The Looking-Glass for the Mind; or, Intellectual Mirror

The boy, having thus found so good a market for his birds, told all his companions of it; so that, in a few hours, Louisa's yard was so filled with little bird-merchants, that you would have supposed it to be a bird-market. However, the pretty maiden purchased all they brought, and had them turned into the same room, with those of her former purchase.

When night came, Louisa went to bed with more pleasure than she had felt for a long time. "What a pleasing reflection it is," said she to herself, "to be thus capable of preserving the lives of so many innocent birds, and save them from famine and merciless cats! – When summer comes, and I go into the woods and groves, these pretty birds will fly round me, and sing their sweetest notes, in gratitude for my kind attention to them." – These thoughts at last lulled her to sleep, but they accompanied her even in her dreams; for she fancied herself in one of the most delightful groves she had ever seen, where all the little birds were busied, either in feeding their young, or in singing, and in hopping from bough to bough.

The first thing Louisa did, after she had got up in the morning, was to go and feed her little family in the room, and also those that came into the yard. Though the seed to feed them cost her nothing, yet she recollected that the many purchases she had lately made of birds must have almost exhausted her purse; "and if the frost should continue," said she to herself, "what will become of those poor birds that I shall not be able to purchase! Those naughty boys will either give them to their cats, or suffer them to die with hunger."

While she was giving way to these sorrowful reflections, her hand was moving gently into her pocket, in order to bring out her exhausted purse; but, judge what must be her surprise and astonishment, when, instead of pulling out an empty purse, she found it brimful of money! She ran immediately to her papa, to tell him of this strange circumstance, when he snatched her up in his arms, tenderly embraced her, and shed tears of joy on her blooming cheeks.

"My dear child," said her papa to her, "you cannot conceive how happy you now make me! Let these little birds continue to be the objects of your relief, and, be assured, your purse shall never be reduced to emptiness." This pleasing news gladdened the little heart of Louisa, and she ran immediately to fill her apron with seed, and then hastened to feed her feathered guests. The birds came fluttering round her, and seemed conscious of her bounty and generosity.

After feeding these happy prisoners, she went down into the yard, and there distributed a plentiful meal to the starving wanderers without. What an important trust had she now taken on herself! – nothing less than the support of a hundred dependants within doors, and a still greater number without! No wonder that her dolls and other playthings should be now totally forgotten.

As Louisa was putting her hand into the seed-bag, to take out of it the afternoon food for her birds, she found a paper, on which were written these words: "The inhabitants of the air fly towards thee, O Lord! and thou givest them their food; thou openest thy hand, and fillest all things living with plenteousness."

As she saw her papa behind her, she turned round and said, "I am therefore now imitating God." – "Yes, my sweet Louisa," said her father, "in every good action we imitate our Maker. When you shall be grown to maturity, you will then assist the necessitous part of the human race, as you now do the birds; and the more good you do, the nearer you will approach the perfections of God."

Louisa continued her attention to feed her hungry birds for more than a week, when the snow began to melt, and the fields by degrees recovered their former verdure. The birds who had lately been afraid to quit the warm shelter of the houses, now returned to the woods and groves. The birds in our little Louisa's aviary were confined, and therefore could not get away; but they showed their inclination to depart, by flying against the windows, and pecking the glass with their bills. These birds, perhaps, were industrious, and wished not to be troublesome to Louisa, since they could not procure their own living.

Louisa, not being able to comprehend what could make them so uneasy, asked her papa if he could tell the cause of it "I know not, my dear," said her papa; "but it is possible these little birds may have left some companions in the fields, which they now wish to see." – "You are very right, papa," replied Louisa, "and they shall have their liberty immediately." She accordingly opened the window, and all the birds flew out of it.

These little feathered animals had no sooner obtained their liberty, than some were seen hopping on the ground, others darting into the air, or sporting in the trees, from twig to twig, and some flying about the windows, chirping, as though out of gratitude to their benefactor.

Louisa hardly ever went into the fields, but she fancied that some of her little family seemed to welcome her approach, either by hopping before her, or entertaining her with their melodious notes, which afforded her a source of inexhaustible pleasure.

THE STORY OF BERTRAND, A POOR LABOURER, AND HIS LITTLE FAMILY

Think yourselves happy, my little readers, since none of you perhaps know what it is to endure hunger day after day, without being able to enjoy one plentiful meal. Confident I am, that the following relation will not fail to make an impression on your tender years.

Bertrand was a poor labourer, who had six young children, whom he maintained with the utmost difficulty. To add to his distresses, an unfavourable season much increased the price of bread. This honest labourer worked day and night to procure subsistence for his family, and though their food was composed of the coarsest kind, yet even of that he could not procure a sufficiency.

Finding himself reduced to extremity, he one day called his little family together, and with tears in his eyes, and a heart overflowing with grief, "My sweet children," said he to them, "bread is now so extravagantly dear, that I find all my efforts to support you ineffectual. My whole day's labour is barely sufficient to purchase this piece of bread which you see in my hand; it must therefore be divided among you, and you must be contented with the little my labour can procure you. Though it will not afford each of you a plentiful meal, yet it will be sufficient to keep you from perishing with hunger." Sorrow and tears interrupted his words, and he could say no more, but lifted up his hands and eyes to heaven.

His children wept in silence, and, young as they were, their little hearts seemed to feel more for their father than for themselves. Bertrand then divided the small portion of bread into seven equal shares, one of which he kept for himself, and gave to the rest each their lot. But one of them, named Harry, refused his share, telling his father he could not eat, pretending to be sick. "What is the matter with you, my dear child?" said his father, taking him up in his arms. "I am very sick," replied Harry, "very sick indeed, and should be glad to go to sleep." Bertrand then carried him to bed, and gave him a tender kiss, wishing him a good night.

The next morning the honest labourer, overwhelmed with sorrow, went to a neighbouring physician, and begged of him, as a charity, to come and see his poor boy. Though the physician was sure of never being paid for his visit, yet such were his humanity and feelings, that he instantly went to the labourer's house.

On his arrival there, he found no particular symptoms of illness, though the boy was evidently in a very low and languishing state. The doctor told him he would send him a cordial draught; but Harry begged he would forbear sending him any thing, as he could do him no good. The doctor was a little angry at this behaviour, and insisted on knowing what his disorder was, threatening him, if he did not tell him immediately, he would go and acquaint his father with his obstinacy.

Poor Harry begged the doctor would say nothing about it to his father, which still more increased the doctor's wish to get at the bottom of this mystery. At last poor Harry, finding the doctor resolute, desired his brothers and sisters might leave the room, and he would acquaint him with every particular.

As soon as the physician had sent the children out of the room, "Alas! Sir," said little Harry, "in this season of scarcity, my poor dear father cannot earn bread enough to feed us. What little quantity he can get, he divides equally among us, reserving to himself the smallest part. To see my dear brothers and sisters suffer hunger is more than I can bear; and, as I am the eldest, and stronger than they, I have therefore not eaten any myself, but have divided my share among them. It is on this account that I pretended to be sick and unable to eat; I beseech you, however, to keep this a secret from my father."

The physician, wiping away a tear which started involuntarily from his eye, asked poor Harry if he were not then hungry. He acknowledged indeed that he was hungry; but said that did not give him so much affliction as to see the distresses of his family. "But my good lad," said the doctor, "if you do not take some nourishment, you will die." – "I am indifferent about that," replied Harry, "since my father will have then one mouth less to feed, and I shall go to heaven, where I will pray to God to assist my dear father, and my little sisters and brothers."

What heart but must melt with pity and admiration at the relation of such facts? The generous physician, taking up Harry in his arms, and clasping him to his bosom, "No, my dear little boy," said he, "thou shalt not die. God and I will take care of thy little family; and return thanks to God for having sent me hither. I must leave you for the present, but I will soon return."

The good physician hastened home, and ordered one of his servants to load himself with refreshments of every kind. He then hastened to the relief of poor Harry and his starving brothers and sisters. He made them all sit down at the table, and eat till they were perfectly satisfied. What could be a more pleasing scene, than that which the good physician then beheld, six pretty little innocent creatures smiling over the bounty of their generous and humane friend?

The doctor, on his departure, desired Harry to be under no uneasiness, as he should take care to secure them a supply of whatever might be wanting. He faithfully performed his promise, and they had daily cause of rejoicing at his bounty and benevolence. The doctor's generosity was imitated by every good person, to whom he related the affecting scene. From some they received provisions, from some money, and from others clothes and linen. So that, in a short time, this little family, which was but lately in want of every thing, became possessed of plenty.

Bertrand's landlord, who was a gentleman of considerable fortune, was so struck with the tender generosity of little Harry that he sent for his father, and paying him many compliments on his happiness of having such a son, he offered to take Harry under his own inspection, and bring him up in his own house. This matter being agreed on, Bertrand's landlord settled an annuity on him, promising, at the same time, to provide for his other children as they grew up. Bertrand, transported with joy, returned to his house, and falling on his knees, offered up his most grateful thanks to that good God, who had graciously condescended to bestow on him such a son!

Hence you may learn, my young readers, how much you have it in your power to prove a blessing to your parents, and a comfort to yourselves. It is not necessary, that, in order to do so, you should be reduced to the same necessity that poor Harry was: for, however exalted your station may be, you will always find opportunities enough to give proofs of your duty to your parents, your affection for your brothers and sisters, and your humanity and benevolence to the poor and needy. Happy indeed are those poor children, who have found a friend and protector when they were needful and helpless; but much happier those who, without ever feeling the griping hand of penury and want themselves, have received the inexpressible delight that never fails to arise from the pleasing reflection of having raised honest poverty to happiness and plenty.

NANCY AND HER CANARY BIRD, POOR CHERRY

As Nancy was one day looking out of her window, a man happened to come by, crying, "Canary-birds; come, buy my Canary-birds." The man had a large cage upon his head, in which the birds hopped about from perch to perch, and made Nancy quite in love with them. "Will you buy a pretty bird or two, Miss?" said the man. "I have no objection," replied the little maid, "provided my papa will give me leave. If you will stop a little while, I will soon let you know." So away ran Nancy down stairs to her papa, while the birdman put down his cage at the door.

Nancy ran into her papa's chamber quite out of breath, crying, "O dear papa, only come here! here is a man in the street that has a large cage on his head, with, I dare say, a hundred Canary-birds in it." – "Well, and what of all that?" replied her papa; "why does that seem to rejoice you so much?" Nancy answering, that she should be happy to buy one of them; her papa reminded her, that the bird must be fed, and should it be neglected, even only for a day, it would certainly die.

Nancy promised that she would never eat her own breakfast till she had given her bird his; but her papa reminded her that she was a giddy girl, and that he feared she had promised too much. However, there was no getting over her coaxings and wheedlings, so that her papa was at last obliged to consent that she should buy one.

He then took Nancy by the hand, and led her to the door, where the man was waiting with his birds. He chose the prettiest Canary-bird in it: it was a male, of a fine lively yellow colour, with a little black tuft upon his head. Nancy was now quite cheerful and happy, and pulling out her purse, gave it to her father to pay for the bird. But what was to be done with the bird without a cage, and Nancy had not money enough? However, upon her promising that she would take great care to feed her bird, her papa bought her a fine new cage, of which he made her a present.

As soon as Nancy had given her Canary-bird possession of his new palace, she ran about the house, calling her mamma, her brothers and sisters, and all the servants, to come and see her pretty Canary-bird, to which she gave the name of Poor Cherry. When any of her little friends came to see her, the first thing she told them was, that she had one of the prettiest Canary-birds in the world. "He is as yellow as gold," said she, "and he has a little black crest, like the plumes of my mamma's hat. Come, you must go and see him! His name is Cherry."

Cherry was as happy as any bird need wish to be, under the care of Nancy. Her first business every morning was to feed Cherry: and whenever there was any cake at table, Cherry was sure to come in for a share of it. There were always some bits of sugar in store for him, and his cage was constantly decorated with the most lively herbage.

Her pretty bird was not ungrateful, but did all in his power to make Nancy sensible how much he was obliged to her. He soon learned to distinguish her, and the moment he heard her step into the room, he would flutter his wings, and keep up an incessant chirping. It is no wonder, therefore, if Cherry and Nancy became very fond of each other.

At the expiration of a week he began to open his little throat, and sung the most delightful songs. He would sometimes raise his notes to so great a height, that you would almost think he must kill himself with such vast exertions. Then, after stopping a little, he would begin again, with a tone so sweet and powerful, that he was heard in every part of the house.

Nancy would often sit for whole hours by his cage, listening to his melody. Sometimes so attentively would she gaze at him, that she would insensibly let her work fall out of her hands; and after he had entertained her with his melodious notes, she would regale him with a tune on her bird organ, which he would endeavour to imitate.

In length of time, however, these pleasures began to grow familiar to his friend Nancy. Her papa, one day, presented her with a book of prints, with which she was so much delighted, that Cherry began to lose at least one half of her attention. As usual, he would chirp the moment he saw her, let her be at what distance she would; but Nancy began to take no notice of him, and almost a week had passed, without his receiving either a bit of biscuit, or a fresh supply of chick-weed. He repeated the sweetest and most harmonious notes that Nancy had taught him, but to no purpose.

It now appeared too clearly, that new objects began to attract Nancy's attention. Her birth-day arrived, and her godfather gave her a large jointed doll, which she named Columbine: and this said Columbine proved a sad rival to Cherry; for, from morning to night, the dressing and undressing of Miss Columbine engrossed the whole of her time. What with this and her carrying her doll up and down stairs, and into every room in the house, it was happy for poor Cherry if he got fed by the evening, and sometimes it happened that he went a whole day without feeding.

One day, however, when Nancy's papa was at table, accidentally casting his eyes upon the cage, he saw poor Cherry lying upon his breast, and panting, as it were, for life. The poor bird's feathers appeared all rough, and it seemed contracted into a mere lump. Nancy's papa went up close to it; but it was unable even to chirp, and the poor little creature had hardly strength enough to breathe. He called to him his little Nancy, and asked her what was the matter with her bird. Nancy blushed, saying, in a low voice, "Why, papa, I – somehow, I forgot;" and ran to fetch the seed-box.

Her papa, in the mean time, took down the cage, and found that poor Cherry had not a single seed left, nor a drop of water. "Alas! poor bird," said he, "you have got into careless hands. Had I foreseen this, I would never have bought you." All the company joined in pity for the poor bird; and Nancy ran away into her chamber to ease her heart in tears. However, her papa, with some difficulty, brought pretty Cherry to himself again.

Her father, the next day, ordered Cherry to be made a present of to a young gentleman in the neighbourhood, who, he said, would take much better care of it than his little thoughtless daughter; but poor Nancy could not bear the idea of parting with her bird, and most faithfully promised never more to neglect him.

Her papa, at last, gave way to her entreaties; and permitted her to keep little Cherry, but not without a severe reprimand, and a strict injunction to be more careful for the future. "This poor little creature," said her papa, "is confined in a prison, and is therefore totally unable to provide for its own wants. Whenever you want any thing, you know how to get it; but this little bird can neither help himself, nor make his wants known to others. If ever you let him want seed or water again, look to it."

Nancy burst out into a flood of tears, took her papa by the hand, and kissed it; but her heart was so full, that she could not utter a syllable. Cherry and Nancy were now again good friends, and he for some time wanted for nothing.

About a month afterwards, her father and mother were obliged to go a little way into the country on some particular business; but, before they set out, he gave Nancy strict charge to take care of poor Cherry. No sooner were her parents gone, than she ran to the cage, and gave Cherry plenty of seed and water.

Little Nancy now finding herself alone and at liberty, sent for some of her companions to come and spend the day with her. The former part of the day they passed in the garden, and the latter in playing at blindman's buff and four corners. She went to bed very much fatigued; but, as soon as she awoke in the morning, she began to think of new pleasures.

She went abroad that day, while poor Cherry was obliged to stay at home and fast. The second and third day passed in the same playful manner as before; but no poor Cherry was thought of. On the fourth day, her father and mother came home, and, as soon as they had kissed her, her father enquired after poor Cherry. "He is very well," said Nancy, a little confused, and then ran to fetch him some seed and water. Alas! poor little Cherry was no more; he was lying upon his back, with his wings spread, and his beak open. Nancy screamed out, and wrung her hands, when all the family ran to her, and were witnesses of the melancholy scene.

"Alas! poor bird," said her papa, "what a melancholy end thou hast come to! If I had twisted thy head off the day I went into the country, it would have caused you but a moment's pain; but now you have endured all the pangs of hunger and thirst, and expired in extreme agony. However, poor Cherry! you are happy in being out of the hands of so merciless a guardian."

Nancy was so shocked and distressed on the occasion, that she would have given all her little treasure, and even all her playthings, to have brought Cherry to life; but it was now too late. Her papa had the bird stuffed, and hung up to the ceiling, in memory of Nancy's carelessness. She dared not even to lift her eyes up to look at it, for, whenever she did, it was sure to make her cry. At last she prevailed on her papa to have it removed, but not till after many earnest entreaties and repeated acknowledgments of the fault she had been guilty of. Whenever Nancy was guilty of inattention, or giddiness, the bird was hung up again in its place, and every one would say in her hearing, "Alas, poor Cherry! what a cruel death you suffered!"

Thus you see, my little friends, what are the sad consequences of inattention, giddiness, and too great a fondness for pleasure, which always make us forgetful of what we ought carefully to attend to.

THE BIRDS, THE THORN-BUSHES, AND THE SHEEP

Mr. Stanhope and his son Gregory were one evening, in the month of May, sitting at the foot of a delightful hill, and surveying the beautiful works of nature that surrounded them. The declining sun, now sinking into the west, seemed to clothe every thing with a purple robe. The cheerful song of a shepherd called off their attention from their meditations on those delightful prospects. This shepherd was driving home his flocks from the adjacent fields.

Thorn-bushes grew on each side of the road, and every sheep that approached the thorns was sure to be robbed of some part of its wool, which a good deal displeased little Gregory. "Only see, papa," said he, "how the sheep are deprived of their wool by those bushes! You have often told me, that God makes nothing in vain; but these briars seem only made for mischief; people should therefore join to destroy them root and branch. Were the poor sheep to come often this way, they would be robbed of all their clothing. But that shall not be the case, for I will rise with the sun to-morrow morning, and with my little bill-hook and snip-snap, I will level all these briars with the ground. You may come with me, papa, if you please, and bring with you an axe. Before breakfast, we shall be able to destroy them all."

Mr. Stanhope replied, "We must not go about this business in too great a hurry, but take a little time to consider of it; perhaps, there may not be so much cause for being angry with these bushes, as you at present seem to imagine. Have you not seen the shepherds about Lammas, with great shears in their hands, take from the trembling sheep all their wool, not being contented with a few locks only."

Gregory allowed that was true; but they did it in order to make clothes, whereas the hedges robbed the sheep without having the least occasion for their wool, and evidently for no useful purpose. "If it be usual," said he, "for sheep to lose their clothing at a certain time of the year, then it is much better to take it for our own advantage, than to suffer the hedges to pull it off for no end whatever."

Mr. Stanhope allowed the arguments of little Gregory to be just; for Nature has given to every beast a clothing, and we are obliged from them to borrow our own, otherwise we should be forced to go naked, and exposed to the inclemency of the elements.

"Very well, papa," said Gregory, "though we want clothing, yet these bushes want none: they rob us of what we have need, and therefore down they shall all come with to-morrow morning's rising sun. And I dare say, papa, you will come along with me, and assist me."