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THE WORD OF GOD
Henry, what book is that you have in your hand?"
"It is the Bible, mother,"
"Oh, no, it cannot be, surely!"
"Why, yes it is—see!"
"And my little boy to treat so roughly the book containing God's holy word!"
Henry's face grew serious.
"Oh, I forgot!" he said, and went and laid the good book carefully away.
"Try and not forget again, my son. If you treat this book so lightly now, you may, when you become a man, as lightly esteem its holy truths; and then you could never live in heaven with the angels. No one goes to heaven who does not love and reverence the Word of God, which is holy in every jot and tittle."
HARSH WORDS AND KIND WORDS
William Baker, and his brother Thomas and sister Ellen, were playing on the green lawn in front of their mother's door, when a lad named Henry Green came along the road, and seeing the children enjoying themselves, opened the gate and came in. He was rather an ill-natured boy, and generally took more pleasure in teasing and annoying others, than in being happy with them. When William saw him coming in through the gate, he called to him and said, in a harsh way,
"You may just clear out, Henry Green, and go about your business! We don't want you here."
But Henry did not in the least regard what William said. He came directly forward, and joined in the sport as freely as if he had been invited instead of repulsed. In a little while he began to pull Ellen about rudely, and to push Thomas, so as nearly to throw them down upon the grass.
"Go home, Henry Green! Nobody sent for you! Nobody wants you here!" said William Baker, in quite an angry tone.
It was of no use, however. William might as well have spoken to the wind. His words were entirely unheeded by Henry, whose conduct became ruder and more offensive.
Mrs Baker, who sat at the window, saw and heard all that was passing. As soon as she could catch the eye of her excited son, she beckoned him to come to her, which he promptly did.
"Try kind words on him," she said; "you will find them more powerful than harsh words. You spoke very harshly to Henry when he came in, and I was sorry to hear it."
"It won't do any good, mother. He's a rude, bad boy, and I wish he would stay at home. Won't you make him go home?"
"First go and speak to him in a gentler way than you did just now. Try to subdue him with kindness."
William felt that he had been wrong in letting his angry feelings express themselves in angry words. So he left his mother and went down upon the lawn, where Henry was amusing himself by trying to trip the children with a long stick, as they ran about on the green.
"Henry," he said, cheerfully and pleasantly, "if you were fishing in the river, and I were to come and throw stones in where your line fell, and scare away all the fish, would you like it?"
"No, I should not," the lad replied.
"It wouldn't be kind in me?"
"No, of course it wouldn't."
"Well, now, Henry," William tried to smile and to speak very pleasantly, "we are playing here and trying to enjoy ourselves. Is it right for you to come and interrupt us by tripping our feet, pulling us about, and pushing us down? I am sure you will not think so if you reflect a moment. So don't do it any more, Henry."
"No, I will not," replied Henry, promptly. "I am sorry that I disturbed you. I didn't think what I was doing. And now I remember, father told me not to stay, and I must run home."
So Henry Green went quickly away, and the children were left to enjoy themselves.
"Didn't I tell you that kind words were more powerful than harsh words, William?" said his mother, after Henry had gone away; "when we speak harshly to our fellows, we arouse their angry feelings, and then evil spirits have power over them; but when we speak kindly, we affect them with gentleness, and good spirits flow into this latter state, and excite in them better thoughts and intentions. How quickly Henry changed, when you changed your manner and the character of your language. Do not forget this, my son. Do not forget, that kind words have double the power of harsh ones."
THE HERONS AND THE HERRINGS.
THE HERONS AND THE HERRINGS
A FABLE
A Heron once came—I can scarcely tell why—
To the court of his cousins, the fishes,
With despatches, so heavy he scarcely could fly,
And his bosom brimfull of good wishes.
He wished the poor Herrings no harm, he said,
Though there seemed to be cause for suspicion;
His government wished to convert them, instead,
And this was the end of his mission.
The Herrings replied, and were civil enough,
Though a little inclined to be witty:
"We know we are heathenish, savage, and rough,
And are greatly obliged for your pity.
"But your plan of conversion we beg to decline,
With all due respect for your nation;
No doubt it would tend to exalt and refine,
Yet we fear it would check respiration."
The Heron returned to his peers in disdain,
And told how their love was requited.
"Poor creatures!" they said, "shall we let them remain
So ignorant, blind, and benighted?"
Then soon on a crusade of love and good-will
The Herons in council decided;
And they flew, every one that could boast a long bill,
To the beach where the Herrings resided.
So the tribe were soon converts from ocean to air,
Though liking not much the diversion,
And wishing at least they had time to prepare
For so novel a mode of conversion.
A sensible child will discover with ease
The point of the tale I've related—
A blockhead could not, let me say what I please—
Then why need my MORAL be stated?
EARLY SPRING FLOWERS
Of all the amusements of my childhood, I can think of none which I loved so much as rambling in the woods and meadows among the flowers. What a rich treat it used to be, just after the earth had thrown aside its white mantle, and begun to be clothed in its summer dress, to get permission to spend a whole Saturday afternoon in the woods with my brother and sister. Oh, how delighted we all were, when we found the first wild flowers of spring! Let me see. What flowers show their pretty faces the earliest? Do you remember, young friend? Perhaps you have always lived in the city, and have never made their acquaintance. But if you have ever seen them, blushing in their native haunts, I am sure you must remember how they look, and what their names are. I cannot see how any body can forget them, they are so beautiful and lovely.
One of the earliest flowers of spring, and one which grew in the woods only a few rods from my father's door, near the stream that turned my miniature water-wheels, is the Trailing Arbutus. Often you may find this plant unfolding its delicate blossoms before the snow has left the ground. That, in our northern latitudes, is usually among the first flowers in blossom. Soon after she appears, you may see one and perhaps two different species of the Anemone. One, especially—the Anemone Thalictroides, as it used to be called in botany, though it is now the Thalictrum Anemonoides, I believe—is among the fairest of all these flowers of spring. She has a blossom as white as snow. The Anemone Nemrosa is almost as fair, too, though not quite, I think. You can sometimes see them both smiling side by side, early in the month of May, nodding gracefully at each other, and smiling as if they were very happy. It does not require much imagination to fancy they are conversing together; and, indeed, I would quite as soon believe that flowers could talk, as I would believe those stories about the fairies that children hear sometimes.
There is another beautiful flower which makes her appearance very early—the Spring Beauty, or Claytonia Virginica. She is usually found in the same locations with the Anemone. Then there is the Liver Leaf. Did you ever find that, little girl? Very possibly you have not taken a ramble early enough in the spring to see her. She makes her visit frequently in the latter part of April, and she does not stay long. But after her flower has faded and fallen, there may be seen a few deeply notched and curious leaves, to mark the spot where she bloomed so sweetly.
The Blood Root, too, will make her visit, and go away again, if you delay your ramble in the woods till the first of May. The blossom of the Blood Root is a very delicate white. Hundreds of exotic flowers are cultivated in our gardens, and very much admired, that are not half so pretty as this. The leaves that appear before the plant is in blossom, are oval, a little like those of the Adder's Tongue, which is in flower somewhat later, and like those of one species of the Solomon's Seal—the Convallaria Bifolia. But when the flower of the Blood Root appears, you see quite a different kind of leaf, so that even close observers of wild flowers are sometimes deceived, and think that their early leaves belong to some other plant.
Every body who has been at all familiar with the forest and meadows in the spring, knows the Violet. There are a good many sisters in this charming family, but none, perhaps, in our latitude, that are more beautiful than the Viola Rotundifolia, or Yellow Violet, with roundish leaves, lying close to the ground. The Blue Violet, too, appears soon after, and is perhaps equally pretty. I recollect distinctly where it used to grow near the little brook that ran through our meadow—a brook that many a time has served to turn my water-wheel. Oh, those days of miniature water-wheels, and kites, and wind-mills! how happy they were, and how I love to think of them now! By the way, have you ever read Miss Gould's poetical fable about the little child and the Blue Violet? I must recite a stanza or two of this poem, I think. The child speaks to the Violet, and says,
"Violet, violet, sparkling with dew,
Down in the meadow land, wild where you grew,
How did you come by the beautiful blue
With which your soft petals unfold?
And how do you hold up your tender young head,
Where rude, sweeping winds rush along o'er your bed,
And dark, gloomy clouds, ranging over you, shed
Their waters, so heavy and cold?
"No one has nursed you, or watched you an hour,
Or found you a place in the garden or bower;
And they cannot yield me so lovely a flower,
As here I have found at my feet!
"Speak, my sweet violet, answer and tell,
How you have grown up and flourished so well,
And look so contented, where lonely you dwell,
And we thus by accident meet?"
Then the Violet answers, and tells the child why it is so contented, and how it is able to hold up its head, and where its pretty blue petals come from. But I will not recite the remainder of the poem, for I am sure my readers do not need to be told who made the flowers, and who taught them to bloom so sweetly in their wild haunts.
The early flowers of spring! I loved them fondly when a child; but now I am a man, I love them still more. Shall I tell you why, dear child? There is something sad in the reason, and yet it is not all sadness. I had a sister—I had a sister. Ah! that tells the tale. I have no sister now! The dearest companion of my early rambles among the flowers—herself the fairest and sweetest of them all—has fallen before the scythe of Death. She has gone now to a world of perpetual spring, and the flowers she loved so well are blooming over her grave. She faded away in the early spring, and we laid her to rest where her mother had long been sleeping. By the side of the streamlet where we used to play in the sunny days of childhood, and where the Dandelion grew, and the Butter-cup, and the Violet—there is now the form of her I tenderly loved.
But my strain is sad—too sad. I will sing, and be cheerful.
Alas! how soon
The things of earth we love most fondly perish!
Why died the flower our hearts had learned to cherish?
Why, ere 'twas noon?
I cannot tell—
But though the grave be that loved sister's dwelling,
And though my heart e'en now with grief is swelling,
I know 'tis well.
'Tis well with the—
'Tis well with thee, thou lone and silent sleeper!
'Tis well, though thou hast left me here a weeper
Awhile to be.
'Tis well for me—
'Tis well; my home, since thou art gone, is dearer—
The grave is welcome, if it bring me nearer
To heaven and thee.
I'll not repine—
No, blest one; thou art happier than thy brother:
I'll think of thee, as with thy angel-mother,
Sweet sister mine.
Still would I share
Thy love, and meet thee where the flowers are springing,
Where the wild bird his joyous note is singing—
Come to me there.
Oh! come again,
At the still hour, the holy hour of even,
Ere one pale star has gemmed the vault of heaven;
Come to me then.
TEMPTATION RESISTED.
TEMPTATION RESISTED
Charles Murray left home, with his books in his satchel, for school. Before starting, he kissed his little sister, and patted Juno on the head, and as he went singing away, he felt as happy as any little boy could wish to feel. Charles was a good-tempered lad, but he had the fault common to a great many boys, that of being tempted and enticed by others to do things which he knew to be contrary to the wishes of his parents. Such acts never made him feel any happier; for the fear that his disobedience would be found out, and the consciousness of having done wrong, were far from being pleasant companions.
On the present occasion, as he walked briskly in the direction of the school, he repeated over his lessons in his mind, and was intent upon having them so perfect as to be able to repeat every word. He had gone nearly half the distance, and was still thinking over his lessons, when he stopped suddenly, as a voice called out,
"Halloo, Charley!"
Turning in the direction from which the voice came, he saw Archy Benton, with his school basket in his hand; but he was going from, instead of in the direction of the school.
"Where are you going, Archy?" asked Charles, calling out to him.
"Into the woods, for chestnuts."
"Ain't you going to school, to-day?"
"No, indeed. There was a sharp frost last night, and Uncle John says the wind will rattle down the chestnuts like hail."
"Did your father say you might go?"
"No, indeed. I asked him, but he said I couldn't go until Saturday. But the hogs are in the woods, and will eat the chestnuts all up, before Saturday. So I am going to-day. Come, go along, won't you? It is such a fine day, and the ground will be covered with chestnuts. We can get home at the usual time, and no one will suspect that we were not at school."
"I should like to go, very well," said Charley; "but I know father will be greatly displeased, if he finds it out, and I am afraid he will get to know it, in some way."
"How could he get to know it? Isn't he at his store all the time?"
"But he might think to ask me if I was at school. And I never will tell a lie."
"You could say yes, and not tell a lie, either," returned Archy. "You were at school yesterday."
"No, I couldn't. A lie, father says, is in the intent to deceive. He would, of course, mean to ask whether I was at school to-day, and if I said yes, I would tell a lie."
"It isn't so clear to me that you would. At any rate, I don't see such great harm in a little fib. It doesn't hurt any body."
"Father says a falsehood hurts a boy a great deal more than he thinks for. And one day he showed me in the Bible where liars were classed with murderers, and other wicked spirits, in hell. I can't tell a lie, Archy."
"There won't be any need of your doing so," urged Archy; "for I am sure he will never think to ask you about it. Why should he?"
"I don't know. But whenever I have been doing any thing wrong, he is sure to begin to question me, and lead me on until I betray the secret of my fault."
"Never mind. Come and go with me. It is such a fine day. We shan't have another like it. It will rain on Saturday, I'll bet any thing. So come along, now, and let us have a day in the woods, while we can."
Charles was very strongly tempted. When he thought of the confinement of school, and then of the freedom of a day in the woods, he felt much inclined to go with Archy.
"Come along," said Archy, as Charles stood balancing the matter in his mind. And he took hold of his arm, and drew him in a direction opposite from the school. "Come! you are just the boy I want. I was thinking about you the moment before I saw you."
The temptation to Charles was very strong. "I don't believe I will be found out," he said to himself; "and it is such a pleasant day to go into the woods!"
Still he held back, and thought of his father's displeasure if he should discover that he had played the truant. The word "truant," that he repeated mentally, decided the matter in his mind, and he exclaimed, in a loud and decided voice, as he dragged away from the hand of Archy, that had still retained its hold on his arm, "I've never played truant yet, and I don't think I ever will. Father says he never played truant when he was a boy; and I'd like to say the same thing when I get to be a man."
"Nonsense, Charley! come, go with me," urged Archy.
But Charles Murray's mind was made up not to play the truant. So he started off for school, saying, as he did so—
"No, I can't go, Archy; and if I were you, I would wait until Saturday. You will enjoy it so much better when you have your fathers consent. It always takes away more than half the pleasure of any enjoyment to think that it is obtained at the cost of disobedience. Come! go to school with me now, and I will go into the woods with you on Saturday."
"No, I can't wait until Saturday. I'm sure it will rain by that time; and if it don't, the hogs will eat up every nut that has fallen before that time."
"There'll be plenty left on the trees, if they do. It's as fine sport to knock them down as to pick them up."
But Archy's purpose was settled, and nothing that Charles Murray could say had any influence with him. So the boys parted, the one for his school, and the other for a stolen holiday in the woods.
The moment Charles was alone again, he felt no longer any desire to go with Archy. He had successfully resisted the temptation, and the allurement was gone. But even for listening to temptation he had some small punishment, for he was late to school by nearly ten minutes, and had not his lessons as perfect as usual, for which the teacher felt called upon to reprimand him. But this was soon forgotten; and he was so good a boy through the whole day, and studied all his lessons so diligently, that when evening came, the teacher, who had not forgotten the reprimand, said to him:
"You have been the best boy in the school to-day, Charles. To-morrow morning try and come in time, and be sure that your lessons are all well committed to memory."
Charles felt very light and cheerful as he went running, skipping, and singing homeward. His day had been well spent, and happiness was his reward. When he came in sight of home, there was no dread of meeting his father and mother, such as he would have felt if he had played the truant. Every thing looked bright and pleasant, and when Juno came bounding out to meet him, he couldn't help hugging the favorite dog in the joy he felt at seeing her.
When Charles met his mother, she looked at him with a more earnest and affectionate gaze than usual. And then the boy noticed that her countenance became serious.
"Ain't you well, mother?" asked Charles.
"Yes, my dear, I am very well," she replied; "but I saw something an hour ago which has made me feel sad. Archy Benton was brought home from the woods this afternoon, where he had gone for chestnuts, instead of going to school, as he should have done, dreadfully hurt. He had fallen from a tree. Both his arms are broken, and the doctor fears that he has received some inward injury that may cause his death."
Charles turned pale, when his mother said this.
"Boys rarely get hurt, except when they are acting disobediently, or doing some harm to others," remarked Mrs Murray. "If Archy had gone to school, this dreadful accident would not have happened. His father told him that he might go for chestnuts on Saturday, and if he had waited until then, I am sure he might have gone into the woods and received no harm, for all who do right are protected from evil."
"He tried to persuade me to go with him," said Charles, "and I was strongly tempted to do so. But I resisted the temptation, and have felt glad about it ever since."
Mrs Murray took her son's hand, and pressing it hard, said, with much feeling,
"How rejoiced I am that you were able to resist his persuasions to do wrong. Even if you had not been hurt yourself, the injury received by Archy would have discovered to us that you were with him, and then how unhappy your father and I would have been I cannot tell. And you would have been unhappy, too. Ah! my son, there is only one true course for all of us, and that is, to do right. Every deviation from this path brings trouble. An act of a moment may make us wretched for days, weeks, months, or perhaps years. It will be a long, long time before Archy is free from pain of body or mind—it may be that he will never recover. Think how miserable his parents must feel; and all because of this single act of disobedience."
We cannot say how often Charles said to himself, that evening and the next day, when he thought of Archy, "Oh, how glad I am that I did not go with him!"
When Saturday came, the father and mother of Charles Murray gave him permission to go into the woods for chestnuts. Two or three other boys, who were his school companions, likewise received liberty to go; and they joined Charles, and altogether made a pleasant party. It did not rain, nor had the hogs eaten up all the nuts, for the lads found plenty under the tall old trees, and in a few hours filled their bags and baskets. Charles said, when he came home, that he had never enjoyed himself better, and was so glad that he had not been tempted to go with Archy Benton.
It was a lesson he never afterward forgot. If he was tempted to do what he knew was wrong, he thought of Archy's day in the woods, and the tempter instantly left him. The boy who had been so badly hurt, did not die, as the doctor feared; but he suffered great pain, and was ill for a long time.
