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THE TELL-TALE.


[Illustration: Page 153. Page 168.

_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]


THE TELL-TALE:

An Original Collection of
Moral and Amusing Stories.






[Illustration: Decoration]


London:

Harris and Son,
St. Paul's Church-Yard.
1823.

London
Printed by Cox and Baylis, Great Queen Street.




THE TELL-TALE.




ARPHU,

OR, THE FAIRY KITTEN.


"My dear mamma," said William Dormer, as he stood by his mother's knee,
"have you no more pretty stories to relate?"

"Let me see," said Mrs. Dormer, "but I think I must have almost
exhausted my stock. Beauty and the Beast, I told you yesterday; the
Yellow Dwarf you know by heart, for you were telling it the other day to
your cousin; and as for Puss in Boots, the Sleeping Beauty, and
Whittington and his Cat, you know them nearly as well as I do.

"However," added she, "I will endeavour to recollect something else;
but this is not the proper time for me to relate tales. When you have
done the sum which your papa has given you, and Mary has finished her
copy--and when Lewis has learned his lesson--when all this is done--why,
perhaps, by that time, I shall have thought of a new story."

This observation produced the desired effect. Lewis, who had been
previously winding some thread about his fingers, began to apply himself
diligently to his task; William paid strict attention to his cyphering,
till it was completed; and Mary acquitted herself better than usual in
writing. The children then reminded their kind mother of her promise,
and anxiously inquired what story she had recollected.

"You are very fond of fairy tales," said Mrs. Dormer, "and I am now
going to relate one, which is called 'The Fairy Kitten.'"

"Oh dear!" said William, "did she catch mice? I never heard of fairies
keeping cats before."

"Remember the White Cat," said Lewis, "I dare say she was one of _her_
kittens."

"Have patience," said Mrs. Dormer, "and you shall hear.

"A very long time ago, when fairies dwelt in England, there lived on a
woody hill, near a lake in Cumberland, a king of the fairies, who was
very good and benevolent; and if any of his little subjects ever
committed evil or malicious tricks (to which it is said fairies are much
inclined), he was sure to punish them severely. But it was the
misfortune of this good king to have a little son, who, instead of
resembling his excellent father, was of a most wicked and cruel
disposition. The name of this mischievous being was Arphu, and to look
at him, every one would have thought him exceedingly good. He had a
beautiful face, and hair that glittered like sunbeams; he had downy
wings which shone with a thousand different colours, like that beautiful
stuffed humming-bird, which your kind uncle sent me. But though he had
all these beauties, he was always inclined to do evil, rather than good.
While the other fairies were, in obedience to the orders of the king,
busily employed in supporting flowers that had been overthrown by the
hail, or raising the ears of wheat which had been beaten to the earth by
a thunder storm, Arphu would silently slip away from these kind offices,
and fly or run through wet or mire, in search of mischief. If he chanced
to see a poor snail which with great toil had climbed a leaf to eat its
breakfast, he would give it so hard a push, that the hungry little
creature would tumble down, and have all its labour to begin again. If
he saw a harmless caterpillar crawling on a twig that overhung the
lake, he would shake the branch violently, and then laugh to see the
poor little animal descend by its slender thread, directly into the
water below, where a greedy fish waited to devour it. He loved to drive
flies into spiders' webs, and fish into nets; but his chief delight was
to follow some rude children, the sons of a farmer, who lived in the
valley under the hill. He did not mind if his golden ringlets were wet
through, or his splendid wings dabbled with mire, if he could follow
them in their play, and secretly tempt them to torment some harmless
bird or animal, which he took care to entrap for their cruel sport.

[Illustration: Page 12. Page 4.

_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]

This conduct gave great pain to the benevolent mind of the king; and,
after some time, he declared in council, that the next wicked action
which Arphu committed should be punished with exemplary severity. He
then ordered four of the wisest fairies to follow the young prince
secretly, and to bring him before his throne the next lawless deed they
found him doing. They obeyed, and that day caught him in a very wicked
trick. Two swallows had built their nest under the eaves of a farmer's
barn; but when they had completed it, and hatched their young, Arphu
stole up to the nest and loosened it from the barn, so that the tender
young ones were shattered to pieces on the ground. Whilst the
mischievous prince was surveying the dying pangs of the wretched little
birds, and listening to the woeful complaint of their parents, the
fairies seized him and hurried him to the foot of his father's throne,
where they related the distressing scene which they had just witnessed.

The king, as you may suppose, was extremely angry, especially as this
cruelty had been exercised upon swallows, which were protected both by
fairies and men, for their industry in clearing the air from noxious
insects, and for their ingenuity in building their curious nests.
"Wicked and malicious little being!" said he, fixing his eyes with an
awful frown on Arphu; "thou shalt learn by thy own experience what it is
to suffer the miseries thou hast inflicted on others; and if this
punishment do not amend thee, thou shalt be for ever stripped of thy gay
wings and pearl coronet, and be confined with the evil gnomes in the
neighbouring iron mines. Fly from my sight, and receive the reward of
thy crimes!"

Arphu willingly fled from the palace of his angry father: but he had not
proceeded far, before he felt himself whirled round and round in the air
with such violence that his head became giddy, and he soon lost all
sense. When he recovered, he was greatly astonished to find that he had
entered the body of a little kitten, belonging to a cat which was
tenderly nursing her young brood on some hay, in a loft over the
farmer's barn. He now comprehended the justice of his father's
sentence, and was aware that the very children whom he had taught to be
cruel, would now have it in their power to torment him. He shuddered at
the cruelty he had seen them practise; he shook and trembled in every
limb at the least noise; he tried to speak, and call out, but found that
he could only utter piteous mews; and to add to his distress, he could
not even see in this degraded state. His new mother, however, licked and
caressed him with much affection; and, after he had thought a great
while, and bitterly repented of his faults, he fell fast asleep.

The next morning he awoke very cold and hungry, for the cat was gone.
Well, he pawed about with his little blind brothers and sisters, and got
as close to them as he could to warm himself, but they, in crawling
about to find their mother, often scratched his face with their claws:
he conceived, however, that they did not mean to hurt him, so he did not
return it, for his weak and wretched state had already taught him
wisdom. Presently he heard a loud purring: he shrunk in dismay, but he
recollected it was only the cat who came to suckle and comfort them. Now
for nine or ten days, old pussy took the tenderest care of her kits,
though she did not know that the fairy prince was one of them; and in
that time the kittens began to see clearly, and in a fortnight longer
they grew strong, and very pretty; and Arphu with the rest of the brood
began to frisk about and play a thousand funny tricks; and though they
sometimes quarrelled with him, and bit his ears or tail, Arphu took such
delight in their gambols, that he soon began to love them, and never
attempted to hurt them. Arphu had often dreaded the time when he was to
suffer pain, but so many days had gone by that he had almost forgotten
it. One morning, however, they heard a great noise on the hayloft
stairs: the kittens all fled in great haste from where they had been
frisking, and scampered into their nest, where they lay in great dread
crouching close to each other. And now there was the noise of a great
many feet on the stairs, and Arphu plainly distinguished the voices of
the farmer's children.

"Come here, Maudlin," said Hodge, the eldest boy, "come and look about,
for I know that our Tib has kitted somewhere in the hayloft; let us find
the kits, and we will have a nice drown."

"Go, Hodge!" said Maudlin, "you cruel boy! if I could find the poor
things, I would hide them all from you. You have grown so hard-hearted
of late!"

All this time Hodge and his brothers were looking about, in spite of the
reproaches of the kind little Maudlin; but just as Hodge was giving up
his search, Gilbert, the youngest boy, trod on Arphu's tail, and gave
him such a pang, that he could not help mewing most piteously, which
instantly betrayed their hiding place. Gilbert turned over the hay as
quick as lightning, till he felt the soft fur of the kittens; then
called out, "I have found them, here they are."

Poor Arphu, and his unfortunate brothers, were now dragged to the light:
whilst the gentle Maudlin wept to see the tender creatures in the hands
of her cruel brothers, who griped them barbarously, regardless of their
cries and wailings. After a few minutes the boys thought proper to carry
them down stairs, and with shouts of joy took them to the horse-pond,
where they ranged their shivering victims on the cold wet grass that
grew around it: they then began to choose the prettiest, that they
might save it. Poor Arphu's errors and sufferings may well be imagined,
but at length they chose him as the best; and tying some heavy stones
round the necks of all the others, plunged them one by one into the
pond; and Arphu saw his pretty brothers, his innocent frisking
playfellows, drowned before his face without mercy. Meanwhile the poor
cat, which was almost mad to see her young treated so barbarously, ran
amongst them, and seizing Arphu, dragged him off in her mouth. This way
of carrying hurt him very much: but the cruel boys were so busy putting
them to death, that they did not see pussy make off with him; and she
soon carried him to a new hiding place. This was the hollow branch of a
tree in the farmer's garden. Here Arphu suffered a great deal of cold,
and on a moonlight night he would put his little nose out of the hole
and see his fellow fairies dance in the meadow below, and look most gay
and beautiful: but no one took notice of him in his fallen state.

For a long time Arphu could not forget the pretty playfellows he loved
so much, and with whom he used to have such merry games; but the playful
nature of a kitten gradually overcame his grief, and he began to run up
and down the oak, and ventured on the grass underneath, where he played
in the sun with his shadow, and ran after his tail, the length and
beauty of which was so great, that though a fairy, he could not help
admiring it. And now our careless little Arphu by degrees forgot his
cruel foes; till one fine sunny morning, when he was asleep under the
oak, chance led Gilbert that way. The artful boy made no noise, but
creeping softly forward, sprung upon Arphu, and held him so fast, that
he almost squeezed him to death. He then ran into the kitchen, where the
farmer's family were at breakfast; and putting Arphu on little
Maudlin's lap, he exclaimed, "I have found him at last; old Tib must
have hid him in the garden, for he lay beneath the great oak." Maudlin
tenderly stroked the kitten, and said, "Ah, pretty creature, I am sorry
they have found thee, for I sadly fear they will hurt and ill use thee."

The good little girl then began to feed Arphu out of her bason; but at
this unlucky minute the ill-natured Hodge came in, calling in a surly
tone for his breakfast. He had been clipping the hedge in the front of
the house, and was in a very ill humour, as he always was when he had
any thing to do. Little Maudlin got up to pour his milk out of the
boiler, but no sooner had she placed the kitten on her stool than the
cruel Hodge in a moment laid his hands on it, and seizing the shears,
cut the poor thing's nice velvet ears close to its head. He was then
going to cut its tail, but the piteous cries of the miserable little
animal called Maudlin to its aid. Maudlin, seeing the kitten all over
blood, began to cry; and her father, who loved his little girl dearly,
called to Hodge: "Let thy sister's kitten alone, sirrah! or I will
thrash thee soundly." Emboldened by this threat, Maudlin snatched Arphu
out of her brother's hands, and ran down the garden to hide him. Hodge
flew after her to see where the kitten was put; but just as he came up
with her, Maudlin fell over the stump of a tree, Hodge tumbled on her,
and his weight and hers together crushed poor Arphu to death.

Maudlin wept bitterly when she got up and saw what had happened; and the
farmer coming up with his long cart whip, gave Hodge a handsome trimming
for his cruelty and disobedience. And now Arphu, finding himself
released from the body in which he had suffered so much pain, went and
knelt as a penitent before his father's throne, shuddering at the
recollection of the agony he had so recently endured, and humbly
promising amendment for the future. The fairy king was rejoiced to find
that the harsh lesson had done his little Arphu good, and tenderly
condoling him for his sufferings, restored him to favour again; and I am
happy to add that Arphu was never known to be again malicious, but ever
remembered his own woes when he saw any animal tormented.

"How strange, mamma!" said William; "I never heard a fairy tale before,
but what had giants, and enchanters, and princesses in it."

"Well, William," said Mary, "it is quite as good without them. I wish my
cousin John had heard it, because be might have learnt to treat poor
little helpless animals better than he does. I don't like him, because
he is such a cruel boy."

"Yes," said William, "it might have made him better; but I will try to
remember it, and tell it all to my cousin Kate, when she comes."

"You will soon have an opportunity, my love," said Mrs. Dormer, "for
your uncle brings Kate to-morrow to spend the Midsummer holidays with
us, and perhaps to stay some time longer: for her health is very
indifferent, and I hope the pleasant air of Hampstead will do her good."

"How glad I am," said Mary. "But I hope he won't bring John, for he
would spoil all our pleasure. The last time he was here, he pinched
Kate, and kicked me; and you remember William beat him for it; and my
uncle was so angry!"

"Yes, my love; but William should not have taken the law into his own
hands. However, do not be alarmed, for John is not to come. I cannot
wonder at your disliking him, for he is by no means good or gentle. But
you must remember that he lost his mother during his infancy, which was
a great disadvantage to him; and his father never sees him or Kate, but
when they return from school for the holidays."

"But, mamma, Kate is very good."

"Yes, my dear Willy, Kate is very sweet-tempered and patient; but, like
William, she is rather careless. And now, my dears, look out of the
window, and see what your papa and the carpenter are about."

"Oh, mamma," said little Lewis, "papa has a long rope, and a nice little
chair, and Taylor is putting up two great posts."

"Do not you remember the swing he promised you?" asked Mrs. Dormer.

"Oh, what a good papa!" said William; "come mamma, do let us go and look
at it."

"With pleasure," said the good mother, and taking William and Mary by
the hand, she went down the garden, preceded by the little Lewis, who
literally jumped for joy.

After the arrival of cousin Kate, the little Dormers were so busy in
making her welcome, and so much occupied with the new swing, that they
forgot to ask their mamma for another story. The next afternoon, after
they had finished their lessons, and were preparing for a visit to the
swing, it began to rain very fast. This put a stop to their intended
amusement, and, what was worse, they could not run on the grass for fear
of catching cold; all the children, therefore, crowded together on one
of the window seats, and remained some time looking sorrowfully at the
rain. At last William said, "if mamma would tell us another story about
Arphu, we should not be so dull as we now are."

"Well, my Willy," said Mrs. Dormer, "you shall not be dull if I can
help it--I will tell you another story, though it is not about Arphu."

On hearing this, the four children got down from the window seat, and
bringing their stools, seated themselves around Mrs. Dormer, anxious to
hear the promised story.




THE LITTLE WATER-CARRIER;

OR, THE REWARD OF INDUSTRY.


"Mamma," said little Sidney Fletcher, taking his mother's hand and
leading her to the window, "do look at that little boy who is carrying
those water-buckets on his shoulders through the rain."

"Well, Sydney, I see him; but why did you wish me to leave my work? was
it only to look at the little water-carrier?" inquired Mrs. Fletcher.

[Illustration: Page 20. Page 27.

_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]

"I wanted, my dear mamma, to know what his name is; I thought you could
tell me."

"And why did you want to know his name?" said his mother.

"Because," answered Sydney, "he seems so industrious. Charles and myself
often sit and watch him from the school-room window. He comes from
behind that opening in the street, going to work very early, and keeping
on till it is almost dark; don't you think the poor fellow must be very
much tired before night?"

Mrs. Fletcher was pleased to see the amiable disposition of her child,
and said,

"My dear boy, I have myself often observed the industry of the little
water-carrier. I dare say he is a good boy; for he never appears
discontented at his burden, but carries it cheerfully along, though it
is certainly too great a weight for one so small."

"Indeed, mamma," said Sidney, "I do not think I should be near so
patient as he is, for I would walk slower, and not go so often."

"Then you would do very wrong, Sidney: for if you were forced to work,
would it not render the labour lighter to do it willingly, and make
haste? That little boy ought to be a pattern for you and Charles."

"You are right, mamma, I do think, in what you say," observed Sidney
thoughtfully; "for I got my Latin lesson done much sooner (though it was
very hard) this morning, because I learned it fast, and did not leave
off to look out at the window, or to play; and papa gave me this nice
pencil-case, and said I was a good boy."

"Then, Sydney," said his mother, "I hope you will not forfeit your good
name; and if your father says to-morrow evening that you are still a
good boy, and have not done any thing amiss, I will give you the silver
pen you have wished for so long."

Sidney was sure that he should be good enough to merit the pen, which he
had long desired to possess. He was so pleased already with the thought
of the reward, that he began jumping about the room for joy, making
rather more noise than his mother's head could bear.

"I fear, Sidney, you are in a fair way of losing the pen, if you go on
making so much noise, for that is not being good: but I do not wish to
alarm you (for Sidney began to look rather grave); see, here are your
sisters and brother, with your papa,"

Who then entered the room. Marcella, the eldest girl, was a year younger
than her brother Charles, who was nearly fourteen years old: Sidney was
eleven, and little Juliet eight. The two boys were studying the Latin
language, with the help of their father; and Marcella French with her
mother: as to little Juliet, she was as yet but in the first rudiments
of English grammar. Mr. Fletcher instructed the girls in writing and
cyphering with their brothers.

The rain having left off, the children put on their hats, and went to
take a walk with their father. Mrs. Fletcher preferred remaining at
home, to the great disappointment of Sydney, who was very fond of his
mother; besides, he thought he should be less likely to err if she were
with him.

Their way lay through a beautiful green lane, by the side of a wood.
Charles, who was of a more serious turn than the generality of children
of his early age, walked with his father, conversing on the various
objects that met their view as they proceeded; whilst the other children
tripped gaily on before, sometimes running races, and at other times
gathering the wild flowers that grew in the hedges. Little Juliet at
length called them.

"Come, come," said she, "and see what I have found."

Sidney and Marcella soon came running to the spot where Juliet was
plucking wild strawberries.

"I would not eat any till you came up," said little Juliet.

"That was a good girl," said her sister.

Sidney kissed her for remembering them, but said, "I will not take them
from you, for I know where I can get plenty;" and away he ran, till he
found a large gap in the hedge, through which he climbed up the bank
into the wood. Marcella begged him to return; but Sidney was deaf to all
intreaties, and invited them to follow his example. Marcella would not,
and told him how wrong it was to trespass on forbidden grounds.

"Oh," said he, "but I am not doing any hurt. Only see what a quantity of
nice strawberries I have got in my hat: if you will hold your frock, I
will throw you some."

"No, Sidney," said she, "they do not belong to us: we have no right to
any of them."

"Why, if I did not pluck them the birds would, and you know the owner of
the wood cannot hinder them," answered Sidney.

"Well, then," said Juliet, "consider how you are robbing the pretty
robin redbreasts and the blackbirds of their food. Come back, come back,
Sydney, for papa is close by."

"Wait a minute," said he.

"Make haste, then."

"Here I am," said he, jumping across the ditch, which, unfortunately for
him, was at that part half full of dirty water, and the opposite side
high and slippery. Just as he had gained the edge of the bank his feet
slipped, and he fell back into the water up to his middle, and his new
trowsers were dirted all over. With some trouble he contrived to
scramble out, by the assistance of his sisters; and whilst they were
trying to fish out his hat, which unfortunately had fallen into the
ditch, and was now sailing about with the unlucky strawberries in it,
Mr. Fletcher and Charles came up to where Sidney stood, dripping with
wet, and wringing the water from his jacket.

"How is this, Sidney?" inquired his father: "have you been learning to
swim in this clear stream with your clothes on?"

Sidney felt very much ashamed, for he did not like to confess how
foolishly he had acted, and happening at this moment to recollect the
silver pen, he conceived it was certainly lost: he therefore hung down
his head and began to cry bitterly.

"Come, Sidney," said his father, "do not be such a baby as to cry: if
you did fall into the ditch it cannot be helped; I dare say it was
accidental."

But Sidney, who well knew how naughty he had been, only wept the more.

Charles having, in the mean time, by the assistance of his father's
walking-stick, brought the hat and all its cargo safe to land, a
suspicion of somewhat like the truth struck the mind of Mr. Fletcher,
who demanded an account of the whole transaction. Marcella knew that her
brother would rather suffer any punishment than tell a falsehood to
screen himself, she therefore gave her father a brief account of the
unlucky affair.

Mr. Fletcher observed, that the fault had brought its own punishment;
and bade the children hasten home, as Sidney's wet clothes might do him
a serious injury, if they were not speedily changed.

Sidney ran into the parlour, and with tears of real penitence confessed
the fault to his mother.

"Well, Sidney," said his good mamma, "I am not _very_ angry with you,
as you have candidly told me all. But I fear the pen is forfeited; and
you must not mind having to appear in those dirtied clothes, for I
cannot afford to buy you new ones yet. I think you will take more heed,
and not be so naughty for the future."

Sidney kissed his dear, kind mamma, and declared that he deserved to
lose the pen, and wear the spoiled clothes, as a warning for him never
to act contrary to the good advice of his sisters.

His mother then bade him change his clothes and return again to her. In
about ten minutes Sidney returned, looking very clean and neat in his
everyday clothes. He found his father, and brother, and sisters in the
room. When he came in Mrs. Fletcher said, "now, children, I have some
news concerning your little favourite the water-carrier." The two boys
got on each side of her, eagerly asking her what she had heard about
him.

"If you will have patience I will tell you, said Mrs. Fletcher. As soon
as you were all gone, I put on my hat, and went to pay my milkwoman,
Mrs. Beals, who lives under the same roof as the little water-carrier.
There I learnt that he is a French boy, who has neither father nor
mother, but only a blind grandfather, whom he entirely supports by his
industry. This was enough for me; I tapped at the door, which was opened
by the little fellow himself. He had been drawing water from the well;
but on perceiving me he left his pails, and came up, cap in hand, and
having dusted a chair, begged me, in the best English he could speak, to
be seated. At one end of the kitchen, which, though scantily furnished,
was very clean, sat an old man, with white hair and a long silver beard,
splitting straw."

"An old man, with a long white beard!" exclaimed all the little
children; "how funny he must have looked!"

"Did you not burst out a laughing, mamma, when you saw him?" asked
little Juliet.

"No, indeed: I did not commit so foolish and cruel an action, as to
laugh at an old blind man," said Mrs. Fletcher. "But are you inclined to
hear the rest, or I shall leave off?"

"Oh no, dear mamma, do not leave off--pray go on," cried all the
children in a breath.

"Well, I did not burst out a laughing, as you supposed, Juliet, but I
took a seat close by the old blind man, who rose and asked Louis in
French whether he had given the lady a seat, for he knew me to be a
female by my voice. Now, children, I must inform you that the
conversation was carried on in French; but as you do not understand that
language, I shall give it you, as near as I can remember, in English.

"I told him that I was a neighbour, and hearing that he was both blind
and ill, had come to see if I could render him any assistance. He
expressed his gratitude, and said that he had been very sadly, but, by
the blessing of God, he was now much better, owing to the care and
tenderness with which his little grandchild had nursed him.

"I then told him how interested you all were for the little
water-carrier. The old man smiled with pleasure, and said, 'Louis is
indeed a good boy, and God will take care of him, and bountifully reward
him for all the dutiful kindness he has shown to me.'

"He told me that Louis was nearly fifteen years old.

"'How long have you, then, been in this country?' asked I.

"'Nearly four years,' said the old man, 'during which time my son Louis
has supported me by his industry.'

"I then asked him why he came to England. He said, 'Oh, lady, when the
wars and the troubles broke out in our own country, I was too fond of my
king to fight against him, so with my son and daughter, and this little
Louis, I embarked, with what money we had, for England; but a storm came
on in the night--the packet was wrecked, and my two children perished in
the waves. By some miracle, myself and my grandchild were saved: but we
lost all our property. You may be sure, madam, that I sorrowed greatly
for the loss of my dear children; I would much rather it had pleased God
to have taken me instead, or all of us together: but it was not so, and
His will be done. I was enabled to reach London by the charity of a
worthy gentleman, who likewise put me in a way of earning my bread by
straw-work.'

"I relate this to you, as near as I can, in the same way old Justin told
it to me. But to go on: he lived in this manner some time, but at length
he fell sick of a fever, which deprived him of that greatest of all
earthly blessings, his sight. His friend, the good gentleman, died
suddenly, and Justin had exhausted all his little savings in medicine.
Being blind he was unable to work, therefore what was he to do? Louis
indeed had learned the art of working in straw: but he was very young,
and his time was fully taken up in attending on his sick grandfather.

"On Justin's recovery, his landlady, finding that her lodgers had no
means of paying their rent, advised him to travel down to one of the
large towns, where he would get a double price for his straw baskets;
besides which, she assured him that Louis would die, shut up in the
close air of London. Pleased by the hopes which the woman held out to
him, Justin and his grandson set off to travel down into the country. He
said he did indeed experience great kindness from the people. He did not
like to beg--he had never in his life before asked for a piece of
bread; but the silent pleading of his little Louis, and his own forlorn
state, moved the charitable hearts of the English to pity and relieve
them."

Here Mrs. Fletcher paused to take breath.

"Well, mamma, go on," said Sidney, impatient to know what became of poor
Justin.

"Do, dear mother, tell us all," said Charles and Marcella both together.

"Well, my dears, at last they came to this city, and a good widow took
them into her house till they could get some employment. It was at a
time when water was very scarce, as it often is at this part of the
city, and water-carriers being in great request, the good widow heard of
a place where Louis might probably earn some money. Louis was very happy
to hear of this, and being fitted out with pails, he commenced his new
employment, and worked so hard, that at the end of the week he brought
home to his grandfather seven shillings. The benevolent widow, though
she was in very moderate circumstances herself, would not take any
payment for the time they had been at her house, and, not content with
this kindness, she engaged to dispose of any little trifle they could
manufacture in straw, to the ladies at whose houses she went to work.

"'You may be sure, madam,' said old Justin, 'that we were very grateful
for the benefits bestowed by this excellent woman; but we insisted on
her sharing the profits of our little works. Louis gave great
satisfaction wherever he went with his water pails. One lady took a
great deal of notice of him, because of his beautiful curling hair, and
presented him with a new cap; another lady gave him a trifle to hear him
talk in his broken English. Louis continued to work so hard, that I was
fearful he would ruin his health; he now always earned eight shillings
every week by carrying of water, besides putting our little dwelling to
rights, and settling me to my employment, which was only splitting and
preparing straw for him against the evening, for then he fell to work
himself, and soon made straw baskets and boxes much quicker and neater
than I ever could." The well whence Louis drew the water was at some
distance from their lodgings, and the kind-hearted widow procured the
rooms they now inhabit at a low rate. Being now close to the water,
Louis was able to carry a great deal more in a day; they went on for
about a year very comfortably, but at length old Justin fell sick, and
then it was, Sidney, you used to see Louis working so hard in the rain,
and beginning so much earlier, and keeping on till dark in the evening,
that he might earn enough to support his sick grandfather. A little
after this, their good friend the widow was forced to go up to London,
to attend a daughter who was taken ill. I have now told you, my
children, all that old Justin communicated to me."

"Oh, thank you, dear mamma," said Sidney, "for telling us all this. But
what did Louis say to you?"

"Why Louis took my hand, and said, 'May God bless sweet lady, for you
much good and ver kind.'

"I asked him two or three questions in English, and, among others, if he
could read. He considered a minute or two, and then said very quickly,
'Louis no book--me no read.'

"I then asked him who taught him English?' He said, 'Good lady widow
teach Louis English; me know none before.'

"I now spoke to him in French, and asked 'if he were contented with his
present situation.' You should have seen him then, Sidney, how his black
eyes sparkled with joy when he heard me address him in his native
language! He answered me with great animation and vivacity, 'Oh, yes,
Madame, I am quite contented, for I can honestly earn my bread; but I
should be happier if I had more time to attend to the wants of my poor
blind grandfather; and this I should have, if it were possible for me to
work entirely on the straw.'

"I told him that he was a good boy, and that I would come and see him
again. This was all that passed between Louis and myself, only I found
that he had taken great pains in endeavouring to teach his grandfather a
few words of English; but, alas! poor Justin was too old to learn a
strange tongue."

"Oh, dear mamma," exclaimed Charles, taking his mother's hand as he
looked wistfully in her face, "cannot we do something for poor Louis and
his blind grandfather, that he may not be obliged to work so hard?"

"That is exactly what I wished to consult you all about," replied Mrs.
Fletcher. "What will be the best plan to pursue? Charles, you are the
eldest, and shall speak first."

"I would get Justin into the blind hospital," said Charles, "and then
you know, mamma, we could put Louis to school."

"That will not do," rejoined Mrs. Fletcher: "for, in the first place, I
am pretty sure that Louis would not quit his grandfather; and besides I
do not see what good would result from putting Louis to school."

"Oh," cried Sidney and Marcella at once, "let us put all our money
together and buy Louis some new clothes."

"That is much better," said their father, "and you are very good
children to offer it; but I think I can improve on your plan still
more."

"Do, dear papa, let us hear what _you_ think best," they all said.

"You said just now, Sidney," answered Mr. Fletcher, "that you would all
put your money together and buy Louis a suit of new clothes; now, if
you will agree to that, I will make a contract with my friend Newman,
who keeps the great toyshop at the bottom of Queen Street, to take all
the straw ornaments, baskets, and whatever Louis makes, at a reasonable
price. This I think can be done; for I heard him the other day
expressing a wish that he could meet with such articles ready made here,
as sending for them from London made them come very expensive."

"And as Justin can split and prepare the straw, ready for Louis to work
up," said Mrs. Fletcher, "I have no doubt but they will by this mean
gain a very comfortable livelihood."

The children unanimously agreed that this was the best plan yet thought
of, and were all eager to have it put in immediate execution;
accordingly they all ran to fetch their stock of cash. Charles had six
shillings, which he had been a long time saving up to buy a flute; and
in addition to this he had a new crown piece, which his uncle Fielding
had sent him at Christmas, when each of his sisters and his brother had
received a similar present. "I am sure," said he, "my uncle will not be
angry if I give this to clothe poor Louis, so here are eleven shillings
of mine."

"And I have nine shillings and six-pence," said Marcella, emptying her
little treasure-box into her mother's lap.

Sidney had, with the new crown-piece, in all eight shillings, and some
halfpence; but poor little Juliet (who could never pass either a
cake-shop or a beggar while she had a penny in her pocket), now slowly
advanced with her mite, which consisted of the enormous sum of three
halfpence.

Mrs. Fletcher smiled at this donation, but it was rather a wonder that
Juliet was mistress of so large a sum.

"Well, my dears," said their mother, "as you have all so generously
given up your money, you shall go with me after tea to chuse some
clothes for Louis. Charles, you are nearly of his size, so you shall be
fitted for him."

The children jumped for joy whilst anticipating the delight which Louis
would feel when newly clothed by their liberality; and after tea they
went with their mother to a large warehouse of ready-made clothes,
where, after some consultation, they made choice of a suit of good gray
mixed cloth, a pair of shoes, and two strong pair of stockings. In the
mean time Mr. Fletcher called on his friend Newman, who agreed to take
all Louis's straw work, provided it was neatly wrought, and he was very
glad to find one who would serve his shop so near home; he promised to
call on Louis and look at some of his baskets, and if they were well
made, he said he would keep him in constant employ. This being happily
settled, Mr. Fletcher and his benevolent family returned home, much
pleased with the success of their scheme.

It was too late that night to mention any thing to Louis; but the next
morning, after the children had finished their studies, Mrs. Fletcher
took them all to Justin's cottage, and Marcella was permitted to carry
the bundle. On their tapping at the door, Louis, who was cooking a
morsel of dinner over a little fire, sprung forward; and taking Mrs.
Fletcher's hand, exclaimed, while his dark eyes sparkled with animation,
"Her come agen! her come agen!" Mrs. Fletcher smiled at his imperfect
attempt to express his joy at seeing her. "Here, Louis," said she
(addressing herself to him in French), "here is a reward for the dutiful
care you have taken of your grandfather."

Marcella advanced, and Louis gazed in silent wonder as she unfolded the
bundle, and displayed its contents; indeed he seemed almost struck
speechless with astonishment, whilst he looked alternately at the
clothes and at his kind visitors. Mrs. Fletcher, perceiving his
emotion, took him by the hand, and said, "Compose yourself, my little
fellow, and try whether this suit will fit you."

Louis retired into an inner room: but soon returned so much improved in
appearance, that his young friends could scarcely recognize in him the
little ragged water-carrier whom they had been accustomed to see.

Justin now advanced to thank them for their bounty; and his joy was much
increased when he was informed that Louis would be no longer forced to
carry water pails for his subsistence, but would pursue his straw-work,
and remain always with him. Mrs. Fletcher perceiving a sudden gloom
overspread the face of Louis, asked him in French what was the matter.

"Ah, Madame," replied he, "I was thinking what pleasure my poor
grandfather would have had in _seeing_ his little Louis in these
beautiful new clothes; but, alas! he is _blind_, and cannot see any
thing."

The aged Justin laid his withered hand on the shoulder of his grandson,
and said impressively, "My child, do not repine at the will of the
Almighty. It pleased God to deprive me of my sight; yet he has had great
blessings in store for me. It was only for you, my Louis, that I feared;
and it has pleased heaven to listen to my prayers, and to raise up these
kind friends for you. God bless and reward them as they deserve!"

Mr. Fletcher now entered the cottage, with his friend Mr. Newman. With a
trembling hand Louis produced the specimens of his work, which were in a
manner to decide his fate; but the toy-man was so well pleased with
them, and so deeply interested in the little manufacturer, that he
assured Louis he should never want employment whilst he lived, nor a
friend while he continued to deserve one.

Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher kindly invited Louis and his grandfather to spend
the remainder of the day with them, to the great joy of the children,
who liked Louis better than ever; and they have often looked back with
delight upon this day, as one of the happiest in their lives. Sidney at
night received the silver pen, and a kiss from his mother, who said he
had well deserved it.

While Justin and his grandson were at the house of Mrs. Fletcher, she
ordered a few light chairs and some plain furniture, with materials to
assist Louis in his work, to be conveyed to their cottage; and little
Juliet who had bitterly lamented the smallness of her subscription to
the purchasing the clothes, now begged her mother to allow of her
presenting something of her own.

Mrs. Fletcher gave her leave to carry to the cottage a pot with a
beautiful geranium, which had been given to her some time before. She
placed it on the window where old Justin usually sat, who had the
pleasure (though he could not see its beauty) of inhaling its delightful
perfume, as he sat splitting the straw for Louis's work.

Louis would never part with his water-pails, which were always placed in
a conspicuous part of the cottage, "for these," he said, "first
introduced me to the notice of my dear friends." And when, with a heart
overflowing with joy, he has expressed his gratitude, Mrs. Fletcher
would often answer, "remember, Louis, this was the reward of
_industry_."

                                  ----

When Mrs. Dormer had finished the tale, she said to her son, "William,
do you like this story? or do you prefer to hear about giants, and
dwarfs, and fairies?"

William looked very thoughtful for some time: at last he said, "no,
mamma, this is certainly the best; for it seems more like the truth, I
dare say all these things really happened; while you know even little
Louis would laugh at me if I really believed there ever were such
creatures as fairies."

"Ah, William," said Mary, "but there are some very beautiful stories
about fairies. Do not you remember the story in verse which mamma read
to us some time ago? It began thus:


     "In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days,
     When midnight fairies danced the maze."


"Oh yes, Mary, I remember, and I wish mamma would read us some more
tales like that."

"I must find them first, Willy," said Mrs. Dormer, "for that tale stands
alone in the English language: I do not remember another that equals it
in beauty. But you must be content with hearing the adventures of
children like yourselves, for my stock of fairy lore is almost
exhausted."

"What is the name, dear aunt, of the next story you mean to read us,"
asked Kate, "for I peeped into your desk when you took the last out, and
I saw that you had a good many more left."

"That will depend on circumstances, my love," replied Mrs. Dormer. "I do
not know which I shall read first. But I will tell you what you will
like better; and that is, our friends Mr. and Mrs. Matthews have sent an
invitation for you all to spend to-morrow afternoon with them. We shall
have a delightful walk across the heath; and you, William, will see your
little friends--for George and Edward have come home for the holidays."

This news gave great delight to the little Dormers, and they spent the
evening anticipating the pleasure of the morrow, and in hoping and
wishing for a fine day.

                                  ----

William's eyes were opened by six the next morning; he ran to the
chamber where his sister and cousin slept, and tapping at the door,
asked them if they would get up, as it was a fine morning, and study
their lessons in the garden before breakfast, and then they would be
done very early when their mamma was teaching them. This proposal was
perfectly agreeable to the little girls; who, after dressing themselves
and saying their prayers, went into the garden, and with lively spirits
enjoyed the delicious freshness of a lovely summer's morning. Here they
walked up and down, studying very diligently till they had their lessons
by heart, and already looked forward to the pleasure of their mamma's
praise.

All this was very well, and they walked some time very soberly, till
little Louis came into the garden, saying he had some very hard words to
learn, and intreating his sister Mary to pronounce them for him. Mary
very good-naturedly complied, and sat down on the seat under the fir
tree to con them over with him.

Kate and William, though good children were sometimes inclined to be
giddy, and this morning they were in such high spirits, that they were
more careless than usual. Unfortunately, chance led their steps towards
the poultry-yard, which was separated from the garden by some pales and
a wicket. They opened the gate and passed through, to look at some nice
broods of ducks that were just hatched. Kate stood several minutes
admiring the soft yellow ducklings, and did not notice what William was
doing, till he called her to partake in some sport which he thought very
delightful. He had laid a plank (left there by accident) across a small
dirty pond, dug for the convenience of the ducks, and was racing
backwards and forwards so cheerfully on this board, that giddy little
Kate thought she must follow his example. After they had amused
themselves for some time with this diversion, William took it into his
head to jump from the plank across the pond, and as it was a very little
distance, he did it easily. Kate endeavoured to follow, but as she was
not used to leaping, it is no great wonder that she plumped up to her
waist in the dirty water. They both shrieked in concert for help; and
the gardener being fortunately near the spot, soon pulled Miss Kate out
of the mud, and carried her in his arms to the house. In their way they
met Mary and Louis, who had been alarmed by the cries of Kate: Mary was
terribly frightened at seeing the water stream from her cousin's
clothes; she ran to her mother's door, crying, "pray, mamma, come
quickly, for I fear that Kate is drowned."

Mrs. Dormer was much astonished, for she did not think Kate could get at
any water sufficient to drown herself. However, she hastened to the
children's room, where she beheld the weeping Kate, with the house-maid
busily employed in taking off her wet clothes. Mrs. Dormer's first care
was to hurry the imprudent child to bed, and cover her up warm, while
her clean clothes were airing. She then demanded the particulars of the
disaster; and, on hearing the whole affair, could hardly help laughing.
However, she comforted the weeping girl by saying, if she had not taken
cold there was no great harm done, and, promising to send her up some
warm tea, she retired; whilst Kate was greatly troubled for fear she
should be made to lay in bed all the day.

When Mrs. Dormer entered the parlour, she perceived William, looking
much like a culprit.

"So, Sir," said his mother, "it was you who led your cousin into this
mischief."

"It was, dear mamma, but I am very, very sorrow," answered William.

"Consider," said Mrs. Dormer, "the delicate state of your cousin's
health, and how fatal such an accident might have been if her wet
clothes had not been taken off directly. I do not think she will be ill
as it is, but hope she will be able to go to Mrs. Matthews's this
afternoon.

"I suppose, mamma," said William, "as I have been so bad a boy, _I_ am
not to go?"

"You well know," said his mother, "that I never punish an act of
carelessness as I do any thing criminal, therefore I shall trust to your
own good disposition, that you will not err in a like manner for the
future."

William kissed the hand of his kind mamma, and said, "I did indeed think
of Sidney's jumping into the ditch, just as Kate fell into the pond: but
you know, mamma, that was too late. We should have thought on it before
we played such a foolish trick."

After Mrs. Dormer had done breakfast she went up and dressed Kate, who
had taken no hurt. The children finished their lessons very soon: and
Mrs. Dormer told them there was time for a good deal of play before
dinner. "I think," added she, "I can answer for Kate's keeping out of
the duck-pond."

On hearing this remark Kate hung down her head, and looked very
foolish--at last she said, "I would rather not go out, aunt. If you
would read us a story I should like much better to sit still and hear
it."

Mrs. Dormer smiled, and unlocking her writing-desk, selected from among
her papers the tale of


THE MIDSUMMER HOLIDAYS.

"Mr. Howard and Mr. Russel were near neighbours; indeed their grounds
were only parted by a clear stream, which flowed between the two
gardens: they were both widowers, and each had one son.

Mr. Russel was an old captain retired from service, with a small fortune
and his pay to live on.

His neighbour Mr. Howard had been a banker in London, and having
amassed a large fortune, withdrew from the fatigues of business, to
enjoy the remainder of his life in the quiet retirement of the country.

These gentlemen were much alike in all their pursuits: they were both
fond of gardening, fishing, and smoking; yet they did not visit, though
they often entered into conversation across the river, when they were
fishing opposite each other.

Mr. Howard's son Philip, or Phil as he was generally called, was nearly
of the same age as Captain Russel's Harry. Captain Russel would not send
Harry to school, for he did not approve of that method of education; Mr.
Howard, on the contrary, kept his son at a public seminary, and only
suffered him to return for a short time during the Midsummer holidays.
He allowed him, indeed, to pass the whole vacation with him at
Christmas, when he thought that he could do the least mischief; and then
Phil would much rather have been at school, for his father made him
study as closely as he did there.

As to Harry Russel, he was the most unlucky boy that ever was born. He
was always in mischief, robbing the farmers' orchards, or trespassing on
their grounds, to deprive the poor innocent birds of their eggs and
young. There always was some complaint being brought in from the maids,
such as, "Sir, is Master Russel to steal the pipes? he has got away ever
so many."

Then when Captain Russel went to shave, he found all his shaving soap
gone: upon inquiry, it always was, "Why, Sir, Master Harry would take
it; he said it was only to blow bubbles with." Poor Captain Russel was
always in a passion: for before he was cool from one he was thrown into
another. There was the gardener, with, "Sir, Master Harry will tread on
the border, Master Harry will run in the high grass, Master Harry will
pluck the fruit;" but, in general, it ended with, "Master Harry will
take the boy away from his work, to play with him." Thus was the Captain
constantly tormented.

Captain Russel would not permit his son to visit, or receive visits,
from any of the young gentlemen in the neighbourhood, for fear of having
his flowers gathered, and his garden injured.

Harry, who was of a very social disposition, rather than not have
playfellows, made companions of his father's cow-boy and all his ragged
brethren; for Mr. Russel kept a cow, and this boy tended her, and worked
in the garden.

Another of Master Henry's bad tricks was taking a large stick, and
dabbling in his father's favourite fishing place; whenever he was found
so employed, he received a good thrashing from the captain, which you
must acknowledge he richly deserved.

Now the Midsummer holidays approached, and Harry heard Mr. Howard tell
his father that Phil was coming home to spend a week or two with him.
This greatly rejoiced Master Hal, for he was very curious to see his
neighbour's son, of whom he formed great hopes.

At length the wished-for day arrived, and Harry ran down to the river to
watch for young Howard's appearing in the opposite garden. He did not
wait long, for a loud shout made him run to the banks of the stream; and
there stood the long expected Phil, throwing stones into the river to
scare the fish.

Now it was very delightful to find a companion; but Harry thought it
still better for him to be as mischievous a creature as he was himself.
They soon greeted each other with great glee, and stood talking some
time across the river. Phil invited Harry to come over to him.

"No," said Harry, "I cannot do that, for I do not choose to undress for
a swim."

"Then come with your clothes on," said Phil; "look, here is a shallow
place."

Harry sat down on the grass, and pulling off his shoes and stockings,
threw them over to Phil; he then paddled across the river with great
expedition, and was joyfully welcomed by young Howard. For a long time
they walked about, keeping at a respectful distance from the house for
fear of being seen by Phil's father; and, as they had many things to
talk about, they did no great harm that day.

From this time the two boys became such friends, that, regardless of
their fathers' express commands to the contrary, they were seldom or
ever apart; and as they were commonly walking arm and arm in one or
other of the gardens, nothing could remain undisturbed for them; the
gardens were robbed of the best fruit, and the newly raked beds were
completely covered with footmarks.

One day Mr. Russel, looking out of the chamber window, was not a little
surprised at beholding his son perched in one of the great cherry-trees
which grew on the grass-plot in front, and Master Phil in the other. In
a tone of great displeasure, he demanded what they were doing there?

Phil replied, without leaving off eating, and with the greatest
audacity, "we are keeping the birds off the cherry-tree, Sir."

Mr. Russel was greatly enraged at the cool impudence of this answer; and
though he made no reply, he muttered to himself, as he turned from the
window, "these are your Eton tricks, young gentleman; but your back
shall pay for it." He then ordered the culprits to be seized as soon as
they left the trees, and to be brought before him.

This was accordingly done; and the luckless pilferers, when they were
preparing to escape, were caught and carried before Mr. Russel, in spite
of all their kicking and struggling. The captain stood ready to receive
them with a horsewhip, which he laid over their shoulders pretty
smartly; and though they implored for mercy, and promised never to
misbehave again, the captain knew that such promises could not be
depended on. When he thought he had punished them sufficiently, he sent
his own boy sobbing to bed, and followed Master Phil, with the horsewhip
in his hand, threatening that the next time he caught him on his side of
the stream that he would give him twice as much; when Phil, on reaching
the stream, boldly plunged in, shoes and all, and splashed over to his
own garden, and ran to the house, crying bitterly.

Though Mr. Howard knew that Phil had well deserved the stripes he had
received, yet he did not choose that any one should chastise his son but
himself, and he told Captain Russel so the next day. Captain Russel said
he had borne with young Howard's lawless conduct long enough, and he
would put up with it no longer, but whip him home whenever he caught him
trespassing on his grounds, and Mr. Howard might do the same by his Hal,
if he liked it. Mr. Howard declared, if he came plaguing him, he would;
and then told Captain Russel it was his unbearable boy who had spoiled
and corrupted the manners of Phil. This Captain Russel denied with some
warmth, and retorted the charge; high words now arose between the
fathers, and, though I am sure neither had any reason to defend their
children, the two gentlemen parted in great wrath; but both agreed to
horsewhip the first boy that entered the other's garden.

It was not long before Mr. Howard put his threat in execution, for in
defiance of these prohibitions, Phil and Hal went into Mr. Howard's
meadow, and were amusing themselves with swinging on the great gate.
This made Mr. Howard very angry: he bestowed on them a good caning, and
sent Hal Russel roaring home. One would have thought this might have
cured them of their improper behaviour, but they would get over into the
forbidden gardens now as often as ever. Mr. Howard was at length so
completely wearied by his son's mischievous tricks, that he determined
to shorten his holidays by three weeks: poor Phil was accordingly doomed
to depart on the next Monday. But on the preceding Saturday he invited
Harry to come over, and have one last gambol in the garden. He told him
there was an early plum-tree loaded with delicious fruit, just ripe, and
persuaded him to come and have the first taste. Harry needed no very
pressing invitation, and having forded the river, he proceeded with his
companion to the plum-tree. The fruit was indeed tempting, and Harry
mounted with great expedition: but he had scarcely tasted one plum
before Phil called,

"Come down, Harry; make haste--my father is coming towards us!"

Harry was so hurried, that he forgot his usual dexterity in descending;
his foot slipped, and he fell with such violence on the ground that his
right arm and leg were broken. Mr. Howard, who had not before observed
that Hal was in the garden, was instantly drawn to the spot by the
screams of the suffering boy, whom he tenderly raised, and saw his
servants convey him carefully home. He returned to his own house, and
conveyed his son to a room which was utterly divested of all furniture,
except a bed to sleep on; he then gave him a supply of bread and water
for the day, and locked him in.

[Illustration: Page 66. Page 74.

_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]

Phil, who had now leisure to repent of his folly and wilfulness,
expected at least to be confined in this solitude till he was taken to
school; and he grieved bitterly for the deplorable fate of his companion
Harry, who might probably lose his life, or the use of his limbs. Many
were the tears which he shed while eating his solitary meals, which were
delivered to him in silence by a servant. Often did he wish for his
father's presence, that he might ask his forgiveness; but three tedious
days and nights passed on, and Mr. Howard did not appear. All the
amusement Phil had, was looking out of a high and closely-barred window.
He had not even a book to pass away the heavy hours, though he would
have been thankful for the dullest that ever was written. On the fourth
day, towards the evening, as he was sitting sighing in a corner, the
door unlocked, and on raising his eyes, his father stood before him,
looking very stern and severe. He took the culprit's hand in silence,
and led him through the garden. Phil shuddered when he saw the fatal
tree, the cause of so much sorrow, and felt thankful when he had passed
it. Mr. Howard conducted him through their own meadow to a little bridge
that crossed the river, and divided Captain Russel's field from theirs.
The gate of this bridge was always before kept padlocked; but on this
occasion Mr. Howard opened it, and proceeded to Captain Russel's house,
and went up the stairs to Harry's bed-chamber. The curtains were closed
round the bed, and Captain Russel sat there, reading the Bible aloud.
When he saw Mr. Howard, he rose and gave him his hand. Mr. Howard asked
if his patient were awake. "Yes," said Captain Russel, unclosing the
curtains, and exhibiting to the weeping Phil his once healthy and
blooming companion, reduced, comparatively, to a shadow. He was
supported by a number of pillows, and looked like death. His hair, that
used to curl in ringlets round his rosy, laughing face, now hung lank
and straight over his sunken eyes and wan cheeks. This sad sight filled
the heart of Phil with grief and remorse: he threw himself by the side
of the bed, and hid his face in the bed-clothes to stifle his sobs.
Harry stretched out his burning hand, and in a feeble voice desired him
to be comforted.

"See, young man," said Captain Russel, "the fatal effects of
disobedience: this might have been _your_ fate: let this misfortune be a
lesson to you for the future. I see I need say no more."

Phil was truly penitent: he sobbed as if his heart would break, and
implored forgiveness with such unaffected sorrow, that the two gentlemen
freely pardoned him. "From this time," he said, "I will be as dutiful
as I was before disobedient, and if poor Hal does but recover, we will
never be mischievous again."

"Think, Philip," said his father, "if Harry dies, you will have to
answer for being the means of depriving Captain Russel of his only
child."

Phil's grief now became so violent, that Mr. Howard thought that he had
better take him away.

"Oh, Sir," said Phil (taking the hand of Captain Russel), "pray let me
stay by Harry. I will sit quite still, and make no noise; indeed I
cannot leave him."

The sick boy, in a low and feeble voice, begged that his friend might
stay. Captain Russel kindly consented, and Philip took his station by
the side of Harry's bed, and by every tender care endeavoured to soothe
his pain and raise his spirits. When Captain Russel saw that Philip had
naturally a noble disposition and a good heart, he would come and
converse with him, and often praised him for the friendly attention he
shewed his suffering friend. When Philip dared ask him questions, he
inquired what had happened during the days he had passed in confinement.

"The first three days," said Captain Russel, "were passed by my
suffering child in all the agony of pain and delirium; your father, very
kindly, passed all his time with me, sharing my solicitude and grief. On
the evening of the fourth day Harry recovered his senses, and earnestly
begged to see you. Your father immediately went and fetched you, the
rest you know."

Philip had a bed made up in his friend's room, and never left him but
when the doctor was dressing poor Harry's leg and and arm: he then used
to take a little air. At last Harry was able to sit up, but he was
forced to hold his arm in a sling, and have his leg supported by
pillows.

After some weeks Harry was sufficiently recovered to walk in the
garden; and though he soon looked as rosy and handsome as before, still
he always had a slight lameness, which served to remind him of his
disobedience.

Philip staid at home till Harry was quite well, and then their fathers
agreed that both the boys should go together to Eton school. This plan
was carried into execution, and when they returned at Christmas they
were so completely altered in their deportment, that their fathers
beheld them with pride and pleasure.

You may be sure that the next Midsummer holidays were spent in a very
different manner from those of the preceding year. Mr. Howard and
Captain Russel had now become intimate friends, and often made a
comfortable party by the river side, with their pipes and fishing
tackle; and when the boys came, they would sit and play quietly at
draughts, or chess, on a seat near them.

Hal was never heard to repine at this accident, but as he grew up he
often declared that this misfortune had proved a blessing to him and
Philip, and would warn any wayward children he saw in mischief to desist
from evil, lest, like him, they should suffer from the bad effects of
_disobedience_.

                                  ----

The cloth was laid for dinner by the time Mrs. Dormer had finished her
story. The children all looked very grave at the end, and seemed much
edified: particularly William, who said, as he seated himself at table,
"I am afraid, mamma, you think that I behaved as bad as Harry or Phil
this morning."

"No, Willy," said his mother, "what you did wrong was not the result of
wilful mischief but was only for want of thought: for instance, if I had
looked over the pales when you were dancing on the plants, and told you
to come away, and never to do so again, I think I can answer for my
William that he would not have disobeyed me."

"No, dear mamma," said William, "I hope I should not have been so
wicked."

Just as dinner was finished, Edward Matthews drove up to the door in a
donkey chaise, which he had brought, by the desire of his father, that
the little girls might not be fatigued with walking in the heat of the
day. Mrs. Dormer, with Kate and Mary, were soon ready; and Edward,
having lifted the young ladies and little Lewis into the chaise, walked
with William by the side of the donkey, leading him, and patting his
neck. Mr. and Mrs. Dormer walked behind, and were greatly pleased with
the attention and kindness of Edward: who, to say the truth, was a
favourite with all the family. He was a fine manly youth of thirteen,
but though he was by many years older than the little Dormers, he was
so sweet tempered that they doated on him.

The little party proceeded joyously across the heath, exulting in the
company of their dear Edward; who, poor fellow, had need of two or three
pair of ears: for, in the joy of their hearts, the children all talked
at once, telling him all the wonderful things that had happened to them
since they saw him last.

The afternoon passed rapidly; and the children enjoyed themselves so
much, that their indulgent parents, rejoicing to see them good and
happy, delayed breaking up the party till the latest minute. When the
hour of separation at length arrived, and they were preparing to depart,
Mrs. Matthews asked Mrs. Dormer if she would permit her little family to
join her sons in a party to Hampstead-fair, that day week. Now Mrs.
Dormer had a dislike to fairs; but as Mr. Dormer seemed to wish it, and
the children all looked up in her face with most anxious countenances,
she would not withhold her consent.

The donkey chaise was again brought to the door, and the little Dormers
had a charming ride home. Mary, in particular, was delighted at seeing
the heath spangled with glow-worms.

"Oh, papa," she exclaimed, "do let me get out and catch some of the
lovely creatures; I never saw any before."

"No, Mary," said her mother, "you must not run on the damp grass with
your thin shoes. Look," continued she, holding up her handkerchief,
which shone like a lamp, "see, Mary, I have collected a great many of
the lovely creatures, as you call them, and will examine them when we
get home."

Mary was highly pleased at this; but she could not help calling out, as
she saw these beautiful insects shine brighter as the darkness
increased: "Oh, mamma, there is another! do catch it."

All the little party were quite grieved when they turned down the lane
that separated their house from the heath.

Sleep weighed too heavy on the eyes of all the children to allow them to
look at the glow-worms that night, but in the morning Mary ran into her
mother's dressing-room to look at the beautiful prisoners. She hastily
took off the lid of a glass jar, in which her mother had placed them,
and, lifting up some wet moss, gave almost a shriek of disappointment.
"Oh, mamma," she said, "all the glow-worms have run away; here are
nothing but some ugly brown beetles! I dare say they have eaten those
pretty creatures."

"What a pity!" said Kate. "Dear aunt, let us empty the jar into the
garden."

"No, my love," said her aunt, "let them alone; perhaps these beetles may
bring us some tidings of the glow-worms." At that minute they heard Mr.
Dormer below, talking to Edward, who had just arrived, with his little
brother George. Mrs. Dormer, therefore, went down to ask them to dinner;
which invitation they thankfully accepted.

In the cool of the evening, after the children and their guests had
tired themselves with play, they all came up to Mrs. Dormer's
dressing-room and begged for a story. Mrs. Dormer had prepared for them,
there, a regale of cakes and fruit, and while they were enjoying it, she
kindly read to them the story of


THE BLIND HIGHLAND PIPER.

"If you have finished writing those rules in your cyphering book in
time, you shall go with me to the booksellers, to choose some books for
your cousin Jane, and for yourself," said Mr. Percy to his nephew,
Arthur Stanly, who was writing at a desk.

"Thank you, my dear uncle. What time shall you be ready?" asked Arthur,
still continuing to write on.

"In about half an hour at farthest," said Mr. Percy.

"Shall you be ready by that time?"

Arthur cast his eyes over a long page of writing and figures which he
had still to copy into his book, repeating, "Half an hour! I am afraid I
cannot get it all done."

"I shall be sorry," observed his uncle, "to go without you; but I am
engaged to dine with some friends precisely at two o'clock. It is now a
few minutes past one: therefore we shall have but one quarter of an hour
to walk there, and transact our business, and the other quarter to go
home and dress in."

Arthur ardently wished that the time went slower.

"I think you have had plenty of time to finish this rule; it is now
upwards of an hour since you began. What have you been doing all this
while?" said Mr. Percy, looking over his nephew's shoulder.

Arthur felt much ashamed: he looked down at his feet, and began tying
his shoe-strings without saying a word, for he did not know what excuse
to offer to his uncle.

Mr. Percy still looked at him, as if expecting an answer; and at last he
repeated the question.

"I was trying," said Arthur, "to catch a robin which flew into the room.
I was very silly, and have lost a great deal of time by it."

"You was silly, indeed," replied his uncle; "but that is your concern,
not mine. However, if you have finished by the time the hand of the hall
clock points to half past one, you shall go with me. If your rule be
written out neatly in that time, I shall give you great credit, if not
you must remain at home. Here are two good pens for you."

[Illustration: Page 81. Page 85.

_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]

Arthur eagerly took the pens and began writing; but his uncle had
hardly quitted the room, when the thought entered into his head that no
one would be the wiser if he were to put back the clock a few minutes.
Accordingly, without giving himself time to reflect on the gross
impropriety of such an action, he opened the study door and looked out
into the hall. No one was near; he listened a moment--; all was quite
still. He then jumped upon a chair which stood near the clock, and,
having carefully opened the door in front, put back the hand ten
minutes. In doing this, however, he was under considerable alarm, for
persons who are acting wrong are always in fear of being detected.

He now jumped from the chair, and ran back to his desk; but his hand
trembled so much that he could hardly hold his pen. In a minute or two,
however, he recovered himself, and just as he heard his uncle entering
the hall, he finished his assigned task, happy for a moment in the
success of his scheme.

His cousin Jane now came running into the room, and exclaimed:

"Arthur, papa is waiting for you; but he supposes you have not done
yet."

"Yes, but I have, though," answered he, in a tone of exultation, and
went into the hall with his book. Mr. Percy was standing with his watch
in his hand, comparing it with the clock.

Arthur coloured like scarlet, for he feared to be detected in his guilt.
He stood silent, and dared not raise his eyes to the face of his uncle.

But, far from having the least suspicion of what had been done, Mr.
Percy only observed that he must get his watch regulated, for though he
had set it by the clock that very morning, it was now ten minutes
faster.

Arthur felt all the pain arising from conscious guilt. He hung his head
in silence, whilst his uncle, glancing his eyes over the writing,
exclaimed, "Very well, indeed! very prettily done! I give you a deal of
credit for this; and so short a time as you had to do it in, too! Well,
we shall see, if you improve so fast, what I shall do."

"Arthur, who had never deceived his good uncle before, felt more pain at
this unmerited praise than if he had been punished as he deserved.

"Oh," thought he, "if my uncle did but know how wicked I have been, he
would never forgive me."

Mr. Percy told him to put on his hat and great-coat, for they had no
time to lose.

"Good bye, my little Jane," said Mr. Percy, as he shut the street door.

"Good bye, dear papa, and cousin Arthur," cried Jane Percy, going into
the parlour.

"I never knew you so very silent before, Arthur: what is it you are
thinking of?" said Mr. Percy, as they entered the shop of Mansel, the
bookseller.

Arthur was spared the trouble of replying, for Mr. Mansel then came
forward, and entered into conversation with Mr. Percy.

Arthur walked to the door: he scarcely knew what was going forward, his
mind being too much occupied in reflecting upon his late transgression,
and in considering what he had best do. At length he determined to tell
his cousin, and ask her advice. He had not observed the people who were
hurrying along to escape a heavy fall of snow, till his ear was
attracted by the plaintive tones of a child's voice, asking charity. He
looked up, and beheld a little girl without any shoes or stockings,
leading by the hand a Highland soldier, who was very handsome, but quite
blind. He appeared scarce thirty years of age: the tattered remnant of a
plaid which was wrapt round him bespoke poverty and distress in the
extreme, and scarcely sufficed to defend his body from the cold wind
and snow. On his head he wore a sort of cap or bonnet, of various
colours; through the many holes of which his yellow hair appeared, and
waved to the breeze in long curls. By his side he wore an old sword,
which made Arthur conclude that he was a soldier. The little girl had
been asking relief of the passengers; but no one thought it worth while
to stop, at the risk of getting wet, to inquire into the cause of their
distress. One man rudely pushed the little suppliant away, calling her
an impostor, and a little beggar brat. She then turned with a sorrowful
look towards Arthur, who dropped into the plaid bonnet which she held in
her hand all the halfpence he had about him, and inquired if her father
were quite blind?

The tears stood in the little girl's eyes, as she turned them
sorrowfully up to her father's face, and answered, "yes: he is _quite_
blind, and very ill."

"Poor man!" said Arthur; "how much he is to be pitied! Is he a
soldier?"

"He was once a soldier, but he cannot see now," replied the little girl.

"And what is your name?" asked Arthur.

"Flora Glengary?"

"And how came your father to lose his sight?"

As Flora did not immediately reply, the soldier, taking off his cap,
said, "my good young gentleman, I was once a soldier, and served with
the army in Egypt, but lost my sight by lightning. I then took my little
girl, and came back to England, in hopes of being able to beg my way to
Dunbar, my native town, in Scotland, where I had friends; but now I can
get no farther, for I am very ill, and quite friendless. Before I lost
my bagpipes I got on very well; but now they are gone, I believe my
child and I must starve."

"And how came you to lose your pipes?" asked Arthur.

"I fell sick, master, and was forced to sell them for a mere trifle.
Whilst I had them, I did not beg, exactly, for many people gave me money
to hear me play."

"And how much would it cost you to buy them again?"

"I cannot get them back for less than half a guinea," answered the
Highlander, sighing; "but we do not possess a sixpence in the world."

"Will half a guinea restore your pipes to you?" eagerly inquired young
Stanly.

He half checked himself, however, as he put his hand into his pocket,
and opened his purse; for he had no money, but one half guinea which his
aunt had recently given him, with a strict charge never to part with it
on any account. "My aunt will be very angry," said he, "if I give this
money away; besides, it was in my dear father's possession for many
years. I should like to keep it as long as he did." But when he saw the
look of joy and hope which shone in the eyes of the anxious Flora, as
she viewed the gold in his hand, he thought it would be cruel, indeed,
to disappoint her.

"No, Flora," said he, "your father shall not starve while I have this,
which I really do not want, only for its having belonged to my father."
He then put the money into her bonnet, saying, "take this; buy the
bagpipes, and some bread for your father: I have no more, or it should
be yours."

He would now have retreated; but Flora forcibly detained him, eagerly
seizing hold of his hand, and uttering a thousand thanks. At length,
however, he disengaged himself, and returned to the shop with a feeling
of happiness, which arises only from the knowledge of having performed
an act of real benevolence.

"Arthur," said his uncle, "where have you been? I have been waiting for
you some minutes. I have selected such books as I think will be the most
proper for your cousin Jane. Now, what is it you wish to have?"

Arthur looked over several volumes which laid on the counter. "If you
have no objection, Sir, I should prefer either Homer's Iliad, or
Voltaire's History of Charles the Twelfth, or the Life of Gustavus
Vasa."

"Any of these you can have," said his uncle; "it only remains for you to
determine."

Arthur considered for a few minutes. "Homer I have read; we have it in
the library. I have not read either of the others; but I admire Gustavus
more than Charles, because I think he was the most amiable character.
Well, then, if you please, Sir, I will take this," said he, choosing an
elegantly bound pocket volume, containing the life of that excellent
monarch, by Raymond. He wrote his name in it, and Mr. Mansel packed it
up with the rest.

The fall of snow having ceased, Arthur returned home, and Mr. Percy
proceeded to join his friends.

Arthur tried to read part of the life of Gustavus aloud, to his aunt and
cousin: but, in spite of every thing, the misdeed of the morning would
obtrude into his thoughts; he therefore made some excuse, and retired to
the study, to consider what he should do.

As he passed through the hall, and raised his eyes to the clock, his
conscience reproached him bitterly for his misconduct. He ran into the
study, and throwing himself into a chair, covered his face with both his
hands. It was the first fault of the kind he had ever committed, but
that did not lessen it in his eyes.

Arthur bitterly lamented his idleness, when he first began writing. "If
I had not tried to catch the poor little robin," said he, "this would
not have happened; for I should have finished my writing in plenty of
time."

Arthur actually shed tears of regret and sorrow at his own foolishness,
in thus having been tempted to deceive his good and unsuspecting uncle.

While he was thus deploring his fault, Jane Percy softly stole into the
room, and taking one of his hands from his face, said in a soothing
voice,

"My dear cousin, what is it that affects you? Will you not tell your
Jane?"

Arthur was moved by the gentle, persuasive voice of his amiable
relative, and confided to her the cause of his sorrow. Jane was truly
grieved that her dear cousin Arthur should have acted so extremely
wrong; but she strove to console him in the best manner she could.

"Consider, Arthur," said she, "it is the _first_ fault of the kind you
ever were guilty of."

But this observation, far from comforting him, only added to his grief,
as reminding him that he had now forfeited his good name. It was true,
no one need know it but himself and Jane: but _he_ was conscious of it,
and therefore he could never again bear to be praised for being a good
boy, when he knew he did not deserve that character.

"Dear Arthur," said Jane, "I think it will be the best to go to your
uncle to-morrow morning, and tell him what you have done. He will not be
so angry if you openly confess it to him; and I know you will never do
so again."

Arthur tenderly embraced his little cousin, and thanked her for her good
advice.

"Indeed, Jane," said he, "that will be the best plan: for I would rather
my uncle should know it at once, and be angry, and punish me as I
deserve; for then I might, by my future good conduct, atone for my
transgression. But I never can look up in his face with pleasure again,
knowing that I have deceived him."

Arthur now wished to tell his cousin about little Flora and her father;
but a feeling of something like pride withheld him. He was afraid she
might think he told her, only to lessen the crime he had committed in
her eyes, he therefore remained silent on that subject; for Arthur knew
well that a generous action, however excellent, did not obliterate the
disgrace of deceit and falsehood.

The next morning, when Mr. Percy came into the study, to set Arthur and
Jane their tasks, he offered to shake hands with his nephew, according
to his usual custom; but Arthur, bursting into tears, exclaimed,

"Oh, Sir! I have been a very wicked boy, and am not worthy that you
should shake hands with me."

Mr. Percy, much surprised, demanded an explanation; and Arthur, with
great earnestness and simplicity, related what he had done.

Mr. Percy was sensibly touched by the sincerity of his nephew, though at
the same time he was seriously displeased, for he did not like to be
deceived by a child: he therefore finished setting the copies, and left
the room, without saying a word; for though he would not punish Arthur,
as he had so nobly revealed the truth; yet he thought, if he left him in
doubt, it would operate on his mind as an adequate punishment. In this
opinion he was perfectly correct: for poor Arthur, imagining that he had
offended past all forgiveness, gave himself up to despair.

Jane herself knew not what to think, but she tried to comfort her
disconsolate cousin; and whilst they were condoling together, they heard
Mrs. Percy calling them.

"Come, make haste, children," said she, "come and hear the Scotch
piper."

The sound of music was plainly heard in the street; and Arthur eagerly
pressed forward to catch a glance at the musician. All the pain he had
previously suffered was amply repaid at that moment, by the sight of the
blind Highlander, and little Flora his daughter, who was looking, with
the greatest delight, at her father as he played.

Arthur had the satisfaction of beholding many a handful of halfpence
thrown into the plaid bonnet of the now happy Flora.

The Highlander came opposite the window. Mrs. Percy threw open the sash,
in order to bestow a trifle on the piper.

Flora raised her eyes, and uttered almost a scream of joy, as she beheld
their little benefactor: exclaiming, "There he is--there he is!--Oh, how
glad I am to see him!"

Arthur hastily drew in his head; for he feared lest his aunt should be
angry at his having parted with the half-guinea.

But Flora still continued jumping about, and calling for him to look
out, and see how happy they were.

"What can the child mean?" said Mr. Percy, who stood with them at the
window. "Let somebody call her in, and we will hear."

"No, no, dear uncle, do not have her in," cried Arthur, in a tone of
entreaty.

But Mr. Percy, who was determined to know the reason, left the room, and
hastened into the street; where he heard the whole account of his
nephew's generosity from the lips of the grateful Flora.

At first he could scarcely credit it; but the truth was attested by the
soldier, who, on hearing Arthur's voice, declared it to be that of his
benefactor.

Arthur, with tears in his eyes, informed his aunt and cousin of the
whole affair, saying, as he concluded,

"Indeed, my dear aunt, I could not help giving the money to them, though
it had been my father's."

Mrs. Percy, far from blaming her nephew, applauded him as he deserved;
as to Jane, she was, if possible, the happiest of the party.

Mr. Percy shortly after returned, and presenting his hand to Arthur,
said: "I now give you my hand with the greatest pleasure I ever did in
my life; your fault was trivial compared to your generous action, and I
am at this moment prouder of my nephew than if he had been born a
prince."

That very day Mr. Percy presented Arthur with the Life of Charles XII;
and a beautiful edition of Homer, handsomely bound in purple morocco. He
also raised a subscription among his friends, to enable the blind piper
to return to the place of his nativity.

Arthur Stanly was often heard to declare, when he grew to man's estate,
that these two days had been the most miserable as well as the happiest
of his life.

                                  ----

All eyes were attentively fixed on Mrs. Dormer as she concluded, and the
children agreed that this was the best story they had yet heard. When
they had done commenting on it, Edward observed that it was getting
dusk, and was time for him and his brother to be going. When he had
taken his leave, the children sat talking with their mother till near
dark, and Mrs. Dormer began to think it was almost bed-time. As Mary and
Kate were bidding her good-night, the latter happened to look towards a
flower-stand, on which Mrs. Dormer had placed the glass jar.

"Oh, Mary," cried she, "look, look! the dear little glow-worms have come
back again!"

As she spoke all the children ran to the jar, which glittered among the
plants, and every moment became an object of greater beauty, as the
brilliant insects, one by one, unfolded their light, as if in emulation
of each other, filling the vase wish lustre, and shewing every particle
of the moss they laid on, as if it were transparent. The children gazed
on it with the greatest admiration; at last Mary said,

"I can hardly help laughing, to think how silly I was in the morning;
for I now see plainly the shape of the glow-worm is the same with the
brown beetles I was so angry with."

"Oh, Mary," said Kate, "my aunt knew all about it, when she told us so
gravely that the ugly beetles would bring us news of the glow-worms."

"I did, indeed," said her aunt, "for many summers ago I kept many of
them in wet moss and grass till near autumn; at that time they laid some
whitish eggs and died. These eggs, however, did not produce any thing;
so I cannot tell you whether these insects assume any other form
previous to that you now see them in; nor can I direct you to any book
that will give you a satisfactory account."

"Dear mamma," said Mary, "they are far from being ugly now; for they are
very brisk and lively, and constantly in motion, though in the morning
they seemed half dead."

"It seems," said her mother, "that damp and dark places are necessary to
to their existence; and yet they appear only in the warmest weather.

"But, Mary, there is another luminous insect, which some people mistake
for the glow-worm: it is of a very disgusting shape, being a species of
the centipede; it has, like that ugly insect, nearly fifty legs, on each
side, and runs amazingly fast, leaving behind a long trail of greenish
light."

"I should not like them at all," said William, "for I think the
centipede is uglier than a snake."

"I have a great dislike to them, myself," said Mrs. Dormer; "but the
luminous centipede is not so frightful as those black ones you see
sometimes on cellar walls, and in old wood. I remember the first time I
saw any of the bright centipedes: I was coming home with my brother in
the evening, through a green lane; I saw something shine brightly in the
hedge: I ran up to it, thinking it was one of my favourite glow-worms,
but recoiled, with no little disgust, when I saw that I was going to lay
my hand on a nest of these centipedes, all writhing and clinging
together like serpents, shewing at the same time a brilliant light."

"Dear!" said William, "how horrid they must have looked! I suppose,
mamma, you did not catch any?"

"No," said Mrs. Dormer, "I was then very young, not much older than
Mary; and I could not conquer the antipathy I had to their hideous
shape. But my brother took one, and brought it home, and when we looked
at it by the light we found it was about two inches and a half long, of
a pale brown, and certainly the best-looking of its species that I have
seen."

The children would have been glad to have asked some more questions, but
it grew so late, that their mother would not detain them from their
beds, and they went away talking about the story and the glow-worms.

                                  ----

During the next week the children could think of nothing but the
pleasure they were to enjoy at Hampstead fair; and all of them were
continually wishing for a fine day. As the time drew near, Lewis and
Kate were every minute running into the hall, and climbing one of the
green chairs to consult the barometer; though I cannot say they
understood much about it. However, the evening before the wished-for day
Kate ventured boldly to predict beautiful weather for the morrow: they
all retired to rest, therefore, in excellent spirits. But when they
awoke in the morning the rain was descending in torrents, and the sky
looked as dark and heavy as if the wet weather had set in for a week.
The poor children passed the morning in great anxiety, frequently
peeping out at different windows, in hopes of seeing a little bit of
blue in the sky, and wishing in vain for the rain to clear off. When the
afternoon came, and they were forced to give up all hopes of going, Mary
retreated to a corner, and began to weep bitterly. Kate and her brothers
came and tried to comfort her; but Mary had set her mind so much on
going, that she only cried the more. Presently her mamma came in; and
Mary, ashamed that her mother should see that she was such a baby as to
cry for a little disappointment, hid her face in her frock: but still
she could not suppress a sob or two. Mrs. Dormer came up to the corner
where they all were assembled.

"What is the matter?" she said (putting Mary's frock from her eyes),
"What ails my poor Mary? Is she ill, or has some one hurt her?"

Mary was much confused, and did not answer. Kate told her aunt that she
believed her cousin cried because the rain had hindered her from going
to the fair. Mrs. Dormer looked at Mary for some time, and then said,

"I dare say, Mary, you expect that I should ridicule you for being so
weak as to cry; but I will not do so, for I see that you are ashamed of
it already. Come out of your corner, and see whether I can convince you,
that you might have gone to the fair, and it is possible you might have
returned still more unhappy than you are now."

Mary dried her tears; and her mamma seated her on part of her own chair.
The other children got their stools, and sat down by Mrs. Dormer.

"I remember the time, Mary, when I was as anxious to see the fair as you
are now; and the day on which I was to go turned out quite fine, and yet
I was very far from spending it happily."

"Pray, dear mamma," said William, "do tell us what happened; for I would
as soon hear you tell a story, as go to the fair; only we should have
liked to have spent another day with dear Edward."

"I had written down all that happened," said his mother; "I meant to
have read it to you, one day or other, but I think this will be the best
time; for however you may laugh at the comical distresses I got into,
yet you would have found them very unpleasant, if they had befallen you
to-day. Listen then, my children, and hear my account of


A DAY AT HAMPSTEAD FAIR.

It is now nearly nineteen years ago, since my uncle Richmond came to
stay at this very house, with his two sons. You know, my dears, that
your grandfather lived here before we did: I was then about eleven years
old.

My uncle, Captain Richmond, was my father's brother, and the commander
of a frigate in the navy; he had been on a long cruise, and was passing
a few weeks with my father, previously to his going to sea again.

Captain Richmond had lost his wife: he had only two sons; one of whom
went to sea as a midshipman, under his father, and the other to the
naval academy at Portsmouth. This last was away from school for the
vacation; so my uncle brought both of them to stay at my father's
house. My poor mother had rather delicate nerves, and these rough
sailor-boys discomposed her sadly: for they were as wild as tiger-cats,
and as full of mischief as monkeys; they broke her china, insulted her
lap-dog; stole her apples; ducked her hens in the pond (that very pond
you are so well acquainted with, Kate); and above all, affronted my
youngest brother Sam, who was my mother's pet. However, she bore with
all these enormities, out of respect to my uncle Richmond, who was a
brave, generous sailor, and sincerely attached to all his brother's
family. This visit was agreeable enough to us children, only Frank and
James Richmond were rather too rough in their play; and they sometimes
fell out with my eldest brother, William, bestowing on him the epithets
of "land-lubber," and "fresh water spark," when he displeased them.
These disputes were generally settled by my uncle with a few strokes of
a cat-o'-nine tails that he always carried in his coat-pocket, for the
accommodation of his sons. I was always engaged in these quarrels,
either on one side or the other; and as I never came in for a share of
the blows, I was sometimes wicked enough to laugh at the speed with
which my uncle chastised his boys, whether guilty or innocent; and at
the coolness with which the stripes were received by the young sailors.
My uncle always took it for granted his sons were in the wrong; but if
the instrument chanced to glance on the back of either of my brothers,
the house resounded with their lamentations.

They had been at our house about six weeks, and were going away in a few
days, when the captain said to my mother one evening, "sister, to-morrow
is Hampstead fair; and I should like all the young ones to go, and have
a day of it."

My mother shook her head, and seemed to disapprove; but my uncle seemed
determined to have his own way: besides, my brother Sam set up a loud
fit of crying, for fear he should not go. This induced my mother to give
her consent; and the nurse-maid, Ann, and our old nurse Hill, were
ordered to hold themselves in readiness to attend us to the fair on the
morrow. Now my father was in London, where he had to spend two days on
business, or _he_ might possibly have put a negative on this
arrangement; but as it was, we were all greatly delighted with the plan,
particularly uncle Richmond, who declared that he would go with us, and
steer us safely along.

In the morning I was awoke by a loud shout under the window from
midshipman Frank. I got up quickly, and found my cousins dressed in
their uniforms, and looking very smart. Frank promised to be my beau,
and to take great care of me. Well, it was past ten o'clock before we
were all ready. At last, out we marched in the following order: the
nurse-maid led my little sister Jane, and old nurse Hill the darling
Sam, of whom my mother had given us all special charge; then came Frank,
handing me along very politely, and Captain Richmond, with my brother
William and cousin James, brought up the rear. In this manner we
proceeded very sedately till we almost reached the town, and began to
hear the noise and bustle of the fair. Just as we came to the houses we
met a party of naval officers, who began shaking hands with Captain
Richmond, and telling him about some recent victory at sea. Away went my
uncle Richmond with them, without bestowing a thought on us poor
children, whom he had under his care. Then my troubles began. Master
James had behaved very peaceably while his father's eye was on him, for
he stood in some awe of the cat-o'-nine-tails, which he saw the Captain
put into his pocket before he set out; indeed his father said to him,
"Jem, if you are not on your best behaviour, you will have a taste of
it." But the moment his father was fairly out of sight he began his
pranks; he twitched his hand from William, and scampered some way before
us, until he met with a quiet old hen, clucking in the dusty road with a
few dirty chicks: the moment James saw the hen, he stole softly up, and
putting his foot under her, by a dexterous toss, sent her cackling and
screaming up in the air, as high as the garret windows of the next
house. After performing this exploit, he ran laughing back to us. Now
the old woman who owned the hen was enraged to see the unusual flight of
the poor creature, and running out, began to abuse James in a very
shrill voice, not sparing us, to whom she saw he belonged; but we had
certainly no share in the mischief. Mrs. Hill, our nurse, was a woman of
too much spirit to put up with so much injustice; she began to scold in
return, while the idle boy who had caused the quarrel stood laughing,
and provoking the old woman to greater rage. Frank enjoyed the fray as
much as his brother, but at last he attended to my intreaties, and
persuaded Mrs. Hill to walk on, and leave the angry old woman: but he
could not prevail on our good nurse to proceed, till she had quite
exhausted her breath in scolding.

Master James seemed to think very highly of himself for this trick; he
marched before the whole party with his arms a-kimbo, kicking up the
dust, and on the look-out for another mischievous prank. Mrs. Hill, when
she had recovered her voice, scolded James for raising the dust: he
answered saucily; she retorted, and they entered the fair, wrangling as
hard as they could.

When we got among the crowd, James and William escaped from us, and got
into a merry-go-round. Frank very kindly staid with me, and handed me
about the fair. Sometimes we stopped to look at the fire-eaters, and
sometimes to view the Merry-Andrew. The sun shone very hot; and after we
had been in the fair about an hour and a half, I became very faint and
tired. The place got more and more crowded, and I could hardly move
among a throng of people, most of whom were a foot taller than myself.
Frank helped me through as well as he could, and we were making the best
of our way towards a fruit-stall, when a saucy little drummer pushed me
so rudely that I was nearly thrown on my face. Frank asked him how he
dared act so? and the drummer answered by twirling Frank's hat round on
his head, and calling him a powder-monkey. This was rather more than
the little officer chose to bear, he therefore flew at the drummer, and
gave him a violent blow; this was immediately returned, and a furious
battle began. I escaped, half frighted to death, and luckily found Mrs.
Hill and little Sam in a stall close by. In a little time Frank had well
pummelled the drummer; but it was of no use waiting for him: he was off,
and so were James and William. It was now one o'clock, and little Jane
and Sam were very hungry. Nurse Hill proposed going out of the town, and
eating the provisions we had brought for dinner in a green meadow at a
little distance; but a new difficulty occurred: Master Sam, who had
before been very tractable, now spied out a large gingerbread cocked-hat
hung in front of a stall close by; this valuable article he insisted on
buying; but it was the sign of the stall, and the man it belonged to was
loth to sell it. However, after a great deal of bargaining, the man
agreed to take three shillings for the hat; this was sixpence more than
we had, and he would not take a farthing less, so poor Sam was
disappointed; but he thought (as all spoiled children do) to manage
matters abroad as he did at home, by a fit of crying: however, all his
screaming was of no avail here; and nurse Hill, greatly scandalized at
his bad behaviour, took him up in her arms, and carried him, kicking,
out of the fair.

We had got to the field where we thought of dining before Sam was
pacified; at last we all sat down on the grass, and Ann took out of the
basket a nice damask napkin, with some cold roast chicken and ham packed
in vine leaves, and a bottle of cyder. We had all drank some of the
cyder, which much refreshed us, and just as we were preparing to eat our
dinner, a big boy stepped over nurse Hill's shoulder, and seizing the
napkin and all that was in it, ran off in an instant. Poor nurse Hill
ran after him, scolding and threatening, but it was of no use. The
hungry children cried bitterly for their lost dinner, and we had nothing
but the cyder left. Ann put the bottle in her basket, thanking her stars
that the thief had not taken that. Mrs. Hill thought it best for us to
return to the fair, and lay out the money we had left in victuals for
the children, and then try to collect the boys together and return home.
My head ached with the noise of the fair, and I was loth to go back to
it. We had nearly reached the town, when Frank met us; his face was
adorned with two black eyes, otherwise he did not seem to have received
much damage from the fight.

"Where have you been, you tiresome boy? always fighting and quarrelling,
and scaring honest bodies out of their wits," screamed nurse Hill in a
shrill voice, as soon as she saw him.

"There, mother Hill," said Frank, "hold your tongue. I have taken no
hurt. I suppose you would have had me stood by, and see Mary pushed down
and trampled on by that land-lubber? but I dressed his tawdry jacket for
him. I say, cousin Mary," continued he, "I have been at the Bush, where
my father and a party of officers are dining; and they tell me that
Nelson has beaten the French soundly; and my father is appointed Captain
of a ship in Nelson's squadron, and we are ordered to sail next week,
and I am to go with them; huzza!"

Frank now shouted and capered as if he was wild. I was a little peevish,
however, and did not like the noise he made. "I wish," said I, "you
would be quiet, Frank, and come back with us to the fair, and help find
those mad boys who have run away from us, and then we can go home."

"Well, I will," said Frank; "but I forgot to tell you that my father
gave me a guinea when I was at the Bush, to be divided amongst you all
for fairings; and if mother Hill and Ann are good-tempered, they shall
come in for a share."

This put us all in good-humour. We entered the town in high spirits, and
soon got some refreshment, and Sam directly went to the stall to buy the
gingerbread hat; but alas, it had been sold while he was gone. This
disappointment occasioned another fit of roaring; till, to appease him,
Mrs. Hill permitted him to mount one of the horses in a merry-go-round.
We stood a few minutes, seeing him spin round in great state, when my
brother William came up to us, crying aloud. He had certainly been
rolled in the dust, for his coat was covered with dirt. Before we could
inquire what was the matter James followed him: _he_ did not cry, but he
was in a sad pickle; his nose was streaming with blood, the frill of
his shirt hung in tatters, and one skirt of his coat was rent off. We
really were not a little ashamed of this addition to our party: for a
mob, attracted by the noise William made, began to gather round us. At
this moment a hackney-coachman from London drove through the fair,
calling, "Who rides? who rides? A ride for a penny a-head." Frank gave
him a hail, as he called it. The man drew up, and Frank bustled James
and William into the coach; he then packed in nurse Hill, and the maid
with the children. As he was handing me up the steps I dropped my shoe
among the crowd.

"Oh, my shoe!" I cried; "find my shoe!"

"Never mind your shoe," said Frank, "we cannot look for it among so many
people." He then pushed me into the coach, jumped in himself, and the
man shut the door.

How we all contrived to get into one coach I cannot think to this day;
but when we were in, nurse asked the boys what had ailed them. William
began to cry afresh, and James to laugh.

"How came you in such a plight, Jem?" asked Frank.

"Why," said Jem, "you must know that a little while ago William and I
went up to a cake stall, and whilst I was bargaining, Master Will peeped
through a hole in an oyster-woman's stall close by, and there he saw a
little white pitcher standing on one of the tubs; so he stooped down and
picked up a pebble, which he threw with such good aim through the hole,
that the pitcher, which was full of spirits, broke in pieces, and all
the liquor ran among the oysters. The stall-woman flew out like a fury;
but she could not have told who had done it, you know, only a great
thick-headed boy who stood by pointed at poor Will, and said, "That is
the boy who threw the stone." The fish-woman at this began to cuff poor
William, and knocked him into the dirt; whilst I, having nothing else to
do, gave the boy who had told the tale a good banging; but I believe I
came off the worst, for the boy was bigger and stronger than me, though
Will has made such a piping for a few thumps."

By the time James had finished relating this mishap the coachman stopped
his horses; he said he had given us a good ride for our money, and would
go no farther; we offered to pay him handsomely if he would take us
home. "No," he said, "he could make more money by driving about the
fair, and he would not stir another step."

Think of me, unhappy creature that I was, for I had to walk home with
only one shoe. Frank, to do him justice, was very kind, and offered to
carry me on his back; but that I did not choose, for fear the people we
met should laugh at me. Well, we began to move slowly forward on the
road home. I leaned heavily on Frank's arm, and hopped some paces on one
foot. This mode of travelling so diverted the mischievous James, and he
burst into such immoderate fits of laughter, that I, provoked beyond all
endurance, began to cry as if I should break my heart. Frank was much
concerned at this, and threatened James that if he were not quiet, he
would get him a ropes-ending by telling his father. Frank then took off
the black silk handkerchief which he wore round his neck, and tied it
about my foot as well as he could, to defend me against the stones.
James, who was brought to order by my tears more than by his brother's
threats, begged my pardon, and offered to help me along. I took his arm
rather sulkily, and, supported by him and Frank, contrived to limp
forward a little way.

As we were proceeding homewards in this melancholy manner a post-chaise
drove past us. Presently it stopped, and my father jumped out; he came
towards us, much astonished at meeting with his children in such a
pitiful condition. He first looked at Frank's bruised face, and
William's dirty jacket; then at my foot, and James's bloody nose and
tattered garments.

"Why, children," he said, "what do you all here so far from home? and
who has been misusing you in this manner?"

We all lifted up our voices at once to reply; but nurse Hill contrived
to make hers sound the loudest.

"Oh, Sir," she said, "the Captain would take us all to Hampstead fair;
but as soon as we got there he left us, and we have met with so many
mischances, that I thought I never should have brought the children
alive out of the fair."

"So," said my father, "this is just like my mad-cap brother! What could
induce their mother to trust so many children to such a hair-brained
creature?"

We now complained how tired and hungry we all were; my father had us
children put into the chaise, and, bidding the postillion drive at a
foot-pace, walked by the side with Frank, hearing from him all our
disasters; and indeed we had all contrived to get into some misfortune
except our maid Ann, and quiet little Jane.

I hardly need tell you that we were all rejoiced when we arrived at
home, and were fed and comforted after our fatigues.

Some days after Captain Richmond and his sons set off for Portsmouth,
where his ship lay. It was a long time before I could laugh at our
mishaps; indeed I would cry bitterly if any one afterwards proposed our
spending another _day at Hampstead Fair_.

"I do not wonder at it, mamma," said Mary. "Oh, how vexed I should have
been! I am afraid that I should have fretted myself quite ill if such
disagreeable things had happened to me."

"Therefore, Mary, such places are very improper for you, who cannot bear
any little accident with temper. I was not fretful, but I really
suffered severely from terror and fatigue. I see that Kate and William
are laughing, as if they did not think it very frightful."

"Who can help laughing, mamma?" said William; "but I am sadly afraid,
that if Kate and I had gone to the fair we might have got into some
mischief, for we are both very careless."

"Your brother William is my father," said Kate to her aunt.

"Yes, my dear girl," said Mrs. Dormer, "and we often now laugh over our
misfortunes at Hampstead fair."

The weather proved so wet all the week that it was impossible to go to
the fair either of the two remaining days on which it was held; but
after the first disappointment was over, the children regretted it very
little; and they were made ample amends, by spending another happy,
quiet day with Edward and George before they went to school.

                                  ----

The month of July passed away very delightfully. Kate's health was
greatly improved by the kind attention and judicious management of her
good aunt: the consumptive symptoms that had before threatened her
entirely disappeared, and by the middle of August she was considered
well enough to go back to school; but previously to that her father
wished her to return home with her uncle, aunt, and cousins, to spend
some days with him. This gentleman had recently purchased a landed
estate in Surrey, which he cultivated himself; and as he had now been
for some time comfortably settled in the farm, he came over to invite
them into Surrey at the joyous time of the harvest. The invitation was
accepted by Mr. and Mrs. Dormer; and the next day the whole party set
off for Mr. Richmond's estate. He drove Kate and William in his gig, and
Mary and Lewis followed with their father and mother in a post-chaise.
They enjoyed the ride greatly; and Kate strove to amuse her father, by
relating to him some of the stories she had heard from her aunt.

It was past eight in the evening when they arrived at the farm. They
drove round a lawn to a large handsome white house; which, though an old
building, had a peculiar air of comfort and cheerfulness. Every thing
within, also, appeared very neat; and the children, who had never been
in a farm-house before, found plenty of objects to admire. The rows of
pewter, which filled a long range of shelves over the dresser, and that
rivalled silver itself in brightness, caught the attention of the young
strangers; who had a thousand questions to ask of their uncle, for
every thing they saw was entirely new to them.

William and Mary ran to the door to look at a fine litter of young pigs,
which the dairy-maid was feeding with some milk.

"Look, Mary," said William, "how those little pigs are quarrelling for
the milk! how greedy it seems of them, when there is plenty for all!"

"It is very naughty for them to fight," said Lewis, "they are such
pretty little white creatures; what a pity it is that they are not
good."

"They are indeed very pretty," said Kate; "but you know, Lewis, those
things which are the _prettiest_ are not _always_ the _best_."

They were still amusing themselves by looking at the little pigs, when
they were called into the parlour to supper. The children gazed with
wonder at the profusion of victuals provided for them. An enormous hot
apple-pie smoked in the middle of the table; on each side of it stood
two large custards. At one end of the table were three roast chickens
and a large ham, and at the other a huge plum-pudding. The journey had
made them very hungry, and they did honour to the ample supper that Mrs.
Harrison, the good old housekeeper, had provided for them.

The children's eyes were open by sunrise in the morning, and Mary and
Kate jumped out of bed, and began dressing with great expedition, when
Mary looking out of the window into a green meadow below, exclaimed in a
tone of great surprise, "Oh, Kate, come and look at a beautiful creature
that is walking about in the meadow below: I never saw any fowl like it
before; it is prettier than mamma's stuffed humming-bird."

Kate left off washing her face, and ran to the window, for she could
not think what Mary was admiring so much.

"Oh, it is only the peacock," said she.

"How I should like to catch it," said Mary. "Kate, is it tame?"

"Not very, for it runs away and makes a noise if any one comes near it,"
said Kate; "it was once very tame, but John used to pull the long
feathers out of its tail, and drive it about till it grew very cross,
and has not suffered any one to catch it since."

"How cruel!" said Mary, "to pull out its nice feathers; what a pity John
is not good!"

While Mary was tying her shoes, William and Lewis called out from an
adjoining room for her to look at a large flock of sheep which were
being driven into a field close by. Mary was astonished to see how
carefully the shepherd's dog guided them along, and brought back those
which attempted to stray from the rest of the flock.

"How pretty and innocent they look! don't they, Kate?"

"Yes, Mary."

"But look, Kate, Mrs. Harrison is crossing the yard; we shall be too
late to see the cows milked, and the calves suckled. Make haste and comb
out your hair," said Mary, impatiently.

"We shall have plenty of time, dear Mary," replied Kate; "for, if you
remember, Mrs. Harrison promised last night to call us when she was
ready to show us the milking."

But Mary was so impatient to see the young calves, and to drink the new
milk, that Kate led the way to the dairy, where the dairy-maid was
busily employed in taking off the cream of the yesterday's milk. Kate
was satisfying the curiosity of Mary respecting the various utensils,
when Mrs. Harrison entered with William and Lewis, and they all
proceeded to the cowhouse, where all the cows stood fastened up, waiting
to be milked.

The children were all delighted when the calves were let out of the
adjoining crib, and came capering to suck.

"Look, madam," said Mary, "how ill-tempered that spotted cow seems
towards her calf."

"And now see, Mary, how she is kicking it! What a cruel creature to hurt
such a nice little calf?" exclaimed Lewis springing forward as he spoke,
and before Mrs. Harrison had time to prevent him, he bestowed on the cow
two or three hearty blows with an old shackle, which unfortunately for
the poor beast happened to lay near, saying, "Now learn to use your calf
so ill." But the cow, not being used to such rough treatment, began
kicking at a great rate. Lewis ran back to Mrs. Harrison in a fright.

[Illustration: Page 132. Page 143.

_Published April 20 1823 by Harris & Son corner of St. Pauls._]

"What ill-natured creatures cows are," said Lewis, regarding the object
of his wrath with great indignation.

"And yet, my dear, the cow was not so much to blame as you thought her,
for see how the calf has bitten her."

"So it has, I declare," said Lewis, "for the blood is running quite
fast. I wish I had not been so hasty in striking her, poor thing."

The cow was now quiet, and began eating her hay again. Lewis went up to
her, and stroked her face and sides, which she did not seem to take at
all amiss.

"Now, dear Mrs. Harrison, will you give us a little new milk?" said
Kate; "here is the wooden cup."

"With pleasure," said the good old lady, and she filled the cup and sent
it round; they each drank a good draught of the milk, and thought it
delicious.

When the cows were all milked, they proceeded to the poultry-yard, and
Mrs. Harrison filled her lap with barley and dross wheat. At the sound
of her well known voice, all sorts of poultry came tumbling over each
other, in their eagerness to get their morning repast; turkeys and their
chicks, guinea-fowls, and a peahen with her brood. This last was
examined with great attention by Mary.

"They are not prettier than chickens; nay, I do not like them so well,"
said she.

"No, my dear," returned Mrs. Harrison; "it is many months before the
young peachicks show any marks of their beauty; and then it is only the
male that is handsome, for you see the peahen is rather an ordinary
bird.

"But where are all the geese?" said William; "for I see only two, under
coops, with some nice little yellow goslings."

"All the geese, and large turkies, and ducks and hogs, are driven to the
barley fields after the crops are cleared; and there they find an
excellent living, by picking up the grains that have been scattered."

The little party now returned to the house; and on entering the
parlour, they kissed their mamma, and bid their father and uncle good
morning. They then took their seats at a side-table very orderly, and
ate their breakfasts of brown bread and milk, with great relish, for
rising so early had given them a keen appetite.

When the cloth was removed, the children got round Mrs. Dormer, and
began to tell her all they had seen. Mr. Richmond seemed greatly
diverted by the adventure of Lewis with the cow; but advised him not to
be so ready in administering justice among the cattle, lest he should
get severely hurt for his pains.

"And now," he said, "in about an hour I will return and take you to the
harvest-field. In the mean time, Kate shall go with you into the garden,
and there you will see the rabbits, and the bees at work, only take
care that you are not stung."

When they had sufficiently admired the rabbits, and looked at the bees
till they were tired, they walked up and down the garden with Mrs.
Dormer, till they saw their father and Mr. Richmond coming to them.

The whole party now proceeded across the lawn; the giddy little Lewis
running on before till he reached a stile, which led into a field of
barley-stubble. In this field there were a large flock of geese and some
turkies, together with the peacock which Mary had admired in the
morning. Lewis, who was a careless fellow, got among them, and was
assaulted by the great turkey-cock, who ran after him, trying to bite
him.

Lewis took to his heels, and in his haste to escape from the wrath of
the turkey, he disturbed a flock of goslings, which with the old grey
goose, were quietly sitting on the ground, sunning themselves among the
stubble. The goose, seeing her brood in disorder, made such a lamentable
outcry as brought the gander and several of his companions to her aid.
Lewis was now in the greatest distress; he knew not which way to run. At
last he boldly faced about, and taking up a handful of stones, flung
them among the foremost of his enemies: the gander, enraged at this,
flapped his wings, and gave Lewis several unmerciful pecks on the back
of his leg.

It would be difficult to determine which made the most noise, the geese,
or Lewis Dormer, for they screamed in concert, and were joined by the
turkies; and though the peacock did not attempt to assist his
neighbours, yet he added his note to increase the clamour.

The noise did not fail to reach the ears of the party in the meadow, who
came quickly up to the barley-field. Mr. Richmond jumped over the
stile, and drove the geese away with his stick, and they retired
hissing and screaming to a little distance, while Lewis, with tears in
his eyes, ran to his mother, and related the bad behaviour of the
turkies and geese; declaring at the same time that he wished his uncle
would not keep such ill-tempered creatures, for he hated them all.

"And yet, Lewis does not dislike roasted goose for dinner," said his
father, "and I have seen him eat turkey at Christmas."

"Yes; but roasted geese never _hurt_ me," said Lewis, rubbing his leg.

"Will you go back, and wait till your leg is better?" said Mrs. Dormer.

"Do, dear Lewis," said his cousin Kate; "and I will stay with you, and
we can look at the pictures in the great parlour."

But Lewis, who did not relish the thoughts of returning to the house at
all, thanked his cousin, and said his leg was getting better; indeed,
he was in a few minutes the foremost in a race that William and Mary
were engaged in, and scampered along as if nothing had happened.

They soon reached the harvest-field, where the men were busily employed
in loading and carrying the wheat. Here every thing was alive and
bustling: the men all looked cheerful and gay; some whistled or sung as
they worked, and others talked of the pleasures to be enjoyed at the
expected harvest-home supper.

"Here is our good master coming, my boys," cried the men on the loaded
waggon to those below.

"Well, my lads," said Mr. Richmond, as he drew near, "when am I to
prepare this harvest-supper for you?"

"We expect, Sir, to bring home the last load to-morrow afternoon," said
the head man, respectfully taking off his hat to his master.

In that part of the field which was cleared the wives and children of
the labourers were permitted to begin gleaning. The children soon ran
off to observe the gleaners at work; and Mary and Kate began gathering
up the ears of corn, and presenting to those who appeared feeble, and
not able to work so hard as the others.

"God bless your pretty faces, my little dears," said a poor old woman,
to whom Mary and Kate had given a large handful of corn.

Lewis, hearing the benedictions which were so liberally bestowed on the
girls, and determining not to be out-done in generosity, began to
present large handfuls of the corn, which he pulled out of the standing
sheaves, to the women and children; when, just as Lewis began to fill
the lap of a little girl, his uncle touched him on the shoulder. "Aha!
my little man, if you are so bountiful I shall soon lose half the
profits of my fields."

Lewis was quite in a fright, for he thought his uncle would be very
angry: indeed he had never recollected that the wheat was none of his to
give away; so he looked very penitent, and begged his uncle's pardon.

His uncle readily forgave him; but reminded him that when he next
intended to be generous, at another person's expense, he must first ask
permission.

Shortly after Mr. Richmond told them he was going to quit the field, as
they should have dinner very soon.

                                  ----

The next day presented a scene of bustle and activity; every body was
busy, and every countenance beamed with joy--it was Harvest Home--and
there was not an individual on the farm but what partook of the general
rejoicing that the master's corn was got safely in.

The great oaken table was placed in the middle of the hall, and benches
and forms were brought to accommodate the guests. The hall itself was
decked with green boughs, and a sheaf of wheat was suspended over the
table. A barrel of ale was tapped, and a noble batch of harvest cakes
baked; and the gardener brought in a great basket full of apples and
plums, to entertain the good folks after supper.

Mary and Kate were highly interested in the preparations for the
approaching festival. Mrs. Harrison, taking each of the little girls by
the hand, went from place to place, giving orders to the maids, and
seeing that her commands were executed; she then proceeded to make the
plum-puddings and apple-pies, Mary and Kate seating themselves by her
side and attentively looking on.

Presently the butcher knocked at the kitchen door, and Mary's
admiration was excited on seeing the enormous pieces of beef and suet
which he took out of his basket.

"Mrs. Harrison," she exclaimed, "how is all that meat to be eaten?"

"I warrant you, my dear, there will not be a vast deal too much."

And in a few minutes a great fire was made, the plum-puddings were put
into the copper, and two great pieces of beef laid down to roast.

Towards the evening Mrs. Harrison put on her green lute-string gown
(which was never worn but on great occasions), her very best cap, and
worked-muslin apron, and the maid-servants decked themselves out in
their holiday-gowns.

A shout of "The last load! huzzah! here comes the last load!" brought
the children to the window. They saw the last load of wheat coming home,
crowned with green boughs, and followed by men, women and children, some
before and some behind, shouting joyfully as they advanced.

The little Dormers were in as high spirits as any of them; and William
and Lewis rushed out to see it unloaded.

Mrs. Harrison hurried forwards with a large basket full of harvest
cakes, just hot from the oven, followed by one of the maids with a stone
pitcher of ale, to regale the harvest-men as soon as the waggon was
unloaded. The men with their wives and children then went home to dress.

At length the supper hour arrived, and the pieces of beef which struck
Mary with such astonishment were placed on the table, and two great
plum-puddings at the head, and two at the foot, and a great apple-pie in
the middle; a large piece of bread and a mug of ale were also placed to
every plate. All had been arranged in the nicest order by Mrs. Harrison,
who now took the head of the table.

Mr. Richmond walked through the hall with the children, to see that
every thing was right, and that the people were comfortable. All the
farming men were there, with their wives and children, who looked the
pictures of health and joy: they were all standing round the table. When
Mr. Richmond entered, the men bowed, the women curtsied, and the
children followed the example of their parents.

"Is every thing ready, Mrs. Harrison?" asked Mr. Richmond.

"Yes, Sir; every thing," was the reply.

"Then say grace, and begin your supper," rejoined he.

Grace was accordingly said, and the company having taken their seats,
Mrs. Harrison began carving. When Mr. Richmond had seen them all helped,
he wished them a good appetite, and (that they might enjoy themselves
without restraint) withdrew with his delighted little visitors.

Nor had the guests been forgotten; for when the children entered the
dining parlour they found an excellent supper laid out for them.

And now the cloth being removed, Mr. Richmond once more entered the
hall, and threw open the folding doors, that the children might see the
people.

"Well, my good friends, how do you come on?" asked Mr. Richmond.

"God bless your honour, bravely," replied many voices at once, and again
the head man rose and said grace, the cloth was taken away, and the
fruit and pitchers of ale put on the table; a horn full of beer was then
given to each. In a moment men, women and children burst into the
chorus-song of "Here's a health to our good master, the founder of the
feast." Certainly their voices were not very harmonious, and the words
were rather homely, the song having been used by their fathers before
them for many generations: but the children listened to it with great
pleasure; they afterwards heard their own healths given, one by one; and
Lewis seemed to think himself a person of great consequence when he was
toasted in turn.

They staid up long after their usual time, and then retired to bed,
greatly pleased at the scene they had beheld.

                                  ----

In a day or two after the jovial harvest-home Mr. and Mrs. Dormer took
leave of their good brother and his family. The tears stood in Kate's
eyes as she viewed the approach of the post-chaise which was to take her
aunt away. "And now," she said, "I shall lose you. Oh, how often I shall
think of your nice stories, and how happy I have been with my cousins,
when I am at school at Guilford."

Mrs. Dormer stooped down and kissed away her tears, which now began to
fall very fast. "Do not grieve, my dear Kate, for these happy times will
soon come again, for your father has promised that you shall spend next
Christmas with me, and I have other stories which you shall hear then;
and I hope my little Kate will spend her Christmas holidays as
pleasantly as she has the Midsummer." Kate wiped away her tears at
hearing this joyful news, and summoned fortitude to bid her cousins
good-bye, though it required all Mrs. Harrison's kindness to comfort
her, when she could no longer see the carriage that bore them away.

The intervening months passed rapidly away; the long anticipated
vacation arrived, and the little Dormers were once more gratified with
the company and conversation of their cousin Kate. A thousand little
occurrences were remembered and related with mutual satisfaction; and
amidst all the festivities attendant on the season of Christmas, the
intellectual enjoyment of hearing more tales was eagerly anticipated by
the children. The very first evening after Kate's arrival, therefore,
Mrs. Dormer was reminded of her kind promise: and as she was at all
times willing to gratify her beloved family, she desired the young folks
to form themselves into a comfortable circle round the fire whilst she
related the story of




THE PRIMROSE GIRL,

OR, LITTLE EMMA'S BIRTH-DAY.

It was a beautiful morning in the month of April, when Mr. and Mrs.
Selwhyn arose somewhat earlier than their usual hour, on account of some
expected visitors who had been invited on that day to Heathwood Park,
for the purpose of celebrating the birth-day of little Emma, who, being
an only child, was made a great pet of, and who had now completed her
ninth year. She was, indeed, a most promising little creature of her
age: but why was she so?--because she was good, and kind, obedient to
her parents, and attentive to all the instructions of her teachers:
therefore she might truly be called promising; because, my young
readers, if children do well at this early age, they promise to do
better when they grow older; and thus was Miss Emma Selwhyn at nine
years of age considered a very promising young lady by all her numerous
friends and acquaintance. It is no wonder, therefore, that her birth-day
was commemorated with peculiar pleasure by her fond parents, because
they hoped with the increase of years she would also increase in
learning, humility, and virtue.

With this pleasing anticipation, Mrs. Selwhyn requested her husband to
favour her with half an hour's conversation, as they walked towards the
summer-house in the garden, which breathed the delicious fragrance of
the opening flowers!

"I have been thinking, my love," said Mrs. Selwhyn, "if you have no
objection, of trying a little stratagem with Emma. As it is her
birth-day, I should wish to know whether thankfulness for her own
blessings would induce her to perform any act of kindness towards others
on this particular day, that she may with more pleasure remember it on
the next."

"With all my heart," rejoined Mr. Selwhyn. "Let us try the experiment,
by presenting her, instead of personal ornaments as formerly, with a
purse of money, and we shall then see what she will do with it."

"I shall be much disappointed if she does not make use of it in the way
I should wish," said Mrs. Selwhyn, drawing out of her pocket a neat red
morocco purse, containing two half-crown pieces, to which Mr. Selwhyn
added two more, making in the whole, the sum of ten shillings. Now this
was certainly a very large sum for a little girl of Emma's age to be
trusted with: for some children spend their money very foolishly, and
throw it away on mere trifles. However, we shall see what use Emma will
make of it, and I hope it will be a good one; for money is of little or
no value, unless it be appropriated to good purposes.

"Now," said Mr. Selwhyn, "we will return; as by this time, I dare say,
Emma is ready for her breakfast, and will no doubt be delighted with the
unexpected present we are going to make her."

"Oh, you cannot think," cried Mrs. Selwhyn, "how careful she is of her
money! I gave her two new shillings, and I should not be at all
surprised if she has one of them laid by."

Mrs. Selwhyn now stopped a few moments, intending to gather some
flowers, but suddenly directing her attention towards the summer-house,
she perceived her amiable daughter in close conversation with a poor
little girl, who, though almost clothed in rags, was yet very clean and
modest in her appearance. She had no bonnet on her head, but a large
basket, plentifully supplied with bunches of primroses; and though she
had a smiling countenance, full of good-humour and sweetness, yet her
rosy cheeks were wet with tears, which she brushed away with hands that
were sun-burnt, but not dirty.

"Poor little girl!" cried Emma, "I am very sorry for you, indeed; and I
am sure, if my mamma were here, she would let me buy a great many of
your primroses. I would buy all you have got in your basket if I could
afford it." With these words Emma, taking a bundle of primroses out of
the basket gave the little girl a penny, exclaiming, "how sorry I am
that I have no more than this penny; but if I had, you should be welcome
to it, indeed you should."

"Bless you, Miss," cried the primrose girl; "it is more than anybody
else has given me; and God will love you, because you are not proud, and
are not ashamed of speaking to a poor girl like me!"

"Oh dear, I should be very wicked if I were ashamed of speaking to poor
people," said Emma. "Papa and mamma would be much displeased with me;
and they are so kind, that I should be sorry to do any thing to excite
their displeasure."

The primrose girl now placed her basket on her head, and putting her
penny into one corner of it, sighed mournfully as she bade Emma adieu,
saying she would buy a penny roll, and carry it home to her sick mother.

"Oh dear," cried Emma, "if you have got a sick mother, I am sure my
mamma would do something for her, for she is very kind to every body
that is ill. Where do you live, little girl? pray tell me, and I will
come and see you, if mamma pleases, and bring you something. I have got
a nice basket, which will hold a great deal, you cannot think how much!
This is my birth-day, and what do you think I will do? I will save all
my plum-cake, and you shall have it for your sick mother, indeed you
shall."

The primrose girl dropt a low curtsey, and informing her young
benefactress that her mother lived by the side of the old barn in the
forest, she tripped away in pursuit of more customers, and with a joyful
heart, that she had already got one penny towards the homely meal which
awaited her when the labours of the day should be over; while little
Emma awaited a very different scene in the splendid breakfast parlour in
the family mansion of Heathwood Park. Scarcely, however, could the
transports of Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn be concealed in the presence of their
beloved child, the discovery of whose benevolent disposition towards
the poor primrose girl had rendered her doubly dear to them.

"Well," cried Mrs. Selwhyn, "what do you think of Emma now?"

"Think!" exclaimed Mr. Selwhyn, "why I am of opinion that the red
morocco purse cannot be better bestowed than on one who knows so well
how to make a proper use of it. Here she comes, with cheeks as fresh as
the blooming rose! But pray do not say a word of the primrose girl."

Emma now came into the room, and paid her respects to her papa and
mamma, who kissing her ruby lips, reminded her that it was her
birth-day.

"You are nine years old to-day, Emma," said Mrs. Selwhyn.

"Yes, mamma; and nine more will make eighteen, and I shall be a great
woman, if I live till then; and my apple-tree, that papa said he planted
the day I was born, will be a great tree, with plenty of apples on it;
and you know, as it is mine, I may, when I am grown a woman, do what I
like with it."

"Oh, certainly," exclaimed Mr. Selwhyn; "but pray, Emma, in that case,
what would you do with it? I should like to know."

"Why, papa, I would gather all the apples I could find on it and make
them all into apple-dumplings, for poor little girls who had sick
mothers, and could not afford to buy any."

Mrs. Selwhyn could no longer refrain from pressing her darling girl to
her maternal bosom, for at this moment a mother's heart was quite full;
while Mr. Selwhyn, equally delighted, affectionately kissed his beloved
daughter.

"Mrs. Selwhyn," said he, "I believe it is high time to produce the red
morocco purse; it is really growing quite troublesome in my pocket."

"Then suppose you give it without further delay," rejoined Mrs. Selwhyn.

"Emma, your papa is going to present you with a birth-day gift; a
little red morocco purse."

"With money in it?" inquired Emma.

"Yes, my love: a purse is of little use without there is money it."

Emma was silent, but her blushing cheeks and sparkling eyes evinced the
secret pleasure which this intelligence conveyed.

Mr. Selwhyn, while presenting his daughter with her birth-day gift,
said, "now Emma, place this carefully in your pocket; and though you
need not now examine its contents, remember they are entirely your own,
and you are at liberty to make use of them agreeable to your own
inclinations."

"What, papa, may I do what I like with the money?" inquired Emma,
regarding the purse with a wishful eye, while she deposited it carefully
in her pocket.

"I have given it you for that purpose," answered her fond parent; "only
remember, that if you live till next birth-day, you must inform me in
what manner you disposed of it." Mr. Selwhyn then retired to his study,
and his good lady was left alone with her daughter.

"I will spare you from your studies, this morning, my dear Emma," said
Mrs. Selwhyn, "for we have company to dinner, because it is your
birth-day. But look! as I live, here is Susannah, your old nurse,
hobbling over the stile. She is coming, I suppose, to wish you many
happy returns of this day. She was a kind nurse to you, Emma, when you
was a helpless little baby, and could not take care of yourself; so I
will leave you to make her as welcome as you please, while I attend to
my domestic concerns."

Susannah had by this time arrived at the garden-gate, and Emma with a
joyful countenance came out to meet her.

"How kind it is of you, dear Susannah," cried she, "to come and see me
on my birth-day! But you have walked a great way, and must be extremely
fatigued; pray sit down, and rest yourself."

Susannah seated herself in the first chair she could find, for she was
very aged and infirm; and when Emma had taken off her cloak, and laid
aside her walking-stick, she thus addressed her:

"There, Susannah, now you are seated, and may take as much rest as you
please, and I will wait on you, and bring you any thing you may want:
for mamma told me you was a kind nurse to me, when I was a little baby
and could not help myself, so now I have got strength, I will help you,
Susannah. Indeed, I should be very naughty if I did not. Will you take
any refreshment after your walk? Suppose I fetch you some nice cake, and
a little cream?"

"Heaven preserve and bless you, my darling!" cried Susannah; "there is
no occasion for that: I see you, and I am happy; but I could not rest
without coming to bless you on your birth-day! You was a tender lamb,
and you are a tender lamb now. Heaven spare you to see many such days!
But I shall never live to see them--I am growing old and feeble."

"Ah! but, Susannah, you do not know what I have got for you!" said Emma,
throwing her arms affectionately round Susannah's neck, while she slyly
drew from her pocket the red morocco purse. "Do you know, papa has given
me this pretty purse full of money, and says, because it is my
birth-day, I may do whatever I like with it. Let us see how much money
there is in it." The delighted Emma now threw the whole contents on the
table, exclaiming, "there, Susannah, four half-crown pieces, I declare!
Only think what a kind papa I have got, and what a deal of money he has
given me! Now, Susannah, I will give you two of these pieces, because
you are my nurse, and the other two I will keep for somebody. Oh dear,
what a charming thing it is to have plenty of money, to do whatever one
likes with! I am so happy you cannot think, because I know somebody I am
going to see, who will be quite happy too! It is a great pleasure to
make other people happy, when we can do it so pleasantly, is it not,
Susannah?"

"My dear child," rejoined Susannah, "I cannot accept of your kindness
without the consent of your parents;" and with this remark she returned
the money, much to the mortification of Emma; who, however, after many
entreaties, at last prevailed on her visitor to put the two half-crowns
into her pocket.

The maid now came in, to tell Emma that her mamma desired she would go
and be dressed, and with an invitation to old Susannah that she would go
into the housekeeper's room, where she would be made quite comfortable.
Emma accordingly left Susannah, with a fresh kiss, and a fresh blessing
from the affectionate nurse.

On being afterwards introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn, from whom, on
that day, she always received her accustomed present of a new gown and a
guinea, Susannah pulled out the two half-crowns which Emma had given
her, and while she dwelt with artless simplicity on the kindness and
generosity of the young donor, she declared she could not receive her
gift without consulting them on the occasion.

Mr. and Mrs. Selwhyn exchanged looks of evident satisfaction.

"The red morocco purse will not disgrace its owner," said Mr. Selwhyn.
"You must certainly accept of Emma's present; so put the two
half-crowns into your pocket, for the money was given to her with an
intimation that she might use it in any manner she liked best; and I am
very well satisfied that she knows so well how to appreciate its value."

Before we proceed further, permit me to ask my young readers if it was
not very praiseworthy and amiable in Emma, to present her poor old nurse
with this mark of her bounty and affection? I am sure you will agree
with me; and if you have had a poor old nurse who has taken care of you
in your infancy, I have no doubt but you will be happy to imitate the
example of Miss Emma Selwhyn.

At half-past three o'clock two carriages arrived at Heathwood Park, and
a very happy and agreeable party of friends assembled together. Indeed,
it was truly delightful to see with what marked attention little Emma
was treated by all her numerous friends and acquaintances, several of
whom had brought her some very pretty birth-day presents. As she was
blessed with an excellent memory, her papa desired her to recite the
"Beggar's Petition," and it was very pretty to hear her say,


     "Pity the Sorrows of a poor old man,
     "Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
     "Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span:
     "Oh, give relief, and Heaven will bless your store!"


When she had finished she received the praises of every body present;
which would not have been the case had she not paid due attention to her
learning, by which she retained all she had read, and could with ease
repeat all her lessons on that account.

A very large and beautiful plum-cake was now put on the table; but
though Emma was presented by her mamma with a double allowance, in
honour of her birth-day, she contrived to eat but a small portion of it
herself, reserving the rest for the benevolent purpose she had
intended: for the Primrose Girl and her sick mother were not forgotten,
as will appear in the sequel of our tale.

The birth-day having closed in the most agreeable manner, Emma arose
very early the next morning, and, taking the basket under her arm, she
first of all deposited her large piece of plum-cake; she then ran down
stairs to Betty the cook, whom she addressed in the following manner:

"Good morning, Betty; the weather is extremely pleasant; and as I am
going out for a walk, who knows but I may happen to meet with somebody
who is very poor, and very hungry? I shall take it very kind, Betty, if
you will put into my basket a little stale bread, or a little meat, or
any thing else you may have at hand. I shall be so much obliged to you;
and so, I dare say, will somebody else; for you know, Betty, it is a sad
thing to be hungry and poor!"

Betty lost not a moment in complying with Emma's request; but filled
the little basket as full as she could with cold victuals and other
trifling things: for not only Betty, but all the rest of the servants at
Heathwood Park, were very fond of their young mistress, whose amiable
disposition and gentle manners had rendered her a very deserving
favourite amongst them. And this, my reader will allow, was a very
commendable trait in Emma's character; for we must not look with
contempt upon servants because they are our inferiors; for they are not
only useful to us, but they are also our fellow-creatures, and sometimes
prove our friends, and there is nothing more unbecoming in young persons
than to speak uncivilly to those who are employed in their service. I
hope you will remember this, my young reader, and never pout, or look
cross at persons who do their duty towards you, in that humble station
in which it has pleased Providence to place them.

Emma now pursued her way to the forest, with the basket hanging on her
arm; but when she arrived there she was puzzled to find her way to the
barn. At last she met with an old woman who was going the same way.

"Pray, Goody," cried Emma, "can you tell me where I can find an old
barn? I shall be so much obliged to you!"

Now some old women are apt to be very inquisitive about what does not
concern them, yet they are by no means to be answered rudely on that
account.

"Why, yes, pretty miss," cried the old woman, dropping a low curtsey
(for she soon saw that it was Miss Emma Selwhyn she was talking to), "it
is close by; and, as I am going that way, I will shew you: but pray,
miss, may I be so bold as to inquire who you may want? for, alack-a-day!
nobody lives there but Margery Blackbourne, the woodman's widow, and her
daughter Fanny, who is nothing better than a poor primrose girl!"

"A poor primrose girl!" cried Emma. "Ah, Goody, you are right, it is
that poor child I am going to see; and though she is nothing better than
a primrose girl, yet I like her very much, because she is good to her
mother who is sick; besides Fanny is altogether the nicest little girl I
ever saw!"

"Fanny is much obliged to you, I am sure," rejoined the old woman; "and
indeed, I cannot say but the poor thing has a hard life of it. To be
forced to cry primroses from morning till night is no easy matter, when
one is both hungry and thirsty. But there is her mother, Miss; do not
you see her by yonder stile, picking up some dry sticks to light her
fire, while Fanny, I suppose, is gone to try if she can get her a morsel
of bread."

Emma did not wait to listen to any further conversation of the old
woman, but she did not forget to reward her for the trouble she had
taken in shewing her the way, and slipping six-pence into her hand,
wished her good morning. She then went directly to the door of the poor
primrose girl, and found, to her no small satisfaction, that she had not
yet set out on her accustomed ramble, but was busily employed in boiling
a little pottage, over a very little fire for her mother's breakfast.
Emma immediately accosted her thus:

"Ah, little Fanny, (for I am told that is your name) how do you do? and
how is your mother? I promised I would come, and I am so happy, you
cannot think, to find you at home."

"Miss, will you be so good as to sit down?" asked the primrose girl;
"here is mother's great chair; it is the best we have got."

"I do not mind where I sit, thank you, Fanny," said Emma, seating
herself on a little wooden stool before the fire, and placing her
basket on the table; "but I must not stay long, because my papa and
mamma do not know where I am; so make haste, Fanny, if you please, and
empty the basket which I have brought with me. I told you it would hold
a great deal, and it is quite full."

The primrose girl did as she was desired; but when she saw the plum-cake
at the bottom of the basket, the poor little creature was so overcome,
that she burst into a flood of tears, and turning to Emma, clasped her
little sun-burnt hands together with heartfelt gratitude!

"Oh, Miss!" she exclaimed, "this is too much for poor people like us to
expect. That you should save your plum-cake on purpose that we might
share it is so kind, so very kind, that indeed my heart is quite full,
and so will mammy's be, when she sees you."

At this instant poor Margery came in: but could scarcely believe her
senses, when she saw Miss Emma Selwhyn, the heiress of the rich Squire
of Heathwood Park, sitting on the wooden stool before the fire, in
familiar conversation with her daughter Fanny!

Emma very soon explained the nature of her errand, and drawing out her
red morocco purse, presented Margery with the two remaining half-crowns
that were in it. "There," cried she, "take this money; it will buy you
some victuals when you are hungry. It is entirely my own, for my papa
gave it to me to do whatever I liked with it, so I shall now go home
quite contented and happy; and one day or other, when I am grown a great
woman, I will have a garden full of primroses, and that will always make
me remember Fanny."

With this observation Emma retired, taking with her the blessings of the
poor widow, and the prayers of a fatherless child! and these, my young
reader, are of great importance, and should never be lightly esteemed.
They will make you happy when you have nothing else to make you so,
because you cannot obtain these blessings except by the performance of
kind and benevolent actions.

Emma, on returning from her visit of mercy, was rewarded by the warm
approbation and fond endearments of her beloved parents; and I am happy
to add, that she lived to witness the return of many joyful birth-days,
on which occasions the red morocco purse was always replenished with the
sum of four half crowns, with the same permission that she had hitherto
obtained from her papa. Two of these pieces were regularly bestowed on
Susannah her old nurse; and as there yet remained two at the bottom of
the purse, my reader will probably guess what Emma did with them. They
were, in fact, reserved as a present for her young favourite primrose
girl, Fanny of the forest, who ever gratefully remembered the fortunate
hour when she first beheld little Emma, to whom she sold a penny bunch
of primroses on the morning of her birth-day.


THE END.


LONDON:
PRINTED BY COX AND BAYLIS, GREAT QUEEN STREET.




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Tarry-at-Home Travellers; illustrated by 84 Engravings and a Map, second
edition.

6. SCENES IN AMERICA, for the Amusement and Instruction of Little
Tarry-at-Home Travellers; illustrated by 84 Engravings and a Map. Price
4s. half-bound, plain, and 6s. coloured.


_Also, just published_,

THE FOLLOWING WORKS BY VARIOUS AUTHORS.

1. WARS of the JEWS, as related by Josephus; adapted to the Capacities
of Young Persons, and illustrated with 24 Engravings, after original
designs by Mr. BROOKE. Price 6s. half-bound, plain, and 7s. 6d.
coloured.

2. CLAUDINE; or, Humility the Basis of all the Virtues, a Swiss Tale. By
the Author of "Always Happy," &c.; illustrated by 12 appropriate
Engravings. Price, half-bound, 4s. 6d. plain, and 6s. coloured.

3. TRUE STORIES from ANCIENT HISTORY, chronologically arranged, from the
Creation of the World to the Death of Charlemagne. By the Author of
"True Stories from Modern History," &c. &c.; illustrated with 72
Engravings, after original designs by Mr. BROOKE. Price 12s. 2 vols.
12mo. half-bound.


_New Publications._

4. TOM TRIP'S NATURAL HISTORY of BIRDS and BEASTS; being a Collection of
84 Engravings, with short Descriptions to each, for Young Children.
Price, half-bound, 8s. coloured, or 5s. 6d. plain.

5. POLAR SCENES, exhibited in the Voyages of Heemskirk and Barenz to the
Northern Regions; and in the Adventures of Four Russian Sailors at the
Island of Spitzbergen. Compiled for the Instruction of Youth, and
translated from the German of M. CAMPE. Illustrated with 36 copper-plate
Engravings. Price 5s. plain, or 6s. 6d. coloured. Third Edition.

6. THEODORE; or, THE CRUSADERS: a Tale for Youth. By Mrs. HOFLAND,
Author of "The Son of a Genius," &c. Illustrated with 24 Plates. Price
5s. plain, half-bound, or 6s. 6d. coloured. Second Edition.

7. THE TRAVELLER, or an Entertaining Journey round the Habitable Globe:
being a novel and easy Method of studying Geography. Second Edition.
Illustrated with 42 Plates, consisting of Views of the Principal Capital
Cities of the World, and the Costume of its various Inhabitants. Price
6s. plain, half-bound, or 7s. 6d. coloured. Third Edition.

8. THE DAUGHTER OF A GENIUS: a Tale. By Mrs. HOFLAND, Author of "The Son
of a Genius," &c. &c. Price 3s. 6d. half-bound.

9. A VISIT TO GROVE COTTAGE; by the Author of "Fruits of Enterprize" and
"The India Cabinet." Illustrated with 12 Engravings.

10. TWELVE STORIES FOR CHILDREN under Nine Years of Age; with
Engravings.

11. ADELAIDE; or, the Massacre of St. Bartholomew: a Tale founded on
important Events during the Civil Wars of Henry IV. of France. By Mrs.
HOFLAND, Author of "The Son of a Genius," the "Crusaders," &c.
Illustrated with 24 Engravings. Price 5s. half-bound.


*** HARRIS _and_ SON, _in addition to the above little Works, have
several in MS. which it is their intention to publish at different
periods; and, as they are anxious to produce such as have a tendency to
convey useful information, as well as those of an infantile description,
they hope to meet with a continuation of the encouragement which they
have hitherto experienced_.




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Transcriber's note:

The original text contained several unpaired double quotation marks
which could not be corrected with certainty.