[Illustration: _Plain Tales_,]

         _Printed for Vernor & Hood, 31 Poultry, April 1799._




                             _PLAIN TALES_,

                          CHIEFLY INTENDED FOR

                                THE USE

                                   OF

                            CHARITY SCHOOLS.

                             [Illustration]

                                LONDON:

                    _Printed for_ VERNOR _and_ HOOD,

                            NO. 31, POULTRY.

                             [Illustration]

                                 1799.




                              PLAIN TALES.




                                TALE I.

Sukey Dawkins and Polly Wood had been some time in the charity-school.
They had behaved very well, and could do a good deal of work: they were
regular in going at the exact time, and so soon as school hours were
over, they went strait home to see what they could do to assist their
mothers. As they were diligent, they sometimes got a spare half hour to
take a walk in the fields. This was of great service to their health,
and helped to make them strong, active, and cheerful. One evening,
after they had been working very hard, their mothers gave them leave
to go. Out they set, as brisk as larks; they tripped over the stile
very nimbly, and had soon gathered a handful of primroses and violets.
Presently they heard a loud noise at a little distance, and away they
ran to find out what it was. In a wood, not far off, they observed a
man felling a large tree, and around lay a great number of chips. I
wonder, said Sukey Dawkins, if any body makes use of these: how glad
my mother would be to have some to light her fires with; let us ask
the carpenter. Pray, said she, do you think the person who owns these,
would give me leave to take a few home to my mother?――Yes, said the
man, I think he would: they belong to Mr. Ownoak, who is walking in
the next field, and you may ask him, if you will. O, said Polly Wood,
do not let us go, I cannot abide to ask: her companion replied, what
is there to be ashamed of, I am not a going to do any thing wrong;
and, unless I was, I do not see what reason I have to be ashamed. These
chips are of no use to this gentleman, and, perhaps, he does not think
how useful they might be to others. Come, let us make haste: so she
went up to Mr. Ownoak, and said――Pray, Sir, will you give me leave to
take a few of those chips home to light my mammy’s fire? Who is your
mammy, my little girl, said he? Widow Dawkins, sir. Where does she
live? In the Well-yard. How many children has she? Four, sir. I am the
oldest: I strive to do a little, but we are very poor, and my mother
has hard work to get cloaths, food, and firing; so that a few chips
would be very useful to us. You may take as many as you can carry, my
child, said he; and you may come again to-morrow, and the next day,
and, if your companion wants any, let her have some too. Away they
ran, and told the carpenter that Mr. Ownoak had given them leave to
take some. Sukey Dawkins had on a good strong woollen apron, which
she had made of one of her mother’s, so she began filling it with
chips; but Polly Wood’s apron was an old ragged checked one. Sukey had
often begged her companion to endeavour to mend her cloths; but this
she had too much neglected, and was now very sorry she had. However,
Sukey helped her to pin it together as well as she could; and, after
filling them as fully as they would hold, and wishing the carpenter a
good night, away they set off towards home. As they were getting over
the last stile, Polly’s tattered apron gave way, and down fell all the
chips. This was a sad disaster, and she began to cry; but her companion
asked her if crying could possibly remedy the misfortune, and begged
her not to do what a little baby would. Let us think what is best to
be done, that is all we ought to do when any accident happens. Let us
see: well, your gown is whole, that is a good thing; suppose you take
it up, and put the chips in that, and, if you like, I will help you to
mend your apron to-morrow. So they picked up the chips again as fast as
they could, and made haste to get home. Mother, said Sukey, I am afraid
you thought me long; but these will make amends for staying. She then
threw down the chips under the coal-shed, and told her mother how she
came by them. Her mother thanked her very kindly for her attention to
the comfort of the family, and told her she believed, that, if she had
not been so good a girl, and often contrived, in some way to help her,
they must all have gone to the workhouse. Sukey was much more satisfied
with herself that evening, than if she had been romping with the girls
in the street, and went to bed thankful that she had been useful.

    Children, in many a different way,
      Can give their friends delight;
    Nor will she pass a useless day,
      Who brings home chips at night.

[Illustration]




                                TALE II.


Mother, said Nancy Bennet, I wish you would let us have tea to
breakfast: there are neighbour Spendalls and their children drinking
tea every morning when I go by to school, and we never have it but on
Sunday afternoons. My dear, said her mother, every thing which is good
for you, that I can buy, I wish you to have; but there are many reasons
which would make it improper for us to drink much tea: One is, that
it is very dear, and affords but little nourishment: Another, that it
is neither pleasant nor wholesome without cream and sugar. Two pounds
of the coarsest sugar I could buy, would cost eighteen pence. With
that eighteen pence I could buy you a new shift; the sugar, you know,
would be soon gone and forgotten; the shift will help to keep you warm
and comfortable for years. Which would you rather have? O the shift,
said she to be sure. Well, my dear, said her mother, it is by denying
ourselves tea that we are able to get a comfortable change of shirts
and shifts; and another advantage is, that I believe we have better
health than many people who live a good deal on tea. Your father finds
himself more able to work after bread and cheese and a pint of beer,
than he would after tea: And a bason of milk-porridge is a much more
satisfying meal for us; and, it is a very happy thing, that the most
wholesome food is generally the cheapest. Ploughmen and milkmaids, who
look so ruddy, and are the most healthy people in the kingdom, seldom
taste tea. Part of their health and strength, it is true, is owing to
their rising early, going to bed early, and living a good deal out
of doors: but we, who are obliged to do our work more in the house,
ought to get the most wholesome food we can; and, spending our money
in tea and sugar, would deprive us of many more useful things. I have
heard my mother say, that tea was very little drank when she was young;
and, I believe, people were quite as healthy and as happy then. For
one quarter of a year, I laid by, every week, just as much as I should
have laid out had we drank tea. This, at the least I could reckon it,
was one shilling and sixpence a week. As there are twelve weeks in a
quarter of a year, this, you know, came to eighteen shillings; and,
with that money, I bought myself and you, these good stuff gowns, which
have kept us so warm all the winter, and a pair of sheets for your
bed: Would you rather have been starved in rags, and drank tea; or,
comfortably clad, and had milk-porridge? O, I have heard enough about
tea, said Nancy, give me milk-porridge, a stuff gown, and new sheets.

    If comfort round a cottage fire,
      The poor desire to see,
    Let them to useful things aspire,
      And learn to banish tea.

[Illustration]




                               TALE III.


Jenny Bunney sometimes did an errand for her school-mistress: sometimes
she took her mother’s work to the warehouse, and was often employed
to go on other errands, because she was very quick, never loitering
on the road. She was also careful to remember what was told her, and
carry a proper message. She had a sufficient pleasure in being useful,
and finding herself trusted, and did not wish for any other reward;
however, the people where she went, were very kind, and would sometimes
give her a halfpenny. There was a woman lived very near where she did,
who sold apples and gingerbread, &c. these she thought looked very
nice, and sometimes she would buy a halfpenny-worth, but there was
very little for money; she had soon eaten it, and found herself not
at all satisfied. What a foolish thing, said she to herself, will it
be to spend all my money in this way, and have nothing useful for it.
I will lay by the halfpence I get till I can buy something useful, and
then I shall find which affords me the most satisfaction. She observed,
that her mother had long worked very hard to get food and cloaths for
her children, and that she hardly ever bought anything for herself.
Her caps were almost worn out, and Jenny knew that she did not know
how to get any new ones: so she asked her mistress, at the school, to
be so good as to tell her how much would buy her mother two caps. Her
mistress told her she thought she could buy her two for ten pence: so
she saved all the halfpence she got, and very anxious she was till the
number was compleated: then, the next time she went to school, she gave
it to her mistress to lay it out. The following morning the caps were
bought, and ready for her to make. She worked hard, and, at night, had
hemmed the border, set it on neatly, and finished one cap! The second
day her task was compleated, and the caps carried home. If she had had
a dozen given to herself, I do not think her joy would have been half
so great as that she had, in the thought of giving these to her mother.
As soon as she got into the house, she ran up to her and said, mother,
I have got a little present for you, if you please to accept it. A
present, said she! what is it? Jenny then pulled out the caps, and put
one on her mother’s head, and the other in her lap. How came you by
these, said she? Who sent them? Mother, said Jenny, I have bought and
made them myself: You do a great deal for me, and I am sorry that I can
help you no more; however, I feel more glad that I could buy you these,
than if any body else had given you them. My dear, said her mother,
where could you get the money? O, said she, you know that I had many
odd half-pence given me, these I kept till I got enough to buy you two
caps, as I thought it would give me more pleasure than laying it out
in any thing else. Her mother almost cried for joy, to find she had so
good a child, and told her she should value the caps more than if any
fine lady had given her them. Young, as you are, you now find how much
you can do to render your parents comfortable; and I rejoice, that poor
as we are, you will never want pleasure, since you have learned that
you need only try to be useful.

    When gingerbread and apples lure,
      I’ll think on Jenny Bunney:
    Rememb’ring pleasures that endure,
      Are better worth my money.




                                TALE IV.


Near to Jenny Bunney lived Nancy Thoughtless. She too, sometimes, had
halfpence given her; but they soon went at the apple-woman’s in cakes,
gingerbread, nuts, &c. Sometimes she would save several in her little
box; but she did not think of laying them out in any thing useful,
and they soon followed the rest. One very sharp winter, in which they
found it hard work to get victuals, her father had a very long illness:
this was a great trial; however, the poor woman, his wife, kept up her
spirits pretty well. All worked who were able, and they just managed
to live, every day hoping the father would get better. One day, said
her mother to Nancy, my dear, I wish I had a little wine to give your
father, he is very weak, and I think it might do him good; but it is
dear, and I have no money to buy any with. You know that I never go,
nor send you a begging, for it is generally the idle and wasteful who
beg; and, as I am not one of them, I do not choose to follow their
example. I think I have seen you take the halfpence which were given
you to your little box. Perhaps you have as much as six-pence, this
would buy a little wine for your poor father; and, I dare say, you
will be glad to put it to such a use. Money, my dear child, is of no
more value than stones or dirt, any further than as it is useful; and,
it is every body’s duty to make the best use he can of all he has. I
dare say you feel that you can do nothing better with yours, than buy
your father a little wine. I need say no more, you will run up stairs
and fetch it. Nancy hung down her head, and did not stir. Her mother
waited: at last she burst out a crying, O, mother, said she, I have no
six-pence, I have not even a half-penny. How have you laid it out,
said her mother? O I have wasted it all in gingerbread and nuts, and
now I have none to buy my poor father a drop of wine with. What shall
I do! What shall I do! Her mother told her, as crying could not bring
back her money, she had better give over. I am very sorry, said she,
you have lost all the pleasure you would now have had in doing good
to your father, and helping the family; but, perhaps, you like the
remembrance of your nuts and your gingerbread better. O, mother, do
not say so; I would rather have never tasted them if I could but now
buy the wine. My dear, said she, I hope you will be wiser then for
the future, and always remember, that those things which please the
longest, are the best.

    She, who in trifles, spends her gain,
      Will lose all lasting pleasure;
    And when she would do good, in vain
      Laments her wasted treasure.




                                TALE V.


As Mary Atkins was one day going to fetch some turnips for dinner, she
saw, at the corner of Poverty Lane, a second-hand shop, at the door of
which hung a great deal of ragged finery. There was a tawdry flowered
gown: to be sure, it had some holes in it, but it was well starched,
and made a show: there was, likewise, an old muslin cap, with a pleated
border, and a fine red ribband round it. Mary went home, and told her
mother she wished her to go with her to Poverty-lane, to buy something
at the second-hand shop, for she had seen some very pretty things
there; and Sally Idle had bought a white apron for six-pence, and a
muslin handkerchief for two-pence. My dear, said her mother, there is
not a place in the town I have so great a dislike to as a rag-shop,
for such it may properly be called; and, it is one great cause of the
ruin of poor people, that they lay out their money at these shops. The
apron and handkerchief which Sally Idle bought, would, probably, be in
rags the first time they were washed, and she would then find that she
had laid out her money in a very wrong manner. The pleated bordered
cap you saw, was, I dare say, already in holes; and, perhaps, after
once washing it, could be pleated no more: besides, such a thing would
take a great deal of time, which poor people have not to spare. I would
rather see a plain cloth cap, with a strong lawn border, set strait
on, which would wear well for years, than such fine ones which would
not last a month. The cotton gown, perhaps, I could buy for half what
I gave for my new stuff one; but it would often want washing, and that
would take a great deal of time, which would very much hinder my work
at the wheel. Soap too, is very dear, so that it would soon cost me
more than that I have: besides, I think it very untidy to see a poor
woman with a dirty bit of a cotton gown all in rags, when she might,
by a little contrivance, have a comfortable stuff one. Poor people, in
general, find it difficult to raise money enough at a time to go to the
shops and buy a new garment: but my way is to put by, weekly, a little
out of what every one gets. You know you have each a place to put your
own in, and, by many a little being often put together, it soon becomes
a good deal. When I want a new garment for any of us, I go and see how
much is in the drawer, and if there is not enough, your father and I
endeavour to make it up out of our own earnings. I should think it a
shameful waste, indeed, to spend my money and my children’s at a rag
shop. I never have done it, nor do I ever mean to do it; but, if you
think it a better way, you are very welcome to try. But, as I think it
a disgrace for an industrious woman to be seen there, you will excuse
my going with you. O, said Mary, I will not go, I am convinced that
your way is best; and, now I think of it, Sally Idle had a great many
rents in the linen gown, which I know she bought there but a little
time since, and it looked very dirty and untidy too. Some people, said
her mother, may laugh at my putting by the six-pences and the penny’s
every week, but I am sure we have a great deal of comfort from it; and,
it matters not who laughs, so long as we are certain that we are doing
right. I do not think that I should hoard up a great many shillings and
guineas as if I could get them, for they are only desirable to make use
of; but I know it to be my duty to do the best I can with my little,
and, while I do that, you may be sure I shall not go to the rag-shop.

    Ruin within the rag-shop stands,
      And all who dare to enter,
    With tattered bargains in their hands,
      Repent so rash a venture.

[Illustration]




                                TALE VI.


Polly Brown went one day to carry her grandmam a little broth, for the
poor can do good to others as well as the rich. Her mother desired
her to go carefully, not to stay by the way, and to come strait back:
she said she would. As she was going, she met Sukey Playful and Dolly
Careless: where are you going? said they. To take my grandmam some
broth. Come, said they, set it down a little while, and have a run
with us. O no, said she, I cannot now, my mammy desired I would make
haste; beside, the broth will be cold. When a little girl knows what
is right, she ought to listen to no persuasions to do wrong. They told
her, her mammy would never know anything about it: that they were going
to buy a half-penny worth of apples, and would give her one if she
would go with them. Come, said they, you may set down the jug in this
snug place, and we shall soon be back again. At last she consented;
but she had no comfort as she went, nor when she had got her apple;
for she thought, if the jug should be thrown down, what should she
do. They made haste, but when they came back to the place, a dog had
thrown down the jug, and spilt all the broth. Polly began to cry most
terribly, and scolded Sukey and Dolly for persuading her to go, when
she might have recollected that it was her own fault for not minding
her duty. They were a good deal frightened: however, they said, never
mind it, as the jug is not broke, you can go home and tell your mammy
you took the broth, and, perhaps, she will never know any thing about
it. Polly dried her eyes, took up the jug, and went home; but she was
very uneasy, and felt that she did not like her play-fellows half so
well as she had done before, for they had now taught her to do wrong.
When she got home, well, said her mother, how does your grandmam do,
my dear, and how did she like the broth; for I dare say she was hungry
enough, poor soul, and would eat them directly? Polly said, she was
much as usual, and liked them very well. All the day she was very
dull, and found she could not work with half so much pleasure as she
used to do. At night, when she went to bed, she was very uncomfortable
indeed; she had been taught always to tell the truth, as the only way
to be happy herself, or of any use to others. She now felt that she had
deceived her mother, and therefore did not deserve to be trusted by
her. Thus she continued very uneasy all the week: On Saturday night,
when her mother had done all her work, and washed the young children
and put them to bed, Polly, said she, I think I will just step and see
how your grandmother does: you, my dear, will take care of the house;
and mend a hole in your father’s stocking for to-morrow. You begin to
be a great help to me now, and I thank God that I have one child to
depend upon for a little comfort and assistance: be sure to take care
against the fire and candle, I shall soon be back again. She then went
out, but Polly’s heart was ready to break: she had always, before,
deserved her mother’s praise, and it was the next comfort she had to
the satisfaction of her own mind. But now she had deceived her; she was
miserable; she was going to be found out; and she could no more expect
to be trusted. The grandmother was very glad to see her daughter, and
began to enquire after all the children, and particularly Polly, who,
she said, was now a notable little maid, and would soon, she hoped, be
a great comfort to them all. But child, said she, I am afraid you have
raised no broth lately, for you used to be so good as to send me some,
and it is now many a long day since I have had any. Mother, said she,
you forget, we made broth on Monday, and Polly brought you some then.
Well, said she, I believe my memory fails me, but I thought it had been
longer. Here is my neighbour Green, who brings in her wheel sometimes,
she has sat with me a good deal this week, it may be that she can tell.
Monday, Monday, let me see, said Betty Green; no, neighbour, I am sure
Polly brought none on Monday, for that was the day we made some at our
house, and I brought you a little of mine. Well, said Polly’s mother,
I do not know how it could be, but I will enquire when I get home. I
must now wish you a good night, for my husband will want his supper.
You have a shift here over the line that wants mending I see: Polly is
now very ready with her needle, they have taught her so well in the
charity-school. I am sure she will be glad to mend her grandmother’s
shift; for the more useful she is, the more happy you know she will
be: so I will take it with me. Good night, God bless you, I must make
haste, for we poor people have no time to lose. Away she set off: when
she got home, well, Polly, said she, you have had no accident? Polly
was very dull, and said no, mother. Your grandmother enquired kindly
after you, and was very glad that you are such a comfort and help to
me; but how was it, my dear, about the broth you last went with? Your
grandmother has never had them. Polly trembled in every limb; at first
she thought of still saying that she took them, but she found that she
had been miserable enough already, and that it would only make her
more so. O, mother, said she, I have deceived you: I have made myself
very unhappy, and I am very wicked indeed. She then told her mother
what had happened. Her mother was very much shocked, and could hardly
speak. I know, said she, very well, that other people are often wishing
and asking us to do wrong; it is possible your naughty companions
might persuade you; but, to come home and deceive me, this is dreadful
indeed. I know of no other right use of words, but for us to tell one
another of things as they really are. You have, perhaps, heard quarrels
in the street, and seen a good deal of sorrow and trouble in houses; a
great part of this is owing to people’s deceiving one another in their
words, and not telling the strict clear truth. For my part, I would
rather have had a child who could not speak, than one who deceives me.
How can I trust you? How can I depend upon what you say? Nay, how do
I know that this account of the matter is truth? When shall I be able
to believe you again? O, my dear mother, said she, do forgive me this
once, and I hope I shall always speak the truth for the future. Yes,
said she, I can forgive you, but do you forgive yourself? that is the
matter. Can you be as happy as you was before? I will try: I will watch
my words, and tell you all. Well, said her mother, you seem very sorry;
I do not wish to make you more so, only you will find that I cannot,
at present, trust to what you say; neither can your grandmother, nor
neighbour Green; but this you must endure as the consequence of the
fault you have committed. It is a dreadful effect of doing wrong, that
it makes us unhappy; but the more unhappy it makes you, the more you
must strive against it in future. I hope you are sincerely sorry; if
so, we shall perceive it by your speaking the truth, for deceit is soon
found out, and then we shall trust you as usual; and, I hope, you will
always remember, that none can deceive another without injuring himself.

    Better be dumb than dare to lie;
      For words which are not truth,
    Far as they reach, spread misery
      On childhood, age, and youth.

[Illustration]




                               TALE VII.


O! said Phebe Talkative, one day to Nancy Diligent, I wish I had
finished my work――what a long seam this is, I think I never shall have
done. Nancy told her she wished she would not talk so, for she had as
much work to do as herself, and talking only hindered them both. Phebe
told her she thought it very hard if they might not talk; but, if
she would not speak, she would get somebody else. She then turned to
the little girl who sat on the other side; in so doing, she lost her
needle: she was then obliged to get up and look it, and off dropped
her thimble. Dear heart, said she, my things are always so tiresome,
I wonder what business my needle had to drop; I do not see that other
people’s needles and thimbles fall. Thus she kept talking on, and it
was some time before she had again taken her seat, and got to work.
Presently she observed that Nancy Diligent was not in her place; and,
when she came back to it, she said, this is you who would not speak;
but I see you can leave your place and walk about as well as other
girls. Nancy told her that she had only been to have her work fixed,
as she had done her seam. Phebe was now a little ashamed. Whether
she minded better in future, I do not know; but certain I am, that
if people would observe, that the inconveniencies they meet with are
chiefly owing to their own carelessness, they might do a great deal
better, and be a great deal happier.

    Whate’er thy duty bids thee do,
      “Do it with all thy might;”
    They who this simple path pursue,
       And they, alone, are right.


                                 FINIS.




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Transcriber’s Note:

This book was written in a period when many words had not become
standardized in their spelling. Words may have multiple spelling
variations or inconsistent hyphenation in the text. These have been
left unchanged. Obsolete and alternative spellings were left unchanged.
Misspelled words were not corrected.

Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, upside down, or
partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected. The use of
italics is inconsistent in the advertisement at the end.