Still,” he persisted, “it is hard that she
should leave us now for baby. Why can’t
Helen play with baby ?”

“ Here is Helen to answer for herself,” said
the pleasant voice of the elder sister, who just
then came in. “And the answer is a simple
one: unfortunately, Master Baby prefers mam-
ma to Helen quite as much as you do!”

“Oh, you know, Helen, I like to have you
to talk with very much!” Harry said, a little
apologetically; “only you are not mamma.
And, mamma, may we show you the rest of
the pictures after dinner this evening?”

“Not this evening, my dear. I expect
your uncle and aunt, and shall not be able to
attend to you this evening; but if you like
to come to me to-morrow forenoon, you may.
iam generally at leisure between twelve and
one every day, and shall be glad to look at
the pictures with you then.”

“To-morrow and every day, until we get





CAROLINE'S GRIEF



THE CHATTER-BOX. 37

through them, mamma,” cried Lucy. “ Oh,
that will be charming! and we can talk them
all comfortably over just as we did to-day.”

“ And have a story about each one,” added
Harry.

?

“Well, well, we shall see,” Mrs. Lindsay
said, smiling, as she left the room.

Caroline had taken no share in the latter
part of the conversation ; and when the other
two had run off to show their pictures to
Mr. Lindsay, she did not go with them, but
remained sitting as she had sat during the
conclusion of her mother’s story,-—leaning
her head upon her shoulder, and looking up
into her sweet face, while hand was clasped
in hand. Helen spoke to her, but she neither
moved nor answered. Helen went up to
her, and gently turned her head towards her.
Caroline’s eyes were full of tears.

“Why, Carry, dear, what is the matter?—
what has grieved you?” she asked tenderly.

Caroline turned away her face, and seemed
unwilling to reply. But the kind elder sis-
ter knew well how to gain the confidence of
all the little ones, and soon drew from her the
cause of her grief.



38 THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Tam so sorry to be a chatter-box,” she
said, the tears falling faster and faster,—“ so
vexed to think how often I must have been
a plague to you all, I know”—dashing away
her tears, and speaking very earnestly —“ I
can recollect so many times when I have dis-
turbed papa when busy writing, or mamma
reading; and you and Charles fifty, a hundred
times, I have plagued with my foolish talk,
when you had other things to do. Oh, Helen!”
—hiding her face on her sister’s shoulder,—
“TI can’t bear to recollect what a torment I
must so often have been !”

“My poor Carry!” said Helen tenderly;
“it Is very, very sore to feel that one has ever
been a plague to any one. But don’t you think,
darling, that it is a good thing you know and
feel it so clearly now? It would be such a
terrible thing to be a plague to people and
not to know it, because then you could never
help it.”

“Do you think I can help it now?” Caro-
line asked eagerly, raising her head. “I have
so often intended to cure myself of talking so
much, and the intentions have always passed
away. Do you think I shall be able to keep



THE CHATTER-BOX. 39

in mind the sorrow I have now, and never,
never to forget-to be afraid of teasing people?
That is what I should like so much.”

“Try very hard, dear, to keep it in mind,
and to bring it back to your mind as often as
you can. When you are going into a room,
or expect to meet people anywhere, try hard
to make yourself feel how likely it is that they
may be busy about other things, and not able
to listen to you; and so you will be more
ready to see if your talking would really be a
nuisance or not.”

“ Yes,” Caroline replied thoughtfully; “and
I should recollect, too, how unlikely it is that
old people can care very much for the foolish
things I have to say. Their heads must be
full of better things.”

“You should recollect too, dear,’ Helen
said, “how much pleasure it gives you to
have people listen attentively to you when
you have anything to say, and you should
be glad to give other people the same plea-
sure.”

“ Ah, yes,” Caroline answered, beginning to
smile a little through her tears; “mamma
says that little girls cannot expect to be able



40 THE CHATTER-BOX.

to give much pleasure to their friends, and so
they should take all the more care of the little
power they have. I have thrown away a good
deal of my little power, have I not, Helen, in
never being ready to listen to others? Oh, I
hope I shall do better now! But, Helen, I
do not think that ‘a little good sense and
exertion’ will be enough. Jam afraid it will
take a good deal; it is so difficult to keep
silent when one has a great many things one
wishes to say.”

' ©The best way is to forget yourself and
your own wishes, and to think only of others.
When Charles comes home this afternoon, keep
saying to yourself, ‘Never mind what I wish
to tell him: let me think only of how much
there is he will like to tell us.’ ”

“T shall try to do it, Helen; only if once
the words begin, they go on so fast that I for-
get everything but themselves.”

“ Don’t be discouraged, Caroline, dear,
though you forget your resolutions the first
twenty or the first hundred times. Try, try
again, and in the end you must succeed. And
remember, darling,” very earnestly, “that as
it is God who wishes you to seek the pleasure



THE CHATTER-BOX,. 4]

of others before your own, so he will help you
to do so if you ask him.”

Caroline’s only answer was a hearty kiss,
as Lucy and Harry ran into the room to sum-
mon her to dinner.















THE POPPY.



WHEN Mrs. Lindsay entered the drawing-room
the next day at twelve o'clock, she found the
three of her children waiting for her. She
took her seat in her arm-chair, and opened
an album of pictures which Harry put in her
hand, while Caroline sat in her chair observ-
ant, and Lucy waited until she spoke. Mrs.
Lindsay was eagerly welcomed.

“Come, come, mamma,’ cried the impatient
Harry. ‘Now you are comfortably seated
in your favourite chair, let us begin business
at once.”

. “That I should get out my work seems
more like business than anything you are
about,” Mrs. Lindsay said, laughing. “That
portfolio looks very like pleasure, Harry.”

“Oh, mamma!” cried the two girls, “you
forget that the business of this hour is to get



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 43

good out of the portfolio. The pleasure comes
pretty much of itself”

« And the first business,” added Harry, “ is
to say which picture we are to have first.
Lucy wants ‘Negligent Mary,’ and I think the
most amusing is ‘The Vulgar Little Lady.’”

“Suppose we take them as they lie,” Mrs.
Lindsay suggested; “and so there can be no
dispute about the matter.”

“ Agreed! agreed !” they all cried. Harry
opened the portfolio; while Caroline, bending
over the back of her mother’s chair, whispered
with a blush,—

“There are no more chatter-boxes, mamma;
so I don’t care so much which is taken first.
I am not afraid of the others, now the horrible
chatter-box is disposed of.”

« And I hope soon that the portfolio chatter-
box shall be the only one in the house, my
own little Caroline,” Mrs. Lindsay said, kindly.
“J watched you all last evening, and was
very glad to see how much you tried to make
yourself quiet and modest, to keep yourselt
from interrupting or annoying any one. I
saw you check yourself a great many times,
and was both pleased and surprised that you



44 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

could keep your resolutions in mind while
there was so much talking and laughing going
on all around you.”

“ Ah, mamma !” Caroline said, eagerly; “it
is so easy to do well when I know you are
watching me. It is such a pleasure to feel
that you see all the difficulty of going right. It
makes me so strong to go on in spite of every-
thing. I like—” she was continuing, eagerly,
when she caught an impatient look from
Harry, who had brought out the picture, and
was eager to begin. Caroline checked herself
suddenly, and was rewarded by a bright smile
from her mother.

“Here, mamma,” cried Harry, “is ‘The
Poppy.’ Look! Uncle Charles has indeed
made it grow,

* High on that bright and sunny bed ;

* * * * *
And up it holds its staring head,
And thrusts it full in view.’”

“And see, too,” Caroline cried, “ Uncle
Charles has put in such a regular ‘ poppy girl’
Look howshe is showing off her smart dress, and
how conceitedly she turns up her chin! Did
you ever see such a disagreeable looking girl?”



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 45

“And yet she has a pretty face too,” Lucy
said; “she might have looked very well if she
had only walked quietly along, and not held
her hands in that conceited way, and pointed
her toes so much, and looked so much as if
she thought herself better than any one else.”

“And as if she wished every one else to
think so too,” Caroline added. ‘“‘ You see that
is exactly what makes her a ‘ poppy girl.’ The
poppy, too, might look very well if it were
not so ‘high upon its bright and sunny bed ;’
if it did not ‘hold its staring head so full in
view. or shrubs where it is half hid, where one does
not see its long bare stalks, which always
look as if they ought to have had twenty
rather than one head upon them.”

««¢ And less unwelcome had it been
In some retired shade.’ ”

quoted Harry.
' “And Unele Charles wishes to show us how
disagreeable little girls look when they make
themselves like a poppy,” Caroline remarked.
“ Well, certainly,” laughing, “I should not like
to be that young lady.”

“ And yet,” Lucy said, blushing a little, “I



46 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

think it is natural to like to be pretty. Is
that wrong, mamma ? ”

“No, my dear, I do not think it is. We
feel that it is pleasant to look upon a pretty
face, or to listen to a pretty voice, and we
should be grateful to God if he puts it in our
power to give that pleasure to others. But,
on the other hand, if God has not seen it best
to give us that power, we should be quite con-
tented to do without it, quite satisfied that
he does all things well, all things best.”

“Yes,” Caroline said, “just as we ought to
thank God if he gives us riches with which we
can help others. But at the same time, we
should be quite contented to do with little if
God does not please to give us much.”

“ And be always anxious to make the most
of what we have, be it much or little,’ Mrs.
Lindsay continued. “The poor person ought
to take a great deal of pains to help his neigh-
bour, because pains is all he has to give; and
the rich ought to be very much afraid of not
using to the utmost the riches with which God
has intrusted him.”

“ And how about the pretty and the ugly
person, mamma?” Lucy asked.



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 47

“The pretty girl ought to take great care
that she does not by carelessness in her dress,
by awkward habits, or by a disagreeable, con-
ceited expression, spoil the pleasure which God
meant others to receive from her prettiness.
The ugly one must make up for the want of
these natural ways of pleasing, by taking great
pains to give pleasure in every way, great or
small, that comes within her power. As God
has shown us in many ways that he wishes us
to care for the happiness of others, so we may
be very sure that he never leaves one of us
without the means of doing so. And all we
have to concern ourselves about, is to see that
we do not throw away any power of giving
pleasure, however small it may be; that we
make the utmost use of every opportunity of
making others happy, which God brings to us
every hour of the day; and that we thank him
cordially for every one.”

“In that way, mamma,” Caroline said, “you
think we ought to be careful about our dress?
You don’t think it wrong to pay attention
to colours and tastes, and all that kind of
thing ?”

“Certainly not. We ought to dress our-



48 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

selves so as to look as pleasant as possible in
the eyes of others. We ought to take a little
trouble to get colours that suit each other, and
suit us,—to have our dress fit us well, and of
the neatest, most becoming shapes. I think
it is really wrong to give others the pain of
looking at an ill-fitting, untidy dress, when by
a little trouble we could save them from that
pain.”

“ And about fashion, mamma ?”

“ About fashion, it is the same thing.
When people’s eyes get used to one style of
dress, it is not pleasant to see any one wear
something very different. We must follow
the fashion in a certain degree, unless we
mean to give people that uncomfortable feel-
ing, which the sight of a very singularly
dressed person always gives. Only we must
not suffer this small duty to interfere with
greater ones. We must not be extravagant
in consulting either fashion or taste in dress,”

“J think, mamma,” Lucy said, modestly,
“that if we are really thinking only of mak-
ing the best use we can of the power to give
pleasure which God has given us, we shall
not find it so very difficult to know what



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 49

is a right or what is a wrong care about
dress.”

“T think so too, dear Lucy. If we can only
think more of others than of ourselves in look-
ing after our dress, I think we shall find it
pretty easy to do the right thing. But Harry
thinks this dissertation on dress very tire-
some,”

“Only you know, mamma,” said Caroline,
“he, too, ought to think of saving us the pain
of looking at crumpled collars, dirty hands, and
rough hair,”

Harry made one of his grimaces at Caroline,
but took her reproof very good humouredly.

“I only wish,” he said, “ that Uncle Charles
had chosen some poems about boys as well as
about girls. Yesterday’s story was about a
girl, and -I suppose to-day’s must be too.”

“ Because you think there never was such
a thing as a conceited boy,” Mrs. Lindsay said,
laughing. “ Well, suppose we leave boys and
girls both out of the question for to-day,
and I shall give you the story of a Conceited
Duck.”

“ Excellent, delightful, the very thing!” was

shouted by all three, and Mrs. Lindsay began.
(403) 4



50 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

“The sun. shone cheerily down upon the
pond where a number of ducks were dabbling
about, pluming their feathers, and gossipping
over the news of the day, as happy and as
noisy as ducks could be. Among them was
one very handsome fellow. His head and
neck shone in purple, green, gold, and deep
blue, as the sun’s rays glanced upon it A
delicate ring of pure white set off these bright
colours, and separated them from the soft
shaded gray of his back and wings. His
breast was also pure white, and distinct bars
of purple, green and gold, across each wing
and across the tail, made up the perfect beauty
of his dress, A handsome duck indeed he was,
but as conceited as handsome, and despising ”
every one who was less beautiful than himself.

“« Quack, quack, what a trial it must be to
be plain!’ quoth he, swimming proudly through
a group of common little brown ducks, scat-
tering them right and left before him without
a word of apology, casting disdainful glances
back upon them out of his small black . eyes.
‘I would not for the world be like these poor,
plain creatures. So commonplace they are!
so dingy! While one can see at a glance that



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 51

I am of a superior race. And the sun likes to
shine upon me, my brilliant colours glitter so
in his beams.’

“A party of ladies came to look at the
pond. The other ducks, good, honest little
things! were too much occupied with their own
concerns to take much heed of the strangers.
They swam about here and there, chattered
to each other, dived for worms, and enjoyed
themselves thoroughly without caring how
they looked, or what the ladies thought of
them. But the conceited duck swam close
to the edge of the pond; kept carefully in the
sunshine, that his head and neck might shine
to the best advantage; and dared not pick up
the most tempting morsel that might be close
under his feet, lest he should by any chance
get mud upon his bright yellow beak, or dis-
compose his gay feathers.

“*T think my neck looks best held this
way, quacked he, twisting it about, and turn-
ing his head over his shoulder. ‘ No—there
now—Jjust so, the sun shines brightest on it.
And,’ looking at his reflection in the water,
‘what a very handsome fellow I am! It
would really be too great a misfortune to be



52 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

like these poor ugly little things. Hark! how
the gay ladies are laughing aloud with joy to
see my beautiful colours and elegant form!’

“ But he did not know that the ladies were
busy watching the happy group of plain brown
ducks, and that they laughed to see their funny
little tails stick up in the air when they dived
under the water. They had only looked at
the conceited duck for a minute or so, and
said how handsome he was, and then turned
again to watch the busy merry ones, who did
not care for their notice.

“Oh, mamma,” cried Caroline, “that reminds
me of the day we spent at Mrs. Shirley’s, when
Emily Vane would not play with us, because
she was so anxious to show off her pretty
curls, and smart silk dress. And she kept
strutting up and down in front of the draw-
ing-room windows, hoping that the ladies and
gentlemen were admiring her, when they were
all the time amusing themselves watching us
at play, and rejoicing to see usso happy. In- |
deed, mamma, I think Uncle Charles must
have thought of Emily Vane when he drew
that picture, she was just such a ridiculous,
conceited-looking figure.”



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 53

“ Well, well, my dear,” Mrs. Lindsay said
quietly; “I think we had better leave poor
Emily alone. If we see ourselves instead of
our neighbours in these pictures, we shall get
more good from them.”

Caroline blushed deeply, and Mrs, Lindsay
went on with her story.

“<¢T think,’ said the conceited duck after a
time, when he was getting tired twisting his
neck about, ‘that I could show myself off
better if I were to go on land. No one can
see my pretty yellow legs, and my handsome
large feet, while I am swimming about in this
muddy water. And even the bright bars upon
my wings are more than half hidden just now.’

“So he scrambled on shore, and waddled
past the ladies; but they only exclaimed,

“«What a clumsy creature, see how awk-
wardly he walks! Why can’t he stay in the
water, where one does not see anything but
his pretty back and head?’”

“Ah, mamma!” cried Harry, “that is the
poppy exactly,

* And less unwelcome had it been

209

In some retired shade.

“Just as mamma often says,” added Lucy,



54 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

laughing, “ little girls and boys are very plea-
sant when they keep to their own place. But
they are the most disagreeable animals in the
world, when they push themselves forward
into notice, where no one wants them. But
please, mamma, go on.”

“The ladies were tired of watching the
ducks,” Mrs. Lindsay continued, “and walked
away, leaving the poor conceited duck, feeling
very foolish, alone upon the bank, while all
his despised companions were as busy and
happy as ever in the pond. A gate into the
garden stood open, and to hide his mortification
the duck waddled in there, hoping to find
some new admirers in this domain set apart
for the higher gentry.

“«Yes, this is the place where people of
taste and fashion walk, quacked he; ‘here I
shall be sure to find some one able to appre-
ciate my beauty and elegance.’

“ He came to a bed of fine carnations, and
waddled up and down the row, seeking for
something to eat, for even conceit cannot
always keep one from feeling hungry. But
he found nothing to suit his taste there. And
after doing as much mischief as he could,



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 55

trampling the soft mould with his broad feet,
and breaking over fine heads of carnations as
he pushed between the plants, he made his
way to a bed of broad-leaved cabbages. Here
there were so many delightful snails, that for
a little he had almost forgotten his beauty
while gratifying his appetite, when he was
startled by the loud voice of the gardener, who
had just come in.

“««Who left the gate open?’ the angry man
asked with great heat. ‘Here is a pretty to
do. These abominable ducks have been de-
stroying my carnations with their nasty clumsy
feet. Jack, Will, here, I say, come help me to
find the ducks, and drive them out!’

“ «Find the ducks, indeed!’ Not so difficult
to do. Our poor conceited friend immediately
began,

“ «Quack, quack, there is some one wishes
to see my beautiful dress. I must make haste
and get out into the sunshine. Among dark
leaves here, no one can see me. I might as
well be like one of the miserable brown ob-
jects in the duck-pond out there. Let me
get out on the. gravel-walk, where there is
room to see me all round.’



56 ‘THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

“No sooner said than done, and the gar-
dener and his boys, who had been guided to
the spot by his conceited babble, were well
pleased to see their enemy come out in full
view. While the drake was meditating which
was the most graceful way to carry his head,
down came the gardener, Jack, and Will, with
sticks and stones, whoop and halloo, to drive
him back to his own premises. Even his
conceit could not construe sticks and stones
into notes of admiration; and forgetting the
graces, he was glad to waddle off as fast as he
could, his head poking forward as awkwardly .
as that of the ugliest duck in the flock, and
his small, mean eyes, and straight, ungraceful
bill, looking meaner and more ungraceful than
ever, as he strained the one in search of a
hiding-place, and opened the other in useless
complaints. The boys thought more of the
fun of chasing him, than of the best way of
setting about it; and they mismanaged the
business so as to send him over the fence into
the shrubbery, instead of back through the
gate to the pond. The gardener stormed and
scolded both boys and duck, but to little use.
Master Drake had got in among the thick



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 57

brushwood, and being out of breath, and not
able to quack, they could not find him, and
were forced to go and gather the vegetables
for dinner, trusting that he could not do much
harm to the bushes and shrubs until they had
time to’ seek’ him.

“The poor hunted duck remained for a
little to get back his breath, his courage, and,
alas! also his conceit.

“««That poor ignorant man was only one of
the common people,’ said he, as he dressed the
feathers on his breast and wings, which had
got ruffled in his hasty passage through the
bushes. ‘He knows nothing about beauty,
nothing about fashion, If the poor wretch
had had the smallest atom of taste, he must
have seen at once what an ornament I should
. have been to his garden, how greatly my pre-
sence must have added to the pleasure of all
who walk there. See what it is to be without
taste and refinement!’

“After a little, hearing all quiet around
him, he ventured to peep out of his hiding-
place, and at last to hop on to a gravel-
walk, and, with a little caution, to set out
upon a new pilgrimage in search of admirers.



58 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

Soon he got past the thicket of shrubs, and
came out upon the lawn, where were two
ladies lying upon the grass reading.

“Ah, ha!’ quoth the duck; ‘these are the
people I like to associate with. These are the
people able to understand my perfections.
Let me see, Mr. Gardener, whether your
betters will treat me as you do. No driving
away, no throwing of stones here, or I am
much mistaken.’

“Much mistaken he was, poor conceited
fool! The ladies were engrossed with their
books, and did not observe him as he wad-
dled up to them, with what he considered
his most fascinating gait, his most irresistible
graces; his wings flapping a little now and
then, to show off his purple and green bars,
his head moving now right, now left, and now
bent gracefully back over his shoulder. He
even stepped upon the dress of one of them
without arousing her, until a loud,—

“Quack, quack; see how handsome I am!’
startled both readers.

“They both gave a slight scream, and the
one on whose dress Master Duck had set his
dirty foot sprang up, crying out angrily,—



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 59

“«Why what a nasty creature is this?
What in the world is it doing here?’

“The gardener was close to the gate of the
garden, near enough to hear the betraying
quack of his enemy, and the ladies’ scream.
In a minute he was beside them, and had
caught up poor Duck in his arms,

“Ttis a nasty, ill-conditioned beast, ma’am,”
he said to his mistress, “ and has been all over
my carnation-bed, and no one knows where
else, trampling with its big, ugly feet, and
breaking off the best flowers, and doing mis-
chief enough for a dozen.’

“<«QOh, take it away, Dods,” cried the lady.
‘It has no business here. Take it to Mary,
and tell her to look better after her poultry,
and not suffer them to go straying about the
“ lawn and gardens, destroying everything, and
frightening people in that way.’

“So Dods bore off his prey in triumph,
giving him a good many hard pinches, and
paying no attention to his remonstrances and
complaints. Mary was in the poultry-yard,
preparing to give her feathered flock their
afternoon meal. She was by no means pleased
by the scolding which Dods delivered to her



60 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

in no very set terms. In revenge, she deter-
mined that Master Duck should go supperless
to bed. So she drove him into the hen-house,
and shut him up there in the dark, while the
modest, well-behaved poultry feasted upon
blades of cabbage, cold potatoes, meal, and
such like dainties.”

“Cold potatoes a dainty! Oh, mamma !”
cried Harry, laughing.

“ A duck’s dainty at least, Harry,” she said,
echoing his laugh. “And a great dainty they
would have been to him, who had tasted
nothing except a few snails since his early
breakfast hour. However, it was not to be.
The door was fast shut; there was no opening
by which he could get out. He must submit
to darkness, solitude, and hunger. ‘The only
amusement or occupation left him was to re-
flect upon the events of the day. Reflect he
did, but to no good purpose.

“¢See what it is to be distinguished!’ sighed
he. “I always knew that the great were
objects of envy and malice by those who
could never hope to equal them; but I never
before experienced it so severely in my own
preson! Ah, after all, the only comfort one



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 61

can have, is to know one’s own perfections,
and to learn indifference to the opinions of the
vulgar and ignorant.’

“ And with this sage reflection, he drew up
one foot, hid his head under his wing, and
tried to forget his sorrows in sleep.

“The next morning he got out to the yard
with the others, and a plentiful breakfast made
up for the want of supper the night before.
But having satisfied the cravings of appetite,
his vanity resumed its old sway, and a long
hour was spent in dressing his feathers and
admiring his reflection in the water of the
pond, He, as usual, kept at a distance from
his fellows; and, swimming about in solitary
state, considered seriously the history of the
past day.

«« After all,’ he quacked, ‘I am sure I
did take the right road to fame. How can a
bird of my rare merits expect to be appre-
ciated by dairy-maids and cow-boys, gardeners
and grooms, such as frequent this dirty poultry-
yard? Certainly I was formed to adorn a
higher sphere; and my duty to myself re-
quires that I should never rest until I have
established myself in that place for which I



62 THE POPPY ; OR; THE CONCEITED DUCK.

was born. True, I failed yesterday. But
courage, friend! no true distinction was ever
attained ina day. Let me guard against the
base envy of my inferiors, and all must yet
go well. Icould not understand the gibberish
spoken by that low-bred fellow the gardener;
but sure I am that he took advantage of my
helpless situation, as a foreigner ignorant of
his language, to bring false charges against
me, which I could not refute. Otherwise,
ladies of so much elegance and refinement
could not have failed to perceive my claims
upon their admiration and attention. Let me
gather wisdom from experience, and keeping
out of the way of the rude and ignorant, pre-
sent myself only before those who are fitted
by nature and education to recognise my rare
charms, and my claims to respect.’

“ With this sage resolution, he pleased him-
self through the early hours of the day; and,
choosing his time when the servants were in
the house at dinner, he slipped quietly out of
the pond, and took his way towards the lawn,
where he had yesterday seen the fair ladies,
Ducks are not very clever creatures; and as
his first object was to hide himself from the



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK 63

dairy-maid and gardener, so he wandered
about the greater part of the day among the
trees, shrubs, and long grass, behind the gar-
dens and shrubberies, suffering a good deal
from anxiety as to where he was, and not a
little from hunger, although he did now and
then pick up a fat worm or two by the way.
At last when evening was coming on, and the
other ducks, having made a good meal, were
gathering comfortably into their house, an
unusual noise near him caused him to peep out
from among the shrubs, and to his great joy
he found himself close to the front door of the
house, before which was drawn up a carriage
and pair of dashing horses. On the door-step
stood a group of gaily-dressed ladies and
gentlemen, preparing to go out to dinner.
The coachman and footmen in attendance,
being in livery, looked to the foolish duck
like beings of a higher order than his enemy,
the plainly-dressed gardener.

“Ah, ha! I am in luck at last,’ quoth he.
‘There are none here but the high-born and
the beautiful. Like draws to like, say the
philosophers. Here at last I am sure of a
good reception, Let me show myself while



64 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.
‘yet there is time and light to see me pro-
perly.’

“So, throwing back his head, and puffing
out his chest, he waddled forward with as
much dignity as possible. The ladies were
getting into the carriage—the gentlemen
handing them in—the servants attending, to
keep the delicate dresses from being soiled
upon the wheels. No one looked so low as
the duck.

“Dear me, this is very strange!’ thought
he. ‘No one sees me. Ah, it is a pity the
sun is down: no light suits my colours so
well as that of the sun. However, let us.
make the most of what we have. Suppose I
jump in daintily and elegantly upon that
- lady’s lap. That rich purple satin would form
a fine contrast to my delicate, yet brilliant
colours.’

“Daintily and elegantly the poor duck
could not jump; but with a loud rustle and
whirr of his heavy wings, and with a wonder-
fully harsh and disagreeable quack, up he got
in some awkward way, and right into the lap
of the lady of the house. The horses started
and reared at the sudden noise; the ladies



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 65

screamed; one of the gentlemen was knocked
down by the carriage being brought violently
against him; and the coachman’s fine hat, with
its gold lace, fell off into the dirt. In short,
never was there such a scene of bustle and
confusion as poor, foolish Master Conceit had
brought about. To be sure, if one only wishes
to make a noise in the world, that is easily
enough managed, The difficulty is to make
certain of being praised, not blamed, for the
commotion.

“When matters were a little quieted, the
cause of the disturbance was discovered, and
then the ladies exclaimed and scolded. Mary
was summoned to answer for the misdemean-
ours of her charge, and angry enough and
spiteful enough she looked, I can assure you.

“ duck under her arm, there is no doing nothing
with a beast like this. To be sure it is a
beauty; but if it were not for that, I should
say, the only thing was to let it be one of those
I am to kill to-morrow.’

“«A beauty indeed! cried the angry lady,
trying to wipe the stains off her new satin

dress, for we know ducks are not very parti-
(403) 5



66 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

cular about what they tread on. ‘Never
mind its beauty, Mary; I would not for a
great deal have the nasty, tiresome creature
live another day. So shut it up to-night, and
kill it to-morrow morning.’

“And so it was. The early sun saw poor
Master Duck carried out into its light, that
Mary might see better how to cut off its head,

“«See what it is to be beautiful! sighed
poor Duck, eyeing the glittering knife in her
hand—‘ I die a martyr to my good looks;’ and
down came the knife, and his beautiful green,
purple, and gold head and neck, fell to the
ground, stained with blood and dust. And he
died, not knowing that conceit, not beauty,
was the cause of all his woe. While at the
same bright morning hour, the plain, brown
little ducks flocked joyously down to the water,
mourning very little for the loss of their gay
companion; or rather, for ducks have little
sentiment in their composition, not sorry to be
rid of the surly temper, the sharp beak, and
strong wing of their overbearing companion.”

The children were much amused by their
mamma’s story. Only Harry, with his passion
for happy endings, grumbled a little about her



THE POPPY ; OR, TH# CONCEITED DUCK. 67

killing poor Master Conceit. She might, he
thought, have reformed him, and turned him
into a good, happy, humble duck. Helen
had come into the room, and had heard nearly
all the story.

“ Does it not remind you, mamma,” she said,
“ of papa’s story about the little girl who was
vain of her performance on the piano ?”

“What little girl? What story? Tell it to
us, Helen,” cried the children.

“It was when papa was a little hoy,” said
Helen ; “his mother used every Christmas to
give a large party of both old and young
people. . The elders went to a late dinner, the
children to an early tea, They were thought
to be particularly pleasant, well-managed
parties. The young people got tea comfort-
ably before the elders came to engross grand-
mamma’s attention. While the elders were at
dinner, the children romped to their heart’s
content in a large school-room at the back of
the house, where they might make as much
noise as they pleased. And at the very time
when they were beginning to get a little tired
of their own company, and of their boisterous
sports, grandmamma’s maids came in to brush



68 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK,

the hair and smooth the dresses which had
been ruffled and disordered by blind-man’s
buff, and such like games ; and the little ladies
and gentlemen were led into the drawing-
room, where the dinner company had again
assembled, and where pictures and quiet games
were provided for their amusement.

“At one of these parties were two little
cousins, Jane and Amy, who were both famous
for their performance upon the piano. After
some time spent in romping in the school-
room, some one espied an old piano in a
corner of the room, and all agreed that a dance
would make a charming variety in the even-
ing’s amusement. Jane was first asked to be
the musician; but she was much too vain of
her playing powers to waste them upon chil-
dren, who could not understand the full merit
of her performance. And she answered dis-
dainfully, that she could not play upon such an
old cracked instrument; and, that, at any rate,
she never played dance music. It was too
common and trifling for her. She liked fine
pieces, with harmony and real music in them.

“ Her little companions were too much pro-
voked by her affectation to ask her a second time,



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 69

and they turned to Amy, who was always ready
to oblige. She complied at once, and sat down
to the piano without a moment’s delay for airs
or graces of any kind. She wished only to
give pleasure to her little friends, and was
simply and heartily glad that she could do so.
She was not considered so good a musician as
Jane ; but she played with so much spirit
and good-will, was so willing to change her
time or tune to please the taste of the little
dancers, and bore so good-humouredly with all
their interruptions, their comments, fault-find-
ing, or directions, that they thought they had
never before had such delightful music, or such
a pleasant musician, Jane looked on dis-
dainfully at Amy’s attempts to please her
audience ; and although she condescended to
dance to the music, she made many disparaging
remarks upon it.

“Such a miserable instrument,’ she said in
her affected way; ‘I really wonder, Amy, how
you can play upon it.’

“«Qh,” Amy answered cheerfully, ‘if the
others like it, I do not care. It is all we have,
and we must make the best of it.’

“*But to have ignorant children like these



70 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

tell you how fast or how slow you are to play,’
Jane pursued with increased disdain, ‘when you
know so much better than they do what is the
right time. Indeed, if I played at all, I should
insist that they should take what I chose to
give them, or go without.’

“*T play to please them. They know best
what will please them most. Why should I
not give it to them if I can?’ ‘The same
tune over again, in answer to a shout of
disapprobation at a change of tune. ‘Well,
here it is as‘long as you please.’ And, laugh-
ing and nodding to her own music, she rattled
away with as much spirit as ever.

“The dancing was kept up until the sum-
mons to the drawing-room interrupted them.
And although Amy’s fingers ached a good
deal before that time, her only regret was,
that she was not able to play so fast or so
loud as she had done at first, and as her
hearers required.

“They all went up stairs, and were kindly
received, and noticed by the company. Ques-
tions were asked about their games, and Amy’s
little admirers were eager to tell how nicely
she had played for them.



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 71

“«T should like to hear you play, my dear,’
said an elderly lady to Amy. ‘ Will you play
for me as readily as for your young friends?’

“Jane stood near and heard the request.
She desired intensely to be asked to show off
her proficiency, and was mortified and angry
that so much should be said about Amy’s
performance, while no one seemed to recollect
that she, too, was a performer.

“*T almost wish I had played for the chil-
dren,’ thought she; ‘and then they would have
spoken of me also. I practised that fine diff-
cult piece with so much care for this very
occasion. It will be too provoking if no one
asks me to play.’

“The provocation might very well have
occurred, for few of the elders knew that
Jane could play, and her own companions
had forgotten her while praising Amy. But
Amy never forgot any one, and pointing to
Jane in her pleasant modest way, she
said,—

“« My cousin plays better than I do, ma’am.
She will play to you, if you pleas,’

“The lady immediately asked Jane to play:
and although mortified to owe the invitation



72 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

to Amy, she was too anxious for an opportunity
of display to refuse. She did not at all consider
what others might like best, but choosing the
fine piece she had so carefully practised, she
sat down with many affected airs to play it.
Now little girls can sometimes give their older
friends pleasure by a quiet, simple performance
of a pretty, simple air; but it is very seldom
that they can play brilliant pieces with good
effect. If there were no other reason for their
failure, their hands are too small to execute
the chords, and running passages, as they ought
to be done. Now and then, one does meet
with a little girl whose performance is won-
derful for her age; but even in such a case,
one always feels that in the company there
are many grown up musicians who could have
played the piece much better than she can.
The piece Jane had chosen had little real
beauty in it. Her master had given it to her,
because there were in it many passages which
it was good for her to practise. It was much
too long to play in a mixed company, and
before it was half done, all the children had
gathered together at the other end of the
room, and were amusing themselves as ‘they

2



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 73

best liked, without hearing one note; and
the elders, tired of listening to what they did
not care for, and provoked by Jane’s conceited,
affected air, began to talk and laugh as if no
music were going on. Jane, thinking only of
showing off her wonderful talent, did not re-
“mark the inattention of her audience, but
rattled through the whole tedious piece, and
at the conclusion looked round triumphantly
to see the admiration, and to listen to the
praises of the company. Great was her
mortification to find that she had not one
solitary listener, and that a cold ‘Thank you,
my dear, uttered by grandmamma in the
midst of a speech to her neighbour, was to be
the only reward for all her exertions. She
rose from the music-stool, crestfallen and
ashamed; and as she thought of the loud
hearty praises and thanks poured upon Amy
by the school-room party, tears of mortification
rose to her eyes.

“ Amy was again asked to play, but was not
very willing to do so.

“*T shall play if you like, ma’am,’ she said,
modestly ; ‘but every one wishes to hear
Miss Gordon sing. Is not it a pity to make



74 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

them waste time listening to such little things
as I can play? They would rather not, I am
sure,’

“Amy was right. Although many there
might have liked to hear a little melody,
simply and prettily played by the pleasant,
unaffected child, yet most were impatient to
enjoy the far greater treat of Miss Gordon’s
really fine singing, and were in their hearts
grateful to the little girl whose good sense and
modesty prevented -her from delaying that
pleasure unnecessarily. Later in the evening,
when an air was spoken of which Amy alone
knew, she sat down at the first expression of
a wish to hear it; played it as naturally and
simply as she had played reels and quadrilles
upon the cracked piano down stairs; and gave
as much pleasure to, and received as hearty
thanks from, her elder as from her younger
hearers, Jane, conceited as she was, could not
help perceiving the difference between herself
and her cousin; and papa says that she really
learned a lesson that night which she never
forgot, and she was never afterwards so con-
ceited or affected as she had been.”

“Now, mamma,” cried Harry, laughing,



THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 75

“that is the right way to end a story; you
should have ended yours just so.”

“Come, Master Harry,” his mamma an-
swered, rising and putting away her work, “I
shall tell you no more stories if you criticise
them in such an impertinent manner,”

“Ah yes, mamma,” cried the two girls;
“you promised us a story for every picture.”

“Indeed I did not,” she answered, laugh-
ing; “I only said, ‘ Well, we shall see.”

“But that means a promise,” remarked
Caroline. “It always means when you say it,
‘I shall do the thing if I can.”

“The ‘if I can, is a very necessary addi-
tion in this case, Carry. For, really, when I do
not see the picture until the very moment in
which I am expected to tell the story, it is no
such easy matter to find a tale that will quite
suit.”

“Well, mamma, to-morrow’s picture is the
one to suit to-day’s. It is the Violet. You
might promise to have a story ready for it
before this time to-morrow.”

“ We shall see,” Mrs, Lindsay repeated, smil-
ing and nodding her head as she closed the
door behind her.







THE VIOLET.



“WE have a very pretty poem for to-day,
mamma,” cried Caroline the following morn-
ing as Harry opened the portfolio.

“ And a pretty picture too, mamma,” added
Lucy. “Is not that a pleasant face, mamma?
I like the expression so much.”

“Tt ought to have a good expression, Lucy,”
Mrs. Lindsay answered. “Uncle Charles would
try to make his violet girl look loving, unself-
ish, and modest; and love, unselfishness, and
modesty together, make up the most pleasant
expression that a countenance can wear.

* Down in a green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew ;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.’”

“That is modesty, mamma, I see,” Lucy
said; “and I suppose in the

‘ Yet thus it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed,’



THE VIOLET. 77

there is both modesty and unselfishness. A
selfish person is never content to bloom ‘in
modest tints arrayed.’ But I do not see any-
thing about love.”

“TI do not know about the love of the real
violet,” Mrs. Lindsay answered, smiling; “ but
very sure I am that no little girl could deserve
to be called

«A lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair,’
unless she were loving. In the ‘ diffusing a
sweet perfume,’ kindness is at least implied,
and that kindness is little worth, lasts but a
short time, which does not come from a gentle,
loving heart.”

“ Mamma,” Caroline said, “I like the poem
and the picture; but I do not expect to like
the story so well as the others.”

“And why not, my dear?” Mrs. Lindsay
asked, in some surprise. “Or how can you
possibly tell whether you shall like it or not
before you hear it?”

“Oh! of course I cannot tell. But only I
fancy it must be about a poor girl; and some-
how I always like best the stories which are
about children quite like ourselves.”



78 THE VIOLET.

“ But why do you fancy it must be about
a poor girl? Are rich children never humble and
modest? Can no rich girl be like the violet?”

“Oh!” laughing, “of course they can. Of
course, there is no ‘must be’ in the matter.
But only you know, mamma, in story-books the
people who are like the violet, who are humble
and quiet, and do a great deal of good that no
one expects them to do, and who ask for no
praise, and that sort of thing, all these people are
poor.. I mean, in story-books they are poor.”

“Well, Caroline, my story is not of that
kind at any rate. My little violet girl is in
the same rank of life as you and Lucy, and in
much the same circumstances, being one of a
large family, with a goodly store of brothers
and sisters.”

“ Ah! well, mamma,” cried both girls, “ that
is what we like best ; so please, mamma, go on.”’

ALICE LEE.

“You look very sad, mamma, Has Aunt
Caroline’s letter brought you any bad news?”
asked Alice Lee, as she knelt on the footstool
at her mother’s feet, and looked anxiously up
in her face.



THE VIOLET. 79

“Tt tells me of grandmamma, dear,” Mrs.
Lee answered,

“ And is grandrnamma ill, then, mamma?”

“Not exactly ill, but very feeble. Aunt
Caroline’s own little Mary is very ill, and
- Aunt Caroline must go home to her imme-
diately, and she is grieved to leave her mother
alone. But you may read the letter,” putting
it into her hands,

Alice read it through.

“ Aunt Caroline thinks grandmamma ought
to have some one to live with her always, to
watch over her, comfort, and render her the
little services she requires,” Alice remarked,
as she folded up the letter.

«Yes; and your papa and I feel strongly
that Aunt Caroline is right. But,” thought-
fully, and as if speaking to herself more than to
Alice, “ the difficulty is to get any one who will
suit. None of the sons or daughters can leave
their own homes just now, and grandmamma
will not agree to have a hired companion.”

Alice had re-opened the letter, and read
over some passages. She thought deeply for
a few minutes, and then said, but with a little
hesitation,



80 THE VIOLET.

“Mamma, could not I go to take care of
grandmamma ?”

“ You, my darling !” Mrs. Lee exclaimed in
great. surprise. “ Why, how could we part
with our little Alice? And how should you
like to go away from us all?”

« Ah! I should not like it,’ she said, while
something very like a tear stole into her eye.
“ But if it were right, mamma? And it would
be for only a little time. Aunt Caroline says
that in spring Aunt Mary will be home to
take care of grandmamma; and you and papa
have so many, and grandmamma has not one.”

“But, my Alice, you are such a young
thing.”

“Yes, mamma, I know,” she said earnestly
—“I know there are many things I cannot do,
and in many ways I should be of little use.
I know very little, and can give but little
help to any one. But then, mamma, the little
services Aunt Caroline mentions are exactly
what I can do as well as an older and wiser
person. She says that grandmamma has got
so blind that she loses her books and spec-
tacles, stumbles over stools and chairs when
she walks about alone. You know I could



THE VIOLET. 81

find her things when she had mislaid them,
and I could watch to remove everything out
of her way when she moves about the room.
Then Aunt Caroline says that grandmamma
is stiff and feeble, and that it is a great exer-
tion for her to get out of her chair when she
wants anything. I could run errands, poke the
fire, and ring the bell, and save her many a
little journey, many a rising out of her chair,
I am sure.”

Mrs, Lee did not answer immediately. She
sat considering deeply, looking into her little
girl’s clear, gentle eyes, and fondly stroking
back her hair from her open forehead.

“ Alice,’ she said at last, very seriously,
“there is a great deal in what you say. I
almost think you are right. J almost think
it is our duty to allow you to try, at least, to
live with grandmamma for two or three
months. Of course, I can decide upon no-
thing until I have seen your papa. But, in
the meantime, before we even begin upon the
question, you ought to know exactly what
you propose to undertake. It is not right, I
know,” after a moment’s hesitation, “to speak

of the faults of your grandmother, of my hus-
(403) 6



82 THE VIOLET.

band’s mother; but I cannot send you from
me without warning you fairly of the dif
ficulties in your path. Poor grandmamma’s
natural temper was never very pleasant; and
old age and infirmities have made it much
worse.”

“Ah! yes, mamma; I know,” Alice said
eagerly, as if anxious to save her mother the
pain of speaking more distinctly. “The last
time I was with grandmamma, papa told me
that now she really could not help being a
little cross sometimes. Her fretfulness was,
he said, only a part of her illness; and that
we ought no more to blame her for being soon
angry and a little unreasonable, than for hav-
ing a headache, or for not seeing well.”

“Exactly, Alice,’ Mrs. Lee said, seeming
much relieved. “But although we ought not
to blame her for her peevishness, yet it is
sometimes hard to bear. Grandmamma, re-
quires to be helped in a great many ways;
but, at the same time, she does not like people
to suppose that she is not as able to help her-
self as she used to be. And so it may very
well happen, that, after you have taken a
great deal of pains and trouble to serve her,



THE VIOLET. 83

she may be more inclined to blame than to
thank you.”

“Of course, mamma, that would not be
pleasant,” Alice answered with a smile and a
little shake of her head. “But still you
know,” very seriously, “ God will make me to
feel anxious to serve dear grandmamma; and
if I really can serve her, that must be my re-
ward, not her praises or thanks.”

“My own good, loving child!” Mrs. Lee
said, fondly putting her arm’ round her, and
kissing her. “ But there is another difficulty
in your way: grandmamma’s old servant,
Peggy, is nearly as cross as grandmamma’s
self. She is getting too old, and perhaps too
lazy, to do many things that she used to do;
and yet she does not like to see any one else
do them. Grandmamma’s comfort depends
much upon Peggy’s being kept in a good
humour. You must make up your mind to
do a good deal of Peggy’s work, while you
suffer Peggy to get the credit of it all, Can
you do this, my little Alice?”

“ Mamma,” she said, after a moment’s
thought, “I think if I can once make myself
think only of grandmamma’s comfort and hap-



84 THE VIOLET.

piness, I shall be willing enough to do every-
thing, and to get credit for nothing. But
whether I shall be prudent enough and wise
enough to manage my part without offending
Peggy, is a different question. But, mamma,”
her countenance brightening, “if God wishes
me to go and take care of grandmamma, he
will most certainly help me to do it well.”

“ Most certainly he will, my darling,” Mrs.
Lee said, kissing her again. “He will make
you both willing and able to do everything
he calls upon you to do.”

“Ah! then, mamma, it is all right,” Alice
said quietly, and with a bright smile. “You
have only now to see what papa says, and 1
am quite ready.”

The proposal was talked over that evening;
and although Mr. Lee felt, as his wife did,
that it was hard to part with their good,
loving little girl for even two months, and
although he feared that she might meet with
much to try and grieve her, yet he was in the
end brought to think that, as there was really
no one else to take her place, she ought to
go.

“ And what we ought to do, my little one,”



THE VIOLET. 85

he said to Alice, “ God always gives us strength
to do, and happiness in doing.”

And so the matter was settled; and in one
short week from that time, Alice and her
trunk were safely deposited in her grand-
mamma's house. Mr. Lee went with his little
girl; but, on account of some pressing busi-
ness, he had to return by the next train, and
was able to spend only a quarter of an hour
with her and with his mother.

Alice felt very sad when she saw her father
go away, and realised that she was left alone
to make the best she could of her difficult task.
She was a good deal tired by her long journey,
and there was nothing in her present circum-
stances to cheer or comfort her. It was a
dull, gloomy November afternoon, or rather
evening. The fire burned very low, for Mrs. Lee
had been half-sleeping before they came in,
and there had been no one to attend to it. The
parlour looked indeed dull and dreary in com-
parison to her mother’s bright, cheerful sitting-
room at home; and there had been no cor-
dial, kindly welcome to make her forget these
outward discomforts. Old Mrs. Lee had been
very unwilling that Alice should come to her,



86 THE VIOLET

and had only yielded a reluctant consent in
order to get rid of her daughter’s entreaties
and remonstrances. She therefore received
Alice very coldly, and seemed glad to be able
to speak bitterly about the untidiness of her
dress, which had been a little disordered by
the journey. Wearied and sad, Alice found it
difficult to bear sharp words and unkind glances,
and was glad when her grandmamma proposed
that she should go up stairs and get off her
travelling-dress.

On reaching her own room, Alice went
straight to the looking-glass, to ascertain the
cause of her grandmamma’s biting remarks.

“There is nothing so very bad, after all!”
she said, after a careful consideration of her
own appearance; “ grandmamma need not have
been so cross. However, they say that when
one feels cross and uncomfortable, it is a relief
to have some person or thing upon whom to
pour forth the crossness ; so, I suppose, to be
that person was the only good I could do
grandmamma for the present.”

At this moment the door opened, and Peggy
came in upon pretext of bringing up some of
Alice’s luggage, but in reality to get an oppor-



THE VIOLET. 87

tunity of giving Alice a bit of her mind, as she
phrased it.

“Whatever in the world,’ muttered she,
“ Master George and Miss Caroline,’—so she
called Alice’s father and aunt,—“ whatever
they could be thinking of to send a little brat
like that to be a plague and bother to every
one, I’m sure I can’t guess! However, child,
I can tell you,” coming close up to her, and
speaking very bitterly, “I can tell you I am
not going to suffer any one, old or young, little
or big, to interfere with me; so, if you think
to watch, spy, and push yourself in between
my mistress and me, you will find yourself
very much mistaken, I can assure you,” and,
so saying, she flounced out of the room, leaving
Alice with a heart by many degrees heavier
than it had been before.

“Tam sure I don’t want to watch, or spy,
or interfere with any one,” she said, sorrow-
fully: “why will they give me credit only for
evil? Why will they not love me, and be
kind to me, and let me help them as much as
I can ?—that is all I want. However,” dash-
ing away the tears which had begun to fall,
“Tam not here to think about what I want,



88 THE VIOLET.

or don’t want. J am here to help grand-
mamma, That is what God wishes me to do;
and to do it well is all I have to care for.”

And having smoothed her hair and arranged
her dress, she knelt for a moment by her little
bed, and prayed to her Father in heaven for
strength and guidance.

“JT know, Father,” she said in her simple
way, “that it is thy will that I should labour
hard to be a comfort to grandmamma; so I
am sure, quite sure, that thou wilt give me all
the strength, all the patience, and wisdom that
I need.” And comforted and strengthened by
this exercise of simple faith, she rose and went
down stairs with a quiet and trusting heart.

Down in the parlour things looked more
cheerful. The fire burned brightly, the cur-
tains were drawn, and the lamp lighted. The
tea-tray had been brought in; and Mrs. Lee
sat behind it, looking more pleasant and kind,
as she always did when she found herself in
her own place, and able to fulfil her own duties
as mistress of the house. All her life she had
liked better to serve than to be served. No
great harm in that, to be sure; but the pity
was, that she could not be contented without



THE VIOLET. 89

the power to serve when God had seen fit to
take it from her.

Alice’s little duties began at once. Mrs, -
Lee began to make tea; the sugar-tongs had
not been put in their usual place, and, with
her failing sight, she could not find them.
Alice saw what was wrong, and was ready to
spring forward and give them to her. But she
remembered her mamma’s warning, and kept
still until Mrs. Lee had turned to the other
side of the tea-tray, when the little girl con-
trived to push them noiselessly forward into
full view. So when her grandmamma, fretted
and cross because she could not find them,
turned back to: the sugar-basin, there they
were all ready, and the old lady’s face bright-
ened up directly, and she felt quite pleased
with her own cleverness in finding them.

So far Mrs. Lee’s theory had helped Alice.
But experience in one or two failures was
necessary to fix the principle in her mind.
In rising from the tea-table, Mrs. Lee stumbled
over a footstool; but when Alice sprang for-
ward to remove it, she met only with an angry,
“What is the child about? Do you think
I don’t see where I am going? Or that I



90 THE VIOLET.

cannot go across the room without your
help ?”

Alice made no answer, except by a little
good tempered laugh, which softened the old
lady directly. And Alice took an early op-
portunity, as she crossed the room to get her
work, to move chair, table, and stool out of
her grandmother's way, without seeming to
do so.

After a little Mrs, Lee took up her knitting;
and Alice soon perceived that she had allowed
the ball to run under her chair, and the worsted
to rub against the sharp edge of the seat, so
that it was cut, and worn to less than half of
its proper thickness, She waited and pondered
what she could do. She was afraid to vex
her grandmamma by any remark; and yet
it seemed a pity to allow her to waste all her
work in that way. And Alice knew that the
worn worsted must give way the first time
the stocking was washed, if not sooner. So
after a minute or two she ventured very
modestly to tell her grandmamma what had
happened, and to suggest that the injured
worsted should be broken off. But Mrs. Lee
only said,—



THE VIOLET. 91

“Nonsense, child! Attend to your own
work, and leave me to attend to mine. JI knew
how to knit stockings fifty years before you
were born. Don’t you think to teach me !”

Again Alice only laughed pleasantly. But
when her grandmother had retired to bed, she
took up the stocking, and taking down all
her grandmother had done that evening, she
broke off the frayed worsted, and worked up
again with the good to the row at which Mrs.
Lee had left off It was not a very easy
task, for the pattern was new to Alice, and
it gave her a good deal of trouble to find it
out, and to make her work so like her grand-
mamma’s as not to spoil the stocking. Alice
was, besides, sleepy and tired, and longed to
get to bed, so that the work seemed doubly
tedious and difficult.

“ And then to think,” Caroline interrupted,
“that she should get no thanks for all her
pains, but only a scolding if her grandmamma
found out what she had done. Well, mamma,
that was disagreeable enough. It is not so diffi-
cult to take pains to help people, if we know
that they will be grateful and thank us.”

“ But then, you know, Caroline,” said Lucy,



92 THE VIOLET.

“the violet hangs her head and hides herself
under the leaves, and only cares to give people
pleasure by her sweet perfume. Alice was
very like the violet. But please, mamma, go
on. Did Mrs. Lee find out that Alice had
helped her ?”

Not about the stocking. But upon the
following day Alice was pretty often found
fault with for being officious and interfering.
The bustle of very good for the old lady. She had passed
a restless night, and was more than usually
uncomfortable and cross, She required more
help and service than usual, for she was weak
and worn out; and yet she was less than
usual willing to be helped. Alice passed a
very trying day. Nothing she did, or left
undone, seemed to give satisfaction. When
anything went wrong, it was sure to be in
some way Alice’s fault. And many a time
through the day Alice was forced to remind
herself that she had promised not to think
about herself at all; that the only thing she
had to attend to, or care for, was her grand-
mother’s good and comfort.

“Tt really seems to do grandmamma good



THE VIOLET. 93

to scold a little,’ she thought, as she went up
to her room to prepare for dinner. “Itisa
great deal better that she should scold me
than Peggy, because poor Peggy cannot bear
to be scolded, and either answers grandmamma
or gets cross, and does not attend to her com-
forts as she ought to do. Hither way, grand-
mamma is put about; so I have been at least
of some use to-day, and that is a great
comfort.”

After dinner Mrs. Lee got a comfortable
sleep in her arm-chair, and Alice had a little
quiet time to think over the day’s proceedings.
She did not think them over to grumble and
complain of her grandmamma’s unreasonable-
ness and crossness ; but to see where she had
made any blunder, which might be avoided
for the future, and to find out new and better
ways of being of use.

After her refreshing sleep, Mrs. Lee was
kinder and more reasonable, and things went
on much more pleasantly during the rest of
the evening. The next day, and the next,
and the next were also more agreeable and
harmonious. Mrs, Lee was beginning to get
accustomed to Alice,—beginning to love her,



94 THE VIOLET.

and to rejoice in the comfort of having such a
pleasant, watchful attendant. And as for Alice,
God was day by day more fully answering her
prayer, making her day by day more unselfishly
and simply earnest to help her grandmother,
and more cheerfully willing to go without
thanks or praise for her service. She was also
day by day gaining more knowledge and ex-
perience of the best ways of making the old
lady comfortable, and had the satisfaction of
feeling that she was each day more successful
than on the preceding one.

But while Alice got on thus prosperously
with her grandmother, she made little progress
in gaining Peggy’s good-will. The old servant
had firmly persuaded herself that Alice wish-
ed and planned to supplant her in her lady’s
favour ; and not all the little girl’s gentleness
and modesty could dislodge this notion from
her mind. Alice was sorely troubled about
it. She saw that, as her mamma had said,
Peggy had got old and lazy, and left undone
many little things which she had been used
to do, and upon which her mistress’ comfort
greatly depended. And yet, if Alice at any
time proposed to take such small duties upon



THE VIOLET. 95

herself, the proposal was sure to be met by a
snappish negative, and by a fit of crossness
which would, for one or two days, as the case
might be, disturb the comfort of all in the
house. The sneers and crossness she could
bear well enough, so far as herself alone was
concerned, for she knew they were undeserved ;
but when she saw how much Mrs, Lee’s com-
fort or discomfort depended upon the state of
Peggy’s temper, she felt that it was most ne-
cessary that she should be very prudent, and
- should, even while working hard to do Peggy’s
work, suffer Peggy to get all the praise.

And by slow degrees in this, too, she suc-
ceeded. The first success was in a matter
which had caused Mrs. Lee a good deal of an-
noyance. She had a great many little fancies
about the arrangement of her toilette. For
more than fifty years past, she had always had
everything she required for dressing and un-
dressing laid out in a particular way; and she
could not bear to have the least thing for-
gotten,—to have a brush, a glass, or a pin out
of its appointed place. During all these years
Peggy had been her constant attendant, and
had until lately taken a great pride in having



96 THE VIOLET.

every little thing exactly as Mrs. Lee liked.
But now her memory was beginning to fail,
and she grudged the trouble of thinking over
and recollecting all the many particulars,
Now one thing was forgotten or misplaced, and
now another; and scarcely a day passed in
which Mrs. Lee was not made cross and un-
comfortable by some such neglect, either morn-
ing or night, if not both. Once and again
Alice had asked Peggy to suffer her to attend
to these matters, but Peggy had always refused;
until one fortunate evening when she happened
to have a headache, and to be very busy mak-
ing marmalade, and therefore graciously con-
sented to allow Alice to do the best she could.
Alice had often been present at her grand-
mother’s toilette, and had, in preparation for
such an occasion, taken pains to learn exactly
how everything should be arranged. With
great care and thoughtfulness she now put
her knowledge to use, and with perfect suc-
cess. There was not the smallest thing out
of its place! And as Alice listened to her
grandmother's expressions of pleasure, and saw
her lie down in bed looking so much more
happy and comfortable than had often lately



THE VIOLET. 97

beun the case, she resolved never to rest until
she had gained leave to take this little business
upon herself.

Peggy’s black looks warned her that the
present was no time to urge the proposal. To
Peggy had been given all the credit of this
night’s successful arrangement; and, although
she had not been generous enough to give
Alice her due, yet she felt quite as cross and
jealous as she could have done had the truth
been made known. Alice wisely forbore the
. least allusion to her success, or to the delicate
subject, until two or three days had passed,
and Peggy had forgotten the feeling of rivalry
which had been excited. And then, watching
for a transient fit of good humour, she coax-
ingly asked, a as favour to herself, that her
grandmamma’s toilette arrangements might
be left to her. Peggy gave a reluctant as-
sent, hinting that Alice would soon tire of the
business, And from that day forward no
more complaints were heard, and Mrs. Lee was
full of praises of Peggy’s care and thought-
fulness !

Another continual source of annoyance was

the dusting of a little cabinet of curiosities
(403) 7



98 THE VIOLET.

and old china. Mrs. Lee wished that every
article should be carefully dusted every morn-
ing; and for all these years this had been
Peggy’s morning task. Now she thought it quite
enough to do it once a week or so. Every
morning when Mrs. Lee came down stairs, her
first business was to go up to the cabinet ;
and being too blind to see the general effect,
she would pass her finger over the ornaments,
or round the cups and saucers, and fret her-
self into thorough discomfort and weariness if
the smallest speck of dust could be discerned.
Alice in this case said nothing to Peggy, but
rising half an hour earlier every morning,
continued to have every article nicely dusted
before any one appeared. It was a tedious
and tiresome task for a little girl, and of course
no word of thanks ever rewarded her pains; but
her grandmamma’s mind was set at ease, and
that was all she cared for. And when, after
having tried the finger-test as usual, Mrs. Lee
put the invariable question,—‘“ Has the cabi-
net been dusted this morning, Alice ?” the little
girl rejoiced that it had taken a form which
she could answer with perfect truth, with-
out bringing upon Peggy the reproof which



THE VIOLET. 99

she so bitterly detested, and which had so evil
an effect upon her temper.

In the same way with Mrs. Lee’s slice of
toast and her basin of gruel : Peggy sometimes
burned the one and overboiled the other, now
that her sight and memory were beginning to
fail. And as the only other servant was a
giddy, thoughtless girl, Alice soon got into the .
habit of slipping quietly out of the room, be-
fore tea and supper, and going to the kitchen
to coax Peggy to let her be cook for the time.

All these seem very small matters to attend
to, and had Alice considered her own credit,
or laboured for praise and admiration, she
would have thought them too small to be worth
so much trouble; but seeing that these were
the very things which made her grandmother
comfortable or uncomfortable, she considered
them as being the very things God had sent
her there to do; and being modestly and
humbly willing to keep herself in the back-
ground, she set about doing them heartily and
with her might. Her grandmamma’s comfort,
and not praise to herself, was what she worked
for; and God gave her the reward she sought,
~——gave her the pleasure of knowing that she


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The Baldwin Library

University | |
RmB w|i
Florida











BUSINESS AND PLEASURE


LONDON, £.

EXTRAVAGANT FANNY


—Sigihete—
WHICH IS MY LIKENESS?

— tw prtir




WHICH IS MY LIKENESS?

Seeing Ourselbes as we See Others.

BY

COUSIN KATE

(THE LATE MISS C. D. BELL.)



LONDON:

T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH ; AND NEW YORE.

1873.


GXontents.

enero
THE CHATTER-BOX, ... = ae rH a 9
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK, se a 42
THE VIOLET, = A - = e 76
THE PIN, ... ae = os = See lid
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, ... = oS ne 148
THE PIGS, ... - es cf aa = 185
NEGLIGENT MARY,. ... a = = ve 296
FINERY, ... cS a i a =. °266

THE SNAIL, ee = = She waa > 805




WHICH IS MY LIKENESS?



THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Mamma! mamma! what do you think Uncle
Charles has sent us for our Christmas present ?”
cried little Harry Lindsay, as he ran into his
mamma's room one fine Christmas forenoon.

He was followed by his two sisters, Caroline
and Lucey. Their mamma glanced smilingly
at a large portfolio which Lucy carried, and
answered,—

“Perhaps some of Uncle Charles’ pretiy
pictures.”

“Yes, mamma; but what are the pictures
about?” cried both the girls,

“Oh! that indeed I cannot say; they
might be about so many things.”

“But guess, mamma, only guess,” Harry
urged.
10 THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Perhaps pictures of you three children,
and of baby, Charles, and Helen.”

“No, no, mamma; guess again,” theyall cried.

“ Likenesses of Shaggie, Touzle, and Wee-
wee—of the turtle-doves—of—”

“No, no, quite wrong,’ said Caroline,
laughing.

“T should like to have a likeness of dear
old Shaggie, though, and Touzle too,” added
Harry. “TI shall ask Uncle Charles to draw
them.”

“You nonsensical boy!” said Caroline.
“Why, we have Shaggie already with you on
his back, and Touzle jumping up to catch the
bridle. And such a pretty picture of Wee-
wee, mewing for her kitten, which baby has
all huddled up in his pinafore. But, mamma,
pray guess again.”

“No, indeed, I shall not,’ Mrs. Lindsay
answered, laughing. “ Why, children, I might
guess all day——Uncle Charles can make pictures
of anything, of everything. You must tell
me if you wish me to know.”

“Well, mamma, they are pictures about the
poems he made us learn last summer,” said
Caroline. “There are nine of them, and
THE CHATTER-BOX. 11

Uncle Charles says that if we make a good
use of these he may perhaps send us more.”

“ Mamma,” asked Lucy, “what does Uncle
Charles mean by making a good use of them?
what use can one make of pictures except to
look at them ?”

« And to get pleasure out of them,” suggested
Caroline. ;

“Perhaps Uncle Charles means you should
get good as well as pleasure out of them.”

“But how, mamma? I don’t see how,”
Caroline said.

“Perhaps he expects that the picture may
help you to remember the moral of the poem—
may help it to make a deeper impression on
your mind.”

“Do you think they can? I hardly under-
stand how,” Lucy said, thoughtfully.

“Am I not to see the pictures?” Mrs.
Lindsay asked, smiling. “Perhaps if I saw
them, I could tell you better how Uncle
Charles meant them to do you good. Am I
to see them, Lucy?”

“Oh! to be sure, mamma,” opening the
portfolio. “See, here is the first: The
‘ Chatter-box. Is not it pretty?”
12 THE CHATTER-BOX,

“ But now, mamma, what is the good we are
to get from it?” asked both Harry and Caroline.

“J think it is as I said. Look at the
expression of the lady’s face. How annoyed
and vexed she looks! Don’t you think the
picture tells you even more plainly than the
poem, that a constant chatter-box must often
be our ‘aversion?’ Don’t you think that the
recollection of that lady’s face might often
keep you from annoying people as the Lucy
of the picture is annoying her?”

“The Lucy—that is you, Miss. Lu,” said
Harry, laughing.

Lucy only laughed. Her conscience was
clear. She was no great talker. She and
Harry looked at the picture, and tried to imi-
tate the lady’s looks and gestures of disgust
and annoyance. Caroline did not join them.
A love of chattering was one of her faults.
She did not much like the subject.

“JT think,’ said Mrs. Lindsay, after a
moment’s consideration, “that the picture
shows us also very plainly the selfishness of
the chatter-box.”

“Oh! mamma! do you think all chatter-
boxes are selfish ?” Caroline asked anxiously.
THE CHATTER-BOX. 13

“Indeed, my dear, I do think so. The
confirmed chatter-box thinks only of what is
in her own mind, of what she has to tell, of
what she wishes to know. She cares very
little for what other people may be thinking
of, or feeling, Is that not selfish?”

Caroline turned away her head with a deep
blush, and did not speak. Mrs. Lindsay put
her arm kindly round her.

“Courage, my little Caroline,” she said;
“you are not as yet either a confirmed or a
very selfish chatter-box,

‘ While you are still young, you can bridle your tongue
With a little good sense and exertion,’

and so save yourself from ever becoming, like
poor Lucy, ‘our jest and aversion.’ Shall
Uncle Charles’ picture of the poor persecuted
lady, and the selfish chatter-box, teach you to
do that ?”

“ But, mamma, where do you see that the
chatter-box is selfish?” asked Harry.

“T think I can see,” said the more thought-
ful Lucy. “Look, Harry, how bright and
happy the little girl looks, while the lady is
so much vexed. She is quite glad to get out
14 THE CHATTER-BOX.

her chatter, and does not care a bit how much
pain or trouble her interruption may cause.
That is selfishness, horrible selfishness.”

“To be sure it is,” Harry said assentingly.
“ Mamma, was that what you meant?”

“Exactly. When I looked at the little
gitl’s smiling face, and contrasted it with the
frowning brow and forbidding gesture of the
lady, I was reminded of a poor silly selfish
chatter-box whom I knew when I was a little
girl like you, Lucy.”

“Oh! mamma! tell us about her,” cried
Harry and Lucy. Caroline was still silent.
Mrs. Lindsay smiled at the eager listening
faces of the other two. But she kept her arm
round Caroline, as if to remind her that,
chatter-box though she might be, she was still
very dear to her mother’s heart.

“Eliza was the name of my chattering
friend,” she began. “She was a pretty clever
little girl She was the eldest of the family ;
and while she was a baby, she was a great pet
with father, mother, uncles and aunts. When
very little, she spoke much more plainly than
children of her age usually do; and it was
amusing to hear long words come so distinctly
THE CHATTER-BOX. 15

out of such a little mouth. Then, too, she only
came into the drawing-room at times when
those there wished to amuse themselves with
her, and so she was encouraged and tempted
on to talk continually.

“ By-and-by, however, other young voices
came to take their share in the family noise.
Quietness came to be more of a rarity and
luxury than baby prattle. And Eliza, now
able to roam all about the house at all hours,
began to be rather a torment with her constant
rattling away,

‘ Like water for ever a-dropping.’

In neither drawing-room, dining-room, bed-
‘room, nor study, could her friends be secure of
one hour’s rest from the busy, chattering, in-
terrupting tongue.

“ Now her papa and mamma tried to check
the evil they had at first encouraged. But it
was too late. Eliza had become too confirmed
and too determined a chatter-box. Whoever
was in the room, or however they were em--
ployed, it was all the same to Eliza—chatter,
chatter wen! her tongue without a moment’s
rest, without a roment’s thought for what
16 , THE CHATTER-BOX.

others might think or wish. Her papa or
mamma might be tired or unwell, engaged
with company, busy with letters, or interested
in a book—Eliza never thought, never cared,
but poured forth her constant stream of silly
babble of what she had seen, what she had
heard, what she had done or wished to do,
where she had gone or meant to go. Ifa
positive command to be quiet silenced her, it
was only for a minute. Again the wearisome
tongue began, until one got as tired of telling
her to be silent as of hearing her talk ; and
one could only get a little peace by sending
her out of the room, or going away one’s self.

“The father and mother talked gravely to
her, and tried to show her that she gave every
one around her a great deal of trouble and
pain, and caused every one who came near her
to pass many uncomfortable hours, which she
could easily have spared them by merely
holding her tongue, and that she made people
really dislike her, and avoid her society as a
plague and a weariness. Eliza talked far too
fast, and too continually, to be able to think
of what was said to her. Her friends spoke

earnestly and entreatingly, but their words
(408)
THE CHATTER-BOX. 1?

fell only on her ear. Before they had reached
her mind, or made any impression there, the
full, overflowing torrent of her own talk had
carried them clean away, to be never more
thought of.

“Many and many a mortification had she
to bear as she grew older; and people began
more and more plainly to show that they
thought her a nuisance. Her little compa-
nions all disliked her. She was always so
busy talking, that she never paid attention to
what she was doing; and spoiled our toys,
and put us out in our games, with the most
provoking carelessness. Besides, we, too, had
our little stories to tell, our questions to ask,
our thoughts to express; and we had no pa-
tience for a companion who was always speak-
ing, never listening. So, whenever we could,
we kept out of her way, and chose another
play-fellow or walking-companion ; and many
an hour was she left alone and moping, while
we others were playing in some secret corner,
rejoicing that Eliza had not found us out.

“Her elders, too, avoided her, and would
not invite her to their houses) One charming

_ Christmas week all we young people of the
(403) 2
18 THE CHATTER-BOX.

village spent with a dear old lady and gentle-
man, in a beautiful large country-house, where
every kind of amusement was provided to
make us happy; and Eliza was left at home,
because the old lady said she could not think
of allowing her little friends to be annoyed
by such a chatter-box. Another time, one of
her aunts went to pay a round of visits among
their relations in the West of England and in
Wales. She was asked to bring one of her
nieces with her. But she chose Annie, Eliza’s
younger sister, and told Eliza plainly that she
really could not take one who she knew would
be a constant torment to every one to whose
house she went. And whenever their grand-
papa was ill, he used to ask that Eliza might
not be the one who was sent to ask for him,
because her long tongue wore him out, and
gave him a headache.

“When Eliza was about twelve years old,
her mamma had a very dangerous illness. Her
children were too young to enter fully into the
anxiety and alarm felt by their elders. But
they missed their mother’s pleasant company
and kind care, and many were the lamen-
tations heard in nursery and_ scbool-room
THE CHATTER-BOX. 18

over their long banishment from her room.
At this time came out in strong contrast the
characters of the two girls of the family—Eliza
and Annie. Eliza was, I am sure, really sorry
for her mamma’s illness; but she talked so
incessantly and tiresomely about her grief, and
was besides so noisy, heedless, and troublesome,
that every one was inclined to think that her
sorrow was nothing but talk. Annie, on the
other hand, said very little, but went about
the house so gentle, thoughtful, and good,—
was so watchful to render any little help that
came in her way, and so careful to avoid giv-
ing trouble, that no one could help seeing that
she was continually thinking of her mother’s
state, continually striving to do her service.
“The children’s aunt, Miss Grey, came to
nurse their mamma, and I remember hearing
her tell my mother, that it was difficult to
fancy how much poor chattering Eliza plagued,
or how much the quiet Annie comforted, every
member of the household, during those long
weeks of anxiety and sorrow. LTven in her
worst days. Mrs. Grey atways insisted that her
husband and sister should leave her at tea-
time, in order that the children might not miss
20 THE CHATTER-BOX.

their accustomed pleasure of being with their
father at that meal. At those times Eliza
was, Miss Grey said, a teasing, chattering par-
rot; Annie, a gentle ministering spirit. How-
ever sad and anxious Mr. Grey might be, or
however worn out with watching, Eliza could
not be quiet. On and on poured her torrent
of foolish, tiresome talk; tiresome useless
questions, and still more tiresome and useless
entreaties to be allowed to see her mother,
until many and many a night she drove her
papa from the room, unable any longer to bear
the continual wearing-out torment of her long
tongue. But Annie went about the room
quietly and softly, never intruding herself on
any one’s attention, but ever ready to give
any little comfort or pleasure that she could ;
now bringing her papa a footstool, or her aunt
a cushion, that they might rest more comfort-
ably in their easy-chairs; always ready to take
her father’s empty cup at the right time, to
pick up the handkerchief or newspaper he had
dropped, to take the little ones out of his way
when they were teasing him, or to ring the
bell when her aunt wished the tea-tray re-
moved.
THE CHATTER-BOX. 21

«When Mrs. Grey got a little better, and
wished to see her children, Annie was allowed
into her room several days before Eliza. Mr.
Grey said he was very sorry for Eliza, but that
he really could not help it. He could not
trust her to keep quiet for even five minutes,
and he did not think it fair to deprive Annie
of the pleasure of seeing her mamma because
Eliza could not hold her tongue.

“Eliza wept and begged, and wore every
one out with her incessant complaints and en-
treaties ; and at last, though very unwillingly,
Mr. Grey allowed her to go in for a few mi-
nutes, upon condition that she promised to go
away the very instant she was told. Unfor-
tunately, immediately after Eliza went in, Miss
Grey was called out of the room. She wished
to take Eliza with her, for she was afraid to
trust her with her mother alone. But Eliza
was so unwilling to go that Mrs. Grey inter-
ceded for her, and her aunt left her with many
strict injunctions to be very quiet, and not to
speak except in answer to her mamma’s ques-
tions, Eliza promised, and meant to keep her
word. But, alas! the bad habit of chattering

_ was too strong for her. Soon the stream of
22 THE CHATTER-BOX.

words began to overflow, and went on faster
and faster, until Eliza had forgotten every-
thing but her own talk. Mrs. Grey was too
weak to make her voice be heard above Eliza's
loud tongue, and after once or twice trying a
gentle entreaty that she would speak more
slowly and more softly, she was obliged to give
it up, and lying still and silent, bear the an-
noyance as best she could. Like all great
talkers, Eliza never considered whether what
she had to say might be pleasant or unpleasant
to her hearers, and often said things which
had much better have been left unsaid. So
it was now. She teased and fretted her mamma
with long stories about little family troubles
which Mrs, Grey could do nothing to help,
but which it grieved her to hear. She told
how this child had been naughty, and the
other had hurt himself,—how this servant had
been careless, and the other idle, until poor
Mrs. Grey was fairly worried into a fever,
thinking that everything was going wrong in
the house while she was confined to bed -
and unable to put anything right. And
when Miss Grey returned, she found her
patient very seriously worse, heated, feverish,
THE CHATTER-BOX. 23

cast down in spirits, and with a violent head-
ache.

“After this Mr. Grey insisted on sending
Eliza away from home. She could not be al-
lowed again to see her mamma ; and she was
so troublesome with her constant entreaties and
complaints, and it vexed Mrs. Grey so much
to know that she was kept away from the
room, that it became quite necessary to get
rid of her, and she was sent to spend a few
weeks with an aunt who lived a long way
off,

“We, Eliza’s playmates, heard all this at the
time, and were very sorry for her. Surely,
we said, she will now be cured of chatter-
ing. Surely she must now see the evil and
annoyance she gives to every one, and she will
now teach herself to hold her tongue.

“But it was not so. Poor Eliza came back
to her home a worse chatter-box than ever.
Her aunt had a silly, idle servant, who liked
gossipping better than work, and who was
ready to listen to all Eliza’s long stories, and
to hear all the gossip she could about every-
body and everything. Like most silly people,
this woman was a great wonderer and ex-
24 THE CHATTER-BOX.

claimer. Poor Eliza was not accustomed to
be listened to with much patience at home,
and her new friend’s eager attention, and
loudly expressed surprise and interest, were
very pleasant to her. Soon she began to wish
to excite the same interest and wonder in
others as well asin Jean ; and at first, hardly
knowing that she did so, she got gradually
into the habit of making her stories a little
more wonderful, a little more interesting than
the truth. That is a habit which, once begun,
it is difficult to stop; and going on quickly
from one stage to another, Eliza soon be-
came one of the worst exaggerators I ever
knew.

“Now was her talking habit worse than
ever, Hitherto she had been only tiresome,
now she had become mischievous. The most
trifling remark made by one neighbour upon
another, grew in her hands,—or rather upon
her tongue,—into the most bitter reproach or
cutting contempt; and in more than one case,
life-long enmities sprung up between those
who had been the dearest friends. I have not
time to tell you, even if I could recollect, all
the mischief the poor heedless chatter-box
THE CHATTER-BOX. 25

wrought before she left our village ; how one
servant lost a good place through Eliza’s ex-
aggerated repetition of a few words, never
meant for her ear; how our curate’s niece was
disappointed in obtaining an excellent appoint-
ment, because of a false accusation spread
abroad against her character, which was traced
to Eliza, and the original foundation of which
she could not even recollect; and so on through
twenty or thirty cases of greater or less im-
portance. But the last piece of mischief I
recollect well, for it concerned one whom we
all loved.

“Jn our village lived a Mrs. Harland, a
widow with a large family and a small income.
She was an excellent woman, everybody’s
friend, and one of the best of mothers. She
was very anxious to give her children a good
education, and laboured far beyond her strength
for the means to do so. They were good chil-
dren, devoted to their mother, and careful to
use to the utmost every advantage she could
get for them. The eldest son, William, was a
particularly fine fellow,—very warm-hearted,
and so anxious to fit himself for any situation

in which he could help bis mother. He was
26 THE CHATTER-BOX.

a hard-working, successful student, and in a
few years had learned everything that the vil-
lage schoolmaster could teach him, without
having any prospect of getting a better in-
structor. Just at this time he attracted the
notice of a Mr. Lind, a rich gentleman in the
neighbourhood. Mr, Lind was a very benevo-
lent, although a very eccentric man, and when
he heard how well William Harland had al-
ways behaved, and how anxious he was to
improve himself, he offered to give him a pre-
sentation to a school, where the sons of indi-
gent gentlemen received a first-rate education
at small expense. The offer was thankfully
accepted. It was the very thing Mrs. Har-
land and William would have most desired,
and William studied harder than ever to pre-
pare himself to pass the introductory exami-
nation,

“July came, and everything was going on
well. - The presentation had been positively
promised, though not as yet given into their
hand. The head-master of the school, who
had been visiting Mr. Lind, had examined
William, and pronounced him ready to take
a high place in the class to which he should
THE CHATTER-BOX. 27

belong. The hearts of mother and son were
full of joy and hope, when the mischievous
chatter-box stepped in to spoil it all) Thus
it was,—

“JT have said that Mr. Lind was a peculiar
man. Generous and kind-hearted he was, but
hot-tempered, and unable to bear the least in-
terference with any of his numerous whims,
—the least encroachment upon what he con-
sidered his rights. This last point was a kind
of mania with him. He had a large property,
and to guard it from trespass, even to its
most remote nook and corner, was the business
and torment of his life. Unfortunately at the
side near the manor-house, Mr. Lind’s estate
touched upon a small farm belonging to a surly
old farmer, between whom and Mr. Lind there
was a continual enmity. A slight, low railing
alone divided the farm-yard and offices from a
large, beautiful, and very favourite grass-park
of Mr. Lind’s. And although the worthy gen-
tleman had a constant series of actions for
trespasses going on against the farmer's pigs,
poultry, farm-boys, and such lawless, restless
gentry, yet neither party seemed to think of
guarding against such trespass by erecting a
28 THE CHATTER-BOX.

higher and more sufficient fence. Malicious
people said it was because they liked the ex-
citement of quarrelling.

“On this same summer of which we are
speaking, the farmer had a very fine flock of
sixteen young geese, which were in the con-
stant habit, after dabbling to their heart’s
content in the goose-pond, of taking a walk
through Mr. Lind’s grass-park. Of course
mischievous neighbours carried the news of
this daily trespass to the fiery-tempered
squire, and many a ride he took to the spot
in the hope of finding the trespassers in the
very act. But always to be disappointed, un-
til one unlucky July afternoon, when, passing
through the park by mere accident, he came
upon the geese, walking about in great state,
twisting their long necks, and turning out
their big feet with much majesty and dignity,
as if they thought they had done a very clever
and highly praiseworthy act.”

The children laughed at their mamma’s
description of the geese, and she laughed with
them, although she said she was hardly right
to make mirth of what ended very sadly. She
went on,—
THE CHATTER-BOX. 29

“Poor Mr. Lind was in a very bad temper
at the moment he espied the geese. He had
found a ragged boy stealing sticks in that very
park, and, although he had enjoyed the satis-
faction of frightening the little fellow nearly
out of his wits by threats of future vengeance,
yet he was provoked to feel that his own kind
heart would not suffer him to put his threats
into execution, against one who was a widow’s
only child. So it was a relief to his feelings
to find something upon which he could vent
his anger. He determined at once to drive
the geese up to his own premises, and keep
them prisoners until their master should pay
any fine he might think fit to exact.

“No sooner thought of than done. True,
he was alone, on horseback, and to drive a flock
of geese is, as every one knows, no easy task.
But Mr. Lind was not easily turned back by
difficulties. In a minute he was off his horse,
had its bridle over his arm, had beckoned to
the sobbing, frightened stealer of sticks, bribed
him with the promise of forgiveness to act as
his assistant, and off they set with their wad-
dling, cackling troop before them. But a sore
and wearisome work it was. The hot July
30 THE CHATTER-BOX.

sun shone mercilessly down upon them as they
toiled up the steep hill; while now on one
side, now on the other, some of the wayward
birds straggled out of the flock and turned
back; and ever and again the led-horse turned
restive, and strained, and struggled against the
bridle. The farm-yard at the bottom of the ,
park. was full of labourers, busy with some
alterations in an outbuilding. They all stood
and watched the tedious march up the hill,
and greeted every fresh disaster with shouts
of laughter and cheering, by no means sooth-
ing to poor, weary, harassed Mr. Lind’s ears.
At last the top of the park was reached, Mr.
Lind paused a moment to wipe his heated
brow, and to take rest. His ragged com-
panion went forward to open the gate. The
geese were safely hedged into a corner, and
must pass through to the other field, where
they could be kept out of sight of the laughers
in the yard, until more skilful drivers could
be sent to take them to their prison. The
worst was surely over, when—quack, quack !
whirr, whirr !—with a loud cackle of triumph,
all the sixteen geese took to their wings, flew
over Mr. Lind’s head, and never touched the
THE CHATTER-BOX, 31

ground until they were safe on the brink of
their own pond !”

“Oh! Mamma,” cried the children, “how
the people would laugh! and how angry Mr.
Lind would be !”

“ Angry, indeed, poor man! Without one
look behind him, or one word to the bewil-
dered, staring little urchin, who stood with
the open gate in his hand, not knowing
whether to laugh or cry, he rode home ina
fit of silent passion, vowing in his heart bitter
vengeance upon every one who had in any
way helped, or even witnessed, his failure.
His passions were not, however, long-lived,
and by the second day after, he had nearly
forgotten his anger, when, on riding in to the
weekly market, it was brought back in ten-
fold fury by the sight of a large, very clever
caricature of the whole scene, sketched in chalk
upon the doors of the town-hall. Poor Mr.
Lind’s infirmities of temper were well known,
and although there were few of his neighbours
who had not at some time had experience of
his kindness, there were, at the same time,
few who had not been either angered or
amused by his pertinacious pursuit of tres-
32 THE CHATTER-BOX.

passers, stnall and great, intentional or uncon-
scious. So, of course, the caricature excited
a large share of attention, laughter, and even
admiration. Mr. Lind could not stand ridi-
cule, and his rage was really most pitiable,—
most sinful. He offered a reward of ten
pounds to any one who should find out the
drawer of the caricature, and swore a terrible
oath that he would be revenged.

“Alas! alas! as our miserable chatter-box
stood that afternoon a minute to look at the
caricature, one man beside her said to an-
other,—

“«T wonder who can have done it! It is
very clever. He must be a grand hand with
the chalk, whoever he is!’

“ so cleverly,’ returned his companion, ‘was
young William Harland, and he is the last
fellow in the world to meddle in such a
business !’

“liza heard the beginning, not the end of
the sentence ; and, as ever anxious to excite
surprise, the next person she met was told
that people thought it mvight be William Har-
land who had drawn the caricature. In the
THE CHATTER-BOX. 33

mouth of a gossip, a story grows like a snow-
ball rolling down hill, and, before the evening,
Eliza had made both herself and others believe
that there was good reason to think William
had really been the offender. Of course the
story came round to Mr. Lind’s ears, and, in
the passion of the moment, without pause or
question, he sent off his presentation by that
night’s post to the son of a friend, who had
asked for it, and been refused.

“ Poor William Harland! He had for
months been working beyond his strength,
that he might do credit to his kind friend’s
patronage. He never was a robust lad; he
could not bear the disappointment, and fell ill
‘of brain fever. For weeks the doctors de-
spaired of saving his reason or his life, and
you may imagine what Eliza’s parents suf-
fered during that time. In the end he re-
sovered, but his health had received such a
shock that the medical men said he must
never think of studying for any learned pro-
fession. And thus were all his own and his
mother’s dearest hopes blighted for life! He
was a real Christian, poor fellow, and loved

his heavenly Father too trustingly to murmur
(403)
34 THE CHATTER-BOX.

at any trial He might send. But those who
have seen him since, have told me that al-
though cheerful and good as ever, he has never
again worn the bright, hopeful look, which we
all liked so much in his young, boyish face.”

“Oh, mamma! what a shame to make it
end ill!” cried Harry, as his mother ceased
speaking,

“My dear Harry, I did not make it end
any way,” she answered with a little smile,
“Thave only told you the truth. But do you
know, little as young children think of the
fault of chattering, I do not see how a story
about a chatter-box can end otherwise than
ill, At least it must, I think, end like the

poem,
“ (In her being) ‘ our jest and aversion.’ ”

“But, mamma, the chatter-box might be
reformed.”

“That may be with one who, like a dear
little girl I know,” with a tender pressure of
poor Caroline’s hand, “ is only beginning to be
a chatter-box, and is resolved in time to use
‘ good sense and exertion.’ But Eliza, unfor-
tunately, had got too bad, and most confirmed
chatter-boxes are too bad to mend, They
THE CHATTER-BOX. 35

talk so incessantly, that they have no time to
think of the evils their long tongue brings
about,—no time to make or carry out resolu-
tions of amendment. ‘So it was with Eliza.
The grief she had brought upon the Harlands,
the sorrow she had caused her own parents,
were forgotten, or thought little of, just as she
had always forgotten or thought little about
the many rebukes, mortifications, and disturb-
ances she had brought upon herself.”

“ But, mamma,” cried Harry, as Mrs, Lind-
say seemed about to rise, “ you are not going
away! You have seen only one picture, and
there are nine. Do stay, mamma, a little
longer, and look at the others.”

“Not just now, my dear; I cannot stay
now. I must go and amuse baby while nurse
gets her own dinner and prepares his. I shall
see the others at another time.”

“ At another time !” Harry repeated discon-
tentedly. “At what other time, I wonder.
After our dinner, papa wishes you to walk
with him ; and before the big people’s dinner,
Charles will be home, and make you listen to
his news. Between the old and the young,
really we poor middle ones are quite neglected.”
36 THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Oh, Harry!” cried Lucy, “ when mamma
has given us so much of her time just now,
and told us such a long story!”

Harry made a grimace, half ashamed, half
mocking.

“Still,” he persisted, “it is hard that she
should leave us now for baby. Why can’t
Helen play with baby ?”

“ Here is Helen to answer for herself,” said
the pleasant voice of the elder sister, who just
then came in. “And the answer is a simple
one: unfortunately, Master Baby prefers mam-
ma to Helen quite as much as you do!”

“Oh, you know, Helen, I like to have you
to talk with very much!” Harry said, a little
apologetically; “only you are not mamma.
And, mamma, may we show you the rest of
the pictures after dinner this evening?”

“Not this evening, my dear. I expect
your uncle and aunt, and shall not be able to
attend to you this evening; but if you like
to come to me to-morrow forenoon, you may.
iam generally at leisure between twelve and
one every day, and shall be glad to look at
the pictures with you then.”

“To-morrow and every day, until we get


CAROLINE'S GRIEF
THE CHATTER-BOX. 37

through them, mamma,” cried Lucy. “ Oh,
that will be charming! and we can talk them
all comfortably over just as we did to-day.”

“ And have a story about each one,” added
Harry.

?

“Well, well, we shall see,” Mrs. Lindsay
said, smiling, as she left the room.

Caroline had taken no share in the latter
part of the conversation ; and when the other
two had run off to show their pictures to
Mr. Lindsay, she did not go with them, but
remained sitting as she had sat during the
conclusion of her mother’s story,-—leaning
her head upon her shoulder, and looking up
into her sweet face, while hand was clasped
in hand. Helen spoke to her, but she neither
moved nor answered. Helen went up to
her, and gently turned her head towards her.
Caroline’s eyes were full of tears.

“Why, Carry, dear, what is the matter?—
what has grieved you?” she asked tenderly.

Caroline turned away her face, and seemed
unwilling to reply. But the kind elder sis-
ter knew well how to gain the confidence of
all the little ones, and soon drew from her the
cause of her grief.
38 THE CHATTER-BOX.

“Tam so sorry to be a chatter-box,” she
said, the tears falling faster and faster,—“ so
vexed to think how often I must have been
a plague to you all, I know”—dashing away
her tears, and speaking very earnestly —“ I
can recollect so many times when I have dis-
turbed papa when busy writing, or mamma
reading; and you and Charles fifty, a hundred
times, I have plagued with my foolish talk,
when you had other things to do. Oh, Helen!”
—hiding her face on her sister’s shoulder,—
“TI can’t bear to recollect what a torment I
must so often have been !”

“My poor Carry!” said Helen tenderly;
“it Is very, very sore to feel that one has ever
been a plague to any one. But don’t you think,
darling, that it is a good thing you know and
feel it so clearly now? It would be such a
terrible thing to be a plague to people and
not to know it, because then you could never
help it.”

“Do you think I can help it now?” Caro-
line asked eagerly, raising her head. “I have
so often intended to cure myself of talking so
much, and the intentions have always passed
away. Do you think I shall be able to keep
THE CHATTER-BOX. 39

in mind the sorrow I have now, and never,
never to forget-to be afraid of teasing people?
That is what I should like so much.”

“Try very hard, dear, to keep it in mind,
and to bring it back to your mind as often as
you can. When you are going into a room,
or expect to meet people anywhere, try hard
to make yourself feel how likely it is that they
may be busy about other things, and not able
to listen to you; and so you will be more
ready to see if your talking would really be a
nuisance or not.”

“ Yes,” Caroline replied thoughtfully; “and
I should recollect, too, how unlikely it is that
old people can care very much for the foolish
things I have to say. Their heads must be
full of better things.”

“You should recollect too, dear,’ Helen
said, “how much pleasure it gives you to
have people listen attentively to you when
you have anything to say, and you should
be glad to give other people the same plea-
sure.”

“ Ah, yes,” Caroline answered, beginning to
smile a little through her tears; “mamma
says that little girls cannot expect to be able
40 THE CHATTER-BOX.

to give much pleasure to their friends, and so
they should take all the more care of the little
power they have. I have thrown away a good
deal of my little power, have I not, Helen, in
never being ready to listen to others? Oh, I
hope I shall do better now! But, Helen, I
do not think that ‘a little good sense and
exertion’ will be enough. Jam afraid it will
take a good deal; it is so difficult to keep
silent when one has a great many things one
wishes to say.”

' ©The best way is to forget yourself and
your own wishes, and to think only of others.
When Charles comes home this afternoon, keep
saying to yourself, ‘Never mind what I wish
to tell him: let me think only of how much
there is he will like to tell us.’ ”

“T shall try to do it, Helen; only if once
the words begin, they go on so fast that I for-
get everything but themselves.”

“ Don’t be discouraged, Caroline, dear,
though you forget your resolutions the first
twenty or the first hundred times. Try, try
again, and in the end you must succeed. And
remember, darling,” very earnestly, “that as
it is God who wishes you to seek the pleasure
THE CHATTER-BOX,. 4]

of others before your own, so he will help you
to do so if you ask him.”

Caroline’s only answer was a hearty kiss,
as Lucy and Harry ran into the room to sum-
mon her to dinner.












THE POPPY.



WHEN Mrs. Lindsay entered the drawing-room
the next day at twelve o'clock, she found the
three of her children waiting for her. She
took her seat in her arm-chair, and opened
an album of pictures which Harry put in her
hand, while Caroline sat in her chair observ-
ant, and Lucy waited until she spoke. Mrs.
Lindsay was eagerly welcomed.

“Come, come, mamma,’ cried the impatient
Harry. ‘Now you are comfortably seated
in your favourite chair, let us begin business
at once.”

. “That I should get out my work seems
more like business than anything you are
about,” Mrs. Lindsay said, laughing. “That
portfolio looks very like pleasure, Harry.”

“Oh, mamma!” cried the two girls, “you
forget that the business of this hour is to get
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 43

good out of the portfolio. The pleasure comes
pretty much of itself”

« And the first business,” added Harry, “ is
to say which picture we are to have first.
Lucy wants ‘Negligent Mary,’ and I think the
most amusing is ‘The Vulgar Little Lady.’”

“Suppose we take them as they lie,” Mrs.
Lindsay suggested; “and so there can be no
dispute about the matter.”

“ Agreed! agreed !” they all cried. Harry
opened the portfolio; while Caroline, bending
over the back of her mother’s chair, whispered
with a blush,—

“There are no more chatter-boxes, mamma;
so I don’t care so much which is taken first.
I am not afraid of the others, now the horrible
chatter-box is disposed of.”

« And I hope soon that the portfolio chatter-
box shall be the only one in the house, my
own little Caroline,” Mrs. Lindsay said, kindly.
“J watched you all last evening, and was
very glad to see how much you tried to make
yourself quiet and modest, to keep yourselt
from interrupting or annoying any one. I
saw you check yourself a great many times,
and was both pleased and surprised that you
44 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

could keep your resolutions in mind while
there was so much talking and laughing going
on all around you.”

“ Ah, mamma !” Caroline said, eagerly; “it
is so easy to do well when I know you are
watching me. It is such a pleasure to feel
that you see all the difficulty of going right. It
makes me so strong to go on in spite of every-
thing. I like—” she was continuing, eagerly,
when she caught an impatient look from
Harry, who had brought out the picture, and
was eager to begin. Caroline checked herself
suddenly, and was rewarded by a bright smile
from her mother.

“Here, mamma,” cried Harry, “is ‘The
Poppy.’ Look! Uncle Charles has indeed
made it grow,

* High on that bright and sunny bed ;

* * * * *
And up it holds its staring head,
And thrusts it full in view.’”

“And see, too,” Caroline cried, “ Uncle
Charles has put in such a regular ‘ poppy girl’
Look howshe is showing off her smart dress, and
how conceitedly she turns up her chin! Did
you ever see such a disagreeable looking girl?”
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 45

“And yet she has a pretty face too,” Lucy
said; “she might have looked very well if she
had only walked quietly along, and not held
her hands in that conceited way, and pointed
her toes so much, and looked so much as if
she thought herself better than any one else.”

“And as if she wished every one else to
think so too,” Caroline added. ‘“‘ You see that
is exactly what makes her a ‘ poppy girl.’ The
poppy, too, might look very well if it were
not so ‘high upon its bright and sunny bed ;’
if it did not ‘hold its staring head so full in
view. or shrubs where it is half hid, where one does
not see its long bare stalks, which always
look as if they ought to have had twenty
rather than one head upon them.”

««¢ And less unwelcome had it been
In some retired shade.’ ”

quoted Harry.
' “And Unele Charles wishes to show us how
disagreeable little girls look when they make
themselves like a poppy,” Caroline remarked.
“ Well, certainly,” laughing, “I should not like
to be that young lady.”

“ And yet,” Lucy said, blushing a little, “I
46 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

think it is natural to like to be pretty. Is
that wrong, mamma ? ”

“No, my dear, I do not think it is. We
feel that it is pleasant to look upon a pretty
face, or to listen to a pretty voice, and we
should be grateful to God if he puts it in our
power to give that pleasure to others. But,
on the other hand, if God has not seen it best
to give us that power, we should be quite con-
tented to do without it, quite satisfied that
he does all things well, all things best.”

“Yes,” Caroline said, “just as we ought to
thank God if he gives us riches with which we
can help others. But at the same time, we
should be quite contented to do with little if
God does not please to give us much.”

“ And be always anxious to make the most
of what we have, be it much or little,’ Mrs.
Lindsay continued. “The poor person ought
to take a great deal of pains to help his neigh-
bour, because pains is all he has to give; and
the rich ought to be very much afraid of not
using to the utmost the riches with which God
has intrusted him.”

“ And how about the pretty and the ugly
person, mamma?” Lucy asked.
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 47

“The pretty girl ought to take great care
that she does not by carelessness in her dress,
by awkward habits, or by a disagreeable, con-
ceited expression, spoil the pleasure which God
meant others to receive from her prettiness.
The ugly one must make up for the want of
these natural ways of pleasing, by taking great
pains to give pleasure in every way, great or
small, that comes within her power. As God
has shown us in many ways that he wishes us
to care for the happiness of others, so we may
be very sure that he never leaves one of us
without the means of doing so. And all we
have to concern ourselves about, is to see that
we do not throw away any power of giving
pleasure, however small it may be; that we
make the utmost use of every opportunity of
making others happy, which God brings to us
every hour of the day; and that we thank him
cordially for every one.”

“In that way, mamma,” Caroline said, “you
think we ought to be careful about our dress?
You don’t think it wrong to pay attention
to colours and tastes, and all that kind of
thing ?”

“Certainly not. We ought to dress our-
48 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

selves so as to look as pleasant as possible in
the eyes of others. We ought to take a little
trouble to get colours that suit each other, and
suit us,—to have our dress fit us well, and of
the neatest, most becoming shapes. I think
it is really wrong to give others the pain of
looking at an ill-fitting, untidy dress, when by
a little trouble we could save them from that
pain.”

“ And about fashion, mamma ?”

“ About fashion, it is the same thing.
When people’s eyes get used to one style of
dress, it is not pleasant to see any one wear
something very different. We must follow
the fashion in a certain degree, unless we
mean to give people that uncomfortable feel-
ing, which the sight of a very singularly
dressed person always gives. Only we must
not suffer this small duty to interfere with
greater ones. We must not be extravagant
in consulting either fashion or taste in dress,”

“J think, mamma,” Lucy said, modestly,
“that if we are really thinking only of mak-
ing the best use we can of the power to give
pleasure which God has given us, we shall
not find it so very difficult to know what
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 49

is a right or what is a wrong care about
dress.”

“T think so too, dear Lucy. If we can only
think more of others than of ourselves in look-
ing after our dress, I think we shall find it
pretty easy to do the right thing. But Harry
thinks this dissertation on dress very tire-
some,”

“Only you know, mamma,” said Caroline,
“he, too, ought to think of saving us the pain
of looking at crumpled collars, dirty hands, and
rough hair,”

Harry made one of his grimaces at Caroline,
but took her reproof very good humouredly.

“I only wish,” he said, “ that Uncle Charles
had chosen some poems about boys as well as
about girls. Yesterday’s story was about a
girl, and -I suppose to-day’s must be too.”

“ Because you think there never was such
a thing as a conceited boy,” Mrs. Lindsay said,
laughing. “ Well, suppose we leave boys and
girls both out of the question for to-day,
and I shall give you the story of a Conceited
Duck.”

“ Excellent, delightful, the very thing!” was

shouted by all three, and Mrs. Lindsay began.
(403) 4
50 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

“The sun. shone cheerily down upon the
pond where a number of ducks were dabbling
about, pluming their feathers, and gossipping
over the news of the day, as happy and as
noisy as ducks could be. Among them was
one very handsome fellow. His head and
neck shone in purple, green, gold, and deep
blue, as the sun’s rays glanced upon it A
delicate ring of pure white set off these bright
colours, and separated them from the soft
shaded gray of his back and wings. His
breast was also pure white, and distinct bars
of purple, green and gold, across each wing
and across the tail, made up the perfect beauty
of his dress, A handsome duck indeed he was,
but as conceited as handsome, and despising ”
every one who was less beautiful than himself.

“« Quack, quack, what a trial it must be to
be plain!’ quoth he, swimming proudly through
a group of common little brown ducks, scat-
tering them right and left before him without
a word of apology, casting disdainful glances
back upon them out of his small black . eyes.
‘I would not for the world be like these poor,
plain creatures. So commonplace they are!
so dingy! While one can see at a glance that
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 51

I am of a superior race. And the sun likes to
shine upon me, my brilliant colours glitter so
in his beams.’

“A party of ladies came to look at the
pond. The other ducks, good, honest little
things! were too much occupied with their own
concerns to take much heed of the strangers.
They swam about here and there, chattered
to each other, dived for worms, and enjoyed
themselves thoroughly without caring how
they looked, or what the ladies thought of
them. But the conceited duck swam close
to the edge of the pond; kept carefully in the
sunshine, that his head and neck might shine
to the best advantage; and dared not pick up
the most tempting morsel that might be close
under his feet, lest he should by any chance
get mud upon his bright yellow beak, or dis-
compose his gay feathers.

“*T think my neck looks best held this
way, quacked he, twisting it about, and turn-
ing his head over his shoulder. ‘ No—there
now—Jjust so, the sun shines brightest on it.
And,’ looking at his reflection in the water,
‘what a very handsome fellow I am! It
would really be too great a misfortune to be
52 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

like these poor ugly little things. Hark! how
the gay ladies are laughing aloud with joy to
see my beautiful colours and elegant form!’

“ But he did not know that the ladies were
busy watching the happy group of plain brown
ducks, and that they laughed to see their funny
little tails stick up in the air when they dived
under the water. They had only looked at
the conceited duck for a minute or so, and
said how handsome he was, and then turned
again to watch the busy merry ones, who did
not care for their notice.

“Oh, mamma,” cried Caroline, “that reminds
me of the day we spent at Mrs. Shirley’s, when
Emily Vane would not play with us, because
she was so anxious to show off her pretty
curls, and smart silk dress. And she kept
strutting up and down in front of the draw-
ing-room windows, hoping that the ladies and
gentlemen were admiring her, when they were
all the time amusing themselves watching us
at play, and rejoicing to see usso happy. In- |
deed, mamma, I think Uncle Charles must
have thought of Emily Vane when he drew
that picture, she was just such a ridiculous,
conceited-looking figure.”
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 53

“ Well, well, my dear,” Mrs. Lindsay said
quietly; “I think we had better leave poor
Emily alone. If we see ourselves instead of
our neighbours in these pictures, we shall get
more good from them.”

Caroline blushed deeply, and Mrs, Lindsay
went on with her story.

“<¢T think,’ said the conceited duck after a
time, when he was getting tired twisting his
neck about, ‘that I could show myself off
better if I were to go on land. No one can
see my pretty yellow legs, and my handsome
large feet, while I am swimming about in this
muddy water. And even the bright bars upon
my wings are more than half hidden just now.’

“So he scrambled on shore, and waddled
past the ladies; but they only exclaimed,

“«What a clumsy creature, see how awk-
wardly he walks! Why can’t he stay in the
water, where one does not see anything but
his pretty back and head?’”

“Ah, mamma!” cried Harry, “that is the
poppy exactly,

* And less unwelcome had it been

209

In some retired shade.

“Just as mamma often says,” added Lucy,
54 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

laughing, “ little girls and boys are very plea-
sant when they keep to their own place. But
they are the most disagreeable animals in the
world, when they push themselves forward
into notice, where no one wants them. But
please, mamma, go on.”

“The ladies were tired of watching the
ducks,” Mrs. Lindsay continued, “and walked
away, leaving the poor conceited duck, feeling
very foolish, alone upon the bank, while all
his despised companions were as busy and
happy as ever in the pond. A gate into the
garden stood open, and to hide his mortification
the duck waddled in there, hoping to find
some new admirers in this domain set apart
for the higher gentry.

“«Yes, this is the place where people of
taste and fashion walk, quacked he; ‘here I
shall be sure to find some one able to appre-
ciate my beauty and elegance.’

“ He came to a bed of fine carnations, and
waddled up and down the row, seeking for
something to eat, for even conceit cannot
always keep one from feeling hungry. But
he found nothing to suit his taste there. And
after doing as much mischief as he could,
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 55

trampling the soft mould with his broad feet,
and breaking over fine heads of carnations as
he pushed between the plants, he made his
way to a bed of broad-leaved cabbages. Here
there were so many delightful snails, that for
a little he had almost forgotten his beauty
while gratifying his appetite, when he was
startled by the loud voice of the gardener, who
had just come in.

“««Who left the gate open?’ the angry man
asked with great heat. ‘Here is a pretty to
do. These abominable ducks have been de-
stroying my carnations with their nasty clumsy
feet. Jack, Will, here, I say, come help me to
find the ducks, and drive them out!’

“ «Find the ducks, indeed!’ Not so difficult
to do. Our poor conceited friend immediately
began,

“ «Quack, quack, there is some one wishes
to see my beautiful dress. I must make haste
and get out into the sunshine. Among dark
leaves here, no one can see me. I might as
well be like one of the miserable brown ob-
jects in the duck-pond out there. Let me
get out on the. gravel-walk, where there is
room to see me all round.’
56 ‘THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

“No sooner said than done, and the gar-
dener and his boys, who had been guided to
the spot by his conceited babble, were well
pleased to see their enemy come out in full
view. While the drake was meditating which
was the most graceful way to carry his head,
down came the gardener, Jack, and Will, with
sticks and stones, whoop and halloo, to drive
him back to his own premises. Even his
conceit could not construe sticks and stones
into notes of admiration; and forgetting the
graces, he was glad to waddle off as fast as he
could, his head poking forward as awkwardly .
as that of the ugliest duck in the flock, and
his small, mean eyes, and straight, ungraceful
bill, looking meaner and more ungraceful than
ever, as he strained the one in search of a
hiding-place, and opened the other in useless
complaints. The boys thought more of the
fun of chasing him, than of the best way of
setting about it; and they mismanaged the
business so as to send him over the fence into
the shrubbery, instead of back through the
gate to the pond. The gardener stormed and
scolded both boys and duck, but to little use.
Master Drake had got in among the thick
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 57

brushwood, and being out of breath, and not
able to quack, they could not find him, and
were forced to go and gather the vegetables
for dinner, trusting that he could not do much
harm to the bushes and shrubs until they had
time to’ seek’ him.

“The poor hunted duck remained for a
little to get back his breath, his courage, and,
alas! also his conceit.

“««That poor ignorant man was only one of
the common people,’ said he, as he dressed the
feathers on his breast and wings, which had
got ruffled in his hasty passage through the
bushes. ‘He knows nothing about beauty,
nothing about fashion, If the poor wretch
had had the smallest atom of taste, he must
have seen at once what an ornament I should
. have been to his garden, how greatly my pre-
sence must have added to the pleasure of all
who walk there. See what it is to be without
taste and refinement!’

“After a little, hearing all quiet around
him, he ventured to peep out of his hiding-
place, and at last to hop on to a gravel-
walk, and, with a little caution, to set out
upon a new pilgrimage in search of admirers.
58 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

Soon he got past the thicket of shrubs, and
came out upon the lawn, where were two
ladies lying upon the grass reading.

“Ah, ha!’ quoth the duck; ‘these are the
people I like to associate with. These are the
people able to understand my perfections.
Let me see, Mr. Gardener, whether your
betters will treat me as you do. No driving
away, no throwing of stones here, or I am
much mistaken.’

“Much mistaken he was, poor conceited
fool! The ladies were engrossed with their
books, and did not observe him as he wad-
dled up to them, with what he considered
his most fascinating gait, his most irresistible
graces; his wings flapping a little now and
then, to show off his purple and green bars,
his head moving now right, now left, and now
bent gracefully back over his shoulder. He
even stepped upon the dress of one of them
without arousing her, until a loud,—

“Quack, quack; see how handsome I am!’
startled both readers.

“They both gave a slight scream, and the
one on whose dress Master Duck had set his
dirty foot sprang up, crying out angrily,—
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 59

“«Why what a nasty creature is this?
What in the world is it doing here?’

“The gardener was close to the gate of the
garden, near enough to hear the betraying
quack of his enemy, and the ladies’ scream.
In a minute he was beside them, and had
caught up poor Duck in his arms,

“Ttis a nasty, ill-conditioned beast, ma’am,”
he said to his mistress, “ and has been all over
my carnation-bed, and no one knows where
else, trampling with its big, ugly feet, and
breaking off the best flowers, and doing mis-
chief enough for a dozen.’

“<«QOh, take it away, Dods,” cried the lady.
‘It has no business here. Take it to Mary,
and tell her to look better after her poultry,
and not suffer them to go straying about the
“ lawn and gardens, destroying everything, and
frightening people in that way.’

“So Dods bore off his prey in triumph,
giving him a good many hard pinches, and
paying no attention to his remonstrances and
complaints. Mary was in the poultry-yard,
preparing to give her feathered flock their
afternoon meal. She was by no means pleased
by the scolding which Dods delivered to her
60 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

in no very set terms. In revenge, she deter-
mined that Master Duck should go supperless
to bed. So she drove him into the hen-house,
and shut him up there in the dark, while the
modest, well-behaved poultry feasted upon
blades of cabbage, cold potatoes, meal, and
such like dainties.”

“Cold potatoes a dainty! Oh, mamma !”
cried Harry, laughing.

“ A duck’s dainty at least, Harry,” she said,
echoing his laugh. “And a great dainty they
would have been to him, who had tasted
nothing except a few snails since his early
breakfast hour. However, it was not to be.
The door was fast shut; there was no opening
by which he could get out. He must submit
to darkness, solitude, and hunger. ‘The only
amusement or occupation left him was to re-
flect upon the events of the day. Reflect he
did, but to no good purpose.

“¢See what it is to be distinguished!’ sighed
he. “I always knew that the great were
objects of envy and malice by those who
could never hope to equal them; but I never
before experienced it so severely in my own
preson! Ah, after all, the only comfort one
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 61

can have, is to know one’s own perfections,
and to learn indifference to the opinions of the
vulgar and ignorant.’

“ And with this sage reflection, he drew up
one foot, hid his head under his wing, and
tried to forget his sorrows in sleep.

“The next morning he got out to the yard
with the others, and a plentiful breakfast made
up for the want of supper the night before.
But having satisfied the cravings of appetite,
his vanity resumed its old sway, and a long
hour was spent in dressing his feathers and
admiring his reflection in the water of the
pond, He, as usual, kept at a distance from
his fellows; and, swimming about in solitary
state, considered seriously the history of the
past day.

«« After all,’ he quacked, ‘I am sure I
did take the right road to fame. How can a
bird of my rare merits expect to be appre-
ciated by dairy-maids and cow-boys, gardeners
and grooms, such as frequent this dirty poultry-
yard? Certainly I was formed to adorn a
higher sphere; and my duty to myself re-
quires that I should never rest until I have
established myself in that place for which I
62 THE POPPY ; OR; THE CONCEITED DUCK.

was born. True, I failed yesterday. But
courage, friend! no true distinction was ever
attained ina day. Let me guard against the
base envy of my inferiors, and all must yet
go well. Icould not understand the gibberish
spoken by that low-bred fellow the gardener;
but sure I am that he took advantage of my
helpless situation, as a foreigner ignorant of
his language, to bring false charges against
me, which I could not refute. Otherwise,
ladies of so much elegance and refinement
could not have failed to perceive my claims
upon their admiration and attention. Let me
gather wisdom from experience, and keeping
out of the way of the rude and ignorant, pre-
sent myself only before those who are fitted
by nature and education to recognise my rare
charms, and my claims to respect.’

“ With this sage resolution, he pleased him-
self through the early hours of the day; and,
choosing his time when the servants were in
the house at dinner, he slipped quietly out of
the pond, and took his way towards the lawn,
where he had yesterday seen the fair ladies,
Ducks are not very clever creatures; and as
his first object was to hide himself from the
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK 63

dairy-maid and gardener, so he wandered
about the greater part of the day among the
trees, shrubs, and long grass, behind the gar-
dens and shrubberies, suffering a good deal
from anxiety as to where he was, and not a
little from hunger, although he did now and
then pick up a fat worm or two by the way.
At last when evening was coming on, and the
other ducks, having made a good meal, were
gathering comfortably into their house, an
unusual noise near him caused him to peep out
from among the shrubs, and to his great joy
he found himself close to the front door of the
house, before which was drawn up a carriage
and pair of dashing horses. On the door-step
stood a group of gaily-dressed ladies and
gentlemen, preparing to go out to dinner.
The coachman and footmen in attendance,
being in livery, looked to the foolish duck
like beings of a higher order than his enemy,
the plainly-dressed gardener.

“Ah, ha! I am in luck at last,’ quoth he.
‘There are none here but the high-born and
the beautiful. Like draws to like, say the
philosophers. Here at last I am sure of a
good reception, Let me show myself while
64 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.
‘yet there is time and light to see me pro-
perly.’

“So, throwing back his head, and puffing
out his chest, he waddled forward with as
much dignity as possible. The ladies were
getting into the carriage—the gentlemen
handing them in—the servants attending, to
keep the delicate dresses from being soiled
upon the wheels. No one looked so low as
the duck.

“Dear me, this is very strange!’ thought
he. ‘No one sees me. Ah, it is a pity the
sun is down: no light suits my colours so
well as that of the sun. However, let us.
make the most of what we have. Suppose I
jump in daintily and elegantly upon that
- lady’s lap. That rich purple satin would form
a fine contrast to my delicate, yet brilliant
colours.’

“Daintily and elegantly the poor duck
could not jump; but with a loud rustle and
whirr of his heavy wings, and with a wonder-
fully harsh and disagreeable quack, up he got
in some awkward way, and right into the lap
of the lady of the house. The horses started
and reared at the sudden noise; the ladies
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 65

screamed; one of the gentlemen was knocked
down by the carriage being brought violently
against him; and the coachman’s fine hat, with
its gold lace, fell off into the dirt. In short,
never was there such a scene of bustle and
confusion as poor, foolish Master Conceit had
brought about. To be sure, if one only wishes
to make a noise in the world, that is easily
enough managed, The difficulty is to make
certain of being praised, not blamed, for the
commotion.

“When matters were a little quieted, the
cause of the disturbance was discovered, and
then the ladies exclaimed and scolded. Mary
was summoned to answer for the misdemean-
ours of her charge, and angry enough and
spiteful enough she looked, I can assure you.

“ duck under her arm, there is no doing nothing
with a beast like this. To be sure it is a
beauty; but if it were not for that, I should
say, the only thing was to let it be one of those
I am to kill to-morrow.’

“«A beauty indeed! cried the angry lady,
trying to wipe the stains off her new satin

dress, for we know ducks are not very parti-
(403) 5
66 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

cular about what they tread on. ‘Never
mind its beauty, Mary; I would not for a
great deal have the nasty, tiresome creature
live another day. So shut it up to-night, and
kill it to-morrow morning.’

“And so it was. The early sun saw poor
Master Duck carried out into its light, that
Mary might see better how to cut off its head,

“«See what it is to be beautiful! sighed
poor Duck, eyeing the glittering knife in her
hand—‘ I die a martyr to my good looks;’ and
down came the knife, and his beautiful green,
purple, and gold head and neck, fell to the
ground, stained with blood and dust. And he
died, not knowing that conceit, not beauty,
was the cause of all his woe. While at the
same bright morning hour, the plain, brown
little ducks flocked joyously down to the water,
mourning very little for the loss of their gay
companion; or rather, for ducks have little
sentiment in their composition, not sorry to be
rid of the surly temper, the sharp beak, and
strong wing of their overbearing companion.”

The children were much amused by their
mamma’s story. Only Harry, with his passion
for happy endings, grumbled a little about her
THE POPPY ; OR, TH# CONCEITED DUCK. 67

killing poor Master Conceit. She might, he
thought, have reformed him, and turned him
into a good, happy, humble duck. Helen
had come into the room, and had heard nearly
all the story.

“ Does it not remind you, mamma,” she said,
“ of papa’s story about the little girl who was
vain of her performance on the piano ?”

“What little girl? What story? Tell it to
us, Helen,” cried the children.

“It was when papa was a little hoy,” said
Helen ; “his mother used every Christmas to
give a large party of both old and young
people. . The elders went to a late dinner, the
children to an early tea, They were thought
to be particularly pleasant, well-managed
parties. The young people got tea comfort-
ably before the elders came to engross grand-
mamma’s attention. While the elders were at
dinner, the children romped to their heart’s
content in a large school-room at the back of
the house, where they might make as much
noise as they pleased. And at the very time
when they were beginning to get a little tired
of their own company, and of their boisterous
sports, grandmamma’s maids came in to brush
68 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK,

the hair and smooth the dresses which had
been ruffled and disordered by blind-man’s
buff, and such like games ; and the little ladies
and gentlemen were led into the drawing-
room, where the dinner company had again
assembled, and where pictures and quiet games
were provided for their amusement.

“At one of these parties were two little
cousins, Jane and Amy, who were both famous
for their performance upon the piano. After
some time spent in romping in the school-
room, some one espied an old piano in a
corner of the room, and all agreed that a dance
would make a charming variety in the even-
ing’s amusement. Jane was first asked to be
the musician; but she was much too vain of
her playing powers to waste them upon chil-
dren, who could not understand the full merit
of her performance. And she answered dis-
dainfully, that she could not play upon such an
old cracked instrument; and, that, at any rate,
she never played dance music. It was too
common and trifling for her. She liked fine
pieces, with harmony and real music in them.

“ Her little companions were too much pro-
voked by her affectation to ask her a second time,
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 69

and they turned to Amy, who was always ready
to oblige. She complied at once, and sat down
to the piano without a moment’s delay for airs
or graces of any kind. She wished only to
give pleasure to her little friends, and was
simply and heartily glad that she could do so.
She was not considered so good a musician as
Jane ; but she played with so much spirit
and good-will, was so willing to change her
time or tune to please the taste of the little
dancers, and bore so good-humouredly with all
their interruptions, their comments, fault-find-
ing, or directions, that they thought they had
never before had such delightful music, or such
a pleasant musician, Jane looked on dis-
dainfully at Amy’s attempts to please her
audience ; and although she condescended to
dance to the music, she made many disparaging
remarks upon it.

“Such a miserable instrument,’ she said in
her affected way; ‘I really wonder, Amy, how
you can play upon it.’

“«Qh,” Amy answered cheerfully, ‘if the
others like it, I do not care. It is all we have,
and we must make the best of it.’

“*But to have ignorant children like these
70 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

tell you how fast or how slow you are to play,’
Jane pursued with increased disdain, ‘when you
know so much better than they do what is the
right time. Indeed, if I played at all, I should
insist that they should take what I chose to
give them, or go without.’

“*T play to please them. They know best
what will please them most. Why should I
not give it to them if I can?’ ‘The same
tune over again, in answer to a shout of
disapprobation at a change of tune. ‘Well,
here it is as‘long as you please.’ And, laugh-
ing and nodding to her own music, she rattled
away with as much spirit as ever.

“The dancing was kept up until the sum-
mons to the drawing-room interrupted them.
And although Amy’s fingers ached a good
deal before that time, her only regret was,
that she was not able to play so fast or so
loud as she had done at first, and as her
hearers required.

“They all went up stairs, and were kindly
received, and noticed by the company. Ques-
tions were asked about their games, and Amy’s
little admirers were eager to tell how nicely
she had played for them.
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 71

“«T should like to hear you play, my dear,’
said an elderly lady to Amy. ‘ Will you play
for me as readily as for your young friends?’

“Jane stood near and heard the request.
She desired intensely to be asked to show off
her proficiency, and was mortified and angry
that so much should be said about Amy’s
performance, while no one seemed to recollect
that she, too, was a performer.

“*T almost wish I had played for the chil-
dren,’ thought she; ‘and then they would have
spoken of me also. I practised that fine diff-
cult piece with so much care for this very
occasion. It will be too provoking if no one
asks me to play.’

“The provocation might very well have
occurred, for few of the elders knew that
Jane could play, and her own companions
had forgotten her while praising Amy. But
Amy never forgot any one, and pointing to
Jane in her pleasant modest way, she
said,—

“« My cousin plays better than I do, ma’am.
She will play to you, if you pleas,’

“The lady immediately asked Jane to play:
and although mortified to owe the invitation
72 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

to Amy, she was too anxious for an opportunity
of display to refuse. She did not at all consider
what others might like best, but choosing the
fine piece she had so carefully practised, she
sat down with many affected airs to play it.
Now little girls can sometimes give their older
friends pleasure by a quiet, simple performance
of a pretty, simple air; but it is very seldom
that they can play brilliant pieces with good
effect. If there were no other reason for their
failure, their hands are too small to execute
the chords, and running passages, as they ought
to be done. Now and then, one does meet
with a little girl whose performance is won-
derful for her age; but even in such a case,
one always feels that in the company there
are many grown up musicians who could have
played the piece much better than she can.
The piece Jane had chosen had little real
beauty in it. Her master had given it to her,
because there were in it many passages which
it was good for her to practise. It was much
too long to play in a mixed company, and
before it was half done, all the children had
gathered together at the other end of the
room, and were amusing themselves as ‘they

2
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 73

best liked, without hearing one note; and
the elders, tired of listening to what they did
not care for, and provoked by Jane’s conceited,
affected air, began to talk and laugh as if no
music were going on. Jane, thinking only of
showing off her wonderful talent, did not re-
“mark the inattention of her audience, but
rattled through the whole tedious piece, and
at the conclusion looked round triumphantly
to see the admiration, and to listen to the
praises of the company. Great was her
mortification to find that she had not one
solitary listener, and that a cold ‘Thank you,
my dear, uttered by grandmamma in the
midst of a speech to her neighbour, was to be
the only reward for all her exertions. She
rose from the music-stool, crestfallen and
ashamed; and as she thought of the loud
hearty praises and thanks poured upon Amy
by the school-room party, tears of mortification
rose to her eyes.

“ Amy was again asked to play, but was not
very willing to do so.

“*T shall play if you like, ma’am,’ she said,
modestly ; ‘but every one wishes to hear
Miss Gordon sing. Is not it a pity to make
74 THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK.

them waste time listening to such little things
as I can play? They would rather not, I am
sure,’

“Amy was right. Although many there
might have liked to hear a little melody,
simply and prettily played by the pleasant,
unaffected child, yet most were impatient to
enjoy the far greater treat of Miss Gordon’s
really fine singing, and were in their hearts
grateful to the little girl whose good sense and
modesty prevented -her from delaying that
pleasure unnecessarily. Later in the evening,
when an air was spoken of which Amy alone
knew, she sat down at the first expression of
a wish to hear it; played it as naturally and
simply as she had played reels and quadrilles
upon the cracked piano down stairs; and gave
as much pleasure to, and received as hearty
thanks from, her elder as from her younger
hearers, Jane, conceited as she was, could not
help perceiving the difference between herself
and her cousin; and papa says that she really
learned a lesson that night which she never
forgot, and she was never afterwards so con-
ceited or affected as she had been.”

“Now, mamma,” cried Harry, laughing,
THE POPPY ; OR, THE CONCEITED DUCK. 75

“that is the right way to end a story; you
should have ended yours just so.”

“Come, Master Harry,” his mamma an-
swered, rising and putting away her work, “I
shall tell you no more stories if you criticise
them in such an impertinent manner,”

“Ah yes, mamma,” cried the two girls;
“you promised us a story for every picture.”

“Indeed I did not,” she answered, laugh-
ing; “I only said, ‘ Well, we shall see.”

“But that means a promise,” remarked
Caroline. “It always means when you say it,
‘I shall do the thing if I can.”

“The ‘if I can, is a very necessary addi-
tion in this case, Carry. For, really, when I do
not see the picture until the very moment in
which I am expected to tell the story, it is no
such easy matter to find a tale that will quite
suit.”

“Well, mamma, to-morrow’s picture is the
one to suit to-day’s. It is the Violet. You
might promise to have a story ready for it
before this time to-morrow.”

“ We shall see,” Mrs, Lindsay repeated, smil-
ing and nodding her head as she closed the
door behind her.




THE VIOLET.



“WE have a very pretty poem for to-day,
mamma,” cried Caroline the following morn-
ing as Harry opened the portfolio.

“ And a pretty picture too, mamma,” added
Lucy. “Is not that a pleasant face, mamma?
I like the expression so much.”

“Tt ought to have a good expression, Lucy,”
Mrs. Lindsay answered. “Uncle Charles would
try to make his violet girl look loving, unself-
ish, and modest; and love, unselfishness, and
modesty together, make up the most pleasant
expression that a countenance can wear.

* Down in a green and shady bed,
A modest violet grew ;
Its stalk was bent, it hung its head,
As if to hide from view.’”

“That is modesty, mamma, I see,” Lucy
said; “and I suppose in the

‘ Yet thus it was content to bloom,
In modest tints arrayed,’
THE VIOLET. 77

there is both modesty and unselfishness. A
selfish person is never content to bloom ‘in
modest tints arrayed.’ But I do not see any-
thing about love.”

“TI do not know about the love of the real
violet,” Mrs. Lindsay answered, smiling; “ but
very sure I am that no little girl could deserve
to be called

«A lovely flower,
Its colour bright and fair,’
unless she were loving. In the ‘ diffusing a
sweet perfume,’ kindness is at least implied,
and that kindness is little worth, lasts but a
short time, which does not come from a gentle,
loving heart.”

“ Mamma,” Caroline said, “I like the poem
and the picture; but I do not expect to like
the story so well as the others.”

“And why not, my dear?” Mrs. Lindsay
asked, in some surprise. “Or how can you
possibly tell whether you shall like it or not
before you hear it?”

“Oh! of course I cannot tell. But only I
fancy it must be about a poor girl; and some-
how I always like best the stories which are
about children quite like ourselves.”
78 THE VIOLET.

“ But why do you fancy it must be about
a poor girl? Are rich children never humble and
modest? Can no rich girl be like the violet?”

“Oh!” laughing, “of course they can. Of
course, there is no ‘must be’ in the matter.
But only you know, mamma, in story-books the
people who are like the violet, who are humble
and quiet, and do a great deal of good that no
one expects them to do, and who ask for no
praise, and that sort of thing, all these people are
poor.. I mean, in story-books they are poor.”

“Well, Caroline, my story is not of that
kind at any rate. My little violet girl is in
the same rank of life as you and Lucy, and in
much the same circumstances, being one of a
large family, with a goodly store of brothers
and sisters.”

“ Ah! well, mamma,” cried both girls, “ that
is what we like best ; so please, mamma, go on.”’

ALICE LEE.

“You look very sad, mamma, Has Aunt
Caroline’s letter brought you any bad news?”
asked Alice Lee, as she knelt on the footstool
at her mother’s feet, and looked anxiously up
in her face.
THE VIOLET. 79

“Tt tells me of grandmamma, dear,” Mrs.
Lee answered,

“ And is grandrnamma ill, then, mamma?”

“Not exactly ill, but very feeble. Aunt
Caroline’s own little Mary is very ill, and
- Aunt Caroline must go home to her imme-
diately, and she is grieved to leave her mother
alone. But you may read the letter,” putting
it into her hands,

Alice read it through.

“ Aunt Caroline thinks grandmamma ought
to have some one to live with her always, to
watch over her, comfort, and render her the
little services she requires,” Alice remarked,
as she folded up the letter.

«Yes; and your papa and I feel strongly
that Aunt Caroline is right. But,” thought-
fully, and as if speaking to herself more than to
Alice, “ the difficulty is to get any one who will
suit. None of the sons or daughters can leave
their own homes just now, and grandmamma
will not agree to have a hired companion.”

Alice had re-opened the letter, and read
over some passages. She thought deeply for
a few minutes, and then said, but with a little
hesitation,
80 THE VIOLET.

“Mamma, could not I go to take care of
grandmamma ?”

“ You, my darling !” Mrs. Lee exclaimed in
great. surprise. “ Why, how could we part
with our little Alice? And how should you
like to go away from us all?”

« Ah! I should not like it,’ she said, while
something very like a tear stole into her eye.
“ But if it were right, mamma? And it would
be for only a little time. Aunt Caroline says
that in spring Aunt Mary will be home to
take care of grandmamma; and you and papa
have so many, and grandmamma has not one.”

“But, my Alice, you are such a young
thing.”

“Yes, mamma, I know,” she said earnestly
—“I know there are many things I cannot do,
and in many ways I should be of little use.
I know very little, and can give but little
help to any one. But then, mamma, the little
services Aunt Caroline mentions are exactly
what I can do as well as an older and wiser
person. She says that grandmamma has got
so blind that she loses her books and spec-
tacles, stumbles over stools and chairs when
she walks about alone. You know I could
THE VIOLET. 81

find her things when she had mislaid them,
and I could watch to remove everything out
of her way when she moves about the room.
Then Aunt Caroline says that grandmamma
is stiff and feeble, and that it is a great exer-
tion for her to get out of her chair when she
wants anything. I could run errands, poke the
fire, and ring the bell, and save her many a
little journey, many a rising out of her chair,
I am sure.”

Mrs, Lee did not answer immediately. She
sat considering deeply, looking into her little
girl’s clear, gentle eyes, and fondly stroking
back her hair from her open forehead.

“ Alice,’ she said at last, very seriously,
“there is a great deal in what you say. I
almost think you are right. J almost think
it is our duty to allow you to try, at least, to
live with grandmamma for two or three
months. Of course, I can decide upon no-
thing until I have seen your papa. But, in
the meantime, before we even begin upon the
question, you ought to know exactly what
you propose to undertake. It is not right, I
know,” after a moment’s hesitation, “to speak

of the faults of your grandmother, of my hus-
(403) 6
82 THE VIOLET.

band’s mother; but I cannot send you from
me without warning you fairly of the dif
ficulties in your path. Poor grandmamma’s
natural temper was never very pleasant; and
old age and infirmities have made it much
worse.”

“Ah! yes, mamma; I know,” Alice said
eagerly, as if anxious to save her mother the
pain of speaking more distinctly. “The last
time I was with grandmamma, papa told me
that now she really could not help being a
little cross sometimes. Her fretfulness was,
he said, only a part of her illness; and that
we ought no more to blame her for being soon
angry and a little unreasonable, than for hav-
ing a headache, or for not seeing well.”

“Exactly, Alice,’ Mrs. Lee said, seeming
much relieved. “But although we ought not
to blame her for her peevishness, yet it is
sometimes hard to bear. Grandmamma, re-
quires to be helped in a great many ways;
but, at the same time, she does not like people
to suppose that she is not as able to help her-
self as she used to be. And so it may very
well happen, that, after you have taken a
great deal of pains and trouble to serve her,
THE VIOLET. 83

she may be more inclined to blame than to
thank you.”

“Of course, mamma, that would not be
pleasant,” Alice answered with a smile and a
little shake of her head. “But still you
know,” very seriously, “ God will make me to
feel anxious to serve dear grandmamma; and
if I really can serve her, that must be my re-
ward, not her praises or thanks.”

“My own good, loving child!” Mrs. Lee
said, fondly putting her arm’ round her, and
kissing her. “ But there is another difficulty
in your way: grandmamma’s old servant,
Peggy, is nearly as cross as grandmamma’s
self. She is getting too old, and perhaps too
lazy, to do many things that she used to do;
and yet she does not like to see any one else
do them. Grandmamma’s comfort depends
much upon Peggy’s being kept in a good
humour. You must make up your mind to
do a good deal of Peggy’s work, while you
suffer Peggy to get the credit of it all, Can
you do this, my little Alice?”

“ Mamma,” she said, after a moment’s
thought, “I think if I can once make myself
think only of grandmamma’s comfort and hap-
84 THE VIOLET.

piness, I shall be willing enough to do every-
thing, and to get credit for nothing. But
whether I shall be prudent enough and wise
enough to manage my part without offending
Peggy, is a different question. But, mamma,”
her countenance brightening, “if God wishes
me to go and take care of grandmamma, he
will most certainly help me to do it well.”

“ Most certainly he will, my darling,” Mrs.
Lee said, kissing her again. “He will make
you both willing and able to do everything
he calls upon you to do.”

“Ah! then, mamma, it is all right,” Alice
said quietly, and with a bright smile. “You
have only now to see what papa says, and 1
am quite ready.”

The proposal was talked over that evening;
and although Mr. Lee felt, as his wife did,
that it was hard to part with their good,
loving little girl for even two months, and
although he feared that she might meet with
much to try and grieve her, yet he was in the
end brought to think that, as there was really
no one else to take her place, she ought to
go.

“ And what we ought to do, my little one,”
THE VIOLET. 85

he said to Alice, “ God always gives us strength
to do, and happiness in doing.”

And so the matter was settled; and in one
short week from that time, Alice and her
trunk were safely deposited in her grand-
mamma's house. Mr. Lee went with his little
girl; but, on account of some pressing busi-
ness, he had to return by the next train, and
was able to spend only a quarter of an hour
with her and with his mother.

Alice felt very sad when she saw her father
go away, and realised that she was left alone
to make the best she could of her difficult task.
She was a good deal tired by her long journey,
and there was nothing in her present circum-
stances to cheer or comfort her. It was a
dull, gloomy November afternoon, or rather
evening. The fire burned very low, for Mrs. Lee
had been half-sleeping before they came in,
and there had been no one to attend to it. The
parlour looked indeed dull and dreary in com-
parison to her mother’s bright, cheerful sitting-
room at home; and there had been no cor-
dial, kindly welcome to make her forget these
outward discomforts. Old Mrs. Lee had been
very unwilling that Alice should come to her,
86 THE VIOLET

and had only yielded a reluctant consent in
order to get rid of her daughter’s entreaties
and remonstrances. She therefore received
Alice very coldly, and seemed glad to be able
to speak bitterly about the untidiness of her
dress, which had been a little disordered by
the journey. Wearied and sad, Alice found it
difficult to bear sharp words and unkind glances,
and was glad when her grandmamma proposed
that she should go up stairs and get off her
travelling-dress.

On reaching her own room, Alice went
straight to the looking-glass, to ascertain the
cause of her grandmamma’s biting remarks.

“There is nothing so very bad, after all!”
she said, after a careful consideration of her
own appearance; “ grandmamma need not have
been so cross. However, they say that when
one feels cross and uncomfortable, it is a relief
to have some person or thing upon whom to
pour forth the crossness ; so, I suppose, to be
that person was the only good I could do
grandmamma for the present.”

At this moment the door opened, and Peggy
came in upon pretext of bringing up some of
Alice’s luggage, but in reality to get an oppor-
THE VIOLET. 87

tunity of giving Alice a bit of her mind, as she
phrased it.

“Whatever in the world,’ muttered she,
“ Master George and Miss Caroline,’—so she
called Alice’s father and aunt,—“ whatever
they could be thinking of to send a little brat
like that to be a plague and bother to every
one, I’m sure I can’t guess! However, child,
I can tell you,” coming close up to her, and
speaking very bitterly, “I can tell you I am
not going to suffer any one, old or young, little
or big, to interfere with me; so, if you think
to watch, spy, and push yourself in between
my mistress and me, you will find yourself
very much mistaken, I can assure you,” and,
so saying, she flounced out of the room, leaving
Alice with a heart by many degrees heavier
than it had been before.

“Tam sure I don’t want to watch, or spy,
or interfere with any one,” she said, sorrow-
fully: “why will they give me credit only for
evil? Why will they not love me, and be
kind to me, and let me help them as much as
I can ?—that is all I want. However,” dash-
ing away the tears which had begun to fall,
“Tam not here to think about what I want,
88 THE VIOLET.

or don’t want. J am here to help grand-
mamma, That is what God wishes me to do;
and to do it well is all I have to care for.”

And having smoothed her hair and arranged
her dress, she knelt for a moment by her little
bed, and prayed to her Father in heaven for
strength and guidance.

“JT know, Father,” she said in her simple
way, “that it is thy will that I should labour
hard to be a comfort to grandmamma; so I
am sure, quite sure, that thou wilt give me all
the strength, all the patience, and wisdom that
I need.” And comforted and strengthened by
this exercise of simple faith, she rose and went
down stairs with a quiet and trusting heart.

Down in the parlour things looked more
cheerful. The fire burned brightly, the cur-
tains were drawn, and the lamp lighted. The
tea-tray had been brought in; and Mrs. Lee
sat behind it, looking more pleasant and kind,
as she always did when she found herself in
her own place, and able to fulfil her own duties
as mistress of the house. All her life she had
liked better to serve than to be served. No
great harm in that, to be sure; but the pity
was, that she could not be contented without
THE VIOLET. 89

the power to serve when God had seen fit to
take it from her.

Alice’s little duties began at once. Mrs, -
Lee began to make tea; the sugar-tongs had
not been put in their usual place, and, with
her failing sight, she could not find them.
Alice saw what was wrong, and was ready to
spring forward and give them to her. But she
remembered her mamma’s warning, and kept
still until Mrs. Lee had turned to the other
side of the tea-tray, when the little girl con-
trived to push them noiselessly forward into
full view. So when her grandmamma, fretted
and cross because she could not find them,
turned back to: the sugar-basin, there they
were all ready, and the old lady’s face bright-
ened up directly, and she felt quite pleased
with her own cleverness in finding them.

So far Mrs. Lee’s theory had helped Alice.
But experience in one or two failures was
necessary to fix the principle in her mind.
In rising from the tea-table, Mrs. Lee stumbled
over a footstool; but when Alice sprang for-
ward to remove it, she met only with an angry,
“What is the child about? Do you think
I don’t see where I am going? Or that I
90 THE VIOLET.

cannot go across the room without your
help ?”

Alice made no answer, except by a little
good tempered laugh, which softened the old
lady directly. And Alice took an early op-
portunity, as she crossed the room to get her
work, to move chair, table, and stool out of
her grandmother's way, without seeming to
do so.

After a little Mrs, Lee took up her knitting;
and Alice soon perceived that she had allowed
the ball to run under her chair, and the worsted
to rub against the sharp edge of the seat, so
that it was cut, and worn to less than half of
its proper thickness, She waited and pondered
what she could do. She was afraid to vex
her grandmamma by any remark; and yet
it seemed a pity to allow her to waste all her
work in that way. And Alice knew that the
worn worsted must give way the first time
the stocking was washed, if not sooner. So
after a minute or two she ventured very
modestly to tell her grandmamma what had
happened, and to suggest that the injured
worsted should be broken off. But Mrs. Lee
only said,—
THE VIOLET. 91

“Nonsense, child! Attend to your own
work, and leave me to attend to mine. JI knew
how to knit stockings fifty years before you
were born. Don’t you think to teach me !”

Again Alice only laughed pleasantly. But
when her grandmother had retired to bed, she
took up the stocking, and taking down all
her grandmother had done that evening, she
broke off the frayed worsted, and worked up
again with the good to the row at which Mrs.
Lee had left off It was not a very easy
task, for the pattern was new to Alice, and
it gave her a good deal of trouble to find it
out, and to make her work so like her grand-
mamma’s as not to spoil the stocking. Alice
was, besides, sleepy and tired, and longed to
get to bed, so that the work seemed doubly
tedious and difficult.

“ And then to think,” Caroline interrupted,
“that she should get no thanks for all her
pains, but only a scolding if her grandmamma
found out what she had done. Well, mamma,
that was disagreeable enough. It is not so diffi-
cult to take pains to help people, if we know
that they will be grateful and thank us.”

“ But then, you know, Caroline,” said Lucy,
92 THE VIOLET.

“the violet hangs her head and hides herself
under the leaves, and only cares to give people
pleasure by her sweet perfume. Alice was
very like the violet. But please, mamma, go
on. Did Mrs. Lee find out that Alice had
helped her ?”

Not about the stocking. But upon the
following day Alice was pretty often found
fault with for being officious and interfering.
The bustle of very good for the old lady. She had passed
a restless night, and was more than usually
uncomfortable and cross, She required more
help and service than usual, for she was weak
and worn out; and yet she was less than
usual willing to be helped. Alice passed a
very trying day. Nothing she did, or left
undone, seemed to give satisfaction. When
anything went wrong, it was sure to be in
some way Alice’s fault. And many a time
through the day Alice was forced to remind
herself that she had promised not to think
about herself at all; that the only thing she
had to attend to, or care for, was her grand-
mother’s good and comfort.

“Tt really seems to do grandmamma good
THE VIOLET. 93

to scold a little,’ she thought, as she went up
to her room to prepare for dinner. “Itisa
great deal better that she should scold me
than Peggy, because poor Peggy cannot bear
to be scolded, and either answers grandmamma
or gets cross, and does not attend to her com-
forts as she ought to do. Hither way, grand-
mamma is put about; so I have been at least
of some use to-day, and that is a great
comfort.”

After dinner Mrs. Lee got a comfortable
sleep in her arm-chair, and Alice had a little
quiet time to think over the day’s proceedings.
She did not think them over to grumble and
complain of her grandmamma’s unreasonable-
ness and crossness ; but to see where she had
made any blunder, which might be avoided
for the future, and to find out new and better
ways of being of use.

After her refreshing sleep, Mrs. Lee was
kinder and more reasonable, and things went
on much more pleasantly during the rest of
the evening. The next day, and the next,
and the next were also more agreeable and
harmonious. Mrs, Lee was beginning to get
accustomed to Alice,—beginning to love her,
94 THE VIOLET.

and to rejoice in the comfort of having such a
pleasant, watchful attendant. And as for Alice,
God was day by day more fully answering her
prayer, making her day by day more unselfishly
and simply earnest to help her grandmother,
and more cheerfully willing to go without
thanks or praise for her service. She was also
day by day gaining more knowledge and ex-
perience of the best ways of making the old
lady comfortable, and had the satisfaction of
feeling that she was each day more successful
than on the preceding one.

But while Alice got on thus prosperously
with her grandmother, she made little progress
in gaining Peggy’s good-will. The old servant
had firmly persuaded herself that Alice wish-
ed and planned to supplant her in her lady’s
favour ; and not all the little girl’s gentleness
and modesty could dislodge this notion from
her mind. Alice was sorely troubled about
it. She saw that, as her mamma had said,
Peggy had got old and lazy, and left undone
many little things which she had been used
to do, and upon which her mistress’ comfort
greatly depended. And yet, if Alice at any
time proposed to take such small duties upon
THE VIOLET. 95

herself, the proposal was sure to be met by a
snappish negative, and by a fit of crossness
which would, for one or two days, as the case
might be, disturb the comfort of all in the
house. The sneers and crossness she could
bear well enough, so far as herself alone was
concerned, for she knew they were undeserved ;
but when she saw how much Mrs, Lee’s com-
fort or discomfort depended upon the state of
Peggy’s temper, she felt that it was most ne-
cessary that she should be very prudent, and
- should, even while working hard to do Peggy’s
work, suffer Peggy to get all the praise.

And by slow degrees in this, too, she suc-
ceeded. The first success was in a matter
which had caused Mrs. Lee a good deal of an-
noyance. She had a great many little fancies
about the arrangement of her toilette. For
more than fifty years past, she had always had
everything she required for dressing and un-
dressing laid out in a particular way; and she
could not bear to have the least thing for-
gotten,—to have a brush, a glass, or a pin out
of its appointed place. During all these years
Peggy had been her constant attendant, and
had until lately taken a great pride in having
96 THE VIOLET.

every little thing exactly as Mrs. Lee liked.
But now her memory was beginning to fail,
and she grudged the trouble of thinking over
and recollecting all the many particulars,
Now one thing was forgotten or misplaced, and
now another; and scarcely a day passed in
which Mrs. Lee was not made cross and un-
comfortable by some such neglect, either morn-
ing or night, if not both. Once and again
Alice had asked Peggy to suffer her to attend
to these matters, but Peggy had always refused;
until one fortunate evening when she happened
to have a headache, and to be very busy mak-
ing marmalade, and therefore graciously con-
sented to allow Alice to do the best she could.
Alice had often been present at her grand-
mother’s toilette, and had, in preparation for
such an occasion, taken pains to learn exactly
how everything should be arranged. With
great care and thoughtfulness she now put
her knowledge to use, and with perfect suc-
cess. There was not the smallest thing out
of its place! And as Alice listened to her
grandmother's expressions of pleasure, and saw
her lie down in bed looking so much more
happy and comfortable than had often lately
THE VIOLET. 97

beun the case, she resolved never to rest until
she had gained leave to take this little business
upon herself.

Peggy’s black looks warned her that the
present was no time to urge the proposal. To
Peggy had been given all the credit of this
night’s successful arrangement; and, although
she had not been generous enough to give
Alice her due, yet she felt quite as cross and
jealous as she could have done had the truth
been made known. Alice wisely forbore the
. least allusion to her success, or to the delicate
subject, until two or three days had passed,
and Peggy had forgotten the feeling of rivalry
which had been excited. And then, watching
for a transient fit of good humour, she coax-
ingly asked, a as favour to herself, that her
grandmamma’s toilette arrangements might
be left to her. Peggy gave a reluctant as-
sent, hinting that Alice would soon tire of the
business, And from that day forward no
more complaints were heard, and Mrs. Lee was
full of praises of Peggy’s care and thought-
fulness !

Another continual source of annoyance was

the dusting of a little cabinet of curiosities
(403) 7
98 THE VIOLET.

and old china. Mrs. Lee wished that every
article should be carefully dusted every morn-
ing; and for all these years this had been
Peggy’s morning task. Now she thought it quite
enough to do it once a week or so. Every
morning when Mrs. Lee came down stairs, her
first business was to go up to the cabinet ;
and being too blind to see the general effect,
she would pass her finger over the ornaments,
or round the cups and saucers, and fret her-
self into thorough discomfort and weariness if
the smallest speck of dust could be discerned.
Alice in this case said nothing to Peggy, but
rising half an hour earlier every morning,
continued to have every article nicely dusted
before any one appeared. It was a tedious
and tiresome task for a little girl, and of course
no word of thanks ever rewarded her pains; but
her grandmamma’s mind was set at ease, and
that was all she cared for. And when, after
having tried the finger-test as usual, Mrs. Lee
put the invariable question,—‘“ Has the cabi-
net been dusted this morning, Alice ?” the little
girl rejoiced that it had taken a form which
she could answer with perfect truth, with-
out bringing upon Peggy the reproof which
THE VIOLET. 99

she so bitterly detested, and which had so evil
an effect upon her temper.

In the same way with Mrs. Lee’s slice of
toast and her basin of gruel : Peggy sometimes
burned the one and overboiled the other, now
that her sight and memory were beginning to
fail. And as the only other servant was a
giddy, thoughtless girl, Alice soon got into the .
habit of slipping quietly out of the room, be-
fore tea and supper, and going to the kitchen
to coax Peggy to let her be cook for the time.

All these seem very small matters to attend
to, and had Alice considered her own credit,
or laboured for praise and admiration, she
would have thought them too small to be worth
so much trouble; but seeing that these were
the very things which made her grandmother
comfortable or uncomfortable, she considered
them as being the very things God had sent
her there to do; and being modestly and
humbly willing to keep herself in the back-
ground, she set about doing them heartily and
with her might. Her grandmamma’s comfort,
and not praise to herself, was what she worked
for; and God gave her the reward she sought,
~——gave her the pleasure of knowing that she
100 THE VIOLET.

really was a help and comfort to the poor old
lady. Other reward, too, he gave her, al-
though she did not seek it. Old Mrs. Lee had
a good many visitors, and the wise and good
among them observed Alice’s gentle, watchful
care, and gave her that approbation which must
always be pleasing from the wise and good.

“Oh, yes! to be sure,” said Harry approv-
ingly. “The violet is praised and loved for
its deep, full colour, and its sweet scent, al-
though it does not seek for praise.”

“It might seem,’ Mrs, Lindsay continued,
“that the life Alice led was a very dull one for
so young a girl; but Alice was honestly and
heartily happy, feeling herself of use, and find-
ing day by day something to do for her grand-
mother’s comfort and happiness, some way of
helping her.”

Two months had passed, and Alice was be-
ginning to count the weeks and days to the
time of her aunt’s return, when Mrs. Lee
caught cold, and was obliged to confine her-
self to bed. Now that she could no longer
help herself, she was willing enough to take
what help Alice chose to give her,—was, in
fact, rather exacting and unreasonable in the
THE VIOLET. 101

amount of service she demanded. But Alice
never thought her unreasonable ; she was only
glad to be suffered to do all she could. She ran
errands with unwearied patience and cheer-
fulness ; read and sang to her when Mrs. Lee
wished it; sat quietly beside her while she
slept; and arranged and re-arranged every ar-
ticle in the room as often as the old lady’s
many whims required. She was indeed head,
or rather sole nurse. Peggy, in spite of her
bad temper, was a faithful, attached servant,
and loved her mistress so deeply, that at the
first appearance of illness she became alarmed,
and too anxious and nervous to be of use. It
was Alice who received the doctor, answered
his questions, took his directions, and saw to
their being obeyed,—measured out the medi-
cines, and administered them at the proper
times, And if admiration had been the re-
ward she cared for, she might now have been
satisfied, for each day the doctor’s praises of
her care and attention surpassed those of the
day before.

Matters continued in this state for more
than a week. At first the illness seemed so
slight that none except Peggy felt at all
102 THE VIOLET.

alarmed ; but as day passed after day, and
Mrs. Lee became no better, her friends grew
anxious. Alice’s father and mother, as well
as Mrs. Lee’s other children, began to feel that
the care of her was too heavy a burden for
such a young child; and a married daughter,
Mrs. Mar, came to be her mother’s nurse.

Now was Alice’s position greatly changed ;
but she had the good sense and good feeling
to rejoice in the change. She felt that Mrs.
Mar could do more for her grandmother’s com-
fort than a little girl like herself could hope
to do; and she readily and cheerfully gave up
all the importance and independence of her
late position, and submitted to be directed and
ordered about as any other child might be.
She was as ready to be her aunt’s humble
helper as ever she had been to be the head
and ruler in the sick-room; and gave herself
as earnestly to play with and keep quiet and
happy a spoiled child of three years old, whom
Mrs. Mar had brought with her, as ever she
had studied to relieve her patient’s pain or
restlessness, or to carry out the doctor’s most
troublesome directions.

Peggy viewed the change with less patience.
THE VIOLET. 103

Alice had, within the last two or three weeks,
completely won the old servant’s heart. She
had become both fond and proud of her, and
did not approve of the very subordinate posi-
tion to which Alice was now reduced.

“’Deed Mrs. Mar might have brought. her
own nursery-maid to look after her own spoiled
brat,” she grumbled to Alice. “It ill sets a
sensible, wise-like lassie like you to be put to
such work.”

But Alice only laughed, and said that if to
keep Minnie quiet was the best way of serving
her grandmamma, she was glad to give herself
to do it.

All this time, however, one sore anxiety
pressed upon the young girl’s heart. She
feared that her grandmother was very ill, was
dying; and she feared (she had too good cause
to fear) that she was not fit to die,—did not
know, did not love the Lord; and that there
was no one to tell her of her true state, to
warn her of her danger, Mrs. Mar felt too
much as her mother did, and was only anxious
to keep her patient’s mind quiet and at peace.
The clergyman of the parish called every day,
but was never admitted. Alice knew this,
104 THE VIOLET.

and it made her very unhappy. Earnestly
and constantly did she pray to God, in her
simple manner, that he would make grand-
mamma, willing to see Dr. Bryce, and to listen
to him.

At last a day came when Alice heard the
doctor tell her aunt that he feared Mrs. Lee
could not survive four-and-twenty hours. Dr.
Bryce called early that forenoon, and Alice
watched anxiously to see if he were admitted
into the sick-room. After a shorter visit than
usual, he came down stairs. Alice was in the
lubby, and saw at once by the saddened ex-
pression of his face that he had not been
permitted to see her grandmamma. In her
terrible anxiety, she forgot the modesty and
respect for him and for her grandmother which
had hitherto kept her silent ; and springing
forward, she seized his hand, crying earnestly,

“Oh, sir! will grandmamma not see you?
She is dying, and there is no one to tell her !”

Dr. Bryce looked kindly upon Alice, and,
leading her into an empty parlour, said ten-
derly,—

“My dear little girl, we must leave this
matter with God. I know your father, Alice;
THE VIOLET. 105

and when he comes I am sure he will deal
faithfully with his mother, and let her know
her true state.”

“Ah, yes!” Alice said, her eyes streaming
with tears; “but Aunt Mar will not allow
papa to know how ill she is. Aunt Mar is
afraid his coming might alarm grandmamma.”

“Not now, my dear. Your aunt is at last
alarmed, and has written to your father to-
day.”

“But,” Alice persisted, “ papa cannot be here
for three days at least; and then” (in a broken
voice) “it will be too late. What can we do?”

“We can pray, my little one,” he said sooth-
ingly; “that is our sweet resource in all times
of trouble.”

Pray Alice did, with an earnestness she had
never known before. The whole day seemed
a prayer. Alone in her own quiet room,
watching by her sleeping grandmother, and
even while at play with her little cousin, ear-
nest petitions were continually going up to
her Father, who alone could help.

In the evening Alice was left to watch her
grandmother, while Mrs. Mar was at dinner.
She sat mournfully looking into the fire, trem-
106 THE VIOLET.

bling to think that all hope for her grand-
mamma might so soon be gone. Mrs. Lee
called her. Alice went up to the bed. Mrs.
Lee took her hand in hers, and, looking ear-
nestly in her face, said,—

“ Alice, what did the doctor say of me to-
day ?”

Alice was less embarrassed than an older
person might have been. She thought she
could not help speaking the truth.

“He said that you were very ill, grand-
mamma,” she said softly.

“That means that I am near death;—and I
am totally unfit to die!” the old lady said,
with a strange, solemn calmness.

“Ah, grandmamma! dear grandmamma !”
cried Alice, eagerly, ‘‘ only come to Christ, and
he will make you fit; he will do everything



for you!”

“ Alice,” Mrs. Lee said, solemnly, “eighty
and five years have I lived in this world.
Through all these years I have refused to lis-
ten to my God. Will he listen to me now,
when I can no longer help myself?”

“T am only a foolish child, grandmamma,”
said Alice, tremblingly ; “I cannot speak to
THE VIOLET. 107

you; but let me go for Dr. Bryce,—he can tell
you.”

“ Bring him out in this dark, snowy night!”
Mrs. Lee said, doubtingly.

“Oh, he will come at once, so gladly!” Alice
cried ; and, overcome with the earnestness of
her longing, she bowed her head on the bed,
and cried aloud, without knowing she did so,
“O God, make grandmamma send me !”

The old lady’s heart was quite overcome
by the child’s earnestness.

“Go!” she said, “ go! There is Peggy
coming through the dressing-room; she can sit
with me. Go!”

Alice waited no second bidding, but went
at once. She put on her bonnet and cloak,
and slipping quietly down stairs, fearful of
being seen by her aunt, she ran through the
snow and darkness to the manse. Dr. Bryce
was at home, and went back with her at once.

Mrs. Lee had told Mrs, Mar decidedly that
she wished to see him alone. He went in,
stayed long, and when he came out Alice saw
that tears had been in his eyes. He told
her that her grandmother wished to speak
to her. Alice went in and knelt by the bed-
108 THE VIOLET.

side. Mrs, Lee was calm, and seemed at
peace. She put her hand fondly on Alice’s
head,—

“Jt is strange, it is wonderful, my child,”
she said, feebly, “but it almost seems as if
God were going to take an old sinner like me
home to himself as gently and peaceably as he
might a simple, loving little child. But what
I want to say to you, my little one, is this,
—I may die before the morning, and I want
to tell you that if I get to happiness at last,
under the Lord, you will have been the means
of saving my soul!”

“I! O grandmamma, I never did any-
thing but pray !”

“ Pray and live, my child! It was your
life that first made me think of religion, I
have watched you ever since you came here,
when you did not know it. I have seen you
work, and labour, and give your whole self to
please and serve me, though you got nothing
but blame for doing so. I knew—I was made
to know—that your modesty and humility
were not flowers of this earth. I saw that you
lived to God, and sought no other reward
of your labour except to please him. And I


THE VIOLET. ° 109

began to wish to know something of that
religion which bore such fair fruits. I was
long too proud to let this be known, until
death came near and frightened away my
pride. But, Alice, if I never see you again, re-
member my words: Had it not been for your
humble, loving spirit, I might have died as
I have lived—a godless, careless sinner!”

“ And did she die, mamma?” cried Lucy.

No, my dear. The relief to her mind
seemed to bring relief to her body too, She
recovered, and lived for more than a year, to
show that her change of heart had been real
and lasting.

“ Ah, well!” sighed Caroline, “I should like
to be a Violet; but I am afraid I never could.”

I know many stories that might have illus-
trated your poem.” Mrs. Lindsay said; “but
I chose this one, because the heroine is so like
yourselves that I thought you might be en-
couraged to begin this very day, this very
hour, to imitate her.”

“ Only we have no cross grandmamma,”
Caroline said, smiling.

“No; though I am not sure that is a thing
to sigh about. But if you watch carefully,
110 THE VIOLET.

Caroline, you will be surprised to find how
much more precious you can render every little
service to your friends, if you set about per-
forming them in the modest, self-forgetting
spirit of our little Alice Lee.”










THE PIN.

———

“T tHink I can guess what this is about,”
Mrs, Lindsay said, as Harry drew out the pic-
ture and placed it before her. “Ah, yes;
there is the book, the hoop and ball upon the
floor, the hat and mantle on a chair. This
must be little heedless Emily.”

“Yes, mamma,” cried the girls. “And see,
there are Betty and her broom, who swept
away the pin; and through the window you
can see the carriage with the company going
to see the air-balloon.”

“Well, mamma,” Harry said decidedly, “I
think Emily was treated abominably. I don’t
like this poem at all, I am sure I should
have hated the mamma who could make poor
Emily stay at home for only losing a pin.”

Helen was in the room, and she and Mrs.
Lindsay looked at each other and smiléd.
112 THE PIN.

“Why do you and Helen smile, mamma?”
Caroline asked.

“T suppose Helen recollects a little passage
of her own life when she, like Emily, had to
bear a severe punishment for a very small
fault; and yet I do not think she hated, or
even blamed, the mamma who inflicted it.”

“What was the passage, mamma?” cried all
the children. “Tell it to us, please.”

“Shall I, Helen?” Mrs, Lindsay asked,
smiling.

“Oh, certainly. But I should have thought
that Caroline at least might have remembered
it.”

“Oh no, she could not. You were only ten
years old. Caroline was a very little thing
then. She might be at the party. I suppose
she was; for grandpapa used to insist upon
having even the babies in arms at his birth-
day feasts. But she could not recollect it.”

“Oh, but indeed, mamma, I do recollect
grandpapa’s birthday parties,” Caroline cried
eagerly. “He lived up the hill there; did he
not?”

“Yes, in the old Grange; and every birth-
day he had all his grandchildren to spend the
THE PIN. 113

day with him. Charming parties those were,
for grandpapa spared neither pains nor ex-
pense to entertain his visitors; and they were
talked about, and looked forward to, during
the whole year.”

« And what a happy gathering together of
the clan there used to be!” Helen said. “Those
who lived at a distance came a day or two
before, and lived, some with grandpapa, some
with us, and some with Aunt Helen.”

“ But the story, mamma,” urged Caroline.

“ Well, in those days, Helen was a good,
obedient little girl; but rather like ‘ heedless
Emily.’ She was sadly apt to leave books,
work, and playthings littering about the
room, When I told her to lay them pro-
perly in bookcase, workbox, or playroom, she
would do so at once readily and cheerfully ;
but she could never recollect to do it unless she
was told. I felt that it was quite necessary
that she should learn to attend to such mat-
ters for herself, as she could not hope to have
me beside her all ther life to remind her; and,
after trying many different plans without the
least good, I fell upon the one which in the

end succeeded. I told her that I should never
(403) 8
114 THE PIN.

again tell her to put things in order, or point
out what she had forgotten; but that, every
Saturday morning, I should look over her
drawers, boxes, and bookcase, and if any-
thing were left out of its place, I should be
obliged to make her stay at home for that day,
whatever party of pleasure might be in question.

“For a time it seemed as if the threat
were going to do all that was expected from
the punishment. Saturday passed after Satur-
day, and the drawers and boxes were always
in perfect order. One tea-party she lost, but
it happened to be a very stupid one, from
which she was really glad to be excused.

“ At last came the week before grandpapa’s
party, and very anxiously did I watch my
little girl, greatly afraid lest she should give me
the pain of depriving her of so very great a
pleasure. All through the week lay on the
library table her little paint-box, with its
colours scattered around it, as she had put
them up to dry after last using them. Dry
they had been long ago; but, alas! forgotten
also. I was bound not to remind her of any
particular thing, but I hinted as much as I
could. I spoke about her paint-box; I spoke
THE PIN. 115

about our compact, and reminded her to be
more than usually careful; I sent her several
times to fetch me books and papers from the
library table, hoping that she might see the
paint-box. But all in vain. Saturday morn-
ing came, and there it was with all its attend-
ant colours littering on the table. What
could I do, Harry? Could I break my word?
And might not the heedless Emily’s mamma
have been in a similar hard case?”

“Ah, well, perhaps she might,” Harry
granted grudgingly. “But still, mamma,
although it was you who made it, I think
the rule was a little hard. It would be so
difficult to recollect on the Friday night all
the places that had to be put in order.”

“ Exactly what I wished Helen to feel. I
wished her to learn to lay aside everything
into its proper place so soon as she was done
with it; I wished her to learn by experience
that it is much easier to keep than to put
things in order.”

“ And I did learn it, mamma!” said Helen.
“ Before that miserable day, I had been con-
tent to do as Harry says,—to put everything
right on Friday night; but on that day I
116 THE PIN.

learned that the only safe plan was to keep
them right all the week through. I had taken
so much pains to think over everything that
Friday, and yet after all I failed!”

“Well, after all, it does seem a little fault,
that being untidy or careless about putting
away things,” remarked Caroline. “To be
cured of it could never, I think, be worth all
the sorrow poor Helen must have suffered.”

“Ah,” said Helen, laughing, “children
never know the value of little things. Mamma,
tell them your story about Lizzie and the wild
rose.”

« Ah yes, do!” they cried, and Mrs. Lindsay

began—

WHAT A LITTLE KINDNESS CAN DO.

It was a warm summer day, when two
little boys were going to school, talking very
busily about a cricket-match in which they
were that afternoon to be the leaders of oppo-
site sides, and discussing very earnestly their
different chances of success.

“Ah!” sighed Charles, “you have such a capi-
tal ‘bat!’ We have no one equal to Grant.”

“ Perhaps not,’ answered Lewis, “ but your
THE PIN. 117

bowler is better than ours; and we have no
‘field’ anything like so good as Hare.”

“ But he is such a troublesome fellow. Ten
to one he insists upon bowling; and he is use-
less for that. And if I hold out against him,
he will most probably take the pet, and ‘ field’
ill on purpose.”

“Oh, I think I could manage him,” Lewis
answered cheerfully. “I think I should—”’
Here he broke off, and left his companion’s
side.

They had been walking in the middle of
the road. High up on the bank, under the
shade of the hedge, sat a little girl with a
baby in her arms. The baby was large,
heavy, and very cross. The little girl looked
sad and weary. Just as they passed her,
Lewis saw her stretch up her hand to pull a
rose which hung over her head, and for which
the baby was evidently longing. It was too
high; she could not reach it. Lewis stopped
his interesting discussion, sprang up the bank,
broke off the rose, and gave it into her hand
with a pleasant, kindly smile!

“ Bother! what are you after?” cried
Charles discontentedly, as Lewis leaped lightly
118 THE PIN,

down the bank again to his side, “I wanted
so much to hear what you would do with
Hare; and there you go springing about like
a fool, to get a rose for a dirty, ragged girl.”

“Mamma says that we should help every
one who wants help,” Lewis answered gravely.

“Oh, well, when we can give a good bit of
help, it is all very well; but that was such a
little thing !”

“But mamma says,” Lewis persisted still
more earnestly, “that if we do not take hold
of the little things which God brings in our
way, we cannot expect that he will give us
greater ones.”

The boys walked on, and were soon out of
sight. But the kind act, the pleasant look
which had accompanied, and the words which
had followed it, had none of them been lost
upon the little girl, Sad and weary she looked
and felt, and had a right to feel, for there
were many things in her home to weary both
mind and body. She was the eldest daughter
of a large family. Theirs was a house where
there were many to eat, and little to be eaten
—much to do, and little that got done, Her
father was a devoted parent, and worked hard
THE PIN. 119

from morning to night to support his family.
But somehow, wonderfully little comfort seemed
to come out of his wages. The mother, too,
loved her husband and children dearly. She
would gladly have given her life for theirs.
She often starved herself that they might
have enough to eat; but, poor woman, she
- never saw the hundred little ways of making
them happy and comfortable which lay at her
hand every day of her life. It did not seem
worth the trouble to put away the cups and
bowls, when they should be so soon wanted
again; so they got knocked over, and a good
many halfpence had to be taken to buy
others, and less potatoes or meal could be
bought for the many hungry mouths. It did
not seem worth the trouble to get out needles,
thread, and thimble for such a little hole; and
so the frock or jacket went to pieces. It did
not seem worth the trouble to make herselr
look kindly, or speak pleasantly, when she felt
cross and tired; and so the children got cross
and dispirited. There: were crying and quar-
rels in the house when the poor, tired father
came home; and there was danger that he was
beginning to learn to like the pleasant com-
120 THE PIN.

pany and neat parlour at the public-house, bet-
ter than his own dirty, untidy, noisy cottage.

Lizzie was a sensible, affectionate child.
She saw the evils of their mode of life, and
earnestly longed to do something to remedy
them; but where there was so much to do,
it seemed as if there was nothing for so young
a girl to begin with. And under the hope-
lessness of seeing evils she could not help, she
was. fast becoming listless and sullen,—begin-
ning to look upon their family as one doomed
to be unhappy,—not to care to do anything
because she could not do everything.

On this particular morning she had felt
more dispirited than usual, Things had gone
worse than usual in her home. Her father
had heard that morning that a friend, to whom
he had lent a little money, had run off through
the night, and left nothing wherewith to pay
his creditors. The sum of money was not
large, but the loss was a serious one in such a
household, and the head of it might well be
excused for being cast down. The poor mo-
ther had, besides, been unwell: she had not
slept well the night before, and getting up un-
rested and languid, to be met at once by such
THE PIN. 121

unplaasant news was more than she could

bear. As I hinted before, with her to be sad

and weary, was to be cross also. She spoke

sharply to her husband, found fault with the

children, and pushed them about, so that the

gloom upon the spirits of their elders soon

spread to them too. Every one grew cross and

discontented, and Lizzie was glad to escape -
from all the turmoil and discomfort by taking

baby out to walk.

Yes, to get away from crossness and scold-
ing was pleasant; but it was quite a differ-
ent thing to carry the heavy, restless baby
under that warm sun. He, too, was in a dis-
contented mood that morning, and fretted, and
was as troublesome as he could be, now throw-
ing himself backward over her shoulder, and
now forward, until poor Lizzie’s arms ached
with holding him, and she was glad to creep
through the hedge, and sit down under its
shade, where we first saw jer.

The kindness of the little boy’s act, the
pleasant smile with which it was accompanied,
soothed and. comforted her heart; while the
few words she overheard made a deep impres-
sion on her mind.
122 THE PIN.

“Tf we do not take hold of little things, we
cannot expect that God will give us greater
ones,’ she repeated slowly and thoughtfully.
“JT fancy there are a good many little things
which I might take hold of, to do some little
good with. That boy’s kind smile made me
feel quite differently—it made me happier,
somehow, I hardly know how. Could I not
sometimes make poor mother happier in the
same kind of way, instead of looking sulky
and put out whenever things go wrong? In-
deed I think there are many little things for
me to do.”

One such little thing presented itself at that
very moment. Baby had pulled his rose to
pieces, and was now fretting for a new play-
thing. Lizzie got up from her comfortable
seat to attend to his wishes. She danced him
as long as her poor tired arms could possibly
do it; took him through the hedge, and held
him down to kick among the grass; pulled
daisies and dandelions; and talked and sang
and played with him. At last, much to her
comfort, the bright eyes grew a little sleepy.
He was content to lie down in Lizzie’s arms,
and was soon asleep.
THE PIN. 123

She carried him home. Her mother stood
outside the door with her washing-tub. She
looked up as Lizzie came near; and the plea-
sant, smiling face of the little girl seemed
at once to cheer her heart. Children do not
know how much pleasure they can give, by
merely looking contented and good tempered.
A little boy or girl can spoil the comfort of a
whole family circle, by gloomy, sullen looks, or
discontented, fretful words. Lizzie’s mother
smiled back upon her little girl, and said pleas-
antly,—

“Why, bless thee, child! how pleased thou
dost look!”

Lizzie laid her brother on the bed, and
looked round to find some other little thing
which she could do. The potatoes were boil-
ing in the pot on the fire, and there was no
other tub for her to help in the washing. But
the room looked wonderfully uncomfortable.
Surely there were a good many little things
she could do to make it look nicer. She had
at two or three different times been at Farmer

‘ Johnson’s helping his tidy wife to do her house-
hold work. There she had learned how things
ought to be. Hitherto the knowledge thus
124 THE PIN.

gained had only dispirited her, as showing how
far wrong her own home was. Now she was
ready to do the little she could, and she began
at once. The floor was miserably dirty.
Nothing short of a thorough scrubbing could
do much there, and there was no time for that
now. But the plates and bowls used at break-
fast littered the dresser. They at least might
be washed, and put up on their proper shelves.
And as Lizzie began her work, and went on
with a cheerful, willing spirit, it was wonder-
ful to see how many little things rose up to
be done. The dresser and table wanted wash-
ing, the chairs wanted dusting and setting
straight, and the hearth most sorely wanted
being swept up. And when all these were
done, Lizzie was pleased and surprised at
the great improvement in the comfort of the
room. Dinner-time was near, and Lizzie de-
‘termined to set out the dishes in the neat,
orderly way she had learned from Mrs, John-
son. She had just finished this when her
mother came in.

“ Why, Lizzie, child,” she cried, much pleased,
“how busy you have been! I came in to set
things a little straight for dinner, and here it
THE PIN. 125

is all done to my hand. I have only to get
the potatoes dished.”

“Tl do that, mother,’ said Lizzy; “sit
down and take a bit of a rest; you look very
tired.”

Tired she looked, and wet and dirty as well
as tired. Lizzie glanced through the window
down the long lane by which her father came
home. He had not turned the corner. There
was time to do something for her mother’s
appearance before taking off the potatoes.
Lizzie darted off to the chest where the gar-
ments of the family lay piled in woful con-
fusion. She contrived to find another apron,
dry at least, if not quite clean. And step-
ping behind her mother as she leaned back in
her chair, with a pleasant little laugh she
untied the string of the dirty one, and gave
her the other to put on.

«Tut, child,” her mother said, not altogether
pleased, “what has made you so particular to-
day?” .

“Tt is for father, mother,” Lizzie pleaded;
“to make you look nice when he comes home.
Poor father is down-hearted enough to-day,—
we should make him as comfortable as we can.”
126 THE PIN.

“True, true, so we should;” and she rose
and went to the door to meet her husband, with
a kind, pleasant look.

He was coming home sad enough, poor
man, for he recollected how uncomfortable he
had left it. But the unusual neatness of the
room, the brightness in Lizzie’s and his wife’s
face, seemed to lighten his heart. And, with-
out knowing why, he began already to think
that matters were by no means so bad ag he
had supposed.

You may believe that Lizzie was encouraged
by her success in these little things to go on
to greater efforts. After washing up the
dishes, she persuaded her tired mother to give
up the washing-tub to her, and to rest herself
by taking baby out to play in the grass-field.
So the afternoon passed; and Lizzie thought
she had never had so happy or so busy a day.

At night, when she undressed the younger
children, she looked sadly, as she had often
before done, upon their ragged clothes. The
holes were so many, it seemed hopeless to be-
gin to mend, when she had so little time be-
tween their bed-time and her own, This was
her first thought. But her second was wiser.
THE PIN. 127

“T can always do a little,” she said; “and
if I do not take hold of the little things, I shall
never get hold of greater ones.”

So she carried one of the little frocks into
the kitchen, and, sitting down, began with
hearty good will to work at each rent as it
came in her way, putting in a patch here,
darning a hole there, or sewing up a seam in
another place, without allowing herself to look
forward to the much there was to do, or back
to the little she had done.

It would be tedious to tell you how Lizzie
went on from day to day, or to count up the
surprising number of little things which she
continually found to do. It is enough to say,
that as weeks and months passed on, the once
dirty and untidy cottage began to look like
another place. By setting straight whatever
she saw crooked or out of its place, by clean-
ing whatever she saw dirty, by mending what-
ever she saw torn, Lizzie brought an amount
of real comfort to her home of which she
herself was hardly aware. Everything she
did seemed so little at the moment of setting
about it, that she did not see how great a
thing all these littles made up in the end.
128 THE PIN.

And whenever she did find time to look around
upon her own work, she was always greatly
astonished to find how much had been done.
The young ones, too, were learning from her
to put to their hands to do whatever they
could. They were learning to set back their
chairs when they rose from them; to take pains
to disentangle their frocks or pinafores from
the threatening nail or thorn; and, in short,
to pay attention to all those thousand and one
little things which come in the way of every
one of us, old or young, every day of our
lives ;—little things by which we can bring
good or avoid evil; by which we can help to
bring comfort, or to keep off discomfort from
those we love.

The one on whom Lizzie’s example had most
effect was her eldest brother, John. He was,
like Lizzie, very affectionate; he loved his
little brothers and sisters most devotedly ;
and when they suffered from cold or hunger,
he felt for them almost as sorely as did their
father or mother. His great wish was to be
2 grown-up man, and able to earn enough of
money to keep all the family! At his own
request he had been apprenticed to a carpen-
THE PIN. 129

ter ; but he could expect only very small wages
while learning his trade. He had a short time
at his own disposal in the evenings. Hitherto
it had seemed so short as not to be worth
making anything of; but seeing how Lizzie’s
“mony littles were making a muckle,” as we
Scotch say, he was stirred up to use his own
every little corner of time to some advantage.

He was sorely grieved that the young ones
should receive no education. He and Lizzie
had been sent regularly to school; but after-
wards, when there came more little bodies to
clothe, more little mouths to feed, the money
ran short, and, except for a quarter now and
then, none of the little ones had had that ad-
vantage. John now took in hand to teach
his two brothers next to himself in age, and
gave them lessons regularly every evening. The
lesson time could be but short every night, as
they got sleepy soon after he came home. They
were not, to say the least, too anxious to learn.
The progress they made was not striking. But
still John persevered.

“If it be very little that we do,” he said,
“still it is something; and something is better

»

than nothing.’
(403) 9
130 THE PIN,

And as the idle little fellows got more ac-
customed to regular lessons, they began to
attend better. By slow degrees a little was
gained, and fresh courage was given to go on
to try for more.

After they went to bed, an hour or two for
work were still left to John. He resolved to cul-
tivate their garden. Garden, indeed, it barely
deserved to be called; for no spade or hoe had
ever touched it since the family came to the
cottage, when John was a baby. It might
have been overgrown with grass and weeds had
not the little feet trodden it nearly bare, and
hard as the high road; and all round the sides
were heaps of cinders, broken pottery, old shoes,
and such like things, most unpleasant to the
eye. His father told John that it was vain to
hope to do anything with such a barren spot;
but John had heard so much of the comfort of
having a garden, and had such pleasant dreams
of getting potatoes and cabbages for nothing,
that he was determined at least to do all he
could,

“And if I fail in the:end,” he said, “it is
only that we must go without a garden as we
now do,”
THE PIN. 131

The very first thing was to know where to
begin. The ground must, of course, be dug,
but they had no spade; the cinders must be
removed, but there was nothing to represent
a wheelbarrow. John was not to be dis-
couraged. He began at once to the heaps,
carrying away the rubbish in an old basket,
with a piece of rope for a handle, and using a
slate as a shovel. Lizzie was able now and
then to help him, by carrying a basketful or
two at every spare minute through the day.
But still the heaps seemed never to grow less,
and many a time were they advised by both
father and mother to give up.

One evening, when the brother and sister
were hard at work, their father’s master hap-
pened to pass, and asked what they were
doing. John explained. He seemed pleased
at their industry, and said, that if they would
riddle the cinders, they could burn the largest,
and might bring the middling size to him, and
he would pay them for them, as he should soon

want cinders for a compost of manure he
~ meant to make. They had no riddle, they
said, and John was meditating how he could
manage to make one, when the farmer said
132 THE PIN.

he believed he had an old one in his yard, if
John could mend it. This he found a much
easier task than to make a new one. And an
evening or two after, the riddle was set up,
and in full action.

Now that his master took an interest in the
matter, John’s father began to think there
might be more sense in it than he had sup-
posed, and he went out to help. He and
John riddled all the evening; and through the
day, Lizzie, with the help of the little ones,
carried the cinders up to the farm, and the
ashes and rubbish to a dust heap at the end
of the village. Lizzie also persuaded the lit-
tle ones to employ themselves now and then
to gather together the droppings of manure on
the high road, which she carried at spare mo-
ments, in the same worthy old basket, to a
place set apart for the purpose in their own
yard.

Mr. and Mrs. Johnson became more and
more interested in the children’s efforts, and
looking over a heap of old tools in their own
barn, found a spade and hoe, which with a lit-
tle mending might be made serviceable. And

.the body of one wheelbarrow, the shafts of a
THE PIN. 133

second, and wheel of a third, in John’s indus-
trious hands, turned out a very respectable and
useful vehicle,

After these acquisitions the clearing away
went on much more rapidly, and they were
soon able to begin to the digging, which they
were anxious to get well done before winter
set in, when the frost would help them by
breaking up the stiff clods of the newly turned-
up earth. The father was now thoroughly
interested in the work, and gave his whole
evenings to the digging. The manure the
children had collected was dug in; the money
got for the cinders bought seeds and a few
plants; and so by the beginning of winter
matters were in a fair train for their having
vegetables of their own in plenty the next
summer.

John having succeeded in this, turned his
thoughts to other things. He had sometime
before observed that heaps of chips and shav-
ings in his master’s yard were left littering
about, or thrown away, which might be of
great use in his own home; and he had, with
his master’s leave, been in the habit of gather-
ing an armful to carry home every night.
134 THE PIN.

One night among the chips was a neat little
block of wood, two or three inches square.
John picked it out, and with his knife, old
_ and broken as it was, contrived to carve out a
. very neat little boat, This Farmer Johnson’s
son bought for a penny. Pleased with his
success, John went on with another, another,
and still more boats, larger or smaller as his
wood allowed. For these he found a ready
sale among the young gentlemen of a board-
ing school near his father’s cottage. Next,
he tried miniature houses, only a few inches
high. He hollowed them out from the
bottom upwards, and carved the door frame
and sashes of the windows with the utmost
delicacy and neatness. These he kept until
he had made half a dozen, and the next time
he was sent a message to the market town,
he carried them with him, and offered them
for sale to a toyman. The man readily gave
him a shilling for them ; which, with what he
had earned before, made up _half-a-crown.
This he spent upon a good knife, and two or
three cakes of colour, black, green, and a dark-
red brown. The last purchase was a sugges-
.tion of Lizzie’s, She thought that if she were
THE PIN. 135

to colour his boats and houses, they would
prove more attractive. And she was right.
The bright green or brown doors and win-
dows made his houses much more tempting to
childish eyes, and he got them sold as fast as
he made them.

His next experiment was a tiny basket
hollowed out of solid wood, with the handle
and outside neatly carved in imitation of
wicker-work. These were much admired.
Nothing of the kind had ever been seen be-
fore, and their novelty, and the low price
John asked, commanded a ready sale.

The other boys in the carpenter’s shop
laughed at him for spending so much time
upon what brought him only a few pence.
But John was not to be laughed out of his
plans. He felt that it was his duty to do
what he could to help his father and mother,
as he could and when he could, be the result
great or small, and he went on steadily and
heartily. His master took a very different
view of the matter from John’s companions.
John was a great favourite. He was scrupu-
lously exact in the execution of every order,
and ever most ready to oblige. The carpenter
136 THE PIN,

was much pleased with the boy’s ingenuity
and industry, and often laid aside for him
little bits of pretty wood which were of no use
to himself, but out of which John made a
great profit. One little block of mahogany
he carved into a tiny arm-chair, fit for the
queen of the fairies. The toyman to whom
he took it, was so much pleased that he
ordered a dozen of the same kind, at a price
which John considered wonderfully hand-
some,

In executing this order, John began to
put a little delicate carving on the backs of
the chairs, and down the legs, This part of
the work he delighted in, and soon found that
he had really a talent for it. He began to
add ornamental carving to every part of his
work that would bear it. The toyman had
not the taste to appreciate or to pay for such
additional ornament according to its real value;
but John felt that it was worth his while to
go on with it, as he found that he was every
day gaining fresh power over his hand and
knife, and he hoped at some future time to
turn the talent to greater advantage.

Lizzie was of great use to him in this kind
THE PIN, 137

of work. She was sometimes sent on errands
to the housekeeper at the Hall, and on such
occasions made full use of her eyes for her
brother’s sake. She carefully studied and im-
pressed on her memory every new pattern of
moulding which she saw on the cornice of the
ceiling, on the grates, or on the furniture of
the rooms into which she was admitted. She
pricked upon paper rude resemblances of such
patterns, and John improved upon them in
his carvings to a wonderful degree. In other
ways too Lizzie was his constant helper. Her
brother was ever in her mind, and she was
ever on the watch to take hold of any way of
helping him, however trifling it might seem.
Now, it was picking up the ends of wood sawn
off and thrown aside by the carpenters engaged
upon the new houses which were building ;
another time, borrowing from a neighbour’s
child a wooden dog, horse, or sheep, which
might serve John for a new model; and at
a third, laying aside out of a mass of broken
toys, given her by the housekeeper at the Hall,
"whatever she thought John could make use of.

She was as great a favourite at the Hall
as John was in his workshop, and for the
138 THE PIN.

same reason,—because she took so much pains
in every little thing she was required to do,
and was ever so ready to give help where she
could. And this scrupulous care, this readi-
ness to oblige, and watchfulness to find a way
of doing so, both brother and sister owed to
the example and maxim of the little giver of
the wild rose, and to the habits which they
had thence been induced to cultivate.

One day when Lizzie had gone up to the
Hall upon an errand, as she went into the
housekeeper’s room, a housemaid passed her
with a bucket of ashes to throw out, and on
the top of the ashes reposed a broken doll’s
trunk of exceedingly small size. Lizzie’s
quick eyes caught sight of it, and she eagerly,
though modestly, begged leave to take it
home. The girl gave it to her at once. The
housekeeper asked her, with some curiosity,
what she meant to do with it. Lizzie
modestly gave the history of her brother's
manufacture, and told how he had carved a
piece of pretty walnut-wood into a casket,
in imitation of one he had seen in a curi-
osity shop in the town, and how hinges and
w lock small enough could not be procured.
THE PIN, 139

“These, ma‘am,” she said, looking admir-
ingly on the hinges and lock of the little trunk,
“are quite what he wants. He can now finish
the casket; and he is so anxious to get it sold,
because he hopes, with what he has already,
that the money it should bring will be enough
to pay for a quarter’s schooling to poor Colin
and Sam.”

The housekeeper was both struck and
pleased with the simple tale of industry and
affection. She took the first opportunity of
repeating it to her lady, who directed her to
send a message to John, to bring his casket
to her as soon as it was finished,

Before the message could be sent, however,
the casket found itself carried to the Hall in
another way. John took it to show to his
kind master, who was going up to the Hall
to do some work, and carried the casket with
him to show to Sir Robert. Under other
circumstances he might have found a difficulty
in getting the servants to take it into the
drawing-room for exhibition; but, like the
rest of the household, the butler had a real
liking for the obliging little Lizzie, and hav-
ing heard from the housekeeper of his lady’s
140 THE PIN.

wishes regarding this very casket, he carried
it into the breakfast room with quite a flour-
ish of trumpets in its praise, which at once
excited the attention of the large company of
guests.

The casket was in truth well worth their
attention, being beautifully carved and finished ;
and when they heard the little history of its
young maker, of course their admiration was
increased tenfold. John was sent for, and
pleased them still more by his modesty and
intelligence. His natural shrewdness had
been greatly quickened by the habits of ob-
servation he had acquired while looking out
for every little way of helping himself or
others; and even his manners had been im-
proved and refined by the watchfulness over
everything that could bring comfort or dis-
comfort to those around him. Every one
round the breakfast table was enthusiastic in
their admiration and praise, and there was
quite a strife as to who should buy the cas-
ket. A gentleman present, who understood
these matters well, and had travelled much,
was particularly struck with the talent and
taste displayed in the devices carved all over
THE PIN. 141

it. He had with him beautiful specimens of
the Swedish wood-carving,—a bowl, a ladle,
and other such things; and he offered to lend
them to John as patterns. With sparkling
eyes and eager gratitude the offer was ac-
cepted.

“Ah!” said a lady, “what an immense
amount of labour in all these leaves and
flowers! Are you not afraid to undertake so
much work?”

“JT have not to do it all at once,” he an-
swered, modestly, but with a quiet smile.
“One leaf, or bit of a leaf, only at a time;
and by going on doing, one gets done some
time.”

The travelled gentleman was pleased with
his answer, questioned him further about his
plans, gave him a few useful hints, and ended
by drawing for him on a sheet of paper all
the different kinds of lines and curves which
it was most necessary for him to know how
to draw, and advised him to practise them at
every spare moment.

Tt did not seem as if John had many spare
moments; for, now that he could make so
much by carving, he did not think it right
142 THE PIN.

to take any of his time away from that. But
where there is a will there is a way. He
kept his sheet of examples ever beside him,
and found many stray opportunities for using
it. Now waiting for a minute for breakfast
or dinner; now while hearing Colin or Sam
learn his lesson for next day’s school; and
many and many a time while waiting on the
older workmen at the shop, when plank, or
wall, or sanded floor, and a piece of charcoal
or a stick, served for drawing-board and pencil,
he would draw the line of beauty, the straight
line, or the difficult circle, until his eye was as
true and his stroke as bold, firm, and free as
he could desire.

He found this drawing power of great use.
In a much shorter space of time than his new
friend could have expected, he carried up to
him exact, very clever, though still rather
rude imitations of the Swedish ladle and bowl.
A large order for more was at once given to
him by several of the guests at the Hall, and
the price which was fixed by the traveller
seemed, in poor John’s eyes, something quite
fabulous.

After this, John’s success was steady and
THE PIN. 143

great. All day, while his apprenticeship lasted,
he laboured diligently and faithfully at his
master’s work, learning everything he could
from every one with whom he came in con-
tact, and doing good to every one as God
gave him opportunity; and his evenings were
passed in his favourite carving, for which he
was every day showing fresh talent. Having
gained complete mastery over his pencil, he
began to draw new devices for himself, copy-
ing flowers and leaves, trunks of trees, ani-
mals, everything that came before him, until
his carving became as celebrated for the beauty
of the device as for the exquisite finish of the
workmanship. He still carried on the old
habit of using up every corner of time, every
morsel of material that came in his way.
Having perfected himself in drawing natural
objects, he bought books upon geometry and
mechanics, and studied them at every idle
moment. His next brother, Colin, showed a
talent for mechanics; and as he had not John’s
steady application, the good elder brother
studied the subject, that he might make it
more simple for the idler.

But I must hasten on. Poor baby must
144 THE PIN.

be ready for me. Years passed on, and one
day two gentlemen were walking together
through the streets of London.

“T wish I could find a man,” said one,
“who could, from my description, imitate that
exquisite cabinet I saw at Florence.”

“Why don’t you try Pirie?” asked the
other. “He is your man. All the great
people are crazy about him. Dukes, mar-
quises, ay, the Queen herself, would give him
any price he chose to ask for his carving.
You have been so long abroad, you know no-
thing that is going on. Come, shall I take
you to him?”

The other at once agreed, and his com-
panion led him to a handsome though unpre-
tending shop, over the door of which were
these words,—

JOHN PIRIE,
ORNAMENTAL CABINETMAKER.

All the neighbouring shops blazed with
gilding and plate-glass; but Pirie trusted en-
tirely to the attraction of his exquisite speci-
mens of carving, which adorned every part of
the shop. The beauty of these, and the intel-
Ligence and taste of their manufacturer, at
THE PIN. 145

once satisfied the young man of his ability to
execute the order. He asked Pirie to call
upon him the next morning, when he could
show him a few drawings he had made of the
cabinet, and gave his name and address. On
hearing the name, Pirie suddenly looked up
with eager, sparkling eyes, and asked if the



,» in



gentleman had ever lived near
shire. A surprised affirmative was given.
Without a word, Pirie darted into the parlour
behind the shop, and brought out a carv-
ing in wood, representing, with wonderful
beauty, a little girl sitting under a hedge with
a baby in her arms, a boy beside her giving
her a rose, and another on the road below
looking wonderingly and discontentedly up at
them !

“ Ah! sir,” cried our old friend John, tears
sparkling in his eyes, “there youare! Ihave
prayed God so earnestly that some day I might
see you, and tell you all you have done for us.”

Of course Lewis (for he it was) understood
nothing of all this until Pirie had explained
it; which he did with much emotion, con-
cluding by saying,—

“No carving has ever left my hand, or

(403) 10
146 THE PIN.

ever shall if I can help it, but has a wild rose
in it somewhere or other!”

“ T have heard that remarked upon,” said the
other gentleman, “and a good reason you have
for it. My friend here has practised his own
maxim; and, by putting out his hand to take
hold of every little thing that could help his
neighbour, has got hold of more great things
than men double his age have ever managed
to find.”

Good news had John to tell:of his whole
family. He had carried them all up Fortune’s
ladder with himself His loving, faithful
Lizzie, was happily married to Sir Robert’s
factor, and had the prettiest, best arranged
house, the best kept garden, and the most
comfortable, well-ordered family in all the
country side. Sam was in John’s business,
steady, industrious, and showing nearly as
much talent as his elder brother. Colin was
head engineer in one of the largest manufac-
tories in the kingdom, and had every prospect
of making a large fortune by a new invention,
for which he had just taken out a patent.
The father, mother, and other children, were
comfortably provided for; and as one after
THE PIN. 147
another, daughter or son, grew up, each took
after the good example shown them by their
elders.

“Much reason we have, sir, to keep the
wild rose before us,” Pirie concluded.

“ Or the picture of the little girl who made
so good a use of it,” answered Lewis, as he
cordially shook hands with the worthy cabinet-
maker.

“Now, not a word of question or remark
can I stay to listen to,” cried Mrs. Lindsay, as
she rose from her seat, laughing at the faces
of the children, so eager to express their in-
terest. “You and Helen can talk it over.
I must not cheat baby to please you.”






THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.



“Now, mamma,” cried Lucy, “you must tell
us just such another story as the one you told
us yesterday. We all liked it so much. We
all wish for one just like it,”

“ But you know, Lucy, the character of my
story must depend on the poem it is to illus-
trate. What is it to-day, Harry? Oh! ‘The
Vulgar Little Lady.’ That is the one you
like, Harry, is it not?”

«Yes, mamma. I think it is such a good
picture. See how the little conceited fool is
twisting about her head, to look at ‘ the lace
on her sleeve;’ and pointing her toe and
drawing up her frock, to show off her ‘red
shoes.’ Has not Uncle Charles done it capi-
tally, mamma, ?”

“But, mamma,” said Lucy, thoughtfully,
“J don’t quite know why the poem is called
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, 149

‘The Vulgar Little Lady.’ I don’t quite
know what is vulgar.”

“Oh, I know!” Caroline cried, confidently.
“Mamma said to Helen the other day that
she thought our new neighbour, Mrs. Bland,
very vulgar. And you know she and her
husband were quite low, poor people, before
he got all that money. That is what makes
them vulgar. And Mrs. Bland had on a gown
that was far too gay for a morning visit. That
was another vulgar thing.”

“Oh, but,” cried Harry, “Mr. Bland was
vulgar in quite another way. I heard Charles
say to papa, ‘What a vulgar man he is! He
can talk of nothing but his horses.’ ”

“And then,” Lucy pursued, thoughtfully,
“there was that fat nurse of Aunt Helen’s.
Helen said she was a tiresome, vulgar woman.
I know she was tiresome, because she talked
so much about all the grand ladies whom she
had attended. And I suppose she was vulgar,
because she was so fond of eating and drink-
ing, and said ‘La, ma’am,’ so often.”

“Ah!” said Mrs. Lindsay, looking smil-
ingly at Helen, “see what it is to comment
upon our neighbours when little ears are in
150 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

company. You and f never expected to have
our remarks repeated in this way.”

Caroline blushed deeply. She supposed
that her mother meant to allude to her old
habit of chattering, and repeating everything
she heard.

“T did not mean to do wrong, mamma,”
she said. “I would not—at least, I hope
that I would not have repeated it through .
mere idleness.”

“T hope not, indeed, my little Caroline,”
Mrs. Lindsay said, very kindly. “You are
fast curing yourself of your chatter-box ways.
I did not speak of you more than of the others.
But little folks, with quick imaginations and
unformed judgments are quite ready enough to
take up prejudices against their neighbours,
without we elder people helping them to do
so.”

“But, mamma,” pursued Lucy, earnestly,
“after all, what exactly is vulgarity ?”

“That, my child, is a question I really can-
not answer; different people give such dif-
ferent meanings to the word.”

“ But what meaning do you give, mamma?
What meaning does the poem give?”
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 151

Mrs. Lindsay read the poem through before
she answered.

“JT think the poem gives the same meaning
that I should be inclined to give. By vulgar-
ity I generally mean, the having a low stand-
ard of what is really estimable; the placing
our own claims to respect, or the claims of
others, upon things which in themselves are
not meritorious, or the merit of which does
not belong to us.”

“Ah, mamma! I don’t understand,” said
Lucy.

“No, my love,’——smiling at the frowning
brows and perplexed looks of all the three
children, — “I can hardly expect that you
should understand so general an assertion.
Let us look at the particular cases. Mr.
and Mrs. Bland are not vulgar because they
were once poor, and are now rich, Mr. and
Mrs. Colvin, our estimable friends, were once
very poor, and filled but a low place in society,
yet no one thinks of calling them vulgar.
But Mr. and Mrs. Bland are vulgar, because
they pride themselves upon their riches, and
think that every one ought to respect them
merely because they have so many thousands
152 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

a year. There might be bad taste, but there
was not necessarily vulgarity in Mrs, Bland’s
putting on so very magnificent a dress for
a morning call. The vulgarity lay in her
expecting that I should esteem and_ re-
spect her, because her gown had cost twenty
guineas,”

“And about Mr. Bland and his horses ?”
asked Harry.

“Tt is foolish and trifling to talk about
nothing but horses; but the vulgarity lies in
supposing that to have more horses than other
people is to deserve to be looked up to with
respect and reverence,—in not feeling that
respect: and reverence are due only to the
really wise and good.”

“And Aunt Helen’s nurse, mamma ?”’

“T suppose Helen called her vulgar because
she boasted so much of her acquaintance with
titled ladies. It is vulgar to suppose that we
are at all better or worse for knowing or not
knowing Lady this or Lord that.”

“T believe it was the nurse’s familiarity
which provoked and disgusted me, mamma,”
said Helen, “TI believe that was the reason
I called her vulgar.”
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY 153

“But her familiarity might proceed from
the same cause. She might think herself so
greatly exalted by her acquaintance with the
nobility as to be on an equality with you and
Aunt Helen.”

“Then, mamma,” said Helen thoughtfully,
“there is poor little Miss Higgins, One can-
not help feeling that she is vulgar. Upon your
principles, wherein does her vulgarity lie?”

“In reverencing people a great deal too
much for the sake of their wealth or station.
Poor little Miss Higgins has neither refine-
ment nor wisdom enough to see that the
large heart, the devoted unselfishness, and
clear, honest judgment of the Colvins, deserve
a thousandfold more respect than do the mere
riches of the Blands, or the high rank of the
foolish, profligate Lord James Darrel.”

“But other things are vulgar, mamma,”
persisted Caroline. “One feels that it is very
vulgar to do many things Mr. Bland does, He
stretches across before people, to help himself
to whatever he fancies at table.”

“And in handing mamma a peach, he took
it up in his own dirty fingers,” added Lucy.

“ But, worst of all,—oh, mamma, do you not
154 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

remember how he spat on the floor and into
the fire?” cried Caroline.

“Mr. Colvin sometimes stretches across the
table too,” said Harry.

«All these things are disagreeable enough,
whether done by Mr. Bland or Mr. Colvin,”
Mrs. Lindsay said, “ but they are more signs
of ill-breeding than of vulgarity. At least,
as I understand the word, I should say that
vulgarity lies deeper than in the mere manners;
I should say that vulgarity has to do with the
judgment,—-with the heart.”

“But, mamma, if gentility means the oppo-
site of vulgarity, that is not’ what the poem
says. Look, it says,— ,

‘For it is in good manners, and not in good dress,
That the truest gentility lies.’ ”

“You are quicker than I am Lucy; I had
not remarked that,” Mrs. Lindsay said smiling.
“Gentility is a word not much used now. I do
not quite know what it meant in the days
when this poem was written. Now, when I
hear any one say, ‘So and so is quite genteel,’
Iam apt to think that the speaker is so vul-
gar as to place a great deal of importance
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 155

upon matters which are really in themselves
very trifling. JI am apt to think that he or
she believes that to live in a certain part of
the town, to have a carriage and horses, and
to keep a certain number of servants, consti-
tute a claim to superiority over those who have
none of these blessings.”

“But that is certainly not what the poem
means, mamma,” cried Lucy; “because you
know it calls Charlotte a ‘vulgar little lady,’
for thinking ‘that the lace on her sleeves’ and
her ‘red shoes’ can make her a bit better than
‘Jenny her nurse;’—that is not the kind of
gentility that the poem means.”

“No; I think the gentility of the poem
must mean the being really lady-like or gen-
tleman-like; and in that sense the story I
have thought of for to-day may very well be
called ‘The Trial of Gentility, although my
name for it has always been ‘The trial of
Politeness.’ ”

“ Caroline, “that is a charming name. It re-
minds me of our dear little book, ‘The Polite
Children.’ Do tell us it at once, We wasted
so much time yesterday talking before the
156 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

story, that we had no time to talk it over
afterwards. So, mamma, please begin.”
And Mrs. Lindsay did begin

THE TRIAL OF POLITENESS,

“ Well really, aunt, I can’t think why you
should always keep saying that,” pouted little
Maria Hauton, as she leaned against her aunt’s
table, with hat on head, and hoop in hand,
just as she had run in from the garden. “It
seems the strangest thing in the world, that
you should say that poor little Jenny, the
gardener’s daughter, is more like a lady than
T am.” .

“T did not say so, my dear,” her aunt replied
very quietly; “Ionlysaid that Ihave often seen
Jenny behave more politely, or, as you phrase
it, more like a lady than you.”

“Well well, it is much the same thing,”
(very impatiently) ; “and really, aunt, you know
it is absurd to say so. Poor Jenny is a very
quiet, good little thing; and I am willing
enough to have her with me; but she has
never had any one to teach her good manners,
while my mamma has taken such pains with
ine; and everybody says that mamma is one


OFFENDED OIGNITY
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 157

of the most lady-like persons in the world.
No one knows better than mamma does how
to behave herself in all circumstances.” And
the little lady drew up her head, and looked
very well pleased with both herself and her
lady-like mother.

As her aunt made no reply, Maria supposed
that she had made a deep impression on her
by such weighty arguments, and went on
triumphantly.

“Then Jenny has always associated with
low people like herself, while I have been
used” (very conceitedly) “to the best society ;
I often spend several days at the Castle, and
Lady Emily and Lady Alicia are my dearest
friends. It is really absurd to fancy that
Jenny can know how to behave herself so well
as I do.”

“T said nothing about knowing, my dear ;
I spoke only of what you and Jenny did,” her
aunt said, calmly.

“Well, but aunt,” (peevishly,) “how can one
do anything unless one knows how to do it?
I really cannot understand how any one can
for a moment suppose that Jenny can, by any
possibility, have so good manners as I have.
158 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

It really looks” (in a complaining tone) “as if
you had a dislike to me, and wished to find
me in fault.” And she tried hard to get up a
few tears of wounded feeling. She was not
successful; and if she had been, her tears
would have met with little attention. Her
aunt was not looking at her, and seemed not
to have heard, or not to have heeded the last
remark. After a minute or two of silence,
she turned quietly to her little niece, and said,

“ Are you willing, Maria, to put this ques-
tion to a trial?”

“ Certainly, aunt, to any trial you like. But
what do you mean?”

“J expect a large party of friends to tea
to-night. Among them are some whom you
highly esteem ;—your friend Lady Emily’s
father and mother, Lord and Lady Ashley;
and Lady Ashley’s sister, Lady Gray ;—the
authoress Mrs, Burns, and Mrs. Grant, who, you
say, is the most fashionable of fashionables,
the most distinguished of the distinguished in
London, Are you willing to leave the matter
-to their decision? And to you or to Jenny,
whichever is pronounced the most polite, I
shall give that beautiful Bible, which you so
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 159

much desire to possess. Are you willing to
be put upon trial?”

“Oh, certainly, aunt. But how is the trial
to be made? Do you intend to ask Jenny to
take tea with all these grand ladies? Poor
little thing,” (laughing affectedly,) “ that is
hardly a fair trial for her.”

“ Hardly, indeed,” said her aunt. “Jenny
can hardly be expected to know how to be-
have at a tea-table in such company.”

“Exactly what I say, dear aunt, and what
you have always denied,” said Maria, triumph-
antly.

“J beg your pardon, my dear,” her aunt
rejoined, in her own quiet way. “To know
the little particulars of what I should call
table decorum, is a very small part of polite-
ness. In that part I have no doubt you may
easily surpass Jenny. It would be a shame
if you did not.”

“But what do you mean, then, aunt? How
is the trial to be made?”

“It is now nearly a fortnight since you
and I conversed on this subject before, Maria,”
rejoined her aunt. “You then maintained
your own opinion as decidedly as you do now,
160 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

and as I was anxious to convince you that
real politeness lies much deeper than you
think; that no one can be really polite who
is not kind-hearted, unselfish, and gentle, like
my little friend Jenny; and that such an one,
by following the dictates of her own heart,
can easily be more polite than one who merely
tries to recollect and follow the rules of polite-
ness she has been taught; it occurred to me to
note down, for your instruction, every inci-
dent in which you and Jenny played a part,
and the way in which each behaved. This
little journal I have kept through all the fort-
night; and if you agree, I shall read it this
evening to the party after tea, and they shall
decide which of you has, in the majority of
cases, been the most polite. Do you agree?”

“Oh yes, of course. JI.am not—I cannot
be afraid of any comparison with Jenny; only
it might have been fairer if I had known
what you were doing.”

“Not ‘fairer, my dear; because, as Jenny
and you were equally ignorant of my purpose,
neither had an advantage over the other.”

“Ah, but aunt, don’t you see that if we
had known, I should have had the best of it.
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 161

Poor Jenny really does not know how to be-
have; so to be warned of your plan could have
done her little good.”

“Then, certainly, that neither should be
warned is the fairest way. I have no wish
that either you or Jenny should have ‘the best
of it.’ I wish you both to be as equal as pos-
sible.”

“« As possible,’ aunt!” repeated Maria, with
her affected laugh. “Ah, yes, you may well
say ‘as possible.’ It is impossible that the
trial can ever be a fair one for poor little
Jenny. Thank you a great many times, dear
aunt, for thinking of such an easy way for
me to win the beautiful Bible. I shall be
so glad to have it. I shall get a cover for it.
Don’t you think a morocco cover would suit
it best?—and should you advise me to have
it made with mere flaps, or with a piece to
cross over and button, like yours?”

“J should advise you, my dear, to wait un-
til you have got the Bible, before you order
the cover; and I should advise you not to be
too sure that you will get it.”

“ No, not ‘too sure,’ not a bit ‘too sure, dear
aunt,” (laughing again.) “I can hardly be that,

(403) Il
162 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

I think. I cannot remember” (after a mo-
ment’s consideration) “a single instance, during
the last fortnight, in which I did anything at
all unlady-like. Of course, aunt, you did not
choose out cases?”

“Certainly not. I put down every inci-
dent in which you both had a part, just as
each occurred. But I should tell you, Maria,
that there is one case put down which did not
occur during the fortnight.”

“ And that is—” (a little anxiously)

“Your and Jenny’s behaviour to poor Anne
Grainger, when her father lost all his money.”

“Oh!” (much relieved,) “I am not afraid
of that instance. Every one said I behaved
very kindly to Anne. Papa said he was glad ©
to see I had such a generous spirit. No, aunt, I
am not afraid of anything you could put down.”

Here the aunt and Maria separated ;—
Maria to go out to the garden and walk up
and down, rejoicing in the thought of her ap-
proaching triumph over her aunt, and of her
beautiful Bible; and the good, kind aunt to
go up to her own room and pray earnestly
for a blessing on the effort she was making to
open her niece’s eyes to her faults,
THE VULGAR LITTLE LABY. 163

Evening came; and after tea, when the
company were beginning to look round for
some amusement, Mrs. Hauton drew out a
little manuscript book from the drawer of her
writing-table.

“T have to ask you all to do me a, favour,”
she said, looking smilingly round upon her
guests. “There is a question pending between
two little girls, as to which of them is the most
polite. I have here written down a good
many instances of the conduct of each; and
if you do not object, I should like to read
them to you, and to have the vote of the com-
pany upon each instance as we go on. Do
you consent ?”

They were all much amused, and readily
gave the desired consent.

“ But,” said Mrs. Burns, “some polite
actions are more polite than others. I mean,
some occasions call for a higher kind of polite-
ness than others. How shall we distinguish
these? One of the girls may be quite right
in all the easier circumstances, and fail in the
more difficult ; while these last may not be in
number sufficient to give the successful in
them the advantage she ought to have.”
164 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

“T have thought of that,” said Mrs, Hau-
ton, “and have arranged that we shall num-
ber as one, all merely ordinary instances of
politeness ; as five, those which are a little
more delicate; and as ten, those which reach
the highest point of excellence.”

“ Ah, that will do excellently!” Mrs. Burns
said. ‘“ And are the instances of failure to be
numbered too,—one for an ordinary mistake,
five for one rather worse than usual, and ten
for the very flagrant ?”

“No,” said Mrs. Hauton, smiling; “that
would rather complicate our sums. I am
willing that the one I think the most polite
should take her chance, although all her rival’s
greatest faults are counted only by a cipher. So
now, if youare ready, we shall begin at once.”

They all agreed, and Mrs. Hauton began.
Maria, feeling a little mortified that her name
had not been mentioned, so that every one
might know of her triumph, sat down near
her aunt to listen as patiently as she could.
Mrs. Hauton read :

“ Thursday.—The two girls, Charlotte and
Jessie, were with me to-day at the gate, when
an old man passed on horseback. The horse
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 165

was impatient and. fidgety; the rider timid,
and very awkward. We were all, I am
ashamed to say, a good deal amused by his
evident uneasiness, and his unskilful attempts
to soothe his restless steed. As he passed us,
his hat blew off into the mud, and he looked
after it with a most rueful, helpless expression
of countenance. Charlotte laughed, clapped
her hands, and cried, loud enough for the man
to hear,—

“<«QOh, what capital fun! How can he ever
get off that tall horse! how can he ever
get up again! Let us run out and see how
he manages! Leave him alone, Jessie; you
will spoil the fun

“For Jessie had at once opened the gate and
darted across the road through the mud, and,
without regarding Charlotte’s remonstrances,
she picked up the hat, wiped off the mud
with her own handkerchief, and handed it to
its owner, with a pleasant smile and pretty
courtesy.

“«Why, Jessie, he is not worth so much
trouble! He is only a common man!’ said
Charlotte contemptuously, as Jessie came back
to us,
166 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

««He required help, whoever he was, was
Jessie’s quiet reply.”

“T suppose,” pausing a moment, and look-
ing round with a smile, I may, without ques-
tion, put a cipher to Charlotte’s account, a
unit to Jessie's !”

“ Certainly,” they all replied at once. Mrs,
Hauton continued :

“ Friday. Yesterday, while walking in the
garden with the little girls, we stopped before
a bed of carnations, and each declared her
preference for the different kinds it contained.
Charlotte admired most a brilliant flake, scar-
let and white; Jessie chose one of a beauti-
ful self colour, the palest canary, almost white ;
while I preferred, above all others, the old-
fashioned dark clove.

“To-day, I had a bad headache, and was
obliged to lie on the sofa all forenoon. I ex-
pressed a wish for some fresh flowers, The
two girls very kindly asked leave to go out and
gather me some. I gave the permission, but
said that each must bring me only one sweet-
smelling flower, as my head could not bear too
strong a perfume, however pleasant. In a
few minutes they returned, each bringing
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, 167

one carnation. Charlotte’s was a very fine
specimen of her favourite flake; Jessie’s an
equally good specimen of my favourite clove.

“Oh! my sweet clove!’ I cried when I saw
it, ‘Jam so glad to get one.’

“«Jessie wished me to bring a clove too,’
said Charlotte; ‘but, indeed, I could not
think of gathering such an old-fashioned,
dingy thing. I should have been ashamed if
any one had supposed I had chosen such a
plain, common-place piece of goods. I should
not like to be thought to have so poor a
taste.’

_“*It was to please Mrs. Hauton we gathered
the flowers,’ said little Jessie, and she said no
more.”

“Oh!” cried Lady Ashley, “here too there
is no doubt. Certainly the most graceful, and
therefore most lady-like way of doing a kind-
ness, is to consult the taste and wishes of
the person served. The only question is,
whether, as contrasted with Charlotte, Jessie
does not deserve five rather than one.”

“Tam satisfied to take only one for her,”
said Mrs. Hauton; and having marked it down,
she took up her manuscript, and read on:
168 THE VULGAR IITTLE LADY.

“Tt was now nearly dinner-time, and as
Charlotte was to dine with me, I sent Jessie
home to ask her mother’s leave to remain to
dinner, and spend the afternoon with her little
friend. She soon returned with the desired
permission, and we joined Mr, Hauton in the
dining-room. There were green pease at din-
ner. I should have told you that Jessie was
not a gentleman’s child, but so quiet, gentle,
and good, that I was willing to gratify Char-
lotte by suffering them to be together as much
as they liked. I don’t know that Jessie had
ever tasted green pease before,—certainly she
had never seen ladies or gentlemen eat them;
and, naturally enough, she used what was in
her right hand at the moment, and carried
the pease to her mouth upon the knife. As
naturally Charlotte used a fork, as she had been
taught to do.” —“ Here again there can be no
difficulty in the decision.”

Maria’s face had brightened since the first
mention of the green pease ; but it overclouded
again as Lady Gray remarked—

“ Of course to eat pease with a knife is un-
lady-like,—Jessie must have a cipher; but to
use a fork for the purpose is so little meri-
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY, 169

torious in comparison to the actions for which
Jessie got only a single number, that I should
hesitate to give Charlotte more than a half, or
even a quarter.”

“Oh, I think Jessie can afford her a whole,”
Mrs. Hauton answered, with a slight glance at
Maria; and the company having consented, she
resumed her reading:

“When Jessie raised the knife to her mouth,
Charlotte cried out—

“*Oh, Mrs. Hauton, Mr. Hauton, only look
at Jessie actually eating pease with her knife!
Did you ever see anything so vulgar ?’

“Jessie blushed scarlet, but did not speak ;
and after I had explained the matter, used her
fork with as much discretion as the best bred
lady in the land.

“After dinner some radishes were brought
in. Charlotte looked curiously at them while
eating one.

“« By-the-by,’ she said, ‘I have always
intended to ask you to show me where the
radishes grow. I think it must be comical
to see them with these funny bright red
stalks,’ .

“T glanced at Jessie. She looked up with
170 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

an amused smile, and seemed about to speak ;
but suddenly checked herself and looked. down
again on her plate. After a minute’s thought,
she interrupted Charlotte’s foolish remarks by
pointing out to me and to my husband a cu-
riously marked cow which had come into sight
in the park ; and when she fancied that our
attention was engaged, she pulled Charlotte
gently by the sleeve, and whispered to her
that these were the roots, not the stems of the
radish.” —“Here again, I fancy, decision is easy
enough,”

« Easy enough, indeed,” said several voices
at once.

“Jessie’s was quite the conduct of a little
lady, of a little Christian lady, added Lord
Ashley,—“ of one who has learned to repay
evil with good. Nothing can be more unlady-
like than to laugh ourselves, or to point out
to others the mistakes of our friends. Jessie
must have a five now.”

Mrs. Hauton continued :

“ A plate of apples was handed round. Char-
lotte looked them all over several times, and
at last chose out the largest and rosiest. It
had a spot of decay on its further side, which
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 171

she no sooner perceived than she thréw it back
into the plate, and selected the next best-
looking. Jessie at once and quietly took the
apple which was at the top and nearest her.”

Again the company were unanimous. Maria
began to feel very uncomfortable, and drew
further and further into the back-ground, as if
afraid some one might recognise her as the
Charlotte of the diary. She tried to persuade
herself that her aunt had wilfully chosen cases
favourable to Jenny; but not one other in-
stance of her want of breeding than the one
mentioned could she recall. Mrs. Hauton con-
tinued :

“Saturday, Sunday, and Monday we did not
see Jessie. She was too useful in her mother’s
cottage to be spared. On Tuesday night I
gave a party for little people, in honour of
Charlotte’s birth-day. Very much against
my better judgment, Charlotte persuaded me
to allow Jessie to make one of the party. I
was unwilling to bring the little girl out of her
proper place; but Charlotte pressed the point
so much that I yielded, and gave Jessie a neat,
plain, white frock, that she might look a little
like her companions. Very neat and nice she
172 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

looked when she came in a few minutes before
the others.

“The first little lady who came was dressed
in most absurd finery—pink silk, blonde, neck-
laces, bracelets, white shoes, and I don’t know
what besides. She looked contemptuously
upon the plain white frocks and black shoes
of my little girls, and remarked upon them in
a rude and provoking way, which Charlotte
could not bear.

““T had rather,’ the latter cried, ‘have a
plain dress, all neat and to suit, than have a
fine pink silk like yours, where the sleeves
are of a shade quite different from the rest.’
And she pointed triumphantly and scoffingly
to the little conceited one’s sleeve. The pink
lady looked deeply mortified, and almost ready
to cry. Jessie had coloured high with vexa-
tion at the remarks upon her dress ; but all
anger was gone in a moment when the other
was grieved.

“*Oh, that can be easily hidden,’ she said,
pleasantly, stepping up to her guest. ‘See,
if you will allow me to fasten the lace of
your tucker down over the sleeve so, no one
can see that the shades are at all different.’ ”
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 173

Again the vote was given for Jessie ; and
again Maria was forced to feel that it was
just.

« After a time,” continued Mrs. Hauton, “a
little girl came in who had no mother, no care-
ful friend to see after her dress. Her frock
fitted ill, was crumpled, and by no means
clean; and although it was white, the poor
child had on dark stockings. Charlotte, in-
stead of going forward to greet her, hung
back, tittering and pointing out to her little
friends in an audible whisper the defects of
the dress. I happened at the moment to look
at Jessie, and saw her quickly draw up her
feet to hide them under her frock. After a
little, I found an opportunity to ask her why
she had done so.

“« Oh, ma’am,’ she said, ‘did not you see
how the poor girl was hurt? She was looking
all round to see if there was a single other
pair of dark stockings. She knows I am
poor, and if she had seen that I had on
white stockings, it would have been too
bad.’ ”

“Five! five!” cried all the gentlemen,
“Jessie must have five for that!” and the
174 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

ladies agreeing, Mrs. Hauton set it down
SO.

She resumed her reading:

“ Saturday.—Since Tuesday the little girls
have been with me a part of every day, and
IT have observed lady-like and unlady-like
actions in each; but there has been no in-
stance of direct contrast which could answer
my purpose in this diary. This only I must
remark, that whereas in cases of what I should
call taught good manners, Jessie often fails,
Charlotte hardly ever. So, on the other hand,
Jessie is almost invariably right, Charlotte
often wrong, in those cases where gentleness,
kindliness, and “humility are the best and
surest guides. For instance: Jessie is often
seen sitting with one foot under her, or stand-
ing in a comfortable though inelegant posture,
with both elbows resting on the table, and her
chin in her hands; while Charlotte always
sits, stands, and walks like a lady. Jessie, the
other day, when told to bring me a piece of
cake, carefully selected the piece which she
thought nicest and brought it to me in her
fingers. And the same day she handed Ma.
Hauton a fork with the prongs turned for him
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 175

to take hold of These are mistakes which
Charlotte never makes. But Charlotte often
comes boldly into a room, looking about her
at every one, and making her way to the front
of the circle without invitation; while Jessie
comes in very quietly, and keeps modestly in
the back-ground until she is spoken to. In
the street, or coming out of church, Charlotte
pushes straight on past every one; but Jessie
holds back and makes her way quietly and
gently, Hven in offering little attentions the
same difference is observable’ An old gentle-
man the other day, in the heat of an exciting
argument with my husband, quietly threw his
spectacle case down upon the hearth. Char-
lotte very properly stooped to pick it up; but,
anxious to show off her obliging act, she inter-
rupted the conversation to give it to him in
the most pressing and ostentatious manner. A
lady, while speaking very earnestly to me,
dropped her handkerchief. Jessie stepped
very quietly forward, lifted it, laid it gently
on the lady’s lap, and drew back without a
word.

“Nor must you say, as Charlotte does, that
it is only natural Jessie should be more re-
176 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

spectful towards my guests than she is, because
they are in rank higher above Jessie than
above her. For Jessie is just as gentle and
respectful to the poorest person she meets
who is her superior in age or wisdom; and
Charlotte’s rudeness to her inferiors is one of
the most unlady-like parts of her behaviour.”

“Well,” said Lady Ashley, “although there
may be no case of direct contrast in these
things which you have mentioned, yet Jessie
deserves a vote above Charlotte. For what
you call ‘taught good manners,’ afford much
less proof of a lady-like deportment than do
those cases where Jessie’s good feeling is her
only teacher.”

Poor Maria could have cried with vexation
at this remark. Mrs. Hauton declined the
extra mark for her little favourite, and went
on again with Saturday’s history :

“Charlotte had a large party of young
friends to play with her to-day. They met
on the lawn, and as Isat at the open win-
dow I could hear all that passed. Nearly all
were assembled, and hide-and-seek in couples
had been chosen for the first game, when Char-
lotte exclaimed, in a complaining tone—
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. LET

«*But that little torment, lame Neddy, is
coming to spoil all our fun. He will always
play, and yet he limps along so, that either
in catching or being caught, he constantly gets
his partner into trouble. But I know what
to do, —as if a bright thought had struck her.
‘Quick! there he is coming up the avenue !
Let each of us engage to refuse to be his
partner, and to say it is because he is so slow,
and then he will take the pet, as he did at
your party, Julia, and go into the house.’

“The promise was readily given by all but
Jessie, who met the proposal with an indig-
nant ‘No ;’ and, springing forward as the poor
lame boy came up, cried coaxingly—

“«Please, Master Edward, they are going to
play at hide-and-seek in couples, let me be
your partner. Please do, Master Edward.’

“Qh, well,” he answered, condescendingly,
‘I suppose you know the grounds very well.
I suppose you will do well enough, if you wish
it so much,’

“ Jessie thanked him pleasantly; and through
the whole game, although, as Charlotte said,
he got his partner continually into trouble,

no cross word or look escaped her. She only
(403) 12
178 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

comforted and encouraged him, and tried more
earnestly to get him hiding-places near the
den, to suit his infirmity. And yet Jessie is
famous for cleverness in hiding, swiftness in
escaping, and, like all children, rejoices in her
reputation, and likes well to keep it up.”—‘“I
think we should give her five for this.”

“ Most decidedly,” said Mrs. Burns; “and if
you had admitted of bad numbers, I should
have put down Miss Charlotte for ten at least.
Nothing can be less like a lady than to wound
wilfully the feelings of her guests, or to offer
them insult, because of their bodily infir-
mities!”

Maria was now thoroughly humbled, and
cast a piteous look to her aunt, entreating her .
to read no more; but Maria had gradually
drawn so far back, that Mrs. Hauton could not
see her without turning quite round, which
she did not choose to do, lest she should draw
the attention of the company to her. She did
not catch the glance, but read on:

“What I am now to mention took place
early this spring. You all remember poor
Mr. Grainger’s sudden loss of fortune, and his
daughter Anne’s noble behaviour under the
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 179

trial Anne had often been very kind to
both my girls, and they were sincerely sorry
for her, and anxious if possible to comfort and
help her.

“One day Charlotte came to me in great
glee.

“*T know what I can do for Miss Grainger
now!’ she cried. ‘ Yesterday she was at church
in such a shabby cloak. The day was too
hot for her winter shawl, and her last sum-
mer’s cloak is so shabby you can’t think.
Some ladies spoke about it quite near her, and I
~ am sure she heard them, for she coloured, and
I even saw a tear in her eye. Poor thing!
I shall give her my beautiful new one, which
I have only worn a few times, and wear an
old one until mamma can give me another.’

« Jessie was with me, and looked up quickly
as Charlotte announced her intention, saying—

“Oh no, do not. She will think that you
too remarked her shabby cloak. She will
not like to wear yours. And you so much
younger; and to whom she used to give
things.’

“Charlotte scoffed at the idea of Anne not
liking to wear so pretty a cloak, and all I
180 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. .-

could say on the same subject was thrown
away. Charlotte was bent upon showing her
generosity—Miss Grainger’s feelings were of
secondary importance. The cloak was given
with disagreeable ostentation ; and, although
Anne accepted it rather than hurt the feel-
ings of the giver, it was with evident pain
she did so, and she wore the cloak very seldom.

“Jessie waited and watched for a better op-
portunity. One soon came. She had been
helping her mother to execute an order for
gentlemen’s shirts from Miller's shop. She
had got very tired of the work; and, as a
reward for her patience and industry, I taught
her to embroider trimming, and got an order
for her for several yards of a pleasant, easy
pattern. She delighted in the work, and began
to do it really well.

“One day soon after she had begun it, I sent
her with a parcel to Mr. Grainger. She found
Anne sitting down to make a dozen shirts for
her father.. She was unaccustomed to the
work, and complained of her awkwardness, of
her dislike to her task, and said how greatly
she preferred embroidery to plain work.
Instantly Jessie saw a way of helping her
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 181

benefactress. But it was very hard to do it.
She went away without saying anything. She
sought out a quiet part of the wood near Mr.
Grainger’s house, went in, knelt down and
prayed God to make her willing to do the
right and kind thing. Then rising with a de-
cided will and cheerful heart, she ran home
to ask my permission, got the trimming, and
carried it to Miss Grainger, asking her as a
favour to exchange works,

“*You do embroidery so well, and I am only
learning,’ she said, modestly; ‘and I am well
used to plain work.’

“ The offer was gladly accepted, and to this
day Anne Grainger supposes that she and
Jessie were equally pleased with the exchange.”
—‘“May I claim ten for the delicate-minded
little girl ?”

The ten was unanimously granted. And
Mrs. Hauton having given the paper to one of
the gentlemen to add up and declare the re-
sult, turned to look pityingly and kindly at
her niece, But Maria was gone. She had
taken advantage of the bustle of her aunt’s
rising and giving up her account, and had fled
to hide her shame and grief in her own room.
182 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.
Thus stood the statement :—

To Jessie. To Charlotte,
The old man on horseback, ach 1
The carnation,
The green pease, 0
The mistakes, ‘ 5
The apples, ee eee 2 1
The gaily dressed girl, ee 1
The dark stockings, 5
The lame boy, ae oe 5
Miss Grainger, am = 10

nrloooccoroes

And with real satisfaction every one heard
the result. For Jessie, although a stranger to
them, had won for herself a warm interest in
their hearts.

The kind aunt longed to go to comfort her
niece, but could not until her guests were gone.
So soon as the last left the house, she ran up
to Maria’s room, and found her still out of bed,
sitting on the floor, crying bitterly. She rose
and ran to meet her aunt, and to hide her face
on her bosom.

“ Oh, aunt !” she cried, “ I am so ashamed!
so sorry! But not for losing the Bible,—dear
aunt, Jenny deserves it altogether. I am so sorry
to have been so vain, so foolish, so disagree-
THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY. 183

able,’—sobs choked her voice, she could say no’
more.

Her aunt pressed her affectionately to her
heart, and kissed her repeatedly.

“ That you should see your fault was all I
desired,” she said tenderly. “ Forgive me,
dear, if I have put you to too severe a trial.”

“ Oh! you could not help it, aunt,” sobbed
the thoroughly humbled little girl. “I would
not listen to reason; I was so vain. But I
wish to do better, if only I can.”

“ Shall we kneel down together, and ask
God to help you, love?’ whispered Mrs. Hau-
ton.

Maria gladly agreed. The prayer soothed
and encouraged her. God heard and answered
it. From that day Maria began to improve,
and J am glad to say, that when she went home
to her too indulgent father and mother, after
their return from abroad in the following
spring, she was a very different girl from what
she had been.

“ Ah, well, you see,” remarked Harry, ap-
provingly, “that is really a pleasant story,
and ends well, just: as all stories should. And,
mamma, I am glad to tell you, from the little
184 THE VULGAR LITTLE LADY.

peep I can get, without looking altogether, I
think to-morrow’s story is about boys. Really
the girls have had quite too much attention
already.”

“ Come, come, Master Harry,” cried Caro-
line, laughing, “pray remember, the nicest story
of all was about a boy.”

“Qh, John Pirie! Well, he was a nice
fellow!’ Harry granted, grudgingly. “ But
then, even there, you know, the picture was
about a girl.”




THE PIGS.



“ WELL now, mamma, is not this really too
bad?” cried Harry the next morning, “ After
waiting so long for a boy’s picture, lo and
behold! it turns out to be about greediness !
as if girls were not quite as greedy as boys!
Now, mamma, don’t you think that there are
quite as many greedy girls as boys in the
world ?”

“My dear Harry,” said his mamma, laugh-
ing at his earnestness, “my acquaintanceship
with girls and boys is far from extending over
the whole world.”

“Well, but mamma, among those you
know,” he persisted, “do you not knaw as
many greedy girls as greedy boys?”

“Tam not sure how the case stands be-
tween girls and boys,” she answered. “But,
Harry, I am afraid I must vex you by saying,
186 THE PIGS,

that I have certainly known, or heard of,
more greedy men than greedy women.”

“Oh, mamma! what a shame to say such
a thing!” he cried, laughing. “ However, one
comfort is, that I really do not think I am
greedy ; at least, I am sure I do not mean to
be so.”

“No; indeed you are not, Harry,” cried
both his sisters eagerly, Lucy adding,—

“Mamma, don’t you think that no one can
possibly think Harry greedy ?”’

“T do not know, my dear, what other people
can possibly think ; but for myself, I am glad
to say that I do not think Harry at all
greedy.”

Harry looked pleased.

“ And yet, mamma,” he said, a little doubt-
ingly, “I do very much like apples, and
oranges, and cakes, and tarts, and—”

“And sugar plums, and all good things,”
interrupted his mamma, smiling. “So do I,
Harry. So do papa, and Charles, and all of
us. But there is no great harm in that. You
are not greedy because you can enjoy these
nice things when you can get them. You are
content with a moderate portion of them,—-
THE PIGS. 187

quite content to do without them altogether.
You do not think much about them except
when they are in your hands, or in your
mouth. And you are always quite anxious
that others should have a share, ay, even the
best share.”

“Yes; indeed he is, mamma,” cried Lucy.
“When anything nice is given to him, he
always shares it with Caroline and me. And
if there is little of it, he often wishes to give
it all to us, and to keep none, or at least very
little for himself.”

“ And whenever he gets the first choice of
apples, or oranges, or cakes,” added Caroline,
“he always takes the worst and least, and
leaves the best for us.”

Again Harry looked much pleased, and
blushed.

“Only you know, mamma,” he said, “I do
not think there is much merit in not being
greedy ; greediness is such a mean, disgusting
fault. I think, at least I am sure I hope, I
could never be greedy, so long as I could
recollect that poor glutton Jamie Green.”

“Oh, mamma! do you recollect him at
Aunt Helen’s last summer?” cried Caroline.
188 THE PIGS.

“ How he used to sit and look at the pudding,
or tart, as if he wanted to eat it up with his
eyes! And how he used to gobble up what he
got, that he might be ready to be helped
again before it was all done! Bah! it was
horridly disgusting.”

«And don’t you remember, Caroline, how
he used to pick at things when he thought no
one could see him? And how he used to look
and look at the older people when they were
eating nice things, and to hang about the
table, watching every mouthful with such
greedy eyes, that Aunt Helen said she was
often glad to give him something, just to get
rid of him !”

“ And then,” said Harry, “he was just like
what the poem says,—

‘ Or be taking nice things till he made himself ill.’

He would go on eating until he was really
quite uncomfortable, and so heavy and stupid
that he could not play with us. And his
governess told Aunt Helen that he was con-
stantly making himself ill, and was always
quite stupid from eating too much; and that
he thought so continually about what he could
THE PIGS. 189

get to eat, that his mind would never turn to
anything else, and it was almost impossible to
teach him.”

“Tt was all very disgusting, to be sure,”
said Lucy, thoughtfully. “But still, mamma,
though greediness may be a nasty, mean fault,
I don’t think it is a very great one.”

“That is because, like little Robert in the
story, you don’t know what greediness grows
to!”

“ What little Robert? What story, mamma?”
they cried.

“ Did you never hear a story called, ‘What
Greediness Grows to ?’”

“No, mamma, never. Is that the one you
are to tell us to-day?”

“If you choose. It will suit our subject
very well, Only I must warn Harry it is
all about greedy men,—there are no greedy
women in it.”

“Ah, well, it cannot be helped,” he said,
resignedly. “ Of course, we of the male sex,”
—with an arch look at his mamma, which
made them all laugh,—* never do get justice
done us by authoresses.”

“Is it a true story,mamma?” asked Caroline.
190 THE PIGS.

“Why, no, my dear, it can hardly be that,”
she answered, with a little smile, “as you
shall hear. But I am afraid all the pictures
of greediness in it are too true. However,
here it is, such as it is.”

WHAT GREEDINESS GROWS TO.

“Well, mamma,” said little Robert one
evening, when his mother had been warning
him against greediness, “ of course I know that
one ought to try to have no faults at all. But
still, you know, every one has some fault in
spite of all his trying; and if one must have
a fault, greediness really seems rather a little
one to have ; less than a great many others
at least,—I am sure it is.”

“You think so because you do not know
what greediness grows to,” answered his mam-
ma gravely,

“And what does it grow to?’ he asked
eagerly. But his mamma had no time to
answer. She was called up to the nursery to
attend to baby, who was ill.

Little Robert waited and waited, hoping
she would come back and answer his question.
But she did not come; and after a time
THE PIcs, 191

Robert’s eldest sister told him that he ought
to go to bed. Robert pleaded to be allowed
to wait a little longer for his mamma. But
his papa, who came into the room at the
moment, told him that baby was very ill, and
that both his mamma and nurse were busy
with him, and that it would be best for
Robert to go quietly to bed, and give them as
little trouble as possible. So Robert, who
was a considerate little fellow, said no more,
but followed his sister quietly up to his own
room,

Robert slept in a small room by himself.
He was very proud of his room; and it was
indeed as pleasant as a room could be. The
walls were covered with a pretty green paper,
with a small pattern of leaves in a darker
green. The carpet was very like the paper.
There were two pretty little light cane chairs,
and a basin-stand painted to match the colour
of the cane, and so low that Robert could
easily wash himself at it. There was also
a pretty table, with a neat cover upon it,
and an open Bible. His little bed had
white curtains, and there were white cur-
tains to the window, so that the whole room
192 THE PIGS.

looked light and cheerful. And, best of all,
the window was remarkably pretty, with roses
and jessamine all round it, and looking out
over a wide prospect of fields and woods to
the hills, from behind which Robert often saw
the sun rise in a winter morning.

Robert’s sister stayed with him until he
had read his Bible, prayed, undressed himself,
and gone to bed; and then, after kneeling by his
side, and repeating a hymn or two, she left him
to go to sleep. But his mind was so full of
the question his mamma had not answered,
that he tossed from side to side, and wondered
what she had meant, and wished she would
come to him, and watched for her step. And
even after he had fallen asleep, the question-
ing, and wishing, and wondering, and watch-
ing went on as busily as ever; so that he
thought he was still wide awake, and could
not understand how his mamma did not come
to see if he were asleep, as she always used to
do. His mamma did come to his bedside as
usual, and kissed him, and whispered “ God
bless him ;’ but Robert did not hear her nor
feel her kiss, although he was quite sure he
had never slept for a single minute !


THE EVENING HYMN
THE PIGS. 193

Thus it seemed to him that long, long
hours had passed, and he thought it must be
nearly day, when suddenly there shone into
the room a light, clear, white, and soft like
that of the full moon; and a voice cried,
“ Robert ! little Robert !”

Robert often thought afterwards that it
was curious he should not have felt at all
frightened when he saw this strange light, and
heard this strange voice in the dead of night.
But he only sat up in bed, and looked across
to the window, and said,—

“Well, I am here. What do you want
with Robert? I am Robert.”

And there at the window was a beautiful,
pure white horse, standing in the air as comfort-
ably as if on solid ground, and looking in at
the window with his large grave eyes! Robert
seemed at once to know that the voice had
come from him. Buthe forgot to think that
there was anything strange in it; and he only
looked the horse full in the face, and said
again,—

“Tam Robert. What do you want with
Robert ?”

“Oh, mamma!” cried Caroline, laughing,

(403) 18
19-4 THE PIGS.

“if I had waited I should not have needed to
ask if it were a true story.”

“Well, but let mamma go on,” cried Harry
impatiently ; “I want to hear all about the
pretty white horse.”

“The horse,” Mrs. Lindsay continued,
“looked back at Robert, and replied, a little
proudly,—

“JT don’t want you; it is you who want
me. I have come to show you what greedi-
ness grows to.”

“Qh! have you?’ cried Robert. “Thank
you very much. But how can you show me?”

“Come and see,” said White Horse with a
little nod of his head.

So Robert got up and went to the window.

“ How am I to see?” he asked again, when
he saw that there was nothing at the window
but the beautiful white horse himself.

“Get upon my back and I will show you,”
said the horse.

“But how am I to get upon your back
and you high up in the air there?’ Robert
asked.

“Open the window, step out on the sill,
and then on my back,” said the horse; “and
THE PIGS. 195

make haste; I am not going to stand here all
night.”

And Robert opened the window and step-
ped out on the sill, without remembering to
put on his clothes, although it was a bitterly
cold winter night and the snow deep on the
ground !

“Sit down between my wings,” said the
horse,—for he had beautiful wings growing
out of each shoulder and stretching down his
back! “Sit down between my wings, your
back against one, your feet towards the other.
That is the most comfortable way when one
has to ride through the air.”

And Robert did as he was told. And what
astonished him a good deal was, that although
the horse had looked so small as that the
whole of it, from the tip of the nose to the
longest hair in, the tail, could be seen through
Robert's little window, yet, now that he stood
beside it, he found it so large that he could
sit across its back as on a sofa, quite comfort-
ably, lying back, leaning against one wing,
without his feet coming at all in the way of
the other.

“ All right?” asked the horse.
196 THE PIGS.

“ All right,” cried Robert.

“ Well, then, here we go!” said the horse.

And off they went, up and up into the
skies until Robert began to fear that they
must knock their heads against the stars!
They did not, however. The stars managed
to keep at a very respectable distance above
them, and looked, indeed, little if at all bigger
than they did from Robert’s window at home.
At first Robert thought his ride charming,
—so swift, so smooth. No need of whip
or spur! On the horse went like the wind,
without pause or slackening his pace for a
moment. No need of bit or bridle! Straight
on he kept without the least hesitation, as if
he knew perfectly where he should go. And
if he had not known, Robert could not have
helped him; so the bridle would have been of
little use.

At first, as I said, this was very charming.
But after a little it grew rather tiresome.
There was no change, nothing to look at,
The earth was so far below them, that it
looked only like a black speck! There were
the stars, to be sure. But to Robert they
seemed all so much alike, there was no great

s
THE PIGS. 197

amusement in watching them. He tried to
divert himself with talking to his horse.
But the horse seemed indisposed for conversa-
tion. He answered Robert’s remarks with a
snort. And to his questions about where they
were going, or what they were to see, he said
only,—

“Wait, and you'll see.”

So Robert began to think the ride very
tedious. The time passed slowly, and it
seemed a whole night since they had left
home. And so I suppose it was, for when
they did at last fly down to the earth Robert
found that it was bright morning light. And
what seemed very strange to him, it became
light sooner here on the earth than up in the
skies, the home of the sun and stars! They
had come down like a flash of lightning, in &
moment of time, but they had left the skies
in dark night; while down on the earth the
sun was peeping above the horizon, sending
his long, low rays into windows, through bed-
curtains, awakening sleepers, and calling to
them to rise and go to work ; and the spar-
rows had already gathered on the house-tops,
and were beginning to gossip over the events
198 THE PIGS.

of the past night and the plans for the com-
ing day; and two or three robins in the
hedges were singing their sweet morning
hymn of praise for the light and warmth of
the sun.

“Well,” said little Robert, very philosophi-
cally, “of course one must expect to meet
with strange things when one rides on winged
horses.”

And he turned his thoughts to what was to
come next. They had lighted down before a
neat small cottage. The door was shut, for it
was yet very early.

“ Get down, and go in,” said the horse.

Robert thought it would be rather rude to
go into another person’s house without an in-
vitation. But the horse stamped his foot and
said, “Go in!’ so imperiously, that the little
boy thought it best to do as he was told.

He got down easily enough, and the door
seemed to open before him,—or rather, he
seemed to go through it without the least
noise or disturbance. And he found himself
in a neat, but, as he thought, rather bare, cold-
looking kitchen. The grate, small enough to
begin with, had been filled up with a brick
THE PIGS. 199

at each side. In the centre a fire burned
brightly enough. But such a morsel of a fire
it was! On one side of the room was a bed,
in which lay asleep a boy anda girl. They
were covered with only a thin, worn carpet.
Their faces looked pale and sad. And the
girl’s arm, which lay above the cover, was very
thin. On the opposite side of the fire, near
the window, was a cradle; and beside the
cradle, still nearer the window, sat a woman
busy sewing. She had drawn her chair for-
ward, so as to get the full light of the sun
which came in at the window. A candle,
lately extinguished, seemed to say she had
been sewing for some time. Her face was
pale and sad; her poor eyes looked red and
heavy ; and her hand trembled a little, as she
busily plied the needle.

One of the children moved in the bed, and
she looked round with a frightened, anxious
look.

“ Oh, don’t wake,” she said, as if to herself.
“Don’t break my heart with your crying. Sleep
on until I have got some breakfast for you.”
And as the child did not awake, she worked
again more busily than ever. After a little
200 THE PIGS.

her task was finished. She fastened off her
thread, and glancing at the sun, said, in the
same low tone,—

“Mrs. Bodle rises so early, I think I may
take the work and ask her to pay me.”

And after one anxious look at her children,
she gathered up the work she had been doing
and ran hastily out. She brushed past Robert
without seeing him, and thus showed him
that his good horse had made him invisible!
He took advantage of this to go about the
room a little, and peeped into the cupboard to
see if the family were really so very destitute
as the mother’s words seemed to imply. And
there, to his surprise, on a low shelf he saw a
small loaf of the whitest, dearest bread; half-
a-pound of rich yellow butter; a small basin
full of sugar, much finer than he got for his
tarts and puddings at home; a little jug of
rich cream ; and a packet of coffee, marked “best
Mocha coffee, two shillings a-pound.”

While wondering over these luxuries, he
heard a slight stir in a room entering off the
kitchen, into which he had not yet looked; and
a gruff voice called out—

“ Bring me some hot water, Peggy.”
THE PIGS. 201

Robert looked into the room. Jt was
much more comfortable than the kitchen. It
had a nice warm carpet in front of the bed.
The bed looked soft and pleasant; and as a man
who was in it threw off the clothes, and began
to rise, Robert saw three thick warm blankets
—very different from the thin old carpet on
the kitchen-bed. The man himself was rather a
good-looking fellow ; but his face was bloated,
and there was a look of hardness and selfish-
ness about it which Robert disliked greatly.

He called again, in a louder, more disagree-
able voice for Peggy. At that moment the
woman came into the kitchen, out of breath,
and flushed; but with a happier expression
than when she had gone out. When she
heard her husband call, she hastened to him.

“Bring me hot water, [say !” he cried crossly.
“Where have you been? what have you been
doing all this time?”

She seemed unwilling to reply; but saying
hurriedly that she should get his hot water in
a minute, she went away again. She came
back almost directly. Again he asked so
fiercely where she had been, that she was
obliged to answer.
202 THE PIGS.

“JT ran to Mrs. Bodle’s with some work I
had done for her. J wanted payment. so
sorely.”

“ And you got it?” he asked eagerly.

“ Only sixpence, that was all,” she answered,
ina reluctant, half-frightened tone.

“Oh, it will do!” he cried, as if much
pleased. “I wanted so much to get something
relishing to breakfast. Run and buy me a
couple of sausages. The shop round the cor-
ner is always open early.”

“ John, I cannot do it,” the poor woman
said earnestly, and as if making up her mind
to a struggle. “I sat up all night to earn
money to buy a mouthful of breakfast for the
children, and I cannot spend it upon you. I
have good bread and butter, the best of coffee
and sugar for you, and I must keep something
for the children.”

“Something for the children! It is always
the children,” he said, angrily. “You never
think of me. A man who sits all day over
his desk, slaving for you and the children,
ought to have something more than bread and
butter for his breakfast ;—-and must have it,
too, I can tell you! So off to the sausage-
THE PIGS. 203

shop without a minute’s delay. You can get
something for the children afterwards.”

“There is a bit of cold bacon left yet. Won’t
that do?” she pleaded with tears in her eyes.

“No, it won’t.. JI am sick tired of cold
bacon. I am not well this morning, and want
something relishing to help me to eat a bit.
So go at once, or I'll wake Molly, and send
her,” and he advanced towards the door.

“No, no!” cried the woman, catching his
arm. “For pity’s sake do not awaken them.
They had not a mouthful of supper last night,
and cried half the night with cold and hunger.
Now that they have forgotten their pain in
sleep, let them sleep on.”

“ Nonsense !” he muttered, as if half ashamed
_of himself. “You women make such a fuss
about your children. I heard none of that
crying.”

“ Because you were out getting your own
warm supper at the oyster shop,” she said,
more boldly. “You might have heard them,
however, as you passed through the room; and
long after you were fast asleep they lay sob-
bing and shivering, and unable to forget the
pains of hunger.”
204 THE PIGS.

“Well, well, I am sure it is not my fault,”
he said, half sulkily, half relenting. “Iam
sure I don’t want to starve the children. But
really you must feel that a full-grown man
like me cannot live upon slops. Working hard
all day writing—the most unwholesome kind
of occupation,—I must have my appetite
humoured, or I shall never be able to stand
ib.”

“Would the bacon not do just this once?”
she pleaded tearfully.

“No, I tell you’ (with an oath) “the bacon
won't do, I feel a little sick this morning,”
(Robert thought of the warm supper at the
oyster shop,) “and I must have what I fancy.
It is really my duty to look after my health,
for your sake and the children’s. But Ill tell
you what,” (more good-humouredly, as if he
had talked off the pangs of conscience,) “I'll
do with only one sausage, to please you ; and
the other threepence can buy a twopenny loaf
for you and the children, and a pennyworth of
milk for the baby. You can take some of my
coffee.”’

“Yes, and take bread out of the children’s
mouths to buy you more when that is done !”’
THE PIGS. 205

thought the poor woman, as with a sigh she
left the room to obey hin.

She stirred up the small fire to boil his
coffee, laid out his breakfast things very neatly,
and then went out with the sixpence in her
hand. Before she came back, her husband
finished dressing, and came into the kitchen.
His clothes were good, and quite like what a
gentleman might wear. He was, indeed, not
acommon man. He had received an excel-
lent education, had a good situation as clerk
in a large establishment, and got very high
wages. But they were almost all spent upon
his own eating and drinking. ‘So the poor
wife, who had been a clergyman’s daughter,
had to slave at needlework to maintain her
children ; and the house was more bare and
destitute of comforts than the cottage of many
a ploughman or hedger in the place.

As the father passed his children’s bed, his
face clouded a little, and Robert heard him
sigh and say, “ Poor little things !”

“ He is not all bad,” thought Robert.

But the next instant his contempt was again
aroused, to see how greedily the full-grown baby
chuckled over his rich cream and good butter.
206 THE PIGS

“One sausage is quite too little,” he said,
as he threw himself down in his chair. “ But
I shall make Peggy get me something very
good for dinner, to make up.”

“Oh! you nasty, greedy beast
Robert,—or rather, he tried to cry it; for, to
his vexation, he found that he was unheard

!??

cried

as well as unseen. It was a relief to hear
White Horse’s “Come away now, Robert,”
whispered round the house. It was a comfort
to get upon his back—he hardly knew how
he did get up—and pour his feelings of anger
into his ear.

“And yet I knew him when he was a boy
like you,” said the horse. “A fine little fel-
low he was. More than ordinarily good, I
thought him, except for that one fault,—too
great a love for nice things) At first he only
enjoyed what he got more than was seemly.
Then he grew discontented if he did not get
all he wanted. The next step was to grudge
others their share. The next, to try by hook
or crook to get it from them ; and so on, until
he grew into the selfish, hardened monster you
see. But at your age he was like you,—very
like you !”
THE PIGS, 207

There was something in the words, and in
the sly glance of the horse’s eye as he spoke
them, which made Robert feel hot and uncom-
fortable. But he had little time to think of his
feelings. They had got into a handsome street,
and had stopped before a magnificent house.

“Get down, and go in,” said White Horse.
“Tnto the dining-room this time.”

“But how shall I find the dining-room ?”
asked Robert.

“ Do as you are told! There is no necessity
for you to ask questions,” said White Horse,
with his imperious nod.

No necessity, indeed ; for while Robert was
going up the door-steps,—hey, presto ! in an
instant he found himself in a magnificently-
furnished dining-room! The breakfast was
spread, and the family party,—a father, mo-
ther, and two daughters,—were preparing to



sit down. ;

The mother was a lady-like woman, with a
handsome face, but with a sad, anxious ex-
pression, The daughters were very pretty.
One a fair, sweet, gentle-looking girl; the
other of a dark, spirited kind of beauty, which
Robert liked best. The father was the finest-
208 THE PIGS.

looking of the four, A very distinguished
figure he had, beautiful features, large thought-
ful eyes, and a remarkably fine forehead.
Robert felt sure, from his face, that he was
a very clever, and a great man; and won-
dered why White Horse had brought him
there,

The family sat down to breakfast. One of
the daughters handed her father an egg.

“ Ah! boiled to a turn!” he cried, his eyes
sparkling with what seemed to Robert greedy
pleasure. “That egg-glass answers admir-

2

ably.” And he went on in high good humour
to discuss the merits of the sand-glass, the ex-
act degree of boiling which was requisite to
make an egg perfect, and other equallv inter-
esting matters.

His wife and daughters seemed pleased that
he was pleased, but a little wearied of the sub-
ject, Robert thought. As the egg was finished,
the butler came in with a tray of covered
dishes, one of which he placed before his
master,

“ What is this, Tomkins?” the master asked.

“'Fhe curry you ordered, my lord.”

“Ah, yes! very good,”—with the same
THE PIGS. 209

greely twinkle of the eye. “Curry is an
excellent thing for breakfast. It whets the
appetite, and makes one inclined for other
things. But how is this ?’—with an oath,
throwing down his knife and fork, as the cover
was taken off. “Lady B , did you not
tell the housekeeper to put more cream and
less Cayenne pepper in the curry? It is the
most extraordinary thing in the world how
my orders are neglected !’—working himself
into a fury. “No one cares to please me !”
In vain his lady, in trembling tones, told
him that she had given strict orders about
the curry: he scolded her as much as if she
had prepared it herself, and refused to believe
that she had taken the least care that he
should be pleased. The curry was ordered
away, and a dish of dressed veal cutlets put
before him, The cutlets were good; but the
ham, he declared, was Cumberland, and not
Westphalian ; and such a storm of abuse was
poured upon poor Lady B ’s head, that at
last she could bear it no longer, but burst into
tears. Her fair-haired daughter rose to com-
fort her. The dark beauty had been looking

at her father with flushed cheeks and flashing
(493) 14




210 THE PIGS.

eyes, her small hand clenched, her foot pressed
into the carpet, as if bodily force alone could
keep her silent. She cast one glance of intense
scorn upon him, one of equally intense love
and pity upon her mother ; and then rising,
darted rather than ran out of the room and
up stairs) Robert followed her, and arrived
just in time to see her throw herself, in an
agony of tears, into the arms of a respectable-
looking old servant, whom she found in her
room.

“Oh, nurse, nurse!” she sobbed, “I can’t
bear it! I can’t bear it! I know it is sinful,
but I can’t help it,—papa makes me hate as
well as despise him. To think how happy we
might be, and ought to be; and to see the
whole peace and comfort of a family made to
depend upon the proper boiling of an egg,
or the proper mixing of a sauce,—oh, it is des-
picable! How can I help despising him !”

“Hush! darling Miss Amy,” cried the
nurse, greatly moved. “Your poor dear papa
can hardly control himself. You know, Miss
Amy, dear, how much he suffers. Really his
temper is hardly under his own control, so ill
as he is.”
wv

we

YT

THE PIGS. 211

« And why is he ill?” she cried still more
vehemently. “Oh, nurse!” (with a shudder,
and in a low, horrified ,tone,) “I myself heard
the doctor tell him that he must kill himself,
if he went on eating those rich dishes, and
drinking those many different wines. And he
said, ‘Very well, I'll kill myself, then, for I
cannot do without them! What is the use
of life except to enjoy one’s self?’ Oh, nurse!
dear nurse! how can I bear to hear my own
father say such horrible words !—to see him

_ think and feel in such a hateful, miserable

way! And yet,” (with a sudden tenderness of
tone,) “I could so have loved and reverenced
him! Oh! what a nature his is,—or was!
What a mind! What talents! What feel-
ings! Oh! how did that one hateful fault
ever begin to blight everything fair and
good ?”

It was now the nurse’s turn to shudder.

“Ah! Miss Amy, darling,” she said sor-
rowfully, “you stab me to the heart, When
I first went to take care of your dear father,
he was the best, the dearest child in the whole
world. I soon loved him with my whole
heart. But he did not like me for a long
212 THE PIGS.

time. He pined for the nurse who had left
him, To gain his little loving heart—shame
on me!—I encouraged his liking for nice
things, and tempted him to love me with
sugar-plums and cakes, I was young and did
not see the mischief I was doing until it was
too late. Often, often afterwards, I tried to
break the habit of greediness I had begun,—
but all in vain. And now if he dies as he is,
I—.” She could say no more. Her heart was
too full, The generous Amy dried her own
tears, forgot her own sorrows, to comfort - her
nurse.

Again whispering through the house, un-
heard by all but Robert, came White Horse’s
imperious “Come away.” And, with tears
running down his cheeks, the little boy
obeyed.

“T don’t want to see any more, White
Horse,” he eried, when once more mounted.
“J can’t bear it. Take me home.”

“One more visit,” said the horse encourag-
ingly. “And here we are.”

They had been again flying through the
air, and had now alighted in a sweet, quiet,
country spot; where, strange to say, summer
THE PIGS. 213

roses were flowering, summer birds singing,
a& summer sun shining.

“Go in,” said White Horse, pointing to the
door of a beautiful small cottage, standing in
a lovely garden.

Sadly Robert went in, afraid of what. sor-
row he might see. This time he found him-
self in a lady’s sitting-room, plainly but taste-
fully furnished, and beautified by jars of fresh
flowers. A young delicate-looking lady sat
at the table writing. Oh! what a sweet, sad,
pale face Robert saw, as he came round in.
front of her. At that moment she stopped
writing, and put her hand to her heart; and
through the folds of her muslin dress Robert
vould see how the poor heart throbbed, and
leaped, and struggled.

“Oh, if it would but be quiet,” the lady
said wearily; “or if I might but rest. How
sore wearied I am of all this writing,—this
forcing myself to think, to compose, when I
would so fain lie down and rest! And all for
what ?”—-very sadly. “Oh! if dear, dear papa,
could only be content, how happy we might
be on what we have! But shame on me!”
she cried, a painful, burning blush rising to
214 THE PIGS.

her very forehead; “to grudge anything to
him, and he so ailing. Such a dear, tender
father as he is, too. _ Let me get on at once;”
and she had taken up her pen again, when the
door opened and a gentleman came in.

“ And how is my precious darling to-day ?”
he said, going up to his daughter, taking her
in his arms, and kissing her fondly. “ Flushed,
dear !” looking closely at her. “ How is that ?
Does your head ache, my own sweet one?”

“Oh! it is nothing,” she cried hastily, still
more ashamed of her murmurs as she listened
to hig tender, affectionate tones. “ Only my
stupid heart is a little troublesome, and tires
me a little. It beats so fast.”

“Tt is rest you want, my sweetest child,”
he said, kissing her again. “If you could lay
aside your busy pen for one day, and come
out with me to see the flowers, to hear the
birds, and be quite idle and happy in the
sweet summer air, how much good it would
do you!”

“JT think I can go,” she cried eagerly.
“For one day let us be happy together.”

But the father looked thoughtfully down
on her manuscript.
THE PIGS. 215

« And yet, dearest,” he said, in his softest
tones, “there is that tiresome tale for the
magazine. That and the poem for Mr. C
would just pay the hateful bill at the wine
merchant’s. It seems a pity not to get them
finished, now they are so far on. And then
when the bill is once paid, we could order
some of that wine, which I am quite sure
would restore me to health. It is expensive,



to be sure, very expensive, my sweetest Mary,
—TI know that is what your shake of the head
means; but if it restores me to health, dar-
ling, then I shall be able to work for you,
and you shall rest then, sweet one. There
you are, my own darling, dutiful child!” kiss-
ing her once more, as Mary, with a suppressed
sigh, again took up her pen.

Robert waited no summons from the horse
this time. He could stay no longer. His
anger against the hypocritical father was too

great.
“Take me home, White Horse!” he cried,
more vehemently than before. “I shall look

into no other house, to please the queen on
her throne.”
“You have seen what greediness grows to,”
216 THE PIGS.

said White Horse; “you should now see it
growing.”

“TI don’t think I wish to see it growing,”
Robert replied, doubtfully. But his thoughts,
his doubts, his wishes, signified little to White
Horse. With a snort, and a toss of his head
in the air, off he flew; and in another minute
they had lighted down in the lawn of a fine
country seat.

“Get down, and go in,” said White Horse,
as usual. And slowly and doubtingly Robert
got down.

He looked round the place. It was very
like—surely it was—surely it could not be
—and yet it was—Robert rubbed his eyes,
and looked bewildered—yes, it was his own
father’s house! There were the roses round
the porch and up among the windows; there
was his own hoop lying on the grass, just as
he had thrown it down after that famous run
yesterday morning. A misgiving came over



him as to what was to follow.

“Td rather not see any more,” he said,
looking round to White Horse. But White
Horse was gone; and before Robert had time
to turn round again, he found himself in their
THE PIGS. 217

own. dining-room, with their own family party
seated round the table. There were his father
and mother, his elder brother, and his three
elder sisters. There was nurse coming into
the room with baby in her arms. There was
little Lucy on one side of her father, jumping
herself up and down by the arm of his chair,
and chattering out all the story of the day’s
pleasures. On the other side was a little boy.
Robert blushed scarlet to recognise himself; for
the little boy’s eyes were fixed with disgusting
greediness upon the plate of peaches in the
middle of the table, and he seemed to care for
nothing, to think of nothing but them. Robert
hid his face in his hands, determined to look
no more.

“ Robert, lead Lucy to the table, that she
may choose one of these apples,” said his
mother’s sweet voice.

Robert started and looked up. Now he
was in his mother’s sitting-room. She sat as
usual at her work-table. On a table near her
lay two beautiful apples. Robert saw himself
take Lucy’s hand and lead her tottering steps
to the table, while their mamma, with her
pleasant smile, said——
218 THE PIGS.

“Let Lucy choose, Robert; girls should
always get the first choice.”

Again the painful blush of shame mounted
to Robert’s temples, as he saw himself slily
guide the little one’s hand to the smaller
apple, while Lucy looked up laughing in his
face.

“No more! no more!” cried Robert aloud.
“T shall look at no more!”

But in spite of himself he was forced again
to look up to see himself and Lucy side by
side. This time they were alone. Their uncle,
who had filled their pinafores with sugar-
plums, was going out of the room. Robert
saw his image fix his eyes greedily, covetously,
upon a large almond in his sister's heap.
There was no almond in his own, and the
want of it made him despise all the other good
things he had got.

Lucy was already beginning to pick out the
largest and prettiest of her sugar-plums, and
to lay them in separate corners, with her im-
perfect—

“Dat fo mamma, an dat fo Jane, and dat
fo nursey;” and so on.

The little boy’s desires were fast getting
THE PIGS. 219

beyond his own control. After a cautious
glance round, to see if any one observed him,
suddenly he pounced upon the almond and
popped it into his own mouth! The little
girl looked up astonished, half inclined to
cry.

“Lucy can’t eat hard almonds, Lucy likes
to give it to brother,” he said coaxingly, at
the same time eyeing with rather longing
eyes a piece of rose tablet, which the abstrac-
tion of the almond had discovered in her
lap.

Again Robert groaned aloud, and hid his
eyes; but again did he find himself obliged to
look up.

Now he was in another house—in his
grandmother’s house. He saw himself eating
the last two or three grapes of a splendid
bunch which his grandmamma had given him.
Already were those shamefully greedy eyes
fixing themselves upon the plate which stood
by the old lady’s side.

“Should you like another bunch, Robert?”
she said. kindly. “See, here is a beauty ; you
may take it if you like. I daresay you may
like to take some home to poor sister Jane.
220 THE PIGS.

Mamma says she is very ill to-day. Her poor
lips are dry and parched. You may take some
of these home to her.’

Oh, how well Robert knew what was to fol-
low! Oh, howintensely he wished to escape from
seeing it all—from seeing himself pick grape
after grape off the bunch as he walked home
alone,—from hearing himself try to quiet his
conscience by repeating, “ Grandmamma only
said I might take them to Jane, ¢f I liked,”
—from knowing how hard he strove to forget
Jane’s feverish face, and dry, parched lips. But
he was forced to see, to hear, to know it ali.
And at the same time rose up before him the
picture of the hard-hearted father sitting down
to his comfortable meal while the wife and
children were hungry and miserable,—of the
talented, noble gentleman, with his face dis-
torted with passion, pouring such ungentle-
man-like abuse upon his defenceless wife, be-
cause his curry was not to his liking,—of the
miserable, hypocritical glutton, urging his child
to work herself to death, that he might get the
new kind of wine his diseased appetite craved.
It was too much. As the last grape was being
carried to the boy’s lips, Robert threw him-
THE PIGS. 221

self upon the ground in a perfect agony, cry-
ing out,—

“T can’t bear it! I can not bear it! I
shall look no more, let what will follow!”

He felt a hand laid on his arm. He thought
it was White Horse come to carry him off to
still more painful scenes.

“ No, no!” he screamed, struggling violently
to free himself, “I can’t! I can’t!”

But it was not White Horse’s imperious
tones that replied,—

“ Robert, my dearest boy, whatis it? My
darling, look up. It is I,—your own mam-
ma !”

And opening his eyes, Robert indeed saw
his mamma standing by his bed-side. She
had on her dressing-gown, and held a lamp in
her hand, for it was not yet full day-light.
Robert sprang up, and putting his arms round
her neck, hid his face in her bosom, crying
out,—

“Oh, mamma, is Jane better? If Jane
were to die, and I have eaten all her grapes!”
and he trembled and sobbed, as if his heart
would break,

His mamma could not understand him.
222 THE PIGS.

Jane had not been ill for months. She put
her finger on his pulse. Newly come from
her feverish baby, she feared Robert too was
ill His pulse beat quick, but that might be
from the excitement into which he had worked
himself. His skin was soft and moist; and re-
assured, she soothed and fondled him. He
grew quieter.

“Ah, mamma,” he said, raising his head
from her shoulder, “I know now what greedi-
ness grows to. Mamma,”—very solemnly, sit-
ting upright in bed—*“ you must hear me pro-
mise never to be greedy again if I can possibly
help it. I promise from this day, from this
very minute, to give Lucy and baby the best
part of all the good things I get, and never to
rest until I have made myself not care about
what I eat.”

“Tt is a good promise, darling. May the
Lord help you to keep it, my Robert,” his
mamma said, earnestly, as she kissed him.
“But now you must lie down and _ finish
your sleep, and I shall hear all about what
you have seen in the morning.”

“T thought it was long past morning,” he
said’; “ is it not another day?”
THE PIGS. 223

“ No, dear,—the same night still upon which
dear baby was so ill. He is better now, and
Iam going to sleep. So I advise you to lie
down and finish yours.”

“Ah, mamma,” he sighed, “ I have not slept
at all, all night.”

But his mamma only smiled, and kissed
him, and drew down his curtain. She did
not seem to pity him much for his sleepless
night. Perhaps she knew the true state of
the case better than he did. He did sleep
very soundly after this, and saw no more of
White Horse. But he did not forget him.
He told his mamma all the story of his mid-
night ride through the air, and asked her
very earnestly to help him to keep from ever
being greedy again. And I have been told
that, striving together, they succeeded admir-
ably, for that before a twelvemonth was over
Robert was as generous, as little greedy, as
little anxious about what he was to eat or
drink, as any boy in the land.

The children were much pleased with this
story.

“T liked about the dark, swift ride, mam-
ma,” said Harry. “I think Robert was fool-
224 THE PIGS.

ish to tire of it so scon. I should have liked
famously to ride like the wind high up in the
skies. I should not have wearied.” :

“And yet,” said his mamma, smiling, “I
remember one or two occasions when a cer-
tain young gentleman tired very soon of driv-
ing in the dark, and was glad to have a few
stories told him, to make the time pass more
quickly.”

“Oh, well, you know,” laughing, “ stories
make everything pleasanter. One can never
have any objection to stories.”

“ But, mamma,” remarked Lucy, “ after all,
that may have been a true story. It may
have been a real dream, you know, mamma.”

“Tt may, Lucy,” smiling; “but it is not
very likely. We do not often dream so connec-
tedly, or, as I might say, so profitably. But
I believe the cases of hardened greediness in
full-grown men are only too true. It is only
the fable with which they are introduced that
is fiction.”

“T could hardly fancy, mamma,” Harry .
cried, indignantly, “that any man could enjoy
a sausage to his breakfast, while his poor
children were suffering from absolute hunger.”
THE PIGS. 225

“ He satisfied his conscience, you know, by
saying, and I suppose thinking, that the two.
penny loaf was enough for them. I daresay
he was sincere in wishing his wife to take
some of his coffee. He was so bent upon
gratifying his own appetite, that he would
not allow himself to look forward. A glutton
almost always lives only in the present. En-
joying present pleasure, he obstinately refuses
to consider how the morrow’s wants are to
be supplied.”

“T think I can see,” said Lucy, thought-
fully, “ how greediness must make one self-
ish. And papa says selfishness, if indulged,
grows faster than any other fault.”

“Greediness begins in selfishness,” Mrs.
Lindsay said, as she rose to put away her
work. “The greedy man, or greedy child,
(that is either sex, you know, Harry,) is self-
ish to begin with,—thinks only of indulging
his or her self, and his or her worst self, the
meaner and baser parts of the animal nature.
Ah! greediness is one of the lowest kinds of
selfishness. And because it is so, therefore
to indulge it is the sure way to debase our

whole character.”
(403) 15


NEGLIGENT MARY.



“ NEGLIGENT Mary,” read Harry, as he drew
the picture from the portfolio. “Oh! that is
the young lady who cannot even take care of
her own doll! Look, mamma! is not it well
done? How helpless poor dolly looks lying
over the stool, her feet kicking in the air, and
one poor stiff arm poking out !”

“ Mary looks a good deal ashamed of her-
self, I think,” said Mrs. Lindsay.

“And a little angry too, mamma,” cried
Lucy; “or a little sulky.”

“Well, Lucy,” her mamma answered, “I
can see nothing in the little face except shame,
and perhaps some pity for her neglected
doll.”

“Perhaps I see anger, or sulkiness, mamma,
because I think I should have been angry if-
I had been Mary. Really I don’t see what
NEGLIGENT MARY. 227

mammas have to do with little girls’ dolls. If
a little girl chooses to neglect her doll, I don’t
see what her mamma can have to say to it.”

Mrs, Lindsay smiled and shook her head.

“Why do you shake your head, mamma?”
Lucy asked, laughing. “I do not blame you,
in saying so. You never interfered between us
and our dolls. And really, mamma, you know
it is quite vexing enough to see one’s pretty
doll spoilt, however that may have happened.
It is too bad to have a scolding added to it.”

“Oh, Lucy, it is a very small bit of a scold-
ing ‘Negligent Mary’ gets,—not worth the
name of a scolding,” said Caroline.

“ Still,” persisted Lucy, “I think she might
have been spared even the little bit. I don’t
see that her mamma had any right to inter-
fere at all. The doll was her own. She might
destroy it, neglect it, or keep it carefully, just
as she pleased.”

“But, Lucy, if her mamma had spent a
good deal of money upon the doll, don’t you
think she had a right to remonstrate, if she
saw that her little girl was not getting that
good from her gift which she meant her to get
when she bought ify
228 NEGLIGENT MARY.

-“ Perhaps,” said Lucy, laughing, “ Mary got
quite as much amusement and pleasure from
throwing her doll about, as she could have
got from nursing it in the most careful and
proper manner.”

“ But, my dear Lucy, if the amusement and
pleasure of our little girls be all we think of
in buying dolls for them, I think we ought to
look out for less expensive play-things. well-dressed doll costs a good deal, and if I
thought it would serve no better end than
your mere amusement, I don’t think I should
do right to give so much for it.”

“ But what other end does it serve ?” Lucy
asked.

“Oh, I know!” cried Caroline. “When
Aunt Helen gave me my beautiful doll, she
said that she had taken a great deal of pains
to make its clothes nice, and with buttons
and strings, that they might be taken off and
put on; because she thought that I might be
inclined to take care of it, and to keep it nice
and neat, and might thus learn habits of tidi-
ness and painstaking.”

“ And did you pay so large a sum for my
beautiful Helen for the same reason, mamma ?”
NEGLIGENT MARY. 229
cried Lucy. “And have you been vexed to
see me leave her clothes lying about, or allow
them to get torn and soiled ?”

“T ought to have explained the matter to
you sooner, my little Lucy,’ said her mamma,
smiling kindly ; for Lucy looked really sorry
to have failed in what her mother had desired.
“JT certainly did hope that Helen’s beauty, and
the neatness of her dress, would make you
more careful and tidy in all your ways. I
hoped that the pleasure of seeing her neat and
clean would make you take pains to keep her
so; and make you a little more exact and
careful as to where you put your possessions,
or as to what is to become of them. The little
girl who wilfully or negligently destroys her
play-things, is apt to be a waster of matters
more precious and costly, when they come in
her way.”

“¢Wilful waste makes woeful want,’ quoted
Harry, as gravely as if he had not been the
most careless little fellow in the world.

Lucy smiled.

“That is one of nurse’s wise sayings,” she
said. “But you see, mamma, though nurse
has often quoted that to me, yet so long as it
230 NEGLIGENT MARY.

was my own things I wasted,—so long as the
‘woeful want’? was my own alone,—I did not
think it mattered much.”

“Except for the bad habit you were all the
time teaching yourself, my dear,” said Mrs,
Lindsay. “And, besides, did it never occur
to you that the pretty toys you so negli-
gently suffered to go to ruin might have given
pleasure to some other little girl, if you had
ceased to care for them ?”’

“JT think, mamma, that if baby had been
a girl, Lucy would have taken care of dolly for
her sake. She is so kind to baby,” suggested
Caroline.

“Well, I don’t know,” laughed Harry.
“Ba might have been very well pleased
with Lucy’s cart and horse, which she left for
days standing on the brink of the well, until
Touzle one day knocked it over into the water,
while jumping in after a stone.”

Lucy blushed and looked vexed. Harry
went on:

“ And baby would have been delighted with
her large ball, which she left on the lawn till
it was quite ruined. And—”

His mamma interrupted him, laying her
NEGLIGENT MARY. 231

hand gently on his shoulder, and saying,
gravely, —

“Harry, my boy, is there not a kind of
property more precious than worldly goods,
which we are in danger of wasting through
mere thoughtlessness ?”

“T do not know what you mean, mamma?”
he said, startled by her sudden gravity,

“Ts not affection more precious than gold
and silver, my boy?” she asked gently. “And
are not we more guilty in wasting it than in
wasting money, or any mere earthly goods ?”

“ But how do I waste affection?” he asked
again,

“ How should you feel, my boy, towards
one who should teasingly point out your faults
to others, bringing them up after they were
past, and spreading them forth to view with-
out regarding the pain such a display might
cause you? If the teaser were one you did
not know well, did not care for, should not
you feel dislike and anger against him?
should not you be glad to get away from
him? And if the offence were often repeated,
should not you avoid his society as much as
possible ?”
232 NEGLIGENT MARY.

“Why, yes, I suppose so,” Harry admitted,
a little reluctantly. He began to understand
his mother’s question.

Lucy understood it also.

“Oh! but, mamma,” she cried eagerly,
almost reproachfully, “I could never dislike
my own dear Harry because he laughed at
me or teased me about my faults.”

“ T hope not, indeed, my dear. _But the teas-
ing which produces anger and dislike towards
an indifferent person, must take off at least a
small part of the deeper affection you bear
for the teaser whom you really love. I do
not think we can ever feel anger towards any
one, without losing at least a few particles of
the affection we had for him. And oh! my
dear children,” (very earnestly,) “never forget
that family love is one of God’s most precious
gifts to us; and guard it with all your care
from the least waste, the least injury.”

The children were much impressed by their
mother’s earnestness. Lucy, the most tender-
hearted of the three, said softly, while the
tears rose to her eyes,—

“Oh, mamma, if it were so easily hurt !
It frightens me to think of it. Surely it is
NEGLIGENT MARY. 233

too deep, too strong to be injured by such
small matters.”

“T do hope, darling,” her mother answered
tenderly, “that your love for Harry, Harry’s
love for you is too deep, too strong, as you
say, ever to be destroyed. But of this I am
very sure, that our family love would be a
thousandfold more pure, more tender, were we
more careful to guard it from the little daily
shocks it receives from light, mocking, or angry
words, and careless, inconsiderate actions. The
great thing is, to feel that this love is, as I
said, a precious, sacred gift from the God of
love; and to recollect that he will demand
from us an account of every measure of it
which he has bestowed on us. It makes me
tremble sometimes to see how rashly, how
carelessly some brothers and sisters play with
this gift; how they waste a little to-day,
and a little to-morrow—now by teasing each
other, now by neglecting to attend to each
other’s wishes, and again by refusing to accept
excuses for each other’s faults; and how
seldom they think that the eye of the great
and loving Giver is every moment watching
the use they make of what he has given!”
234 NEGLIGENT MARY.

“JT am sorry, mamma,” said Harry, frankly.
“JT did not mean—at least—yes, I am afraid
I did know that Lucy was vexed. But, Lucy,
I am sorry; indeed I am.”

Lucy seemed to think that Harry was more
sorry than there was any occasion for. She
and Harry were more tenderly attached to
each other than to any other member of the
family. Quarrels were very rare between
them. But Harry, like most boys, was too
fond of teasing his sisters; and his mother’s
solemn, earnest warning, was good for him,
useful to him.

“Mamma,” said Caroline, after a few
minutes’ pause, during which all the three
children looked grave and thoughtful, “what
you say about family love is like what papa
said the other night about all God’s gifts to
us. Papa said that one could not help feel-
ing that carelessness and waste of every kind
were absolutely sinful, if one only recollected
that every gift, of whatever kind, came from
God; that every scrap or corner of time, every
little piece of property, however small, every
pleasure, every opportunity of giving pleasure
to others, belonged to him, because from him
NEGLIGENT MARY. 235

we had received them, and to him we must
give an account for all.”

“ Yes, I think that is the one strong argu-
ment against waste, which no one can get
over. That is the reflection which makes me
so anxious that my little ones should learn
early to gather up and use every gift and
every power with which God has blessed
them. I might tell you a story to-day upon
Harry’s proverb, ‘ Wilful waste makes woeful
want ;’ but woeful want is too sad an ending
to please him, so, instead, I shall give you—

THE LITTLE WASTER CURED.

Fanny Mowbray was a clever, lively, ami-
able girl; but very heedless, and a sad waster
of every kind of property which came into
her power. Her picture-books and play-
things were destroyed, mislaid, or thrown
away, within two or three days after she got
them. Although far from being particular
about what she ate, she had taken up the bad
habit of picking out particular parts of her
food, and scattering about and wasting at
least a half of it, at every meal. Her clothes
were soiled and crumpled half an hour after
236 NEGLIGENT MARY.

they were put on; and that dress must have
been made of wonderfully strong material
which could boast of more than a month or
two's duration.

Had Fanny been one of a large family, or
had her father’s income been small, of course
such extravagance could not have been tole-
rated. Of course, in such a case, the little girl
must soon have learned from sad experience,
that she must either take a little care of her
toys, or go without them; that she must
either keep her dress tolerably clean and
whole, or go about with soiled and patched
garments until new and clean ones could be
reasonably afforded to her. But Fanny was
the only child of wealthy and indulgent
parents, and had, besides, a doting grandpapa
and grandmamma, and a most comfortable sup-
ply of kind uncles and aunts, quite as ready to
give her presents as she was to receive them.
So it was that her heedlessness and extrava-
gance received no check. And if now and
then she was told that she was a careless
monkey, the words were spoken so smilingly
as to carry no sting with them; and Fanny
was rather encouraged to think,—something

«
NEGLIGENT MARY. 237

like the little Robert of yesterday’s story,—
that if one must have a fault of some kind,
carelessness was quite as slight a one to have
as any other.

While Fanny was very young, her parents
thought little about her carelessness. It
seemed natural and pleasant to them to sup-
ply their little girl’s wants as fast as they
arose. They knew little about children, and
supposed that all very young ones were quite
as heedless and wasteful as their Fanny, and
that she would naturally become more prudent
and careful as she grew older.

But it was not so. As Fanny grew older
she only became more extravagant in her
wishes, while she continued quite as careless
of her possessions. A book or toy might,
perhaps, retain its place longer in her affec-
tions, and might not be cast aside quite so
soon as her merely baby toys had been; but
she would throw herself down on the carpet,
turn over a picture or two, and after a while
leave them as she left her doll or ball. And
as they gradually grew more expensive than
those which had pleased her in her first child-
hood, so their loss was more serious. At last
238 NEGLIGENT MARY.

by slow degrees, the eyes of her parents were
opened to see the extent of the evil and the
necessity of checking it.

Through the whole year, between Fanny’s
ninth and tenth birth-day, Mr. Mowbray suf-
fered a great deal from a long and painful
illness. He was during that time almost en-
tirely confined to his room. His wife scarcely
ever left him. And so it happened, that when
new books or toys were wanted for the little
waster Fanny, a servant was sent to the
neighbouring town for them, or they were
written for, and brought home by the carrier.
It had always been Mrs. Mowbray’s way to
pay for such goods when she got them, so that
she had never fully realized how much money
was spent upon them in any certain period of
time. During this year, however, when she
was not in town oftener than once or twice,
an account was run up both at the toy shop
and bookseller’s; and when they were sent in,
she was not more surprised than grieved by
their amount.

She carried them to her husband. He was
even more annoyed than sh® had been. His
long retirement from active life had made him
NEGLIGENT MARY. 239

more thoughtful; his own sufferings had made
him more considerate for the sufferings of others.

“Why, my dear,” he said, very gravely,
“this sum, which has been spent upon mere
toys and idle story-books for our child, might
have kept a whole family in perfect comfort
through the last long winter.”

Mrs. Mowbray felt the truth of what he
said. But it seemed to her difficult to guard
against future expenses of the same kind.

“We have indulged Fanny too much,” she
said. “But it would be cruel to be too strict
with her now. Her extravagance is more our
fault than hers. It does not seem fair that
she should suffer for our fault.”

“ Where, then, is the evil to end?” Mr.
Mowbray asked. “Is Fanny to be allowed
to grow up extravagant and wasteful, because
we do not like to give her the temporary pain
of now being checked in her heedless ways, in
her extravagant desires?”

“ Let us reason with her,” said her mother.
“Fanny has great good sense and good feel-
ing. When she has been shown how the case
stands, I am sure she will cure herself of her
fault.” \
240 NEGLIGENT MARY.

Mr. Mowbray shook his head.

“ Fanny has good sense, and good feeling
too,” he said. “But T am afraid that a child’s
good sense and good feeling are rather too
slow in making their voices heard. Inclina-
tion, the whim, the wish of the moment, speak
out more hastily, and are first listened to. I
fear something more than reasoning may be
necessary. It may be necessary to leave Fanny
to feel in her own person the evils of heedless-
ness and extravagance.”

And he was right. Mrs. Mowbray had a
gerious conversation with her little girl, and
pointed out to her the folly, the sinfulness of
spending upon idle toys what might have
procured good food and warm clothing for a
whole poor family. Fanny had a kind heart,
and was much moved by her mother’s argu-
ments,

“T had rather never have another new
book or toy in my life, mamma,” she said,
very earnestly, “than take for .them the
money which might be given to buy bread
for these poor starving children, the Browns,
in the cottage under the wood. I shall, from
this very day, take the greatest care of all the
NEGLIGENT MARY. 24)

things I have. - You shall see, mamma, how
long it shall be before I ask you for anything
more.”

Mrs. Mowbray was quite satisfied, and re-
joiced greatly in her daughter’s tenderness of
heart and reasonableness. But that very
afternoon, Fanny took out an expensively
bound story-book, to read under her favourite
walnut tree. Before she had read many pages,
she heard the neigh of her pretty little pony,
Jet, as he was brought home from the black-
smith’s, where he had been getting a new shoe.
She sprang up to greet him, threw down her
book on the grass, as she ran away to get him
an apple. While feeding him in the yard, she
was told that a set of pheasant eggs which
she had been watching had been hatched.
The pretty fancy basket in which she had car-
ried Jet’s apples was instantly thrown away,
and she hastened to the poultry-yard, to see
the little pheasants peeping out from under
the parent’s wings. She wished her mother
to share the pleasure, and, in running to call
her, upset and broke a beautiful glass globe
for gold fish, which she had left in a danger-
ous position, on the floor of the hall, when

(403) 16
242 NEGLIGENT MARY.

she had gone out at first. She left the door
of her play-room open, as she ran through it
seeking her mother, and when she returned an
hour or two afterwards, she found that her pet
monkey had been amusing himself with all
her favourite toys,



had broken in pieces the
furniture of her baby-house, cracked the glass
of her large transparent slate, and carried off
and hidden more than half her china cups and
saucers! A wet night completely ruined the
basket left in the yard. A beggar woman
was suspected of stealing the book, which was
never seen again.

“Tf I must buy a new copy of that expen-
sive story-book, a new basket, glass globe,
baby-house, transparent slate, china cups and
saucers,” said her father, as he heard the story
of her losses, “ how much will be left of the
sum you asked me to give you for poor baby
Brown’s new clothes?”

Fanny looked grave for a minute or two.
It seemed impossible to do without these
things she had lost, and yet she had so very
much wished to see the baby in comfortable
warm clothes before winter set in.

“ But, dear papa,” she said coaxingly, “ you
NEGLIGENT MARY. 243

have a great deal of money; could not you
contrive to give the baby its clothes, even
although you do buy me these things,—which
indeed, dear papa, I cannot well do without?”

“Ah! my little Fanny,” he answered, with
a grave smile, “ that style of doing things must
come to an end some time. Of course I can
afford to give clothes to a good many babies ;
but still, in the end, when I have given all I
can, there will be always one baby more who
might have been clothed, one more hungry
little one who might have been fed, had you
been more careful of your goods.”

“Tam sure I wish to be careful,” she cried;
“but I cannot, I really cannot remember at
the right time. I meant to put the glass
globe upon the shelf after I had washed it
out, but I forgot. J meant to bring in my
pretty book quite carefully, but dear Jet's
neigh put it out of my head. I wish, papa,
you could find some way to make me re-
member.”

“The only way I can think of,” he an-
swered, “is, that you should suffer a little
annoyance every time you forget. Dut then
neither mamma nor I like to give you pain
244 NEGLIGENT MARY.

or annoyance. Suppose we arrange the mat-
ter so as that you should give it to yourself!”

“Perhaps I might not have courage to do
tnat,” she said, laughing a little.

“Tf you agree to the plan, I can arrange
the matter so as that you shall not be able to
save yourself from suffering in one way or
other from your own carelessness,”

“ How, papa?” she asked eagerly. “I am
not so much afraid of suffering as afraid that
I might not be bold enough to put it on my-
self. I should like to try your plan.”

Mr. Mowbray asked for his purse, and took
out two golden guineas.

“ More than twelve times this sum,” he said,
“has, during the last year, been spent upon
your toys and story-books. I am willing to
give you two guineas every month to spend
as you please, upon three conditions. The
first is, that out of this sum you supply your-
self with all you require for amusement or
occupation during your play-hours. You are
not to ask nor to expect that mamma or I
shall buy for you toys, books, pencils, drawing-
paper, materials for your doll’s dresses, or for
your manufacture of boxes and pin-cushions.”
NEGLIGENT MARY 245

“ But, papa,” said Fanny, “some things I
use both in lesson-hours and in play-hours,—
my penknife, my scissors and thimble, even
my pencils,—what about them ?”

“When you can prove that such articles
have been honestly worn out, I shall replace
them. The lost and wasted you must replace
yourself. My second condition is, that you
never run into debt.”

“Oh! indeed, that is an easy condition!”
cried Fanny, laughing, “if I am to get two
guineas every month. Surely I can never
spend two guineas a month upon such things,”

“ Hitherto, I am sorry to say, more than
that sum has been spent upon your mere
amusements, my child,” her father said gravely.
“ But I do not intend that you should spend all
your two guineas upon trifles. That would be
to encourage, not to check, your extravagance.
My third condition is, that out of this sum you
provide for your charities as well as for your
amusements, You are to promise never to
ask mamma or me for assistance for any poor
person, unless when you are able and willing
to pay a fair proportion of what is given.”

“Oh! that is best of all!” cried Fanny
246 NEGLIGENT MARY.

eagerly. “It will be charming to save money
to give away! And, first, I shall get a whole
suit of clothes for Mrs. Brown’s baby. Mamma,
ag you cannot go to town just now, may Menie
and I go in in the carriage to-morrow to buy
the clothes?”

“Certainly, my love,’ said Mrs. Mowbray,
well pleased at the little girl’s kindness of
heart.

And off Fanny ran in high spirits to ask
her nurse to draw up a list of the things
which were necessary for the baby’s comfort.
A list of shifts, petticoats, and frocks was
made out, and the probable prices calculated.
Menie prudently tried to keep within the
compass of one of the bright guineas.

“You will want many a thing, Miss Fanny,
before the month is out,” she said. “ This is
only the first of October. The baby can wait
for some of its warm clothes until next
month.”

But Fanny was extravagant in her charities
as in other things; and next day, when they
went to a shop where ready-made clothes were
sold, she took fancies to so many pretty frocks
and neat pinafores, that Menie could not get
NEGLIGENT MARY. 247

her away with more than three shillings and
twopence in her pocket.

“These pennies are very heavy; I shall
give them to the first beggar I meet,” she
said; and Menie had some difficulty in per-
suading her to keep them.

They passed the toy-shop. For the first time
in her life Fanny looked in without the least
desire to buy any of its treasures; and, while
looking on the comfortable parcel of clothing
beside her, she could think quite philosophi-
cally of the dilapidated condition of her baby-
house and china-closet.

So soon as she had finished dinner, Menie
went with her to Mrs. Brown’s; and Fanny
thought she had never been so happy in her
life as while dressing the baby in his new
clothes, and seeing the poor mother’s sur-
prise and pleasure. One of the prettiest
frocks was too tight in the body and too long
in the skirt. Fanny took it home to alter it ;
and in working at it under Menie’s direc-
tions, and in picturing how pretty baby would
look when he got it on, the evening passed
happily away.

“Tt looks very smart with the tuck I have
248 NEGLIGENT MARY.

made. I shall take it down the first thing to-
morrow, and try it on; and cousin Lucy will
be so glad to go with me. Aunt Gray and
Lucy come to-morrow ; do they not, mamma?”
“Yes, if the day be fine,” was Mrs. Mow-
bray’s answer. “They come to stay a week.”
But the day was far from fine. The morn-
ing opened its eyes in thick mist and pouring
rain, No walk to the cottage in the wood—
no hope of a visit from Lucy. Fanny must
amuse herself at home, and alone. It was
holiday time. She had not even lessons to
occupy her. Her father was worse than usual.
He could neither have Fanny beside him, nor
part with her mamma for any length of time.
After breakfast Fanny went to her play-
room. She had a very handsome rocking-
horse; and as she could have no exercise
out of doors, she determined to take a ride
upon it. But to a little girl who was accus-
tomed to gallop all over the country upon a
real pony, a wooden steed was not very in-
teresting, and at the end of ten minutes poor
rocking-horse was pronounced stupid, and
abandoned.
She looked around for a new plaything.


FANNY'S FAVOURITES
NEGLIGENT MARY. 249

There stood her baby-house, with its broken
furniture and torn hangings. She sighed to
think that a whole month must pass before
she could hope to put it in order again.
Then she walked into the garden, and fed
her doves, and took one of them in her hand,
for they were very tame; but of this amuse-
ment she soon grew weary, and she returned
into the house to seck some fresh occupa-
tion. She turned to her book-case, but
it only reminded her of the charming book
she had lost. Had she taken care of it, she
might now have had a whole forenoon’s de-
lightful amusement; for she had not read above
a dozen pages, and it contained between four
and five hundred. Of her other books, the
newer ones had been read too lately to inter-
est on a second reading; and the older ones,
which she might have forgotten, were ina sadly
torn condition. One, which had once been
a prime favourite, had been left out of doors
through two or three days of rain: its leaves
had been loosened, and so many were lost
that it was only a trial of temper to read it.
Another had been used as a kind of table,
while Fanny bored holes in a piece of paste-
250 NEGLIGENT MARY.

board with a red-hot iron, and had lost as
many leaves by fire as the other had by
water.

“It is not raining so heavily now,” said
poor Fanny, as she turned in disgust from her
torn library. “ Perhaps mamma would send
John to town to buy me another copy of that
delightful book.”

But then she remembered that its price was
hailf-a-guinea, while she had only three shil-
lings and twopence in the world! While
mourning over her own heedlessness, and wish-
ing that the first of November were nearer,
she heard a carriage drive up to the door;
and, running out, found to her great joy that
her aunt and cousin had arrived in spite of
the rain.

“Oh, Lucy! I am quite happy now!”
cried Fanny, throwing her arms round her
cousin’s neck, “You are worth a hundred
story-books, and a thousand baby-houses!”

The two little girls went up stairs to their
kind friend Menie. It took a little time to
get off Lucy’s travelling-dress, and to tell each
other all that had happened since they met
last. Of course, Lucy was told of Fanny’s
NEGLIGENT MARY. 251

new dignity, as purveyor of her own toys
and books; and she opened her eyes very wide
at the idea of a little girl having two guineas
a-month to spend. Lucy’s father was not
rich, and had plenty of children, so that Lucy
was little accustomed to many play-things or
new books. °

When they had talked as much as they
chose, they went back to the play-room.
What should they play at? was the first
question.

“Oh ! please, Fanny, Les Graces; you have
such beautiful sticks and hoops,” said Lucy.

Had, not have, might Fanny have said.
One stick had been broken in two, to form a
support for a tall myrtle ; another had been
burned in the fire, to make a charcoal point
to draw with; and a third was lost. One
hoop had gone dancing down the river to the
sea, for all Fanny knew; and the other was
comfortably reposing on the top branch of a
tree,

Battledore and shuttlecock was the next
suggestion ; but the battledores had been left
on the play-room hearth when a large fire
was burning, and had burst. Balls, skipping-
252 NEGLIGENT MARY.

ropes,—all were in the same state; and
Fanny knew not whether to laugh or ery
over the useless condition of her numerous
splendid toys.

“ At least you have plenty of dolls,” said
Lucy, good-humouredly ; “and, after all, dolls
are the best of play-things.”

Yes, plenty of dolls, indeed! but how
many were fit to play with?—-that was
another question. There was a body without
a head, a head without a body; one doll
without arms, another with only one leg;
one without a wig, another wanting an eye.
Never was seen such a regiment of wounded
and disabled. From among the heap, two
were at last found in tolerable preservation.
But their dress was the next difficulty. large clothes-basket full of garments was
produced ; but so many torn and soiled, too
large or too small, that, half crying, Fanny
wished to give up the business in despair.
Lucy was not so easily discouraged, but fitted
on and sorted with admirable patience.

“ See,” said she, after half an hour’s labour,
“there is only wanting a pair of trousers for
my doll, and a white petticoat for yours. If
k

NEGLIGENT MARY. 253

Menie will cut them out, you and I can soon
make them for ourselves. It will be fine occu-
pation for the afternoon.”

“ But I have no cloth to make them of,”
sighed Fanny.

“Nonsense!” laughed Lucy. “Out of this
heap we may surely get cloth for one pair of
trousers and one petticoat. This night-gown,
which belonged to that poor headless lady, will
cut up beautifully into a petticoat. I think
» Menie can contrive my trousers out of this
white frock; and the trimming round the bot-
tom and up the robes will do for the bottom
of both slip and trousers.”

So said, so done. Menie planned and cut,
and the little girls sewed most busily and
happily. Before night, the trousers and slip
were finished. Two scarfs were made out
of a black satin pelisse, and trimmed with
some lace which Lucy found upon another
torn article of dress, And two old sashes
served admirably to trim the straw hats be-
longing to the two favoured dolls; which hats
had, fortunately, suffered only in their trim-
mings.

With all her numerous new play-things,
254 NEGLIGENT MARY.

Fanny had never in her life been so well
amused asin this sorting and making the best
of old things. And she had the good sense to
feel that Lucy had taught her a very useful
lesson, by showing her how much could be
made out of what she had thought fit for
nothing.

“T must look after my old and torn things
now,” she said; “for I can see I shall not
have too much money to buy new ones.”

Too much reason she had to say so. In
cutting a piece of stiff pasteboard she had
that evening broken her only pair of scissors ;
and she had thrown her thimble into the fire
along with a heap of cuttings of paper and
silk, among which she had carelessly left it.
All her remaining three shillings would be
required to buy new ones. For a whole
month not one new. book or toy could be
procured,

“One comfort is, that baby Brown is well
supplied with clothes,” said she, as she told
her father of her poverty. “Mamma says I
am extravagant in charity. But you like me
to be that; do you not, papa?”

“TY do not wish you to be extravagant in
NEGLIGENT MARY. 255

anything, my little Fanny,” he said. “It is
all very well to make up your mind so cheer-
fully to go without new books or toys; but
what will you do if any poor people come in
your way this month,—if God brings them in
your way, my little girl, in order that you
should help them ?”

His words made a deep impression on her
mind. She thought of them as she lay awake
in her bed that night. They came back as
her first thought in the morning. LEarnestly
she hoped that no poor person might come in
her way, for now she had not a penny. A
servant was going to town on an errand for
Mr, Mowbray. To him she had given the
three shillings, to buy her a pair of scissors
and a thimble; and had been thankful to have
the despised twopence to give him for the
purchase of pencils, as out of the dozen, or
dozen and a half, which had been got for her
during the last month, not one was to be
found !

“TI do hope,’ she said seriously to Lucy
and Menie, “ that God will not bring any poor
people for me to help, until I have got some-
thing to give them.”
256 NEGLIGENT MARY.

But, even as the words left her mouth, she
saw coming up the avenue a poor woman,
with a basket on her arm, a little boy by her
side, Fanny recognised the woman: she knew
that she had lately lost her husband, and had
a sore fight to maintain her family by the sale
of the little articles which she carried in her
basket. And the little girl’s heart ached to
see how cold and hungry both mother and
child looked.

“And I may not even tell mamma of
them,” she cried. “The bargain was, that I
should not ask for help for any one, unless I
were able and willing to bear my just share of
the expense ; and I have not a penny.”

Lucy could only sympathize. Menie did
more.

“You little ladies are such clever work-
she said, cheeringly, “why should

2

women,’
you not make a few pin-cushions, work-bags,
and needle-books for Nanny to sell?”

They caught eagerly at the hint.

“If only I have anything to make them
of,’ said Fanny.

“T am sure you have,” was Menie’s con-
fident answer. “I saw my lady give youa
NEGLIGENT MARY. 257

large piece of crimson silk, and a piece of
violet-coloured velvet, only last week.”

Fanny’s face brightened.

“Ah, yes!’ she cried. “And the week
before, she gave me a piece of pink, and a
piece of blue satin. Come, Lucy, let us seek
them.”

They were found more easily than was
generally the case with Fanny’s goods. But,
alas! in what a condition! The pieces of
satin had been left for days beside an open
window, and were spotted and stained with
rain; the velvet had been thrust into a
drawer beside pieces of paper wet with gum
and paint ; and the large handsome piece of
crimson silk had been tied round the kitten’s
neck, was torn by her teeth, and soiled and
crumpled beyond all hope of remedy. Even
the hopeful Lucy could not see how one pin-
cushion could be cut out of any of the pieces.
This time, Fanny fairly burst into tears.
Lucy more sensibly ran off to the store of
old torn dolls’ clothes, to see what she could
find. In a few minutes she returned full of
glee.

“See!” she cried, holding up her treasures,

(403) 17
258 NEGLIGENT MARY.

“this white frock is made of exactly the same
kind of fine sprigged muslin as that out of
which I made such a nice pin-cushion cover for
mamma last winter. If the pin-cushion be
covered with the silk of this pink slip, it will
be as pretty as heart could wish. Here are
the remains of the black satin pelisse we cut
up last night. With them, and with what
may be left of the slip, I think I can contrive
a little work-case like mamma’s, large enough
to hold a little bit of work, scissors, thimble,
and one or two reels of thread.”

Menie and Fanny cordially approved of her
plans. Menie washed and ironed the muslin
and silk for them; and as they really were
clever work-women, before night a very smart
pin-cushion and work-case were ready for
Nanny’s basket. Another work-case and a
needle-book were made out of a doll’s brown
velvet shawi; and they were lined with a piece
of blue silk which Menie found for them.
Encouraged by success, Lucy fell upon the
clever device of making patch-work needle-
books, work-bags, and pin-cushions, so as to
use up all the little corners that remained
fresh of the soiled pieces of silk, satin, and
NEGLIGENT MARY. 259

velvet. This was an excellent plan, affording
scope for taste and ingenuity ; and as it was
in their power to make the patches as small
and as numerous as they pleased, so they were
able to work up morsels of materials which in
no other way could have been of the least use.
By the end of the week they were surprised
and delighted at the largeness of the store
they had to give to the grateful Nanny.

So busily and happily passed the week of
Lucy’s visit, in walks to Mrs. Brown’s to play
with her baby, looking so pretty and comfort-
able in his new clothes; in gallops upon Jet ;
in games of romps in the garden with dog
and kitten ; and in several hours daily of hard
work for the benefit of the poor basket-woman.
Happily the time passed, but only too quickly.

“T can hardly fancy it is a week since you
came,” said Fanny, as they stood in the hall
waiting for the carriage which was to take
Lucy away. “The only comfort is, that with
this delightful week has passed away one-
fourth of my month of poverty. I have only
to get over three times that time, and then I
shall be able to get myself some of those things
Iso sorely want. If I might only keep you,”
260 NEGLIGENT MARY.

she sighed,—“ you are worth a whole shopful of
toys! But without you, and without toys too,
I don’t know what I can do.”

“Without toys!” laughed Lucy. “ Why,
Fanny, at home we should say that you had
still a wonderful store of them. Put your
play-room in order, and you will be astonished
to: find how rich you are. Mend the broken
ones too, It is better fun any day to mend
toys than to play with them.”

Fanny followed her cousin’s advice, and, at
Menie’s suggestion, patched up and mended
some of her toys for which she no longer cared,
and carried them to rejoice the hearts of Mrs.
Brown’s toyless children. Many an hour of
pleasant work she had in this way. But
many and bitter lessons she thus learned of
the evils of heedlessness. Now that she could
no longer go to her mamma for new tools
and materials, bitterly was she often made to
regret her wastefulness in regard to those she
had once possessed.

A wooden horse, who had lost part of one
of his legs, might be made to stand very well
if the three whole legs were cut to suit the
length of the broken one. But of the many
NEGLIGENT MARY, 261

pretty knives which had been given her, only
one could be found, and it had lost one blade;
the other was jagged and blunted by the ex-
traordinary uses to which it had been put;
and she had not even a few pence to pay the
cutler for grinding and sharpening it. The
butler kindly did his best to put it into
working order; but Fanny never once used it
without being made to wish that she had
taken care of the better ones she had once
possessed.

The shattered sides of a box were to be
fastened together, to make a work-box for
little Betty Brown; but although sixpence-
worth of gum had been got for her a fortnight
before, not one crumb of it could be found.
There was the glue-pot, to be sure; but Fanny
was not allowed to put it on the fire for her-
self, In the midst of her work she was always
forced to wait until Menie, or one of the other
servants, could help her. And even after the
glue was melted, in some parts of her work,
such as pasting coloured paper in the inside of
the box, or other delicate matters, thick glue
very ill supplied the place of gum. Fanny
was amused at the gratitude with which she
262 NEGLIGENT MARY.

received the hint that plain flour paste might
be used with advantage.

Then, in fastening up the torn hangings of
her baby-house, her neat little hammer was
found with its head and handle in two pieces,
She had broken it by trying, against Menie’s
advice, to split a large stone, in which she had
fancied crystals were hidden. And again and
again was her mending of dolls and their
clothes brought to a stand-still through want
of thread, silk, or needles.

“ Are you tired of your poverty, then, my
child?” her father asked, as she sat beside him
on the last evening of October, and gave him
the history of her troubles. “Shall we give
up the plan?”

“No, indeed, papa!” she cried earnestly.
“Why, do you know,” laughing, “I feel quite
greedy to get my two guineas to-morrow. I
have so much to do with them,—a new school-
book for Nelly Brown, a warm comforter for
Nanny’s poor boy, and I don’t know how many
other things. I don’t see, indeed, how I can
have anything to spare for myself. If I am
ever to get that half-euinea book, it will only be
by laying aside a shilling or two every month.


NEGLIGENT MARY. 263

I don’t see that I shall ever have the whole
sum in any one month.”

Her father was much pleased.

“T shall soon not be able to call you my
little waster,’ he said, caressing her. “My
plan is turning out well,—is it not?”

“ Well, papa,” (modestly,) “I think it is. I
do remember now to shut my books and lay
them on the table when I have finished read-
ing, instead of leaving them lying open on the
chairs or on the sofa. And yesterday I ran
back all the way from the corner of the wood,
when I remembered that I had left my work-
box open, at the mercy of mischievous Master
Pug. And I do not wish for new books or
toys, asI used todo. But still, papa,” shaking
her head very wisely, “there is a great deal
to be done before I am anything but a waster.
Menie says I take a little, but only a very
little, more care of my clothes. And I still
forget things every hour of the day, and leave
them about, tobe destroyed. I lost ever so
many of my pretty prints the other day, by
leaving them beside the open window, and the
high wind carried them off, I don’t know
where. And the very last of my ‘poor old
264 NEGLIGENT MARY,

dolls is quite ruined, by being left for a night
in the garden. The other one of the two
Lucy and I dressed up, got her face melted
away by being laid to sleep upon the hearth ;
and Pussie tore her clothes to pieces in a game
of romps. Ah! there is a terrible deal to be
done yet.”

“Courage, my little girl!” her father said,
cheeringly. “No great work was ever done in
a day. If not before this new-year, at least I
am sure before another, we shall be able to
say, ‘Fanny is quite cured. She is no longer a
waster, but a prudent, careful little girl.’ ”

And so it was. Being really very tender
hearted, her desire to help others made her
careful to save everything she could for them;
and in considering how this or that might be
made of use for this child or that poor woman,
she learned to look after everything that came
into her possession, however trifling, and to
set a proper value upon every gift which was
put into her hands.

“Well, mamma,” cried Lucy, “ Fanny as she
was is my likeness as I am. I only hope,
and, indeed, I mean to try, that Fanny as she
became may be my likeness ever after this.”
NEGLIGENT MARY. 265

“Oh!” cried Caroline, “ Lucy, you never
were so bad as Fanny.”

“ Because papa and mamma would not suffer
me to be so,” said Lucy.

And Mrs. Lindsay’s smile seemed to say
that she was right.








FINERY.

—++—

« WuHoseE likeness have we to-day?” asked
Lucey, looking over Harry’s shoulder as he
opened the portfolio. “Ah! I see it is con-
ceited Fanny to-day,—

~

‘Inan elegant frock, trimmed with beautiful lace;
And hair nicely curled hanging over her face.’”

“Tam afraid that I was at one time like
Fanny,” Caroline said, laughing, but blushing
a little at the same time. “I remember that
I used to be very proud of my hair nicely
curled hanging over my face! But since my
hair was cut out after the scarlet fever, I
think, mamma, I have not been so conceited?”

“Do you mean that you ceased to be con-
ceited when you had nothing to be conceited
of?” Mrs. Lindsay asked.

Caroline looked mortified.
FINERY. 267

“ Well I suppose,” she said, trying to laugh,
“that my long ringlets were the only pretty
things about me.”

Mrs. Lindsay did not answer.

“Oh! sometimes you look very well,” said
Harry, bluntly. “And I have a good notion
that you think so too.”

“Well, you know,” Caroline admitted, still
looking anxious to get her mother’s opinion,
“J think I look pretty well in some of my
dresses. But I know that I am not pretty
like Aunt Helen’s Mary, nor—nor—;” she
seemed to have some difficulty in finding any
other modest admission to make.

“Tf you wish to know exactly what I
think of the matter, Caroline,” Mrs. Lindsay
said, a little dryly, “I can easily tell you.
Your face has no right to be called pretty.
But it is pleasing, and has nothing positively
ugly about it. You have a pretty fair skin,
very tolerable hair, a good figure, and I am
glad to say that you carry yourself well, and
walk and move like a little lady.”

“But, mamma, do you think that I am
conceited?” Caroline asked, speaking more to
her mother’s manner than to her words. “TI
268 FINERY.

don’t think I am,—at least not very con-
ceited !”

“Perhaps not very conceited, Carry dear,’
her mamma answered, with a little smile;
“but I have often thought that you admired
yourself rather more than was quite neces-
sary ; and I have often wished that you were
not quite so anxious to get new and smart
dresses.”

“But, mamma,” Caroline cried, eagerly,
“you said the other day that there was no
harm in liking to wear pretty and becoming
dresses.”

“No harm, certainly, if the liking be kept
within due bounds, and lead neither to extra-
vagance nor to excessive self-admiration. You,
Caroline, have a good deal of Uncle Charles’s
talent for drawing, and have what is called
a good eye for colours. It is quite natural
that you should prefer one colour and one
dress to another,—quite right that you should
like to wear what you think pretty; but that
is not to be conceited.”

“What, then, is it to be conceited?” she
asked.

“Ah! my little woman, do you not know?
FINERY. 269

What passes through your mind when you
look at yourself in the glass, after putting on
your prettiest dress? Are there not a good
many thoughts about how nice you look, and
about how much you will be admired; a good
many wishes that people may remark you; a
good many hopes that you will look better
than this one, or that other one? Is not
your mind rather more occupied about your-
self than is altogether right? Is not—But
that is enough. You see what I mean,” sud-
denly interrupting herself, as she saw Caroline’s
eyes fill with tears.

Lucy, too, saw the tears, and hastened to
turn the conversation away from Caroline.

“Fanny did not only admire herself, mam-
ma,” she said, “but expected that every one was
to be as much delighted as she was—

‘Ah! how they will all be delighted, I guess.”

I think that was ridiculous. I don’t think
that we children ‘care very much about each
other’s fine clothes.”

“Well,” cried Harry, “I am sure we boys
like pretty girls, and weli dressed girls too.”

They all laughed at Harry’s way of saying
this.
270 FINERY.

“T daresay boys, and girls too, like pretty
girls best at the beginning of a party,” Mrs.
Lindsay said, smiling. “While you are all
sitting quietly and properly taking tea, I dare-
suy the prettiest and best dressed are most
admired, and perhaps even most liked. But
when the regular games begin, I am very sure
that the pleasant temper, the cheerful, obliging
spirit, are more admired than the pretty face
or the smart dress.”

“ At least there is most comfort in them,”
said Harry; “there is no doubt of that !”

“And it is a comfort to think that we can
all be good-tempered, cheerful, and obliging,

”

although we cannot all be pretty,” remarked
Lucy, philosophically.

«But, mamma, you have got a story for
to-day’s picture, have you not?” Harry asked.

“Why really, Harry, you tax my powers
of memory rather too severely,” was Mrs.
Lindsay’s laughing answer. “It is by no
means easy to recollect a story suited to a
picture I have never before seen, and the
subject of which I do not know until the very
moment that the story is demanded.”

“Ah! but, mamma,” cried Caroline and
FINERY. 271

Harry at once, “you must not stop in story-
telling now.”

“ Unfortunately,” sighed Harry, “we have
only one more story to hear after to-day.
You could not be so cruel as to cheat us of
one of our last two.”

“Well,” said Mrs. Lindsay, “if I can re-
collect it, I think I know a story that may suit
tolerably.”

THE TWO COUSINS.

“What a contrast! Who would suppose
they were cousins?” cried several voices, as
the English governess left the school-room fol-
lowed by the two new scholars. “The tall
one is a regular beauty. And what a love of
a dress! But the little one is—” The door
closed,—the new comers heard no more. They
had heard enough, however, to make the
beauty draw up her fine figure to its full
height and look compassionately down upon
her companion. That companion coloured a
little, but laughed the next instant with per-
fect good humour.

“When one is plain, it is a comfort to
know it,” she whispered to her cousin; “so
272 FINERY.

one is not mortified by finding out what other
people think. J am very plain, I know.”
And very plain little Beatrice was. She
had a squat little figure, a broad face, with
high cheek-bones, and an absurd little nose.
The roses on her cheek spoke of health, but
were certainly too bright for beauty. And
although her hair was smooth enough, it was
neither very fine nor of a pretty colour.
There was nothing at all pretty about her,
except her teeth ; and of that beauty, as her
companion afterwards said, the very most was
made; for she smiled so frequently, that no
one could be ten minutes in her company
without seeing the row of pretty white, regu-
lar teeth, which adorned her too wide mouth.
Plain as she was, she derived no advantage
from her dress. It was old-fashioned and
unbecoming. She had no mother to consi-
der what colour or make might best conceal
her defects,—might best show off any good
point. The old nurse, to whom her father
trusted in all such matters, desired what would
last long, more than what would look well.
And living in a very retired country place,
where new fashions seldom appeared, it never
FINERY. 273

occurred to ber that any change could be re-
quired from the patterns she had used for the
last dozen years; so Beatrice’s merino, of a
dark, dull green, was cut high upon the
shoulders, and low and square in front, with
sleeves in which the cloth had been spared to
a very unnecessary degree, and a skirt which
hung far too scantily round her little sturdy
person,

Selina, her cousin, was as different as pos-
sible. She was tall and finely formed; her
features were regular, and their beauty was
increased by the fairness of her complexion,—
the transparency and smoothness of her skin.
Her dress, too, was both elegant and fashion-
able, and had been skilfully chosen to set off
every beauty to the greatest advantage. She
was a girl whom no one could pass without
remark, whom no one could look on without
admiration,

On first learning that her cousin Beatrice
was to go to the same school as herself, Selina
had expressed some dislike to the idea,

“She is such a plain, odd-looking little
thing, mamma,” she said; “J shall really feel
ashamed of her among all the gay young ladies

(408) 1s
274 FINERY.

at Mrs. Russel's. Georgina Grant says they
are all so fashionable and distinguished-look-
ing.”

And when they had met at the railway
station, Selina had eyed her little cousin with
looks of pity and disdain, and had commented
upon her dress with a freedom which even
Beatrice’s good temper had found difficulty in
bearing.

On their introduction to their governess,
and to their new companions, however, the
subject presented itself in a new light. Selina
was quick of observation, and easily perceived
that her own beauty and grace were the more
highly thought of, from the contrast her
cousin’s appearance presented. By the time
that the governess had left them alone in their
own room to unpack their boxes, Selina was
in high good humour with both herself and
with the plain little Beatrice.

“Mrs, Russel seemed surprised to hear that
you and I were.so near of an age,” she said,
looking complacently at herself in the glass,
“And I could not help thinking, poor little
Beatrice, that it might have been as well, if
we could have done so, to have suffered her to
89

FINERY, 275
suppose that you were really a year or two
younger. I fancy, my dear,” (patronizingly,)
“that you are not very well on in your studies,”

“In some I am very far back,” said Bea-
trice composedly. “You know I have never
had any one to teach me, except the boys’
- tutor, dear old Mr. Lorimer. And then there
was always so much to do for the little ones,
that really I could not get on very fast. That
was the reason why papa sent me here. He
said he fancied I should never get on so long
as Thad the whole nursery-full of little bodies
to hang about me, and keep me from attend-
ing to my lessons.”

“Poor child! I am afraid you will be a_
good deal mortified when you come to compare
yourself with girls of your own age,” Selina
said, condescendingly.

“Well, I don’t see that I ought to be mor-
tified,” Beatrice said stoutly. “I don’t think
I could help myself. All the times that I left
my lessons to play with the children, it seemed
quite the right thing to do. And certainly I
could not learn what no one could teach me.”

All this time Beatrice had been busy un-
packing her trunk, and had got her clothes
276 FINERY.

laid tidily away in the drawers allotted to her.
Ever accustomed to give assistance to others,
she turned to help Selina, without even taking
the trouble to say she should do so. Selina
graciously accepted the assistance, and stood
looking on, now and then daintily lifting up a
handkerchief or collar, but leaving all the hard
work to her cousin. Beatrice was, however,
quick and active, and soon got through her
double task. As she lifted the last article
from the box, a servant came to summon them
to tea. They went to the glass to take a final
look that all was right.

“ Dear me, Beatrice!” Selina cried affectedly,
while she pulled down her ringlets, “ what
ever tempted you to get your dress made in
that style? It is all the fashion for girls of our
age to have their dresses made up to the throat ;”
and she looked complacently upon her own
nicely-fitting dress, with its neat little collar.

“So I see,” Beatrice replied quietly. “But
good old nursey did not know that; and as it
is made, it must be worn.”’

They went down stairs arm in arm. But
when the servant threw open the door of the
dining-room, Selina disengaged herself from
FINERY. 277

her cousin, that she might give a final shake-
out to the skirt of her handsome dress; and
walked in first, with an erect head and stately
air. Again had she the satisfaction of seeing
every eye turn admiringly upon her,—of know-
ing that her figure and dress received equal
approbation.

Mrs. Russel told the new comers where to
sit, and the business of the hour went on
pleasantly. All the elder girls had been for
two or three years at the school, and were on
friendly terms with each other, and with the
governesses. And Mrs. Russel’s gentle kind-
ness and pleasant manner set every one at
ease,—every one at least except Selina, who,
too conscious of being watched by many eyes,
too anxious to please, felt unusually con-
strained and awkward. Beatrice, on the other
hand, interested and amused by the novelty
of the scene, never once thought of herself, but
drank her tea and ate her bread and butter as
composedly and comfortably as if she had been
in her father’s drawing-room, alone with him
and her brothers.

After tea the cousins were summoned to
Mrs. Russel’s room, to be examined as to their
278 FINERY.

progress in tkeir different studies, The ex-
amination was a pleasant one for Selina, and
she came out cf it with great credit. Neither
pains nor expense had been spared upon her
education ; and, clever and ambitious, she had
made good use of every advantage. Her pro-
ficiency in music surprised Mrs. Russel; and in
French, Italian, and German, she was fit to take
a place among girls much older than herself.
She heard Mrs. Russel’s expression of pleasure
and surprise at her advancement with an air
of self-satisfaction, and stood aside to watch
the progress of Beatrice’s examination with
looks of contemptuous pity. Beatrice had not
even begun to learn Italian or German, and
did not know a note of music. She had
learned French from her brothers’ tutor; but
her pronunciation was strangely uncouth.
Neither she nor her tutor had, she said, ever
heard a word of French spoken. Mr. Lori-
mer had learned the language that he might
teach her, and had taught himself to pro-
nounce from the directions in the primer. Even
Mrs. Russel could not restrain a smile at the
poor child’s awkward attempts to read a few
lines from Racine, and Selina tittered outright.
FINERY. 279

But in knowledge of French grammar Bea-
trice was fully equal to Selina. In English
grammar Mrs. Russel told her not one girl in the
school could compete with her. She hada great
knowledge of history, was thoroughly versed in
geography, an excellent arithmetician, and could
write a neat pretty hand with ease and rapidity.
' “And these, my dear, are the best accom-
plishments,” Mrs. Russel said, very kindly.
“The others can be soon gained.”

“Accomplishments indeed!” thought and
looked Selina. “ Why these are not accom-
plishments at all. Any kitchen-maid or nur-
sery-girl can learn to add up accounts, to read
and write. Who cares for such common-place
things as these !”

The cousins were sent to bed early, before
their school-fellows, and saw and heard no-
thing of them until the next day. This hap-
pened to be a very busy one, and in going
from class to class the forenoon passed quickly
away. Selina was praised and admired to her
heart’s content by her new masters; her correct
pronunciation of French and Italian, her beau-
tiful execution on the piano duly observed and
commented on.
280 FINERY.

1?

“Why, my Cear, yeu are a perfect genius
cried one of her companions, as they went up
stairs together to make ready for a walk.
“Monsieur Douton could not find words to
express his admiration of your proficiency.
And as for poor Signor L , the tears were .
fairly in his eyes as he heard his language



so beautifully read, for the first time since
he left his beloved Italy! How is it that
you and your cousin are so unlike in every-
thing ?”

“ Oh, Beatrice is a good little thing,” Selina
replied, affectedly; “but she has not had my
advantages.”

_ “Take care that the good little thing does
not get before you some day soon,” said a
voice behind them. “I am much mistaken
if there be not more sense and talent too
in that funny round head of hers, than lies
hidden under your pretty ringlets, Miss Selina.”

Selina tossed her pretty ringlets disdain-
fully, and looked displeased. Her companion
glanced over her shoulder.

“Oh, it is only Florence Seton,” she said,
laughing. “No one minds what she says.
She never thinks like other people.”
FINERY, 281

Florence’s reply was interrupted by a sum-
mons to Mrs. Russel, to receive the disagree-
able intelligence that she must remain at
home, on account of a slight cold she had
caught. And before Florence had been con-
vinced that entreaties and coaxing were use-
less, the other girls had got on their bonnets
and cloaks, and were assembled in the hall.

“A game in the garden is the order of the
day, Miss Burns,” said one of the elder girls
to the governess who was to attend them.

“No, my dears; the day is so cold, Mrs.
Russel wishes you to take a brisk walk,” was
the reply.

“ At least let us go up the fields and over
the downs,” pleaded one or two.

“No, I cannot, the grass is so wet. Mrs,
Russel distinctly bade me take you io the
second mile-stone on the high road.”

“ That is so tiresome, so abominably stupid,”
they murmured.

“Nevertheless it cannot be helped,” their
governess said, pleasantly ; “so get into order
at once. As you think the walk so tiresome,
you may each choose your own companion,
only make haste.”
282 FINERY,

Several sprang eagerly forward to claim the
hand of the beauty. One who looked so en-
chanting must, they thought, be a pleasant
companion, But her new friend Julia was
the first, and carried her off in triumph. The
others naturally chose their old friends, and
Beatrice might have been reduced to the mor-
tifying necessity of taking the arm of one of
the very little ones, had not a pleasant-look-
ing girl of her own age taken pity on her and
asked for her company.

“Well, and how did you get on with the
beauty ?” asked Florence, as she met her com-
panions on their return.

“Oh, well, I don’t know that she is quite as
pleasant as she is beautiful,” Julia admitted,
with a laugh. “She is rather too fond of
talking about herself, and has a most virtuous
and troublesome horror of soiling her pretty
dress or wetting her feet. I thought I should
never have got her past one or two muddy
holes in the lane.”

“ And you, Emily ?” Florence asked Beatrice’s
companion.

“Oh! she is the best littlething in the world!”
Emily answered readily, “and very amusing.
FINERY. 283

She has lived in the country all her life, and
is on terms of intimate acquaintanceship with
every tree, shrub, and flower,—every beast,
bird, and fish that you can name; and she
speaks of them so lovingly, so heartily, it is a
pleasure to listen to her.”

_ “She can listen as well as speak, I think,”
said a fourth girl. “ You seemed to be tell-
ing her a long story, and she seemed to listen



with all her ears.”

“ With all her heart, you might say,” cried
Emily, eagerly. “Something led me on to
tell her the whole story of dear Willie’s bad
accident ; and she listened so earnestly, and
understood so well how I must have felt, that
she almost made me cry. Oh! she is as
pleasant a little thing as one could wish to
know.”

“And good and kind,” added the other
girl “When that horrible bramble caught
my dress, she was the first to see my trouble,
and instantly she knelt down in the mud and
helped me to free myself. She may be odd-
looking, but she is very nice.”

“Well,” said Florence, philosophically, “ it
is a good thing that you silly girls should
284 FINERY.

learn that a pretty face and a fine dress are
not the best things in the world. One may be
very pleasant, although one is little and plain.”

And so others besides Florence had already
found out. In the midst of all the business
of the busy day, little opportunities of helping
others had come in the way of the kind
Beatrice, and had been at once taken hold of.
One girl had been helped to find a missing
book, another had got her pencil nicely
sharpened; one had found Beatrice very clever
in twisting up her troublesome hair, another
praised the good-humoured way in which she
had borne an accidental overturn of her pile
of books: and so it was, that on sitting down
to dinner, even this first day, Selina saw as
many pleasant looks and kindly smiles given
to Beatrice as to herself.

In the free, easy talk that passed during
meals, Beatrice far surpassed her cousin. Se-
lina cared little for any conversation that did
not turn upon herself; Beatrice was easily
interested and amused, and could talk plea-
santly on most subjects; and on this par-
ticular day, when a discussion arose upon some
obscure part of English history, Beatrice was
FINERY. 285

able to give information of which even Mrs.
Russel was ignorant. Selina began to feel
discontented, and to think that school was by
no means so delightful as she had at first
supposed.

But now the dancing master was announced,
and, with renewed spirits, Selina prepared for
a new triumph. An easy triumph it was for
her. She was, indeed, a beautiful dancer.
Her perfect figure and natural grace and ele-
gance had made excellence in the art very
easy of attainment. Even those who might
have been thought her rivals, forgot emula-
tion, in the pleasure of watching her easy,
graceful movements, her light, accurate steps.

Beatrice had never before even seen any
one dance, and enjoyed the novel sight with
her usual keen, hearty enjoyment. The mas-
ter’s voice calling her name startled her into
recollection of her own position and duties.
Anxious, as usual, that no one should be kept
waiting for her, she bustled awkwardly
off the high bench, and presented herself
to the master’s gaze, in all the oddity of
her clumsy little figure, her spare, ungraceful
dress.
286 FINERY.

The master looked bewildered from her to
Selina, from Selina back to Beatrice, and con-
cluded the survey by uttering the words “Sa
Cousine,” in a tone of innocent amazement,
which made even the governesses laugh.

Beatrice’s rosy cheeks became still more
rosy, and for a minute or so she felt inclined
to burst into tears. Her position was dis-
agreeable enough. Even the youngest child
in the school had passed beyond the earliest
stages of dancing. Beatrice had none to share
her first lesson, but must stand up alone in
that large, bare room, with so many idle spec-
tators to watch her awkwardness. But Bea-
trice was not one to be. long annoyed by
self-recollection. To learn as quickly as she
could, to give as little trouble as possible, were
her constant aims in all her classes; and she
soon forgot her own position and the presence
of on-lookers, in earnest efforts to understand,
and to do what was required from her. Awk-
ward, absurdly awkward, she was, poor child !
in her efforts to obey the directions of her
master, as to the motion and position of feet,
arms, and head; but in the midst of all
awkwardness, her evident anxiety to please,
FINERY. 287

her eager, hearty attention, won the kind
man’s heart, and he dismissed her to her seat
with a most gracious “Very well, indeed,
mademoiselle.” As he made his final bows,
too, he turned to Beatrice, gave her one very
splendid one to herself, and said kindly :

“Tf all my pupils were as attentive as
you are, mademoiselle, I should soon be
obliged to pack up my violin, and say adieu.
They should soon have learned all I could
teach.”

“ Attentive indeed !’’ thought Selina. “One
may well be attentive when one can be nothing
else!” and, with her head held higher than
-usual, she stalked out of the dancing-room
before governesses, elder pupils, and every
one; while Beatrice remained behind to help
one of the very little ones to recollect the
new step, which the child’s own heedlessness
had prevented her from learning thoroughly.

But I have not time to tell all the instances
of Selina’s grace and elegance, her forward-
ness and conceit; or of Beatrice’s awkward-
ness, her kindness, and consideration: suffice
it to say, that day by day, week by week,
the cousins changed places in the regard
288 FINERY.

of all around them,—of their companions and
teachers. Day by day faded the popularity
which Selina’s beauty and elegance had at first
gained for her: day by day Beatrice grew in
favour with all.

Among their companions, Selina was so
filled with an idea of her own superiority,
so determined to have it acknowledged, had
so many whims and fancies, was so resolute to
have them gratified, that, in weariness and
disgust at her self-will and conceit, admiration
for her beauty was totally forgotten: while
Beatrice, by her self-forgetfulness, her cheerful
good temper, her readiness to be pleased, and
earnestness to give pleasure, was fast making
herself a prime favourite, fast causing her com-
panionship to be eagerly sought by both old
and young.

The governesses and masters, too, soon lost
sight of Selina’s proficiency and cleverness,
while continually annoyed and displeased by
her heedlessness and inattention to rules and
orders, her sullenness under reproof, her for-
wardness in claiming praise. Beatrice, on
the other hand, was so attentive, diligent,
and docile, that it became only a pleasure to
FINERY. 289

her superiors to help her to make up to her
companions, and to watch her steady pro-
gress,

As it was in the class-room, so was it in the
play-ground. The first ten or twelve days after
the cousins’ arrival were cold and showery,
and a quick walk along the high road was
the only out-of-doors recreation permitted to
the young people. But the second Saturday
was a brilliant, mild, spring day, and they re-
ceived permission to amuse themselves in the
garden and shrubberies as they pleased. The
question of what game they should first choose
was put to the vote. “ Hide-and-seek” had
three-fourths of the voices. The minority, as
a matter of course, cheerfully gave way to the
majority, and all except Selina prepared good-
humouredly to enjoy the amusement the others
preferred. But Selina fancied that every one
should yield to her. Loudly she expressed
her preference for “French and English,” and
argued upon the comparative merits of the
games with tiresome and provoking perti-
nacity.

“ Play at ‘ French and English’ by yourself,

then, and have done with it,” cried Florence
(403) 19
290 FINERY.

Seton, provoked that the amusement of the
rest should be delayed by her arguments.

“JT would if I could,” was her sullen an-
swer, as, with the worst grace possible, she took
her place in the circle of girls waiting till the
first seeker should be counted out.

Even after the game was fairly begun, her
companions were not rid of Selina’s complaints
and grumbling. Every time they met round
the den she renewed them, and had some
fresh reason to give for her preference of the
one game, some new expression to growl forth
of her dislike to the other, until they were all
fairly obliged to give up to her, and, for the
sake of peace and quietness, to let her have
her own way. Still she was no more agree-
able than before. Every minute some fresh
cause of complaint arose. Each time she was
taken at a disadvantage—she was sure some
unfairness was the cause. Each accidental
push was a serious injury, to be gravely re-
sented, Each accidental slip of her foot,
each catching of her dress on the bushes,
each slight scratch or blow, was a terrible mis-
fortune, to call for loud outcry and long-con-
tinued self-pity. No wonder that soon her
FINERY. 291

spirit of fault-finding, her discontent and ill-
humour, spread to others of the party, and
that the pleasure of the day was spoiled to
many.

Beatrice was the exact opposite of her cousin
in all these particulars. She was so accus-
tomed at home to give way to her brothers,
that it seemed the most natural thing in the
world that all should have their choice be-
fore her. Every pleasantness was so quickly
observed, and so heartily enjoyed; every dis-
agreeable so lightly thought of, so easily
passed over; and she was so constantly ready
to help every one in difficulty, to smooth
down or laugh away every ill temper, that all
agreed in Florence’s loudly pronounced sen-
tence, “That Beatrice was indeed the very
princess of playfellows.”

Weeks passed on, and the pleasant summer
weather had fairly set in, when one day great
excitement and many expressions of pleasure
were called forth by the arrival of a note from
Sir Colin Gordon, inviting the whole school to
spend a day with him at his country place,
about three miles off.

“Who is Sir Colin Gordon!” cried the lively
292 FINERY.

Florence, in answer to Sclina’s and Beatrice’s
questions. “He is the dearest old man in
the wide world! He invites us every summer
to spend a day with him. And we have
such charming rambles through his beautiful
woods, such enchanting games over his wide
parks, and such a beautiful feast on the lawn
afterwards ;—flowers that one would wish to
eat up, for their delicious perfume; and fruits
so beautiful and so exquisitely arranged, that
one is sorry to spoil them by eating them! Oh
that Thursday may be a fine day!”

A fine day, ay, a beautiful day it was;
and at an early hour arrived the two long
carts and the pony-carriage which Sir Colin
had sent for his visitors, that they might
not be fatigued by a long walk before the
regular pleasures of the day were begun. The
pony-carriage was for Mrs. Russel; and Sir
Colin, who had come to drive her himself, re-
quested that one of the young ladies would
also give him the pleasure of her company.

“One of the strangers I think it should
be,” said Mrs. Russel; “Selina, my dear,—
Beatrice; which shall it be 2?”

“ Not Beatrice!” cried several voices from one
FINERY. 293

cart; “she must go with us, to help to keep
the little ones in good humour.”

“Not Beatrice!” cried as many from the
other ; “ we want her here to amuse us.”

Selina looked mortified and angry at the
preference so openly given to her cousin’s
society over her own. But she comforted
herself with the recollection that a pony-car-
riage was a much more lady-like conveyance
than a cart. And Sir Colin’s bluntly expressed
admiration of her pretty face, and tasteful,
becoming dress, still further reconciled her to
her situation.

Of course the carriage outstripped the carts,
A good many visitors, both ladies and gentle-
men, were staying with Sir Colin, who petted
and admired Selina to her heart’s content,
while awaiting the arrival of the other little
guests,

“ Did you ever see such a lovely face?” and,
“What an elegant figure!—what grace in
every movement !—what taste in her dress!”
Selina heard, in too audible whispers ; and she
became more conceited, more affected than
ever.

The others came up in high spirits, full of
294 FINERY.

the past pleasures of their drive, ready for the
future pleasures provided for them. A com-
fortable dinner. had first to be disposed of ;
and then they separated into different bands,
to .amuse themselves as they best liked for
some hours, until the more elegant repast of
fruit should be ready for them.
All the different bands claimed Beatrice for
a companion. The little ones going to play
at hare and hounds in the woods, must have
her, to give life and spirit to their game. The
party going to seek ferns in the Fairy Glen
could not do without Beatrice, to help the
awkward over difficult places, to encourage
the timid, and to bring up the stragglers.
And still more earnestly was she invited to
join the band of more adventurous ones, who
proposed to reach the side of a distant hill
where a rare St. John’s wort was to be found.
“No one else can keep us in good humour
when we are getting tired,” they said. “No
one else is so merry,—no one knows so well
as Beatrice where the plant is likely to be!”
No such invitations were given to Selina.
True, she was at liberty to join any party she
chose; but, exalted by recent flattery, she
TFINERY. 295

was little inclined to give her company where
it was not specially asked for. So she re-
mained behind when all the other young ones
went away. She hoped to be again petted
and caressed by the ladies and gentlemen.
But in this she was disappointed, The elders
dispersed as well as the youngers. Some went
to watch the merry party at hare and hounds,
‘Others went with the fern-seekers, Others
had letters to write, or books to read in the
house. And from the two or three who did
remain sauntering about the lawn and shrub-
beries, Selina no longer received the attentions
which had so pleased her. To see her neglected
and overlooked by her companions, raised a
slight feeling of prejudice against her. The
little girl who had not one friend among so
many, could not be very amiable. And slight
although the prejudice might be, it was suffi-
cient to make them more quick to observe
her conceit and affectation. So when one had
taken her to see the poultry-yard, and a second
had kindly pointed out the way to the green-
house, they thought that they had done their
duty, and left her to amuse and occupy herself:

Sad and solitary she wandered about, until.
296 FINERY.

wearied of her own company and unable to
find any other, she sat down on a bench in a
retired part of the shrubberies, to indulge in
self-pity and in bitter complaints against her
companions. for her home took possession of her.

“There,” she thought, “I had some to love
me,—to seek my society ;” and she thought
the tears that rose to her eyes were signs of a
tender, affectionate disposition.

Her host found her as he returned to the
house to rest himself, after being hare to his
little visitors’ hounds.

“What! all alone, my little one?” he said
kindly, sitting down beside her. “How is
that? And in tears, too, my dear!” as he
caught a better view of her face. “ What has
happened to vex you?”

Selina tried to turn from him. But he
persisted, with a kindness she could not re-
sist.

“Nay, my dear, you must tell me what is
' wrong. JI am bound to right all my visitors.
Who or what has grieved you?”

“ They all left me,” she sobbed. “ They did
not ask me to go with them, as they did Bea-
FINERY. 297

trice. No one cares for me. I wish I were
at home, where some one loves me.”

He was silent for a minute or so. He was
quick-sighted, and had clearly read her char-
acter. It seemed cruel to reprove her now,
when she was in distress; and yet now
there was a likelihood that reproof might be
of use.

“Well, my dear,” he said, very kindly, “that
is sad indeed. But do you know, little
woman, I think that if I were to find that
all my companions agreed in liking my cousin
better than me, 1 should begin to be afraid
that the fault was mine, not theirs.”

“T don’t see what my fault can be,” she said,
sullenly.

“Shall I tell you where I think you may per-
haps have made a mistake at least?” he asked,
in his kind, pleasant way. “Perhaps I may
guess wrong;—but perhaps I may be right.
We all know that you have a very pretty face.
You know it, too, l think, Weall know that
a pretty face is a pleasant thing to look upon.
Perhaps, without knowing it, you may have
felt that the pleasantness of looking upon your
pretty face was quite as much pleasantness as
298 FINERY,

your companicns had a right to expect from
you;—while your cousin, having no such nat-
ural pleasantness to give them, tries to make
amends by being very kind, very good-hum-
oured and obliging.”

“T am sure,” she said, less sullenly, “I am
able to do all that Beatrice can do, And I
would do anything to make them like me.”

“ Only, the ‘anything’ you do must be done
in the same spirit in which Beatrice does it,”
he said, with a little smile.

He said no more, for he did not wish to
annoy his little guest; but he took her into
the house, and tried to amuse her with prints
and books until the others returned. She
went home that night with a strong resolution
to do what she could to make herself as much
liked as Beatrice.

A week or two after, the scarlet fever broke
out in the school. A large number of the girls
were taken ill about the same time, and almost
all the others were taken home by their friends.
The cousins had both had the fever; and as
there seemed less risk to them, in their re-
maining at school, than there might have been
of danger in their return home to the little
FINERY. 299

ones in their respective families, they were
obliged to remain. The classes were, of course,
all broken up. The masters ceased to attend.
The governesses and Mrs. Russel were occu-
pied with the sick ones. And so these two
who were well were left a good deal to their
own devices, to occupy themselves as they
could.

Beatrice had little difficulty in finding occu-
pation. Her services as a nurse were in con-
stant requisition. Those who were only a
little ill were eager to get her to read or to
talk to them ; and such as were unable to en-
joy her powers of entertainment thought her
the gentlest and quietest of attendants.

Selina’s presence was not asked for by any.
The office of sick-nurse is never very agreeable
to a selfish nature. So for some days she
wandered about the empty class-rooms and
over the grounds, listless and discontented.
The desire for some occupation and companion-
ship, and the praise bestowed on Beatrice, at
last recalled her former resolutions to mind.
She too should make herself of use. She too
should be thanked and praised, And full of
new hopes and wishes, she sought one of the
300 FINERY.

sick-rooms. Julia had been her first admirer,
—had always been more patient with her
than the others. To be Julia’s nurse would
be the most pleasant and natural.

In going to her room she looked into an-
other, and found three or four listening with
eager attention while Beatrice read aloud.

“Oh! is not she the best little creature in
the world?” cried one of the listeners to Se-
lina. “She reads as long as we like. I don’t
know what we should do without her.”

“JT can read aloud better than Beatrice
can,” thought Selina. “I shali go and read
to Julia and her companions.”

Now Julia and the two other patients in
her room were not so ill as many of the others.
They therefore enjoyed less attendance, and
were often left alone. Very pleasant might
have been to them a friend to sit beside them,
to give them drink when thirsty, to arrange
the bed-clothes which their restlessness dis-
turbed, or to supply any of the little wants
which sick people so often have. Buta reader
aloud was not at that moment required.
Julia’s head ached. One of her companions
wished .to go to sleep; and the other was
FINERY. 301

suffering from inflamed eyes, which made the
light unpleasant to her.

Going in briskly and noisily, Selina drew
up the blind to give herself light for her read-
ing, and in self-satisfied tones proclaimed her
kind intentions. Julia, unwilling to vex her,
turned her back to the bright sunlight, and
prepared to take the unwelcome kindness as
patiently as she could. But the others, with
the candour and pettedness of sickness, ex-
claimed and complained, until Selina, angry
at their ungracious reception of her goodness,
flounced out of the room, leaving the blind
drawn up, and the poor invalids unable to rise
and restore for themselves the pleasant dark-
ness she had disturbed.

Mortified and discontented, Selina went
down to the drawing-room, where, to her
surprise, she found Sir Colin Gordon. He
had come to inquire for his little friends, and
_ was waiting till Mrs. Russel could come down
to see him. He soon discovered that Selina
was vexed, and, with all his usual gentle kind-
ness, tried to draw from her the cause. She
was too angry with her companions, too well
convinced of the hardship of her own case, to
302 FINERY.

conceal it. She told him all with tears of
angry, mortified feeling.

“ Neither in hours of amusement nor of sick-
ness and suffering are you welcome,” he said,
seriously, but with that peculiar kindness
and compassion which softened even his most
severe words. “ Ah! little one, does it not seem
as if I were right? Is it not likely that the
fault lies with you in some way or other?”

“ But to-day indeed I did try to make them
like me,” she cried eagerly. “And I did the
very thing they like Beatrice to do.”

“ And in the spirit in which Beatrice does
it?” he asked.

“J don’t know, I am sure, what difference
there can be between her spirit and mine,’—
sullenly.

“Perhaps you did it that they might like
you. She does it that they may be happy.”

She seemed struck with his words, and
remained silent for a minute or so.

“Would that make so much difference ?”
she asked at length, in a softened tone.

“ All the difference, little one,” he answered.
“When they did not care for the service you
offered, you grew angry, because you were
FINERY. 303

- cheated out of that increased liking which
you expected your service to procure for you.
In similar circumstances, Beatrice would only
have turned cheerfully to seek some other and
better way of making them happy.”

Mrs, Russel’s entrance interrupted the con-
versation, but Selina thought much of what
had been said. And his words, coming, as
they did, after a long experience of the un-
happiness of being selfish and disagreeable,
made a deep impression, Often did they
recur to her mind. The desire to imitate
Beatrice gradually banished some of the self-
conceit and self-engrossment; and slowly,
but surely, Selina began to improve. The
next half year at school found her more
humble, more contented, and much better
liked.

“ Well, mamma,” said Lucy, as her mother
concluded, “I think it was silly enough in
Selina to expect that people should like her
better because she was pretty. But the Fanny
in Miss Taylor’s poem was more silly still—to
fancy that a pretty or smart dress could ever
make one liked !”

“ Oh, there is a pleasure in seeing a really
304 FLINERY.

pretty dress, as well as in seeing a pretty
face,” Mrs. Lindsay said, laughing. “But the
pleasure must be far less lasting, far less deep,
than that which we receive from the kindness,
good humour, and considerateness of a girl
like Beatrice.”

“T should think so, indeed,” quoth Harry.
“ Why, at hounds-and-hare, or at hide-and-
seek, who has time to look at pretty faces?
All one cares for is a girl who can run well,
can enjoy the game, and can take little troubles
without making a fuss.”




THE SNAIL.



“ CAROLINE says that this is my last chance of
hearing a story,” said Helen, coming into the
room with her mother on the following morn-
ing.

“Alas! yes,” sighed Harry. “We have
come to the very last picture. It is too sad !”

Slowly he untied the strings of the port-
folio, partly opened it, and peeped in; then
shut it again, and folded his hands over it.

“Come, Harry, make haste! Let us begin
at once, and have time for a good long story,’
cried Caroline, impatiently.

“No!” he answered, solemnly, “let us wait
a little. Let us think about it. When once
this story is fairly begun, we shall have nothing
more to look forward to !”

“Why, you foolish boy !” cried Lucy, laugh-
ing, “we shall have the middle and the end

(403) 20
306 THE SNAIL.

to look forward to!—pleasanter work, I should
think, than sitting there with folded hands and
a melancholy face.”

“We can’t look forward and listen at the
same time,” he said, with mock gravity. “ Let
us make the most of our last looking-forward
pleasure.”

“Only,” remarked Mrs. Lindsay, “it might
be as well not to make so much of it as to
lose your last listening pleasure. The more
time you waste now, the less you can have
for your story !”

This was an argument Harry could not re-
sist. He opened the portfolio at once, and
drew forth the picture.

“What is this?” Mrs. Lindsay asked, study-
ing it. ‘Here we have what looks very like
the door of a rabbit’s house, a little open, with
a snail crawling above it; pretty flowers and
leaves growing beside it; and a gentleman and
a boy admiring either it or them. What is
all this about, Harry?”

“Oh! mamma, can’t you guess? It is for
the poem of ‘The Snail.’ ”

“And what is that poem about? I do not
recollect it at all.”
THE SNAIL. 307

- “Oh! don’t you remember, mamma?” said
Caroline. “The little boy laughs at the snail’s
slowness, and his papa advises him not to
imitate him :—

‘Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the snail,
And do your own work rather faster.’ ”

“That was one of the poems Uncle Charles
gave me to learn,” remarked Harry.

“ And, indeed, I think both Uncle Charles
and Miss Taylor made a mistake there,” said
Caroline. “I don’t think boys require lessons
against slowness. Mamma, don’t you think
that boys are much more apt to go wrong
through over haste, rashness, and impatience,
than through too great slowness ?”

“JT know few boys, or girls either, Caroline,
who are too slow over their play,” Mrs. Lind-
say answered, smiling; “but I think I know
a certain little boy who wastes his time a good
deal when lessons are concerned; who takes
an hour or two to do what might be done in
quarter of an hour ; who—”

“Well, but mamma,” cried Harry, blushing
a little, “it is only my own loss. If I take
too long to my lessons, it is only that I have
a shorter time to play.”
308 THE SNAIL.

“Oh! you also know that little boy, do
you?” Mrs. Lindsay said, laughing.

“ But, mamma,” cried Lucy, “there is a great
deal in what Harry says. He gets his lessons
learned in the end; and if he shortens his
playing time by learning them too slowly, that
is only his business.”

“Ts it. nob mamma’s and papa’s business to
see that Harry does not teach himself slow,
dawdling habits of working?” asked Helen.

“Ah! I suppose it is,” Lucy admitted. “I
suppose it is their duty to see that we do not
get into the habit of wasting anything, neither
time nor anything else.”

“There is another view of the evil of béing
too slow over our work,” Mrs. Lindsay said,
more gravely. “It is God who portions out
for us our time, as it is he who portions out
our other talents; and he will require from
us an account of the use we have made of
every portion he has given us!”

The children looked grave. Mrs. Lindsay
continued :

“God gives us in our youth a good learning -
time. If we do not choose to make the most
of it, we have no right to expect that he will
THE SNAIL. 309

continue it to us, or that he will, in after life,
allow us time to make up the amount of learn-
ing we might, by diligence, have gained in our
youth, Harry has good time just now to
learn all he wishes to know; but he does not
know how long that may last. Even this
day his circumstances may change, and he may
be forced to lay aside these lesson-books, out
of which he might ere this have got much
more learning than he has.”

“Tike papa’s friend, Mr. Scott,” said Helen,

“who trifled away his time while at school
and at college, always meaning to work hard
afterwards. And his father failed while Mr.
Scott was still young. He was forced to leave
college, and to seek some way of earning his
bread. And because his education was so im-
perfect, he could only fill a humble position,
and never afterwards had time to carry on his
studies any further, but was always what
papa calls ‘That miserable creature, a_half-
educated gentleman.’ ”
_ This touched Harry in a tender point; for
. he was very ambitious of being a learned and
thoroughly accomplished gentleman. He looked
serious about the matter.
310 THE SNAIL.

“Only, you know, mamma,” he said, bright-
“ening up after a few minutes’ thought, “I
really do every day get through with all that
papa gives me to do. My education is not
kept back by my slowness. It is only that
every day’s lesson takes longer to be learned
than it need do.”

“But Harry, my dear boy, don’t you see
that the time of every day is portioned out
by God quite as much as the time of our
lives?” Mrs. Lindsay answered, earnestly.
“Tf you take two hours to learn a lesson in
grammar which you could have learned in
one hour, it may very well happen that in
the second hour God may bring in your way
some advantage to yourself to be gained,
some kind action to be done, or some good to
be wrought for others, which you may be
obliged to let pass you, because your first hour
had not been made the most of.”

“Oh, mamma!” cried Helen, “do you re-
collect the story about Frank and Edward?—
that would answer capitally for to-day’s poem.”

“T can try, Helen; and I daresay that your
memory may be able to help mine, should it
fail.”
THE SNAIL. 311

THE QUICK BOY AND THE SLOW BOY.

Frank and Edward were twin brothers.
They had never been separated for even a
day, and were most tenderly attached to each
other; but they were very different both in
person and in character.

' Edward was what ladies call a pretty boy.
He had regular features, large blue eyes, fair
curly hair, and a sweet small mouth,—too
small, indeed, for manly beauty.

Frank was dark, his features were strongly
marked, and not particularly good. He might
have been called plain, had it not been for his
quick, sparkling, brown eyes, and the bright
look of intelligence which lighted up his
whole face.

In temper Frank was hasty, but generous.
He was warm-hearted, active, and energetic;
ever giving his whole mind to the work of
the moment, and getting through with it as
quickly and as well as possible.

Edward’s temper was much more gentle
than Frank’s. He too was affectionate, and
as kind-hearted as a boy could be. His great
‘fault was indolence. He was not exactly idle;
312 THE SNAIL,

for he was willing enough to do all that was
required of him in lessons or work. He only
asked to be allowed to take his own time to
it. The pity was, that his time was wofully
disproportioned to the amount of work ac-
complished.

During the first years of their education, it
was carried on in a way which rather en-
couraged, or at least did not check, Edward’s
slow, dawdling habits. There was no good
school in the neighbourhood of their father’s
house, so the boys had a tutor to teach them.
He came to them for so many hours in the
day; and as their father and mother had no
leisure to look after the preparation of their
lessons, their tutor got into the way of mak-
ing them prepare them with him. They both
worked on without interruption during the
hours he could give them each day; and
therefore, of course, the amount of work done
depended upon the quickness or slowness of
the worker. Under this system Edward was
never made to feel the evils of his slowness.
His lessons lasted always the same length of
time. His play hours were not shortened,
and he suffered no inconvenience on account
THE SNAIL. 313

of his indolence. Now and then the exhorta-
tions of his parents and of his tutor caused
him to feel a little ashamed, a little anxious
to keep pace with Frank. But neither shame
nor desire was strong enough to enable him
to get the better of his slow habits; and as
Frank, month by month, and year by year,
got further ahead of him, so the hope of over-
taking him grew month by month more faint,
and this inducement to exertion was soon
totally lost.

When the boys were about thirteen, a change
came over their mode of life. Their elder sis-
ter was threatened with consumption, and was
ordered to spend the winter in a warmer cli-
mate. Their father and mother went with
her, but could not take their other children.
The elder boys were sent to school; an aunt
came to take charge of the nursery party; and
an uncle, who had no children of his own,
offered to take the twins to his home.

He and his wife were very kind people,
and fond of children. They received their
nephews most affectionately, and the little
fellows soon found themselves quite happy
with them, Their uncle undertook to teach
314 THE SNAIL.

them their lessons. But he was a very active
man, at the head of many schemes for the
good of his neighbours, and his time was fully
occupied. He could only give the boys an
hour every morning, when he expected and
required that their lessons should be perfectly
ready for him. He gave them a good deal of
work to do by themselves, in written transla-
tions, compositions, sums, and so on; and he
inspected and corrected this work at his
leisure moments, after they were in bed. He
carefully proportioned their lessons to their
respective abilities and previous progress. But
he was a strict as well as a kind master, and
both boys were soon made to feel that no
negligence would be allowed.

He was anxious that they should have full
time for out-of-doors exercise and amusement.
And Frank, working as busily and expediti-
ously as his uncle meant he should, had many
hours every day at his own disposal; but
Edward, left to himself, wasted time more
than ever, and was kept in the study for the
greater part of the day.

Edward was thus made to suffer from his
own laziness; and kind as his uncle and aunt
THE SNAIL, 315

were, they did not try to lessen the pain.
They were, on the contrary, glad when they
could so contrive as that his slowness should
bring its own punishment, and increased dili-
gence should produce its own reward.

The boys found a beautiful garden at their
new home. The gardener, a good, pleasant-
tempered man, was very kind to them. They
speedily became excellent friends with him,
and delighted to follow him about, to watch
him at work, and to give him what help they
could,

“You boys ought to have a garden of your
own. I advise you to ask your uncle to give
you a piece of ground, and I can teach you
what to do with it; and perhaps, if you get
the ground soon ready, I may be able to give
you some bushes and plants,” he said to them
one day.

They caught eagerly at the hint, and at
. once sought their uncle, to make the request.
He readily agreed, and went that very after-
noon to the nearest town to get a spade, hoe,
rake, and wheel-barrow for each. He and the
gardener chose a piece of waste ground at the
back of the garden, and marked it off for
316 THE SNAIL,

them into two equal parts ; and the boys were
put in possession before going to bed that
night.

“T have only one condition to make,” said
their uncle; “and that is, that each takes the
entire charge of his own garden. Neither is
to help the other.”

“ But, uncle,” they said, “it is so pleasant
to help each other.”

“So it is, and right too; but in this one
case I do not wish you to do so. I want to
see how each can get on by himself. I want
each to feel that the welfare of his garden
depends entirely upon his own exertions.”

The next day the boys were eager to get
their lessons soon done, that they might get
out to their gardens. Frank went on briskly
and busily as usual, giving his whole mind to
his work, finishing lesson after lesson, and
turning to a new one without a moment’s
waste of time.

Edward, too, had resolved to be very dili-
gent. And perhaps his movements through
the room seeking his books were not quite so
slow as usual; perhaps not quite so often had
he to return to the same place to seek the
THE SNAIL. 317

different books, or other things which might
all have been carried in one journey; and |
perhaps a fraction less of time than usual was
wasted in looking out of the window every
time he passed it. But the improvement was
not striking. Very little more quickly were
the pages of his dictionary turned over; very
little more resolutely did he fix his thoughts
upon the word he sought; and very little
more readily was it found. Nearly as often
as ever did his eyes wander round the room
instead of fastening themselves upon his book;
nearly as often as ever did his pen aimlessly
pass the ink-bottle, while he watched a spider
or a fly on the window, or a man, beast, or
bird pass outside; nearly as often was the
dreamy question repeated, “ Nine times four !
what is nine times four?’ and nearly as dif-
ficult was it to find the answer. And so it
was, when Frank had finished his last lesson,
_and carried his books to the book-case, Ed-
ward’s pile of books still to study looked
nearly as high as when he had begun.

“Frank would gladly have stayed to help
his brother, but it was against the rules to do
so. Their uncle did not choose that Frank
318 THE SNAIL.

should loge his amusement or wholesome exer-
cise because of Edward’s dilatoriness; so Frank
must as usual go out alone: and, working as
heartily as he had before studied, nearly the
whole of his ground had got its first rough
digging over, before Edward crept out to join
him,

“ How fast you get on!” sighed Edward.
“Where are the tools?”

“In the tool-house,’ answered Frank,
throwing up one good, honest spadeful, and
preparing for another vigorous thrust of foot
and hand. “Make haste, old fellow, and be-
gin. But stay, Pll fetch your spade,” as he
observed how slowly Edward turned to seek it.

“No,” said Edward, “that is against the
rules. You are not to help me, I am not to
help you!” and, with another long sigh, he
sauntered off to the tool-house.

Frank had begun his last row of digging
before Edward came back. The spade was
carefully propped up against the wall, while
the jacket was slowly taken off.

“Tut, man! don’t be so particular. Make
haste, or you won’t even have a beginning
made,” cried Frank.
THE SNAIL. 319

But Edward could not be hurried, and by
the time he was ready, and had decided at
which end to begin, Frank’s last spadeful was
thrown out. Once, twice, had Edward’s spade
slowly gone down, and been slowly raised,
when the bell rung to summon them to dinner,
and they were forced to leave their work.

After their early dinner, their aunt was in
the habit of taking a walk with them, ‘and
knew so well how to make it pleasant, that
even the novelty of their gardens could not
induce them to forego this pleasure. Edward,
indeed, did hesitate, as he recollected how
little he had got done. But when he under-
stood that Frank, by the gardener’s advice,
meant to allow his newly-turned over ground
to lie for a night as it was, he could not make
up his mind to go by himself to the work.
Before they returned from their walk, the
early twilight of October had set in, and there

. was no light to dig by.
And so it was continually. Edward now
and then, for a day or two, made a violent
‘effort, and secured a little time for his garden;
but in general old habits were too strong for
him, and on most days, the short day-light
320 THE SNAIL.

was nearly gone before he could set to
work. ;

_ He appealed to his uncle, and begged that
his lessons might be shortened. His uncle
told him that the first day he could conscien-
tiously say that he had worked as steadily
and heartily as Frank, and that yet he was
later than Frank of getting through, his les-
sons should be shortened. Edward was a
perfectly truthful boy, and could never, upon
any one day, feel that he had earned the
wished-for shortening.

Frank’s ground was all finely dressed. The
gardener had given him four or five young
gooseberry bushes, as many currant bushes, a
few rose-trees, a fine young apple-tree to plant
in the middle of the garden, and as many
strawberry plants as made a neat small bed.
His walks were marked out, beaten down,
and covered with gravel; and he had even
erected a pretty rural paling round the gar.
den, before Edward had got his ground all
dug up. By the time his garden was ready
for bush and shrub, the frost and snow of
winter had set in. It was too late to trans-
plant anything that year; and, besides, the
THE SNAIL 32h

gardener had already disposed of all the young
bushes or trees which he might have given to
Edward.

The brothers were too tenderly attached
to allow of Edward envying Frank ; but cer-
tainly many a pang it cost him to contrast
the two plots of ground, as they lay side by
side ;—the one so neat, orderly, and well filled;
the other so rough and barren.

“ And all because you move so slowly, and
waste so much time, while Frank is always
earnest and busy. Why can’t you make your
hands and feet move a little faster? Why
can’t you carry your mind with your body?”
said his aunt one day, as they stood looking
at the two gardens.

One fine morning in December, when the
two boys were hard at work, a carriage passed
the window.

“Who is that?” cried Edward, rising and
going to the window to try if he could see
“yound the corner of the house to the front
door.

, Frank, too, had looked up as it passed; but,
anxious to be early free on this fine morning,

he had looked down again to his book, and
(403) 9a]
322 THE SNAIL.

was getting on quickly with his last lesson,
while Edward stood at the window wondering
and asking questions, which no one present
could answer.

He had yawned and stretched himself half a
dozen times, and was going slowly back to his
books, Frank had written the last word in
his translation when the door opened, and their
aunt came in.

“T hope lessons are over, boys,” she said,
smiling. “Mr. Bell has come in his carriage
to offer to take you with him to Glendale, to
see the curious new manufactory which you
so much want to see. He is to dine at Wood-
ville on the way home, and says you may go
there with him. There are to be splendid
fireworks in the evening at Woodville, in
honour of the eldest son’s birthday; and as
you have never seen fireworks, I think you
will be delighted.”

Frank was quite ready. But, alas! poor
Edward! Full half of his lessons were still
to learn. His aunt was very sorry for him,
and wished much to allow him to go; but
his uncle was away from home, and she did
not think it right to break through his rules
THE SNAIL. 323

in his absence. So Edward saw Frank drive
off in Mr. Bell’s carriage, while he was forced
to sit for an hour or two longer over maps,
sums, and translations. His aunt did all she
could to make his time pass pleasantly after
he was free ; but she could not prevent him
from casting many a longing thought after
Frank enjoying the beautiful drive, the sight
of the new and interesting manufactory, and
the fine fireworks. Certainly Edward was now
beginning to taste the evils of being too slow.

Edward was, however, such an amiable,
kind little fellow, that to be deprived of plea-
sure was not to him so severe a trial as to be
deprived of an opportunity of giving pleasure
and doing good to others. He could have
been content that Frank should have had all

* the delightful excursions, and the most perfect

garden, if only he, Edward, might have had
his share in helping their uncle and aunt.

_But even this was often denied him. Often

their aunt had little services to ask from her
nephews, pleasant little pieces of work to
commit to them, which all fell to Frank’s lot,
because he was ready for them, and Edward
was not.
324 THE SNAIL.

“Ah, my dear boy,” his uncle used to say,
“he who is slow at his own work cannot hope
to get through much work for others.”

And Edward was often made to feel bitterly
the truth of his words.

One day their aunt found that a very import-
ant letter had been accidentally left out of the
post-bag, when it was sent away in the morn-
ing. It was of the utmost importance, both
. to herself and to her correspondent, that it
should go by that day’s post. But it so hap-
pened that she had no one she could very well
send to the town in time. She went to the
library to see if either of the boys were free.
Frank had so nearly finished his lessons, that
by the time a pony had been got ready for
him he was ready for it. He had a charming
ride, and the additional pleasure of feeling
that he had rendered his aunt an important
service.

On another occasion Frank’s quickness and
readiness were of great use to his kind friend
the gardener. William had been grinding his
tools, when the grind-stone, which was a new
one, burst. A large fragment struck him on
the forehead, and inflicted a terrible wound.
whee

THE SNATL. 325

He was alone, and, stunned and giddy, could
not help himself. Frank, running through
the garden a few minutes afterwards, found
him half sitting, half lying on the ground,
sick and faint, with the blood flowing fast from
the cut. The gardener was able to tell what
had happened, and to ask Frank to seek assist-
ance for him, as he could not walk.

Frank ran home at once, without waiting
to ask useless questions, as some boys might
have done, And finding that the coachman
was away from home, and that the butler
would be required to help William to reach
his own house, Frank offered to ride to town
to seek the doctor. His aunt eagerly took
his suggestion. Frank bridled and saddled
his pony himself, and without one moment's
unnecessary delay, set off at full speed.

He found the doctor at home. But his
gig was at the door. He was ready to set

-off on a long round of distant visits. Had

Frank wasted five minutes, he must have been
too late !

An old gentleman was with the doctor
when Frank was shown in, and he listened
with approbation to Frank’s clear, exact de-
326 THE SNAIL

livery of his message, and answers to the
questions he was asked. The doctor wished
to know the exact place and probable size of
the wound, how long it was since the accident.
had happened, and how far the man was sen-
sible; and Frank gave distinct, prompt an-
swers to all. The doctor went to seek some
things to take with him, and Frank and the
old gentleman were left alone for a few min-
utes,

Mr. Hutchison, for that was the gentleman’s
name, took a warm interest in young people,
more particularly in young boys. He entered
into conversation with Frank, and was more
and more pleased with his intelligence, his
readiness, and modesty. He asked Frank if
he knew why grind-stones were liable to fly;
and Frank modestly and clearly gave the rea-
son, as his uncle had given it to him. Mr.
Hutchison asked Frank if he knew how to
sharpen his tools for himself; and Frank, by
the help of a paper knife, showed that he per-
fectly understood the proper angle at which
to hold them to the stone. The next question
was, had he ever used carpenters’ tools? He
had used the chisel, plane, and screw-driver,
THE SNAIL. 327

he said, and now and then the centre-bit; but,
he added modestly, he did not understand
exactly the use of the centre-bit. He had
only amused himself with it by boring useless
holes in waste pieces of wood. Mr. Hutchison
asked if he had ever seen or used a turning-
lathe ; Frank never had, but should like much
to know how to work it.

“Well,” said his new friend, “I have an
excellent one at home, which I got for my
sons when they were lads. I shall get it put
into proper working order, and if you like to
come over to my house any day after to-
morrow, I shall teach you how to use it. I
’ live only about a mile from your uncle’s, and
you can come over as often as you like and
see my lathe. I have some nice pieces of
foreign wood. If you take pains, you may
make pretty boxes and such things for your
mother and sisters.

Frank joyfully thanked him, and asked
leave to bring his brother with him.

“Oh! as many brothers as you like!” said
Mr. Hutchison, good-humouredly. ‘“ But there
is our good friend the doctor; you go with him,
do you not?”
328. THE SNAIL.

Yes, Frank was impatient to know the ex-
tent of William’s danger. He rode by the
side of the doctor's gig.

The people at home were much relieved by
the doctor’s speedy arrival. He examined the
cut. It was a very severe one, he said; and
he told Frank that if he had not come imme-
diately for him, that if the cut had not been
at once attended to, the consequences might
have been very serious.

“William,” he said, “may be very thankful
that he found so prompt and good a messenger.”

“Frank is always quick and ready,” said
his aunt, kindly.

And William’s wife overwhelmed Frank
with thanks and praises.

Edward was glad enough to hear of the plea-
sure awaiting them in the use of Mr. Hutchi-
son’s lathe; and both boys indulged in splendid
dreams cf the beautiful things they should
make. But poor Edward got little beyond
dreams. Except on Saturdays, he never found
time to go to Mr. Hutchison’s. On other days,
it was so late before his lessons were finished,
that he himself always forced Frank to go
without him.
THE SNAIL, 329

“You must be back before three,” he would
say; “and if you wait longer for me it won't
be worth while to goat all. It does me no good,
but only harm, that you should lose the plea-
sure as well as myself.”

So day after day Frank went alone, and
had become a most expert turner before Ed-
ward had begun to learn how to use the lathe.
On Saturdays there was generally some scheme
of pleasure with their uncle and aunt. Only
once or twice before Christmas could Edward
give a day to the new employment; and so,
when Frank had a whole pile of pretty little
boxes for Christmas presents to the people at
home, Edward had only got the lid of one
finished !

But another severe punishment awaited Ed-
ward’s slowness, by means of their kind friend
Mr. Hutchison. The old gentleman had al-
ways a large band of nephews, grand-nephews,
and grand-sons, to spend the Christmas holi-
days with him. There were nieces and grand-
daughters too; but I mention the others first,
because they were of most importance to our
friends the twins. Mr. Hutchison’s birth-day
occurred in the Christmas week; and he was
330 THE SNAIL.

in the habit of celebrating it by giving a large
party, composed of all the young people for
miles round. They spent the whole day with
him. He took care to provide everything
they could require to make the time pass
pleasantly; and it was his pride to invent a
perfectly new amusement for each year.

The one he chose for this year was rather a
strange one. I have said that he was greatly
interested in everything connected with young
lads,—more particularly interested in their
improvement in their studies and progress in
knowledge of all kinds. He wished to test
the industry and advancement of his young
friends; and having provided himself with
very handsome prizes, he proposed to them
to submit, on his birth-day, to an examination
in all the different branches of study, promis-
ing to give a prize to every one who deserved
it. The idea was novel, at least; and the
beauty of the desks, pocket-books, knives,
pencil-cases, and so on, tempted them all to
agree to what they might otherwise have
thought rather too like a premature return to
school and its troubles. The preliminaries
were arranged; the parents of the children in-
THE SNAIL. 331

vited to be present; and at the appointed
hour, with some excitement, the young people
took their places in different classes, according
to the length of time they had been learning
the different branches in which they were to
be examined.

Mr. Hutchison was examiner. He was well
fitted for the task. He had conducted the
entire education of his own sons, until they
went to college. They had all done credit to
his instructions, distinguished themselves less
or more at the university, and were now orna-
ments to the several professions they had
chosen. Both by knowledge and experience
Mr. Hutchison was very able to act the part
of examiner. He invited some of the gentle-
men to sit as judges; and the examination
began, and was carried on with great spirit.

Until the boys came to be divided into
classes, it had not occurred to either of the
twins that such an examination must make
manifest poor Edward’s great backwardness.
When they found themselves put into the
same class, they looked at each other in dis-
may. Frank tried to persuade Mr, Hutchison
to give Edward some advantage over himself
332 THE SNAIL.

in the easiness of the questions he asked him ;
but as he did not like to state plainly that his
brother was far behind him in all kinds of
knowledge, and as he was obliged to admit
that they had begun at the same time, and had
enjoyed the same advantages, Mr. Hutchison
could see no good reason for attending to his
request, and justice required him to be per-
fectly impartial.

When their class came to be examined,
Frank was found to be as far before his com-
petitors as Edward was behind them. The
system of education which had allowed the
one to fall so far back had allowed the other
to press on as fast as he liked. Frank study-
ing alone for a certain number of hours every
day, had never been checked in the progress
his talents and industry rendered natural to
him ; while even the cleverest of those who
were now his class-fellows had been in some
measure kept back by the slowness of the
idlers or dunces in the classes of the public
school to which they had belonged. Frank
was praised by all, and the highest prize in
his class awarded to him without a dissen-
tient voice. It was a very handsome rose-
THE SNAIL. 333

wood writing-desk, beautifully fitted up, and
fully furnished. But the pleasure of receiving
it, and looking over all its beauties and con-
veniences, was completely spoiled for the time
by his sympathy in Edward’s mortification.

Poor Edward was most thoroughly morti-
fied. Not one question had he been able
to answer correctly. He ought, indeed, to
have been placed at least two, if not three,
classes below his brother and his companions:
He had not a chance of succeeding, for he
had hardly begun many of the studies in
which they had made considerable progress ;
and as Latin, mathematics, and such more
advanced branches, had been taken first, his
utter failure in them had so stupified and
vexed him, that he could not collect his
thoughts sufficiently to answer even the more
easy questions in English grammar, geography,
and history.

He saw looks of surprise on every face; he
heard words of condemnation on every side ;
and when he looked towards his good uncle
and aunt, their glances of pity and tender con-
cern completely overcame him,—he was glad to
slip out of the room and find some quiet place
334 THE SNAIL,

where he could indulge himself in a fit of
hearty, perhaps not very manly crying.

The rest of the day’s pleasures were lost
upon him. He fancied that every one was
looking at him, and speaking of him as “ that
extraordinarily stupid boy, who could not
answer a question.” And although Mr. Hut-
chison, out of consideration for his favourite
Frank, did his best to check any allusions to
Edward’s failure, yet even in the remarks
made on the success of others, in the showing
of their prizes to each other, and in the talk-
ing over, as boys will do, the reasons why
they failed here or succeeded there, Edward
was constantly reminded of his own disgrace,
constantly made glad to creep out of the circle
of young people, and take refuge with his kind,
sympathizing aunt. The lesson was not lost
upon him. He was at least made more anxious
to learn, and that was one great step in the
way of his gaining quicker and more indus-
trious habits of working. His uncle repre-
sented to him that he could not know how
long his learning time might last ; and in the
mortification he that day endured he saw a
picture of what he might have to bear all


THE SNAIL, 335

through life, were any accident to call him
early from his studies.

But about the same time Edward suffered
another severe wound, and that to the best part
of his nature, his kindness of heart. He and
Frank were with their aunt out walking one
day in the beginning of January, when they
came up with a little girl, standing leaning
upon the gate of a grass field, intently watch-
ing the gambols of a large dog at play with a
ball, which his mistress had evidently brought
for his peculiar pleasure. He wasa very hand-
some dog, of a cross between a Newfoundland
and a shepherd’s dog. He was jet black, with
four white paws, a white spot on his breast,
brown eye-brows, and a little shading of the
same brown towards the point of his nose.
His hair was longer, finer, and less curly than
a Newfoundland’s,—the tendency to curl in
his case being only strong enough to make
the hair fall in graceful lines down each side,
and to add beauty to his very handsome tail.
He was as tall as most Newfoundland dogs
are, but of a lighter, more active figure. His
nose was longer than theirs; his ears finer and
more pointed; his forehead not quite so broad,
336 THE SNAIL.

although broader than a common shepherd’s
dog. He had a good, honest expression of
face, with large brown eyes, speaking of good
temper, gentleness, sense, warm affection, and
everything that can make either man or dog
lovable.

The boys were delighted with him, and
stood still to watch him at the game he
seemed to enjoy with his whole heart. Now
he rolled the ball about with his feet, pushing
it always to the top of a little slope, where
it could get faster away from him. Again he
would toss it up in the air, and jump off all
his four legs to caich it. And ever and anon
he would carry it to the rougher parts of the
field; hide it among the long grass, tearing up
some with his teeth to cover it; go about and
about, pretending to seek it earnestly; find it,
and pounce upon it with an affectation of sur-
prise and delight. After this last feat, he
invariably carried the ball to his little mis-
tress, to be patted and praised by her, and
to have her throw it back into the field for
him.

While the boys were watching the dog,
their aunt was observing the little girl. She
THE SNAIL, 337

was poorly though neatly dressed. In spite
of the cold she wore no bonnet ; and her black
printed frock, with its small cape, seemed ill
fitted to keep out the keen, frosty wind. It
seemed strange so poor a child should possess
such a handsome dog.

It was not that circumstance, however,
which most excited the lady’s interest and curi-
osity; it was the peculiar expression of melan-
choly tenderness with which the child watched
her favourite at play. Whenever he brought
back the ball to her, she threw it away for
him ; but she evidently did so only for his
amusement, not at all for her own. She
smiled now and then at the gambols which
made the twins laugh and applaud; but the
smile was sad, was always succeeded by a
deep sigh, and once or twice the small hand
stole quietly up to her cheek, as if to wipe away
a tear.

“You seem very fond of your dog, my dear,”
the lady said.

The child started.. She had seen and had
spoken to the boys, who stood beside her; but
so intently had she been watching her dog, that

she had not seen their aunt, who stood a little
(403) 22
338 THE SNAIL,

behind, She turned round, and dropped a
courtesy.

“ Oh, very, very fond!” she answered, with
a kind of sad earnestness.

“ Have you had him long, then?” asked
Frank.

“Not very long. He is not old yet.
Father got him when he was a puppy,—quite
a little creature. Father was so fond of him!
he was so fond of father!” Here the lip
quivered, and she turned away to hide her
ears.

From her black dress, and the pathos in her
voice as she mentioned her father, the boys
and their aunt guessed that he was dead.
They were sorry that they had asked any
questions. But the little girl quickly wiped
away her tears. She seemed to like to speak
of her dog to such kind, sympathizing listeners.
" ©Sholto would never leave father night or
day if he could help it,” she said. “When
father took him with him to his work, he'd
lie on his coat watching his dinner all day
long, and never stir, for all so full of fun as
he is. And when father came home at night,
Sholto would come bounding on before him,
THE SNAIL, 339

and dash into the house with his glad bark,
to tell us father was coming, and then was
back to dance round him. And if father had
left him at home, he’d sit and watch for him
at the right time,—so much sense as he had;
and see him long before we did, and dart off
like the wind to meet him; and put his great
white paws on his shoulder, and kiss him so
loving-like, and dance round and round him,
with his dear, happy bark,—not a loud bark,
ma’am, but such a gentle, happy one. But”
(with a sudden burst of tears) “there is no need
to watch now ;” and she covered her face with
one hand, and sobbed aloud.

The dog had come up to the gate, had
cleared it at one splendid leap, and had sta-
tioned himself by the side of his little mistress.
He looked gravely round, as if questioning
whether the strangers had done anything to
vex her; and then, as if re-assured by their
kind looks, quietly thrust his nose into the
little girl’s hand, as it hung by her side. The
familiar touch seemed to increase her grief.
She knelt down on the ground, put her arms
round his neck, and, hiding her face in his
long hair, sobbed aloud,
340 THE SNAID.

“No! no one to watch for now, Sholto '—
no one to go to meet now !”

The boys and their aunt were much moved
by her sorrow, and each said a word or two of
kindness and pity. Again the desire to speak
her favourite’s praises seemed to help her to
compose herself. She looked up again through
her tears, and said, as well as her sobs would
permit,—

“And when father lay ill, Sholto would
never leave him. Day and night he lay in a
corner where he could see into the bed; and
when father was worse, and groaning with
the pain, if you had looked at Sholto you
would have seen that he was not sleeping,
but lying with his nose between his paws,
and his dear good eyes fixed on father with
such a pitiful look. And if father called him,
and held out his hand, he’d lick it so gently,
—so gently,” (sobbing again.) “ And to think,
after all, that we must part with him !’—and,
completely overcome, she again buried her
face upon his shoulder.

“Part with him!” cried the boys. Their
first thought was a selfish one. They knew
that their father wished to get a large dog,
THE SNAIL, 241

and they thought Sholto would be such a trea-
sure to themselves. But the little girl’s heavy
sobs brought back their thoughts to her sorrow.

“ Oh, surely you can never part with him !”
Frank said.

“We must,” she answered, with a kind of
sorrowful firmness, “Father was long ill.
Mother could not work much while nursing
him ; and we are all so little. We did well
enough in summer; but now things are dear,
and there are coals to be got. And mother
got into debt for—for the funeral; and she
has promised to pay it on Candlemas day.
It is thirty shillings, and we have not got
one; and mother says she must let Sholto
go to the gamekeeper, who has promised to
give us thirty shillings for him. But oh!”
(crying again,) “ to part with him, when father
loved him so much! It is that that breaks
mother’s heart, and all our hearts. And to
think that maybe they won't be kind to
him! And he never had a hard word spoken
to him, and never felt the weight of a blow
in his life! Oh! darling Sholto, if they are
cruel to you— ;”
yond all control.

and her grief again burst be-
342 THE SNAIL.

The boys eagerly assured her that no one
could be cruel to such a dear dog. And in
her love and admiration she seemed firmly to
believe them.

“ Any way,” she said, rising and drying
her eyes, “it ill sets me to keep you standing
here in the cold. And mother will be ex-
pecting us home, Sholto.” And lifting a basket
which had lain at her feet, with a low courtesy
she turned away. The boys’ aunt asked her
name, and where she lived, and then they
parted.

The boys were naturally much occupied
about the girl and her beautiful dog, and eager
to tell their uncle, and to ask him if he could
not help the widow to keep her Sholto.

“Tt is so sad to part with the good, faithful
dog, that her dead husband loved so dearly,”
pleaded Edward. “Are not you sorry for
them, uncle?”

“So sorry that I would gladly lend her
the thirty shillings if I could,” he answered.
“T know her well. She is a clever, industri-
ous woman, and will get on excellently when
she once gets free of debt. But really, my
dear boys, I have not the money at this time
THE SNAIL 843

to give her. But stay a moment,’—as a
bright thought struck him, “I had set aside
thirty shillings to pay a young man for put-
ting in order and docketting a large number
of old papers and accounts. He has got
another engagement and cannot do it. Sup-
pose you boys take the business in hand, and
earn the thirty shillings!”

Their eyes sparkled with pleasure; they
eagerly expressed their willingness; and their
uncle at once showed them what they had to
do, and how to set about it.

“You must work busily,” he said, “to get
through before Candlemas. You can only
have a short working time every day. You
are not boys who can safely trifle with your
health. The regular long walk with your
aunt has done you so much good that we can-
not allow you to give it up; and for this
month JI cannot allow you to come into my
room after tea, as I have engaged to give
lessons in mathematics to a young lad who
cannot pay for instruction. Between lessons
and dinner is the only time you can count
upon, unless you can save a little time before
breakfast.”
344 THE SNAIL,

Frank knew he could always count upon
at least an hour before dinner; but poor slow
Edward could not be sure of half that time.
They therefore divided the work into two por-
tions, Frank’s being twice as large as Edward’s.

Frank, with all his industry, had enough
to do to get his own task finished. By be-
ing very earnest, and never wasting a moment
of time, he did get through with it before the
evening of the first of February, and received
the twenty shillings he had earned. But he
could not give Edward any assistance; and
Edward’s task was not a quarter done! True,
he had at last taught himself to get through
his lessons a little more quickly; but he was
still lamentably slow. Every now and then
his old habits got the better of him, and a
day or two would pass without his having a
single minute for work between lessons and
dinner. And even when he had secured a
good deal of time, his slow, dilatory ways,
interfered with his progress in work as in
lessons. He wasted so much time seeking
his papers, settling himself in his chair, and
so on, that the dinner-bell would ring before
he had done anything worth speaking of.
THE SNAIL, 345

Bitter was his disappointment on that even-
ing of the first of February. He and Frank
had ascertained that the widow’s creditor
would not agree to take part payment. His
uncle made no offer of advancing Edward’s
ten shillings, and both he and Frank went
sorrowfully to bed, feeling that Sholto’s fate
was sealed.

Edward passed a wretched night. Waking
and sleeping, Sholto’s good honest face was
before him; and his loving eyes, with what
his mistress called his pitiful look, met him
at every turn of his dreams, in the most un-
likely and heart-rending situations,

Edward rose in the morning languid and
sad. As he dressed, his eye fell upon the
watch his father and mother had given him
before he left home. A bright thought struck
him. He seized it and carried it to his uncle.

“Uncle,” he cried, breathlessly, “will you
take my watch in pledge, and give me the
ten shillings to-day; and keep my watch until
J have earned them fairly?

His uncle looked much pleased.

“You are a good, kind boy, Edward,” he
said heartily. “I did not, at anyrate, intend
246 THE SNAIL.

to allow Sholto to be sold because you had
been rather lazy. But I shall keep the watch,
if you please, until you have earned the ten
shillings; and perhaps the lose of it for a time
may serve to remind you to work harder.”

“ Yes, uncle,” replied Edward. “And Frank
has devised a clever plan for me to cure my-
self I am going to keep a piece of paper
and a pencil beside me, and every time I
dawdle over a lesson I am to give myself a
bad mark; and for every bad mark I have
made little punishments for myself—I am
not to work in my garden, not to read my
new book, not to join my aunt’s singing
lesson, and go on. The paper being always
beside me, will help me to remember all day
long.”

And so it did) And as Edward was very
honest with himself, both as to marking his
faults and punishing them, Frank’s plan suc-
ceeded admirably, and Edward by degrees got
himself cured of all his loitering, lazy habits.

“Well, mamma,” cried Harry, as his mother
concluded, “that is really quite a story for me.
I always knew that my loitering way of get-
ting through my lessons was foolish; now I see
THE SNAIL. 347

it is wrong. Ah, mamma,” (with a smile,) “ I
think that bit about ‘nine times four—what
is nine times four?’ was put in altogether for
me!”

“Tt is like you, certainly,” his mamma an-
swered, laughing.

“You see,” said Harry, much more gravely
than was usual with him, “I never thought
before that, as it is God who has made me
able enough to learn my lessons quickly, so
I am bound to do it, that I may be ready for
any work he may bring me so soon as they
are done.”

“Yes,” said his mother, “even though that
work may be only to run a message for me,
or to amuse baby when he is cross. However
triflmg it may be, it is work from God, an
opportunity of giving pleasure to others; and
as such you ought to be ready to take hold
of it.”

“Mamma,” said Caroline, as Harry with a
deep sigh laid away this last picture, and tied
the strings of the portfolio, “do you remember
the story in Rosamund called ‘The Nine Days’
Wonder?’ J think we should call our port-
folio ‘The Nine Days’ Pleasure.’”
248 THE SNAIL.

“Tf you can call it ‘The Nine Days’
Lesson,’” said Mrs. Lindsay, smiling, “I shall
be well pleased. Each has found a likeness
in one or other of the stories. I hope each
will find a lesson to profit in them also.”


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