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They xan. into tlie yard with jrrcat -lor. quite ^lease 
with, the idea of .seeing- tlicir l>oats sail aLong- the 

Stoties tor Chfldren. see jape 4^ . 






1. The little Girl who did not a 

for what was said to her 

2. The Humming-Tops 

3. The New Doll 
4., The Greedy Boy 



By the Author of 



Sold also by 



I. The little Girl who did not care for 
what was said to her. 

LUCY had a very naughty trick of touch- 
ing whatever she saw, which was often 
the means of her doing a great deal of 
mischief. It was in vain to tell her not 
to meddle with a thing ; for the moment 
she had it in her power to do so, all 
charges were forgotten ; and she often 
did more harm in a few moments, than 
could be repaired in many days. It 
was not that Lucy had a pleasure in 
doing wrong, but only that she had not 
learned to attend to what was said to 
her, or to deny herself any thing for 
which she wished. When she found 
she had given pain to others by what 
she had done, she often thought she 
would take care never to do so again ; 

but the next time she was tempted, she 
was just as ready as ever to commit the 
same fault. Her mam ma one day caught 
a very handsome large butterfly, which 
she told Lucy, she wished to copy; and 
for that purpose she placed it under a 
glass goblet. Lucy liked very much to 
look at it, and watch it creep up the sides 
of the glass, or spread its wings painted 
with so many fine colours ; and she asked 
her mamma if she might stay beside her 
whilst she copied it. Her mamma told 
her she was very willing she should stay, 
if she would take care notto lift the glass, 
and let the butterfly fly away, before she 
had done with it. Lucy promised not 
to touch the glass ; and had a great deal 
of pleasure in seeing her mamma first 
draw the shape of the insect with a 
black-lead pencil, and then begin to 
paint it with pretty bright colours. 

Whilst she was doing this, she told 
Lucy a great deal about butterflies. She 
said that they were first small eggs, and 
then they became caterpillars,which she 
had often seen creeping on the cabbage- 

leaves : that they fed upon any young 
tender leaves that they could find, and 
did a great deal of harm in gardens. As 
they eat almost constantly, they grow 
very fast for some time ; but at last they 
become quite numb and stiff, and a hard 
shell growing over them ; and they seem 
as though they were dead ; yet if one 
were touched it would be seen to move, 
which showed that the insect within 
was still alive. After lying in this shell 
for several weeks, her mother told her 
they broke it open, and came out pretty 
butterflies, with long light wings to fly 
in the air. They only lived a very short 
time, how r ever, perhaps not more than a 
day or two ; but before they died they 
always laid a great many eggs, which 
would be butterflies the next year. Lucy 
thought it very strange, that those ugly 
little crawling caterpillars should ever 
become pretty butterflies ; for she could 
not conceive how they ever got those 
silken wings painted with so many fine 

Her mother told her that the Great 
B 2 

Being who made them could change 
them in any way he thought fit : 
that he had made every thing in the 
world, and that' it was in his power to 
do with them whatever he chose : it was 
very easy therefore for him to give them 
wings, and send them to fly in the air, 
instead of crawling on the ground. 

' I should like very much to have that 
butterfly in my hand/ said Lucy ; ' may 
I have it, when you have done with it, 

' No, my dear, your warm hand would 
give it pain. Besides, you would rub off 
these little delicate feathers which make 
its wings look so very pretty.' 

'Feathers, mamma!' said Lucy; 'are 
they feathers which are on its wings]' 

' Yes,' said her mother; 'the same 
kind of feathers which are on birds. But 
you shall see them for yourself ; I will 
go and bring a glass for you to look at 
them through. It will make them ap- 
pear so large, that you will be able to 
see clearly that they are feathers.' 
As Lucy's mamma said this, she went 

out of the room to bring the glass ; but, 
the moment she was gone, Lucy, who 
wished very much to look at the butter- 
fly's wing, to see whether they were 
really feathers which were on it, had 
not patience to wait till her mamma 
came back, but lifted up the glass, for 
the purpose of taking hold of the insect. 
But the butterfly was more nimble than 
she was; it raised its light wings, and 
was off in an instant ; and as one of the 
windows was open, it was flying about 
in the open air, before her mother came 
back into the room. Lucy felt very much 
ashamed of what she had done ; and very 
sorry, both for having prevented her mo- 
ther from finishing her picture, and from 
having lost the pleasure herself of seeing 
the butterfly's wing through the glass* 
She felt sure at the moment that she 
should never be in such haste to touch 
any thing again ; but Lucy had not yet 
learned to keep in mind the good things 
she so often resolved upon. 

In the afternoon of the same day, she 
came into the room where her mamma 


was sitting,when the first thing she saw, 
was a very large glass jar in the shape of 
a globe, in which there were a number 
of very pretty gold and silver fish swim- 
ming about. She ran directly to the 
table on which it stood, to look at the 
fish more nearly. * Oh ! what pretty 
little things! when did you get them, 
mamma T cried she. 

4 They were brought to me, as a pre- 
sent, this morning/ answered her mo- 

' How very pretty they are ! J never 
saw such fish before ; they sparkle just 
like gold and silver. Where did they 
come from, mamma? Were they 
caught in our river? 3 

' No ; there are no such fish in the 
rivers in England : they were brought 
from France.' 

' How quickly they dart through the 
water ! I wonder how they can spring 
along so, for I cannot see that they 
touch the sides of the jar to push them 
forward ; arid the water is too soft for 
them to push against it/ 

* They have no need of touching any 
thing solid to impel them forward/ re- 
plied her mother ; ' for nature has given 
them the power of darting along merely 
by moving their tails, and you see their 
bodies are made long and narrow, that 
they may the more easily cut through 
the water.' 

' I thought it was their fins that gave 
them the power of swimming,' said 

' They are, no doubt, of some use to 
them/ answered her mother ; ' but the 
chief purpose of the fins is to keep them 
upright in the water: you see they spread 
them out and balance themselves with 
them ; if it were not for their fins, they 
would not be able to keep themselves 
from turning constantly on their sides.' 

* But look, mamma !' said Lucy ; ' they 
can sink to the bottom of the jar, and 
then rise to the top again in a minute ; 
I wonder how they can do that. They 
seem as if they were very heavy one 
minute, and quite light the next.' 

* You know, I took you the other day 

into the kitchen, to see the servant fill a 
bladder full of air, and then tie it tight 
up ; and that after it was filled with air, 
it was so light that it lay upon the top 
of some water, without sinking down in 
the least.' 

' Yes, mamma, I know very well: 
but what of that V 

' These, and all other fish, have a 
bladder of the same kind in their insides, 
which they can either fill or empty when 
they choose. If they wish to sink down 
to the bottom of the water they draw the 
air out of it, and then they are so heavy 
that they go to the bottom in an instant ; 
and, when they wish to rise, they swell 
it out again and come to the top, which 
they often do, for the sake of fresh air.' 

* I thought fish did not need any air,' 
said Lucy. 

'All animals must breathe some air, 
or else they could not live,' replied her 
mother ; ' but some of them are able to 
draw a greater quantity in at once, which 
serves them for a longer time. We, you 
know, need to draw in fresh air at almost 

every breath, because we can only take 
in a very small stock at once. We swell 
our lungs out with one breath, and 
empty them again the next; but fishes 
can breathe a long time from the same 
air, or else they would not be able to 
live in the water, for no air can come 
to them there/ 

' Yes, I know,' said Lucy, 'that any 
other kind of animal, when it is put into 
the w r ater, very soon dies ; and I have 
often wondered how it was that fish could 
live there, when nothing else could/ 

' Fish are not the only animals which 
are able to live in the water,' answered 
her mother ; * there are some which are 
able to live either on land or in the 
water; they are called amphibious ani- 
mals. I do not know whether you can 
think of that term again ; it is rather a 
hard one: but it means animals which 
can live either on the land or in the 
water. There is a very curious crea- 
ture of this kind, called a beaver, which 
I will tell you about some day when you 
have been a good girl, and have not 


touched any thing the whole day, that 
you were told not to touch.* 

' Will you not tell me about it now, 
mamma? I have not meddled with 
any thing today that you told me not 
to touch/ 

( Have you so soon forgotten the but- 
terfly ?' said her mother. 

* Oh, dear !' said Lucy, blushing, ' I 
forgot that. And yet, indeed, mamma, 
I was sorry for having let the butterfly 
go, before you had done with it. 7 

' I wish, my dear, you did not forget 
your sorrow so soon ; it would save both 
yourself and me a great deal of pain.' 

c Well, tomorrow I dare say I shall 
not touch any thing that I am told not 
to meddle with ; and then, will you tell 
me about the beaver, mamma'?' 

4 Yes,' said her mother ; * you know 
I always have a pleasure in telling you 
any thing that will either instruct or 
amuse you, and I am sure the account 
of the beaver will do both.' 

Lucy, as she listened to her mamma, 
had almost forgotten the gold and silver 


fish. She now turned to them again, and 
watched them with greater pleasure than 
ever, as they rose and fell in the water, or 
scudded round arid round the jar, since 
she now knew better how it was that they 
did it. She began to think she should 
like to know how long they could live 
out of the water, for she could not think 
after all but what it must be much nicer 
to be out of the water than in it. 

Her mamma was gone out of the 
room, and she thought she might just 
take one of them out for a few minutes, 
to try how it seemed to like it ; she could 
put it in again as soon as ever she chose, 
if she found that it did not seem happy. 
Her mamma had told her, before she left 
the room, to be sure not to do any thing 
to hurt them, and so she would take care: 
she should be very sorry to hurt them, 
she liked them too well for that. ' I only 
want to see if they look as pretty out of 
the water as in it,' said she to herself, 
' and to try how they like to be in the 
open air. Mamma says, they could not 
live out of water; and perhaps they 


could not always, but a very short time 
surely could not hurt them ; 1 am sure a 
minute could do them no harm, and I 
could have time enough in a minute to 
see how they look, and to watch how 
they draw in the air which is to serve 
them for such a longtime. Well, I think 
I will try ; I have only to put in my hand 
and take one of them out, and then pop 
it in again, as soon as ever 1 have looked 
at it. Let me see ! which must I take? 
That large gold one I think I will have; 
for I should like to know whether it 
looks as bright a yellow out of the water 
as it does in it.' 

On trying, however, to put her hand 
into the jar, she found it was too high 
for her, she could not reach to the top of 
it. How was she to manage? Her best 
\vay,she thought, would be to jump upon 
the table. She, therefore, put her hands 
upon it, and made a good spring ; but, 
alas ! she was heavier than the table, and 
in a moment it overturned, the glass jar 
slid along the sloping top, and in a mi- 
nute was dashed to pieces on the floor. 


Lucy had now plenty of time to see 
how the poor little fishes liked to be out 
of the water : but it was all lost upon 
her; and they lay flapping their little 
sides against the floor and gasping for 
breath, without her being able to tnink 
of any thing but her mamma's grief and 
anger. Her mother at this moment 
returned, and Lucy felt as if she would 

sink to the ground 'with shame, at the 

. , . c , & * * 

sight of her. 

' My poor fishes,' cried her mother ; 
' have you so soon come to an end V She 
pulled the bell in a great hurry, and or- 
dered the servant to bring a bowl of 
water to put them in ; but before the 
bowl was brought the poor little things 
had ceased to breathe, and lay flat and 
lifeless on the carpet. 

* Now, Lucy,' said her mother, ' you 
see you have a second time today de- 
prived use of a great deal of pleasure, by 
yielding to a fault of which you have a 
Hundred times promised to cure your- 
self. You cannot wonder if I resolve to 
trust you no longer. Go, therefore, into 



your own room, and if you must still do 
mischief, let it be amongst your own 
things ; I cannot allow you any longer 
to come amongst mine.' 

'Oh mamma!' said Lucy, the tears 
running down her cheeks, for she was 
really grieved for what she had done, as 
well as at her mamma's displeasure ; c if 
you will but be so good as forgive me 
this one time, I am sure I shall never 
offend you again ; for I can never forget 
that 1 have killed your pretty little fishes.' 

" I have trusted to your promise and 
agreed to forgive you so often, 'answered 
her mother, ' that I can do it no longer; 
I insist, therefore, upon your going into 
your own room, and staying there till I 
give you leave to come out again.' 

Lucy durst not disobey ; she left the 
parlour without another word, and went 
straight to her own room. As she had 
both books and playthings there, she 
might have been happy enough, if it had 
not been for the thought of having been 
so naughty, and of her mother's displea- 
sure ; for she loved her mamma, very 


dearly, and was never happy when she 
was angry with her. In vain, therefore, 
shetried either to read or play ; the gasp- 
ing and dying fish, and her mother's look 
when she saw them lying on the floor, 
were constantly present to her mind, and 
made her unable to take any pleasure. 
1 How naughty I was to think of touch- 
ing them !' said she within herself; ' even 
if I could have done it without hurting 
them, it was wrong, after mamrna had 
told me not; but I will take care never 
to touch any thing again when she for- 
bids me ; that I am resolved.' Dinner- 
time arrived, and Lucy soon after 
heard her father's voice in the lobby. 
* Perhaps/ thought she, ' papa may per- 
suade mamma to forgive me, and if he 
does, oh ! how good I will be ! I shall 
Jet them see how grateful I am for their 
kindness. I hear Betty coming upstairs, 
I dare say she is coming to tell ine I may 
go down ; papa often says, he does not 
like to sit down to dinner without his 
little girl.' But, no! she soon found 
that was not the case. 



The servant came to bring her a din- 
ner of dry potatoes, and to tell her that 
her papa was so angry at her, that he 
would riot allow her to have any thing 
else to eat. Lucy did not care for dining 
off dry potatoes ; but s-ie cried as if her 
heart would break, to think of being in 
disgrace with her father also. < What 
a naughty girl I am to displease such a 
very kind papa and mamma !' said she ; 
I dare say papa thinks I do not love my 
mamma, or 1 should not have killed the 
little fish she was so fond of. But I am 
sure I do love her very dearly, and shall 
never be happy till she forgives me.' 

In this way the whole day was spent ; 
and she was obliged when night came 
to go to bed, without being allowed to 
say 4 Good night,' to her father and mo- 
ther. ' I am sure,' she thought to her- 
self, ' 1 cannot forget again my having 
touched what I had no business with. 
She dreamed all night about her mam- 
ma looking angry, and about her papa 
telling her he did not love her, for be- 
having so ill to so kind and good a mo- 


ther ; and she awoke in the morning very 
uneasy. Before she was quite dressed, 
however, her mamma came into the 
room. *I hope, Lucy/ said she, ' you 
have had time enough to think of your 
fault, and resolve to get the better of it. ' 
' Oh , yes, mamma!' cried the little girl, 
'1 have been very unhappy ever si nee you 
sent me aw r ay from you, and shall never 
be happy again till you forgive me.' 

' But 1 am afraid, Lucy, as soon as ever 
I forgive you, you will forget that you 
have ever been unhappy, and be as rea- 
dy as ever to do the same thing again.' 

' Oh, no, mamma! I am sure I shall 
not ; I shall never forget that I killed 
the little fishes you were so fond of.' 

1 Then you may come down to break- 
fast, as soon as you are dressed, and I 
will give you another trial.' 

Lucy was not long before she obeyed: 
she felt very much ashamed when her 
father spoke to her about the manner in 
which she had behaved; but as soon as he . 
had done speaking on the subject, and 
began to smile and to talk to her in his 
c 3 


usual way, Lucy was quite happy again, 
and the broken jar, and gold and silver 
fish, were scarcely even thought of more. 
After breakfast, her mamma took a 
number of dried plants out of a press, 
and began to arrange them in order, 
on sheets of paper. Lucy asked if she 
might stay and watch her whilst she was 
busy with them, and her mamma told 
her she should be very glad of her com- 
pany, if she might depend upon her not 
touching any of the flowers, which were 
so dry that, if they were not touched 
very gently indeed, they were sure to 
break. Lucy told her mother she might 
depend upon her not touching them ; 
and she stood a long time watching her 
mamma, and asking questions about the 
flowers ; and, as her mother had some- 
thing to tell her about each of them as 
she took it up, Lucy was very much 
amused. Just as the flowers were all 
laid upon sheets of paper, and her mo- 
ther was going to write their names, a 
servant came to tell her she was wanted. 
'Now, Lucy/ said she, ' I am afraid 


to leave you in this room, lest you 
should begin to meddle with my flow- 
ers. I must, therefore, desire you to 
leave the room before I do/ 

'Oh ! try me, mamma,' said the little 
girl, ' and you shall see I have cured 

' I should be very glad to see that,' 
said her mother; ' but do not forget that 
I shall be very angry if my flowers are 
injured, and I will give you another 
trial.' Her mother then left the room ; 
and Lucy stood looking at the flowers, 
and feeling very proud of having cured 
herself of her fault. ' Mamma does not 
need to be afraid of leaving me again 
with any thing/ thought she ; 'for I can 
stand and look at these flowers, without 
ever putting my hand to one of them. 
Mamma has often said, People have 
great merit when they cure themselves 
of a fault. Now I have cured myself of 
a fault ; so I think she will say I have 
great merit, when she comes in again.' 

Lucy did not take into account that 
she was very little tempted to touch 


these flowers, for they all lay spread out 
and quite open to her view. She could 
see them quite as well lying thus before 
her, as if she had held them in her hand, 
and therefore she had very little motive 
for taking them up. Had there been 
any part about them that she wished to 
examine and could not do so without 
touching them, we are afraid poor Lu- 
cy's good resolves would not have been 
much to be depended upon. As it was, 
however, she kept her word. ' Look 
mamma,' said she, as soon as her mother 
came again into the room ; i look how I 
have stood with my hands behind my 
back, all the time you have been away; I 
have not so much as touched the table.' 

1 1 am glad of it,' answered her mo- 
ther ; 4 that is one effort towards curing 
yourself of a bad fault ; and every trial 
you make will be a source of pleasure 
to you.' 

* Yes, I am sure it will,' said Lucy; 
( for 1 feel far better pleased now, than if 
1 had taken up every one of the flowers. 
I am quite cured now, mamma; you 


must not call me a meddling little giii 
any more.' 

1 1 wish I may never have any reason, 
my dear/ said her mother, smiling to 
see how sure Lucy felt that her fault 
was cured ; ' but I am afraid you will 
need to have more lessons, before you 
learn to lay it quite aside/ 

' I wish papa would come in, that he 
might hear that I have stood such a 
long time without touching any thing. 
Would not he be very much pleased to 
hear it, mammal 

4 1 am sure he would. It must al- 
ways give both him and me a great 
deal of pleasure, to see you improve in 
any thing that is good.' 

6 When will he come in again, do 
you think T asked Lucy. 

'Not before dinner-time, I believe, 
my dear. 5 

' Oh ! what a long time that will be. 
But, however, I hope you will not for- 
get to tell him, mamma.* 

* You may depend upon it, I shall not 
forget/ said her mother ; ' and now, if 


you choose, you may go into the garden 
with me. This Lucy was sure to choose, 
and ran, hoping, skipping, and jumping, 
before her mother, pleased and happy 
at the thought of having done what was 
right. Whilst her mamma was busy 
sowing some flower seeds,Lucy amused 
herself with running about and peeping 
into all the queer corners, as she called 
them. Having been shut up in her room 
almost the whole of the day before, she 
enjoyed the garden more than usual. 
She thought she had never seen it look 
so pleasant, and she often said to her- 
self, 'how much better it is to be able 
to enjoy this nice garden, than to be 
naughty, and be obliged to spend the 
whole day alone in a bedroom.' 

After running about for some time 
with great glee, she came to her mother 
in haste, and begged she would go and 
look at something- she had just found. 
4 It is a very queer-looking thing,' said 
she; * almost like a large ball, and it 
hangs from one of the branches of a 
rose-bush. I would have tried to get 


it off, and have brought it to you, but 
only I wished to let you see I could do 
without touching it. Will you go and 
look at it, mamma?' 

6 Certainly, my dear, 'said her mother; 
and away they both went, Lucy running 
forward, to show the place. ' Now here 
it is, mamma,' said she, pointing to one 
of the lower branches of a rose-bush ; 
4 is it not a very queer-looking thing T 

6 It is very well, Lucy,' said her mo- 
ther, ' that you did not indulge your 
usual desire of touching ; for, if you had 
taken that ball from the tree, you would 
have both got yourself very much hurt, 
and have spoiled the dwelling of a great 
many little animals, that are so clever 
as to have made that house for them- 
selves. This is a wasp's nest; and, if 
you knew how the little creatures con- 
trive to make it, you would look at it, I 
am sure, both with delight and wonder.' 

' But wasps, mamma, are very little 
things ; I have often seen them flying 
about : I cannot think how they manage 
to make so large a house for themselves 
as this is.' 


u Some insects which are still smaller, 
are able to build houses a very great deal 
larger than this,' replied her mother; 
'even such little thi ngs as ants are,in some 
countries, known to build themselves 
houses as high as I am ; but even that 
does not make me wonder more than [ 
do at this little wasp's nest, when I think 
of the skill which is shown in making it.' 
* I think, mamma, it looks as if it was 
made of brown paper. Is that really 
what it is made of?' 

' It is a sort of paper, to be sure ; but 
what is very strange, Lucy, the little 
creatures made that paper themselves/ 
4 Did they indeed, mamma? Are you 
sure of that ? Did you ever see them 
making it?' 

' I have seen them at their work many 
times; and many others have done the 
same, and they, after having seen much 
better than I ever did the way in which 
these little wasps build their nests, have 
been so good as to write an account of 
it, that others also might know it.' 

6 1 wonder how they do it,' said Lucy; 
' I should like very much to know.' 


' Da you know any thing about the 
manner the paperrnakers went to work, 
that your papa took you to see a short 
time ago]' asked her mother. 

' Yes,' answered Lucy : ' I know that 
they made the paper of old linen, which 
was torn and beaten all to pieces, and 
then squeezed in a press, till it was 
made into a thin smooth sheet ; and then 
it was hung up to dry. But then, mam- 
ma, the little wasps cannot get any old 
linen to make their paper of.' 

' They cannot, it is true/ said her mo- 
ther ; but they can get something which 
serves their purpose quite as well/ 

' What is that, mamma?' 

* The fibres, or threads, of old wood. 
You know when very old wood is scrap- 
ed, it coraes off in small threads or fibres. 
Now the wasps scrape off these threads 
with their little jaws; and, when they 
have got a number of them, they work 
them altogether, with their jaws and 
feet, into a sort of paste, just as you saw 
the papermakers work and beat the old 
men ; aud then they carry it off to the 


place where they intend to build their 
nest. When they get it there, they spread 
it out, with their jaws and tongue, and 
legs, till it is as thin as a sheet of the 
finest paper.' 

* Dear me,' said Lucy, whose eyes 
were fixed upon the wasps' nest with ^ 
look of great surprise, ' how hard they 
must work, before they get such a large 
piece of paper made! How tired their 
Jittle jaws and legs must be !' 

' They are very happy in the work, I 
have no doubt,' said her mother, ' for all 
kind of creatures, from a wasp to a man, 
are happy when busy with work that is 
useful. But if you wonder, Lucy,to think 
of their having made one piece of paper, 
you will wonder still more, when i 
tell you that what you see, on the out 
side, is only a very small part of their 

' They know that one sheet of paper 
would not be enough to keep the rain 
out of their houses, and therefore they 
take care to have a great many sheets, 
one a little way off the other. I have no 


doubt there are as many as fifteen or 
sixteen sheets, one within another, in 
that little nest before us ; and then after 
all, it is divided into little cells, for their 
young ones to live in.' 

4 Oh ! mamrna,' said Lucy, ' T think 
you must surely mean to cheat me, when 
you tell me that.' 

* My dear Lucy, you may depend upon 
it, I will never cheat you, or tell you any 
thing that I am not quite sure is true. 
1 should not love you, if you told me what 
was not true ; you may be sure,therefore, 
that I will never set you the example.' 

1 But, mamma, I should think it would 
take a longer time than these little 
wasps have to live, to do such a very 
great deal of work.' 

1 There are a great many of them ; 
and you know that " many hands make 
quick work." It takes them several 
months, however ; and they seldom live 
above a few weeks after it is done, to 
enjoy the dwelling which has cost them 
so much labour. The winter soon comes 
on, when they almost all die ; and even 



the few who live over tike winter always 
leave their old nest in the spring.' 

' Then what do they build it for, 1 
asked Lucy, ' if they make so little use 

( As a shelter for their young, during 
the cold of winter,' answered her mo- 
ther ; e for parents never think any thing 
too much trouble, if it is to do their 
children good. But, were those young 
ones to remain in the same nest which 
their parents had built, you know they 
would have nothing to do, and, on that 
account, would be less happy than their 
parents. But I have talked to you a 
long time about this wasps' nest, and 
had almost forgotten that I too have 
work to do: but, before 1 go, let me tell 
you that you must be sure not to disturb 
these little creatures ; for, though so cle- 
ver, and quite harmless if left alone, they 
are not very goodnatured when offended.' 

Lucy's mamma then left her ; and, 
after she was gone, the little girl stood 
for some time in deep thought, with her 
eyes fixed upon the wasps' nest. 


1 Dear me,' thought Lucy, ' can it 
realiy be as mamma says, that there are 
fifteen or sixteen sheets of paper in that 
nest! Mamma said she should be very 
sorry to tell me what was not true ; but 
then she may be mistaken. I wish I 
could see the inside, and then I should 
be quite sure. Mamma says the wasps 
always leave their nests in the spring ; so 
that I might, to be sure, get this nest 
then, butl should like to see it just now. 
It is such a long time, to wait till the 
spring : I wish I could take it down, and 
look into it at this moment. Mamma 
said I must not touch the nest, for wasps 
were not very good natu red, and 1 have 
often heard of their stinging. But, sup- 
posing one of them was to come to sting 
me, lam agreat deal bigger and stronger 
than a wasp, and could soon kill it. I 
do think I might venture to knock the 
nest off the bush, and then, after it is 
knocked off, the wasps would fly out, 
and 1 could take up the nest and look 
at it. Besides, they would never know 
that it was I who had knocked down 

D 3 


their house, so that they would not think 
of hurting me for it. Well, I have fixed 
ray mind upon having a peep at the in- 
side, and I am sure I can manage a little 
wasp, let it be ever so angry at me/ 

As Lucy said this, she took up a large 
stick, and gave the nest as hard a knock 
with it as she could . She did not, as she 
had expected, knock the nest off the 
branch on which it was fastened ; but 
she gave such an alarm to its little in- 
mates, that in an instant they flew out 
as fast as ever the size of the hole would 
allow them ; and, after ranging about 
for awhile as if in search of the person 
who had given them offence, they all 
seemed, as by one accord, to fix upon 
Lucy. Hands, face, and neck, were 
soon covered f and, as she tried to beat 
them of, sting after sting was pierced 
into her skin. Jn an agony of fear and 
pain she stamped and screamed, but the 
more she tried to knock off the angry in- 
sects, the more they assailed her. A 
hundred times did Lucy wish she had 
attended to what her mamma had said, 


and never touched the nest. She tried 
to run away ; but they flew much swifter 
than she could run, and they seemed as 
though their anger would never have 
an end. 

At length she reached the house, and 
her mamma and the servants helped to 
get her enemies beaten away from her. 
But the pain of their stings was not so 
easily removed : her face was soon swell- 
ed to such a size that she was frightful 
to look at, and the pain was so great that 
she did not know what to do with her- 
self. She was very patient, however, for 
she knew it was all her own bringing on. 
Her mamma was so good when she saw 
her in so much pain, that she did not 
say any thing to her, to add to it. Yet 
Lucy knew very well that she had been 
very naughty, and that she deserved all 
that she had met with. 

She no longer wished to see papa 
come home, that he might hear how well 
she had cured herself of her fault : she 
now found that she had boasted too soon, 
and that a bad habit is not so easily got 


the better of. When she heard her fa- 
ther's knock at the door, she covered her 
face with shame, and begged her mam- 
ma to spare her the pain of seeing him. 
It was many days before Lucy looked 
like herself again ; but it was longer far 
before the pain was forgotten. 

As soon as the wasps had left their 
nest, her mother had it brought into the 
house and placed on the mantel-piece, 
that Lucy might see it daily. The sight 
of it never failed to prove a very useful 
lesson. If Lucy felt inclined to fall into 
her old habit, the sight of the wasps' 
nest was always sure to prevent her, and 
make her remember that, as little girls 
were not capable of judging for them- 
selves when it was proper for them to 
meddle with what was near them, they 
ought to attend to what was said to them 
by their friends. She used, therefore, 
often afterwards to say that, though it 
had caused her so much pain, there was 
nothing that had ever given her so much 
pleasure in the end as the wasps' nest. 


II. The Humming-tops, 

THOMAS and William were two brothers, 
and ve ry nearly of the same age. Thomas 
was seven years of age, and William al- 
most six. They were the only children 
their papa and mamrna had: and, as 
great pains were taken to make them 
happy, they were much to blame when 
they were not so. But they had each of 
them faults, which their father and mo- 
ther wished much to have them cured of. 
Thomas was a very clever little boy, arid 
most people thought him a pleasant one : 
but he had the very sad failing of wish- 
ing for everything that he saw his bro- 
ther have. However nice his own things 
were, he soon began to think bis bro- 
ther's better, and to make himself un- 
happy by wishing for them. William 
was in general a good-tempered, plea- 
sant little fellow, but he hud a very bad 


trick of crying for every little trifle ; and 
when he once began to cry, his papa and 
mamma used to say, he never knew 
when to give over again ; and, as it was 
very tiresome to have the sound of his 
crying dinned in their ears, they were 
often forced to send him into a room to 
stay by himself for two or three hours 
together, instead of enjoying himself 
with them, as he might have done, if he 
had not been so silly. 

Their uncle, George, came down from 
London, and brought them each a very 
large handsome humming-top, with 
w hich they were much delighted. Wil- 
liam was a long time in learning the 
way to pull the 4 string off so quickly as 
to make it spin ; and when he heard the 
humming noise his brother's made, he 
wished very much that he could make 
his own do the same. He kept asking 
every body he came near to set his top 
up for him ; but still, when they did so, 
he did not feel half so much pleased 
with it as if he had done it himself ; and 
he was often almost ready to cry about 


it. At last his father asked him if he 
knew what was the reason of its mak- 
ing that noise; but William did not 
know : so his father toid him that it was 
owing to the air trying to get into the 
square hole at the side, as the top turned 
round. William could not find out how 
the air could push so h,ard as to make 
such a noise; so his father desired him 
to hold out his arms, and swing himself 
round on his heel, and try if he did not 
feel the air press much harder against 
his hands than it had done when he 
stood still. William found that this was 
the case ; and, when he thought how 
much faster the top turned round than 
he was able to do, he was sure he knew 
why the air made such a noise in rush- 
ing into the hole in the top. He then 
asked his father what was the reason 
that the top stood so upright whilst it 
was going round, and that it would not 
stand up at all when it had done turn- 
ing round. His father told him it was 
because it had been turned round with 


so much force whilst the string was 
pulling off, that it could do nothing else 
for a long time afterwards ; just as he 
knew it had often been with himself 
when he had begun to run down a bank, 
that he could not stop himself from run- 
ning for a long time after. But his fa- 
ther told him to, notice that, as it be- 
gan to be less and less inclined to turn 
round so quickly, it leaned by degrees 
more and more to one side, till at last 
it almost ceased to turn round at all, 
and then it fell over directly. When 
William thought all this over, he knew 
that the quicker he pulled out the string 
the faster the top would turn round, 
and of course the longer it would spin ; 
so that he soon learned to make his top 
stand up as long as his brother's did. 

The two little boys were very happy all 
the evening, playing with their tops; and, 
as soon as ever they got up in the morn - 
ing, they began again. William could 
scarcely find time to eat his breakfast, 
he was so fond of setting his top up, and 


watching: it whilst it spun ; and the ser- 
vant had culled him two or three times 
to come and get ready for school before 
he could prevail upon himself to le.tve it. 
At last, when he found that Thomas 
was quite ready, and was just upon the 
point of setting off without him, he went 
in a great hustle, for he did not like to 
go through the streets by himself. As 
soon as he came home again, however, 
he went to get his top : but unluckily, 
in his haste in the morning, he hacTfor- 
gotten to put the string by along with 
it, and it was not now to be found. This 
was a very great distress to him, and he 
cried sadly about it. His rnamma bore 
with him a long time, because she was 
sorry for his having lost his string, 
though she thought him very silly for 
crying about it, as that was,notthe way 
to make matters better ; but at last she 
became quite tired of him, and was 
forced to send him into a room by him- 
self, till he could manage to give over. 
At length he came into the parlour again 


with dry eyes and a smiling face; and, 
though Thomas was spinning his top at 
the time, he was resolved not to cry 

' I wish I had another string, mamma/ 
said he, going up to his mother, and try- 
ing very hard to keep back the tears. 

' I shall not give you another till to- 
morrow, William,* answered she; 'be- 
cause I wish you to feel some pain from 
the want of one, that you may take 
more care of another when you get it.' 

* Then 1 wish Thomas would lend 
me his awhile,' said William. 

' I will lend you mine sometimes/ 
replied Thomas, but you know it is my 
string, and ! have aright to it oftenest. 
You shall spin your top once for every 
three times that I spin mine.' 

William tried to be content with this, 
though it was not half so nice as having 
a string of his own, to use as often as 
he liked. 

Whilst they were amusing themselves 
in this way, the servant came into the 


room, with two bunches of flowers in 
her hands. Thomas and William were 
both very fond of flowers ; but, as they 
lived in the middle of a large town, 
where there were not any gardens, they 
very seldom saw an-y. A woman, how- 
ever, who brought eggs and butter to 
their mamma, knew how fond they 
were of flowers, and sometimes brought 
them some ; and those which the ser- 
vant now came into the room with, 
were some which she had just brought 
for them. As Thomas was the eldest, 
he was to have his choice of the bunches, 
and he chose one which had a great 
many lilacs and wallflowers in it. 

' Oh ! what a handsome tulip I have 
got 1 / cried William, as he took the 
other bunch out of the servant's hand. 
' Look, mamma ! look, mamma! what a 
great many fine colours it has !' 

1 Yes, it is very pretty, indeed/ said 
his mother ; * 1 think I never saw a 
finer tulip.' 

* But are not my flowers prettier, 



mamma]' said Thomas, holding them 
out for his mother to look at. 

* They are much sweeter, my dear, 
butnotsohandsome/ replied his mother. 

c That is a very fine tulip you have 
got there, William,' said his father, 
who just then came into the room. 

' 1 wish I had chosen that bunch/ said 
Thomas, who began to be out of love 
with his own flowers, as soon as ever he 
heard any one admire his brother's. 
' Will you change with me, William? 
I will give you all these lilacs for your 

* No,' said William, * I will not give 
my tulip for lilacs ; I had lilacs last 
week and the week before, and a great 
many times, but I never have had a tulip 
before. Oh! it is a pretty flower! 1 never 
saw any thing so handsome. It is purple, 
and red, and yellow, and white/ 

' Then I will give you all my flowers 
for it/ said Thomas; for this silly boy 
fancied he could not be happy unless he 
could call this tulip his own. 

' No/ answered William ; ' I have 


some of the same as every flower you 
have, and I do not wish for any more.' 

' Cannot you look at the tulip, and 
admire it as much whilst it belongs to 
your brother, as if it were your own, 
Thomas?' said his mother. BntThomas 
could not do that ; and at last, after 
trying for a long time to persuade Wil- 
liam to give it for the whole of his 
(lowers, he offered him the string of his 
top for it. Tills was an exchange that 
William was very glad to make; so he 
agreed to it at once. 

' Take care, Thomas, what you do,' 
said his mother, ' lest you should repent 
of it when it is too late.' But Thomas 
fancied he should not repent, and the 
exchange was made. 

Their mamma now told them that 
she was going to take them out to walk 
with her, and they were both very much 
pleased to go. 

* I will put my string in my pocket,' 
said William, 4 and then I shall have 
it safe.' 

' And I will carry my tulip in my 

hand, and every body will admire it as 
J go along the streets,' said Thomas. 
But Thomas found that he walked 
along, and met a great many people, 
without any of them seeming to notice 
his tulip, and he began to feel vexed. 

' Do you not think this pretty tulip 
much better than a piece of string, 
mamma]' said he. 

* it is certainly much handsomer, rny 
dear/ replied his mother; { but you know 
the value of things does not depend 
upon their beauty.' 

* But would you not have been very 
willing to give a piece of string for such 
a pretty flower]' 

1 Not if the string had been likely to 
have afforded me pleasure for a much 
longer time,' answered his mother. 

' But you know I may get another 
string, perhaps ; and I had no tulip, and 
William had ' 

' If I had been you, I would have been 
content with looking at the tulip, with- 
out caring whether I could call it my 
own or not. ! would even have been 


glad that my brother had any thing so 

' But you know, mamma, if William 
liked the string better, and I liked the 
tulip better ' 

4 If you each like what you have got 
the best, it is all well,' said his mother. 
4 only hope you will not alter your mind, 
and get out of humour with the ex- 
change, when the beauty of your tulip 
is gone.' 

Thomas looked at the flower as his 
mamma spoke, and saw with surprise 
that it would no longer stand upright. 
1 Oh! my tulip is almost spoiled,' cried 
he ; ' look, mamma, it is withered 

* That you must be forced to submit 
to, my dear,' said his mother; * you 
wished for this tulip above every thing, 
and you have got it. You know that any 
gathered flower will only last for a very 
short time, and you must, therefore, try 
to be content with having called this 
tulip your own for a few minutes.' 

As Thomas stood looking with great 


grief at his flower, William came run- 
ning up to them. They had now got 
out of the town, and were walking 
along a pleasant lane that was shaded 
with trees, and William had run before 
his mother and brother. ' Look what 
I have got,' said he, as he came back 
to them : ' I have found this nice piece 
of stick that will bend, and I am going 
to make a bow of it; and here is an- 
other straight piece for an arrow.' 

' Where did you find them?' asked 
Thomas eagerly; c can I get apiece too?' 

William told his brother where he 
had found them, and away he went to 
search for two pieces of stick, that he 
too might make himself a bow and ar- 
row. He soon came back with some 
very nice sticks for the purpose ; but, 
alas, how was the bow to be made? 
the string of William's top had come in 
very nicely for his bow, but Thomas 
had nothing of the kind. ' What must J 
do for a string?' cried he; M have 
nothing to tie my bow with.' 

; That is your own fault,' answered 


his mother. c You know you gave your 
string away for the tulip, and therefore 
you must learn to be content without it/ 

1 William might give me half his 
string,' said Thomas; c it would be 
quite long enough for both the bows.' 

' But then neither of you would have 
a string for his top, you know,' said 
their mother. 

'I should not care for that,' answered 
Thomas ; c I would rather have a string 
to make a bow with than any thing else.' 

* Then, mamma, if you please, you 
may cut this string in two, and I will 
give Thomas half of it,' said William. 

* I am very glad to see you so willing 
to oblige your brother, my dear Wil- 
liam/ said his mother : * but I think it 
will be better for Thomas to wait till we 
get home, and then I will give him a 
shorter string that will do quite as well 
for his bow, and you can keep yours 

c But I do not like to wait till we get 
home,' said Thomas, in a peevish tone, 
' for then William will have a bow a long 
while before I have/ 


William, who was a very goodna 
tured little boy, did not like to see his 
brother out of humour ; so he said, 
' Cut this string, if you please, mamma.' 

' Had you not better lend your bro- 
ther Thomas your string till we get 
home?' asked his mother. ' Do you 
not remember something that you have 
heard about whipcords and tops'?' 

' Yes/ said William ; ' I know you 
once told us a story that you said was 
called Waste not, want not : about 
Hal and Ben ; and that Ben took care 
of his whipcord, so that it served for 
a great many uses.' 

' Do you know what is the meaning 
of Waste not, and want not ?' asked 
his mother. 

' I think it means it is ; lean- 
not tell exactly what it means/ said 

c I will tell you the meaning then/ 
replied his mother : ' if you cut this cord 
in two, instead of only lending it to your 
brother, you will be wasting; and must 
therefore be obliged to want afterwards. ' 

William hesitated a moment; but, 


turning to his brother, and seeing him 
look very anxious, he said, ' I can want 
myself, mamma; but I had rather not 
have Thomas to want.' 

c That is all very well, my dear : if 
you are willing to want, I can have no 
objection to your obliging your brother.' 
She then cut the cord ; and they set to 
work very eagerly, to make their bows. 

Whilst they were busy shooting with 
their bows and arrows, they were both 
very happy, and amused themselves all 
the way home, trying which could shoot 
the farthest. Hefore they went to bed, 
however, both their bows were broken, 
and thrown aside, as of no further use ; 
and when they got up the next morning, 
and saw their tops lying useless for 
want of a string, they each began to 
wish they had been more careful of the 
strings when they had them. Even the 
short pieces of cord were now no longer 
to be found. They had been left tied to 
the pieces of stick the night before, and 
had been put into the fire all together 
by the servant, in the morning, to help 


to kindle it. When their mamma 
came down stairs, they both went 
to her, with very earnest requests 
for another piece of cord for their 
tops, which they promised to be moie 
careful of. 

' Yon have both of you parted with 
your strings so foolishly/ said she, 
' that I cannot think of giving you new 
ones directly ; but L will make a bar- 
gain with you both : If I neither see 
you out of humour, Thomas, ali today, 
nor hear you crying, William, each of 
you shall have a new string this even- 
ing, at six o'clock.' 

' Oh! thank you, mamma, that will 
be very nice,' exclaimed Thomas. 

* And will it be a very nice long 
string?' asked William; 'as long as 
that which came with the tops T 

4 Yes, quite as long, and as good, too; 
so that you have nothing to think about 
but taking care to gain them/ 

4 1 am resolved to win mine,' said 

l l will not cry,' added William ; 'no, 


not if I were to have my hand cut off.' 
Their mamma smiled, and told them 
that she should be very happy if they 
kept their promise ; for, as it was a holi- 
day, and they had not to go to school 
that day, it would be a very happy thing 
for her to have them good and pleasant 
boys the whole day through. 

They went on very well fora long time. 
They each of them got a piece of wood, 
which they had a great deal of pleasure in 
making into little boats ; and after they 
had put masts to them, they asked of their 
mamma leave to go and sail them in 
the cistern . She told them that she was 
afraid of their falling into the cistern ; 
but she would desire the servant to set a 
tub of water in the yard, and they might 
sail their boats in it. They ran into the 
yard with great glee, quite pleased with 
the idea of seeing their boats sail along 
the water. But Thomas very nearly lost 
his good humour when he put his boat 
on the water; for instead of sailing along, 
as he expected it to do, it turned over, 


and, in spite of all he could do, it would 
sail almost bottom upwards. William's 
floated along as nicely as could be; but 
neither he nor Thomas could make out 
the reason that his brother's did not do 
equally well. It was very lucky that, 
before Thomas had quite lost the com- 
mand of his temper, his uncle, George, 
came in the way, and told him that his 
mast vvas too high for the size of the boat, 
which made it top heavy; and that, when 
a vessel was on the water, the heaviest 
part would always sink the lowest. He 
told him too, that, in order to make 
large ships sail more steadily, there was 
always something heavy put in the bot- 
tom, which is called the ballast; but, as 
his little boat was too small to hold bal- 
last, the mast must be made much 
smaller, or else it would still continue 
to sail upside down. His uncle there- 
fore cut his mast shorter for him, and 
then his boat sailed as well as William's, 
and they were both very happy again. 
After they had sailed their boats till 


they were quite tired, they went into the 
house again; and, when Thomas began 
to think how nearly lie had been out of 
temper, he was very glad to hear it was 
five o'clock, for it now only wanted an 
hour to the time when his mamma said 
she would give them their strings. He 
was almost sure now that he should be 
able to keep in good humour till six 
o'clock; and, as to William, he declared 
over and over again that nothing should 
make him cry. I will get my slate, said 
he, and draw till six o'clock, for J am 
never so happy as when I am drawing. 
Thomas thought he would get his slate 
too, and they were both very busy when 
their aunt came into the room. 

4 Oh! aunt Margaret,' said Thomas, 
'you have just come in time to see what 
a nice ship I have made. Is it not a 
very famous one T 

'Yes, it is a very good one,' answered 
his aunt; 'but 1 like that tiger, that 
William has drawn, a great deal better.' 

'I am sure, ships are far nicer things 

than tigers, "saidThomas; 'they nre of far 
more use. Jf there were no ships, peo- 
ple could not go to the places \A here 
tigers are found.' 

'But the ships that you draw are not 
of any more use than William's tigers, 
you know,' said his aunt ; 'and they do 
not look half so pretty.' 

'I am sure they are much prettier,' 
returned Thomas ; ' and 1 am a far 
better drawer than William.' 

6 But you cannot draw horses so well 
as 1 can, or lions, or camels, or any 
kind of animals,' said William. '1 have 
always to make your horses' necks for 
you, and the manes of your lions ; arid 
you cannot make the hunches on the 
camels' backs at all, you know.' 

'Never mind, I can make much pret- 
tier ships than you can; and I am sure,' 
aunt Margaret, ; ships are a great deal 
nicer things than horses and lions.' 

'Very well, my dear,' replied his aunt, 
'if you think so, it is all right. You have 
nothing to do, but to make as many ships 


as ever you can get room for on your 

'.But do you not think they are much 
nicer?' asked he: 'for Thomas could not 
be content unless other people thought 
his things the best, as well as him- 

You know, ' said his aunt, 'I have told 
you that I think animals much prettier, 
in pictures, than ships : but that is no 
matter; if you like them better yourself, 
it is enough.' 

But that was not enough. Thomas had 
no pleasure in his ships, because his 
aunt had said that she liked William's 
animals better; and, after she was gone 
out of the room, he stood peevish and 
out of humour. William kept drawing 
on very happily, which made Thomas 
still more vexed: for he thought the rea- 
son of his being so happy was because 
his aunt had said she liked his tiger the 
best. But Thomas was mistaken, for 
William would have been quite as happy 
if his aunt had said that she liked his 
brother's ship better than his tiger. 



* Oh ! I wish you would not shake 
the table so, Thomas,' said lie ; 4 I have 
made my elephant's jaw as long as the 
trunk should be.' 

Thomas gave the table another shake. 

6 Oh ! that is too bad/ cried William 
in great distress ; l now I have made 
the trunk quite crooked/ 

' And so it should be crooked,' said 
Thomas ; * that proves you know no- 
thing about what you are doing.' 

6 1 do know very well ; I know it 
should turn up, but not with a sharp 
turn ; it should have a nice round one, 
like that.' And as William spoke, he 
finished off the trunk of the elephant 
with a pretty easy curve. 

c Oh ! you are so proud of your 
drawing,' said Thomas, who was now 
quite out of humour to see what a fine 
elephant William had made, in spite of 
all the shakes that he had given to the 
table ; * you think nobody is so clever 
as you are/ 

As he spoke, he stretched cut hishand 
for the purpose of rubbing it over his 



brother's elate; but William snatched 
it away, 

Thomasj however, was by this time 
too much out of humour to be put off ; 
he struggled to get his hand over it, 
and William tried to prevent him, till, 
in the scuffle, the slate slipped from his 
hand, and was broken in pieces on the 
hearth which they stood near. A loud 
cry was that instant set up by William, 
which brought his mamma into the 

' What is amisSjWilliam ]' asked she ; 
' what has happened to make you cry]' 

* I have let my slate fall, and it is 
broken, mamma/ sobbed he. 

' So I see : but you know you de- 
clared you would not cry, if even your 
hand were cut off.' 

' But it was such a nice slate, and 1 
had drawn such a large elephant on it V . 

Just as William spoke, the clock 
struck six. 

1 Now you see/ said his mamma; 
' you have lost your string, by being so 
foolish as to cry. How vexed you will 


be at yourself, when you see your bro- 
ther playing with his top, and think 
that you lost yours merely by being so 
silly as to cry for having broken your 
slate ! Thomas, however, must have 
his ; and, I hope, as he has been in a 
good humour the whole of one day, he 
has b\ this time learned to know how 
much more happy he is, when he is 
good tempered. I hope, too, 5 added 
she, turning to Thomas, and holding 
out the string to him, 'you will show 
your good temper further, and let your 
brother have the loan of your string for 
his top sometimes.' 

As his mamma held out the string, 
Thomas began to think that he had no 
right to it ; and, though his mother did 
not know that he had been out of hu- 
mour, he was old enough to find out 
that it would be cheating, if he took this 
string, when he had not only forfeited 
his own, but had been the cause of his 
brother's having lost his. Now, though 
Thomas had sjeat faults, he was a very 
honest boy, and would not tell a story, 


or cheat, for the world; so he did not 
offer to take the string which his mam- 
ma held out to him. 

4 Why do you not take the string out 
of my hand, Thomas?' asked she. 

4 Because, mamma, I have no right 
to it,' answered Thomas ; * I have been 
out of humour, and it was my fault that 
William broke his slate.' 

4 But it was my own fault to cry after 
it was broken/ said William. 

4 J am pleased with you, Thomas, for 
owning the truth,' said their mamma ; 
4 as well as with William, for not ac- 
cusing you.' 

Their uncle, George, came into the 
room time enough to hear what passed ; 
and he now said, ' As they have both 
done so well in this instance, 1 must beg 
that you will indulge them with their 
strings tonight, and try if they will not 
be good all day tomorrow to pay for 
them ; but, if they are not good, they 
must have both strings and tops taken 
from them directly.* Their mamma 
agreed to this, and gave the little boys 


the strings. As they had sense enough 
to know that the} 7 were much obliged to 
thair mother and uncle for their kind- 
ness, they were resolved to repay them 
by being as good as they wished them 
to be. 

On the evening of the next day, they 
both came to their mamma, with smiling 
faces, and told her that they had not 
done any thing to forfeit their tops. 

6 1 am very glad to hear it,' said she ; 
* and I am sure you will now have more 
pleasure in these tops than in any play- 
thing you ever had in your lives; for they 
will remind you both of having had the 
wisdom to own a fault, and the good 
sense to try to correct it ; and that is the 
way to become as wise and good as your 
kindest friends could wish you.' 

Thomas and William were so happy 
at having gained their mamma's good 
opinion, that they ever after took pains 
to cure themselves of their faults ; and, 
though it often needed a very hard 
struggle, they at last became two very 
good boys. 

II [. The New Doll. 

FANNY got a-present, from London, of 
a very handsome doll. It was rn ide of 
leather, and had pretty blue eyes, curling 
hair, and such a sweet smile on its face, 
that you would almost have thought it 
could hear what was said, and knew 
that every body was admiring it. Be- 
sides all this, it had a great many smart 
clothes. There were both morning arid 
afternoon dresses ; as well as a very 
handsome bonnet and spencer to put 
on when it was taken out awalking. 
Fanny scarcely knew what to do with 
herself, she was so pleased with it, and 
could think and talk of nothing else. 
She was never tired of dressing and 
undressing it ; she thought it quite a 
hardship to be taken away from it for a 
moment. At night, when she had to go 
to bed, she dressed it in its nightclothes, 
for it was also fitted out with a night- 


gown and nightcap, and laid it by her 
bedside, that she might see it the fiist 
thing when she awoke in the morning. 
She dreamed about it all night ; and 
when the morning carne, she opened 
her eyes in a great hurry to see if it was 
still near her. There it lay, looking as 
sweet and good as ever. 

1 Oh ! you little darling,' said she ; 
how glad I am to see you ! have you 
been long awake? Oh yes ! 1 dare say 
you have, for your eyes are quite wide 
open. Well, be still a little longer till 
1 dress myself, and then I will dress you 
and take you down to breakfast. She 
then put on her clothes, as fast as if she 
had been really afraid that the doll would 
be weary of waiting for her, and was 
just setting to work to dress it when the 
breakfast bell rang. She was very sorry 
to leave it, but it could not be helped. 
It was out of the question to take it 
down stairs with its nightclothes on. 
She ate her breakfast as last as ever she 
could, but she thought her brother would 
never have done his; and her mamma 

Stories tar Childi 

The T)oJL was then tlrelied. ami. taken, into the 
anrlit iu> tloribt woukl 3im r e been nun-]!, ^leased wilJv 
its walk, it" it conlil lta\ r e laiowii all that Eamiv SJiitl. 


would riot allow her to leave the 
table till breakfast was quite over. At 
length the time came when she might 
return to her darling. 

' Now,' said she, going to it in great 
haste, ' let rne get you dressed, and 
give you a walk before school begins, 
or else you will have to lie till it is over, 
and that would be a sad thing. Miss 
Doll was then dressed, and taken into 
the garden, ; and it no doubt would 
have been much pleased with its walk, 
if it could have known all that Fanny 
said, and have seen all the pretty things 
which she pointed out : but all was lost 
upon it, and Fanny tried to content 
herself, for its want of sense, with its 
sweet looks. 

4 I wonder you are not tired of look- 
ing at that doll,' said her brother Ed- 
ward ; ' I am sure 1 am weary of it, 
though I have not looked at it a quarter 
so much as you have.' 

* Tired !' said Fanny, ' how could 
one ever be tired of looking at such a 
sweet goodnatured face as it has ! Did 

you ever see such a pretty face in your 
life? I am sure I never did.' 

' But then it is always the same, 1 
said Edward. ' It never changes its 
look. I like things to look sometimes 
pleased and sometimes vexed, and not 
always the same.' 

c Oh ! but I do not like to see any 
thing vexed,' returned Fanny, ' because 
1 do not like to be vexed myself; and 
my doll has such a sweet pretty face, 
that it would be a pity for it ever to 
look cross.' 

4 I think nothing of a pretty face 
without sense,' said Edward, looking 
at the doll with contempt. 

Fanny felt very much offended at 
having her darling so much slighted, 
and might perhaps have shown her 
brother that she could look as vexed 
as he could desire, if the schoolbell 
had not at that moment rung; but, 
at the sound of it, she ran off as fast as 
ever she could, to obey the summons, 
and attend her mamma in the school- 
room . 


It was not till Fanny had laid the 
doll out of her hand, and began to col- 
lect her books, that it came into her 
head that she had never once looked at 
a single lesson. She now set to work 
with all her might, to make amends ; 
but it was too late to repair the neglect. 
She was called up to her lessons, with- 
out knowing a word of any of them. 
One lesson after another was laid aside, 
for her to learn before she left the school- 
room, and Fanny sighed to think what 
a long time it would be before she should 
be able to go back to her doll again. 

At length they were all learnt and 
said, excepting her poetry, which her 
mamma gave her leave, as it was so 
near dinner-time, to put off till the even- 
ing: and again the rest of the day was 
spent, as the oae before had been, in 
dressing and undressing her doll. It is 
very likely that when evening came the 
poetry would have been again forgotten, 
had not Edward reminded her just in 
time, that she had to learn it before she 
went into the parlour after tea. 
G 2 


The doll was put down, though with 
great regret, and the book opened. But 
she had laid the doll down just as she 
had beo-un to think of putting its pretty 
blue silk spencer on, with its thin muslin 
frock: and her rnind ran so much upon 
how well they would look together, that 
her poetry was not half learned, when 
she was told that her mamma wanted 
her in the parlour it was then read over 
once or twice again in great haste be- 
fore she went to her mamma, and she 
hoped she might be able to say it pretty 
well ; but the words had passed but of 
her mind again almost as soon as she 
had read them ; and she had not got to 
the end of the second line before she 
stopped and bit her lips, and thought 
again, but all in vain ; she could not 
recall a single word more. 

% I had hoped you would have paid 
more respect to your promise, Fanny,' 
said her mamma, after waiting some 
ti me to see if she could manage to go on, 
' and am sorry to find lam mistaken.' 
1 But, mamma,' said the little girl, 


colouring with shame at having been so 
idle, and yet willing to make an excuse 
for herself, 4 this is such a difficult piece 
of poetry I caimot learn it : it is ail 
about things of which I know nothing. 
It is called " The Glow-worm," and I 
cannot tell what a glow-worm is.' 

1 That is no excuse for your not hav- 
ing: learned the words, Fanny,' answered 
her mother ; ' and you knew, after you 
had repeated them, you had nothing to 
do but to ask me to explain them. You 
never find me unwilling to tell you any 
thing you wish to know.' 

1 But, mamma,' said the little girl, 
4 if you would be so very good as to tell 
me about it now, I think I should be 
able to learn it sooner.' 

' You scarcely deserve that I should 
do so, after you have been so idle ; be- 
sides, if 1 were to begin to tell you any 
thing now, I am afraid you would be 
thinking of your doll all the time, in- 
stead of what 1 was saying.' 

' Oh ! no, mamma, indeed I shall 
not/ said, Fanny ; M do not intend to 



think of my doll again, till I have learned 
my poetry, and said it off. So, if you 
please, main ma, be so good as to tell 
me what a glow-worm isV 

6 It is a small black worm, 'replied her 
mother, ' which has the power of putting 
a light out of its tail, which looks al- 
most like a small lamp burning on it.' 

' Dear me, mamma, that is very 
strange ! but what is it that looks so 

bright r 

4 That I cannot tell. There is some- 
thing in the nature of the lamp that 
nobody yet has been able to find out.' 
* And what is the use of it, mamma]' 
6 You know your poetry says 

" Perhaps indulgent Nature meant, 
13y such a lamp bestow'd, 
To bid a traveller as he went, 
Be cartful where he trod, 
Is 1 or crush a worm, whose useful light 
Might serve, however small, 
To show a stumbling-stone by night, 
And save him from a fall." 

Or, to put it in words that you are 
more likely to know the meaning of, per- 
haps Nature meant that its light should 
show a person who was walking in the 


dark that there was a stone near, over 
which he might be in danger of stum- 
bling ; and therefore that he had better 
not hurt it.' 

' And do you think this is really the 
use of the glow-worm, mamma]' asked 

' No, my dear, I do not ; I believe 
the use of their light is to enable them 
to find out one another in the dark, as 
that is their usual time for creeping* 
about. At any rate I quite agree with 
the last verse, which says : 

*' Whate'er was meant, this truth divine 

Is legible and plain, 
Tis Power Almighty bids him shine, 
Nor bids him shine in vain.'' 

We know very well that God gave the 
little glow-worm the power of sending 
out his lamp ; and, as we are sure lie 
is too wise and good to make any thing 
that is not of use, we are very certain 
that there is some wise purpose even 
for the little glow-worm's light.' 

4 Did you ever see a glow-worm, 
m a m ra a 1 ' aske d Fan n y . 


1 Yes, my dear, 1 saw one last night/ 
answered her mother. 

4 Oh, dear ! mamma, how much I 
should like to see one ! I wish you 
\vould show one to me.' 

6 You must sit up very late before 
you would be able to see one/ said her 
mamma, ' because they do not show 
themselves till after dark, and it is late 
before it is dark at this time of the year. 
But, however, I will tell you what, 
Fanny if you take a great deal of 
pains tomorrow, and do all your work 
very well, you shall sit up till after 
dark, and go with your brother and 
me, to look at the glow-worms.' 

* Oh ! thank you, mamma,' said the 
little girl ; ' you are very kind to me, and 
you shall see what pains i will take.' 

* Very well, then now set about learn- 
ing your poetry,' said her mamma, 4 or 
else bedtime will come before you have 
iinished it.' 

Fanny then set to work with all her 
mifrht to learn her task, and it was not 
long before she could repeat it without 


missing a word, or having to stop a 
minute to think of one. 'And now/ 
said she, ' I may go to rny doll, for I 
have got all my work done.' 

* Yes,' said her mamma, * you may 
now play with it without danger ; and 
I would advise you in future always to 
learn your lessons before you begin to 
play with it, for you see how it tempts 
you to neglect them.' But this was a 
piece of advice which Fanny was not 
wise enough to attend to. In the morn- 
ing, instead of letting her doll lie till 
she had made sure of her lessons, which 
would have been much the wisest way, 
she took it up, thinking at first that she 
wouldonly put on its morning-gown and 
then lay it by again. But, after she had 
got the moniing-igown on, she thought 
that it looked so much better in its thin 
frock, that she would put it on ; it 
would not take her above a minute or 
two to do it, and then she would lay it 
by, and get her lessons. But, when thy 
thin frock was on, she was as unwilling 
as ever to lay the doll down ; and she 

made one excuse after another to herself 
for keeping it still in her hand ; and the 
longer she played with it, the more un- 
willing she was to lay it by. ' Oh !' said 
she, sighing at the thought of having 
to leave this darling plaything ; ' how 
happy I should he if I had nothing to 
do from morning till night but play with 
iny doll ! how nice it would be P 

'Would you rather play with your 
doll than go to see the glow-worms at 
night?' asked her mother, who came 
into the room in time to hear what she 
had said. 

* 1 should like better to play with my 
doll, than do any thing in the world, 
mamma/ answered Fanny. 

' Suppose I were to give you leave 
to play with it all day, and not ask 
you to do any thing whatever besides, 
would you not repent before night, 
think you T 

' Oh, no, mamma! I am sure I should 
not,' said Fanny: *1 should be as happy 
as happy could be. Will you try me, 


'I am very willing to try you,' an- 
swered her mamma ; *but take warning; 
if 1 give you leave, I shall insist upon 
your keeping to the terms of the bargain. 
I shall not al lo w you to do any thi ng else 
the whole day but play with her, how- 
ever tired you may be ; and you must sit 
up and play with her till we come back 
from looking at the glow-worms. 3 

' Oh ! that is what I shall delight in 
above every thing,' cried Fanny. 'To 
sit up till it is quite dark, and to have 
nothing to do but to play with my doll 
all the whole time ; oh ! how charming 
it will be ! And will you really let me 
do it, mamma?' 

* Yes, I will really let you do it ; only 
do not forget that I shall make you 
keep strictly to the terms. 1 shall not 
allow you to do any thing else, or have 
any other way of amusing yourself.' 

' That is the very thing that I am so 
pleased at,' said Fanny ; * not to have 
any thing else to do: I only wish you 
would never ask me to do any thing 
else, till I am tired of my doll. I dare 


say it would be a great many years 
before I was tired of it.' 

( And what kind of a woman do you 
think you would be, Fanny,' asked her 
mamma, ' if you did nothing but play 
with a doll all your life?' 

'But you know, mamma, I should 
still have plenty of time to learn other 
things after that ; for i am only a very 
little girl now.' 

' But the very youngest has not too 
much time to learn what is useful 
and proper/ said her mamma ; ' so 
that, if they do not make good use 
of their time, they will find themselves 
sadly short when they grow up. But, 
however, 1 am not afraid of your 
spending very many years over this 
doll ; 1 should not wonder if, even be- 
fore night, you began to wish for some 
other amusement/ 

' Oh, no ! I am sure I shall not,' said 
Fanny ; ' I shall nejed nothing to amuse 
rne, but this sweet pretty doll.' 

4 1 think you are very silly/ said her 
brother, ' to give up seeing the glow- 


worms for the sake of playing with that 
stupid doll.' 

< That is, because you do not like 
dolls, Edward,' said Fanny; * but you 
know I do like them, and so would any 
body like them better than little nasty 
crawling worms.' 

'But these are not like other worms/ 
said Edward; ' only think how pretty 
they must look, all shining along the 
hedge, like so many little lamps. And 
I can tell you about a fly, called the 
fire-fly, that gives even a brighter light 
than the glow-worm ; and ladies in the 
countries where they are found, some- 
times fasten them all qver their gowns, 
so as to look as if they were all covered 
over with spangles.' 

1 But Edward/ said his mother, ' I 
cannot allow you to stay and talk to 
Fanny ; if your sister intends to make 
choice of her doll as a companion for the 
whole day, she must not have any other.' 

' No, do not come near me, Edward/ 
said Fanny, ' for I want nothing but 
my doll to amuse me.' 



Her mother and brother then left her ; 
and she set to work with great glee to 
play with her doll, saying to herself 
every now and then, ' I may play 
this way all the time till quite dark 

She went on very well for two or 
three hours, but at last she began to 
think it along time till dinner. When 
the dinner-bell rang, she felt more will- 
ing to lay her doll down than she had 
ever been before ; but sjie thought it 
was because she was hungry, and was 
sure she should like it as well as ever 
after dinner. 

When she went into the dining- 
rooin, she saw that her brother looked 
very earnestly at her, as if he expected 
to see that she was tired ; but she was 
resolved he should not, so she forced 
herself to look very gay and lively. She 
did not, however, feel in the same haste 
to leave the dinner-table that she had 
always done since she got her new 
doll ; nay, she even thought Edward 
was a shorter time over his meal than 
she had ever known him before, and 

was quite sorry when she heard him 
say he would rather not have any more ; 
for she liked better to sit at table with 
her father and mother, and brother, 
than go back to her doll. 

As soon as the cloth was taken away, 
her mamma said, ' Now, Fanny, my 
dear, go to your work again/ 

Work ! mamma,' said the little girl, 
' you know it is not work ; it is play.' 

' Very well,' replied her mother, c I 
am glad you think it so. ? 

But Fanny did not quite think it so, 
only she did not like any body to know 
that she began to feel tired, after having 
said she was so very sure she never 
should be so. She took up her doll as 
if it was a task, and almost thought it 
was less pretty than when she had left 
it. She had dressed and undressed 
.it so often, that nothing now re- 
mained new to her. Still there was 
nothing for her to do, but to go over the 
same round of dressing and undressing. 

e If my doll could but speak,' thought 
she, c I should never tire of her ; but it 

H 2 


is the same thing over again, and one 
gets tired of looking even at her pretty 
face when it never changes.' 

To spend the whole afternoon with- 
out any other company was most tire- 
some, and yet she must be forced to do 
it She yawned and stretched, laid her 
doll down, then took it up again ; and 
began to wish for tea-time before din- 
ner had been over an hour. When tea- 
time came she was almost ready to cry, 
and felt quite ashamed of being seen ; 
for she could no longer prevent their 
seeing how tired she was. 

'I think, Fanny,' said Edward, when 
she went into the parlour, ' your darling- 
has not been very lively this afternoon, 
for you look as if you had been almost 
asleep. 7 

' Lively ! Edward/ said Fanny in a 
peevish tone, for she was too weary to 
bear being joked; 'how can a doll be 
lively? You know very well that it can 
neither talk nor laugh.' 

' But I mean/ returned Edward, 
'that it has not made you very lively, 
and you know you thought you should 

never be dull when you had it to play 
with. I am afraid you have not put 
on the thin muslin frock this afternoon.' 

' I have had every thing on that she 
has,' said Fanny ; ' and am tired of 
looking at her in all of them.' 

' But her pretty face/ added Ed- 
ward, * you can surely never tire of 
looking at it V 

' Indeed I can,' replied his sister ; c I 
do not think it is so very pretty as I 
once fancied it was.' 

' That is a striking proof, my dear 
Fanny, ' said her mother, ' that beauty is 
of little value unless there is sense ad- 
ded to it. I hope it will teach you in 
future to choose your company for their 
sense, and not their beauty.' 

* Oh ! 1 am sure,' said Fanny, c I 
should not care how ugly she was, if 
she could but hear what I said, and 
speak to me in return.' 

When tea was over, Fanny kept her 
seat, almost hoping that her mamma 
would not desire her to go back again 
to her work ; for work she now found it 



to be, and very hard work too. But it 
was not long before her mother said, 

* You know that you have some hours 
longer to play yet.' Fanny hung down 
her head without speaking. ' Go, my 
dear,' added her mother, on seeing that 
the little girl did not offer to move; 
you know you have not yet finished 
your task/ 

1 I wish you would be so good as ex- 
cuse her the rest, mamma/said Edward, 
who began to feel sorry for his sister. 

'No, my dear/ answered his mother, 

* I cannot excuse any part of the bar- 
gain, or else your sister might perhaps 
forget the lesson that I expect her doll 
will teach her.' 

' How can a doll teach her any lesson, 
mamma?' asked Edward. 

' By showing her that a day of mere 
idleness is no treat,' answered his mo- 
ther ; ' and letting her know how much 
sweeter play is when itcomes after work. 
I must therefore have her thoroughly 
tired, that she may riot forget it too soon.' 

4 lam thoroughly tired, mamma,' said 


Fanny ; and should be very glad to do 
the hardest lesson, rather than spend 
any more time with my doll.' 

' I cannot allow you to do any thing 
else to-night, however,' said her mo- 
ther ; * so I beg you will go directly to 
your work.' Fanny's eyes filled with 
tears as she got up from her seat to 
obey her mother. 

' May I go with her?' asked Edward. 

' Nay, Ed ward, 'said Fanny, turning 
round to her brother with a look of 
surprise ; ' you know you were tired of 
the doll long ago.' 

' Yes, but I should be very glad tf) 
help you to play with it, for the sake of 
making it pleasanter to you, for all 
that,' answered Edward. 

* But I cannot allow you to show your 
kindness to your sister in this way, my 
dear boy,' said his mother, ' though I 
am pleased with you for wishing it. 
Fanny must go and spend the evening 
according to her promise, for I cannot 
allow her to have any other company 
than that she chose far herself.' Poor 


Fanny left the room as if she was going 
to something bad, and took up her doll 
as if she hated the sight of it. * How 
silly I was/ thought she, Ho make such 
a choice. If I had been content to play 
with my doll only when I had nothing 
else to do, I might have liked it now as 
much as ever I did, but now I am so 
sick of it that I do not think I shall ever 
be able to bear the sight of it again. I 
hate to look at it, 1 think it as ugly a 
doll as ever I saw; I wonder how I 
could ever think it pretty. However, 
I promised mamma that I would play 
with it, so I must keep my word. Let 
me see, what must I do ? Shall I put 
on her morning gown? Oh no, she does 
not look well in it. I think I must put 
on her thin muslin frock, for every body 
says it is a very beautiful one. But 
then I have had it on so often to-day 
that 1 am quite tired of looking at it. 
Suppose I put on her thick muslin 
frock, and her bonnet and spencer. But 
then 1 know exactly how she will look 
before 1 put them on. No : J think I 


will just put on her nightclothes, and 
put her to bed, and then I can rest 
whilst I pretend she is sleeping.' 

This was fixed upon ; the doll was 
undressed and put to bed, but it was no 
rest to Fanny to have her doll laid down 
to sleep. She could not do any thing else 
in the mean time to amuse herself, and 
she was tired of being idle. Of the two, 
it was better to change the doll's dress 
again ; so it was taken up, and again 
had its thin muslin frock put on. At 
length it got so dusk, that she could 
scarcely see how it looked ; and Fanny 
had comfort in thinking her task would 
soon be at an end. * Bedtime will soon 
be here,' thought she, ' and when I get 
up in the morning, how glad I shall be 
to set to work with my lessons. I am 
sure I shall never think it stupid work 
again to have lessons to learn. It is not 
half so stupid as playing with a doll all 
day.' It was now almost dark, and she 
hoped she should soon hear her mother 
and brother go out to seek for the glow- 
worms. She listened very anxiously for 


the sound, because she thought if they 
were once gone, they would not stay 
very long, and then she should be al- 
lowed to go to bed, which she wished 
for as much as if she had done the hard- 
est day's work. At length she heard the 
hall-door open, and she listened in hopes 
of hearing them go out. She heard her 
brother's foot, but it seemed as if he was 
coming towards her ; perhaps he was 
coming to tell her they were going. 

The nursery-door opened, and Ed- 
ward, followed by his mother, entered. 
'Oh! Fanny,' cried he, what a pity it 
is that you did not go with us to see 
the little glow-worms : you cannot think 
how pretty they look.' 

c Have you been to see them then ?' said 
Fanny, starting up with glee. e Have 
you been out, and are now come in 

* Yes/ answered her brother, c we 
have been out and have seen, 1 dare say, 
twenty glow-worms glittering about.' 

4 Oh ! then I may go to bed," cried 
Fanny, who was so tired that she felt 


as if bed would be better than any thing 
else in the world. 

c But will you not stay to hear more 
a'bout the glow-worms?' asked Edward. 

1 Oh no, I do not wish to hear about 
any thing or see any thing but my bed/ 
said Fanny, c for I never was so tired 
in my life. Here, mamma/ added she, 
c be so good as to take my doll and look 
it up, that I may never see it again, for 
I am sure I shall never like to look at 
it any more.' 

' I will take it and put it by for a- 
while,' said her mother, ' that it may 
be new to you when it comes out again. 
And I hope that, however new it may* 
be, you will now have more sense than 
to think it can make up to you for every 
thing else. Play is always sweetest 
when it comes after work ; and depend 
upon it, my dear, a life of idleness is 
always a tiresome one.' 

c Oh, I am sure it is, mamma,' said 
the little girl, yawning and rubbing 
her eyes. ' Let me go to bed now, to 
rest myself, and I shall never wish to 
play a whole day again.' 


IV. The Greedy Boy. 

WILLIAM and Richard were asked to 
spend the Christmas-week with their 
uncle and aunt, and they wished very 
much for their mamma to give them 
leave to go. William had a great de- 
sire to pay the visit, because his uncle 
had told him he would teach them to 
skate, and would buy them each a pair 
of new skates for the purpose. His un- 
cle had a nice large pond in his grounds, 
and William knew that his mamma 
would not be afraid of trusting them 
on the ice when their uncle was there 
to take care of them, so that he was 
sure they would have very pleasant 
sport. Richard thought of its being 
Christmas time, and he knew his aunt 
would have a great many nice things 
for them to eat ; and poor Richard liked 
eating better than any thing else. He 


dwelt upon the idea of the tarts and 
mince-pies till his mouth quite water- 
ed, and he longed to hear his mother 
say they might go. They were so 
uneasy to know whether she meant to 
send them, that they agreed to go to 
her together, and ask her about it. 

When they did so, she told them that 
she believed she must he forced to send 
William alone, as she was afraid to 
trust Richard so much to himself. You 
know, Richard said she to her youngest 
son, I have never yet trusted you out of 
my sight without your giving rne reason 
afterwards to repent it. I am afraid to 
let you go from home till you are wise 
enough to know that gluttons not only 
give disgust to every body that has any 
thing to do with them, but are sure 
also to punish themselves; for gluttony 
always causes illness. 

c You know, mamma,' said William, 
'the last time Richard ate too much he 
was very ill indeed; so that, I dare say, 
he will be more careful in future. 7 

* What do you say to that, Richard?' 


asked his mamma ; 'dare you say the 
same for yourself? 

4 Yes indeed, mamma, I will take care 
not to eat again till I am sick ; for 1 do 
not like to be ill, and to have to take so 
much nasty physic to make me better/ 

' If I thought I might trust you, 
Richard/ said his mamma, * you should 
certainly go, for 1 am always glad to 
give you pleasure.' 

6 Try him, mamma; do try him,* 
said William ; ' for 1 should not like to 
go and leave Richard at home : it would 
not be half so nice for either of us.' 

'Then I must send a letter to your 
aunt, to beg that she will not give him 
any more sweet things than she thinks 
are good for him to have,' replied his 
mamma ; ' for J dare not trust to his 
own prudence.' 

6 Mam ma,' said William, * I wish you 
would say in your letter that she must not 
give either of us too many good things, 
and then my aunt will not know that you 
are more afraid of Richard than of me.' 


William's mamma was very much 
pleased with him for being so kind to 
his brother, as not to wish their uncle 
and aunt to know that he was a glut- 
ton ; and she said, ' I hope, Richard, as 
your brother is so good as not to wish 
your fault to be known, you will take 
care also to conceal it yourself. You 
know how much i allow 7 you when you 
are at home, and I hope you will take 
care not to eat any more when you are 
absent, even though your aunt were to 
urge you to do so.' Richard promised. 
The letter was written in the way that 
William wished it ; and the little boys 
were sent off. 

They were received with great kind- 
ness by their uncle and aunt, who, 
though they had no little boys or girls of 
their own, were very fond of children and 
took great pains to make them happy. 

It was a fine clear frosty morning 
on which they got there, and William 
longed to hear his uncle say something 
about the skates. Every time he saw 
that lie was going to speak he hoped it 

i 2 

would be about them. At last his 
uncle said, 'I am afraid you are both 
too much tired after your long walk to 
be able to skate to-day?' 

c Oh, no! uncle/ said William, start- 
ing up with great glee, ' we are not at 
all tired ; we should like very much 
indeed to go and skate/ 

'And what do you say, Richard T said 
his uncle ; * are you ready for a little 
more exercise T 

Richard said he was. But, if he had 
told what he really wished most for, 
he would rather have chosen the exer- 
cise of eating some of the nice pies 
which he smelt when the parlour-door 
was opened, and the warm air from 
the oven in the kitchen came towards 
them. But their aunt only gave them 
each a couple of biscuits, and said the 
dinner should be ready for them by the 
time they came back. 

The pond on which they went to 
skate was a very large one ; and, as the 
water under the ice was not at all deep, 
their uncle was not afraid to let them 


go upon it as much as ever they liked ; 
for he knew that, were the ice even 
to break, the worst that could happen 
would be their getting their feet wet. 
As they had never tried to skate be- 
fore, they got many a tumble; but 
lliey did not mind that, for they were 
neither of them cowards. 

At length the sound of the dinner- 
bell called them again into the house. 
William was very sorry to leave off 
skating, for he was just beginning to 
be able to balance himself on one foot 
for a minute or two, and scud along a 
short way on the ice ; but his uncle 
told him he should come back again 
the next morning if the frost should 
continue, which made him more con- 
tent to return home. 

Richard liked skating very well, but 
he liked eating much better ; and the 
^ moment he thought of the dinner being 
ready, he was eager to make all the 
haste he could back to the house. He 
ran without ever looking behind him 
as fast as ever he could ; and when he 

i 8 


got into the dining-room he placed 
himself at the table, though nobody was 
yet in the room but himself. It was 
some minutes before he was joined by 
any of the rest ! and he sat looking at 
the dishes on the table and listening 
for their coming, till he was almost out 
of patience. They did come, however, 
at last, and Richard was soon helped 
to some very nice roast beef. But he 
did not like this half so well as the pies 
which came after ; and, when he had 
been helped twice with them, he sat 
waiting and wishing for his aunt to ask 
him to have more. But he waited and 
wished in vain : there was not a word 
said about his being helped again ; and 
as soon as the others had done, the 
things were ordered off the table. 

Richard felt for a minute or two al- 
most ready to cry, when he saw the pies 
which he would have been glad to eat, 
handed away without his knowing 
whether he should ever see them again. 
A plate of very fine apples was brought 
in, just in time to prevent the tears 


rising to his eyes ; and as he was help- 
ed again and again to them, his spirits 
rose, and he almost forgot that he 
wished for the pies. 

After the apples had been handed 
twice round the table, there was still an 
odd one left, and their uncle told them 
it should be given to the one who could 
take the longest jump out of twenty. 
This served to amuse them for a long 
time, but the apple was at length de- 
clared to be William's. 

As soon as ever it was given to him 
he took a knife, and, cutting it in two, 
gave his brother by much the larger half. 
JBy this means Richard was saved the 
disgrace of showing a tear: and as there 
was nothing else placed before them the 
rest of the evening that was very tempt- 
ing, bedtime came and found him quite 
well, and in very good spirits. 

' Now/ said he, when they had got 
into their bed-room and had begun to 
undress, * I think mamma does not need 
to be afraid of trusting me from home. 
I do not always make myself unwell 


when I am away from her : I am quite 
well to-night, as well as ever I can be, 
for all we had such nice pies at dinner.' 

Richard did not, however, consider 
that he might not, perhaps, have been 
quite so well, if he had been allowed to 
eat as much as he liked himself; and 
that he ought, instead of giving him- 
self the credit, to have thanked his 
aunt for taking so much care of him. 
But he never thought of that, and Wil- 
liam was too much afraid of giving him 
pain, to remind him ; so he went to bed 
as well pleased with himself as if the 
merit had been all his own. 

The next morning, as soon as ever 
William awoke, he thought of his un- 
cle's promise of taking them again that 
day to skate ; and he got up to look out 
of the window, to see what kind of morn- 
ing it was. But it was no skating 
weather : the frost had given way, and 
a heavy shower of snow and rain was 
beating against the windows, the wind 
was howling, and the sky looked ex- 
tremely dark and gloomy. William 


felt very sorry to think he should not 
be able to go out to skate : but he was 
a very happy- tempered boy, and he 
soon comforted himself with the thought 
that his uncle and aunt would be sure 
to find some way or other to amuse 
them in the house. 

When Richard opened his eyes, he 
soon heard the news of its being a bad 
morning. ' But, however/ added Wil- 
liam, ' I dare say ray uncle and aunt 
will find some way or other to amuse 
us, for they are very kind. 7 

6 Yes, that they will, I am sure/ said 
Richard ; ' perhaps my aunt may give 
us some of those nice apples to eat ; or 
I should not wonder if she were to get 
some nuts for us to crack : it is nice 
fun to crack nuts/ 

' I rather think/ said William, c they 
will find out some games for us to play 
at, or something of that kind.' 

4 But what games could we play at, 
when there are only two of us'!' asked 
his brother ; 'no, I do not think that 
will be it, at any rate.' 


' Well, let us get up and try,' said 
William. And up they both jumped, 
and were soon dressed, and in the 
breakfast parlour. 

' This will be no day for skating, 
William,' said his uncle, as he came 
into the room soon after them : ' we 
must try to content ourselves within 
doors to-day/ 

f Oh ! I dare say we shall be able 
to make ourselves very happy in the 
house,' answered William ; 'and, per- 
haps, tomorrow may be finer. If it 
should get frosty again after this wet, 
the whole garden will be ice, I think, 
and then we shall have rare fun.' 

' That is right, my little man/ said 
his uncle, clapping William's head : 
* I am glad to see you so ready to 
make the best of it. And how do you 
think we must manage to amuse our- 
selves, Richard?' added their uncle, 
turning to his youngest nephew, who 
had by this time got himself placed at 
the breakfast table, and was eating 
bread-and-butter as fast as he could. 


1 1 think,' said Richard, ( that, after 
breakfast is over, it would be very well 
if we could fall asleep, and sleep till 

'Nay,' replied his uncle, k ' if sleeping 
were the best thing, we might as well 
wish to be able to sleep the whole 
winter through at once, as the little 
dormice do.' 

' Are they able to sleep all the win- 
ter?' asked William. 

'Yes,' answered his uncle; c as soon 
as the cold weather begins, they become 
drowsy, and set about finding a snug 
place to lie down in, where they sleep 
soundly till the cold winter is over. 
Then they rouse themselves up, arid 
enjoy the fine weather again.' 

6 And do they never eat any thing all 
that time V asked Richard. 

' No,' replied his uncle, c they have no 
need to eat ; for sleep serves them in- 
stead of food. So that you see, if you 
could manage to take such a nap as 
they do, you would be saved the trouble 
of breakfasts, and dinners, and suppers. 


' Oh, but I should not like to be 
cheated out of them,' said Richard, 
helping himself as he spoke to another 
large slice of bread-and-butter ; for I 
like eating far better than sleeping.' 

'But I vvond-er the little dormice do 
not sleep themselves to death, uncle,' 
said William; 'I thought no animals 
could live so long a time without food! 1 
' As their frames are not able to 
bear the cold/ answered his uncle, 
< Nature has given them a way of 
saving themselves from it. They eat 
during the summer till they are very 
fat ; and this fat serves to support 
their bodies whilst they are taking 
their long nap. It is the same with 
all torpid animals ; that means, all 
animals whose nature it is to sleep 
during the winter.' 

'Are there other animals then, ' asked 
William, ' besides dormice, which take 
such long sleeps?' 

' Yes, many,' replied his uncle ; c both 
beasts, insects, and birds. You may 
often find flies lying about the house 

in the winter, as if they were dead; 
yet if you were to bring them to the 
fire and keep them warm, you would 
almost always find that they would 
soon begin to revive.' 

6 Dear me!' said William, c I should 
like to try them. 1 will bring the first 
fly I find lying in a cold place to the 
fire, and see if it will come to life 

' You may do so once,' said his uncle, 
' to convince yourself that it is so; but 
I would not advise you to make a prac- 
tice of it, for I have no doubt it gives 
the poor little creatures a great deal of 

' I never feel pain from being roused 
from sleep,' said William. 

* But their sleep is more than mere 
rest,' returned his uncle ; ' they can 
scarcely for the time be said to be alive. 
I dare say you have not forgotten once 
giving your elbow a severe blow, which 
made you faint, and that you felt a 
great deal of pain when your blood be- 
gan to run through your veins again ; 



for it was the stopping of the blood 
which made you seem for a time as if 
you were dead. Now I have no doubt 
but the little flies, and all other torpid 
animals, feel much in the same way 
when they first awake. You have heard 
the little ants often spoken of, for being 
so prudent as to lay up food in the 
summer, to serve them during the cold 
of winter. This was thought to be the 
case, because they kept themselves so 
close in their nests whilst the cold 
weather lasted : but I rather think the 
truth of the matter is, that they fall 
asleep when it comes on.' 

' Ah? the little rogues,' cried Wil- 
liam, laughing ; * they have the credit 
of being so wise and prudent, and they 
are nothing but sluggards after all.' 

' They must riot be called^luggards, 
however,' returned his uncle, c when 
they are as active and diligent as ever 
they can be, as long as they are able to 
work. It is only those who are able to 
work and will not do it, but spend their 
time in lounging about and sleeping, 


who ought to be called sluggards. If 
you ever saw a set of little ants turned 
out of their nest, and watched them 
running so nimbly about, and taking 
so much trouble to get the little white 
ba^s, which contain their young, put 
safely into their nest again, you would 
be sure that the ants have not gained 
their good name for nothing. Those 
busy little creatures, the bees and wasps, 
which, if possible, are more clever still, 
all sleep during the winter. The swal- 
lows too, that build their nests in our 
spouts and under the tiles of our houses, 
are believed by many people to hide 
themselves in snug corners, and take a 
nap till the cold winter is over. Some 
people think that swallows avoid the 
cold weather by fly ing away into warmer 
countries as soon as it begins to come 
on, and I am inclined to think that 
many of them do so,' 

' I once heard papa tell about a 
numberof swallows which settled upon 
a ship's deck, when it was many hun- 
dred miles from land,' said William. 



' Yes,' replied his uncle, * many such 
things have happened ; so that I think 
there can be no doubt that they do go 
abroad in search of warm weather. A 
great many swallows, however, have 
often been found together, quite in a 
torpid state, hid in very snug places ; 
so that there can be as little doubt that 
they sometimes sleep away the winter. 
At any rate, whichever is the most 
common way for them to take care of 
themselves, we are sure that they are 
not able to bear the cold of our winters, 
and that Nature has taught them the 
way to escape it.' 

' I learned some poetry lately, ' said 
William, 'called The Piedmontese and 
his Marmot ; and it says : 

" They carelessly slept, till the cold winter blast, 
And the hail, and the deep drifting snow-shower was past." 

Is that because the marmot is another 
of the animals which sleep during the 
winter, uncle?' asked William. 

' It is,' replied his uncle. 'A Pied- 
montese means a man who belongs to 


the place called Piedmont, which is at 
the foot of those high mountains that 
lie between the countries of France and 
Italy. These mountains are called the 
Alps, and are the highest in Europe. 
As marmots live on the tops of moun- 
tains, there are of course a great many 
on the Alps ; so thai we are to suppose 
the poor Piedmontese got his marmot 
thence. Miss Aikin, who wrote the 
pretty little poem you learned, has given 
a very lively picture of this little playful 
animal. It has long sharp feet, with 
which it digs its dwelling underground, 
and then lines it with moss and hay. 
It delights in basking in the sun, and 
as long as the warmth continues, it 
frolics about in the most lively and 
playful manner ; but, as soon as the 
rays of the sun begin to be less warm 
and cheering, he flies to his hole, and 
curling himself up, he takes a good 
sound sleep till April or May comes 
again. He then rouses himself up, and 
sets off once more to enjoy the plea- 
sures of life. But our breakfast has 


been over some time, and here is 
Richard waiting till we give over talk- 
ing, that he may take his nap/ 

' Oh, no!' said Richard, c I should 
not wish to sleep, even if I could, whilst 
J have so many nice things to listen to, 
as those you have been telling us.' 

' But 1 cannot talk to you any longer 
at present,' said his uncle; ' I have 
some letters to write ; and, whilst I am 
busy with them, I will give you each 
this little poem to learn, that your aunt 
has just written for you ; and I will 
make a bargain with you, that which- 
ever repeats it the best, shall have a 
shilling to give to the first person 
that comes to the door to beg/ 

' But suppose we both say it alike, 
uncle/ said William. 

c In that case it must be divided be- 
tween you, and you will each of you 
have the pleasure of thinking that you 
have worked for the poor this morning, 
and pei haps kept somebody from starv- 
ing. This will keep you em ployed whilst 
I am writing my letters; and, when they 


are done, we will try if we cannot find 
some way of giving ourselves a little 

The little boys both set to work to 
learn the poem, and each thought he had 
learned it very well. But William's mind 
had run too much upon the idea of his 
uncle's coming back to play with them, 
to do justice to his poetry. As soon as 
ever he heard his uncle, the paper was 
thrown, down, and he stood quite ready 
to join in any thing his uncle might pro- 
pose. His uncle came in with battledores 
and shuttlecocks in his hand, and they 
were soon engaged in a very warm game. 

After dinner the little boys were called 
upon to repeat their poetry. William 
got very badly through his, for he had 
never given his rnind to learning it ; 
but Richard repeated the following 
lines without missing a word ; 

Though winter is come with its cold icy breath, 
And has put all the flowers of our gardens to death, 
Though the wind whistles loud, and the rain and snow beat. 
And the water is bound in a smooth glassy sheet} 
Yet with a snug shelter and thick warm attire, 
WUh plenty of food and a bright blazing fire, 


But few of the hardships of winter we know, 
And feel but slight pain from the frost and the snow. 
But then let us think of what those must endure, 
"Who wander abroad, weak and helpless, and poor, 
"Who, weary and cold, seek in vain for a shed, 
And beg at the door for a rnorsel of bread. 
Perhaps even now some poor child wanders nigh, 
That is even as young and as helpless as I ; 
"Who, sad and forlorn, not a shelter can find, 
Though it once had a home and a mother most kind. 
Oh ! if such an one ever should come to our door, 
And a morsel of bread in soft accents implore, 
With it my best meal I with pleasure would share. 
And make it rejoice in our good Christmas fare : 
Then, though all around the cold winter winds blew, 
My breast, to sweet pity nnd kindness, still true, 
IVlidst the cold frosts of winter would feel such a glow, 
As a hard cruel heart at no season can know. 

' Very well done, Richard/ said his 
uncle. ' You have done your aunt's 
lines great justice, and I hope you will 
make some poor person very happy 
with the shilling you have earned.' 

4 Oh, yes! that I shall,' said Richard ; 
c 1 think it will be a very nice thing for 
them. I wonder what kind of a beggar 
it will be that comes first. I hope it 
will be somebody that is in great need 
of money, and then this will do him a 
great deal of good. He will have rea- 
son to rejoice that it was a bad day to- 
day, and we could not go out to skate.' 


At this moment the sound of a fiddle 
was heard at the door, and a man's voice 
singing a very doleful ditty. ' There is 
a person for your shilling at once, Ri- 
chard,' said his aunt; ' and I believe 
you need not wish for a greater object 
than this poor blind man, and his half- 
starved little granddaughter.' 

I will go and give it to him this 
minute,' said Richard, running out of 
the room as he spoke. 

William was half-way across the 
floor to go after his brother ; but when 
he began to think that he had nothing 
to give them, he turned about, and sat 
down again on his seat. Richard went 
to the door with the full intention of 
giving the poor man the shilling; but 
it was most unhappy for Richard's vir- 
tue, that a man with a large box of 
sweetmeats appeared at the same mo- 
ment on the step, and, lifting up the 
Jid of the box, placed the tempting con- 
tents before the little boy's eyes. This 
was too much to be withstood by any 
one that was so fond of eating as this 


little greedy boy had always been, He 
looked at the sweetmeats, then at the 
money in his hand ; and then he turned 
round, to see if any body was in the way. 
There was no one near to see him ; and 
though the poor old blind man ceased 
playing, and, taking off his hat, begged 
for pity's sake that he would give them 
a bit of bread, for they were both al- 
most starving; and the little girl, shi- 
vering and half-naked, looked at Ri- 
chard the picture of distress : this 
cruel boy did not care for either of 
them. He told the poor beggar that he 
had nothing for him ; and, turning to 
the man with the sw r eetmeats, asked 
for a shilling's worth. As soon as he 
got them, he made all the haste he could 
into his owu room, and devoured them 
so greedily, that they were all eaten up 
in a very short time. 

As the old man went past the dining- 
roorn window, William looked at him, 
to see if he did not seem very happy at 
having got a shilling ; but the man held 
down his head, so that William could 

He told the poor begg-ar thai he had Jiotbing- ibc him, 
tuul ttnuiiui>- to tlie JIUIR Avitli. tlie trweetmeats asked. 
for a slii'BLiig's -wortli.. 


not see his face ; but he fancied he saw 
the little girl wipe a tear from her eye, 
and he wondered very much what she 
could be crying for. He thought it 
might be because she was pinched with 
the cold, and he was sorry he had not 
asked his aunt to let them go into the 
kitchen to warm themselves. His aunt 
was sorry too when he spoke of it to 
her; but she said it was pleasant to 
think that they at least had some money 
to buy food with, and she hoped the 
next house they went to, the people 
would be still kinder to them than they 
had been, and would warm as well as 
feed them. 

William wondered why Richard was 
so long in coming into the room again, 
after he had sent the old man away, and 
at last he thought he would go and see 
what he was doing. Just as he got to 
the parlour-door, however, Richard 
came in ; and when William asked him 
what he had been about so long, he 
stammered and blushed, and looked as 
if he could not tell what to say. Wil- 


liam was a little boy that never liked 
to give pain to any one ; so that when 
he saw that his brother did not like 
him to ask the question, he did not 
repeat it. 

' Now, Richard,' said his uncle, ' I 
think you may be very glad that you 
did not sleep from breakfast to dinner ; 
for if you had, you would not have had 
the pleasure of serving these poor peo- 
ple.' Richard again blushed, and 
looked as if he did not know what to 
say; and his uncle thought that it was 
because he felt ashamed at being 
praised ; so he began to talk of some- 
thing else. He told them that he had 
invited some little boys to come and 
spend the next day with them, and 
that he meant to treat them in the 
evening, with letting them see a magic 

The boys w r ere both very much 
pleased with this, and talked a great 
deal about the pleasure they should 
have. In the evening, however, Ri- 
chard was observed to look very pale, 


and on his aunt's asking him what 
was the matter, he was forced to own 
that his head ached, and that he did 
not feel very well. 

His aunt thought it would be the 
best way for him to go to bed very 
early, as she hoped a night's sleep 
would make him quite well again. 
The goodnatured William thought his 
brother would not like to go to bed un- 
less he went too, so he offered to go 
with him ; and did all he could whilst 
they were preparing for bed, to amuse 
him and keep up his spirits. 

4 Do not be afraid, Richard/ said 
he, 4 that mamma will be angry, and 
say you have been acting the glutton; 
for you know we all can tell her that 
you have not. And I am sure she will 
be very much pleased with you for tak- 
ing such pains to earn the shilling, for 
the sake of giving it to a poor beggar. 
She will not be afraid again, I think, 
to let you have money ; she used to be 
fearful you would buy things to eat 
with it, but she will find now that you 



Can give it to buy food far others. How 
happy the poor man must have been 
when he got the shilling! I dare say 
he did not expect a quarter so much.' 

Richard said nothing to all this, for 
he knew very well he had been even 
worse than a glutton, he had been a 
cruel unfeeling boy. He had not only 
eaten more than was good for him, but 
he had robbed the poor of what was 
their right, for the purpose of spending 
it in sweetmeats. He lay down in 
T)ed, but he was unable to sleep ; his 
head ached, and he felt very sick and 
ill. William was asleep in a very few 
minutes, for he was quite well- and 

After tumbling and tossing about for 
several hours, Richard grew so much 
worse that he was forced to awakenWil- 
liam, and beg that he would call their 
aunt. As soon as his aunt came, she or- 
dered a strong dose of camomile tea for 
him to drink; but, though Richard was 
so fond of swallowing nice things, he 
could not bear nasty ones : and his uncle 


and aunt had both to stand over him, 
and insist upon his drinking it, before 
he could prevail upon himself to do so. 

Many a time did he wish that he had 
given the poor man the shilling; but it 
was now too late to repent: and there 
was nothing for him to do, but to bear 
the illness which he had brought upon 
himself as well as he could. Onecomfort 
is, thought he, as he rolled his aching 
head upon the pillow, nobody knows 
what it is that has made me so ill. Oh ! 
I would not for the world that it should 
be found out, for no person would ever 
love me again. Jf I had but given the 
shilling to the poor man, that poor little 
hungry girl would have had a good 
dinner, and I might now have been 
well and happy. 

As he lay turning these things over in 
his mind, Richard thought it never would 
be morning ; yet, when it came, he was 
no better off. His head ached so that 
he could scarcely bear to hold it off the 
pillow, and he was besides very sick. At 


length he became a little better, and 
thought he would get up. 

William, whohad kept very closely by 
him all the morning, was just gonedovvn 
stairs, andRichard thought he would fol- 
low him. When he got into the break- 
fast-room , he found it empty ; but he soon 
noticed a bottle standing on the table, 
with something in it that looked very 
clear and beautiful. It was bright yel- 
low, and looked so rich and nice, that 
Richard felt quite tempted to taste it. 
I dare say it is something that my aunt 
is going to treat William with, thought 
he, but I will have a taste first. It 
looks so nice that I should not wonder 
if it made me quite well again. 

He then put the bottle to his mouth, 
and held it there for sometime ; for the 
liquid was so thick that it came down the 
sides of the bottle very slowly. But this 
Richard did not mind, as he thought it 
was only because it was such a rich syrup. 
When it did come, however, it came in 
a good mouthful at once. But the mo- 


me nt he tasted it he started, and thought 
he must be forced to vomit on his aunt's 
nice carpet ; for he found it was oil, and 
was the nastiest thing he had ever tasted 
in his life. He had scarcely got his 
mouth at all cleared from theoil, which 
stuck like glue to his teeth, when his 
uncle came into the room. 

'What is the matter, Richard ?' asked 
he, on seeing his nephew's wry face; 
' have you been tasting the oil which is 
in that bottle T 

1 No,' answered Richard, still loath ? 
ing at the taste he had in IH'S mouth ; 
1 was only looking at it.' 

His uncle knew very well that Richard 
was not telling the truth ; so he was re- 
solved to punish him. He therefore said, 
'I was in hopes that you had already 
swallowed the dose that I meant you to 
have. But, as that is not the case, you 
must have it now, for there is nothing 
will make you so soon well again/ 

4 Oh ! you will not give me any of that 
nasty stuff, 1 hope, uncle !' said Richard, 



shuddering with horror at the idea of 
tasting it again. 

4 You must have some of it,' answered 
his uncle in atone, which made Richard 
sure that he was resolved upon giving 
him some : ' I was just going to bring 
some up to you, but thought I would ask 
Will iam to go with me and try i f he could 
persuade you to take it quietly.' His 
uncle then bdgan to pour some into a 
glass, which he had first made wet all 
over with water to prevent the oil from 
sticking to the sides of it. Richard 
stood by in agony at the idea of having 
to swallow it ; yet at a loss to know 
how he could avoid it. 

At length, when his uncle came to- 
wards him, he could bear it no longer, 
and, bursting into tears, he cried out, 
' Oh ! uncle, do not give it me ! pray do 
not force me to take it, for I have swal- 
lowed a great deal already.' 

'You told me just now that you had 
not tasted it,' said his uncle. 

'But I did, indeed I did;' replied 
Richard, < J s\yallowed a great deal.' 


' Liars cannot expect to be believed,' 
returned his uncle, 'even though they 
should speak the truth. You must have 
told me a lie either before or now, so that 
having to swallow this is only what you 
deserve. I shall, therefore, make you 
take it, and you may as well do it quietly.' 
Richard looked at the glass ; but the 
sight of the oil, the taste of which he still 
had so strong in his mouth, made his 
heart seem to turn over, and he felt as 
though it would not be possible for him 
to let it go into his mouth. 

4 If you do not take it at once,' said his 
uncle, C I shall ring for a servant to hold 
your nose, whilst I pour it into your 

Still he resisted; and the bell was rung. 
The servant who came was told to take 
hold of Richard's nose and keep his head 
back,whilsthis unclepoured the sicken- 
ing medicine down his throat. It soon, 
however, came back again ; for his dis- 
gust was so great, that it made him sick 
the moment it entered his stomach. 
<Oh!' thought Richard, 'how dearly 


have I paid for those sweetmeats ! How 
much 1 wish I had never seen or tasted 
them !' 

But this was not all he had to suffer. 
It was not long before the little boys who 
had been asked to spend the day with 
them arrived. Though William would 
much rather have sat with his brother 
and tried to amuse him, he was obliged 
to attend to the strangers, whilst 
Richard, who was too ill to take any 
part in the fun that was going forward, 
lay tumbling about the sofa, and think* 
iri the day would never be over. 

When dinner-time came, he saw them 
all sit down to the table, where a great 
many nice things seemed to invite them 
to eat, without his being able to taste 
a bit of any of them. 

Just as the dinner-things were taken 
away, a servant came into the room to 
say, that a man with a box of sweetmeats 
was at the door, and would not go away 
till he knew whether theyounggentleman 
who bought some ofhimyesterday would 
choose any more today. Richard almost 


started off the sofa, when he heard the 
man with the sweetmeats spoken of. 

' There was no young gentleman here 
yesterday who could buy sweetmeats/ 
said his uncle. * The man must have 
made a mistake in the house.' 

The man had followed the servant al- 
most into the room, and had heard all 
that passed; and, coming a few steps for- 
ward, he said, ' No, I am not mistaken, 
your honour. A young gentleman 
bought them of me, and 1 am sure he 
would like them ; for they are as good 
sweetmeats as ever were made.' 

c He has no reason to like them,' 
thought Richard, as he lay trembling at 
the idea of being found out ; 'for he has 
paid dearly for them. 7 

' Come in, and try if you can find out 
the young gentleman amongst all that 
are here/ said his uncle. 

The man came into the room ; and, 
casting his eyes round, he, in a few mi- 
nutes, fixed them on Richard, though the 
little culprit took care not to turn his face 


towards him. 'That i s they on ng : gentle- 
man, who is lying on the sofa, sir,' said 
the man. '1 hope it was not my 
sweetmeats that made him ill.' 

William began to tremble, and felt 
very much grieved forhis brother; whilst 
his uncle asked the man how many the 
Jitllc boy had bought. 

'A shilling's worth, sir. Only a shil- 
ling's worth, and that, divided amongst 
so many, would do nobody any harm/ 

Now Richard's uncle knew that nei- 
ther of the boys had any money of their 
own, for their mamma had begged in her 
letter that none might be given to them, 
as she was afraid of their buying things 
to eat with it. He was sure, therefore, 
that the shilling which Richard had 
spent in sweetmeats, must be that which 
the poor man ought to have had. 

'I will not ask you where you got the 
money, Richard ; lest it should tempt 
you to tell another lie. I know very well 
that it was the shilling you won after din- 
ner yesterday, and which was only given 


to you that you might make some poor 
person happy with it.' 

Richard hid his face with his hands, 
but did not attempt to speak. Poor 
William was in such distress for his 
brother, that he came and whispered 
to his uncle, and begged that he would 
not say any more about it. 

His uncle said, * I am sorry to give 
you pain, William, but such conduct 
deserves to be exposed ; I will save 
your brother any further reproof, how- 
ever, for your sake. We will leave 
him to his own thoughts at present, 
arid tomorrow he shall be sent home, 
as too naughty a boy for me to keep 
in my house- Come up stairs, my 
little fellows,' added he to the little 
boys who sat round the table ; ' the 
magic lantern is ready for us, and we 
may enjoy ourselves ; for we have nei- 
ther been cheats nor gluttons.' 

Richard thought he could never be 
sorry enough for what he had done. 
Again and again he resolved he would 


never more allow a love of eating to 
tempt him to do what was wrong; for, 
thought he, ' the pleasure of eating the 
nicest thing in the world is soon over; 
but the pain that is caused by being 
naughty lasts for many, many days.' 


VV.Darton, 58, Holbornllill. 



RUSTIC EXCURSIONS, to aid Tarry-at-Home 
Travellers; lor the Amusement and Instruction of 
young Persons. By MARY ELLIOT. Pp. 192. 
12wo. half -bound: with forty-eight coloured Plates. 
Ten Shillings. 

THIS is a very pleasing volume, and ought, both 
for the entertainment and information it affords, to be 
placed in the hands of all young readers who are, from 
any circumstances, compelled to be, during the greater 
part of their time, " in populous cities pent." They 
may thus become real " Tarry-at-Home Travellers," by 
the aid of these amusing excursions, in which scarcely 
any of the varied scenes of still or stirring life, which 
the country presents to notice, are overlooked. The 
more favored inhabitant of those scenes will likewise 
derive pleasure from their faithful delineation in this 
volume, though the information contained in it may not 
be equally necessary to him. The book, though sold at 
the price often shillings, comprises nearly 200 pages of 
letter-press, besides forty-eight plates ; each subject 
being illustrated by an engraving very neatly coloured. 

THE TWO EDWARDS; or Pride and Prejudice 
unmasked. By MARY ELLIOTT. Pp.180. 18mw. 
half -bound : with Plates. Two Shillings. 
This tale is designed to correct in young minds two 
very common errors, which, although of an entirely op- 
^Vposite character, are equally injurious in their tendency. 
v rhe disposition of the opulent to treat with arrogance 
and contempt those whom fortune has placed beneath 
them, and the inclination on the part of these indivi- 
duals in humble life to regard their superiors with envy 
and ill-will, mutually foster each other: for pride will 
provoke rudeness, and impertinence will be repulsed by 

t New Books recently published \nj W. DARION. 

haughtiness. In the history of t!i two Edwards, lite 
clanger of nourishing such feelings, and the advantage 
to be derived from an interchan-re of kindness on the 
one side and gratitude on the other, between persons in 
different stations of life, is excellently illustrated ; and 
calculated as it is to instil into the minds of the young a 
moral which they cannot too soon imbibe, the perusal of 
this narrative will certainly prove most salutary aud 
valuable to them. 

Ellen. For the Amusement and Instruction of 
Children. Pp. 107. ISmo. half-bound, Plate*. 
Eighteen Pence. 

This story, though evidently intended for very yong 
readers, is by no means without interest. The incidents 
it contains ate such as to create humane and charitable 
feelings ; and the narrative is made the vehicle of intro- 
ducing an entertaining description of the natural won- 
ders which abound in the vicinity of the Peak. Care 
has been taken to avoid hard or long words, which might 
interrupt or confuse those of tender ae ; and another 
great merit, considering for whose use the book is de- 
signed, is the very clear, full-sized tjpe which is em- 
ployed. This characteristic, indeed, attaches to all the 
children's books which we have seen proceed from the 
same source; but it is too frequently neglected; and 
we fear the rising generation will experience, in the inju- 
ry inflicted on the most valuable ot all senses, the disad- 
vantages arising from the miserable manner in which to 
many of the elementary works of the present day ar 

GEMS IN THE MINE; or, Traits and Habits of 
Childhood, in Verse. .By MAUY ELLIOTT. Pp. 
104, ISmo. half -bound. Plates. Two Shillings 
If Mrs. Elliott's reputation for making her muse sub- 
servient to the useful and kind purpose of contributing 
10 the improvement and happiness of young folks h;nj 
not been previously fully established, these "Gems" 

New Books recently published by W. DARTON. 3 

would have placed it on a sure basis. They are, indeed, 
what they profess to Ire, sketches of the traits and habits 
of childhood, and calculated to render those traits amia- 
ble, and those habits correct. The purchaser will, more- 
over, we think, feel agreeably surprised at finding, 
in addition to some very pretty engravings, more 
than eighty pieces, admirably adapted for children, on 
different subjects, agreeably diversified, and many of 
them quite novel, either in the matter or the manner, 
comprised in a two-shilling volume. These, with the 
aid of the excellent type, constitute no small recommen- 


What a Penny will do. By ESTHER HEWLETT. 
Pp. 139. ISmo. half -bound. Plates. Two 

A more useful, and it is to be feared a more needful, 
moral lesson, in many cases, for persons of almost a!} 
ages, can scarcely be conceived than that to be found in 
this interesting though unpretending, narrative. What 
can be done with a penny, is well shown in details not 
exhibiting any romantic adventure, but comprising a 
statement of occurrences which never violate probability, 
and recounting a series of successes, not sudden or uni- 
form, nor unrhequered by adverse fortunes, but .such as 
may reasonably be expected, and we are willing to be- 
lieve are often found to arise, from persevering industry 
and strict integrity. The disregaid of apparently tri- 
fling expenses has so often, by habitual repetition, been 
the immediate cause of ruin, that it is .superfluous to 
comment upon the importance of impressing upon the 
young reader the great advantages of adopting an oppo- 
site course of conduct. No avaricious dispositions, no 
parsimonious love of money for its own sake, is sought 
to be recommended by the example of tliu Lhtle Cow- 
slip Gatherer; but it clearly demonstrates how much 
may be effected from small beginnings, when the niimt 
is actuated, not by sordid, but by benevolent feelings, 
which have neither self -gratification nor miserly accu- 
mulation for the object of a wise and prudent economy. 

4 New Books recently published by W. DARTON. 

It ought not to be overlooked that this two-shilling 
volume contains as much matter as many five-shilling 
publications. It consists of about 140 pages, closely, but 
not crowdedly, printed. There is a pleasure in reflecting 
that so much valuable matter for youth can be procured 
at so small an expense. 

THE LITTLE VOCABULARY; intended as an 
Introduction to any of the larger Spelling-Books, 
and particularly designed to assist Mothers in the 
Instruction of their young Children. By Mrs. 
LOVECHILD. Pp. 72. 18io. Sixpence. 
This little work, however humble in character, pos- 
sesses one merit, unfortunately much too rare in elemen- 
tary publications connected with tuition: it is strictly 
what it professes to be. Arithmetical treatises are 
swelled out by appendages, wholly useless to the stn- 
dent till much more advanced than he is presumed to be 
relating to geometry or mensuration ; introductions to 
algebra are made to embrace the higher branches of 
analysis; and geographical primer*, to comprise details 
connected with politics, statistics, and history. We 
could multiply many similar instances. Asa contrast to 
these unfair mano?uvres in book making, so injurious to 
the cause of education, we would recommend those 
guilty of them to take a useful lesson even from the un- 
pretending help to childhood before us. No attempt ha* 
been made to increase its size by the easy expedient of 
extracts, in the form of reading lessons, from different 
writers; a practice sufficiently common, but assuredly 
misplaced in a first introduction to spelling. The words 
do not extend beyond four syllables, are well selected, 
and accurately divided; and an attempt has been made, 
both novel and judicious, to improve the utility of the 
plan, by classifying the words according to the subjects 
to which they relate. "The Little Vocabulary" will be 
found, as from what we have already said may be con- 
jectured, a very superior assistant both to the child and 
the preceptor, as a precursor to the use of larger spelling- 

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