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THE FREED BUTTERFLY

 
Yes, go, little butterfly,
  Fan the warm air
With your soft silken pinions,
  So brilliant and fair;
A poor, fluttering prisoner
  No longer you'll be;
There! Out of the window!
  You are free—you are free!
 
 
Go, rest on the bosom
  Of some favorite flower;
Go, sport in the sunlight
  Your brief little hour;
For your day, at the longest,
  Is scarcely a span:
Then go and enjoy it;
  Be gay while you can.
 
 
As for me, I have something
  More useful to do:
I must work, I must learn—
  Though I play sometimes, too.
All your days with the blossoms,
  Bright thing, you may spend;
They will close with the summer,
  Mine never shall end.
 

JULIA AND HER BIRDS

Little Julia Cornish, a young friend of mine, is very fond of birds. It is no strange thing, I am aware, for children to love birds. Indeed, I do not see how any body can help loving the dear little things, especially those that fill the air with their music. But Julia was unusually fond of them, and her fondness showed itself in a great many ways. She did not shut them up in cages. But she was so kind to those that had their liberty, that many of them became quite as tame as if they had always lived in a cage.

I must tell you about a robin that used to be a pet of hers. You know the robin, do you not, reader? To my mind he is one of the dearest of all our native songsters. His notes are among the first we hear in the spring. And he is a very social and confiding creature. How often he selects a place for his nest on some tree near the house! and when it is built, while his partner is busy with her domestic duties, he will sing for hours together his song of love and tenderness.

Julia resided in the country; and every year the robins built their nests on the trees in her father's orchard, near the house. She fancied that the robins came from the South to her door, year after year, and brought their children with them. She was sure she could distinguish the voices of her old friends, and she used to sit under the shade of the trees where they had their nests, and talk to them kindly, and leave something good for them to eat.

One year there were a pair of robins who made their nest on a tree, the boughs of which hung over the house; and Julia could sit in her window and see all that the little family were doing. She was delighted with such a token of confidence, and she and the robins soon became very intimate. The old ones frequently flew down from their nest, and alighted near the door, when Julia would give them as much food as they wanted, and let them carry some home to their children.

By and by, the young robins were old enough to leave their nests. That was a great day with both parents and children, and all seemed about as merry as they could be when the half-fledged little birds took their first lessons in flying, though Julia laughed a good deal to see their manoeuvres, and said their motions were awkward enough. However, they learned to fly after a while, as well as their parents, though before they left for the season, some cruel boy threw a stone at one of them and broke his wing. Poor fellow! he suffered a great deal of pain, and his parents and brothers and sisters were very sad about it. They seemed for a while hardly to know what to do. Probably there were no surgeons among them, who understood how to manage broken limbs. And they had a long talk together—so Julia said—and finally hit upon this plan. Willy—that was the name my friend gave to the lame bird—was to go into the house, and see if something could not be done for him there.

Accordingly, one bright morning in June, almost as soon as breakfast was over, the little invalid, attended by the rest of the family, came to the door, where Julia was waiting to receive them—for she fed them regularly every day—and then, after they had eaten what they wanted, instead of flying away, as they were accustomed to do, little Willy hopped into the kitchen, while the rest remained near the door. Julia thought that was queer enough, and she ran and told her mother. "I wonder if I can coax the little fellow to stay with me until his wing gets well," she said. "I wish I could. Oh, I should dearly love to take care of him, and I am sure we can make him well soon."

JULIA'S PET ROBIN.

Little Willy did not say—at least he did not say in our language—that he should be happy to place himself awhile under his friend Julia's care. But he seemed very content, and soon made himself quite at home. Though he had perfect liberty to go just where he pleased, and would often venture out of the house, yet he evidently considered himself an inmate of Mr Cornish's family. Under the care especially of Miss Julia, he became so tame that she could take him in her lap and stroke his feathers. Willy was a great favorite in the family, after he had been there a day or two. No one did any thing for his wing. They did not understand setting birds' wings, when they were broken. Still, Willy got better in a very short time, without the assistance of a surgeon. A great many sick people, you know, need the care of a nurse more than that of a doctor. That was the case with Willy, it would seem. In less than three weeks his wing was entirely well, and he was able to take care of himself. So he warbled his adieu to the family under whose roof he had been so kindly treated, and flew away with the other robins who had been waiting for him.

JULIA FEEDING THE BIRDS.

Julia is very kind, too, to the snow-birds in the winter. Many a time, when the snow has been deep, and these hungry birds have come to her father's door, I have seen her feeding them. One winter, I recollect, she had a flock of them that she could call to her, when she wanted to feed them, just as she could the chickens. The snow-bird is an interesting little creature; and though he has not a very sweet voice for singing, he was always a favorite with Julia, and I am not sure but I love the fellow as well as she does. Winter to me would be a great deal more gloomy, were it not for the Winter King, as Miss Gould calls this little bird.

Did you know reader, that the snow-bird is a very affectionate creature? It seems that it is so. Some years ago one of them flew into a house, where, finding itself quite welcome, it remained over night. By accident, however, it was killed in the morning, and one of the servants threw it into the yard. In the course of the day, one of the family witnessed a most affecting scene in connection with the dead body. Its mate was standing beside it, mourning its loss. It placed its beak below the head of its companion, raised it up, and again warbled its song of mourning. By and by it flew away, and returned with a grain or two of wheat, which it dropped before its dead partner. Then it fluttered its wings, and endeavored to call the attention of the dead bird to the food. Again it flew away, again it returned, and used the same efforts as before. At last, it took up a kernel of the wheat, and dropped it into the beak of the dead bird. This was repeated several times. Then the poor bereaved one sang in the same plaintive strain as before. But the scene was too affecting for the lady who witnessed it. She could bear the sight no longer, and turned away. I have loved the snow-bird more than ever since this story was told me, and so has my friend Julia.

Now I think of it, I have in one of the storerooms of my memory, a song about the snow-bird. It is rather simple and childish—possibly too much so for boys and girls of your age. However, as we are somewhat musical just now, after talking so much about birds, and are greatly in want of a song, I will sing this about Emily and the Snow-Bird, and you may join in the chorus, if you like.

SONG OF THE SNOW-BIRD

I

 
The ground was all cover'd with snow one day,
And two little sisters were busy at play,
When a snow-bird was sitting close by on a tree,
And merrily singing his chick-a-de-de,
Chick-a-de-de, Chick-a-de-de,
And mer-ri-ly sing-ing his chick-a-de-de.
 

THE SISTERS AND THE SNOW-BIRD.

II

 
He had not been singing that tune very long,
Ere Emily heard him, so loud was his song.—
"O sister! look out of the window," said she;
"Here's a dear little bird, singing chick-a-de-de.
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

III

 
"Poor fellow! he walks in the snow and the sleet,
And has neither stockings nor shoes on his feet;
I pity him so! how cold he must be!
And yet he keeps singing his chick-a-de-de.
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

IV

 
"If I were a barefooted snow-bird, I know
I would not stay out in the cold and the snow.—
I wonder what makes him so full of his glee;
He's all the time singing that chick-a-de-de.
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

V

 
"O mother! do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat, if he choose;
I wish he'd come into the parlor, and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-de."
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

VI

 
The bird had flown down for some pieces of bread,
And heard every word little Emily said;
"How queer I would look hi that dress!" thought he;
And he laughed, as he warbled his chick-a-de-de.
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

VII

 
"I'm grateful," he said, "for the wish you express,
But I've no occasion for such a fine dress;
I had rather remain with my limbs all free,
Than to hobble about, singing chick-a-de-de.
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

VIII

 
"There is ONE, my dear child, tho' I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too—
Good morning! O, who are so happy as we?"—
And away he went, singing his chick-a-de-de.
        Chick-a-de-de, &c.
 

EDGAR AND WILLIAM;

OR HOW TO AVOID A QUARREL

Here! lend me your knife, Bill; I've left mine in the house," said Edgar Harris to his younger brother. He spoke in a rude voice, and his manner was imperative.

"No, I won't! Go and get your own knife," replied William, in a tone quite as ungracious as that in which the request, or rather command, had been made.

"I don't wish to go into the house. Give me your knife, I say. I only want it for a minute."

"I never lend my knife, nor give it, either," returned William. "Get your own."

"You are the most disobliging fellow I ever saw," retorted Edgar, angrily, rising up and going into the house to get his own knife. "Don't ever ask me for a favor, for I'll never grant it."

This very unbrotherly conversation took place just beneath the window near which Mr Harris, the father of the lads, was seated. He overheard it all, and was grieved, as may be supposed, that his sons should treat each other so unkindly. But he said nothing to them then, nor did he let them know that he heard the language that had passed between them.

In a little while Edgar returned, and as he sat down in the place where he had been seated before, he said,

"No thanks to you for your old knife! Keep it to yourself, in welcome. I wouldn't use it now, if you were to give it to me."

"I'm glad you are so independent," retorted William. "I hope you will always be so."

And the boys fretted each other for some time.

THE TWO BROTHERS AT PLAY.

On the next day, Edgar was building a house with sticks, and William was rolling a hoop. By accident the hoop was turned from its right course, and broke down a part of Edgar's house. William was just going to say how sorry he was for the accident, and to offer to repair the damage that was done, when his brother, with his face red with passion, cried out—

"Just see what you have done! If you don't clear out with your hoop, I'll call father. You did it on purpose."

"Do go and call him! I'll go with you," said William, in a sneering, tantalizing tone. "Come, come along now."

For a little while the boys stood and growled at each other like two ill-natured dogs, and then Edgar commenced repairing his house, and William went to rolling his hoop again. The latter was strongly tempted to repeat, in earnest, what he had done at first by accident, by way of retaliation upon his brother for his spiteful manner toward him; but, being naturally of a good disposition, and forgiving in his temper, he soon forgot his bad feelings, and enjoyed his play as much as he had done before.

This little circumstance Mr Harris had also observed.

A day or two afterward, Edgar came to his father with a complaint against his brother.

"I never saw such a boy," he said. "He won't do the least thing to oblige me. If I ask him to lend me his knife, or ball, or any thing he has, he snaps me up short with a refusal."

"Perhaps you don't ask him right," suggested the father. "Perhaps you don't speak kindly to him. I hardly think that William is ill-disposed and disobliging naturally. There must be some fault on your part, I am sure."

"I don't know how I can be in fault, father," said Edgar.

"William refused to let you have his knife, the other day, although he was not using it himself, did he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember how you asked him for it?"

"No, sir, not now, particularly."

"Well, as I happened to overhear you, I can repeat your words, though I hardly think I can get your very tone and manner. Your words were, 'Here, lend me your knife, Bill!' and your voice and manner were exceedingly offensive. I did not at all wonder that William refused your request. If you had spoken to him in a kind manner, I am sure he would have handed you his knife, instantly. But no one likes to be ordered, in a domineering way, to do any thing at all. I know you would resent it in William, as quickly as he resents it in you. Correct your own fault, my son, and in a little while you will have no complaint to make of William."

Edgar felt rebuked. What his father said he saw to be true.

"Whenever you want William to do any thing for you," continued the father, "use kind words instead of harsh ones, and you will find him as obliging as you could wish. I have observed you both a good deal, and I notice that you rarely ever speak to William in a proper manner, but are rude and overbearing. Correct this evil in yourself, and all will be right with him. Kind words are far more powerful than harsh words, and their effect a hundred-fold greater."

On the next day, as Edgar was at work in the garden, and William standing at the gate, looking on, Edgar wanted a rake that was in the summer-house. He was just going to say, "Go and get me that rake, Bill!" but he checked himself, and made his request in a different form, and in a better tone than those words would have been uttered in.

"Won't you get me the small rake that lies in the summer-house, William?" he said. The words and tone involved a request, not a command, and William instantly replied—

"Certainly;" and bounded away to get the rake for his brother.

"Thank you," said Edgar, as he received the rake.

"Don't you want the watering-pot?" asked William.

"Yes, I do; and you may bring it full of water, if you please," was the reply.

Off William went for the watering-pot, and soon returned with it full of water. As he stood near one of Edgar's flower-beds, he forgot himself, and stepped back with his foot upon a bed of pansies.

"There! just look at you!" exclaimed Edgar, thrown off his guard.

William, who had felt drawn toward his brother on account of his kind manner, was hurt at this sudden change in his words and tone. He was tempted to retort harshly, and even to set his foot more roughly upon the pansies. But he checked himself, and, turning away, walked slowly from the garden.

Edgar, who had repented of his rude words and unkind manner the moment he had time to think, was very sorry that he had been thrown off his guard, and resolved to be more careful in the future. And he was more careful. The next time he spoke to his brother, it was in a kind and gentle manner, and he saw its effect. Since then, he has been watchful over himself, and now he finds that William is one of the most obliging boys any where to be found.

"So much for kind words, my son," said his father, on noticing the great change that had taken place. "Never forget, throughout your whole life, that kind words are far more potent than harsh ones. I have found them so, and you have already proved the truth of what I say."

And so will every one who tries them. Make the experiment, young friends, and you will find it to succeed in every case.

PASSING FOR MORE THAN ONE IS WORTH

The other day I had occasion to pay a man half a dollar, and gave him a dollar bank note, for which he gave me in exchange two silver pieces that I supposed to be worth twenty-five cents each. One of the pieces, however, I found afterward would only go for sixteen or seventeen cents. It was not a quarter of a dollar, though it looked very much like one. It had passed for some eight or nine cents more than it was worth. Well, that was an affair of very little consequence, you say. True enough, but I am going to take hold of something else with this handle, that may be of more consequence.

There are a great many folks in the world who, like this pistareen, pass themselves off, or try to pass themselves off, for more than their real value. It is bad business, though; and they always feel cheap when they get found out, as they are sure to be in the end.

Did you ever see a dandy under a full press of canvas, as the sailors say, showing himself off on one of the principal streets of a city—on Broadway, for instance, in New York? He was trying to pass himself off for more than his worth. And no doubt he succeeded, too, in some instances. By the way, do you know what definition Webster gives of a dandy in his large dictionary? It is worth remembering. Suppose we turn to it. "A dandy," says he, "is one who dresses himself like a doll, and carries his character on his back." It is a most capital definition; but the silly fellow will pass for something else where he is not known. He will make a great swell, and some people will believe he is a gentleman. Indeed, it would not be strange if he should pass himself off, one of these days, upon some young lady who is quite ignorant of this kind of currency, as an Italian count, or, perhaps, the marquis of this or the duke of that. There is no telling. But if she takes him for a cent more than Webster rates him at, she gets cheated, depend upon it. He is not worth the clothes on his back. He has to cross the street sometimes, to get rid of being dunned by his tailor; and he has been two or three hours trying to find a barber who will trust him. He's nothing but a pistareen, and hardly that.

Some people pass themselves off for being very learned, when they are as ignorant as a horse-block. But, oh! such mistakes as they make sometimes; it is enough to set one into a fit of laughter, only to think of some of them. I know a miss, who tries to pass herself off for a great reader, when the truth is, she has only dipped up a spoon-full, here and there, from a score or two of authors, and has not the slightest idea about the merits of any of them. Some one came up with her nicely the other night, at a party. He had suspicions, I suppose, that she was trying to pass for too much; at all events, he asked her a great many roundabout questions, which she was obliged to answer, and in doing so she let out the secret. Every body saw what sort of a coin she was, at once.

What fools some folks make of themselves, by attempting to pass for more than they are worth, in the matter of dollars and cents. It is said, that in the city of New York there are a good many poor fellows that can scarcely get enough money to appear in a respectable suit of clothes, who will buy a dinner in some cheap eating-house for sixpence, and then pick their teeth on the door-steps of the Astor House, to make people think they have dined there. And that is not any worse than some would-be genteel people manage when the warm season comes on, every year. They close their front window blinds, and steal into and out of their houses like thieves, or dogs that have just had a flogging, so that their neighbors will think they have gone to Saratoga, or Rockaway, or some other fashionable summer retreat. They take a good deal of pains to pass for so much more than they are worth—do they not, little friend? They only go for pistareens, though, where they are known.

One sometimes comes across a public speaker—a lawyer—possibly a preacher—who displays his eloquence by using all sorts of long and out-of-the-way words. A man may be listening ever so quietly and innocently, and the first thing he knows, down comes a word about his ears half as long as his arm almost, and half as heavy as a mallet. That is what the orator calls a knock-down argument; and when he wishes to be particularly convincing and eloquent, he throws at you such brick-bats and bars of iron as incomprehensibility—epexegetically—anthropopathically—so fast that you have scarcely a chance to dodge one before another comes whizzing along. Of course, you are confounded with the man's assault and battery, and if you are a thinking person, perhaps fall to musing how such monstrous words can come out of a man's throat whole, without choking him, or themselves splitting to pieces. When I hear a public speaker going on in that way, I generally think that the poor fellow is making up in big words what he lacks in brains, and if I could whisper a small word or two in his ear, I should be apt to say, "That will never do, sir. You can't pass yourself off for a great scholar with this clap-trap. You are nothing but a pistareen, and rather smooth at that. You are, indeed. Those big words that we have to bend up and twist around to get into our coat-pockets, will not go for sense. So pray be quiet, and not attempt to pass for any more than you are honestly worth, which is little enough, to be sure."

I have known boys and girls at school attempt to pass for more than their real value. Whenever I hear a boy asking somebody to write a composition for him, or to help him write one, which he intends to palm off as his own, or see him jog the boy that sits next him in the school-room, to get some help in reciting a bad lesson, I think of the pistareen, and want very much to caution the little fellow not to pass for more than he is worth. And it makes very little difference that I know of, whether it is a boy or a girl. It seems just as bad in one case as it does in the other.

It happens once in a while that a young lady puts on a great many charms that are not natural to her, and uses every kind of deception, just for the sake of being admired, or, perhaps, to get a good husband. It is bad business, though. Sensible men are not often caught with such a trap; and if they are, when they find out how the matter stands—and they will find it out sooner or later—they despise the trick as one of the meanest that was ever invented. I have a notion, too, that this kind of deception is pretty common among young gentlemen, as well as young ladies. But it is a miserable business, whoever may work at it. It never turns out well in the end, if it does after a fashion at first. It is a great deal better to be natural, and to act like one's self. This passing for more than one is worth, to buy a husband or a wife, as the case may be, don't pay, as the merchant says.

Some people work like a horse in a bark-mill, to make every body believe they are most excellent Christians, very nearly as pious as the angel Gabriel, when the truth is, their religion is all sham, and they will lie and cheat as bad as any body, if they think they will not be found out. Whenever I see one of this class, trying with all his might to pass for a saint, with his face as long as a yard-stick, or, perhaps, all lighted up with kindly smiles, I can't help thinking of the pistareen. It will come into my mind in spite of all I can do. Why, all the time the man is putting on these airs, he is plotting some scheme for selfish gain, or some mischief, just as likely as not. "He does not rise toward heaven like the lark, to make music, but like the hawk, to dart down upon his prey. If he goes up the Mount of Olives to kneel in prayer, he is about to build an oil-mill up there. If he weeps by the brook Kedron, he is making ready to fish for eels, or else to drown somebody in the stream." Poor man! he has a hard time of it, trying to keep up appearances. But it will be harder still, by and by, if he does not look out. He cannot carry his mask with him into the other world. There no one will pass for any more than he is worth.