Happy Days for Boys and Girls

Here is a fact we have from a very successful merchant. When he began business for himself, he carried his wares from shop to shop. At length his business increased to such an extent, that he hired a room at the Marlboro’ Hotel, in Boston, during the business season, and thither the merchants, having been duly notified, would repair to make purchases. Among all his customers, there was only one man who would carry to his store the goods which he had purchased. The buyers asked to have their goods carried, and often this manufacturer would carry them himself. But there was one merchant, and the largest buyer of the whole number, who was not ashamed to be seen carrying a case of goods through the streets. Sometimes he would purchase four cases, and he would say, “Now, I will take two, and you take two, and we will carry them right over to the store.” So the manufacturer and the merchant often went through the streets of Boston quite heavily loaded. This merchant, of all the number who went to the Marlboro’ Hotel for their purchases, succeeded in business. He became a wealthy man when all the others failed. The manufacturer, who was not ashamed to help himself, is now living – one of the wealthy men of Massachusetts, ready to aid, by his generous gifts, every good object that comes along, and honored by all who know him.

You have often heard and read the maxim, “God helps those who help themselves.” Is it not true?

William M. Thayer.

THE STORY OF JOHNNY DAWDLE

HERE, little folks, listen; I’ll tell you a tale,Though to shock and surprise you I fear it won’t fail;Of Master John Dawdle my story must be,Who, I’m sorry to say, is related to me.And yet, after all, he’s a nice little fellow:His eyes are dark brown and his hair is pale yellow;And though not very clever or tall, it is trueHe is better than many, if worse than a few.But he dawdles at breakfast, he dawdles at tea —He’s the greatest small dawdle that ever could be;And when in his bedroom, it is his delightTo dawdle in dressing at morning and night.And oh! if you saw him sit over a sum,You’d much wish to pinch him with finger and thumb;And then, if you scold him, he looks up so meek;Dear me! one would think that he hardly could speak.Each morning the same he comes tumbling down,And often enough is received with a frown,And a terrible warning of something severeUnless on the morrow he sooner appear.But where does he live? That I’d rather not say,Though, if truth must be told, I have met him to-day;I meant just to pass him with merely a bow,But he stopped and conversed for a minute or so.“Well, where are you going?” politely said I;To which he replied, with a groan and a sigh,“I’ve been doing my Latin from breakfast till dinner,And pretty hard work that is for a beginner.”“But now I suppose you are going to playAnd have pleasure and fun for the rest of the day?”“Indeed, but I’m not – there’s that bothering sum;And then there’s a tiresome old copy to come.”“Dear me!” I replied, and I thought it quite sadThere should be such hard work for one poor little lad;But just at that moment a lady passed by,And her words soon made clear that mistaken was I:“Now, then, Mr. Dawdle, get out of my way!I suppose you intended to stop here all day;The bell has done ringing, and yet, I declare,Your hands are not washed, nor yet brushed is your hair.”“Ho, ho!” I exclaimed; “Mr. Dawdle, indeed!”And I took myself off with all possible speed,Quite distressed that I should for a moment be seenWith one who so lazy and careless had been.So now, if you please, we will wish him good-bye;And if you should meet him by chance, as did I,Just bid him good-morning, and say that a friend(Only don’t mention names) hopes he soon may amend.

THE MOTHERLESS BOY

ONE day, about a year ago, the door of my sitting-room was thrown suddenly open, and the confident voice of Harvey thus introduced a stranger:

“Here’s Jim Peters, mother.”

I looked up, not a little surprised at the sight of a ragged, barefoot child.

Before I had time to say anything, Harvey went on:

“He lives round in Blake’s Court and hasn’t any mother. I found him on a doorstep feeding birds.”

My eyes rested on the child’s face while my boy said this. It was a very sad little face, thin and colorless, not bold and vicious, but timid and having a look of patient suffering. Harvey held him firmly by the hand with the air of one who bravely protects the weak.

“No mother!” said I, in tones of pity.

“No, ma’am; he hasn’t any mother. Have you, Jim?”

“No,” answered the child.

“She’s been dead ever so long; hasn’t she, Jim?”

“Yes, ever since last winter,” he said as he fixed his eyes, into which I saw the tears coming, upon my face. My heart moved toward him, repulsive as he was because of his rags and dirt.

“One of God’s little lambs straying on the cold and barren hills of life,” said a voice in my heart. And then I felt a tender compassion for the strange, unlovely child.

“Where do you live?” I asked.

“Round in Blake’s Court,” he replied.

“Who with?”

“Old Mrs. Flint; but she doesn’t want me.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, because I’m nothing to her, she says, and she doesn’t want the trouble of me.” He tried to say this in a brave, don’t-care sort of way, but his voice faltered and he dropped his eyes to the floor. How pitiful he looked!

“Poor child!” I could not help saying aloud.

Light flashed over his pale face. It was something new to him, this interest and compassion.

“One of God’s little lambs.” I heard the voice in my heart saying this again. Nobody to love him – nobody to care for him. Poor little boy! The hand of my own child, my son who is so very dear to me, had led him in through our door and claimed for him the love and care so long a stranger to his heart. Could I send him out and shut the door upon him, when I knew that he had no mother and no home? If I heeded not the cry of this little one precious in God’s sight, might I not be thought unworthy to be the guardian of another lamb of his fold whom I loved as my own life?

“I’ve got heaps of clothes, mother – a great many more than I want. And my bed is wide. There’s room enough in the house, and we’ve plenty to eat,” said Harvey, pleading for the child. I could not withstand all these appeals. Rising, I told the little stranger to follow me. When we came back to the sitting-room half an hour afterward, Jim Peters would hardly have been known by his old acquaintances, if any of them had been there. A bath and clean clothes had made a wonderful change in him.

I watched the poor little boy, as he and Harvey played during the afternoon, with no little concern of mind. What was I to do with him? Clean and neatly dressed, there was a look of refinement about the child which had nearly all been hidden by rags and dirt. He played gently, and his voice had in it a sweetness of tone, as it fell every now and then upon my ears, that was really winning. Send him back to Mrs. Flint’s in Blake’s Court? The change I had wrought upon him made this impossible. No, he could not be sent back to Mrs. Flint’s, who didn’t want the trouble of him. What then?

Do the kind hearts of my little readers repeat the question, “What then?” Do they want very much to know what has become of little Jim Peters?

It is just a year since my boy led him in from the street, and Jim is still in our house. No one came for him. No one inquired about him. No one cared for him. I must take that last sentence back. God cared for him, and by the hand of my tender-hearted son brought him into my comfortable home and said to me, “Here is one of my lambs, astray, hungry and cold. He was born into the world that he might become an angel in heaven, but is in danger of being lost. I give him into your care. Let me find him when I call my sheep by their names.”

As I finished writing the last sentence a voice close to my ear said “Mother!” I turned and received a loving kiss from the lips of Jim. He often does this. I think, in the midst of his happy plays, memory takes him back to the suffering past, and then his grateful heart runs over and he tries to reward me with a loving kiss. I did not tell him to call me “Mother.” At first he said it in a timid, hesitating way, and with such a pleading, half-scared look that I was touched and softened.

“She isn’t your real mother,” said Harvey, who happened to be near, “but then she’s good and loves you ever so much.”

“And I love her,” answered Jim, with a great throb in his throat, hiding his face in my lap and clasping and kissing my hand. Since then he always calls me “Mother;” and the God and Father of us all has sent into my heart a mother’s love for him, and I pray that he may be mine when I come to make up my jewels in heaven.

THE GOOD SHEPHERD

JESUS says that we must love him.Helpless as the lambs are we;But He very kindly tells usThat our Shepherd He will be.Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us,Guard us both by night and day;Pity show to little children,Who like lambs too often stray.We are always prone to wander:Please to keep us from each snare;Teach our infant hearts to praise TheeFor Thy kindness and Thy care.

THE ST. BERNARD DOG

BY the pass of the Great St. Bernard travellers cross the Pennine Alps (Penn, a Celtic word, meaning height) along the mountain road which leads from Martigny, in Switzerland, to Aosta, in Piedmont. On the crest of the pass, eight thousand two hundred feet above the sea level, stands the Hospice, tenanted by about a dozen monks.

This is supposed to be the highest spot in Europe inhabited by human beings. The climate is necessarily rigorous, the thermometer in winter being often twenty-nine degrees below zero, whilst sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit is about the highest range ever attained in summer. From the extreme difficulty of respiration, few of the monks ever survive the period of their vow, which is fifteen years, commencing at the age of eighteen.

This hospice is said to have been first founded in the year 962, by Bernard, a Piedmontese nobleman. It will be remembered that it was over this pass Napoleon, in May, 1800, led an army of thirty thousand men into Italy, having with them heavy artillery and cavalry.

For poor travellers and traders the hospice is really a place of refuge. During winter, crossing this pass is a very dangerous affair. The snow falls in small particles, and remains as dry as dust. Whirlwinds, called “tourmentes,” catch up this light snow, and carrying it with blinding violence against the traveller, burying every landmark, at once put an end to knowledge of position. Avalanches, too, are of frequent occurrence.

After violent storms, or the fall of avalanches, or any other unusual severity of winter weather, the monks set out in search of travellers who may have been overwhelmed by the snow in their ascent of the pass. They are generally accompanied in their search by dogs of a peculiar breed, commonly known as the St. Bernard’s Dog, on account of the celebrated monastery where these magnificent animals are taught to exercise their wondrous powers, which have gained for them and their teachers a world-wide fame. On their neck is a bell, to attract the attention of any belated wayfarer; and their deep and powerful bay quickly gives notice to the benevolent monks to hurry to the relief of any unfortunate traveller they may find.

Some of the dogs carry, attached to their collars, a flask of spirits or other restorative. Their wonderfully acute sense of smell enables them to detect the bodies of persons buried deeply beneath the surface of the snow, and thus direct the searchers where to dig for them. The animal’s instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden chasms or clefts, filled with loose snow, are; for it carefully avoids them, and thus is an all-important guide to the monks themselves.

We have stories without number as to what these dogs accomplish on their own account; how they dig out travellers, and bring them, sometimes unaided by man, to the hospice.

THE ST. BERNARD DOG

A few years ago one of these faithful animals might be seen wearing a medal, and regarded with much affection by all. This noble dog had well deserved the distinction; for one stormy day he had saved twenty-two individuals buried in their snowy envelope. Unfortunately, he met, at a subsequent period, the very fate from which he had rescued so many persons. At the worst season an Italian courier was crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each escorted by a dog (one being the wearer of the medal), when suddenly a vast avalanche shot down upon them with lightning speed, and they were all lost.

Another of these dogs, named “Barry,” had served the St. Bernard Convent during twelve years, and had saved the lives of fifteen persons during that time. Whenever the pass was obscured by fogs and wintry snow-storms, he would go forth in search of lost travellers. It was his practice to run barking till he lost his breath, and he would venture into the most dangerous places. If, as sometimes happened, he did not succeed in drawing out from the snow some traveller stiffened with cold or overcome with exhaustion, he would run back to the convent and fetch some of the monks.

One day this brave dog found a little child in a half-frozen state. He began directly to lick him, and having succeeded first in restoring animation, and next in the complete resuscitation of the boy, he induced the child, by his caresses, to tie himself on his back. When this was effected, he transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to the hospice. When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was pensioned off by way of reward, and after his death his body was stuffed and placed in the museum at Berne.

It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of tracking footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a pup which had been produced in London by a female of the St. Bernard breed. The young animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never observed to give any particular tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until winter. Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed the utmost inclination to follow footsteps; and such was its power of doing so, that though its master might attempt to confuse it by walking in the most irregular fashion, and by inducing other persons to cross his path in all directions, yet it always followed his course with great precision.

Sir Thomas Dick Lander, who for many years resided at Grange House, Edinburgh, had a fine dog of the St. Bernard breed presented to him. Its bark was so loud that it could be distinguished at the distance of a mile. Its bark once led to its recovery, when stolen by some carters. “Bass,” as the dog was named, had been missing for some time, when it was brought back to Grange House by a letter-carrier, who said that in going along a certain street, he heard a barking inside a yard, and at once recognized the voice of Bass. “He knocked at the gate,” writes Sir Thomas, “and immediately said to the owner of the premises, —

“‘You have got Sir Thomas Lander’s big dog.’

“The man denied it.

“‘But I know you have,’ continued the letter-carrier. ‘I am certain that I heard the bark of Sir Thomas’s big dog; for there is no other dog in or about all Edinburgh that has such a bark.’

“The man then admitted that he had a large dog, which he had bought for a trifle from a couple of coal carters; and at last, with great reluctance, he gave up the dog to the letter-carrier, who brought him home here.”

Sir Thomas, after describing many of Bass’s characteristics, then proceeds: —

“He took a particular fancy for one of the postmen who delivers letters here, though he was not the man whom I have already had occasion to mention. It was the duty of this postman I now allude to, besides delivering letters, to carry a letter-bag from one receiving house to another, and this big bag he used to give Bass to carry. Bass always followed that man through all the villas in the neighborhood where he had deliveries to make, and he invariably parted with him opposite to the gate of the Convent of St. Margaret’s, and returned home.

“When our gate was shut, to prevent his following the postman, the dog always leaped a high wall to get after him. One day, when the postman was ill, or detained by some accidental circumstance, he sent a man in his place. Bass went up to the man, curiously scanning his face, whilst the man retired from the dog, by no means liking his appearance, and very anxious to decline all acquaintance with him. But as the man left the place, Bass followed him, showing strong symptoms that he was determined to have the post-bag. The man did all he could to keep the possession of it. But at length Bass, seeing that he had no chance of getting possession of the bag by civil entreaty, raised himself on his hind legs, and putting a great fore paw on each of the man’s shoulders, he laid him flat on his back in the road, and quietly picking up the bag, he proceeded peaceably on his wonted way. The man, much dismayed, arose and followed the dog, making, every now and then, an ineffectual attempt to coax him to give it up.

“At the first house he came to he told his fears and the dilemma he was in; but the people comforted him by telling him that the dog always carried the bag. Bass walked with the man to all the houses at which he delivered letters, and along the road till he came to the gate of St. Margaret’s, where he dropped the bag; and making his bow to the man, he returned home.”

THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS

O WISE little birds! how do you knowThe way to goSouthward and northward, to and fro?Far up in the ether piped they:“We but obeyOne who calleth us far away.“He calleth and calleth year by yearNow there, now here;Ever He maketh the way appear.”Dear little birds, He calleth meWho calleth ye:Would that I might as trusting be!

FOR THE CHILDREN

COME stand by my knee, little children,Too weary for laughter or song;The sports of the daylight are over,And evening is creeping along;The snow-fields are white in the moonlight,The winds of the winter are chill,But under the sheltering roof-treeThe fire shineth ruddy and still.You sit by the fire, little children,Your cheeks are ruddy and warm;But out in the cold of the winterIs many a shivering form.There are mothers that wander for shelter,And babes that are pining for bread;Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children,From whose tender hand you are fed.Come look in my eyes, little children,And tell me, through all the long day,Have you thought of the Father above us,Who guarded from evil our way?He heareth the cry of the sparrow,And careth for great and for small;In life and in death, little children,His love is the truest of all.Now come to your rest, little children,And over your innocent sleep,Unseen by your vision, the angelsTheir watch through the darkness shall keep;Then pray that the Shepherd who guidethThe lambs that He loveth so wellMay lead you, in life’s rosy morning,Beside the still waters to dwell.

REASON AND INSTINCT

ARE dogs endowed with reason? As you grow up, you will spend many happy hours in the contemplation of this interesting question. It does sometimes seem as if there could be no possible doubt that dogs, as well as horses, elephants, and some other of the higher animals, are gifted with the dawn of reason, so extraordinary are some of their acts.

It is but a few days since a dog in Vermont saved a house from burning, and possibly the inmates. The dog discovered the fire in the kitchen, flew to his master’s apartment, leaped upon his bed, and so aroused the people to a sense of their danger.

“As I was walking out one frosty morning with a large Newfoundland dog,” says the Rev. J. C. Atkinson, “I observed the animal’s repeated disappointment on putting his head down to drink at sundry ice-covered pools. After one of these disappointments, I broke the ice with my foot for my thirsty companion. The next time Tiger was thirsty, he did not wait for me to ‘break the ice,’ but with his foot, or, if too strong, by jumping upon it, he obtained water for himself.”

Here seems to be the manifestation of a desire to learn from observation.

After the battle of Fredericksburg, it fell to my duty to search a given district for any dead or wounded soldiers there might be left, and to bring relief. Near an old brick dwelling I discovered a soldier in gray who seemed to be dead. Lying by his side was a noble dog, with his head flat upon his master’s neck. As I approached, the dog raised his eyes to me good-naturedly, and began wagging his tail; but he did not change his position. The fact that the animal did not growl, that he did not move, but, more than all, the intelligent, joyful expression of his face, convinced me that the man was only wounded, which proved to be the case. A bullet had pierced his throat, and faint from the loss of blood, he had fallen down where he lay. His dog had actually stopped the bleeding from the wound by laying his head across it. Whether this was casual or not, I cannot say. But the shaggy coat of the faithful creature was completely matted with his master’s blood.

Strange as these facts may appear, we should not confound INSTINCT with intelligence which comes from REASON. There is a wide difference between them. Before long I propose to discuss this matter to some extent, in an article which I have already begun.

TOUCH NOT

TOUCH not the tempting cup, my boy,Though urged by friend or foe;Dare, when the tempter urges most,Dare nobly say, No – no!The joyous angel from on highShall tell your soul the reason why.Touch not the tempting cup, my boy;In righteousness be brave;Take not the first, a single step,Towards a drunkard’s grave;The widow’s groan, the orphan’s sigh,Shall tell your soul the reason why.

CHILDREN

WHAT could we without them,Those flowers of life?How bear all the sorrowsWith which it is rife?As long as they blossom,Whilst brightly they bloom,Our own griefs are nothing,Forgotten our gloom.We joy in the sunshine —It sheds on them light;We welcome the shower —It makes them more bright;On our pathway of thornsThey are thrown from above,And they twine round about us,And bless us with love.Bright, beautiful flowers,So fresh and so pure!How could we without themLife’s troubles endure?So guileless and holy,Such soothers of strife,What could we without them,Sweet flowers of life?

THE WHITE BUTTERFLY

A TALE FOR CHILDREN

VERY slowly and wearily over road and hedge flew a white butterfly one calm May evening; its wings had been torn and battered in its flight from eager pursuers, who little cared that their pleasure was another’s pain. On, on, went the fugitive, until it came to a little garden so sweet and quiet that it rested from its flight and said, “Here, at least, I shall find peace; these gentle flowers will give me shelter.” Then, with eager swiftness, it flew to a stately peony. “Oh, give me shelter, thou beautiful flower!” it murmured as it rested for a second upon its crimson head – a second only, for, with a jerk and an exclamation of disgust, the peony cast the butterfly to the ground. With a low sigh it turned to the pansy near. Well, the pansy wished to be kind, but the butterfly was really very tattered and dirty; and then velvet soils so easily that she must beg to be excused. The wall-flower, naturally frank and good-natured, had been so tormented all day by those troublesome bees that she solemnly vowed she would do nothing more for anybody.

The tulips were asleep; and the other flowers, trying to emulate fair Lady Rose, held their heads so very high that they, of course, did not hear the low, soft cry, “Oh, will no one give me shelter?” At last there came an answer, “I will, gladly,” in a shy and trembling tone, as though fearing to be presumptuous, from a thick thorny bush which helped to protect the more dainty beauties from the rough blasts of a sometimes too boisterous wind; in consideration of which service the flowers considered the briar as a good, useful sort of thing, respectable enough in its common way, but not as an equal or associate, you understand. With gratitude the forlorn butterfly rested all night in the bosom of one of its simple white blossoms.

When night had gone and the bright sun came gliding up from the east, calling on Nature to awake, the flowers raised their heads in all the pride of renewed beauty and saluted one another. Where was the forlorn butterfly? Ah! where? They saw it no more; but over the white blossom where it had rested there hovered a tiny fairy in shining, changing sheen, her wand sparkling with dewdrops. She looked down on the flowers with gentle, reproachful eye, while they bent low in wonder and admiration.