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                                STORIES

                                 FROM

                             SWITZERLAND.


             FROM THE FRENCH OF THE AUTHOR “OF THE TWO OLD
                               MEN,” &c.


                            [Illustration]


                                LONDON:
                     THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY;
                          _Instituted 1799_.
             SOLD AT THE DEPOSITORY, 56, PATERNOSTER ROW;
                        AND BY THE BOOKSELLERS.

                                 1837.




[Illustration]




CONTENTS.


                                                                    Page.

The pleasure of being able to read                                     3

Are you happy when you are cross?                                      9

Maurice; or, the way of the slothful is a hedge of thorns             14

The real friend                                                       20

Idle Dick                                                             29

The lady-bird                                                         56

The lost child                                                        61

Real charity                                                          67

Providence; or, the mother and child                                  75

Lucy; or, “I will not be naughty again, Papa.”                        90

A lesson of mercy                                                    102

Mountain John and the bear                                           111

Hymns for children                                                   125

One blow of the chisel does not make a statue                        134

[Illustration]




STORIES FROM SWITZERLAND

FOR

JUVENILE READERS.




[Illustration]




THE PLEASURE OF BEING ABLE TO READ.


Boys and girls who have learned to read, are able to examine the Holy
Bible, which is the book that tells us about God, and from which we
learn about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ.

They can also read this blessed book to aged persons who were not taught
when they were young, and to blind people, or those who are sick.

I am about to relate a little story upon this subject.

Mr. Williams was one day walking in the fields; as he passed through a
meadow in which some sheep were feeding, he saw a little boy about eight
years old sitting under a tree. He was quite idle, and gaped and
stretched his arms about as if he felt very uncomfortable.

[Illustration]

Mr. Williams stopped and said, “My boy, are you well?”

“O, Yes,” answered the boy, “I am very well; but I am quite tired, and I
do not know what to do.”

_Mr. W._ Have not you to look after these sheep?

_Boy._ Yes, and I have been here ever since six o’clock this morning.

_Mr. W._ How have you employed yourself during that time?

_Boy._ Why, what could I do? I had nothing to do, and I feel quite
tired.

_Mr. W._ Why did not you bring your Testament with you, and read a few
chapters, or learn some verses by heart while looking after your sheep?
you would not have felt so tired, and would have gained some useful
knowledge.

The boy did not reply, but held down his head and looked quite ashamed.

_Mr. W._ I suppose you forgot to bring your Testament; I am going
further, and will lend you mine till I return; here it is.

The boy looked still more ashamed, but did not say a word.

_Mr. W._ Why do not you take it? I am afraid you do not know how to
read; is that the case?

_Boy._ Nobody ever taught me, Sir; and I cannot teach myself.

_Mr. W._ Poor boy; then you never read the holy word of God. I am very
sorry for you: it is the best of books, and by attending to what it
tells us, even a child may learn how to become wise and happy.

_Boy._ Indeed, Sir, I wish I could read, for I am quite tired of having
nothing to do while I mind the sheep.

_Mr. W._ I do not wonder at this; you would not only pass your time more
pleasantly if you read the Bible, but you would also learn about our
Lord Jesus Christ, and how he died for sinners; the Bible teaches us to
love him, and to seek to do his will.

Mr. Williams then advised the boy to ask his master’s leave that he
might go to the Sunday School; and said, that when the long winter
evenings came, he might get one of his companions to help him, and he
would very soon learn to read.

This kind gentleman then walked on till he came to a cottage where a
weaver lived, to whom he wished to speak respecting some work.

Mr. Williams found the weaver very busy at his loom, and while they were
conversing he heard the voice of some young person who was reading in
the next room. It was the Parable of the Sower, which I dare say you
recollect is in the 4th chapter of St. Mark’s gospel. It was read in a
very distinct and proper manner, as if the reader understood it.

[Illustration]

When Mr. Williams had given his orders, he asked who was reading in the
next room.

_The Weaver._ It is my neighbour’s daughter; she is a very good girl,
and comes every day to read the Bible to my aged mother, who has been
blind for the last three months, so that she cannot read for herself;
and I like to hear her as I sit in my loom.

_Mr. W._ How old is she?

_The Weaver._ She is not much above eight years old; but she is more
steady than many of ten or eleven.

Mr. Williams then went to the room door, and saw the little girl
standing by the old woman’s chair, reading a large Bible which lay on
the window seat.

She read very distinctly, as I mentioned just now; she minded her stops,
and took pains to pronounce every word properly, so that it was very
easy to understand what she read. She did not gabble it over like some
little folks I am acquainted with, as if she were trying to get the
words out of her mouth as fast as possible.

[Illustration]

The weaver’s aged mother listened very attentively, and appeared very
thankful to hear the blessed word of God; when the little girl had
finished the parable, she stopped, and the old woman explained what was
meant by the good seed. She said that it was the word of God which
taught us about the Saviour, and that when this good seed was sown in
our hearts by him, and we were enabled to understand it by the teaching
of the Holy Spirit, then we loved him for all he had done and suffered
for us; and, being cleansed from our sins by his precious blood, we
desired to do his will.

The little girl listened very attentively, and after asking some
questions, began to read again.

Mr. Williams then went into the room, and after asking the old woman how
she was; he then turned to the little girl, and said, “My dear, I dare
say you are very happy to be able to read; as you can read not only for
yourself, but also you are able to make this good old woman very happy
too.”

The little girl replied, “Yes, Sir, I am very glad to read to our kind
neighbour; do you know, Sir, that she taught me to read three years
ago.”

_Mr. W._ Did you find it very difficult?

_Little Girl._ It was rather hard, Sir; but she taught me a little every
day. She was very particular that I never missed coming to her, and I
soon found that it became easier.

The old woman then said, “I trust that God has blessed this little girl;
she was very attentive and soon learned to read the Testament, and I
hope He will be pleased, by his Holy Spirit, to enable her to understand
the truths it contains, for she becomes more and more attentive every
day.”

_Mr. W._ Then I am sure that she is happier every day: because nothing
can make us happy, but loving the Saviour and doing his will.

Mr. Williams then gave his Testament to the little girl, who had long
wished to have one of her own. He advised her to read a chapter every
day, and to pray to God for a blessing, and then bade them all good bye.

As he returned home he could not help thinking what a great difference
there was between the shepherd boy who was tired of doing nothing,
because he did not know how to read; and the little girl who was so
happy at being able to read the Testament to her kind neighbour.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




ARE YOU HAPPY WHEN YOU ARE CROSS?


Lucy was just six years old. One day she was sitting on a little stool,
by the side of her mother’s chair, and reading the last chapter of St.
John’s gospel. “Mamma,” said Lucy, “what did Christ mean when he told
St. Peter to feed his lambs?”

_Mamma._ My dear, do you not recollect reading some time ago, that
Christ said he was the good shepherd, and that his people were the
sheep?

_Lucy._ Oh yes, mamma, I recollect reading that; but I forget where it
is.

_M._ It is in the 10th chapter of St. John.

_L._ Stop, mamma, please let me find it; O, here it is, the 14th verse,
“I am the good shepherd.” I suppose Jesus said so?

_M._ Yes; have not you sometimes seen a shepherd taking care of his
flock?

_L._ O yes, mamma; we saw a shepherd that day you and papa took me a
walk by the side of the wood.

_M._ Do you recollect how pleased you were to see the little lambs
skipping about?

_L._ Yes; you told me to repeat the verse,

    “Abroad in the meadows to see the young lambs,
    “Run sporting about by the side of their dams,
      “With fleeces so clean and so white.”

But, mamma, some of the little lambs have black faces; and, mamma, don’t
you recollect, as we returned home, we met the shepherd, and he had got
a little lamb in his arms, which had fallen into a pit and hurt itself.
How kind the shepherd was in taking care of this little lamb!

_M._ The prophet Isaiah spoke of the Saviour many hundred years before
he came from heaven, and compared him to a shepherd. In the 40th
chapter, the prophet says, “He shall feed his flock like a shepherd: he
shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry them in his bosom.”

[Illustration]

_L._ But, mamma, I do not quite understand this; Christ is not now upon
earth, and when he was here he did not keep sheep.

_M._ No, my dear; but it is to make us understand that our Lord takes
care of his people, as the shepherd takes care of his sheep; and he does
not forget children, as you saw the shepherd did not forget his lambs.

_L._ But who are _his_ lambs?

_M._ You, my dear Lucy, are one; if you love him, and believe in him as
your Saviour, and seek to do his will in all things, and are willing to
follow his word.

_L._ O, mamma, I should like to be one; how quiet and happy the lamb
seemed to be when the shepherd was carrying it.

_M._ Well, then, my dear love, pray to the Saviour; he said, “Suffer
little children to come to me and forbid them not;” pray to him, that he
may give you a new heart, which will be happy in loving him and obeying
his word, through the power of the Holy Spirit, which he has promised to
give to all that ask it; and earnestly try to be a good girl, and to
subdue all naughty and unkind tempers.

Lucy again thanked her mamma; and as she had finished her lesson, she
went and put her book away in its place. I hope my readers will remember
this, for it is very untidy to leave books littering about upon chairs
or the floor. She then took her work, and went and sat down by the
window, and began to sew very busily.

Just as she had begun, her little brother Samuel came into the room; he
went up to her, and said, “Lucy, dear, if you please, will you cut out
this paper stag for me? I have drawn its legs very nicely, as you see,
but I am afraid I shall not be able to cut them out properly, they are
so very slender, and I want to put it on papa’s table before he comes
home, to surprise him.”

I am sorry to say, that instead of doing this directly, and in a kind
manner, Lucy frowned, and said, in a short sharp tone, “How troublesome
you are, you are always teazing me; I have just sat down to work and I
am too busy, go and do it yourself.”

Little Samuel was a good boy, and instead of returning a sharp answer to
her cross speech, he said, “Lucy, please to cut it out, you will do it
so much better than I can, and it will not take you a minute.” Lucy put
down her work, and took up her scissors; but when people set about a
thing in an ill humour they never do it properly, and this was the case
with Lucy. Her brother had taken a great deal of pains to draw the stag
very nicely, but she cut it out very carelessly, and presently poor
Samuel saw that one of its legs was cut quite off.

“There,” said he: “there, my poor stag; it is quite spoiled, you have
cut its leg off.”

“Finish it yourself,” said Lucy, throwing the stag one way and the
scissors another. “It’s all your fault, you ought to have let me go on
quietly with my work, and not come to interrupt me, as you always do.”

Poor Samuel looked quite surprised; he was sorry to see his nice stag
spoiled, but he was still more sorry to see Lucy so out of humour, and
he could not think that it was his fault. Indeed, I have generally found
that when people are very ready to blame others, the fault has commonly
been their own, after all.

“Lucy,” said her mother, “is this like one of the little lambs we were
talking about? Remember, my child, God sees you, and do you think he is
pleased that you should speak in such a manner to your brother? Is that
following the example of Christ?”

Lucy felt that she was wrong, and burst into tears. Her mother took her
upon her knee, and said, “Lucy, now you feel that it is necessary to
pray to the Saviour, to give you a new heart, and to enable you to
subdue all naughty and unkind tempers, and that you should try to do
so. Do you feel happy because you were so cross and out of humour?”

Lucy was now convinced that she had done wrong; and that if she had
behaved to Samuel as a sister should act to a brother, she would neither
have spoiled his stag nor have done what was a great deal worse. I mean,
she would not have given way to a naughty temper, quite contrary to what
the Bible tells us: “Be kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly
love.” “O mama,” said she, “I do feel very sorry, and I will pray to the
Saviour--”

“That you may be one of his lambs,” said her mother. “Do this really
from your heart, then you will feel more happy. For God is very kind to
us, and we ought to try to be the same to others. Remember, Christ said,
‘All things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do you even
so to them, for this is the law and the prophets.’”

Lucy kissed her mother, and went to her little desk. She took out a very
pretty drawing of a basket of fruit, and gave it to Samuel, saying,
“Here, Sammy, pray take this instead of your stag which I spoiled, and
this besides;” she then gave him a kiss, he gave her another, and then
ran away quite consoled for his loss.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




MAURICE;

_Or, the Way of the Slothful is a Hedge of Thorns._


People say that idle folks are good-for-nothing folks: but they might
say much more upon the subject. Idleness is a sin against God, and
_therefore_ idlers never can be happy; for how can any persons be happy
when they are committing sin?

Maurice knew this very well, at least his parents had often told him so;
but Maurice still continued his sinful habits of idleness, carelessness,
and self-indulgence; he very often neglected his duties, and I need not
add, that he was very often unhappy. My dear children, you might as
easily count the sparks which fly up the chimney, as reckon up the sins
and troubles which come from idleness.

Maurice had passed several unhappy idle weeks. He did not like to write
a copy; he said his lessons were all so hard that he could not learn
them; he laid in bed of a morning till obliged to get up; and when his
brothers and sisters asked him to do any thing for them, he spoke cross
and pushed them away. He was dull, peevish, and discontented; just as
idle boys and girls always are. There he is in the picture; he sat for
two hours together playing with his keys, rather than learn his lesson,
though he wished for a game of play, and knew that he could not be
allowed to play till he had repeated it.

[Illustration]

People generally go on from bad to worse, and the last week was the
worst of all. It began badly. On Sunday morning Maurice gave way to a
naughty temper, and spoke to his mother in a very improper manner.

Instead of praying to God to send away this evil temper, he thought
about something else while he repeated his prayer, and ate his breakfast
without asking a blessing, just as a little dog would have done.

After breakfast he teazed his sisters, and did all he could to hinder
them from learning the chapter they were to repeat to their father in
the afternoon. He went to church it is true, but he did not attend to
any thing that he heard; part of the time he looked about him, and the
remainder he sat yawning, and he asked three times when the sermon would
be over.

I have told my little readers enough about his naughty behaviour; the
rest of the day passed much in the same manner, and the rest of the week
like the Sunday. I have always found that unless there is “Happy
Sunday,” there will not be “a Happy Week.” Thus there was nothing but
idleness, quarrelling, disobedience, ill-tempers, and ill-manners; and
poor Maurice during this week fully shewed the sinfulness of his heart.
His behaviour clearly proved the truth of the text, “His servants ye are
whom ye obey;” (Romans vi. 16.) and my readers will recollect that when
this text was written the servants were _slaves_. He had obeyed Satan by
his wicked conduct on the Sabbath, and he continued to serve that _hard
master_ all the week, with a constant attention to _his_ will that was
very dreadful. How much better it would have been to have served the
Saviour, “whose yoke is easy and whose burden is light.” His father was
very kind, and warned him several times of the consequences of such
conduct. On the following Sunday he spoke again to Maurice for a
considerable time, telling him how displeasing such conduct was to the
Lord.

    “For God looks down from heav’n on high,
      “Our actions to behold;
    “And he is pleas’d when children try
      “To do as they are told.”

and,

    “His own most holy book declares,
    “He loves good children still;
    “And that he answers all their pray’rs,
    “Just as a tender father will.”

His kind father also reminded Maurice of the example of our Saviour, who
employed himself in doing his Father’s will: and he asked Maurice
whether he was happy when he did not try to please God, but did the very
things from which Christ is ready to deliver his children, when they
really pray to him for the forgiveness of their sins.

I am sorry to say Maurice did not attend to this kind advice, and his
father determined to let him experience more of the unhappiness which
follows from such conduct, so he let him go on his own way till
Saturday.

He then took Maurice for a walk, and they came to a pleasant meadow,
which was separated from the road by a very high and strong thorn hedge.
Perceiving that Maurice was walking with his eyes fixed on the ground,
and making faces, his father suddenly turned into the meadow, by the
gate which they were just passing, and walked along a path on the other
side of the hedge.

Maurice had gone some distance before he found that he was alone, he
then looked about for his father, and at length saw him in the field.

“Father, father,” cried he, “why have you left me? Wait for me, pray
wait for me.”

_Father._ Come to me; this path is very pleasant, and the meadow is full
of beautiful flowers.

_Maurice._ But the hedge is so thick, I cannot get to you. Oh! it has
pricked my hands so badly. Papa, how did you get there?

_F._ Try again; see if you cannot push the branches aside, and put your
foot firm upon the bank.

Maurice tried again, but he only pricked his hands, and scratched his
legs; at last he began to cry.

_F._ Go a little further and try again.

Maurice went backwards and forwards, and tried here and there, but all
in vain; the gate was round a corner and he could not see it.

_M._ Dear papa, I cannot get to you; pray come and fetch me.

_F._ Why cannot you come of yourself?

_M._ Oh, papa, look at these thorns, the hedge is full of them, and it
is so thick I cannot put my hand through. How can I pass it, I shall be
torn to pieces; do look at my hands, see they are all bloody.

His father then ran back, and came out of the field through the gate,
and called Maurice. He sat down, and taking out his little Bible told
him to turn to Prov. xv. 19.

Maurice read “The way of the slothful man is as an hedge of thorns.”

_F._ Tell me, my boy, do you understand what this text means? You have
pricked your fingers and scratched your hands; but tell me the truth,
are not these troubles as nothing when compared with the discontent, and
self-reproaches, and shame, in which you have passed all this week? Is
not the word of God true? And we cannot be happy while doing those
things which are contrary to his word. My dear Maurice, listen to me,
and remember what I say. The Lord tells us in his word, as you see, that
the way of the slothful, that is to say his conduct or his life, is like
a thorn hedge. The word of God is always true. You have been unhappy
lately because you have done what God declares is contrary to his will.
You will be just as uncomfortable to-morrow, the next day, and as long
as you continue this conduct. There always will be a _thorn hedge_
before you, whenever you give way to carelessness, idleness, or other
naughty ways; and though you see others good and happy, and wish to be
like them, you will think that you cannot do as they do. Your idleness
will bring its own punishment, for the slothful man punishes himself by
his idleness, and God is angry with him.

Maurice felt this, for the Lord was pleased to touch his heart, and
cause him to feel the truth of what his father said. He put his hands
round his father’s neck, and exclaimed, “I am very sorry I have been so
naughty and so foolish; I am very sorry indeed that I have sinned
against God, and I hope not to do so again.”

_F._ My dear Maurice, you have promised this more than once already, but
the _thorn hedge_ has always been in your way, and you could not pass
it. You know what I mean. Now can you tell me why you could not leave
off being naughty?

_M._ Yes, papa; I know why it was. I did not ask the Saviour to give me
a new heart; but I will do so now, indeed I will; I will not leave off
praying to him to cure me of my evil ways till he has taught me to do
His will.

Maurice’s father then kissed him, and said, “Whatever you ask from our
heavenly Father, in the name of his son our Lord Jesus Christ, He has
promised that he will bestow; then, my dear child, seek for his grace at
once, pray for it to day, pray for it _now_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps some other time, I may tell you if Maurice did pray to God to
deliver him from his idleness, and whether this hedge of thorns was
taken out of his way. Meanwhile my readers may hope that it was removed;
and let them see whether there is not a hedge of thorns in _their own_
way. If there is, I hope they will not rest till they have found out how
to pass it.

[Illustration]




THE REAL FRIEND.


“Mamma,” said Henry, “may I go and play with William, this afternoon?”

_Mamma._ Why do you wish to go to play with William rather than with
Thomas, who lives so much nearer?

_Henry._ I like very well to play with Thomas; but if you please I had
rather go to see William.

_M._ I wonder at that, for Thomas has a great many more playthings than
William; I know he has a very nice paint box, and you are very fond of
painting pictures.

_H._ Yes; poor William has hardly any playthings, except a few old ones
that I have given him.

_M._ Then how do you amuse yourselves?

_H._ Oh! he is so very clever, he is always making me laugh and trying
to please me; and then he can keep a secret; he never tells any body
what I say.

_M._ Pray what good is there in that? Do you say things that are wrong,
and such as you would be ashamed of, if other persons knew them?

_H._ No, I don’t mean that; but it is so nice to have a secret.

_M._ Then, I suppose, if you say any thing that is silly or foolish,
William never tells you it is wrong?

_H._ Oh, he can say foolish things as well as I; and then he tells me so
many funny stories; there’s Puss in Boots, and I don’t know how many
more, and there’s his story about Old Uncle Natty.

_M._ What! do you mean his Uncle Nathaniel?

_H._ Yes, mamma; William one day asked him for three-pence to buy a
pound of cherries, but he would only give him a penny, and William
always calls him--

_M._ Stop, Henry; I am afraid William is a naughty boy, and I do not
wish to hear such a story as that.

_H._ But, mamma, may we not laugh sometimes?

_M._ Certainly but not at such silly or wicked things:--in what other
manner do you and William amuse yourselves?

_H._ In a great many ways; sometimes we draw, or we play in the garden.

_M._ Pray which of you draws the best?

_H._ William draws houses better than I do, but I can draw horses and
trees the best, and I often draw landscapes and men on horseback for
him.

_M._ And which of you can run fastest?

_H._ I can.

_M._ Is not William sometimes out of humour because you do these things
better than he can?

_H._ O no; the other day he told me I drew so prettily, that he had
rather see me draw for a quarter of an hour than draw for a whole day by
himself.

_M._ What becomes of these pretty drawings?

_H._ He pins them against the wall in his bed-room.

_M._ Why do you not ask William to come home, sometimes? As you are such
great friends I should think he would be glad to come to see you.

_H._ Why, mamma, William says he does not feel so comfortable here; he
is always afraid of you.

_M._ How so?

_H._ Why, mamma, you are so wise, that he is afraid to say just whatever
comes into his head.

_M._ But Thomas always seems very happy when he is here.

_H._ Oh, he is so wise, we call him the Judge: we have always called him
so since the day we went to see farmer Martin.

_M._ But why do you call him so?

_H._ You know, mamma, that we must cross the long meadow to go to farmer
Martin’s. To save the trouble of going all the way round to the gate,
William said we had better scramble through the hedge and make a short
cut across the grass. Thomas looked as grave as a judge, and told us
that the hedge was made on purpose that people should not scramble
through it, and that it was not right to trample down the grass.
William said, that we should not do much harm, and that many others had
often done so before us. Thomas asked him if we were to do wrong because
others did the same? William directly jumped over the hedge and ran
across the meadow crying out, “Who cares for cowards; not I, for one.”

_M._ Did you follow William?

_H._ No; Thomas would not let me; he made me go round by the gate, and
along the path with him.

_M._ And what did William say, when you arrived at the farm?

_H._ Why, he had tumbled into a ditch which the long grass had prevented
him from seeing; the cow-boy pulled him out and was washing him at the
pump.

[Illustration]

_M._ Did Thomas tell William he had done wrong?

_H._ Not at first; but when the cow-boy was gone, he said, “William you
had better have gone along the path as we did.”

_M._ Is this the reason why you call him the Judge?

_H._ Yes, mamma, but you ought to have heard with what a grave tone he
spoke--just like a judge on the bench.

_M._ Ought not serious things to be said in a grave manner?

_H._ Yes; but he makes such grave speeches.

_M._ Do you recollect one of these grave speeches?

_H._ Oh, yes, I can easily do that. The other day I was going to tell
him something his sister had said; it was nothing very particular, but
somehow I hoped it would have made him angry with her. All at once
Thomas stopped me, and said, “A whisperer separateth chief friends;” and
if you had but seen how grave he looked.

_M._ Open the Bible and you will find this grave speech as you call it,
in the 17th chapter of Proverbs. My dear Henry, it was not Thomas but
the word of God that stopped you.

_H._ Indeed, mamma, I did not know it was in the Bible. But Thomas is
always so grave; he looks as if he meant to tell you every thing I say
or do. As we came home from farmer Martin’s I got up behind a carriage,
and the coachman did not find me out for a long while; but when Thomas
overtook me, he said such a deal about its being wrong to get up behind
a carriage without leave.

_M._ What did he say?

_H._ Oh, I hardly recollect all: he said it was unjust, for I did it
without asking leave. I am sure you will say that it is nonsense to call
such a trifle as that unjust.

_M._ I am quite of Thomas’s opinion; what would you have thought, if a
person had put two or three sacks of corn behind the carriage?

_H._ That would have tired the horses and made them go slower, and the
people would not have arrived so soon at their journey’s end.

_M._ Then to do so would have been unjust, would it not?

_H._ I understand what you mean, mamma; though I am not so heavy as a
sack of corn, yet I see I was wrong.

_M._ Well, then, you also see that Thomas was right; but what said
William?

_H._ He whispered to me, “Never mind him; you had a nice ride.”

_M._ Was that right?

_H._ No, I see it was wrong.

_M._ Well, my dear boy, as you understand what I mean, I will tell you
something more. Do not forget what I am going to say, for it is in the
Bible. “A man that flattereth his neighbour spreadeth a net for his
feet,” (Prov. xxix. 5.); and “Every man is a friend to him that giveth
gifts.” (Prov. xix. 6.) Now, tell me the truth: should you be so fond of
William if he contradicted you, or would not do just as you wished him?

_H._ Perhaps not. Yesterday I was angry with him because he would not
take a walk with me.

_M._ Has he ever told you that you are too fond of play, that you like
to be idle, that you are greedy for every thing nice, and that you
sometimes fly into a passion? I rather think that he never told you so.

_H._ But, mamma, am I so naughty?

_M._ What do you think? Remember, _God_ sees and hears you.

_H._ Why, I am not always quite so good as I should be; but one cannot
help being naughty sometimes.

_M._ And is it right to be naughty?

_H._ Oh, no, quite wrong; it is much better to be good.

_M._ Then are those right or wrong who see your naughty tricks, I mean
your faults; or, as they really are, _your sins_; and do not tell you of
them?

_H._ Certainly it is right to tell me of them; but then, mamma, it is so
unpleasant to have Thomas always finding fault with me. He never is with
me for a quarter of an hour without blaming me for something.

_M._ Do you recollect the day we went to Sir Edward Walton’s? When the
carriage came to fetch us, and it was time to get ready, you ran and
asked me for your best clothes.

_H._ Yes; for I should have been quite ashamed if I had gone to play
with Sir Edward’s children in my old jacket and trowsers.

_M._ Suppose, just as you were getting into the carriage, Thomas had
pulled you back, and told you there was a great spot of dirt upon your
frill, should you have been angry with him?

_H._ Certainly not; I should have thanked him, and should have gone
directly and put on a clean shirt.

_M._ Then your wish to be neat would have made you willing to listen to
his advice! Ah, my Henry, tell me, is not there one who is much greater
than Sir Edward, and before whom we must one day appear?

_H._ You mean, mamma, that we must appear before God.

_M._ Yes, that is what I mean, and I speak seriously. But are not we
_always_ in his presence? Whenever we pray to him, whether at home, or
in the House of God, we present ourselves before him. And above all,
when our life in this world is ended, shall we not have to appear
before the judgment seat of Christ?

_H._ Yes, mamma, the Bible tells us so.

_M._ And do you think that he who is so holy will be pleased to see
things which are so wrong in your conduct; for instance, anger,
idleness, disobedience, greediness, or other wicked ways?

_H._ No; for the bible tells us that God “is of purer eyes than to
behold iniquity.”

_M._ Well then if a person warns you of these faults is he your friend
or your enemy?

_H._ Oh, I understand you now, mamma; he is really my best friend.

_M._ But what is he who will hide these faults and prevent you from
seeing them, or even persuade you that they are beauties: what ought you
to think of him?

_H._ Why, he would be unkind, just as if he had let me go to Sir
Edward’s with a dirty frill or a hole in my coat.

_M._ Henry are you aware that every sin is rebellion against God,
against our Lord and Saviour; and therefore is very wrong?

_H._ Yes, I recollect it now; but I did not think of it before as I
ought to have done.

_M._ Well, then, be thankful to those who tell you of these things, and
love you so as to tell you of them, when they see that you have
forgotten them.

_H._ Then, mamma, do you think that William does not love me, because he
does not tell me when I do wrong?

_M._ My dear boy, I fear that William flatters you, and that he will do
you much harm; and I think that Thomas is a REAL FRIEND, because he
fears God, and faithfully warns you when you are wrong.

_H._ But ought I to like Thomas better than William?

_M._ The Bible tells us, “He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find
more favour than he that flattereth with the tongue,” (Prov. xxviii.
23.); and I am sure, if you wish to obey God you will believe his word.

_H._ Yes, mamma, I do wish to obey God, because I know that is the only
way to be happy.

_M._ Well; now, Henry, I will let you choose; you may go where you like
best.

_H._ Then, mamma, I will go to Thomas, and ask him to come and see me.

_M._ I also wish you to see William and tell him how wrong he has been,
and how unkind he is to you. Do this openly and with truth, and shew him
that you do not wish him to be a _flatterer_ but a REAL FRIEND.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




IDLE DICK.


Richard Watson was twelve years old; his father kept the village
public-house.

I am sorry to say that Richard’s father was not a good man; he drank and
swore, and his house was the resort of all the wicked fellows in the
neighbourhood.

There was no Bible in the house; he never prayed to God nor attended
public worship, but spent Sunday just like any other day. He bought and
sold, and drank, and swore, and quarrelled on that day, just as if there
was no Fourth Commandment and as if God had never said, “nor drunkards
nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.” (1
Cor. vi. 10.)

I need not say that such a wicked man did not bring up his family in the
fear of the Lord. He was a widower, and Richard was his only child. It
was even said that his mother’s death had been hastened by sorrow for
her husband’s evil conduct.

[Illustration]

While she lived, Richard was sent to school and had learned to read; but
after her death his father kept him at home, and said he would teach
Richard himself, but he never took any trouble about it.

[Illustration]

Richard grew up without learning any thing more, except to write just
enough to keep an account of what the customers called for. His time was
employed in waiting upon them, or in washing the pots and glasses, and
setting up ninepins for those who played. Poor boy! you may suppose he
heard nothing good. At last, by listening to oaths and wicked words, he
took pleasure in hearing them, and soon began to make use of them
himself.

What was the end of all this! Why before he was twelve years old,
Richard Watson was looked upon as the most good-for-nothing mischievous
fellow in the neighbourhood.

[Illustration]

He was idle, fond of play, and what was worse, a gambler, a thief, and a
complete scoundrel.

You might hear him speak saucily to his father, and even laugh at him
and disobey his orders.

He had frequently been punished, but at length he despised both blows
and reproofs, and used to run away from home whenever he expected to be
punished.

He was the disgrace of the village, and was known by the name of “Idle
Dick.”

Mr. Watson began to think that if his son went on in this manner he
would come to the gallows at last, and determined that he would try and
reform him.

How did he begin? at first he said, “Dick, if you do not mind your work
you shall have nothing to eat.” Dick laughed at this, and went to the
pantry and helped himself.

His father discovered it, so he shut Dick in the cellar for two days and
gave him nothing but bread and water.

This punishment had some effect. Dick behaved better for one week, but
the Thursday following he went to a fight in the neighbourhood, and
staid there all day among gamblers and pickpockets.

His father saw Dick on his way home, and gave him such a beating that he
laid down on the path-way unable to stir. Old Joseph, an honest
basket-maker, and another man who lived in the village, came by and
together they carried him home, where he was for some days confined to
his bed; and he was so much hurt by the severe beating, that for a whole
week he could not walk further than to the bench at the door.

[Illustration]

Poor Dick, as you will recollect, had lost his mother! Ah! it is a sad
loss for children when God takes away their mothers. Nobody in the house
cared about Dick, nobody tried to persuade his father to treat him
kindly, or advised Dick to behave better. If any body noticed him it
was only to laugh and say, “Ah! you idle fellow, you have got what you
deserve.”

A few doors off lived a poor woman named Maud. Her husband was a pedlar,
and was absent from the village a great part of the year; but she staid
at home and earned her living by making lace.

[Illustration]

This good woman had a daughter named Jenny, about the same age as
Richard, but she had been brought up in a very different manner; for as
soon as Jenny could understand what was said to her, her parents had
taught her to love and serve God, as the Bible directs us. She learned
to pray regularly, and attended divine service every Sunday.

Whenever Jenny was naughty, her mother used to remind her that God saw
her, and that she had disobeyed his word, which tells us, that children
are to honor their parents, to be gentle and industrious, and always to
speak the truth.

Sometimes it was necessary to punish Jenny, but her parents did not
chastise her in wrath, but with kindness, as we read in the book of
Proverbs; “Withhold not correction from the child for if thou beatest
him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and
shalt deliver his soul from hell.” (Prov. xxiii. 13, 14.)

This kind correction had been blessed by Him who directed it in His
word; and as Jenny grew up she was the most dutiful, the most
industrious, and the most pious of the young people in the village.

She never was seen flaunting about with those idle giddy girls who are
so fond of laughing and giggling at every thing they see, and forget
that a modest quiet spirit is, in the sight of God, an ornament of great
price. 1 Pet. iii. 4.

Jenny lived quietly at home, and tried to be as serviceable as possible
to her mother; and very useful she was, as all little boys and girls may
be who try to make themselves so.

It was Jenny who swept out the cottage every morning and dusted the
furniture; it was Jenny who fetched water and went to the shop for every
thing that was wanted, and her mother often trusted her to carry work
home to her employers.

[Illustration]

Every thing she did, Jenny tried to do well, and it was always done
quickly and properly.

Now can my little readers tell me, how so young a person could be so
useful and behave so well? It was by the blessing of God; for, like
Joseph of old, God was with her, and that which she did, the Lord made
it to prosper.

You will suppose that her time passed very differently from that of
_Idle Dick_, who was, as we read in Isaiah lvii. 20, 21: “Like the
troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt,”
for “there is no peace saith my God to the wicked.”

My readers will observe, from this history, how great a difference there
is between the righteous and the wicked, between those who serve God and
those who serve him not. Compare Jane and Richard, and say which of
these two was the happiest? The boy who knew nothing about Jesus, or the
girl who had taken the yoke of Christ upon her?

But to return to my story. Maud was at home the first day that Dick was
able to come out after the beating of which I told you. Poor fellow! he
was sitting at the door in the sun, and looked very pale and ill. Maud
saw him, and asked him how he did.

Dick did not answer, though she spoke very kindly; he only made a face
at her, and looked another way.

Maud did not mind this, and at last got him to say that he was unwell,
owing to the beating which his father gave him.

This kind neighbour then tried to make him understand that it was very
wrong to go from home without leave, and that a child committed a great
sin when he rebelled against his father.

“My father hates me,” said Dick in a revengeful tone, “he always has
hated me, and he would be glad to see me dead; but--but I’ll run away
from him some day or other.”

Maud tried to calm him, and to convince him that he was wrong in
thinking that his father hated him, but her kindness seemed to be of no
use; Dick got up and went into the house without even saying, “I thank
you.”

In a few days Dick got well again, and I am sorry to say the first thing
he did was to go with some other good-for-nothing fellows to rob an
orchard, when one of whom fell and brake his arm.

[Illustration]

This was done one Friday night, Dick got out at his bed-room window,
which was over the roof of the stable. They were the greater part of the
night about this wicked robbery, and when it was done Dick returned to
his room in the same way, after hiding his share of the plunder among
some faggots in the yard.

It so happened that his father wanted to move this wood to make room for
something else, and he and the ostler set about it the next morning.
They soon found the bag full of apples and pears which Dick had put
there.

“What is this?” exclaimed the father with an oath, “this is another
trick of that good-for-nothing fellow master Dick; I’ll give it him
properly for this.”

Dick was still in bed; hearing this he jumped up and ran to the window,
where he saw that his father had snatched up a horsewhip and was coming
in doors. “O father, father!” cried he, “forgive me this once, pray put
down the whip.”

Maud was in her garden and heard what was passing. She came to the hedge
and said, “My good neighbour, pray do not treat your son so severely, it
will only harden him,”--“My good woman,” replied he, “mind your own
daughter; I know how to teach dogs good manners, and my good-for-nothing
son must be treated like Boxer yonder.”

[Illustration]

Maud continued to intercede, and at length Mr. Watson consented that
Dick should not be flogged, but only shut up in the cellar. “The
Publican, saying Well neighbour, I will do so, if it is only to shew you
how kind and gentle I am. Go, Peter, and put the good-for-nothing fellow
into the cellar: you nay give him a crust and a mug of water. But Dick,
mind me, I promise you that the next nonsense you are after I’ll give
you a thorough flogging.”

Perhaps you will say, now Dick will be more careful, or he must be a
very foolish fellow. The Bible tells us, that “the sow that was washed
is turned again to her wallowing in the mire,” (2 Peter ii. 22.) and
Dick returned to his wicked ways, as I am going to tell you.

One Saturdays afternoon, as he was setting up the ninepins in the
skittle ground, he saw some of his companions passing by, and they
beckoned him. Dick made a false excuse to join them, and promised to go
with them the next day to a wake in a neighbouring village, where there
would be rope-dancing, wild beasts, and a puppet-show.

[Illustration]

He thought of the horsewhip: but such is the power of sin over the heart
that is led captive by Satan at his will, that neither punishment nor
suffering can keep back those who are not restrained by the grace of
God.

The next morning at day-break Dick and his companions set of to the
village.

“But,” my readers will say, “how could this be--the next day was
Sunday.”

What I am telling you about happened in a country where the people did
not keep holy the Sabbath-day, not even in an outward manner, and where
God’s holy day is despised, there can be but little of true religion.
But although most of the people in that country profaned the Lord’s day
and did not love the Saviour, still there were some few among them who
were his children, and who both loved and served him.

You may suppose that neither Maud, nor her daughter Jenny, nor old
Joseph the basket-maker, wished to go to this wake. On the contrary; in
the morning when they saw their neighbours preparing to go, they felt
more strongly than ever, that the pleasures which a Christian enjoys,
are more pure and more lasting, than the foolish empty enjoyments of
those who despise God and his holy word.

Dick spent the day in all sorts of tricks; he pilfered gingerbread and
cakes from the stalls that he might have something to eat, and I am
sorry to say he stole half-a-crown from a little girl who wanted to get
it changed, and set some dogs to fight; in a word, he committed all
sorts of roguery.

[Illustration]

When night came, most of the people had left the fair. One of Dick’s
companions said to him, “It is late, let us go home.” “Presently,”
answered Dick; “I have been playing at pitch and toss for more than an
hour and have lost almost all my money, I must go on a little longer and
win some of it back again.”

A quarter of an hour first, and then half an hour passed away. Dick
still continued the game, and lost more and more, and swore, and used a
great many bad words, till at last his companion was tired of waiting,
and returned home by himself.

The clock struck nine, when all at once Dick recollected the horsewhip
and his father’s threat; away he ran as fast as he could, but it was
near ten before he got to the village. All was quiet, not a light was to
be seen, except at the parsonage, and the public-house.

[Illustration]

You can hardly suppose how much afraid this unhappy wicked boy felt as
he came to his father’s house. He stopped at the door and listened. His
father was speaking in a very angry tone, and swore he would break his
horsewhip over the back of his good-for-nothing son directly he
appeared.

Dick was afraid to enter; he put his hand upon the latch, but dared not
lift it up. How sad it is when a child dares not enter his father’s
house!--After walking all round the house he got upon the dunghill, and
so climbed on the roof of the stable, from whence he could just reach
the window of his room. He got in and sat down, not daring to stir, nor
hardly venturing to breathe.

His father continued to threaten louder and louder; Dick trembled from
head to foot, and did not know what would become of him, for he knew
that his father would find him at last, and that he might depend on
having a severe flogging.

“The fear of the wicked shall come upon him,” (Prov. x. 23,); the Bible
tells us this. Dick had hardly been ten minutes in his room, when he
heard his father open the door at the foot of the stairs, saying,
“Perhaps this good-for-nothing fellow has got in at the window, I’ll go
and see.”

In a moment Dick was out of the window, over the roof of the stable,
down upon the dunghill, and along the garden, and had jumped over the
hedge before his father got up stairs.

When he was in Maud’s little field, he saw a light in her lower
window;--not knowing what to do, he determined to knock at the window,
and ask this good woman to help him.

[Illustration]

Maud had family prayer regularly every evening with her daughter and
Joseph’s old servant ---- The Bible laid upon the table, and just as
Dick came to the window, she was saying something about what she had
read; he could not hear what she said, but he was impressed with
reverence and did not knock for fear of disturbing them. After they had
knelt down and prayed, they bid each other good night and left the room.

Dick was struck with this, but was obliged to consider what he should do
next.

The night was very dark, all was quiet--not a light was to be
seen.--Dick once more climbed to his window, but the shutter was
fastened. He could not get in, and at last was obliged to lie down upon
a heap of dry leaves under a shed along with the dog Boxer.

His sleep was not very sound, and the stars were still shining when he
awoke. The first thing that he did was to get out of the village as soon
as possible, for he was more afraid of meeting his father than the
evening before.

It was market-day at the next town, and Dick knew that his father meant
to take a pig there to sell; so he waited under the hedge, peeping out
like a fox in his hole, watching till his father should pass by.

[Illustration]

Just as the sun rose, he heard a waggon coming, and looked through the
hedge, hoping it was his father: he saw the well-known team, and it was
going towards the town--but it was driven by Peter the ostler?

The waggon went by; Dick remained in his lurking place without knowing
what to do. He began to be hungry, but had nothing to eat, not even a
crust of dry bread, and was well aware that if he went home the whip
would be laid across his back.

While thus full of doubt and fear, he went to the gate which led to the
common, and leant over the stile thinking what he should do.

In a few minutes Jenny passed by. This good industrious girl had a rake
over her shoulder, and was going to rake up the hay which had fallen
from the carts on the Saturday evening as they went across the common.

Jenny was a good deal surprised, and even a little frightened, to see
Dick at that place so early in the morning, lest he should play her some
trick. However, she mustered up courage, and said--

“Why, Mr. Richard, who would have thought of seeing you here so early?”

_Dick._ Yes: here I am, but what is that to you?

[Illustration]

_Jenny._ I meant no harm, Mr. Richard, only I did not expect you would
have been here.

_D._ And pray Jenny, where are you going with your rake? What are you
after at this time of the morning?

_J._ I am going to gather up the hay which has been dropped. You know
Farmer Norris carted his hay on Saturday, and my mother has sent me to
gather up what has fallen from the carts.

_D._ What right have you to it?

_J._ My mother says that the hay which is left by the way-side is like
the ears of corn left by the reaper which poor people are allowed to
glean.

[Illustration]

Dick was silent for a minute; he then said in a milder tone, “So, Jenny,
you read the Bible?”

_J._ Yes, sure enough, I read it every day, but particularly on Sundays.

_D._ What is that great book about?

_J._ Why, Mr. Richard, did you never read it? Don’t you know how to
read?

_D._ O yes, I can read very well, but I do not spend my time in reading
all sorts of books.

_J._ Mr. Richard, you must not speak of the Bible in that manner. It is
the word of God, who made the heavens, and the earth, and all things,
and it is truth itself.

_D._ Why what can all such a great book be about?

_J._ It tells the history of the world since the creation. There is an
account of the deluge, when all the earth was covered with water, even
the tops of the mountains. There is the history of Abraham and Isaac,
and then there is the beautiful history of Joseph, and an account of
wicked Pharaoh who was drowned in the Red Sea. Then there is the history
of Moses and the ten commandments, which God spake from mount Sinai. And
there is the history of King David who wrote the Psalms, and of Solomon
his son, who was the wisest man. But then above all there is the history
of the Son of God, who came down from heaven and died for sinners, I
mean Jesus Christ our Lord and Saviour; and I cannot tell you how many
histories besides.

[Illustration]

_D._ Pray what is to be learned from all these histories, as you call
them?

_J._ They teach us what God is, and all that he has done for us his
creatures. But above all, they teach us that we are all sinners by
nature and inclined to evil, and that Jesus Christ, the Son of God,
alone can save our souls from being lost and suffering punishment in
hell.

_D._ Then I am in danger of being lost, and do I need any body to save
my soul?

_J._ Why, Mr. Richard what do you think? All are sinners, and surely you
are not one of the best among us.

_D._ What do you mean by a sinner?

_J._ A sinner is one who does not fear God, who tells lies, who steals,
who is disobedient to his parents, who delights to keep company with
wicked persons, and who does not keep holy the Sabbath-day.

_D._ Why, if these are all sinners there is a fine lot of them in our
neighbourhood, and perhaps after all you are one of them, Miss Jenny.

_J._ Yes, it is too true, I am a sinner, but--then--I know from the
Bible what God has done for me.

_D._ Well I should like to know what God has done for you more than for
me?

_J._ I did not say that he had not done the same for you, Mr. Richard;
He will do the same for all those who ask him. O believe on Christ.

_D._ Well, and pray what is this good thing?

_J._ I trust that He has saved my soul from hell, by the death of Jesus
Christ the Son of God, who died upon the cross and shed his precious
blood to cleanse my soul from its sins. This is what I trust God has
done for me, and I have good reason for believing that he has done this,
for the word of God tells me so.

_D._ Has He done this for me, Jenny?

_J._ If you read the Bible you will find that Christ died for sinners,
even for the chief of sinners, as the hymn says.

    “But what is more than all beside,
    “The Bible tells as Jesus died:
    “This is its best, its chief intent,
    “To lead poor sinners to repent.”

But it is time I went to work, for my mother has to go to market, and
must wait till I return.--Good bye, Mr. Richard.

Dick did not reply. He was thinking about what Jenny had told him, and
particularly the latter part of it.

[Illustration]

“It is too true,” said he, returning towards the village, “what good do
I get from the way in which I am going on. I am more wretched than a
dog. All day I am unhappy and out of humour. Every body in the village
despises me, even the little children. If I am at home I am sure to be
scolded or beaten; if I go out with my companions, we are always lying,
and stealing, and swearing and quarrelling. What good is there in going
on so? How different is Jenny: she is about my age, and how happy she
always seems! How pleased she looked last night, while her mother was
talking about that Bible which they all seem so fond of. But why should
not I read it as well as they? I’ll go to old Joseph--I recollect one
day he offered to lend me a Bible; I’ll go directly.”

Dick then ran on, and going round the outside of the village he came to
the old basket-maker’s cottage. He was afraid of meeting his father, but
at last he safely arrived at Joseph’s cottage.

[Illustration]

The basket-maker was very busily at work.--“What, Dick, idle Dick, is it
you? O my boy, when will you turn from your evil ways?”

“I am come on purpose,” said Dick, in a humble tone, “I am come to ask
for the Bible you offered to lend me.”

“What! you asking for a Bible?” said Joseph with surprise. “Can the
Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard his spots.” Jer. xiii. 23.

_D._ Indeed I came on purpose to ask for it.

_J._ And how came you to think about it? Did it come into your head last
night when you jumped out of the window upon the dunghill, and lurked
about in Maud’s field?

_D._ Did you see me?

_J._ I see you? If I had, I should not have let you go on playing your
tricks.

_D._ Does my father know about it?

_J._ O yes, he knew all about it last night, and he saw you skulking
under the hedge this morning.

Dick was quite astonished; he coloured, and looked like a thief caught
in the act.

_J._ Why I do believe you are ashamed for once. You know what you have
done, and out will come the horsewhip.

Dick sat down on a stone, and began to cry, “O how unhappy I am, I wish
I was dead!”

_J._ Why that perhaps might suit you, if it was not for what the Bible
tells us. But now, Dick, say which you had rather suffer; a few
horse-whippings in this world, or eternal torments in the next? But
come, we will see whether something cannot be done to make up what has
happened. What have you been about since day-break?

Dick related his conversation with Jenny, and said, “My good Mr. Joseph,
I do assure you I am now in earnest, and am determined to behave
better.”

_J._ My boy, I suppose hunger makes you say so? Pray did you have any
supper last night, or any breakfast this morning?

_D._ I am hungry enough to be sure, but it is neither hunger nor the
horsewhip which makes me wish to behave better. I am determined not to
go on in this way any longer; I am more wretched than a dog.

The basket-maker went into his cottage, and fetched a cup of milk and a
good piece of bread. He gave them to Dick, saying, “Here, Richard, take
this, and eat what God has given you; and since you wish to lead a new
life, suppose you begin by asking a blessing on the breakfast he sends
you.”

Dick put his hands together, but he did not know what to say, for he had
never asked a blessing in his life. Joseph saw what was the case, and
taking off his hat, he said, “O Lord, who art kind even to the
unthankful and evil, look upon this lad; bless this bread to his use,
but above all give him the bread of life which is in Christ Jesus.”

“Yes, I hope he will,” said Dick; (for he did not know what Amen meant,)
and he ate with a good appetite.

While he breakfasted, Joseph talked to him about God and his word.

_J._ My poor Richard, I am afraid you are almost as ignorant as a
heathen. I fear you are like the child of an idolater. You hardly know
whether you have a soul to be saved.

_D._ What need I to be saved from?

_J._ From the wrath to come--that dreadful wrath with which God in his
justice will punish all sin at the day of judgment.

_D._ Is that quite certain? Are you sure that God will punish all
sinners?

_J._ Yes, I am quite sure, for the Bible tells us so. Christ himself
said, “The hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall
hear His voice, and shall come forth: they that have done good, unto the
resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the
resurrection of damnation.” (John v. 28, 29.)

_D._ Will it be very dreadful to be condemned in this manner?

_J._ “The wicked are reserved to the day of destruction; they shall be
brought forth to the day of wrath.” (Job. xxi. 30.) And the King will
say, “Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the
devil and his angels.” (Matt. xxv. 41.) You will read more about this in
the word of God; and remember, Richard, I say _remember_, what that book
tells us _is true_!

_D._ That frightens me; how shall I escape?

_J._ Read the hundred and thirty-ninth psalm. You will find it is
impossible to escape from God. “Whither shall I flee from thy presence,
for even the darkness hideth not from God.” (Psalm cxxxix.)

Dick held down his head, and was silent for a few minutes. He then said,
“I wish I could change my conduct, for I am not happy, and I am afraid I
shall go to hell if I die.”

_J._ Ah! my lad, you told me so the other day, when you laid in bed
after your father had given you that good beating. I am afraid, after
all, it is only the horsewhip that has brought you to this way of
thinking.

[Illustration]

_D._ You don’t believe me, and I do not wonder, for I have often told
lies; but, indeed, it is not for fear of the horsewhip that I wish to
change my conduct.

_J._ Are you quite sure? Now tell me the truth, and nothing but the
truth, Do you really desire to amend your evil ways?

_D._ I do not quite understand what you mean by ‘amend,’ but I know
this, that if my father had horsewhipped me, and even broken my bones, I
should wish the same. I feel something in my heart which wishes for this
change.

_J._ How long have you wished for this change?

_D._ Ever since the day when neighbour Maud spoke to me as I sat upon
the bench at the door; I pretended not to mind what she said, but I
could not help thinking about it. And then last night when I saw her
look so comfortable as she read the Bible, and prayed with Jenny and
your servant, it struck me still more. I thought of it all night while I
laid upon the leaves, and this morning I was thinking about it when I
saw Jenny, and what she said made me quite determined. Now do believe
me, Mr. Joseph, when I say I do wish to change my conduct. Yes I do,
indeed I do.

The basket-maker held out his hand, and said, “Well, Richard, I cannot
help believing you.--Since you really wish this, and since God, I trust,
draws you to him, I will not keep you back. You shall find me your
friend; I will be a true parent to you. Here, strip the bark off these
twigs while I go to your father.”

Dick felt as if a load was taken off his heart. He set to work
cheerfully, and that was more than he had done for the last twelvemonth.

After some time Joseph returned; he looked pleased, and as soon as he
came in sight he called out, “The horsewhip is put away; you may return
home without fear, your father will receive you kindly.”

Dick jumped up, and threw his arms round Joseph, and thanked him with
tears in his eyes.

_J._ And I have got your father to consent that you may come here, to
me, every day for two hours in the morning and two hours in the evening,
that you may learn my trade; and he also promises that you shall not be
called upon to wait in the public-house on Sundays. Have I done right,
Dick; say, perhaps you do not like this plan?

Dick again threw his arms round the old man’s neck, and said, “Father
Joseph, may I come this afternoon?”

_J._ Yes, my lad, if you please, I shall expect you; but go now to your
father, and mind what he says. If he scolds you, remember you have
deserved it, and do not reply again.

Dick was running off. Joseph said, “Stop a moment. What must we call you
in future, Idle Dick, or Industrious Richard?”

“You will see in a few days,” said Dick, and was out of sight in an
instant; but he came back in the afternoon.

       *       *       *       *       *

You will be glad to hear that he was called ‘Diligent Dick.’--Yes, he
was so changed by the blessing of God upon the counsels and instructions
of old Joseph, that in a few months he was quite different from what he
used to be.

Every day he became more industrious at his work, more correct in his
behaviour, and neater in appearance, milder in his language, and more
regular in all he had to do.

What produced this great change?

It was by the use of means which God has appointed, and which he has
promised to bless. I mean by the study of the Scriptures and prayer.

Joseph read some portions every day with Richard, and set him some
verses, which he learned against the next day.

While they were at work, Joseph used to talk with him, and explain to
him the truths which are in the Bible. On Sundays he especially attended
to this, and talked with him about the love of our Heavenly Father, who
sent Jesus as a Saviour for poor lost sinners, and to save children, as
well as grown persons.

[Illustration]

Joseph often used to pray with Richard, and was very faithful in telling
him of his faults; but he always did this the kind way pointed out by
the word of God, and by shewing him from that book the example of some
child of God who was remarkable for some good quality, the very reverse
of the fault which Richard had committed.

Dick had been called ‘good-for-nothing’ while he kept bad company, but
when he became acquainted with the truths of Scripture, he forsook his
evil companions; and though they pressed him to come among them, he
steadily refused to do so. You may be sure he found out the little girl
and gave her back her half crown.

His former wicked associates were astonished at this change. They made
game of him, and used to insult him; but all the good people in the
village, all those who loved God, the true disciples of Jesus, welcomed
Richard as a friend;

[Illustration]

and when they saw him going by, they used to say, “Aye, there he
is,--when he despised instruction he was an idle vagabond and a
good-for-nothing fellow; but since he has delighted in the word of God,
and studied its precepts, he is become an honest, industrious, worthy
lad. O! how wonderful a change the grace of the Lord has made in that
poor lad!”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE LADY-BIRD.


I was busy, and my little boy Charles, just seven years old, was playing
about the room. All at once he ran up to me, and asked me to look at a
little insect which was crawling upon a piece of paper in his hand.

_Charles._ Look, papa, at this insect: how very small it is! How fast it
moves its little feet. Why did God make such a little thing?

_Father._ It is a Lady-bird. I will put it under the microscope, and you
will then see something more than you expect.

_C._ Quick, papa, else it will fly away.

I put the insect under the microscope without hurting it. To the naked
eye it did not appear any thing particular. Its back was red, with black
and white spots; underneath, it was of a greyish colour.

On looking through the microscope I was struck with wonder. Its back,
which had appeared so plain, was beautiful; the red part I found was
covered with a sort of elegant feathers, all ranged in the most exact
order; the black and white spots were as regular as the squares of a
chess board, and were formed of something like scales, of the clearest
white, bordered with others of a bright shining black; it was divided
lengthways by a black line, and the two sides were exactly alike.

“How wonderful are the works of God,” I exclaimed, “Who would have
supposed that this little insect was so beautifully and wonderfully
made? How perfect are all His works!”

Charles was in a great hurry to see for himself. He looked several
minutes without speaking, and then turned towards me with surprise.

_C._ Oh, papa, how beautiful it is! How wonderful that God should give a
little thing like that such a beautiful shining dress. Did you see his
head, and the scales on his back? They shine like silver or glass. How
beautiful, how very beautiful!

_F._ My boy, since our heavenly Father is so great, so wise, and so
powerful, since he has taken such care of such a little insect, think
what care he takes of his children, whom he so loved that he gave his
only and well-beloved son, Jesus Christ, to die for their sins, that
those who believe in him may be saved from the wrath to come.

_C._ Yes; I recollect reading in St. Matthew, how he told his disciples
that they “were of more value than many sparrows.” They must then be of
more value than this little insect; and since God has given it such a
beautiful dress, surely he will take care of us. Thank you, papa, for
having let me see the Lady-bird, for it shows us how good and kind the
Lord is, and how wonderful are his works.

_F._ You are right Charles; it is a mark of God’s love, that he causes
us to know and feel his wisdom and power. Above all, it is very kind of
him to enable us to trust in him, and to feel assured that he takes care
of us. That he sees us, and keeps us from evil.

_C._ As the little book says,

    “He keeps from harm, he gives me food,
    “And every day he does me good.”

I then turned the glass box in which the insect was shut, and looked at
the other side. Its three pair of legs were placed so that it could move
properly; they were covered with very small scales which protected them,
and yet allowed them to move in every direction. Its little feet were
joined on with the utmost nicety; they moved with perfect freedom, and
all was most regular and beautiful.

“How perfect and how active,” said I, “How wonderful in every part!
Where is there a workman, however skilful, that can at all imitate any
part of this Lady-bird? And, if one was made, where is the man, even
supposing him to be the wisest person upon earth, that would enable it
to move about as this does?”

_C._ Papa, you told us one day there were some persons who said the
world was made by chance? What do they mean? How can that be?

_F._ There is no such thing as chance. All things were made by God. He
is the Creator and Preserver of all things. If any body says this little
Lady-bird was made by chance, I should think he had never seen how
wonderfully it is formed, for it could only have been made by some very
wise and powerful Being.

_C._ But what do these people mean, who say that Nature has made the
animals, the plants, and even men?

_F._ In general they are ignorant people, without religion, who, instead
of giving glory to God, and blessing him as their Creator and Preserver,
endeavour to put out even his name from their writings, and their
discourses, and say Nature made this or that thing, instead of saying
that God, or the Lord, made them.

_C._ Then it was God that made all things! He preserves us every moment,
and yet very often we do not think about him. Why is this, papa?

_F._ My dear; our hearts are by nature far from God, and do not love
him. Sin is the cause of this; it turns our hearts aside from our
heavenly Father, who created us. Thus some persons wish that it was not
God who protects us and keeps us from harm, and gives us all that is for
our good.

_C._ Ah! papa; then there are but few persons who love God and trust in
him?

_F._ It is only _his children_ who love him, and rejoice to praise Him,
and bless His name, who trust sincerely and with all their hearts in
Him. To be a _true Christian_, is to have the heart renewed and cleansed
from its sins, by the precious blood of Christ, being made holy by the
Spirit of God. We are, by nature, like that little insect. God has given
it life and motion, nourishment, clothing, and all it wants; but it does
not think about him, nor wish to thank him.

_C._ But when we are naughty we must be worse than the Lady-bird, for it
does not offend God and sin against Him.

_F._ You are right, my dear boy; those who love sin are not so good as
that little insect. Then how thankful should we be, that Christ Jesus
our Lord died to redeem us from the curse and power of sin: and that he
makes those who seek him children of God, uniting them to himself for
ever.

_C._ I hope God will be my father, and love me. Surely he will take care
of me, for he gave his Son to save me. How kind that was!

_F._ Then, my dear child, love this Saviour; try to glorify Him, and
remember the words of St. Paul, “He that spared not his own Son, but
delivered him up for us all, how shall he not with him also freely give
us all things.” Remember this Lady-bird; how beautifully and wonderfully
it is made by the power of our Lord. Above all things seek with
confidence for his blessing, who, through Christ Jesus, is your heavenly
father, and will not forget you.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




THE LOST CHILD.


Mrs. Sinclair was a good and tender mother and very seldom left her
little family.

One afternoon she was obliged to go out, and as it was to visit a sick
person, she thought it best not to take with her either Charlotte, who
was five years old, or Charles, who was just three years and a half. Her
eldest son, Ernest, was gone out with his father, and there was nobody
left at home except the servants and the children. Mrs. Sinclair spoke
particularly to Fanny, the nurse maid, telling her to great care of
Charles and Charlotte.

The nurse took the children into the garden; they then ran about in the
meadow, while she gathered them some nosegays, and after some time they
returned towards the house, and again played about in the garden.

While they were there Fanny discovered that she had lost her
handkerchief, and instead of asking the cook to fetch her one, she told
Charlotte to take care of her brother for a minute or two, while she
ran to the nursery to get one.

When Fanny opened her drawer, she found somebody had tumbled her best
gown, and her huswife and balls of cotton were all mixed about among her
clothes. Now, Fanny liked to see her things neat, and in their proper
places, so she could not bear to leave them in disorder, and while she
set her drawer to rights, above a quarter of an hour passed away.

All at once she recollected the children, and looking out of the window
she saw Charlotte very busy undressing her doll, and called to her,
“Where is Charles?”

“Oh, there he is,” said Charlotte, without looking up.

“I do not see him,” cried Fanny, and ran down stairs as fast as
possible.

She looked round but he was not in sight.

“He was here just this minute,” said Charlotte; “he was looking at a
snail which was crawling by that monkshood.”

Fanny now began to be frightened, and ran to the kitchen window to see
if Charles was there. The cook had not seen him; she then ran round the
garden, but he was not to be found. The cook now came, and they looked
in the yard, and examined the dog kennel, for Charles had once gone and
laid himself down along with “Captain;” but now Captain was asleep in
his kennel quite alone.

They then thought he might have gone to the kitchen garden, but the door
was locked, and Mrs. Sinclair had taken the key. Fanny next examined the
shrubbery at the end of the garden, and the gate which opened into the
meadow, but that was shut.

You may suppose how anxious Fanny now felt; the sun was just setting,
and not a sound was heard except the mill, and the sheep-bells at a
distance. At this moment, Mr. Sinclair, who had just returned, met her,
and asked what was the matter, and where the children were.

_Fanny, (bursting into tears.)_ O, Sir, Charlotte is up stairs; but--

_Mr. Sinclair._ But what! Where is Charles?

Fanny cried very bitterly, and could not answer.

_Mr. S._ Where is he? What is the matter?

The cook then came, and said, “Sir, Charles is lost.”

_Mr. S._ Lost! What do you mean! lost! when, and how?

_Cook._ We have been looking for him this half hour, Sir; he was just
before that time in the broad walk with his sister; but we cannot find
what is become of him.

Mr. Sinclair appeared struck; he was silent for a minute, but his lips
moved as if he was uttering a short prayer. He then inquired very
earnestly, but calmly, where they had looked.

_F._ Oh, every where, every where, Sir; Oh how unhappy I am.

_Ernest._ I dare say you are, but why could not you take care of the
child?

_Mr. S._ Ernest, this is not a moment to give way to anger; we must
examine how it happened afterwards; but God knows where your brother is,
I trust he will enable us to find him; quick, we must lose no time; I
dare say he has got into the meadow.

_F._ Sir, the gates are both shut.

_Mr. S._ The smallest gate easily shuts to, and a gust of wind may have
closed it after he had gone through.

Ernest and his father then went into the meadow. On one side was a
copse, through which there was a path, and on the other side the ground
rose till it became a steep hill, and sloped down on the other side
rather suddenly towards the lake.

“Cross the meadow, Ernest, and go up the hill,” said his father; “I will
go round through the copse, and meet you.”

Ernest made haste, and called out, “Charles, Charles,” as he ran, for he
was very fond of his little brother: “Charles, Charles, where are you?
Oh, I wish I knew where you are gone.”

He then recollected what his father had said, and as he loved and feared
God, he thought, “O Lord, thou knowest where Charles is gone, direct me
where to find him.”

He then felt encouraged and ran on. I dare say my readers remember the
beautiful text, “The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him; to
all that call upon him in truth.” It is in the 145th Psalm. Yes, God
hears even the youngest child who asks for his help in faith.

Ernest ran up the hill as fast as he could, though it was very steep and
covered with furze bushes.

You may imagine his joy when he got near the top, and saw little Charles
about two hundred yards before him, running along a very dangerous path,
which was full of rough stones; on one side the ground sloped towards
the wood, and on the other it was a precipice towards the lake.

Poor little Charles was crying very sadly: he stopped and wiped his eyes
with his pinafore, and then ran on again, and then stopped again and
cried, and then ran on again.

“Charley, my dear Charley,” said Ernest.

Charley stopped and looked behind him.

“Oh, my dear Charles,” said Ernest, leaping over the bushes and catching
him in his arms, “God has preserved you.”

Presently their father came up. “Thank God,” he exclaimed, and taking
Charles in his arms he kissed him, and they hastened back to the house.

Mrs. Sinclair had just come in, and was deeply grieved at what had
happened; but instead of giving way to grief, or flying into a passion,
she inquired what had been done to search for him, and finding that
proper measures were taken, she went into her own room, and prayed that
her little Charles might be brought back again in safety.

While she was thus employed, she heard Ernest’s voice at a distance:
“Here he is; here he is; we have found him!” She opened the window, and
exclaimed, “Oh! where, where, let us be thankful!”

Mr. Sinclair was carrying him in his arms.--The poor child had fallen
asleep, but he was much agitated, and sobbed deeply. They laid him on
his bed, and by degrees he became more calm.

Fanny stood at the further end of the room; she was still weeping, but
her tears were tears of joy.

“Fanny,” said her mistress, “come here; I have cause to blame you very
much, and should do so, but I know you are not accustomed to be
careless, and I see you deeply feel the consequences of your neglect.
Learn from what has happened, that a very trifling neglect of our duty
may be the cause of a very serious evil. If you had attended to your
duty and my orders, what painful feelings would you have saved both
yourself and us. You are young; never, never forget this lesson, and
entreat the Lord to improve it for your good.”

“We may all learn a lesson from it,” said Mr. Sinclair; “my grief at
missing Charles, and my fear lest some accident had befallen him, made
me think of the goodness of our heavenly father towards us. I said to
myself, God compares his love towards his children, to that which I feel
for little Charles; surely, then, I ought not to fear that he will leave
me, or forsake me; and if I should be so unhappy as to wander from his
paths, surely I may hope that he will seek for me, and lead me back
again.”

_Mrs. S._ That reminds me of what our Saviour said, when he compared
himself to the good shepherd who goes to seek for the sheep that has
wandered from the fold, and having found it, carries it home, rejoicing.

_Ernest._ When I saw how unhappy little Charles was, it made me think
how miserable those are who wander from the ways of the Lord; and when I
see how glad we all are, that dear little Charles is brought home in
safety, it reminds me of the joy there will be in heaven over one sinner
that repenteth, and is brought back again.

_Mr. S._ Since our Lord has been pleased to try us in this manner for a
short time; let us entreat that he would bless this trial to our hearts,
and let us not forget the thanks which we owe to him. He is indeed
merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and plenteous in mercy. He hath
not dealt with us according to our sins, nor rewarded us according to
our iniquities. Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord
pitieth them that fear him.

The hour for family prayer was now come. Mr. Sinclair read the 103d
Psalm, and while he endeavoured to bless the Lord for all his benefits,
he did not forget the mercy which they had so lately experienced.

Before she went to rest, Mrs. Sinclair looked at little Charles; he just
woke, and smiled at his mother, gave her a sweet kiss, and then went
comfortably to sleep again.

[Illustration]




REAL CHARITY.


The winter had just set in. The weather was severe, and there was every
appearance that the poor would have to undergo many hardships. Mr.
Halton, a faithful minister of Christ in Switzerland, mentioned in his
sermon that it was necessary to make collections for them.

“My dear people,” said he, “let us remember the love wherewith Christ
hath loved us; he, who is the only son of the father, and heir of all
things ‘for your sakes became poor, that ye through his poverty might be
rich.’ (2 Corinthians viii. 9.) Remember also the words of the Psalmist,
‘Blessed is he that considereth the poor, the Lord will deliver him in
time of trouble.’ My dear friends, there are many poor persons amongst
us. Some are too old or too feeble to work; if the weather continues
severe, others will not be able to get employment; and there are several
whose families are so numerous that they are in difficulties in the most
favourable times. You know, that old people and children, in particular
suffer much in cold weather. Recollect these persons are our brethren;
and I trust that some among them have been brought from darkness to
light, to the knowledge and love of Christ. These, especially, we ought
not to neglect, (Gal. vi. 10.) and I am glad to find that some of our
number have resolved to do as they have done before. They have
determined to labour harder than usual, to assist in supporting these
feeble brethren, remembering the words of our Lord as mentioned by the
apostle, (Acts xx. 35.) ‘It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ I
hope many of us are willing to follow this example.”

After the sermon a collection was made; it was larger than usual, and,
during the week following, several persons sent money and clothes for
the same purpose.

Susan was the daughter of a shoemaker. Both her parents feared God. She
had heard the sermon, and as she walked home she thought a good deal of
what the minister had said about the old people and children. Her mother
had been forced to stay at home to nurse the baby, but she asked her
daughter about the sermon.

“It is our duty,” said she, when Susan had related the particulars; “it
is our duty to assist the poor. All we possess was given to us by God,
and it is our duty to help his children and people.”

Susan sat silent for some time: she then said, “Mother, you know that
father pays me a half-penny for every pair of shoes I bind, and he lets
me do what I please with the money: suppose I ask him to send it to our
minister, for the poor. And you promised to buy me a pair of clogs at
Christmas, but these old ones will last me some time longer, and you
know I never have chilblains, so if you please, mother, you can send
that money also.”

The mother gave her daughter a kiss of affection and pleasure. The
father entered, and inquired what they were talking about. His wife told
him.

_Father._ It is very right, for there are many amongst us who are much
distressed; our minister told me that Old Simon is quite paralytic, and
his daughter is ill of a fever and keeps her bed. Suppose we only have
meat for our dinner twice a week this winter, we shall be better able to
help our neighbours.

This was agreed to, and also that Susan should be allowed to give what
she had proposed; her father said he would pay what she earned every
week to their minister. “Would not it be better,” said the little girl,
“to put it into the poor’s box without saying any thing about it?”

_F._ It is the same in the end, my dear; but I think our minister would
be glad to receive it himself. It is, as I may say, the first-fruit you
have produced; he has taken much pains in teaching you, and a gardener
rejoices to gather the fruit from the trees he has planted.

_Mother._ You are right, Susan, in not wishing that your alms should be
seen of men, as our Lord said in his sermon on the mount, “Take heed
that ye do not your alms before men, to be seen of them: otherwise ye
have no reward of your father which is in heaven.” (Matt. vi. 1.) But I
think, with your father, that it will be proper in this instance, to
show our minister that you desire to obey the will of the Lord.

Susan very wisely thought that her parents knew best what was proper, so
she only was anxious to bind as many shoes as she could, that there
might be the more money to help the poor children: she had learnt, and
she did not forget, the 5th commandment, “Honor thy father and thy
mother that thy days may be long in the land which the Lord thy God
giveth thee.” The next morning was Monday, she rose early, read a
chapter, and prayed as usual, she then set to work and had finished half
a shoe before breakfast. She worked that day as hard as she could, and
half an hour longer than usual, so she trimmed a pair more than she did
in general.

[Illustration]

But do not suppose she looked as if she were proud of what she had
done, or that she was less active in doing what it was her regular
business to perform in the family. She was ready to nurse the baby or to
do any thing else her mother directed.

She did this from love to God and therefore did not merely try to get
her parents’ praise. She was more attentive than ever to do what they
wished, and did not say a word about her having risen earlier or worked
harder than usual. Tuesday, Wednesday, and all the rest of the week,
passed just like Monday. Mark this, my little reader; for it often
happens that young folks determine to do something which is very right
and proper, but in a few days they are tired of it.

Now Susan had begun this work in a right manner, she prayed in her mind
before she spoke to her mother. She acted as the Bible directs,
honouring her father and mother by asking their approval, so we need not
be much surprised that she was able to keep firm to her resolution, and
that the whole week passed without her feeling tired, because she had
been so busy and had played so little.

This week she earned threepence more than usual; and on Sunday morning
her father put into the minister’s hand eightpence, which was the whole
of her earnings, telling him whence it came, and what was to be done
with it. Susan and her mother were going out of church; when she saw her
father go up to the minister, she could not refrain from looking to see
what passed: the minister appeared pleased.

Christmas day came, it was cold, wet, and dirty. Susan could not help
thinking of the new clogs; she was silent for a few minutes, when her
mother inquired if she really had made up her mind to do without them?

“Yes dear mother,” at last, said she, sewing away very busily, and
without looking up; “I have not to go out much in the wet. To be sure I
should like to have them to wear on Sunday;--but then,--perhaps that is
because I should like the neighbours to see them, and _that_ I am sure
is not a good reason.”

_M._ Then you have made up your mind to go without a new year’s gift,
for I do not intend to buy you any thing else?

_Susan._ Mother, I do not want a new year’s gift. I have all I want, and
even more than I need provided for me every day, through the blessing of
God, by your kindness. There are a great many boys and girls in the
village who will not have any new year’s gift; and they have not got
thick shoes and warm frocks as I have.

_M._ Then I am not to buy the clogs?

_S._ No, mother; but ask father to give the money they would cost, next
Sunday, with the rest.

The new clogs were not bought, and Susan contrived to pass the winter
without them. Every week (for she did not miss one) her father gave her
earnings to the minister; it was always six-pence or sevenpence, and two
weeks it amounted to tenpence! When the snow fell very fast, and the air
felt very keen and frosty, Susan was happy to think that her pence were
keeping some of the poor little children from the cold.

Now I will relate what was done with Susan’s money. Her father requested
the minister to apply it for the use of some one family, and
particularly for clothing a poor child. There was a widow who had one
little boy, they were very poor, he was bare-footed and almost naked:
the mother was a good woman, so the minister bought clothes for her son,
and advanced the money till Susan’s contributions were enough to repay
him, and when the price of the clogs was added, only about a third
remained unpaid.

One day, in the beginning of February, the shoemaker told Susan to
accompany him to the minister’s house, as he was going to take home some
work. The fields were all covered with snow, she put on her thick shoes,
which she had lined with flannel, and followed her father.

When they arrived at the minister’s house, he spoke very kindly to
Susan; taking out a little account book he showed her father how he had
disposed of his daughter’s earnings. “The jacket and trowsers are now
quite paid for, and a nice cap besides;” said he. The shoemaker thanked
him, and they returned homewards. “Oh, it is cold, so very cold,” said
Susan, shrugging up her shoulders as she run along the path. “Do look,
father, at those poor birds pecking about in the road, I am sure they
can find very little there.”

_F._ Our heavenly father does not forget them. Remember the words of our
Lord, “Behold the fowls of the air: for they sow not neither do they
reap, nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly father feedeth them:” and
not a sparrow shall fall on the ground without his knowledge. (Matt. vi.
26. x. 29.)

Just then they passed by the house where the poor widow lived, whose son
had been clothed by Susan’s money. School was over, and little Ned came
running along the path full of glee. He looked very comfortable; he had
on a nice brown jacket and a warm cap; he was swinging his hands and
clapping them together, and did not seem at all cold.

“Well, master Ned, you seem very gay;” said the shoemaker. Ned laughed,
and ran into his mother’s cottage.

“His mother has taken good care of him;” said Susan.

“And so has my daughter,” added her father; “for, thank God, he put it
into your heart to clothe him. Our minister just now told me, he bought
those clothes for little Ned with the money you sent him.”

Susan was quite surprised; she could not have supposed that her little
earnings would have done so much good. Tears of joy came into her eyes,
and when they reached home she went into her own room, and kneeling down
blessed God, for having inclined her to do what made her so happy.

Can any boy or girl read this history without thinking, “How much better
it is to spend my money in making other people happy, than wasting it in
idle toys. How much better it will be for me to rest contented without
things which cannot do me any real good, that I may help those who want
the necessaries of life.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




PROVIDENCE;

_Or, the Mother and her Child_.


One fine afternoon in autumn, Samuel, a labourer in the village of
Ancenis, called his daughter Fanny, and told her to get her hat and
cloak, to accompany him on a visit to a friend in the next village, who
was ill.

The weather was fine, and the path between the villages was very
pleasant. Part of the way was between two hedges full of berries of
various colours, it then passed over an open down which commanded a
beautiful prospect, and at last, winding through a thick wood, came out
into some rich meadows.

Although Samuel was a poor labourer, without much education, and had
lived all his life in the country, he was not insensible to the beauty
of the works of God in creation. He had been accustomed from childhood
to read God’s holy word, and had drawn from thence much that instructed
his mind, with regard to the things of this world, as well as the
knowledge that made him wise unto salvation.

Thus he could enjoy the beauties of the country, and the lovely objects
of nature always appeared new and interesting. As he found much true
enjoyment in these contemplations, which directed his thoughts and his
love towards God, he endeavoured to induce his children also to take
pleasure in them. He used to take them with him into the fields, and
often pointed out to them various instances of the power, the wisdom,
and the goodness of God, who made all things.

Fanny was only twelve years old, but she already began to perceive that
knowledge is precious; and preferred her father’s instructions to idle
gossiping with the girls of the village. She was particularly fond of
listening to her parents’ friends, and always tried to learn something
from their conversation; so that she was very glad to accompany her
father in his visit that afternoon.

As the father and his daughter walked together, they conversed about the
goodness of the Lord, who forgets none of his creatures, not even the
smallest and most insignificant.

“Look round, my dear,” said Samuel, stopping at the highest part of the
down, from whence the view was very extensive, “see those villages, the
woods, and the river; every place you behold is peopled with an
innumerable multitude of creatures of various kinds.

[Illustration]

“Some walk upright, others crawl upon the ground; others burrow into the
earth, and form their habitation under the surface; others fly aloft,
and traverse the air in every direction; others swim in the waters.
Throughout the whole of creation, every part is the habitation of some
animal, or reptile, or insect. Even in the woods, among the leaves of
the trees, in the fruits they bear, in the earth from whence they grow,
nay, even among the stones, there are some living things. Now, whether
they are great or small, whatever they are, not one of them is forgotten
by Him who made it.”

As they walked, Samuel said, “God’s wonderful power is over _all_ his
works, from the vast whale which inhabits the seas, to the little
insects which are found in every drop of the water of yonder pool, but
which cannot be seen without the aid of a glass.”

_Fanny._ Is it possible, father, that God can take all this care of
every animal and insect, even of spiders, ants, grasshoppers, and worms?

[Illustration]

_Samuel._ Recollect, Fanny, that these things seem so insignificant to
you, because they are less than you; and appear to be of no use to you.
But look at the web which the spider is weaving upon that bush; examine
carefully what this skilful artist is about; what skill, what
regularity, and attention is shewn, in its net made from that slender
thread. In the first place observe the three or four cords which support
the whole; they are fastened to the branches, and are much stronger than
the rest of the web; then notice these more slender threads which are
fixed to the others and meet together in the centre: upon these threads,
which remind us of the spokes of a wheel, the spider fixes finer threads
in circles, which are smaller and smaller from the outside to the
middle. Observe how this little insect has placed each circle at exactly
the same distance from the others, and how these circles are tighter as
they are nearer the centre. There, now it is finished. The spider has
completed her beautiful work. Now she has taken her post in the middle
of her web, her eight feet are placed upon its threads, and she watches
for the slightest motion which is made by any insect that touches her
web.--Now, my girl, can we suppose that God who made this insect, and
gave her this surprising skill, will forget her, and leave her so that
all her labour and pains will be useless! Surely not; let us wait a
little and see. There, now, watch that little fly. Ah, he is caught.
See, the spider is upon him in a moment; observe, she has entangled him
in some threads, and now she has killed him, and is feeding upon him.
She has food enough for to-day. God has provided for her.

_F._ Father, don’t you hear a little noise, as if somebody was filing or
sawing very gently?

_S._ That is a little animal which God remembers as well as the spider.
Don’t stir, and you will see him presently. There,--there he is.

_F._ What that pretty, very, very little mouse? Did he make that noise?

_S._ Yes, look here, I will shew you what it was. See under this leaf
two pieces of nut shell. The little field mouse held this nut in his two
fore paws, and with his long sharp teeth gnawed, or, as it were, filed
away the shell; he then ate away the kernel and is now gone to look for
something else.

_F._ Oh, father, how kind all this is. How well it is planned. Then
there is food for every little animal and insect. How great and how good
God must be, who orders all things!

By conversations like this, Samuel instructed his children. He took
every opportunity to draw their attention towards the eternal God, who,
although he does not converse with men upon earth, as before the fall,
yet shews his presence by many striking instances of love and mercy.

As Samuel and his daughter continued their walk, they came to the skirt
of a wood, where they found a young woman sitting by the side of a
spring, with an infant in her arms. The poor little child was crying
very bitterly, its mother wept also, and appeared quite overcome with
grief.

_S._ Poor child, how sadly you are crying. My good woman, be more calm;
tell me what is the matter?

_The Mother._ O, Sir, my child is dying; my child, my dear child.

_S._ No, I do not think so; it is in great pain, but it does not seem
likely to die; God has sent this trouble, and he can remove it. Trust in
him; take courage and exert yourself, and all will be well. Tell me what
is to be done.

_M._ Ah, Sir, you do not know what has happened. The birds yonder have
food for their young, but my little one is dying with hunger--with
hunger! I have no milk for it, and have walked all day across the
mountains without meeting any help. Oh, my boy, my dear boy, don’t cry
so sadly. If you did but know how unhappy it makes your mother.--

Samuel was silent, and deeply grieved. “My God,” said he, “be pleased to
hear the cries of this poor creature, and shew us what we should do.”

Fanny said to her father, “Our neighbour Nanny weaned little Charles
yesterday, I am sure she would be glad to take this little child.”

_S._ That is a good thought, my dear; I trust God has reminded you of
it. Let us make haste homewards; this poor woman and her child need our
help much more than the person we were going to see. Come, my good
woman, take courage; try and follow us, and your child will soon be
comforted. Fanny, let us go the path-way by the willows, that is the
nearest.

As Fanny walked along, she thought about the woman and her child, and
felt in some doubt and difficulty. “How is it,” said she to herself;
“how is it that God, who is so great, so powerful, and so good, should
provide for the spider and the little mouse, but should neglect that
little child, so weak and so helpless as not to be able even to ask for
what it wants, and should let it be in such a state that it must very
soon die! Why did God take away its mother’s milk? It is very strange!”
These last words she said aloud.

_S._ What is so very strange?

Fanny hesitated, and was afraid to tell what had passed in her mind,
lest it should be displeasing to God. So she said, “It was something,
father, which I do not quite understand; but I will think again about
it.”

_S._ You had better tell me, Fanny; do not be afraid of letting me know
what it was. Were you thinking about that little child, and wondering
why God appeared to have forgotten it, while He takes care of mice and
spiders?

_F._ (_colouring_.) I was afraid to say so; but I could not help
wondering at it. But I did not think that God was unjust, only I did not
understand his ways.

_S._ There is Nanny coming this way; we will talk again about this
subject by and by. Run to her, for you can run faster than I.

Fanny ran like a deer, and told their neighbour all that had happened.
Nanny hastened to Samuel, rejoicing that she could be of use. “This is,
indeed, providential,” said she; “give me the child, I will treat it as
if it was my own. Thank God, my good woman,” said she to the mother: “he
who made your child has directed it here; see, it is as well pleased
with my milk as if it were your own.”

Rebecca who was the mother of the child, fell upon her knees and clasped
her hands together. She wept, but her tears were not tears of bitterness
or grief; she was struck with a sense of the unexpected succour she had
so providentially received, and she felt pained that she had for a
moment doubted the faithfulness of the Lord.

“My friend,” said Samuel, kindly raising her up, “you see that He, who
feeds even the young ravens, has not forgotten your child.”

“I have sinned,” replied the mother; “I feel that I have sinned; may God
pardon my evil complaints. But it is a long day for a mother. Yes it is
a very long day, when every moment is marked by a cry of pain from her
child! I looked to heaven, but saw not the Lord; I was like Hagar in
the desert, (Gen. xxi. 15.) and forgot him.”

_S._ The Lord directed you to find succour, and has many other blessings
in store for you, of which you are not now aware.

Fanny was struck with the words of the young mother. She came to her
father, and whispered to him, “I also forgot the Lord; will he forgive
me?”

Samuel kissed his daughter. “My child,” said he, “remember, that
although our Lord sees our faults and evil deeds, he is ready to pardon
those who seek forgiveness through Christ. He has said. ‘Ask, and ye
shall receive;’ and him that cometh unto me, I will in no wise cast out.
Turn to him with your whole heart, he is full of mercy, and his
compassions fail not.”

While thus conversing, they arrived at Nanny’s cottage. The little child
had fallen asleep in the nurse’s arms, and she put it safely into the
cradle of her own child, who was gone to a friend to be weaned.

She then prepared some food for the poor mother, who was quite exhausted
with anxiety and fatigue. While thus employed, she repeated, “The Lord
is good to all, and his tender mercies are over all his works. The Lord
upholdeth all that fall, and raiseth up all those that be bowed down.
The eyes of all wait upon thee, and thou givest them their meat in due
season. The Lord is righteous in all his ways, and holy in all his
works. The Lord is nigh unto all them that call upon him, to all that
call upon him in truth. He will fulfil the desires of them that fear
him; he also will hear their cry, and will save them. The Lord
preserveth all them that love him, but all the wicked will he destroy.”

_S._ Yes, neighbour, let us praise the providence of God who has been
pleased to send you another infant, for a short period deprived of its
mother, instead of your own.

_N._ Oh, Samuel, when you learn the whole of this instance of
providence, you will indeed adore him with wonder: I will tell you
presently, when this good woman has taken something to eat, and has laid
down to rest herself. My husband is away for three or four days, so she
may stay here till he returns, and, if God pleases, we shall be able to
think what had best be done for her.

The mother appeared very thoughtful, and took no notice of what was
said. Her hunger was soon satisfied; she then arose, and taking Samuel
by the hand, said, “God will bless you; for he has this day shewn, by
your means, that he will not break the bruised reed, nor quench the
burning flax. I am a bruised reed, but I now feel strengthened; and as
to the flax, oil has been poured upon it, and the flame again shines
forth.--This is from God.”

Samuel sent his daughter home, and then being left alone with Nanny, he
said, “What is this peculiar instance of God’s providence which you have
discovered in the misfortunes and succour of that poor woman?”

_N._ I will tell you. Last week, my friend who has taken little Charles
to wean, and who lives about twelve miles beyond the mountains, came to
see me: among other inquiries, I asked respecting the state of her
family as to religion. She shook her head, and unwillingly told me that
she suffered a good deal of trouble from her brother-in-law, a profane
and irreligious character, who has lately returned home from a foreign
country, where he had acquired many bad habits, and among other things
had learned to scoff at religion. ‘But what grieves me most of all,’
added she, ‘is his ill treatment to his poor wife, an excellent young
woman, whom he married in a foreign country, and who has a child only a
few months old.’

_S._ What is she the woman we found?

_N._ I have no doubt of it, and for this reason: my friend told me that
this cruel hard-hearted man more than once threatened to kill her and
her child, if she continued to read her Bible, and attend a
prayer-meeting which is held in their village.

_S._ Do you suppose that she is acquainted with the truth as it is in
Jesus, and that her heart is really devoted to the Lord?

_N._ I understood she was a serious character and I now recollect that
she was the daughter of a schoolmaster, a good man, who brought up his
children in the fear of the Lord and the knowledge of the Saviour. You
heard her refer to a passage in the Bible?

_S._ Yes; I noticed it.

_N._ My friend told me she often conversed with her sister-in-law upon
serious subjects, and had no doubt God had blessed her soul.

_S._ But how came you so soon to think it was her?

_N._ When my friend spoke of her troubles, I felt deeply affected for
her unpleasant situation, and I have since then frequently wished that I
could be of use to her. This evening I sadly missed my little Charles,
and I took a walk to divert my thoughts. She came again into my mind,
and I could not help thinking of the painful situation of a serious
young woman, far from her home and her relations, and married to a
wicked man who treats her with the greatest unkindness.

_S._ It must indeed be a painful situation, and how deplorable such a
union.

_N._ While I was thinking about her, I saw you by the willows with a
young woman in a foreign dress, and an infant in her arms, it at once
struck me that she must be the poor woman of whom I was thinking, for my
friend, among other things, spoke of the dress she usually wore; and as
we were walking along, I heard her say to herself, ‘If I stop here, will
not he find me?’ I then felt sure that I was right in my conjecture.

_S._ Poor thing! it is _that_ makes her so thoughtful. I recollect when
I spoke to her, she said she had been all day travelling among the
mountains.

_N._ I am sure it is her, and I hope the Lord has brought her here for
some good.

_S._ O, the depth of the riches, both of the wisdom and knowledge of
God! How unsearchable are his judgments, and his ways past finding out!
I will tell my wife what has happened, and we will come in the morning
and see what can be done for the young woman. Good night; may the peace
of God be with you!

In the morning Samuel and his wife came to Nanny’s cottage, and found
her sitting before the door with the stranger, and suckling her child.

_N._ It is, as I supposed, it is Rebecca, my friend’s sister-in-law.
Samuel’s wife spoke kindly to the young woman, and after a short
conversation led her aside.

_S._ My wife is going to speak seriously to her. We do not think she has
acted quite as the word of God directs.

_N._ Neighbour Samuel, remember the bad character and ill behaviour of
her husband.

_S._ Do you not recollect I told you the other day that the faults of
others did not excuse us for neglecting our own duty.

_N._ But would you have this woman and her child exposed to such
barbarous treatment?

_S._ If she had continued enduring these things for the sake of God, and
because he has said, “If when ye do well and suffer for it, ye take it
patiently; this is acceptable with God,” 1 Pet. ii. 20. can you for a
moment suppose that he would not have sustained her under her trials?
Remember the words of St. Paul, “The woman that hath a husband which
believeth not, and if he be pleased to live with her, _let her not leave
him_.” 1 Cor. vii. 13.

Nanny felt convinced that Samuel was right.

His wife returned with Rebecca, whose eyes were full of tears.

_S._ My good Rebecca, I hope you feel that we desire to act as your
parents, and only wish to speak for your good.

_R._ Yes, I feel it, my good friends; you have spoken to me from the
Lord, and I needed your advice. I have done wrong, I have sinned against
God by my impatience, He chastened me yesterday, but he did it as a
tender father, and in mercy has, I trust, turned the evil I planned into
good.

_S’s wife._ I do hope that what has passed will prove an occasion of
good, both to you and your husband.

Rebecca shook her head, and sighed as she looked at her child.

_S._ Do not limit the power of God. Have more faith; cast all your care
upon him, for he careth for you. I intend to go to your husband to-day,
and I hope my visit will not be without effect.

[Illustration]

In the course of the day Samuel set out. He was absent three days,
during which time his wife conversed a good deal with Rebecca; they also
read the Bible, and prayed together. The young wife was deeply affected,
and said, that as soon as Samuel returned she would ask him to take her
home to her husband; adding, “I will endeavour to win him by my conduct,
as the apostle directs, and how do I know but I may be the means of
saving my husband.” 1 Cor. vii. 16. 1 Pet. iii. 1.

In the afternoon of the third day, while they were conversing upon the
duties of a Christian, as a wife and a mother, they heard some one
coming. “Here he is,” said Rebecca, running to the door; “here is good
Samuel.”

_S._ Yes, Rebecca, and I have brought somebody with me; I am not alone,
but am accompanied by a man, who I trust will in future endeavour to
walk according to the will of Him who has protected you. Here, Dennis,
(said he, raising his voice,) come in; Rebecca is waiting for you.

Dennis was her husband. He ran in, saying, “O, my dear Rebecca, forgive
your unkind husband; I have prayed to God to pardon me. O forgive me for
all the injury I have done to you and our child.”

Rebecca was deeply affected, and unable to speak for some time. At
length she said, “The Lord is good. Dennis, I was coming home to ask
your pardon, for while sinning against the Lord, I have sinned against
you also; I forgot that I was bound to obey you, and that I ought to
have waited patiently, praying that the Lord would turn your heart.”

_D._ I trust I shall now be an altered man; God sent this good man to
me, and I feel convinced of my sin. We have both of us much reason to be
thankful; these are the wonderful dealings of his providence.

Fanny just then came to call her mother, and heard what Rebecca and her
husband said about the providence of God. She remembered what she
thought a few evenings before, and what she had said to her father. She
watched for an opportunity of speaking to him, and said, “Father, you
have not yet spoken to me about what I said the other evening; but I
have thought about it a great deal, and I now clearly see that God had
not forgotten the little baby and his mother, any more than the field
mouse or the spider.”

_S._ You perceive these things, my girl, but as yet you know very little
of what the Saviour has done. Consider further, that it was Rebecca’s
grief, when she saw the suffering of her child, that made you think of
Nanny, and it was from her I learned Rebecca’s hardships, and the evil
conduct of her husband. That God, who is all powerful, all wise, and
full of goodness, whose providence orders even the smallest events, I
trust has been pleased to direct that these occurrences should lead me
to be the means of directing Dennis to his Saviour, and of reconciling
him to his wife and child. Thus you now see that God has shewed his
kindness to Rebecca, to her child, and to her husband, much more than to
the spiders and animals of the field. He gives them their food in due
season; but for his children he has provided a better gift, even “the
gift of eternal life through Jesus Christ our Lord!” My girl, the
providence of God is indeed wonderful, and his ways past finding out.

Fanny perceived the truth of what her father said. She felt in her heart
that the ways of the Lord are above our ways, and his thoughts above our
thoughts, and she determined in his strength never more to doubt the
power, nor the tender mercies, of Him who does all things for the good
of his children.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




LUCY;

OR,

“_I will not be Naughty again, Papa_.”


One day, Lucy’s father was obliged to find fault with her for something
she had done wrong. “I will not be naughty again, papa,” said she; “I
promise you, I will not be so foolish again.”

I am sorry to say, that Lucy had been a very naughty girl; she was not
so in general, but somehow she often forgot herself. Her most frequent
fault was pride, for she thought herself much wiser, and much more
clever than she really was, and this led her sometimes to disobey her
parents and teachers, and to answer rather pertly. Lucy’s mother was
dead, but her aunt took care of her father’s family. She was an
excellent woman, and was very kind to Lucy, and tried always to teach
her what was right. One morning she said, “Lucy, my dear, bring your
work; leave off playing with the cat, the clock has just struck ten.”

[Illustration]

Lucy was so silly as not to mind what her aunt said, and disobeyed;
first in actions, and then in words; for she continued to play with her
cat, and spoke in a cross manner, “You are always telling me, ‘Come,
bring your work;’ you never let me play a minute.” “Lucy,” said her
aunt, “you forget what you ought to do, and that God hears you. Is it
not your duty to mind what I say?” Lucy put down the cat, and walked
very slowly across the room to fetch her work; and, as soon as she was
seated, muttered to herself, “How tiresome it is to be obliged always to
do as one is bid.”

[Illustration]

In the evening, her father asked whether Lucy had been a good girl, and
was very sorry to hear what had happened; presently it was time for
family prayer, he rang the bell, and the children and servants all came
in.

Lucy did not know that her father was acquainted with what had happened,
and I regret to add, that she had not shewn any sorrow at having been so
naughty.

[Illustration]

Her father opened the Bible, and read the sixth chapter of St. Paul’s
Epistle to the Ephesians. If you look at your Testament, you will find
it begins thus, “_Children, obey your Parents in the Lord: for this is
right._”

When he had finished the chapter, he said a few words about what he had
read, and observed that God desired to see a teachable spirit in
children; and that they should do as the hymn reminded them,

    “Whenever I’m saying my prayer,
        I’ll ask for a teachable heart.”

He also spoke of the sinfulness of pride and self-conceit, which led to
disobedience to the will of the Lord.

“Children often suppose,” said he, “that they need not mind what they
are told, unless they please; and then they sometimes murmur against
those whom they ought to obey. A child who acts thus, in reality
disobeys God, and refuses to take up the yoke of Christ. This is very
plain, for if our Lord was to appear as he did when upon earth, and
should enter the room while little boys or girls acted in this manner, I
am sure they would hide their faces before the blessed Son of God. It
would be quite clear, then, that they were doing wrong, and that they
had forgotten that God sees them, although they do not see Him, and that
he is not pleased with their conduct.

“Children should also remember that they are to obey their teachers, and
those who are set over them, just the same as their parents; for as God
gave this power to their parents, and they have placed them with their
teachers, so children are to obey their teachers just the same as their
parents.

“It is then necessary,” added he, speaking slowly and in an impressive
manner, “that all children should be convinced that it is their duty to
be obedient to all who are set over them. They must also remember, that
in refusing to do what they are told, they disobey the commands of God.”

The family then knelt down, and the father prayed, that all who were
then present, and especially the children, might humbly submit to the
will of God, as set forth in his holy word.

Lucy’s conscience told her, that her father had said this on her
account; when she rose from her knees, she felt very unhappy, and was
afraid to go and kiss him as usual.

I hardly need remark, that when she felt that she had done wrong, she
ought to have humbled herself and asked pardon of God, and then
intreated her aunt to forgive her. But her pride would not let her do
so, and she did not try to subdue it. Pride not only leads people to do
wrong, but also causes them to persist in evil.

It was bed-time, and Lucy went to bed in this stubborn humour; I need
not say she was very unhappy. She did not venture to repeat her prayer,
and that is a _very_ bad sign indeed; for when children dare not pray to
God, it is a proof that their consciences tell them they have done
wrong, and that they do not feel really sorry for what they have done.

The next morning, when Lucy awoke, she felt still more unhappy, and did
not like the thought of meeting her father and her aunt. But ought not
she to have been more unhappy because God saw her? Is it not strange
that a naughty child is afraid of being seen by a father, or a mother,
or a teacher, but does not fear being seen by God? for “the eyes of the
Lord are in every place, beholding the evil and the good.” It is very
easy for a child to _say_ this, but how few there are who shew by their
actions that they _believe_ it.

When Lucy was dressed, she ought to have said her prayers before she
went down stairs. She felt troubled just as she had done the evening
before. The voice of God whispered in her heart, “Acknowledge your
fault, and pray to be forgiven.” She also remembered our Lord’s kind
invitation: “Come unto me, all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest.” But poor Lucy tried to put away these thoughts, and instead
of kneeling down, she employed herself in other things; she was a long
while washing her hands, then she folded up her clothes very neatly, and
set the room to rights, and she recollected to feed her bird that
morning, although at other times she frequently forgot it. I have often
seen little folks act in this manner. When they know they have done
wrong, their pride will not allow them to acknowledge their fault, but
they are very careful to do _other_ things right. They forget that they
ought to do _all things_ properly, so that if one is done wrong, the
doing a great many other things right will not make up for it. But they
try to escape from Him who is greater than our hearts, who knows all the
thoughts, and discovers to us the evil that is in them.

All these little employments served to pass away the time, and to keep
away thought; and Lucy was so silly as to wish for this. At last, she
heard her father’s voice, calling the family to come in to prayers. Lucy
then began to go down stairs; she went down very slowly. When she came
down to the parlour-door, she stopped a minute, and then entered the
room; but she hung down her head, and looked very unhappy. Her father
began to read as usual; it was the parable of the Prodigal Son. Lucy
listened till he came to the verse, “I will arise, and go unto my
father, and say, Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee.”
She was struck with these words, tears came into her eyes, and she
hastily drew out her handkerchief to hide them.

Her father perceived what was passing in her heart, and when the chapter
was finished, he added a few words on the relief which we may find by
humbling ourselves before God, and lamenting our offenses like the
prodigal.

[Illustration]

“God is love,” said he; “his tender mercies are over all his works; he
takes no pleasure in punishing us; but, on the contrary, in his mercy
warns us against offending him; and when we have done wrong, he desireth
not the death of a sinner, but rather that he should turn from the error
of his ways; and, like a kind shepherd, He brings us back to himself.

“Let us remember that the Saviour, yes, the Son of God, gave himself for
his sinful and wretched creatures. Why, then, should we doubt his love,
and suppose that he will refuse to listen to us willingly? He does not
take pleasure in seeing us in a state of enmity with him. No; his love
is soon felt by a poor sinner, when he is convinced of his fault, and
believes in the pardon which God the Father offers, through Jesus
Christ, his Son.”

These words went to Lucy’s heart. As soon as prayer was over, she
hastened to her room, and kneeling down, prayed for pardon through the
blood of Jesus Christ. God, who is faithful and just to forgive us our
sins, and to grant those things which are asked in the name of Jesus
Christ, (John xvi. 23.) was pleased to hear her prayer, and send an
answer of peace.

[Illustration]

Lucy now felt relieved from the heavy burden which oppressed her mind.
She ran to her father’s room, and opening the door, threw herself into
his arms, exclaiming, “O, my dear papa, do forgive me; I wish I had not
been naughty.”

“My dear Lucy,” said he, “then I trust God has been pleased to touch
your heart, and has humbled your spirit before him. Poor girl! you
refused the tender offers of mercy of our kind Saviour for a long time.
O, Lucy, how could you harden your heart against a God so full of
loving-kindness and tender mercies? Were you happy, when your mind was
in that state? Were you able to pray, and read your Bible?”

_Lucy._ No, papa; I did not like to think about God, and I was afraid to
read his word.

_Father._ Poor girl! so you avoided all thoughts of your heavenly Father
and Redeemer. Were you really afraid to read God’s holy word?

_L._ But I am not afraid now, papa; I have prayed to God in my own room,
and I feel now as if he had pardoned me; I feel happier now, and I will
not be naughty again; I promise you I will not.

_F._ Lucy, tell me the truth; have you not often told your aunt and me
that you would not be naughty again?

_L._ Why, yes, papa, I have said so before; several times.

_F._ Then you have several times broken your promise; although, I
believe, you intended to have kept it. How has this happened?

_L._ Why, somehow, I was naughty again; I forgot my promise.

_F._ But, my dear, how came you to forget it so easily, since you
promised it of your own accord, and wished to keep your word?

_L._ Perhaps, papa, it was because I did not pray to God to keep me from
evil.

_F._ Yes; it was because you made the promise in your own strength,
trusting only to your own good resolutions. I will tell you something of
which it reminds me.

One day, a gardener had planted two trees; they were both of them very
weak, and during the night, the wind loosened one of them. When the
gardener came in the morning, he took a stake, and fixing it firmly in
the ground, tied the tree to it. “Now,” said he, “it is quite safe.”

In the evening the wind was higher than before. The tree which was tied
to the stake remained firm in its place; but the other was blown quite
down, and the gardener found, the next day, that it was broken and quite
spoiled.

[Illustration]

“This is a sad business,” said he; “I forgot that if one of these trees
needed a stake to support it, the other would want one also.” He then
looked round the garden very carefully, and wherever he found a tree
that was weak, he placed a stake to secure it.

_L._ Oh, papa, I have found out what you mean;--I was like the tree
without a support, when I promised of myself, and without looking to God
for strength to enable me to perform what I had promised; and as I have
always forgot this, I have so often done wrong.

_F._ My dear girl, remember this: we are sinners by nature; and when we
give way to anger, pride, envy, or any other sins, which are called the
works of the flesh, we act in the manner to which we are most inclined.
Then if we wish to do the will of God,--I mean those things which are
called the “fruits of the Spirit,”--we must look for a power to enable
us to do them, different from that which is in our own hearts. So, when
you said, just now, “I will not be naughty again, papa; I promise you I
will not,” it was just as if that crab-tree which grows in the hedge
should say, “I am determined that I will bear as good fruit as the
golden pippin in the orchard.” You know that an apple-tree must be
grafted with a good sort before it can bring forth good fruit. Suppose,
now, that the crab-tree could speak, and really desired to bear nice
apples, what would it say?

[Illustration]

_L._ It must ask the gardener to graft it with some good sort, or else
it would continue to bear just the same as usual.

_F._ Then what must my dear Lucy do, if she desires to bring forth the
good fruits of the Spirit--love, joy, peace, long-suffering, gentleness,
goodness, faith, meekness, temperance?

_L._ Then, dear papa, (as you said the other day,) I must ask the
Saviour to cleanse me from my sins by his precious blood, that I may be
sanctified by the Holy Spirit, so that I may learn to do His will.

_F._ Yes, my dear, and if you earnestly seek the Saviour’s grace, even a
few days will shew a change in your behaviour.

Lucy kissed her father, and said, “Papa, will you pray for me?” “Yes,”
said he, “my dear, I trust God will enable me always to remember you in
my prayers.” Lucy then went to her aunt, and in a modest humble manner
really and sincerely asked her to forgive what she had done wrong.

Perhaps, some day, you may read another story about Lucy, and learn
whether she remembered her father’s advice, and how God was pleased to
bless her desire to do his will.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

See page 107.
]




A LESSON OF MERCY.


It was the month of January; the fields and houses were covered with
snow, and the skaiters and sliders were gliding on the ice; the streets
of the towns were covered with snow, and the poor people crowded to the
wood merchants,[A] some to buy faggots, while others could only afford
to purchase a few billets, just enough to make a little fire in their
humble cottages.

Among them was a girl named Margaret, not quite ten years old. She was
but poorly dressed, and she shivered with cold.

The little girl stood near a shed where a great many faggots were piled.
She looked first at the wood and then at the money in her hand, yet did
not enter the shed, but stood shivering in the street.

On the opposite side of the way lived Mr. Basil. His eldest son, Joseph,
happened to be at the window and saw this little girl examining the
bundles of wood.

After looking at her for a few minutes, he thought she was some
workman’s daughter, and might not have money enough to buy the wood she
was sent for. He was very sorry for this, and crossed over the road to
her.

_Joseph._ It is very cold, my little girl, and you have neither bonnet
nor gloves.

_Margaret._ I never had any, Sir; but I am not very cold.

_J._ What are you doing here; do you wish to buy one of these bundles of
wood?

_M._ I should like to do so, but I am afraid that I have not got money
enough.

_J._ For whom do you wish to buy the wood?

The little girl looked down and seemed rather troubled at this question.

_J._ Did your father or your mother send you for it?

_M._ No, Sir, I wanted to give it to Old Thomas?

_J._ Who is Old Thomas?

_M._ He is our neighbour. He is a mason, and he hurt his leg a fortnight
ago, while removing some stones. He is unable to work, and is confined
to his bed, and must be very cold.

_J._ Does he know that you intend to give him a bundle of wood?

_M._ I have not told him, Sir.

_J._ My little girl, how did you get this money?

_M._ It was paid me this morning for a pair of socks which I knit last
week.

_J._ Is that your regular employment?

_M._ No, Sir, I work at the cotton factory; and my father, and mother,
and little brother, work there also.

_J._ How could you find time to make the socks?

_M._ They were only small ones; I knit them last week, very early in the
morning and during the dinner hour.

_J._ Then you have worked very hard to help your poor neighbour?

_M._ Was it not my duty, Sir? has not God told us to do so? [added she,
modestly, and not in the boasting way in which some children talk about
any good they have done.]

_J._ Did you buy any wood for Thomas before to-day?

_M._ No, Sir; last Saturday I had earned three-halfpence, but I lost
them while I was running to the shop.

_J._ I suppose you were very sorry?

_M._ Why, Sir, I could not help it when they were gone. I hoped God
would enable me to be more careful next time.

_J._ How much money have you now?

_M._ I have again got three-halfpence, and here they are, quite safe.

_J._ Well; let us ask what the bundles cost.

The price of each faggot was two-pence, and the wood-merchant said he
could not afford to sell them for less. Poor Margaret was very sorrowful
when she heard this, and she was going to depart, when Joseph said he
would pay the other half-penny.

The little girl was filled with joy. She put down her three-halfpence,
then caught up a bundle of wood and ran down the street as fast as her
burden would let her. Joseph looked after her, and saw her turn into a
court at some distance. He at first thought he would follow her, and go
to see Old Thomas, but he recollected it was the time for his drawing
lesson, and besides, he saw his father at the window beckoning to him.

“Who was that little girl?” said Mr. Basil.

Joseph told his father what had passed, and went to his drawing. When
his lesson was over, he asked his father if he might go and see Old
Thomas.

“We will go together, after dinner,” said Mr. Basil.

In the afternoon they went. The poor mason lodged in a small house at
the further end of the court. The pavement was covered with snow, except
one small space, which had been swept very carefully, and on which a
number of birds were picking up some food. Just then little Margaret
came out of the house carrying a few crumbs in her hands, which she
threw upon the place from which she had swept the snow. The birds flew
to a wall just by, and when she was gone they returned to pick up the
crumbs.

“I am glad to see you are so kind to these birds,” said Mr. Basil to the
little girl.

_M._ They are such pretty creatures, and now they cannot find any thing
to eat in the gardens and fields.

_Mr. B._ But God takes care of them, he sends you to give them some
food. God does not forget even the meanest of his creatures, and it is a
pleasure to be of use even to these little birds. But where is the poor
mason you spoke about this morning?

The little girl recollected Joseph, and blushed as she opened the door
where Thomas lived. Mr. Basil and his son entered, and, after a kind
visit to the old man, they returned home.

As they entered the house, Mr. Basil heard a noise in the garden, and
looking over the pales, he saw a lark with its foot caught in a trap of
bricks. The poor bird made a noise as if in pain, and tried in vain to
get released.

Mr. Basil went to the place, and found that a brick had caught the poor
lark by the leg, and crushed its foot.

“How cruel,” said he; and, calling the servant, asked who had set the
trap. He was very sorry to hear that Joseph had made it that
morning.--He then took the lark, went into the house, and called his
children.

“See,” said he to Joseph, shewing him how the poor lark was hurt, “see
the effects of your cruelty. This poor little creature was hungry, it
came to our house to pick up something which was of no use to us, and
you have been the means of breaking its leg, and causing it to suffer as
you see.”

The children were all very sorry, when they saw how the poor lark had
its leg crushed, and how much pain it suffered.

“It shall suffer no more pain;” said Mr. Basil, killing the poor bird.
“It is lawful for us to take the life of animals when we need them for
food, but we are to be very careful not to put them to more pain than
can be avoided. There was no occasion to catch this lark, and still less
to set a trap for it, in which it might suffer much pain, for a very
long time. Here,” added he, giving the bird to Joseph, “look at it;
think how much it suffered; this is your work to-day; compare it with
what the little girl has done! My boy, you were right in being kind to
her: but how inconsistent your cruel conduct towards the poor birds!”

Joseph could not reply. He felt how cruelly he had acted, when he saw
how the poor bird’s leg was crushed, and he determined never to set such
a trap again. I hope all my readers will form the same resolution. In
the evening, his father spoke again respecting the bird. “Please, Sir,
not to say any more about it,” said Joseph; “I see how wrong I acted,
and have been quite ashamed when I compared my conduct with that of the
little girl.”

_Mr. B._ Tell me how you could be so cruel.

_J._ I had no idea the trap would have made a poor bird suffer so much;
I thought it would have been killed at once.

_Mr. B._ But why should you desire to take away the life of a poor bird?
It is true, that God has given power to man over all animals, and that
we may deprive them of life when we need them for food. But you did not
want to satisfy your hunger, nor was it your means of getting a
livelihood, as is the case with some persons: how could you be so
thoughtless?

_J._ Papa, I forgot myself this morning.

_Mr. B._ How so?

_J._ I was cross when I got up, and then felt uncomfortable, and did not
like to pray and read my Bible; and I began to quarrel with William, who
wished to learn his lesson. I threw down my book on the floor, and spun
my humming top. After breakfast, I went into the garden, where I saw
some birds, and as I had nothing to do, I made the trap to catch them.

_Mr. B._ Well, Joseph, I am glad to find you are sensible you have done
amiss. When the day begins badly it seldom passes without something
wrong. What has happened to-day should be a lesson to you; remember to
watch over your heart. Think of Christ; he was “gentle, meek, and mild:”
let your conduct be in all things as becometh the gospel of Jesus
Christ, who suffered for our sins, to purify our hearts, and to fill us
with love to him and all around us.

Joseph did not forget his father’s words, and at night he prayed that he
might be made more like the blessed Son of God while upon earth.

He began the next day in a very different manner, and after breakfast,
asked his father to let him go and see poor Old Thomas.

_Mr. B._ Willingly; and here is a bundle of things your mother was going
to send to the little girl; you may take them, and some tracts, and tell
her to ask her parents to let her come to see your mother to-morrow
morning.

As Joseph passed along the court, he saw that the place was again
cleared from the snow, and the birds were hopping about it. He thought
of the poor lark.

Thomas was better, and able to stand. He told Joseph how kind Margaret
had been. “You cannot think,” said he, “what a good girl she is. She is
so attentive, so gentle, and so patient, that it is very plain her chief
delight is in doing good to others.”

_J._ I suppose her parents have instructed her carefully?

_T._ They have nothing but their own labour to depend upon, but they
have the fear of the Lord, and that is better than riches. They have
brought up their children in his ways. If God had not sent them to be my
neighbours, what would have become of me?

_J._ Margaret brought you some wood yesterday, did not she?

_T._ Yes, Sir; and her mother has told me how hard she worked to earn
this money. Good girl! out she is always the same: she cannot see others
in trouble without trying to do something to comfort them. Even dumb
creatures share her kindness. She collects every crumb for “the dear
pretty birds,” as she calls them.

_J._ It is very happy for a child to be born with such a kind
disposition.

_T._ Oh, Sir, it is not by nature that she has this kind disposition. I
knew her from a baby; and, till she was seven years old, she was just as
thoughtless as other children: but since that time she has, by the grace
of God, become very different.

_J._ Do you suppose she really loves Christ?

_T._ I am as sure of it as one person can be respecting another. I fully
trust that Margaret is a child of God, and that her heart has been
changed by his grace. Our Lord said, “by their fruits ye shall know
them;” and an evil tree cannot bring forth those good fruits which God
requires.

Joseph was struck with this account of Margaret. He could not help again
comparing her conduct during the day before with his own, and he felt
humbled by the comparison, but he determined to pray more earnestly for
divine grace than he had ever yet done.

As Margaret was at the factory, Joseph left the bundle with Thomas, gave
him some books suited for the afflicted, desired him to deliver the
message, and returned home.

As he passed along the court, he looked at the birds once more, and took
from them another _lesson of mercy_. “Ah,” said he, “it is very true
that we are naturally cruel and hard-hearted. Real love to the bodies
and souls of our fellow-creatures, can only be found in a heart which
‘has been changed by divine grace, and which has felt love for the
Saviour;’ and those who love him will not be cruel, even to birds and
beasts.”

Joseph did not forget _the lessons_ he had received; he was more earnest
in his prayers at the throne of grace. His conduct soon shewed that his
prayers had been heard and answered: even as our Lord promised,

    “ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




MOUNTAIN JOHN AND THE BEAR.


It was the evening, and the moon was shining above the trees, when the
family of Andrew the smith, heard a dreadful noise like the howling of a
wolf, or some wild animal which is wounded.

The smith’s children, who were sitting with their mother in the chimney
corner, helping her to wind some thread, trembled, and cried out, “The
wolf! the wolf! O mother, mother, shut the door and call father.”

Their mother told them to be quiet; but as the howlings continued and
seemed to approach nearer to the house, she called her husband, who was
busy working at his forge, hammering a piece of iron, so that he had not
heard the noise.

“What is the matter?” said he.

_The Children._ O father, dear father, save us from the wolf. O, he is
coming, he is coming.

So saying they ran to hide themselves. One crept under the bed, another
got behind the tubs in the wash-house. The smith snatched up a
club-stick and his bill-hook, and went out.

In a minute they heard the sound of heavy blows; the animal cried out
still more dreadfully, and something very heavy fell against the door
with great force, as if it would have beaten it in. Afterwards all was
quiet, no sound was heard except the ticking of the clock, and the
crackling of the wood fire.

Neither the mother nor her children stirred; they hardly ventured to
breathe. Presently there was a knocking on the window shutter. The poor
children were ready to die with fear, and hid their faces with their
hands. Tap, tap, was heard still more plainly, but no one dared to
answer.

“Are you all dead?” cried some one; “and must I break open the window?”

“Who are you?” said the mother, quite frightened.

“Who am I?” said the person, laughing; “that is an odd question to ask
_me_: come, open the window directly.”

“Mother,” said one of the children, “I think it is father’s voice.”

“Andrew, is it _you?_” said she.

_Andrew._ Yes, it is _me_, sure enough; we cannot get in by the door,
for the bear is lying there, and we are not sure that he is quite dead.

The mother then opened the window and the shutter. The smith and another
man jumped in at the window. Their clothes were torn and covered with
blood; their hands and faces also were bloody.

“Andrew, my dear Andrew,” exclaimed the wife, “are you hurt? say, are
you hurt?”

_Andrew._ Neither I nor my companion are hurt; but let us thank God, for
the bear was very furious. Come, quick, let us have something warm and
comfortable; the battle was sharp, and we have got some severe bruises.
Children, where are you?--you need not be afraid; the bear is too large
to get through the key-hole, and I don’t think he is very likely to stir
again.

“I am of your opinion,” said the stranger, closing the shutter of the
window. “I think God has taken away his breath; let us be thankful: we
may say, with David, ‘He has delivered us from the bear. His deliverance
is for his children.’”

The two children then made their appearance from under the bed, and from
behind the washing tub: one was covered with dust and feathers, the
other was all over cobwebs. They came up to their father, but cried out
when they saw that his arm was bloody.

_The Father._ Why, you little cowards; are you frightened at the sight
of blood? It is not mine, it came from the bear, and a little water will
wash it away. Wife, give us a pail of water.

She washed their clothes, and then gave them a good basin of soup, which
was ready for their supper, and when they had refreshed themselves, they
agreed to go and see whether the bear could bite or not. Andrew took up
his bill-hook, and the stranger took up a chopper, and they were going
to open the door.

“O father!” cried the children, “pray don’t open the door, pray don’t;
the bear will come in.”

_Andrew._ Nonsense. There; run up stairs.

_Children._ But, father, the bear will come after us.

_Andrew._ Then get into the empty flour binn.

He opened the door, and lifted up his bill-hook to strike the bear, but
it fell lifeless upon the kitchen floor.

It was a very large animal and quite dead, one of its paws was nearly
cut off, and its skull was split on the forehead. The threshold was
covered with its blood.

When Andrew and the stranger were satisfied that the bear was quite
dead, they drew it into the house and shut the door. When that was fast,
the children, who had raised the lid of the binn to peep at what was
going forward, ventured to come out, and look at the bear, but were
still afraid to touch it.

“Well,” said the wife, “sit down and tell us all about this terrible
business.”

The children crept close to their mother’s apron, as she sat by the
fire; while the stranger related what had happened, as follows:

“I am called Mountain John. I deal in _amadou_,[B] and go about to
collect mushrooms and fungus to make it. Last year I found a great many
in the wood yonder, and I came there again this morning to look for
some. About noon I sat down to rest on the hill, under the great oak,
from whence you can see so far in every direction. While I ate a crust
of bread, I admired the beautiful works of God; the lake, the valley,
and the mountains. I thought of the power of that great God who made all
things, and rejoiced as I sang His praises.--‘Well,’ thought I to
myself, ‘I am poor, and possess nothing in this world but my pack and
what it contains. When I die nobody will trouble themselves about me,
and I shall be put under ground without being missed; but I know where
my soul will go: I know in whom I have believed, and am persuaded that
he is able to keep that which I have committed unto him against that
day, the great day of his appearing. He has never left me destitute as
to the things of this world, much less will he leave me destitute as to
heavenly things. My Saviour has prepared a place for me in his Father’s
house. Why then, art thou cast down, O my soul? Why art thou disquieted
within me? Is not he God over all, from everlasting to everlasting? and
is he not my heavenly Father, seeing that he gave his only and well
beloved Son as a ransom for my soul.’

“While my thoughts were engaged in this manner, I saw in the valley
beneath me, a large animal running very swiftly through the bushes. At
first I thought it was an ass that had strayed, but looking stedfastly
at it, I saw it was a great bear followed by some hunters. The bear ran
into the wood by the side of the lake, followed by the huntsmen and
their dogs; presently I heard two guns fired, and I concluded that the
bear was killed.

[Illustration]

“‘This,’ thought I, ‘reminds me of the end of the wicked man. He, like
that wild beast, for a time, goes about seeking what he may devour; he
hides himself from the eyes of the world, as that beast did in the wood,
and thinks he is quite safe. But God sees the sinner, and knows the
proper time for punishing him; and, if he does not forsake his evil ways
and turn to the Lord, he will be stricken, and perish without remedy.
But those who love the Lord, and fear Him, are kept from harm; and the
wicked, although more fierce and cruel than the lion, the tiger, or the
bear, are not suffered to touch them; because, in the way in which they
go,----’”

_Andrew._ Stop a moment, John; I will shew you the text in the Bible:
here it is--in Isaiah, the 35th chapter. The prophet is speaking of the
church of Christ, and he says, “An highway shall be there, and a way,
and it shall be called, _The Way of Holiness_; the unclean shall not
pass over it; but it shall be for those (that is, the ransomed of the
Lord:) the wayfaring men, though fools, shall not err therein. No lion
shall be there, nor any ravenous beast shall go up thereon, it shall not
be found there; but the redeemed shall walk there.”

_John._ Yes, that is the passage which I remembered when I saw the bear.
After resting myself, I began again to search for mushrooms and fungus,
and I have reason to be thankful that I was pretty successful: my pack
lies yonder in the wood, full of the finest mushrooms I ever saw. To be
sure, I did not get them without trouble; I climbed several trees, and
had to creep up and down some very steep places. At last I was
benighted, and the moon had risen, when I found myself in the narrow
path which leads through the midst of the wood, by the spring yonder. I
was quite tired, so I sat down to rest; just as I was rising, I heard
something rustling among the bushes; I did not stir, and presently I saw
the great bear which I had seen in the morning, coming towards the
spring.

_The Mother._ How frightened you must have been; did not you think it
was all over with you?

_John._ Certainly, it is not very pleasant to find oneself, at night,
alone in a wood with such a companion. At first I trembled, but God was
pleased to strengthen my mind, and take away all my fear. I was no more
afraid of the bear than as if he had been a ram or a goat.

_Andrew._ But what did you do?

_John._ I left my pack and slipped behind a tree; and, while the bear
was drinking, I got away softly from one tree to another; I had reached
the skirt of the wood, close to your house, and was about to run for
shelter; when, all at once, I found the bear was close behind me. It was
no use then trying to run from him, so I turned round, and, praying to
God to preserve my life, I waited for him. He was close upon me, and in
a moment he rose upon his hind legs to seize me, uttering a frightful
howl. As I said, I had prayed for strength, and snatching up a large
stone which lay close by me, I struck him on the nose with all my force,
and knocked him backwards. I jumped upon his neck, and continued
striking him on the nose, while he tried to ward off the blows with his
paws. I was nearly spent, when God sent you just in time to save my
life, and enabled you after a short struggle to wound him mortally with
your bill-hook.

_Andrew._ It reminds me of the history of David. How kind of the Lord to
take away your fear, and make you determine to attack the bear first,
and then to guide your hand to strike him on the nose, which is a very
tender part in that animal. This, indeed, was the work of God’s
providence; and remember this, children, it is a proof that the Lord
always protects those who trust in him.

_Mother._ How glad I am, Andrew, that you did not go to the mill this
evening, as you intended. How providential that you staid at home, else
what would have become of John!

_John._ Ah, my good woman, I am accustomed to experience, that God knows
all things, and directs all things, and that there is nothing forgotten,
or too trifling for him to notice, when it concerns his people. I was
taught this when I was not older than your boy, and by his grace I now
know that he has redeemed me by his own precious blood, and made me one
of his children. Therefore I can trust him with my body and my soul,
which are his.

_Andrew._ My dears, remember what this good man has told us. You see
that he trusted in God, because he believed in him as the Saviour, and
you see how the Lord has just now preserved him from a terrible death.

The eldest child then rose, went to John, and took hold of his hand.
John lifted him upon his knees, and said, “Well, my boy, will not you
trust in our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ? Tell me, should you not like
to resemble David when he was a little boy?”

The child hung down his head, and said “Yes,” in a low tone of voice. He
then looked at his mother, who patted him on the head, saying, “O yes, I
do hope that my dear Henry has already learned something of the goodness
of the Lord, and that he tries to do His will.”

_J._ But would he be afraid if he saw a great bear coming?

Henry replied, “How could I help being afraid of him? he is so big and
so fierce. Why, he would have knocked me to pieces with one blow of that
great paw yonder.”

_J._ Yes, we are all exposed to dangers of various kinds and often if we
escape from one we may fall into another, “as if a man did flee from a
lion, and a bear met him;” but, my boy, trust in the Lord, and neither a
bear nor that “roaring lion,” which goes about seeking whom he may
devour, even the devil, as we read in the epistle of St. Peter, will be
able to hurt you. He who watches over your soul is able to keep you from
evil and danger. He preserved me when I was about your age, and has done
so again to-day.

[Illustration]

_H._ What! did you fight a bear when you were no bigger than I am?

_J._ No, my boy; but I was wonderfully preserved when I fell from the
top of a very lofty precipice.

“How was it?” said both the children at once. “Do tell us all about it.”

_J._ In the country where I was born, which is many miles from this
place, there is a very high mountain. One side of it is quite a
precipice, and people go thither to hunt the Chamois and the Marmots,
which abound in that place. One day I went there with some of my
companions, and we saw a Marmot creep into a cleft in the side of the
rock.

I was one of the most courageous of the band and was foolhardy enough
to say, “I’ll go and pull him out of his hole.” “No, no, John,” they all
cried out, “it is not safe; his hole is on the edge of the precipice; if
your foot slips nothing can save you.” They tried all they could to
dissuade me, but in vain--I was rash enough to determine to have my own
way.

I let myself down over the edge of the rock. The Marmot was just within
his hole, behind a plant of wild geranium. I saw him plain enough, and
determined to try to reach him, though I was hanging over a precipice a
thousand feet deep.

I ought to have given up this foolish design, and to have remembered
that there is no real courage in exposing oneself to a useless danger.
But I was young and foolish. I then knew nothing of the Lord. I thought
my life was in my own power, and that I might do whatever I chose. Well,
I rested one foot upon a stone, I bent forward, and stretched out my arm
to lay hold of the Marmot. All at once I was gone! I recollected nothing
more till I found myself in the cottage of a charcoal burner, lying upon
his bed. I was in pain all over, and my mother was watching me.

[Illustration]

_H._ How did this happen? Did the charcoal burner live under the rock,
and catch you as you fell?

_J._ No, my boy; he lived a good way off, in the forest. But listen to
an account of what the Lord did for me, poor, miserable, and foolish
creature that I was. My head became giddy--I fell. My companions saw me
go headlong from the top of the precipice, and ran homewards, crying out
that I was killed. As soon as they arrived in our village, my mother and
all the people ran out. They concluded I was dashed to pieces, and she
went immediately, with two of the neighbours, to seek for my remains.
When she came near the fatal spot, weeping bitterly, and every moment
expecting to find the shattered body of her dear child, she saw a tall,
stout man, the charcoal burner, coming from behind a great mass of rock
with me in his arms. My mother has often told me about it. My dear
mother; she is now in heaven.--[Tears came into his eyes as he spoke,
and he added,] She was so kind to me, she taught me to love and fear
God. [After a few minutes’ silence he went on.] My dear mother has often
told me that when she saw me in the man’s arms, a thought darted into
her mind, as if a voice said, “I have preserved him, it is my doing!”
She ran forward, exclaiming, “O, my good man, where did you find him?”
“Don’t stop me,” said the man; “come along, he still breathes.” A
neighbour helped him; they hastened to his cottage, and, putting me upon
his bed, they did all they could to bring me to myself.

My mother watched over my body. I was then beginning to recover a
little. O how glad they were! The charcoal burner joined his hands, and
said, “O Lord, thou hast preserved his life, may it be for thy glory!”
“Amen,” said my mother. As for me, I seemed to be in a dream. They
undressed me, and put me to bed, and it was several days before I could
be moved. I could not even bear that any one should speak to me. I was
then carried home, and I suffered much pain for nearly two months. But
God is just, and I deserved all that I had undergone.

_M._ You have not told us how the charcoal burner found you.

_J._ This good man, who was a second father to me, and who, I trust, is
now in heaven, was in the forest, at the foot of the mountain, looking
for wood fit for charcoal, when he heard a noise in the air, like the
flying of a large bird, and, looking up, he saw something caught in a
branch of a large pine tree, about a hundred yards distant. Upon viewing
it more attentively he saw it was a boy hanging by the skirt of his
jacket, which had caught on the branch.

It was almost impossible to get to the place where this tree grew, among
the rocks, and still harder to reach the end of the branch; but this
good man thought the same arm of the Lord which supported Jonathan, when
he climbed up the sharp (or steep) rock upon his hands and feet, (1 Sam.
xiv. 13.) would support him. He climbed up the rock with much
difficulty, and at length reached the pine tree, and laying at full
length along the branch he could just reach the skirt of my jacket; and
then creeping backwards he put one arm round the trunk of the tree, and
held me in the other, and thus contrived to slip down.

He has told me that at first he thought I was dead, and was going to
leave me among the branches till he went for ropes and a ladder; but,
while he was considering if he should do so, he thought he heard me
sigh, and putting his face close to mine he found that I still breathed.
He then took courage, having prayed to God to enable him to descend in
safety with his burden. The Lord heard his prayer,--and my days were
thus lengthened.

You now know why I am called _Mountain John_. I like the name, for it
always reminds me that God held me aloft in the midst of the abyss into
which I had fallen, and that the prayer of my preserver, and of my dear
mother, was, “May the Lord have preserved him for His glory!”

_A._ Let us also trust that it is for His glory that he has preserved us
this day. Let us take courage, from this instance of his care over us;
and I would believe that God has sent you to our cottage that we may
love each other for his sake, and that these children may learn and
perceive that those whom the Lord protects are well guarded, and that
all deliverance comes from Him alone.

[Illustration]

They then knelt down together in prayer--Mountain John passed the night
with Andrew, and in the morning they carried the bear to the next city,
where they sold it for a good price. At this John was much pleased; and
Andrew said, “If the bear was killed by my bill-hook, it was for your
preservation that God directed me to strike, and the remembrance of your
visit will, I trust, be better to us than the treasures of this world.”

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




HYMNS FOR CHILDREN.


William and his sister Jane were returning home. They were singing as
they walked along. At a turning of the road they saw a gentleman sitting
upon the bank; he was writing in his pocket book.

“My dears,” said the gentleman, “you are singing very merrily.”

The children stopped and were silent.

_G._ Do not let me stop your singing: go on, I shall like to hear you.

“Oh, Sir,” said William, “the song is not worth your hearing.”

_G._ Why not, it pleases you, so perhaps it may please me. What was it
about?

_J._ It was a song which one of our cousins taught us yesterday.

_G._ How does it begin?

William then sang the first verse of a song. It was foolish though not
wicked.

_G._ I am sorry it is not about something better. God has given you a
good voice, and a good memory. Cannot you employ them better?

_W._ Why, Sir, there is no harm in the song. Surely we may sing
sometimes.

_G._ Yes, my boy, singing is as lawful to man as to the lark yonder: but
ought not the songs we sing to be different from those of a bird?

_J._ O, Sir, the birds sing because they are pleased. I do not know that
they mean any thing. They sing to amuse themselves.

_G._ Well, but we have sense and reason which birds have not. Should not
our songs be different from theirs?

_W._ Yes, Sir, our songs are about something.

_G._ Do you suppose the sweet song which you hear from the lark has no
meaning?

_W._ I do not know, Sir; it is not like our songs.

_G._ Certainly not; but do not the beautiful notes of the bird lead you
to think of him who made the bird, and who gave it that sweet voice?

_W._ Yes, Sir; we know that it was God who made the birds, and beasts,
and all things, and enabled them to sing.

_G._ And is it not God who gave you the ability to sing? Your powers, as
well as those of the birds, came from God, who created all things. You
know this, but the lark does not: this makes a great difference between
you and the bird.

_W._ But we do not sing as he does: what we sing has a meaning.

_G._ Where is the great difference? The bird sings for its pleasure; I
think you only sing to amuse yourselves.

_J._ But we need not sing for sorrow.

_G._ There are sorrowful songs; but we generally sing to express our
joy. Still there should be a difference between our joy and that of
birds. If we know God, and love him with our hearts, we shall remember
him in our joy, for we are his work and belong to him. We should do all
things for his glory; the Bible tells us so. The Apostle says: “You are
bought with a price, (meaning the sufferings which Christ endured for
his people,) therefore glorify God in your body, and in your spirit,
which are God’s.” (1 Cor. vi. 20. see also Eph. ii. 10. 2 Cor. v. 17.)

_W._ But, Sir, how can a song be to the glory of God? Do you mean
psalms? they are so long and so dull.

_G._ Let us suppose that the lark knew who made and who loved it. Would
it sing differently from its usual manner?

_W._ Is not that its proper way of singing, Sir?

_G._ Yes; but you spoke of its song as being merely to please itself.
Now, if the lark knew its Maker, would not it address its songs to him;
perhaps it may do so more than we are aware.

_J._ Ah, Sir, I think I know what you mean. You mean that when we sing,
we should remember God sees us, and never sing any thing which may be
displeasing to him.

_G._ Yes, that is what I mean; for as we ought not to _say_ any thing
that is wrong, it is very plain we ought not to _sing_ any thing
improper. But it is not enough merely to abstain from what is wrong; we
ought also to do what is right.

_W._ Then we ought to sing about God?

_G._ Are you surprised at that, my boy? Should not those beings whom God
has made, live to his glory? Our Lord himself said, “Thou shalt love the
Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul, and with all thy
mind.” (Matt. xxii. 37. see also Deut. xiii. 3.) Then is it not right
that we should sing to the praise and glory of his grace?

_J._ But, Sir, we are not always at church? and when we are merry and
gay, it would be very strange to sing as we do at church.

[Illustration]

_G._ My dear children, when we are at church, it is to worship God, and
hear his word, and for that reason the psalms are solemn and grave. But
there are other songs, which we may sing to the praise of God.[C]

_W._ What are they, Sir? I never heard any such.

_G._ The Bible tells us: “Is any merry? let him sing psalms;” (James v.
13.) but it also says, “Speaking to yourselves in psalms and hymns, and
spiritual songs, singing and making melody in your hearts to the Lord.”
(Eph. v. 19.) There are hymns as well as psalms which you may sing.

_J._ Can you tell us one of them, Sir? Are they pretty?

_G._ I will read you one which I have just written.

_J._ Oh, Sir, pray do; what is it about?

_G._ Do you see the shepherd down in the meadow yonder, under the oaks?

[Illustration]

_J._ He lives at that farm-house under the hill.

_G._ When I saw him taking care of his sheep and lambs, I thought of
what the Scriptures tell us about our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
whom the prophet Isaiah (ch. xl. 11.) thus describes: “He shall feed his
flock like a shepherd; he shall gather the lambs with his arm, and carry
them in his bosom.”

_J._ And did you write a song about it?

_G._ Something like it, my girl. I have said how happy the lambs
belonging to this good shepherd should be under his care; and I have
written it as if He were a shepherd speaking to his sheep.

_W._ Why, Sir, you said our song was silly because it was about a dog.

_G._ If your song had spoken of the faithfulness of the dog to his
master, as reminding us of our duty to God, I should have been better
pleased with it. You will find that what the shepherd in my song is
represented as saying, is to remind you of the loving-kindness of Christ
the good shepherd, and how attentive we should be to his word, if we
belong to his flock.

_J._ I should like to hear the song. Do read it to us if you please,
Sir.

_G._ Listen then to


THE SHEPHERD’S SONG.

      Come, little lambs, and feed
      Safe in the fertile mead,
      Where gentle waters pass,
      Amidst the flow’rs and grass:
    Your Shepherd’s hand and crook are near:
    Here rest in peace, exempt from fear.

      Go not, my lambs, astray
      In any devious way;
      The savage wolves will leap
      Upon the wand’ring sheep:
    Here, in this pleasant pasture rest,
    With plenty, peace, and safety blest.

      Can that poor lamb rejoice,
      Who will not hear my voice?
      But though of danger told,
      Resolves to leave the fold?--
    The wolf has seized him--hear his cries,
    The wand’rer groans--the wand’rer dies.

      Oh, lovely lambs, beware
      How you despise my care,
      And quit the happy meads
      To which your Shepherd leads;
    I will protect you night and day,
    Then never from your Shepherd stray.

      My little lambs, like you,
      I have a Shepherd too,
      Who keeps me in his fold--
      Whose love can ne’er be told--
    Who guides me by his crook and rod--
    My Shepherd is--my Saviour God.

[Illustration]

_W._ I think, Sir, I know what you mean. It is prettier than our song;
and what it tells us is of great consequence: it is very different from
what I expected.

_J._ Sir, it is prettier than any song I ever heard; I like the last
verse very much indeed.

_G._ Do you really like that verse the best?

_J._ Yes, Sir; it is about our blessed Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ,
the Son of God: he is the best of shepherds.

_G._ Certainly he is: but if you really think so, you will like to sing
about him, instead of the common foolish songs. Those who love Christ
will delight to sing to his praise and glory.

_W._ Jane, I have made up my mind; we will not learn any more of cousin
Sally’s foolish songs; at least I will not.

_J._ Nor I.

_G._ But you are able to sing, and you like to sing: what will you do?

_J._ Sir, if you will let us have that song about the shepherd, we will
learn it.

_G._ Yes, my dears, you shall have it, and here is a little book with a
great many pretty hymns or divine songs; but before you begin to learn
any, you must ask your parents’ leave.

_J._ Sir, I am quite sure our mother will like them, for she told us
yesterday, that she did not think the songs our cousin was teaching us
were pretty ones, and that she would rather we learned to sing psalms.

_G._ I am glad to hear this, and if you come to my house some day, I
shall be well pleased to find that you can sing some of the pretty hymns
in that book; and there is a lady at my house who will teach you the
tunes if you are at a loss.

_W._ Thank you, Sir; are all the songs in this book as pretty as that
one about the shepherd?

_G._ Some of them are more serious, my boy; and it is right to learn
hymns of various sorts, if they all tell us of the Saviour.

_J._ Are they all hymns?

_G._ Yes, my girl, they are all written to praise God; for all things
should glorify Him.

_W._ Sir, we thank you very much indeed, and we will ask leave to come
and see you next week, if you will let us, and we shall have learned
some of these hymns by that time.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps this dialogue may interest some of our readers, and they, like
William and Jane, may be inclined to learn hymns or divine songs, which,
by the blessing of God, may make them wise unto salvation. There are
many books suitable for them: we will particularly remind them of “_Dr.
Watts’s Divine Songs_,” and the “_Cottage Hymns_,” but particularly the
“_Family Hymn Book_;” a very beautiful little book published by the
“_Religious Tract Society_.” They will find hymns which tell them of the
love of Christ to poor sinners, and such as ought to be fixed in the
memory, and to be heard from the lips of all the children of God.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]




ONE BLOW OF THE CHISEL DOES NOT MAKE A STATUE.[D]


Stephen Brown was ten years old, and Lewis, his brother, but eight.
Stephen was of a dull capacity, and found it very hard to learn his
lessons; but what he did learn he generally understood. Lewis was very
quick, and could learn his lessons in half the time that Stephen took,
but he was always full of play and fun, and sometimes got into a good
deal of mischief. They went to a day school together, and were in the
same class. One afternoon they had a half holiday, and both of them were
set a Latin lesson to learn at home: I am sorry to say, they had some
cross words almost as soon as they were out of school. After dinner they
went into the garden with their books, and, taking a seat in the arbour,
they began their studies. When they had been thus engaged some time,
their father passed behind the arbour, and he heard Lewis cry out, “Ah,
master Stephen, I can say my lesson, and you are only half through
your’s; what a lazy fellow you are. I will run and fly my kite, and
leave you to mope by yourself.” I fear that Stephen was about to answer
Lewis’s foolish boasting speech in an angry spirit, but just then his
father stepped up, and taking the hands of his two boys, he said,
“Lewis, you are a vain and foolish little boy to talk in such a way to
your brother; and Stephen, your angry face shews that you are unwise
enough to be in a passion with your brother. God has given you, my
children, different capacities, and every talent we possess comes from
him. Stephen, though you are rather slow in learning, yet, by diligence
and perseverance, you will be sure to get on, and therefore do not be
discouraged. Lewis, you can learn quickly; but if you are thus tempted
to become an idle playful boy, you will not advance in your learning,
and you will prove an unprofitable servant to that God who has given you
the talent of a good memory.” Mr. Brown said a good deal more, and then
taking out his pocket Bible, he told Lewis to learn the 139th Psalm
while his brother was finishing his lesson.

A few days after, Mr. Brown took Lewis with him to a neighbouring town,
where they called upon a Sculptor, a very clever man. When Lewis and his
father entered the workshop, he was very busily employed upon a block of
marble.

_F._ Do not disturb yourself, Sir. I called to ask you to let us see you
at work, will you allow us to look on for a short time?

_The Sculptor._ Certainly, Sir; only just stand at a little distance
for a few minutes, while I knock off this corner of the stone.

Lewis and his father went to the other end of the shop, and the sculptor
took a great chisel and a heavy mallet, with which he knocked off
several large pieces from one side of the block.

_The S._ You see, Sir, I do not stand upon trifles, but get on as fast
as I can.

_L._ Do you always get on as fast, Sir?

_The S._ No; you must not think statues are altogether made in this
manner.

_L._ Are you going to make a statue out of that great clumsy piece of
stone?

_The S._ Yes.

_L._ How can you contrive to make it, Sir?

_The S._ You see me just beginning, if you will call sometimes, you will
see how I get on, and if God is pleased to allow me to complete my work,
you may see it finished.

Lewis thanked the kind artist, and when they had seen him knock off
another corner of the stone, they wished him good morning, and said they
would call again.

_L._ Father, it is very strange that the sculptor should be able to make
a statue out of that clumsy shapeless mass of stone.

_F._ Do you think he did wrong to knock off those large pieces?

_L._ I dare say he knows what is proper to be done, and that it is right
to begin in this manner.

_F._ What should you think of a person, ignorant of sculpture, who
should go to him and say, “I am afraid you know nothing about what you
have undertaken to do, because what you are doing does not shew the
shape you say it is to represent.”

_L._ He would shew his ignorance and folly; for my part, I hope I should
not speak so foolishly.

_F._ Well, then, if you ought not to speak so hastily in this respect,
remember not to speak so rashly as you did to your brother the other
day.

They then pursued their walk and returned home.

Lewis told Stephen about their visit to the sculptor; Stephen was sorry
he had not gone, and he asked his father to take him the next time.

Several days past, and at length they went.--The sculptor was seated on
a low stool, with a small chisel and a light mallet; he struck very
gently, and only took off a sort of dust, which could be blown away with
the breath.

The stone had been cut, and brought into some degree of shape, and the
boys could see that it was intended for a lion. The artist was then at
work upon one of its paws, which was nearly finished: the rest of the
body was as yet only roughly cut out.

“Oh, how very different the stone looks,” said Lewis, as soon as he had
satisfied himself it was the same stone as he had seen before; “what a
difference! O father, it is to be a lion, see what a long tail and what
a shaggy mane it will have!”

_St._ And look at that foot, how should you like him to give you a claw
with it?

_The Sculptor._ Well, gentlemen, you see the stone is quite altered
since your first visit.

_L._ Yes, Sir, you have given it this shape, and I think you must have
had a great deal of trouble with it.

_The S._ It is God who gave me the skill to do what I have done, and if
I have succeeded it has been by the help of him who taught man to
cultivate the ground. As you may read Is. xxviii. 29. “This also cometh
forth from the Lord of Hosts, who is wonderful in counsel and excellent
in working.”

_St._ But I suppose, Sir, it took you some time to learn how to make a
statue: it did not come into your head all at once?

_The S._ O no; it took me a long time. But God gave me patience to
learn, as well as ability to understand, what I was taught; and he gives
me skill and power to direct the chisel so as to produce the work I
intend.

The sculptor, who was a good natured man, talked with them for some time
longer, and shewed them how he worked, and began one of the eyes of the
lion.

The children were much gratified, and would have stayed all day, if
their father had not reminded them that it was time to go home. They
then took leave of the sculptor, and as they walked homewards, they
noticed particularly that the sculptor had expressed his thankfulness to
God, for the abilities he possessed.

_F._ My children, when a man prospers and obtains useful knowledge, he
should ascribe his understanding and his industry to the Lord. But
Lewis, tell me what do you now think of the manner in which you saw the
sculptor working some days ago.

_L._ I see that it was necessary to bring the stone into its present
shape.

_F._ And do you not think that, when finished, it will be still more
beautiful than it now is?--Which sort of work appeared the slowest; when
the sculptor knocked off great pieces of stone, or when he finished so
carefully?

_L._ O, the last is much the slowest.

_St._ Certainly, for sometimes he touched the marble so very gently
that the chisel hardly made an impression.

_F._ But which produced the best effect? You, my boys, should recollect
the careful and exact manner in which the sculptor worked, when you are
engaged in learning your lessons, and often think of his patience and
perseverance.

When the statue was finished their father again took his two sons to see
it. It was a beautiful work and highly finished. Several persons were
standing near and praising it very much. Stephen and Lewis recollected
that it was the same work they had seen, and expressed their
astonishment to find it so beautiful.

Their father stopped as long as they wished, and was pleased with the
attention they paid. When they returned home, he called Lewis into his
study, and said to him, “You saw how the sculptor began and continued
his work, and you have to-day seen the beautiful statue that he has at
length formed. He is a very clever man; but this is not all, he is,
besides, a very diligent and persevering man: he pursued his work,
stroke by stroke, day after day, and month after month, till he had
completed it. You learn very quickly; but take care, my dear boy, or
this will prove a snare to you by making you idle and careless. You
cannot be truly wise without being diligent, and the more talent you
possess, the more you should improve it. One blow of the chisel does not
make a statue, neither does a little cleverness and quickness make a
truly wise man. Think of these two maxims, and then you will not be vain
and idle: _first_, That God has given you every talent you possess, and
he requires you to improve it to the utmost, and will call you to give
an account of the way in which you have used it; and, _secondly_, That
the most diligent of the people of God, when they look back on their
lives, must consider themselves as ‘unprofitable servants.’ Never, then,
my dear Lewis, let me hear you boast over others; but let me intreat you
to remember the favourite proverb of the meek and lowly Jesus:
‘Whosoever exalteth himself shall be abased, and he that humbleth
himself shall be exalted.’”

[Illustration: FINIS]


FOOTNOTES:

[A] In most parts of the Continent wood is used for fuel.

[B] A sort of tinder used abroad.

[C] Our English readers will be surprised to find that these children
did not know of any hymns or divine songs suitable for children.
They must remember that this little narrative is about children in
Switzerland, and it should remind them how thankful they should be for
the many privileges they enjoy in England, which children in other
countries have not. How sad it is when children are careless and
indifferent as to these advantages!

[D] This may be termed an imitation rather than a translation of the
original.