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SOMETHING WRONG.

SOMETHING WRONG

What's the matter here? There is something wrong. It is clear that the little boy in the picture is not receiving kind treatment at the hands of his sister. But what is she doing to him? Not pulling his ear, we hope. Something is wrong; what can it be? We must try and make it out. There is a whip and a top on the floor, and also a chair thrown down, to which a string is tied.

The little boy, we suppose, was whipping his top, while his sister was playing with the chair.

"Take care, now, Johnny," says the sister, as the lash of her brother's whip comes every little while close to her face; "take care, or you will cut me in the eyes."

But Johnny either doesn't hear, or doesn't heed, and keeps on whipping his top.

"There, now!" says Anna, "you came as near as could be to striking me. I wish you would go out into the passage or down into the dining-room with your top."

"John," says mamma, looking up from her work, "you must be careful and not cut your sister with that whip."

"No, ma'am," replies Johnny, and keeps on with his sport as carelessly as ever.

Presently there is a cry, and then an angry exclamation. The lash of Johnny's whip has fallen with a smarting stroke on Anna's neck. The little girl, without waiting to reflect, follows the impulse of her feelings, and seeks to punish her brother by pinching and pulling his ears.

This is the story of the picture, and we are sorry it will not bear a more favorable explanation.

We do not think that any of our young readers will approve the conduct of either of the children. Undoubtedly, Johnny was wrong not to have been more careful how he threw his lash about. Anna had as much right to be in the room as he had, and if Johnny wanted to whip his top, it was his place to do it so cautiously as not in the least to endanger his sister's face and eyes; and he deserved to have his top taken from him as a punishment for his carelessness and indifference; and no doubt this was done by his mother.

And Anna was wrong, likewise, for permitting her angry feelings to so carry her away as to lead her to hurt her brother, in revenge for what he had done to her. So, you see, Johnny's wrong act was the cause of a still greater departure from right in his sister. If Johnny had loved his sister, he would have been much more careful how he used his whip; and if Anna had loved her brother, she would never have been tempted to strike him or pull his ear, even if he had hurt her.

It is a very sad thing for little brothers and sisters to quarrel with each other.

 
"Birds in their little nests agree,
  And 'tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family,
  Fall out, and chide, and fight."
 

We hope, among all our little readers, there is not a brother and sister who have quarreled—who have ever called each other hard names—or, worse, who have ever lifted their tiny hands to hurt each other.

THE FAVORITE CHILD.

THE FAVORITE CHILD

In a very pretty little village not many miles from N–, in Connecticut, lived Susan Meredith. She was the youngest of three sisters, the eldest of whom could not be more than twelve or thirteen years of age. A year or two before the period when our history of this little group commences, the mother had gone to her rest.

Weighed down with a sorrow too heavy to be borne, and of a nature too delicate to be confided to others, she sank under it while in the noon of life, and died commending her children to God. Susan—little Sue, as she was frequently called—young as she was, remembered a thousand incidents connected with the departed one, and seemed, so late as the time at which our story begins, to be never happier than when her mother was the theme of conversation.

There was something remarkable in this. One reason for it might have been, that the surviving parent of these sisters, though once a kind and affectionate father, was now so altered by habits of intemperance, that they found very little enjoyment in his society. But there was another reason. Little Sue was an unusually thoughtful, serious child, for one of her years. Was there not another reason, still? I do not know. I cannot tell what words God may whisper to the child that loves him; but this I know, that little Sue talked much of heaven, and seemed to have learned more of the language of heaven than men can teach.

One bright Saturday, in the early spring time, when there was no school, these sisters might have been seen winding their way through the woods, not far from the house where they lived, searching for the first wild flowers. Little Sue, the youngest, was very happy, but, as usual, more grave than the other sisters. By and by, wearied with their walk, they sat down under the shadow, of a tree, and talked a great while. At first, the conversation was about birds and flowers; but Sue soon gave a serious turn to it.

"I wonder," said she, "if dear mother has pretty flowers in heaven. I hope so—she loved them so well. Do you remember the little monthly rose she wanted we should bring into her room, just before she died? How happy she was, when one of us went and brought it to her bed. And she went to heaven so soon after that! Oh, I think there must be flowers up there in the sky, or she would not have thought of them and loved them so, when she was dying. Don't you think so?"

And she was silent. So were her sisters, awhile. Thoughts of heaven made them serious. They were sad, too. When the youngest—their darling Sue—conversed in this strain, a cloud always came over their sunny faces. They could scarcely tell why it was so; for they, too, loved to think of heaven. But the language of their sister seemed to them to belong to another world; and often, in the midst of their brightest hopes, would come the fear, like a thunderbolt, that God would crush that cherished flower, and remove her from their embrace while she was young.

"Sue," at length said Eliza, the eldest sister, "why do you always talk so much about heaven?"

"I don't know," was the reply; "perhaps, because I think a good deal about it. I dreamed last night"–

"Oh, I thought so," said Maria, playfully interrupting her sister; "I should think the little fairies were playing hide and seek all around your pillow every night. I wish they would whisper in my ears as they do in yours. Why, the naughty things hardly ever speak to me, and when they do, they tell a very different story from those they tell you. It is generally about falling down from a church steeple, or something of that kind. Well, what did they say to you this time, dear?"

"I never had such a dream before," said the favorite, her face glowing with a new, almost an unearthly radiance; "I mean I never had one just like it. When dear mother died, you remember I told you a dream about the angels. Last night I thought they came to me again, and I saw mother, too, so clearly!"

She stopped, and her eyes fell. She seemed almost sorry that she had said as much; for she had not forgotten that the former dream to which she alluded had caused her sisters pain, and she thought, that perhaps she should make them unhappy again, if she related her dream of the night before. But her sisters begged her to go on, and she did so.

"When I went to sleep," said she, "I was thinking of—of—what father had said to me"—and she burst into a flood of tears. Her sisters wept, too; for they well remembered that their father had come home intoxicated that night, and that he had spoken very harshly to them all, and especially to the youngest. They could not say much to console her. What could they say? Silently they wept, and by their tears and embraces they told her how deeply they sympathized with her, and how much they would do for her, if they could. When the little dreamer was able to go on, she said,

"I was thinking about this when I went to sleep. I thought I was crying, and wondering why God should let dear mother die, and leave us all alone, when I heard some one say, 'Look up,' I looked up in the sky, and all the stars were windows, and I saw through them. I saw heaven—so beautiful—so beautiful! I saw mother looking out of one of these windows, and she smiled, as she did when we brought the rose to her bed-side. I heard her call my name, and she reached her arms toward me, and said, 'You may come,' Oh, this was not like other dreams"–

"Don't think of it, dear sister; don't think of it any more," said Eliza. "You was not well last night, and I have often heard, that when people are ill, their dreams are more apt to be disturbed. But we will not say any more about it now, dear."

"No," said Maria; "we shall all feel too sad, if we do." And she made an effort to be cheerful; though tears stood in her eyes as she spoke.

"I don't know why it makes others feel sad to think of heaven," said the favorite. "I should love dearly to go there."

"But then it is so dreadful to die!"

"I know it; but mother was so happy when she died!"

"Would you be willing to leave your sisters, dear Sue?"

"No; not unless I could see my mother and Christ. Oh, I do love Christ more than all the rest of my friends! Do you think that is wrong?"

The three sisters slowly and thoughtfully bent their steps homeward, and just as the sun was setting, and the western clouds were spread with the beauty and glory of twilight, they entered that cottage which, though the abode of sorrow, was yet dear and sacred to them, because it was once the home of their mother.

From that time, the gentle, loving, thoughtful little Sue, faded—faded as a flower in the autumn wind. She had not been well for weeks; and soon it was evident that she was rapidly declining. Was her dream a cause or an effect—a cause of her decline, or an effect of an illness already preying upon her frail system? Perhaps we cannot tell. There is something very remarkable about many dreams. It is not easy to account for them all, by what is known of the laws of the mind. But we must not stop now to inquire into this matter.

Step by step, that cherished sister went downward to the grave; and before the summer had come, while the early violet and the pure anemone were still in bloom, God called her home. Peacefully and beautifully her sun went down. "They have come," she said. So died the youngest—the favorite child.

THE MINE.

THE MINE

There are three kingdoms in nature—the Mineral kingdom, the Vegetable kingdom, and the Animal kingdom—the former for the sake of the latter, and all for the sake of man. Without the Vegetable kingdom animals could not exist, and without the Mineral kingdom vegetables could not exist.

It is also worthy of remark, that in all the inferior kingdoms of nature, there is an image of what is superior. The lowest of all the kingdoms is the Mineral kingdom, where every thing takes a fixed form, and where all changes are the work of centuries, instead of days and months, as in the Vegetable and Animal kingdoms. Yet, in this dull, inert kingdom, we find a certain image of the one next above, in the upright or orderly forms into which many of its substances arrange themselves. Under circumstances of more than usual freedom, particles of matter in this kingdom will assume shapes so nearly resembling those of the Vegetable kingdom, that many were at first disposed to conclude that they were mere petrifactions; as in the case of formations at the bottom of the ocean, and those that take place in caverns. But we will not wonder at this, when we remember, that the use of the Mineral kingdom is to sustain the Vegetable kingdom, in order that the latter may sustain the Animal kingdom. Use, it must be remembered, is the great law that pervades, sustains, and holds in harmonious order, the whole universe.

In the Vegetable kingdom we see a still nearer approach to man. There is motion and life—not conscious life, but a kind of insensible existence. Nearly all the members of this kingdom elevate themselves toward heaven, and stand upright, like men.

In the Animal kingdom there is still greater perfection of life and freedom. Beasts move over the earth, birds fly through the air, and fishes change their places, at will, in the sea. This is the highest and most perfect kingdom, and it is for the sake of this that the others exist. And, as was just said, all three are for the sake of man. They go to sustain his natural life, while he remains in this world.

The variety and beauty in the two higher kingdoms are displayed to the eyes of all. But the wonders of the Mineral kingdom are hidden beneath the surface. Mines have to be opened, in order to obtain the metals and precious stones that the earth hides in her bosom; and man can only obtain them through hard and patient labor. Hundreds of feet below the surface of the ground, the miner, with no light to direct his labor but that given him by his dimly burning safety-lamp, toils on, unconscious of the day's opening or decline. The sun does not rise nor set for him. He is not warned by the home-returning bee, the dimly falling shadows of evening, nor the sudden cry of the night-bird, that the hour of rest has come. But the body cannot endure labor beyond a certain number of hours. Tired nature calls for repose, and the call must be obeyed. Even the miner must have his hours of rest; and then he comes forth, it may be, from his gloomy place of labor, once more into the sunlight; or sinks to sleep in the dark chambers where he toils for bread.

When you look at a piece of metal, whether it be gold, silver, copper, or iron, remember that it has been won from its hidden place, deep in the solid earth, by the hard labor of man.

THE MINER

 
Down where the daylight never comes
  Toileth the miner on;
He sees not the golden morning break—
  He sees not the setting sun.
 
 
Dimly his lamp in the dark vault burns,
  And he sits on the miner's hard floor,
Toiling, toiling, toiling on;
  Toiling for precious ore!
 
 
The air is wet; for the dew and rain,
  Drank by the thirsty ground,
Have won their way to his dark retreat,
  And are trickling all around–
 
 
And sickly vapors are near his lips,
  And close to his wire-net lamp,
Unseen, as an evil spirit comes,
  Up stealeth the dread fire-damp!
 
 
But the miner works on, though death is by,
  And fears not the monster grim;
For the wiry gauze, round his steady light,
  Makes a safety-lamp for him.
 
 
Rough and rude, and of little worth,
  Seems the ore that the miner brings
From the hidden places where lie concealed
  Earth's rare and precious things;
 
 
But, tried awhile in the glowing fire,
  It is rough and rude no more;
Art moulds the iron, and forms the gold,
  And fashions the silver ore.
 
 
And useful, rare, and beautiful things,
  'Neath the hand of skill arise:
Oh! a thousand thousand human wants
  The miner's toil supplies!
 

VISIT TO FAIRY LAND.

VISIT TO FAIRY LAND

So, then, you want to hear some stories about the fairies, do you, little girl? Well, I must humor you a little, I suppose; though I should not wonder if my fairy stories were somewhat different from those you have heard before. But have you the least idea that there were ever such beings as the fairies in the world? If you have, let me tell you, you are quite mistaken. The stories that have been told about these fairy people are none of them worthy of belief, though it must be admitted that millions have believed them. Many of the men and women who pretended to have seen the fairies, and who related the stories in the first place, believed all they said, I have no doubt. But they were generally ignorant persons, very superstitious, and easily imposed upon. There are, it is true, invisible inhabitants in this world. Those who believe the Bible, can hardly doubt the presence of angels among us. But angels, as they are represented in the Scriptures, are a very different class of spirits from those called fairies, if we may credit what has been said of this singular race of beings, by those who pretend to have seen them in fairy land.

Not a great while ago, the people of England and Scotland were very superstitious. It is not two centuries since our good forefathers on that island were burning witches by scores. At that time, a great many believed in the existence of fairies, or elves. I have been at some pains to find out at what time this fairy superstition first appeared among the Britons. But it seems not very easy to determine. One thing is certain, that the belief in some kind of spirits—either the same with the fairies, under a different name, or very nearly related to them—dates back to a very early period in British history—earlier, probably, than the Christian era.

The fairies are always represented as very small and very beautiful—generally, as perfect miniatures of the human form. The color of their dress is uniformly pure green. It would seem, according to the accounts of these people, some five or six hundred years ago, that they were kind, amiable, excellent neighbors. Indeed, one of the names they went by was, "the Good Neighbors," and another was, "the Men of Peace." Still, they used to do some mischief in those days, if we may believe their historians, who tell us that the fairies, once in a while, visited the abodes of men, and carried away captives into their invisible haunts, under ground. The reason for this kidnapping of human beings was said to be, that the fairies were obliged occasionally to pay a tribute of this kind to their king or queen.

The fairies were not always cunning enough to keep their victims, after they had caught them. Sometimes people would come back from fairy land, and tell all about what they had seen there. You might suppose that a great deal would be learned of these strange, invisible creatures, from the men and women who had been with them and escaped. Well, so there was. But the worst of it was, the stories did not hang together very well; and there were about as many different and contradictory accounts of fairydom as there were different individuals who pretended to have made a visit to that country. However, all seemed to agree that fairy land was a very merry country. The people there were great lovers of fun, according to the general testimony, and used to dance a great deal by moonlight, in the open air. They are engaged in one of their dances, you see, in the engraving. Every evening, as soon as the moon rose, they assembled at some convenient place, took hold of each other's hands, usually in a ring, I think, and then they had a right merry time of it, you may depend. It did not seem to make any difference, whether the spot selected for the dance was on the land or on the sea. Indeed, they could dance pretty well in the air, without any thing to stand upon. The assemblies held in the palaces of the king and queen of the fairies, were, at times, splendid in the extreme. No poet, in his most lofty flights of fancy, ever dreamed of such beauty and splendor as were exhibited at the fairy court. They rode on milk-white steeds. Their dresses were of brilliant green, and were rich beyond conception. When they mingled in the dance, or moved in procession among the shady groves, or over the delightful meadows, covered with the fairest of flowers, music, such as mortal lips cannot utter, floated on the breeze.

However, these splendors, astonishing as they were, all vanished in a moment, whenever the eye of any one gifted with the power of spiritual communion was turned upon them. Then their treasures of gold and silver became slate-stones, and their stately halls were turned into damp caverns. They themselves, instead of being the beautiful creatures they were before, became ugly as a hedge-fence.

The king of fairy land was called Oberon—the queen, Titania. The king used to wear a crown of jewels on his head, and he always carried a horn in his hand, which set every body around him to dancing, whenever he blew it. Ben Jonson, a poet who flourished a great many years ago, speaks very respectfully of fairies and elves, in his poems. In describing the haunts of his "Sad Shepherd," he says—

 
"There, in the stocks of trees, white fays do dwell,
And span-long elves that dance about a pool."
 

Shakspeare, too, in several of his plays, makes us quite familiar with the fairy people. Shakspeare, you are aware, wrote in the time of Elizabeth, and as late as that period, there were thousands in England and Scotland in whose creed the existence of such a race of spirits was a very important article. It was not long, however, after this, before the superstition about the fairies—which, at the worst, was a very foolish affair—began to decline. But that decline brought a dark night to thousands of poor, innocent men and women; for then came the era of witchcraft, and persons of every rank, convicted of this imaginary crime, were hurried to the scaffold or the stake.

In the beginning of the seventeenth century, Dr. Corbett, Bishop of Oxford and Norwich, wrote a very humorous satire on the fairy superstition, called "The Fairies' Farewell, a proper new ballad to be sung or whistled to the tune of Meadow Brow." Perhaps I cannot better take leave of these very curious imaginary people, than to employ a couple of stanzas from the bishop's playful ballad:

 
"Witness those rings and roundelays
   Of theirs, which yet remain,
 Were footed in Queen Mary's days,
   On many a grassy plain;
 But since of late Elizabeth,
   And later James came in,
 They never danced on any heath,
   As when the time hath been.
 
 
"By which we note the fairies
   Were of the old profession;
 Their songs were Ave Marias,
   Their dances were processions;
 But now, alas! they all are dead,
   Or gone beyond the seas,
 Or further for religion fled,
   Or else they take their ease."