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EVENING PRAYER.

EVENING PRAYER

 
Heavenly Father! Through the day,
Have we wandered from thy way?
Have our thoughts to error turned?
Has within us evil burned?
 
 
Heavenly Father! Oh, remove
Evil thoughts and evil love!
Give us truth our minds to fill;
Give us strength to do thy will.
 
 
Often we are led astray
From the true and righteous way;
But, we humbly pray to thee,
From the tempter keep us free.
 
 
Heavenly Father! While we sleep,
Angel watchers round us keep.
When the morning breaks, may we,
Better, wiser children be.
 

STRETCHING THE TRUTH.

STRETCHING THE TRUTH

It is a very bad habit, this stretching the truth, as one does a piece of India rubber; and the worst of it is, that when any body forms the habit, there is no telling how much it will grow upon him.

There is Jack Weaver, for instance. He is a sailor all over, to be sure—an "old salt," as he would call himself. But that does not confer upon him any license to spin such yarns as he does, to his young shipmates on the forward deck. He has cruised half a dozen years after whales, in the Pacific ocean, and, of course, has seen some sights that are worth speaking of. But that is no reason why he should fill the head of that young fellow sitting on a coil of rope with a hundred cock-and-bull stories, that have scarcely a word of truth in them, from beginning to end. Why, he don't pretend to tell stories without stretching the truth.

I know some boys, too, who seem to find it very difficult to relate any incident as it took place. They are so much in the habit of stretching the truth, in fact, that those who are acquainted with them seldom believe more than half of one of their stories. These boys, however, have not the slightest intention, when they are pulling out a foot into a yard, of doing any thing wrong. Very possibly they think they are telling a pretty straight story. Habits are strong, you know—especially bad habits. Just look at Selden Mason, one of the best-natured boys I ever saw, and who has not got an enemy among all his school-mates; it is wonderful what a truth-stretcher he has got to be. Every boy shakes his head, when he hears a great story, and says it sounds like one of Selden's yarns. And yet be is so particular and minute in relating any thing, sometimes, that one who did not know him would not suspect him of treating the truth so badly. His apparent sincerity reminds me of an anecdote related of another boy, who had this habit worse than Selden has, I should think. The boy remarked that his father once killed ninety-nine crows at a single shot! He was asked why he did not say a hundred, and have done with it. The fellow was indignant. "Do you think I would tell a lie for one crow?" said he!

Selden Mason's habit of truth-stretching has got such a hold of him now, that you can perceive the marks of it in almost every thing he says. I have sometimes been half sorry he was so good a boy in other respects; for, as his companions like him pretty well, there is the more danger that they will catch the habit of him, before they are aware of it. His teacher was once asked what he thought of Selden, on the whole. "I can't help being pleased with the fellow," said he; "he is a good scholar, and very obedient; but I should like him a great deal better if he didn't tell such monstrous stories. He is like a book all printed in italic letters, with an exclamation point at the end of every sentence." Selden has often gone by the name of the "Exclamation Point," since that time.

Poor fellow! I wish he had tried to break himself of that habit, before it became so deeply rooted. I am afraid it will stick to him as long as he lives now; and if it does, he will get a very bad character as a man of business. Scarcely any reliance can be placed upon his word. No matter how careful he may be to state a thing exactly as it is, in his business matters, if he keeps up this general habit, people will say, "Oh! that's nothing but one of Mason's italic stories!"

Look out, my boy! It wouldn't be the strangest thing in the world, if you had got into a habit something like this of Selden's, though it may not yet be half so strong. But keep a sharp look-out, at any rate. Take care that you never stretch the truth.

THE CITY PIGEON

With all is the beautiful lingerer in our crowded cities a favorite. All love this gentle bird, that, shunning the cool and quiet woods, stays with man in the hot and noisy town, and, amid strife and the war of passions, passes ever before him a living emblem of peace. "It is no light chance," says Willis, in his exquisite lines "To a City Pigeon,"

THE CITY PIGEON.

 
"It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who has tamed the heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
    I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions gleam."
 

In these same lines, how truly and how sweetly has he said:

 
"A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!
Thou'rt linked with all that's fresh and wild,
In the prison'd thoughts of a city child;
    And thy glossy wings
Are its brightest image of moving things."
 

In the language of the same poet, how often have we said, as we looked forth upon the gentle bird:

 
"Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove;
Thy daily visits have touched my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat;
    And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye."
 

In his lines to "The Belfry Pigeon," Mr Willis has expressed most truthfully the feelings and thoughts which all have had for this gentle creature, which,

 
    "Alone of the feathered race,
Doth look unscared on the human face."
 

As we know of nothing on the subject more appropriate and beautiful than the address referred to, we will copy it for our young readers.

THE BELFRY PIGEON

 
"On the cross beam under the Old South Bell,
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeples with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel—
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.
 
 
"Whatever is rung on that noisy bell—
Chime of the hour or funeral knell—
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon—
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon—
When the clock strikes clear at morning light—
When the child is waked with 'nine at night'—
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with love of prayer—
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filméd eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.
 
 
"Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen.
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men,
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast,
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest."
 

A DAY IN THE WOODS.

A DAY IN THE WOODS

"School!" said Richard White, to himself; "School! I don't want to go to school. Why am I sent to school every day? What good is there in learning grammar, and arithmetic, and geography, and all them things? I don't like school, and I never did."

"Dick!" called out a voice; and the lad, who had seated himself on a cellar door, and placed his satchel beside him, looked up, and met the cheerful face of one of his school-fellows.

"What are you sitting there for, Dick? Don't you hear the school bell?"

"Yes; I hear it, Bill."

"Then get up and come along, or you will be late."

"I don't care if I am. I don't like to go to school."

"You don't?"

"No, indeed. I'd never go to school if I could help it. What's the use of so much learning? I'm going to a trade as soon as I get old enough; and Pete Elder says that a boy who don't know A B C, can learn a trade just as well as one who does."

"I don't know any thing about that," replied William Brown; "but father says, the more learning I get when a boy, the more successful in life will I be when a man; that is, if I make a good use of my learning."

"What good is grammar going to do a mechanic, I wonder?" said Richard, contemptuously. "What use will the double rule of three, or fractions, be to him?"

"They may be of a great deal of use. Father says we cannot learn too much while we are boys. He says he never learned any thing in his life that did not come of use to him at some time or other."

"Grammar, and geography, and double rule of three, will never be of any use to me."

"Oh, yes, they will, Dick! So come along. The bell is nearly done ringing. Come, won't you?"

"No; I'm going out to the woods,"

"Come, Richard, come! That will be playing truant."

"No; I've made my mind up not to go to school to-day."

"You'll be sorry for it, Dick, if you do stay away from school."

"Why will I?" said the boy, quickly. "Are you going to tell?"

"If I should be asked about you, I will not tell a lie; but I don't suppose any one will inquire of me."

"Then why will I be sorry?"

"You'll be sorry when you're a man."

Richard White laughed aloud at the idea of his being sorry when he became a man, for having neglected his school when a boy.

"If you are not going, I am," said William Brown, starting off and running as fast as he could. He arrived at the door of the schoolhouse just as the bell stopped ringing. In stopping to persuade Richard not to play truant, he had come near being too late.

As soon as William left him, Richard White got up from the cellar door where he had been reclining lazily, and throwing his satchel over his shoulder, started for the woods. His books and satchel were in his way, and rather heavy to carry about with him for six or seven hours. But he did not think it prudent to leave them any where, for the person with whom they were left would suspect him of playing truant, and through that means his fault might come to the knowledge of his parents.

After thinking over this, as he went on his way, it occurred to Richard that the satchel was as likely to betray him if carried along as if left at some store to be called for on his return. Finally, he concluded to ask for a newspaper at a shop.

With this he wrapped up his satchel, and taking it under his arm, went on without any more fears of betrayal from this source.

As soon as the foolish boy reached the woods, he hid his satchel, so as to get clear of the trouble it was to him, beside a large stone, and covered it with leaves and long grass. Then he felt free, and, as he thought, happy.

But it was not long before he got tired of rambling about alone. He listened, sometimes, to the birds, and sometimes tried, with stones, to kill the beautiful and innocent creatures. Then he thought how pleasant it would be to find a nest, and carry off the young ones; and he searched with great diligence for a long time, but could find no nest.

Once a little striped squirrel glided past him, and mounted a high tree. As it ran around and around the great trunk, appearing and disappearing at intervals, Richard tried to knock it off with stones. But his aim was not very true. Instead of hitting the squirrel, he managed to get a severe blow himself; for a stone which he threw very high, struck a large limb, and, bouncing back, fell upon his upturned face, and cut him badly.

From that moment, all the pleasure he had felt since entering the woods was gone. The blood stained his shirt bosom, and covered his hand when he put it up to his face. Of course, the wound, and the blood upon his shirt, would betray him. This was his first thought, as he washed himself at a small stream. But, then, all at once it occurred to him—for evil suggestions are sure to be made to us when we are in the way to receive them—that it would be just as easy to say that a boy threw a stone, which struck him as he was walking along the street, as to say that he got hurt while in the woods. And, without stopping to think how wicked it would be to tell a lie, Richard determined to make this statement when he got home.

The smarting of the wound, and the uneasiness occasioned by a sight of the blood, so disturbed Richard's feelings, that he was unable to regain enough composure of mind to enjoy his day of freedom in the woods. By twelve o'clock, he was tired and hungry, and heartily wished himself at home. But it would not do to go now; for if he were to do so, his father would understand that he had not been to school. There was no alternative for him but to remain out in the lonely woods, without any thing to eat, for five hours longer. And a weary time it was for him.

At last the sun, which had been for a very long time, it seemed to him, descending toward the western horizon, sunk so low that he was sure it must be after five o'clock, and then, with sober feelings, he started for home. The day had disappointed him. He was far from feeling happy. When he thought of the wound on his face and the blood upon his bosom, he felt troubled. If he told the truth, he knew he would be punished, and if he told a lie, and was found out, punishment would as certainly follow.

These were his thoughts and feelings when he came to the place where he had concealed his satchel. But, lo! his books were gone. Some one had discovered and carried them off.

Sadly enough, now, did Richard White return home. We will not pain our young readers with an account of his reception. The father already knew that his son had not been to school, for a man had found the satchel in the woods. Richard's name was on it, and this led the man to bring it to his father, with whom he was acquainted.

Richard never went to school again. On the very next week, he was sent to learn a trade, and he soon found that there was a great difference between a school-boy and an apprentice.

William Brown continued to go to school two years longer, when he also went from home to learn a trade. He was then a good scholar, and had a fondness for books. Because he was learning a trade, he did not give up all other kinds of learning, but, whenever he had leisure, he applied himself to his books. Both he and Richard were free about the same time. Richard had learned his trade well, and was as good a workman as William; but he had not improved his mind. He had not been able to see the use that learning was going to be to a mechanic.

Fifteen years have passed since these two lads completed their terms of apprenticeship, and entered the world as men; and how do they now stand? Why, William Brown has a large manufactory of his own, and Richard White is one of his workmen. By his superior intelligence and enterprise, the former is able to serve the public interests by giving direction to the labors of a hundred men, and his reward is in proportion to the service he thus renders; while the latter serves the public interest to the extent of only one man's labors, and his reward is in exact ratio thereto.

Did Richard White gain any thing by his day in the woods? We think not. Is there any use in education to a mechanic? Let each of our young readers answer the question for himself.

THE SPIDER AND THE HONEY-BEE

A FABLE FOR MANY IN GENERAL AND SOME IN PARTICULAR

I

 
A bee who had chased after pleasure all day,
And homeward was lazily wending his way,
Fell in with a Spider, who called to the Bee:
"Good evening! I trust you are well," said he.
 

II

 
The bee was quite happy to stop awhile there—
For indolence always has moments to spare—
"Good evening!" he said, with a very low bow,
"My health, sir, alas! 'tis quite delicate now.
 

III

 
"From spring until autumn, from morning till night,
I'm obliged to be toiling with all my might;
My labors are wearing me out, and you know
I might as well starve, as to kill myself so."
 

IV

 
The Spider pretended to pity the Bee—
For a cunning old hypocrite Spider was he—
"I'm sorry to see you so ill," he said;
And he whispered his wife, "He will have to be bled."
 

THE BEE OUTSIDE THE WEB.

V

 
"Some people—perhaps they are wiser than I—
Some people are in a great hurry to die;
Excuse me, but candor compels me to say,
'Tis wrong to be throwing one's life away.
 

VI

 
"Your industry, sir, it may do very well
For the beaver's rude hut, or the honey-bee's cell;
But it never would suit a gay fellow like me;
I love to be idle—I love to be free.
 

VII

 
"This hoarding of riches—this wasting of time,
In robbing the gardens and fields—'tis a crime!
And then to be guilty of suicide, too!
I tremble to think what a miser will do."
 

VIII

 
'Tis strange the poor Bee was so stupid and blind.
"Mister Spider," said he, "you have spoken my mind;
There's something within me that seems to say,
I have toiled long enough, and 'tis better to play.
 

IX

 
"But how in the world shall I manage to live?
I might beg all my life, and nobody would give.
'Tis easy enough to be merry and sing,
But living on air is a different thing."
 

X

 
The Spider was silent, and looked very grave—
'Twas a habit he had—the scheming old knave!
No Spider, intent on his labor of love,
Had more of the serpent, or less of the dove.
 

XI

 
"To serve you would give me great pleasure," said he;
"Come into my palace, and tarry with me;
The Spider knows nothing of labor and care.
Come, you shall be welcome our bounty to share.
 

XII

 
"I live like a king, and my wife like a queen,
In meadows where flowers are blooming and green;
'Tis sweet on the violet's bosom to lie,
And list to the stream that runs merrily by.
 

XIII

 
"With us you shall mingle in scenes of delight,
All summer and winter, from morning till night;
And when 'neath the hills the sun sinks in the west,
Your head on a pillow of roses shall rest.
 

XIV

 
"When miserly Bees shall return from their toils,
We'll catch them, and tie them, and feast on the spoils;
I'll lighten their burdens—I ought to know how—
My pantry is full of such gentlemen now."
 

XV

 
The Bee did not wait to be urged any more,
But nodded his thanks, as he entered the door.
"Aha!" said the Spider, "I have you at last."
And he caught the poor urchin, and wound him up fast.
 

XVI

 
The Bee, when aware of his perilous fate,
Recovered his wit, though a moment too late.
"O treacherous Spider! for shame!" said he,
"Is it thus you betray a poor, innocent Bee?"
 

XVII

 
The cunning old Spider then laughed outright;
"Poor fellow!" he said, "you are in a sad plight!
Ha! ha! what a dunce you must be to suppose,
That the heart of a Spider should pity your woes!
 

THE BEE INSIDE THE WEB.

XVIII

 
"I never could boast of much honor or shame,
Though a little acquainted with both by name;
But I think if the Bees can a brother betray,
We Spiders are quite as good people as they.
 

XIX

 
"On the whole, you have lived long enough, I opine;
So now, by your leave, I will hasten to dine;
You'll make a good dinner, it must be confess'd,
And the world, I am thinking, will pardon the rest."
 

XX

 
This lesson for every one, little and great,
Is taught in that vagabond's tragical fate:
Of him who is scheming your friend to ensnare,
Unless you've a passion for Heeding, beware!
 

EMMA LEE AND HER SIXPENCE

Emma's aunt had given her a sixpence, and now the question was, what should she buy with it? "I'll you what I will do, mother," she said, changing her mind for the tenth time.

"Well, dear, what have you determined upon now?"

"I'll save my sixpence until I get a good many more, and then I'll buy me a handsome wax doll. Wouldn't you do that, mother, if you were me?"

"If I were you, I suppose I would do just as you will," replied Emma's mother, smiling.

"But, mother, don't you think that would be a nice way to do? I get a good many pennies and sixpences, you know, and could soon save enough to buy me a beautiful wax doll."

"I think it would be better," said Mrs Lee, "for you to save up your money and buy something worth having."

"Isn't a large wax doll worth having?"

"Oh, yes! for a little girl like you."

"Then I'll save up my money, until I get enough to buy me a doll as big as Sarah Johnson's."

In about an hour afterward, Emma came to her mother, and said—

"I've just thought what I will do with my sixpence. I saw such a beautiful book at a store, yesterday! It was full of pictures, and the price was just sixpence. I'll buy that book."

"But didn't you say, a little while ago, that you were going to save your money until you had enough to buy a doll?"

"I know I did, mother; but I didn't think about the book then. And it will take so long before I can save up money enough to get a new doll. I think I will buy the book."

"Very well, dear," replied Mrs Lee.

Not long after, Emma changed her mind again.

On the next day, her mother said to her—

"Your Aunt Mary is quite sick, and I am going to see her. Do you wish to go with me?"

"Yes, mother, I should like to go. I am so sorry that Aunt Mary is sick. What ails her?"

"She is never very well, and the least cold makes her sick. The last time she was here she took cold."

As they were about leaving the house, Emma said—

"I'll take my sixpence along, and spend it, mother."

"What are you going to buy?" asked Mrs Lee.

"I don't know," replied Emma. "Sometimes I think I will buy some cakes; and then I think I will get a whole sixpence worth of cream candy, I like it so."

"Have you forgotten the book?"

"Oh, no! Sometimes I think I will buy the book. Indeed, I don't know what to buy."

In this undecided state of mind, Emma started with her mother to see her aunt. They had not gone far before they met a poor woman, with some very pretty bunches of flowers for sale. She carried them on a tray. She stopped before Mrs Lee and her little girl, and asked if they would not buy some flowers.

"How much are they a bunch?" asked Emma.

"Sixpence," replied the woman.

"Mother! I'll tell you what I will do with my sixpence," said Emma, her face brightening with the thought that came into her mind. "I will buy a bunch of flowers for Aunt Mary. You know how she loves flowers. Can't I do it, mother?"

"Oh, yes, dear! Do it, by all means, if you think you can give up the nice cream candy, or the picture book, for the sake of gratifying your aunt."

Emma did not hesitate a moment, but selected a very handsome bunch of flowers, and paid her sixpence to the woman with a feeling of real pleasure.

Aunt Mary was very much pleased with the bouquet Emma brought her.

"The sight of these flowers, and their delightful perfume, really makes me feel better," she said, after she had held them in her hand for a little while; "I am very much obliged to my niece, for thinking of me."

That evening, Emma looked up from a book which her mother had bought her as they returned home from Aunt Mary's, and with which she had been much entertained, and said—

"I think the spending of my sixpence gave me a double pleasure."

"How so, dear?" asked Mrs Lee.

"I made aunt happy, and the flower woman too. Didn't you notice how pleased the flower woman looked? I wouldn't wonder if she had little children at home, and thought about the bread that sixpence would buy them when I paid it to her. Don't you think she did?"

"I cannot tell that, Emma," replied her mother; "but I shouldn't at all wonder if it were as you suppose. And so it gives you pleasure to think you have made others happy?"

"Indeed it does."

"Acts of kindness," replied Emma's mother, "always produce a feeling of pleasure. This every one may know. And it is the purest and truest pleasure we experience in this world. Try and remember this little incident of the flowers as long as you live, my child; and let the thought of it remind you that every act of self-denial brings to the one who makes it a sweet delight."