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                                   THE
                               LITTLE GIRL
                                 WHO WAS
                          TAUGHT BY EXPERIENCE.

                              [Illustration]

                                 BOSTON.
                BOWLES AND DEARBORN, 72 WASHINGTON STREET.

                     Isaac. R. Butts and Co. Printers.
                                   1827.




       District of Massachusetts, _to wit_:

                                          _District Clerk's Office._

Be it remembered, that on the nineteenth day of June, A.D. 1827, in the
fifty-first year of the Independence of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA,
_Bowles and Dearborn_ of the said district, have deposited in this
office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors,
in the words following, _to wit_: "THE LITTLE GIRL, WHO WAS TAUGHT BY
EXPERIENCE."

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled,
"An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of
maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies,
during the times therein mentioned," and also to an act entitled "An act
supplementary to an act, entitled, an act for the encouragement of
learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books to the
authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein
mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing,
engraving and etching historical and other prints."

            JNO. W. DAVIS, _Clerk of the District of Massachusetts_.




                                   THE
                               LITTLE GIRL
                                 WHO WAS
                          TAUGHT BY EXPERIENCE.


Little Lucy's mother had died when she was a very small child;--this was
a great misfortune to Lucy, for her mother loved her very tenderly, and
she would have taken the trouble to tell her what she did wrong, and
when she _felt_ wrong, and would have taught her to correct all her
faults; she would have taught her that happiness could not dwell in her
heart, while she permitted wicked passions to rise up and grow strong
there, any more than the beautiful flowers which she planted in her
little garden-bed, could thrive and bloom when she allowed all the rank
weeds which sprang up with them, to become strong and remain there to
choke them: wicked passions like troublesome weeds, grow very fast, and
they soon root out all the mild, gentle virtues which are just budding
into beauty, if we do not take great pains to check them, and pluck them
out of our hearts.

Lucy's mother would have taught her all this, for she saw these evils
were already springing up to destroy the lovely blossom of virtue in her
young bosom; but she died, and Lucy was left to the care of a most
indulgent father; he did not like to correct his little girl, for he
only saw her when his busy day was over, and then he wished to gratify
all her desires, to fondle over her and play with her and bless her
while he thought of her dear mother whom he had lost; he did not see her
faults the little time he was with her, the servants did not like to
tell him of them, and poor Lucy was growing up a _vain_, selfish,
self-willed, prying little girl, with an obstinate temper which could
bear no contradiction.

Lucy had a _pretty face_ and her father and the servants talked to her
so much about it, that at last she really thought it was something good
in her to be pretty, that she was in some way better because she was
handsomer than other little girls; no kind friend ever said to Lucy,
"that as she had not made her own face, she could not be more good for
its being a pretty one; and that as she could not by any care keep it a
moment, if it should please her heavenly Father to take it away, that it
was very silly in her to be vain of it, and value it so much; but that
she could do a great deal, to make herself good, and amiable, and
obliging, and affectionate; and therefore she would be more dear to her
friends and more happy in herself every time she even tried to correct a
wrong feeling."

It was a _sad_ thing that Lucy had no one to teach her all these things,
for she might have learnt them easily then, and she was growing more
selfish, and vain, and obstinate, and disobedient as she grew older, she
thought a great deal about her dress, fine things to wear, and nice food
to eat, and she liked to pry into things which did not concern her to
know.

Lucy had an aunt living in Boston, who was a sensible and a very
kind-hearted woman. She heard that Lucy would become a disagreeable if
not a wicked child, if some friend did not have compassion and try to
save her from her growing faults. She kindly sent to Lucy's Father who
lived in New York, and persuaded him to let his daughter come and pass
one year with her; she had a little girl of her own about the same age
as Lucy, who had been watched, and guarded, and taught by this kind
mother, and she was now a lovely child, so good--obedient--and amiable,
that every one who knew her, saw that she would grow up a blessing to
her family and friends; her mother had early taught her, and made her
feel from experience, that she was always happier when she governed her
temper, corrected a fault, and thought more about making others happy
than she did of pleasing herself; she told her that her heavenly Father
always looked down with peculiar love upon her, when she resisted a
wicked feeling or a selfish action, and sent his _best_ and sweetest
reward of peace and joy into her heart, a reward he bestows only on
goodness, but which is more delightful than any pleasure which the
wicked can purchase. Now the little Emily had already learned to feel
this delightful peace, and she would give up any thing to obtain it.

It was on her birthday morning, about a month after Lucy's arrival at
her aunt's, that she received a very kind letter from her father
enclosing two beautiful crown pieces which he said "he thought would be
an acceptable present for herself and cousin, and he hoped this would
make his little darlings happy." Lucy _did_ feel happy for one moment,
and she looked at the pretty shining pieces again and again, then she
began to feel dissatisfied, and went slowly and with a sullen
countenance, into the parlour where Emily was finishing her work.

"My father has sent me these two crown pieces," said she, "but he says I
must give one of them to you, Emily, I'm sure I don't know what for;"
and Lucy looked unhappy, and selfish, and sour, because she could not
keep both the pieces which her father had sent, and no one who had seen
Lucy then would have thought she could ever have a pretty face; the
naughty temper in her heart, looked out at her eyes, her scowling brows,
and her pouting lips, and made her quite disagreeable, as she threw down
the piece of silver upon the table with a loud noise.

"Oh how good your dear father is," said Emily, "what a beautiful bright
piece it is--but do not give it to me, dear Lucy, if you don't wish to,"
continued she, as she looked up at Lucy's unhappy face, "I should like
to have it to be sure, because I am saving all my money for a particular
purpose, 'tis to get poor nurse Hooper a new gown, mother says she has
not been to meeting all this summer because she has had nothing decent
and whole to wear, and she told me that if I would save all my money
till I had enough I should have the pleasure of getting her one my own
self; and I should be so delighted to see how happy she would look, for
mother says all the pleasure nurse has is going to meeting; we you know
go to dancing,--and learn music--and read entertaining books--and have a
great many pleasures, but poor old nurse never leaves off hard work from
morning to night, laboring with all her strength--only when as _she_
calls it 'the blessed day of rest comes;'--how I should like to get her
a nice new pretty gown, and see her walking along to meeting with it on,
and her psalm book and fan wrapped up neatly in her clean checked
handkerchief as she used to last year. But," added she, as she looked a
_second_ time at Lucy's sour face, "not if you don't wish to give me the
money Lucy."

"But I must give it to you, I suppose, if I do not like to," said Lucy,
"for papa will ask you when he comes next week what you did with it and
all about it, and I know you will tell him, 'tis just like you."

"If he asks me I must tell him, you know Lucy, I can't help it, can I;
but if he does not ask me, I will not tell him any thing about it, if
you don't wish me to."

"Oh but I know he will ask you, so you may as well have it, and spend it
too as foolishly as you choose; I know what I shall do with _mine_
though, I will buy that pretty pair of silk slippers which I saw at Miss
Rust's yesterday, and wished for so much, and I will wear them with my
new silk frock with Barage trimmings, when we go next week to Brookline,
for there I shall see that proud Miss Prince again, with all her fine
clothes;--she thought nobody could dress as smart as she did, but I will
show her that I can,"--and Lucy began to smile with pleasure at the
thought of mortifying Miss Prince.

"But I would not dress so much just to go out to Mrs. Russel's," said
Emily, "we shall wish to walk out in the grounds, and you will be
obliged to take so much care not to hurt your dress, you will not have
half the pleasure; how can you jump about the grass, and gather
flowers?"

"I don't care for that," said Lucy, "I will wear the gown and the
slippers too. Papa always lets me dress as I like. I shall take care
enough."

Emily did not say any thing more, but she ran away to show her mother
her present, and to ask her if she would be so kind as to tell her what
sort of a gown she should get for Nurse Hooper, and to count over all
the silver pieces she hoarded in her purse. Her mother told her she was
much pleased to find she remembered the poor friendless old woman, and
that she should have the pleasure of getting the gown the next day,--and
she said she would advise her all about it. Then her mother counted her
money and found she would have some left after the gown was bought,
which she could spend for herself. Emily said she would not determine
what she should do with it then, but put it away till she wanted
something very much. Her mother told her that was a very prudent and
wise determination.

The day at last came for their visit to Brookline, the carriage was
ordered, and Emily came down with her plain Cambric slip and thick
shoes, which looked very proper, and comfortable, and neat. But Lucy put
on her trimmed silk dress, and the lilac satin slippers she had bought
to wear with it.

"Why my little girl," said her aunt, as she came into the room, "what
could induce you to put on that rich silk to-day? you can have no
enjoyment of play in such a dress, and those delicate slippers too,--you
cannot _walk_ in them; remember we are going into the country, and shall
wish to taste the sweet air of the fields, you had better run and
change your dress now my love, there is quite time enough, and Emily
will go and assist you."

"O no, aunt," said Lucy, "I had rather not go at all, than do that, I
shall take care, I am big enough to take care I hope;" and she again
looked sullen and sour.

"I shall not compel you my dear, most certainly, because that would not
convince you that you are wrong, but I advise you once more to go and
change your dress for a more proper one; I warn you that you will not
have half the comfort, but a vast deal more trouble in going as you are;
I wish indeed that you could believe, that I must know better than
yourself about such things, because it might save you from much
suffering, but if you prefer to learn by your own experience, you
certainly shall;--experience is an excellent instructer, but we often
pay very dearly for her lessons: well what do you say?"

"I am not at all afraid," said Lucy, impatiently. "Papa always lets me
dress as I like."

"Let us go then," said her aunt.

The day was balmy and mild as possible, and the ride to Brookline was
without accident, and perfectly pleasant. Lucy forgot all that her aunt
had said, she was thinking how all the company would admire her fine
dress and how mortified, and vexed, and surprised, the proud Miss Prince
would be. At last they reached the beautiful seat of Mrs. Russel, and
were received most kindly by that excellent lady. But what can express
Lucy's disappointment to find there was to be no one besides themselves,
not even Miss Prince, whom she was so sure of meeting, and that after
Mrs. Russel had permitted a smile of pity to pass over her face as she
looked at her dress, there was no more notice taken of it in any way.

Presently a walk in the garden was proposed, and they all proceeded to
view the grounds. Emily went skipping about with a heart light with
innocence and peace, smelling the sweet flowers, and eating the rich
fruit which was ripening in profusion around her;--Lucy also took some
fruit for she was very fond of it, and she thought she ate it very
carefully; but presently she felt something wet upon her arm, and when
she looked to see what it was, she found she had dropped some of the
juice on the front part of her dress, which had already taken out the
color in several places.

Now this was her best and her favorite dress, it was a present from her
father when she left New York to visit her aunt, and it was quite new.
She felt very uncomfortable at this sad sight, and she already began to
wish she had not put it on:--however she could do nothing to it, and she
continued to walk slowly and carefully through the shrubs and flowers,
until she saw the party all collected round a fish-pond at the bottom of
the garden, viewing something very attentively.

"O the beautiful gold fish," exclaimed Lucy, "I had quite forgotten to
ask about them, I dare say they are in that pond, and I do long to see
them," and away she ran with all her speed, thinking only of the pretty
gold fish which Emily had told her about so often; but the wind filled
out the light folds of her beautiful silk dress, and as she passed a
turning in the walk, the trimming was caught by the briars of a
rose-bush and torn almost entirely off, before she could stop herself.
Lucy stood aghast at this sad rent! the delicate trimming was quite in
tatters, and the thought of what her aunt had said to her (for she now
remembered it every word) made her ashamed to look her in the face;
however, she pinned it on as well as she could, and again she walked
slowly and carefully, quite forgetting the gold fish and every thing but
her misfortunes and her shame, and wishing she had not been so
self-willed and perverse. But when little children will not be guided by
the experience and judgment of their best and wisest friends, and will
try for themselves, they often learn through much suffering and trouble,
and pay dearly for the instruction which they might have had for
nothing.

While Lucy was thus sauntering along, one of Mrs. Russel's little girls
came running up to her full of spirits. "Come with _us_ dear Lucy," said
she, "we are going to the bottom of the pasture-field to look into Mr.
Barrel's beautiful garden, 'tis much handsomer than ours, and there is
an opening in the fence so that we can see it all plainly through the
cracks. There are a great _many_ images in the garden. In one place
there is an old woman feeding chickens, and she is holding up her apron
of corn so naturally, exactly as our Betsey does when she feeds our
little ones; and her gown is pinned away behind her, and shews her
quilted petticoat and she _does_ look _so_ funny; and then in another
part of the garden, there is a man raking hay, he looks as natural as
_life_--come--this way, my dear, there is Emily just jumping over the
stone-wall."

The pasture was very large. It was made perfectly dry by a ditch which
was dug along on one side; this drained off all the water, so it was
easy and dry walking. The girls went on jumping and springing, and Lucy
once more forgot her troubles, and began to enjoy herself, while Emily
felt _so_ innocent and happy, that she could not express her delight.
They came at last to the opening in the fence which gave them a good
view of this fine garden; the flower beds were all laid out in squares,
and diamonds, and circles, which were all bordered with beautiful green
box. And Lucy saw the old man with his rake, who looked exactly as if he
could move and was just going to turn his hay; and she saw the droll
looking old woman holding up her apron of corn; and they were very much
amused, discovering new beauties in this garden for a long time, but at
last they were startled by hearing the snorting of a horse very near to
them. They had not seen that there was any horse in the pasture before,
but when they looked up they saw Mr. Russel's great black horse
galloping up to them, rearing and kicking up his hind feet in the air,
while John the stable-boy was running after him with a halter to catch
him.

The little girls were very much frightened when they saw such a great
loose horse so near to them, and they began to run towards the house as
fast as their limbs would carry them, for they thought the black horse
was close at their heels, and they did not stop to look behind them.
Sarah Russel and Emily got on a great deal faster than Lucy, because her
slippers were tight and her dress troublesome, but she used her utmost
speed, and had nearly reached the stone wall over which the girls were
jumping, when in attempting to leap across the ditch her foot slipped
in, and down came poor Lucy flat upon her face. What a sad situation she
was in! she had lost her shoe in the black muddy ditch,--her unfortunate
silk frock was all covered with green slime, from the slippery grass on
the banks,--she had hurt her ancle so badly she could scarcely
stir,--and she expected every moment that the great black horse would be
upon her, and trample her to death,--the other little girls thinking she
had kept up with them had jumped over the wall and were gone out of
sight and hearing, and she could not possibly get up alone.

"Oh! dear, what shall I do?" cried Lucy, "will nobody come to save me."

Now it happened that young Mr. Thomas Russel had come out to assist
John in catching his horse, (because he was a frolicksome and
troublesome horse to catch) and he was already so near that he heard
Lucy's cries. He came to her, kindly took her up and quieted her fears,
and showed her that the horse was a long way distant, and then he felt
with his stick round in the ditch to find her beautiful lilac slipper.
Alas! it was beautiful no longer; for when he fished it out of the muddy
gutter on the end of his cane, it was so filled and covered with the
filth that no color could be seen. Mr. Russel kindly carried her in his
arms to the house, and then he took her slipper to the pump and pumped
upon it till he got it clean enough to dry at the fire. An old shoe of
Sarah Russel's was found for Lucy to put on, after her stockings and her
clothes had been wiped, but it was much too large for her to walk in, if
she had been in a condition to walk.

While the rest of the party were enjoying the garden, the summer house,
the shrubbery and the lawn, eating fruit and gathering flowers, poor
Lucy, placed in a chair by a roasting kitchen fire to dry, her beautiful
dress _tattered_ and _filthy_, her fine satin slippers quite and
_entirely_ ruined, her face bruised, and her ancle lame, had time to
feel all her folly and perverseness.

"If," said she to herself, "I had not been so self-willed and so very
silly as to put on this silk dress, any other, even my best muslin,
might have been washed and repaired, and if I had only worn my thick,
easy shoes, I should not have slipped at all; and if I had slipped, any
other shoes but _these_ might have been made tolerably clean again; but
now my beautiful silver crown might as well have been thrown into the
sea, for it is _all_ gone and has only purchased pain and disgrace. O
how ashamed I shall feel to look at aunt and Emily, for they both told
me almost exactly how it would be if I would wear this improper dress,
though aunt did not know that I wanted to wear it just to vex that proud
Miss Prince; and after all she was not here to see it, and will only
rejoice to hear of my mortification and disgrace. I dare say that Emily
is as clean and as nice as she was when she came, at least she don't
feel so sore, and so dirty, and wet, and uncomfortable as I do, nor so
much ashamed."

Lucy shed most bitter tears. She had not the consolation under all these
accidents, of feeling that she had had good or innocent motives for
wishing to wear the improper dress, and that her friends would pity her;
and again she wept over her vanity, her wilfulness, her envy, and
malice.

At last she heard the happy party returning to the house full of mirth
and gaiety, and as they entered she heard Emily say, "I have looked all
round for Lucy, I wonder where she has hidden herself; I suppose she has
found something new and delightful in this charming place, but she will
soon be here now, because the sun is almost down--our _happy day_ is
ended, for mother has ordered the carriage to be ready as soon as tea is
over," and she came bounding into the house rosy and smiling with
innocent delight; but her countenance became sad as she caught sight of
Lucy through the open door, sobbing at the kitchen fire, in the
deplorable condition which we have described her.

Emily was immediately at her side, trying with kind words and an
affectionate manner, to sooth and comfort her. She was too good-natured
to tell Lucy that she suffered for her own faults, she was too kind
_once_ to say to her "I _told_ you so, I _knew_ you would be sorry,
_now_ don't you wish you had done as _I_ advised you?"--Emily did not
say any thing like this; but she looked kindly at her, took hold of her
hand, and wiped her eyes, and said, "come, never mind it now dear Lucy,
but think of all the pleasures we have had, and what a pleasant ride
home we shall have in the moon-shine--and besides, I dare say we shall
be able to mend the trimming, I will help you, and see if we can't get
out these spots with Cologne water, and some of mother's patent soap,
which is made on _purpose_ to take out spots from silk; come, never
mind, accidents will happen, and I am so thankful that the horse did not
kick you, how frightened we were when he looked so wild."

Thus Emily kindly tried to divert poor Lucy till supper was ready. Now
Lucy had thought a great deal about the nice supper, and the good things
which she expected to see on the table, but she had cried till her
stomach was sick, and her appetite quite gone; she could not taste any
of the delicacies on which she had depended so much, and besides, she
did not wish to show herself before her aunt and Mrs. Russel in such a
condition, so she crept into the carriage which had been drawn up to the
door, and waited there till her aunt and cousin were ready.

Lucy's aunt had been told before she reached the house of what had
happened, by Mr. Thomas Russel, who had gone out to meet her; but, as he
told her that Lucy was not so much hurt as she was mortified and
frightened, she spared her the pain of seeing her before company, and
even after she was in the carriage, and had begun their ride home, this
kind aunt said nothing about the accident; for she thought it best to
let Lucy reflect in silence upon the events of the day, that the
_lessons of experience_ for which she had paid so very dearly, might
induce her to correct those faults from which all her sufferings
proceeded.

When they arrived at home, and were all collected in the parlour, Lucy's
aunt desired to look at the bruises, and as she kindly bound them up,
said to her,--"You have had your first lesson of experience my dear
little girl to-day; it has indeed been a hard one, and I dare say will
be long remembered; you were much frightened, much bruised, much
disappointed, and very much mortified. I am sure I am _sorry_ for your
sufferings, but if you will let them convince you, that
pride--malice--selfishness--wilfulness--and obstinacy, are all faults
which will make you suffer more and more as long as you keep them, you
may _yet_ bless this day, as I shall most certainly, as the most
fortunate of your life, and worth a _purse full_ of such pieces as that
which you have so foolishly thrown away. You start, my little girl, but
I assure you that all these dreadful faults were in your heart when you
determined to use your father's present as you did, and kept to that
determination; for I heard all your conversation with Emily on the day
it was received.

"_Pride_ and _malice_, my dear Lucy," continued her aunt, "induced you
to desire to dress yourself so richly, to astonish your friends, and to
mortify (as you thought it would) the proud Miss Prince. Selfishness
made you unwilling to part with the piece which was in fact sent to
Emily, and did in no way belong to you. Wilfulness united to make you
resist her advice, when she told you (and from her own experience) that
you would be sorry if you dressed in this manner; and lastly, obstinacy
made you feel that you 'would rather stay at home' than give up to my
wishes and recommendation:--let _to-day's_ experience be sufficient for
you, and I shall truly love you; go now, my dear, to bed."

Lucy, however, was more mortified and angry than repentant; she had
thought so little about correcting her faults, and submitting to the
government of older and wiser people, that she had a great deal more to
suffer before she could resolutely set about becoming docile, obedient,
humble, and submissive; she had never restrained her inclination, or
controlled any of her desires or passions, and knew very little about
self government; for no one had taught her till she came to her aunt's,
that she ought to do so.

Emily's mother had done as she said she would, for she always kept her
word in every thing. She had advised her about the gown she was to get
for poor Nurse Hooper, the day after she had received her crown piece;
she had done more than she had promised; she had cut and fitted the
gown, and shewed Emily just how to make it all herself, so that she had
double pleasure in giving it to her. It was now done and folded neatly,
and Emily went with her mother to carry that, and some other little
comforts, to the poor woman.

Emily's delight was full and _complete_, when she witnessed the
brightened eyes and grateful countenance of Nurse Hooper, and heard her
say, that, "now again she should be able to hear her dear minister, and
to thank her heavenly Father for all his mercies to her, in the Lord's
own blessed house;" and when on the following Sabbath, Emily stood at
her mother's window, and saw the good woman walking to meeting, exactly
as she had pictured her, with her psalm book and her fan nicely folded
in her handkerchief, and looking so peaceful and happy, Emily thought
she felt more pleasure than she had expected, and would not have
exchanged her feelings, for any thing which could have been offered her.

Time passed on, and the adventures we have related were over and nearly
forgotten. Lucy sometimes thought of her faults, and of the lessons
which had been given her; she sometimes thought she would try more to
correct them, to be more amiable, and good; and when she saw how happy
Emily always appeared, and how much she was beloved, she wished she too
had learned to control herself, and resist temptation, that _she_ might
be as happy; but she did nothing in earnest, and when temptations came,
she did not try at all. Her aunt, however, continued to take the kindest
care of her, she watched for every opportunity to instruct and amend
her, and she hoped that her heart was a little less selfish, her temper
a little more restrained, and that she began to have more fear of doing
wrong, to remember more constantly that the eye of God was ever upon
her, even when she was alone and in thick darkness, and could see not
only what she did do, but what she even wished to do in her mind.

One morning a few months after their ride to Brookline, while Lucy was
sitting in her chamber opposite to the open door, putting together a
dissected map which her father had just sent to her, she saw her aunt
come up stairs and go into her own room, with a little package in her
hand, wrapped in white paper and tied with twine. Lucy supposed that it
had come from New York with her map, and she felt very curious to know
what it could be, that her aunt had folded up so neatly in white paper.
She immediately thought that her aunt had received some pretty present
from New York, and she watched her to see if she opened the paper, and
what she did with it, and saw that she went to her closet, stood up in a
chair, and reaching to the highest shelf of her closet, opened a small
trunk, and put the parcel into it; then she went to her bureau drawer,
opened that, and laid something in, shut the drawer and left the
chamber.

All this puzzled Lucy exceedingly; so she determined to ask her aunt as
she went down stairs, what was in the paper, though she ought to have
known it was impertinent to question her aunt about a thing which did
not at all concern herself, and that she ought to restrain her
curiosity.

"Did you get that little bundle from New York, aunt?" said Lucy.

"No, my dear," replied her aunt.

"What was in it, aunt?" continued the inquisitive little girl.

"It is nothing which it concerns you in the least to know, my dear,"
said her aunt; "nothing that would please you, or interest you in any
way; you should be less curious."

"I wish I could see it, though," said Lucy to herself, as her aunt left
her, "I don't doubt papa has sent something pretty, and I think she
might have shewn it to me. I can't think what it can be; it was such a
nice little package, all tied up in white paper; I wonder if it was not
a pair of new ear rings. I _heard_ her say she needed a new set; I do
_wish_ I could see them."

She continued to allow her curiosity to puzzle over the little white
bundle, instead of trying to forget it, till her map no longer pleased
her in the least; so she left it on the table, and sauntered into her
aunt's room, and would not attempt to conquer her idle curiosity, but
kept wondering, and wishing to know what was in the paper, that her aunt
had taken so much trouble to put up so high and so secretly. It came
into her head that she might get up into the same chair and look into
the trunk! She saw her aunt walking at the very bottom of the garden,
and thought she would never know any thing about it.

Now when this thought first came into Lucy's mind, she knew it was a
wicked thought, and she did not intend at first to do so very wrong a
thing; but she let it remain in her mind, and thought how easily she
might do it if she pleased, till after thinking, and thinking, she
determined just to try if she could reach the trunk by standing up in
the chair, as her aunt had done; so she crept softly to the closet,
placed the chair and got up into it, but she was not tall enough to
reach the trunk; so she looked about to see what there was to put into
the chair, and make it high enough, and she saw the little cricket on
which she had been sitting to play with her map; so she brought that
and placed it on the chair, and then she found herself quite tall
enough, for she could reach the shelf with ease; she put out her hand
tremblingly, for Lucy's conscience told her plainly that she _was doing
very, very wrong_, and the thought made her tremble very much, but she
put out her hand and tried to open the trunk. It was locked.

"Now I do know, almost, that it was something very important, since aunt
has taken such particular pains to hide it away, and very likely it is
something for me too, that papa has sent me, and she won't let me even
see it," said Lucy; "I wonder if it was not the very key to this little
trunk, that she put into her bureau drawer. I saw her go there after she
left the closet. If it was the key, 'tis easy enough to get it, the
_bureau_ is not high, I shall not hurt the bundle just to look at it,
and I don't mean to touch it; besides, she ought to have shown it to me,
if my papa sent it to her."

Lucy crept down carefully from the chair and stood before the
bureau--she stopped there--for something said to her that "she was
sinning;" but she did not turn resolutely away and busy herself about
something else--she did not fly from temptation--but kept thinking that
she might easily enough open the drawer, and see if it really was the
key which her aunt had put there; till at last she said to herself,
"there is no harm in just seeing if the key is in here, I am not obliged
to touch it."

She gently opened the drawer; the little key lay down in front, so that
she could reach it without opening the drawer any wider. She stood
looking awhile--and then this temptation also was too strong; she
slipped in her hand and took up the key to see if it was the very same;
having it in her hand she no longer hesitated, but once more got upon
the chair and put the key into the lock--she turned it--the trunk was
opened--and Lucy saw the little package tied up in its white paper,
laying in one corner.

O, why did not she then stop and sin no more. Alas! when we go so far
wrong it is hard to find the right path back; every step we take renders
return more difficult. Lucy had now gone so far out of the path of duty,
that she no more thought of any thing but satisfying her curiosity. She
took up the parcel, and untied the string; but what can express her
great disappointment when she found it contained--only a little white
sugar, as she thought it was. Lucy loved sugar, and had often taken a
little pinch from the sugar dish on the table, and as she had untied the
paper, thought she would just taste a little before she did it up again;
she took a pinch of the sugar and was beginning to fold up the paper.

But all this had taken much more time than Lucy had expected; and before
she could get it folded up, as she had found it, she heard her aunt on
the stairs. And now that the poor girl was likely to be _caught_ doing
this naughty thing, she felt _all at once_ how _very_ bad it was; she
was _dreadfully_ frightened at the thought of her aunt's finding her in
such a guilty situation, and she tried to jump down quickly, but in
doing so, her sleeve caught in the fatal key, pulled over the trunk with
all its contents upon her; the cricket was unsteady in the chair, it
was jostled by her agitation, and Lucy, the cricket, and the trunk, all
came together upon the floor with a loud noise.--Her aunt was just then
at the door; she was greatly alarmed by the crash, but her fright was
intolerable when she entered the chamber; the first glance told her what
had happened.

"O, my poor child," said she, "have you _tasted it_," for the paper of
sugar lay scattered all around the floor. Lucy was in such pain she
could not answer, but the sugar on her mouth spoke for her,--"Oh run,
run quickly for the Doctor," said her aunt, "she has tasted the
arsenic!--she is poisoned!"

The servant who had been alarmed at the noise, and was with her in the
chamber, went instantly for the Doctor. Poor Lucy, though she was
suffering dreadfully from a broken leg, heard all her aunt had said,
and she was certain she had spoke the truth, her countenance was so full
of pity and of fright; she well knew what she suffered on her account.
Lucy thought she must surely die, and to die in the very moment when she
was sinning so sadly, to die in consequence of her own wicked conduct,
to die in such agonies and convulsions as this poison produces--how
shocking! she was already in so much distress from her broken leg, that
it was exceedingly difficult to get her on the bed. No one who has not
been so unfortunate as to break a bone, can tell how very painful it is.

At last the Doctor came; but before he could set the bone and relieve
the distress in which poor Lucy lay, he said "he must give her most
disagreeable medicines, for he feared he might already be too late." No
one could tell how much or how little she had taken of the arsenic,
because it was all spilled from the paper and mixed with other things;
so the Doctor gave her the most powerful emetics. Fortunately for Lucy
she had spilled the most of the poison as she carried it to her mouth
and had but tasted it, so that the immediate attention prevented her
suffering so much from that as was expected; but the fright and the pain
she endured, and the quantities of medicine she took, all united to
confine her a long time, and made her suffer prodigiously. Lucy remained
some months very feeble; she lost much of the beauty which she had
prized so highly. She was but the shadow of herself. The hours of
penitence and sorrow she had passed--the tears of grief which had flowed
for her many transgressions during this long confinement had reduced
her strength, but they purified her heart, her repentance was sincere
and her amendment sure, because she was now in earnest.

One day while her affectionate aunt was sitting beside her, Lucy looked
into her mild, patient, and benevolent face, bent over her in tenderness
and pity; and her little heart which had been almost bursting with its
load of grief, could no longer contain its emotion. "Oh, my dear,
_kind_, forgiving aunt," said she, "I do hope this last dreadful lesson
of experience will make me a better girl. I would not learn from you,
though you talked to me so very kindly and so often too. Nor when I
suffered so much from my foolish and wicked conduct about the dress,
that disagreeable day at Brookline. You shewed me then as clear as day,
the lesson my heavenly Father was teaching me, by all the bad accidents
I met with and all the shame I felt; but I soon forgot all that--though
you told me that if I did not correct my faults with a little suffering,
something worse would be sent to me. And now my great sins have brought
this great punishment. Oh my dear aunt," continued Lucy, sobbing with
deep repentance, "tell me, shall I forget this too?--shall I forget how
patiently you have watched by me all through my sickness, and how kindly
you have spoken to me, just as if I had not brought it all on
myself--and though I have often, very often been cross to Emily, and
never liked to share any of my good things with her, she has left all
her companions, and all her plays and pleasures to come and sit up in
this dark, dull room, to amuse me and wait upon me--shall I--can I
forget all this as I did the other things?"

"No my dear, penitent girl," said her aunt, kissing her affectionately,
"you have indeed paid most dearly, (as I have feared you would) for your
instruction. I rejoice to see that you are determined to improve by
these painful lessons, they will not I am sure be lost upon you; God has
mercifully spared your life. When I think of your dreadful fall, and all
the circumstances of that sad day, I am truly astonished that you have
lived through them all, that your neck as well as your limbs was not
broken; and when I remember the chance there was of your taking so much
of that horrible poison into your stomach, as would have rendered all
medicines useless, I shudder at the thought; you have felt the danger,
and have suffered much pain--you know your own faults have caused it
all--you say you repent, and if you do so sincerely you will amend."

"Oh, I do, I do repent," sobbed Lucy.

"Then be comforted my love--you will amend, and be forgiven, I am
certain, and we shall all have reason to rejoice with you, and bless
these distressing but most useful lessons of _experience_.