Part 8

“Well,” said William, “I don’t care. I had rather be punished than try to keep it secret. If we try to keep it secret, and let Thomas bear the blame, we shall be miserable about it for a long time, and feel guilty or ashamed whenever we meet father or Thomas. I had rather be punished at once and have it done with.”

[Sidenote: “Let us tell father.”]

“Well,” said John, “let us tell father. We will tell him the first thing to-morrow morning.”

The affair being thus arranged, the boys ceased talking about it, and shut up their eyes to go to sleep. After a few minutes, however, William spoke to his brother again.

“John,” said he, “I think I could go to sleep better if I should go and tell father now all about it. I don’t suppose that he is asleep yet.”

“Well,” said John, “go and tell him.”

So William got up out of his bed, and went to the door of his father’s room. He knocked at the door, and his father said “Come in.” William opened the door. His father was in bed, and there was no light in the room, except a dim night-lamp that was burning on a table.

[Sidenote: The explanation.]

“Father,” said William, “I came to tell you that I suppose I know how our tool-house caught on fire.”

“How was it?” asked his father.

“Why, John and I had a candle there before dinner, and I believe we left it burning; and so I suppose that, when it burned down, it set the bench on fire.”

“That could not have been the way,” said his father, “for, when it got down to the candlestick, it would go out.”

“But there was not any candlestick,” said William, “only a wooden one, which we made out of a block and three nails.”

“Oh! that was the way, was it?” said his father. “Indeed!”

Here there was a short pause. William waited to hear what his father would say next.

“Well, William,” said his father, at length, “you are a very good boy to come and tell me. Now go back to your bed, and go to sleep. We will see all about it in the morning.”

So William went out; but, just as he was shutting the door, his father called to him again.

“William!” said he.

“What, sir?” said William.

“Get up as early as you can to-morrow morning, and go to Thomas’s, and tell him how it was. He thinks that he must have set the tool-house on fire, and he is quite troubled about it.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” said William.

Then he went back to his room, and reported to John what he had done, and what his father had said. The boys were both very much relieved in mind from having made their confession.

“I am very glad I told him,” said William; “and now I only wish I could tell Thomas about it without waiting till morning.”

“So do I,” said John.

“But we can’t,” said William, “so now we will go to sleep. But we will get up, and go to his house the first thing in the morning.”

[Sidenote: The boys get up early to explain the accident to Thomas.]

This the boys did. Thomas’s mind was very much relieved when he heard their story. He went directly into the house to tell his wife, who, as well as himself, had been very anxious about the origin of the fire. When he came out, he told the boys that he was very much obliged to them for coming to tell him about it so early. “In fact,” said he, “I think it is very generous and noble in you to take the blame of the fire upon yourselves, instead of letting it rest upon innocent people. There are very few boys that would have done so.”

[Sidenote: The final result.]

William and John were fortunately disappointed in their expectations that they would have to suffer some punishment for their fault. In fact, they were not even reproved. They told their father all about it at breakfast, and he said that, though it certainly was not a prudent thing for boys to trust themselves with a wooden candlestick in a shop full of wood and shavings, still he did not think that they deserved any particular censure for having made one. “The whole thing was one of those accidents which will sometimes occur,” said he, “and you need not think any thing more about it. I will have a new tool-house and shop built pretty soon, and will make it better than the old one was. And now, after breakfast, you may go down and rake over the ashes, and see if you can rake out any of the remains of the garden tools.”

* * * * *

[Sidenote: An important principle.]

It would have been better for the story if it had happened that the boys, in setting fire to the tool-house, had really been guilty of some serious fault, for which they were afterward to be punished; for the nobleness and magnanimity which are displayed in confessing a fault, are so much the greater when the person confessing occasions himself suffering by it.

WILLING TO LEARN.

[Sidenote: Bruno was willing to learn.]

Bruno had one excellent quality, which made him a special favorite with the several boys that owned him at different times. He was _willing to learn_.

[Sidenote: Boys and girls.]

When you are attempting to teach a dog any new art or accomplishment, it is a great thing to have him willing to learn. It is the same, in fact, if it is a girl or a boy that is the pupil. Sometimes, however, when you are attempting to teach a dog, he shows very plainly all the time that he does not wish to learn. If you have got him harnessed into a little carriage, and wish to teach him to draw, he will stop and seem very unwilling to proceed, and, perhaps, sit right down upon the ground; or, if he has any chance to do so, he will run off and hide in the bushes, or, if it is in the house that you are teaching him, in a corner of the room or under the table. I was taking a walk once on the margin of a stream, and I met some boys who were attempting to teach their dog to dive into the water after sticks and such things, and the dog was so unwilling to make the attempt, that they were obliged every time to take him up and throw him in.

[Sidenote: A difficult lesson for a dog.]

I have known children to behave just in this way in learning to read or to write. They come to the work reluctantly, and get away from it as often and as quick as they can. But it was not so with Bruno. He was glad to learn any thing that the boys were willing to teach him. A boy at one time took it into his head to teach him to walk up a flight of steps backward, and although Bruno could not conceive what possible advantage it could ever be to him to learn such an accomplishment as that, still he went to work resolutely to learn it, and though at first he found it very difficult to do, he soon succeeded in going up very well.

If any boy who reads this book should make the attempt to teach _his_ dog to go up steps backward, and should find the dog unwilling to learn, he will know at once how hard it is for his teacher to teach him to write or to calculate, when he takes no interest in the work himself. If he then imagines that his dog were as desirous of learning to go up the steps backward as he is to teach him, and were willing to try, and thinks how easy it would be in that case to accomplish the object, he will see how much his own progress in study would be promoted by his being cordially interested himself in what he is doing.

[Sidenote: The dog that went to market.]

I am always surprised when I find a dog that is willing to learn, and am still more surprised when I find a child that is not willing. A dog learns for the benefit of his master, a child learns for his own benefit. I knew a dog who was taught to go to market. His master would put the money and a memorandum of the things that were to be bought in the basket, and the dog would then carry the basket to market by the handle, which he held in his mouth. Then the market-man would take out the money and the memorandum, and would put in the things that were wanted, and the dog would carry them home. Now this was of no advantage to the dog, except from the honorable satisfaction which he derived from it in the thought that he was usefully employed, and that he was considered worthy to sustain important trusts and responsibilities. So far as his own ease and comfort was concerned, it would have been better for him never to have learned such an art, and then, instead of carrying a heavy basket to and fro along the street, he could have spent his time in basking in the sun, or playing about with other dogs. There is no necessity for a dog to learn any thing for his own advantage. Nature teaches him every thing that he requires for himself. He has to study and learn only for the benefit of his master.

It is very different from this with a child. When a child is in his earliest infancy, he is the most ignorant and helpless being imaginable. He can not speak; he can not walk; he can not stand; he can not even creep along the floor. Then, besides, he _knows_ nothing. He does not know any of the persons around him; he does not know the light; he is bewildered, and filled with a stupid kind of wonder when he looks at it; he does not know how to open and shut his hand, or to take hold of any thing; and long after this, when he begins to learn how to take hold of things, he is so ignorant and foolish, that he is as ready to take hold of a burning candle as any thing else.

[Sidenote: Children learn for their own benefit.]

Of course, to fit such a child to perform the duties of a man in such a busy world as this, he has a great many things to learn. And what is to be particularly noticed is, that he must learn every thing himself. His parents can not learn for him. His parents can _teach_ him--that is, they can show him how to learn--but they can not learn for him. When they show him how to learn, if he will not learn, and if they can not contrive any means to make him, there is an end of it. They can do no more. He must remain ignorant.

Here is a picture of a child that is willing to learn. His name is Josey. His parents are teaching him to walk. He is just old enough to learn to walk, and you see by his countenance, although it is turned somewhat away from us, that he is pleased with the opportunity. He is glad that he is going to learn to walk, and that his parents are going to teach him. I do not suppose that he feels _grateful_ to his father and mother for being willing to take so much pains to teach him, for he is not old enough for that. But he is _glad_, at any rate, and he is willing to try.

His mother is helping him to begin, and his father is encouraging him to step along--holding out his hand, so that Josey may take hold of it as soon as he gets near enough, and thus save himself from falling. Since Josey is willing to learn, it gives his father and mother great pleasure to teach him. Thus all three are happy together.

[Sidenote: Some children unwilling to learn.]

Sometimes a child, when his father and mother wish to teach him to walk, is _not_ willing to learn. He will not try. He sits down at once upon the ground, and will not make any effort, like the dog who does not wish to learn to draw. So far as learning to walk is concerned, this is of no great consequence, for, as his strength increases, he will at last learn to walk himself, without any particular teaching.

There are a great many things, however, which it is very important for children to know, that they never would learn of themselves. These they must be taught, and taught very patiently and carefully. Reading is one of those things, and writing is another. Then there is arithmetic, and all the other studies taught in schools. Some children are sensible enough to see how important it is that they should learn all these things, and are not only willing, but are glad to be taught them. Like Josey, they are pleased, and they try to learn. Others are unwilling to learn. They are sullen and ill-humored about it. They will not make any cordial and earnest efforts. The consequence is, that they learn very little. But then, when they grow up, and find out how much more other people know and can do than they, they bitterly regret their folly.

[Sidenote: Some are willing.]

Some children, instead of being unwilling to learn what their parents desire to teach them, are so eager to learn, that they ingeniously contrive ways and means to teach themselves. I once knew a boy, whose parents were poor, so that they could not afford to send him to school, and he went as an apprentice to learn the trade of shoemaking. He knew how important it was to study arithmetic, but he had no one to teach him, and, besides that, he had no book, and no slate and pencil. He, however, contrived to borrow an arithmetic book, and then he procured a large _shingle_[6] and a piece of chalk, to serve for slate and pencil. Thus provided, he went to work by himself in the evenings, ciphering in the chimney-corner by the light of the kitchen fire. Of course he met with great difficulties, but he persevered, and by industry and patience, and by such occasional help as he could obtain from the persons around him, he succeeded, and went regularly through the book. That boy afterward, when he grew up, became a senator.

[6] A shingle is a broad and thin piece of wood, formed like a slate, and used for covering roofs. The word is explained here, because, in some places where this book will go, shingles are not used.

[Sidenote: Things difficult to learn.]

Some things are very difficult to learn, and children are very often displeased because their parents and teachers insist on teaching them such difficult things. But the reason is, that the things that are most difficult to learn are usually those that are most valuable to know.

[Sidenote: The lawyer and the wood-sawyer.]

Once I was in the country, and I had occasion to go into a lawyer’s office to get the lawyer to make a writing for me about the sale of a piece of land. It took the lawyer about half an hour to make the writing. When it was finished, and I asked him how much I was to pay, he said one dollar. I expected that it would have been much more than that. It was worth a great deal more than that to me. So I paid him the dollar, and went out.

At the door was a laborer sawing wood. He had been sawing there all the time that I had been in the lawyer’s office. I asked him how long he had to saw wood to earn a dollar.

“All day,” said he. “I get just a dollar a day.”

[Sidenote: Difference of pay, and reason for it.]

Now some persons might think it strange, that while the lawyer, sitting quietly in his office by a pleasant fire, and doing such easy work as writing, could earn a dollar in half an hour, that the laborer should have to work all day to earn the same sum. But the explanation of it is, that while the lawyer’s work is very easy to do after you have learned how to do it, it is very _difficult_ to _learn_. It takes a great many years of long and patient study to become a good lawyer, so as to make writings correctly. On the other hand, it is very easy to learn to saw wood. Any body that has strength enough to saw wood can learn to do it very well in two or three days. Thus the things that are the most difficult to learn are, of course, best paid for when they are learned; and parents wish to provide for their children the means of living easily and comfortably in future life, by teaching them, while they are young, a great many difficult things. The foolish children, however, are often ill-humored and sullen, and will not learn them. They would rather go and play.

It is very excusable in a dog to evince this reluctance to be taught, but it is wholly inexcusable in a child.

PANSITA.

This is a true story of a dog named Pansita. They commonly called her Pannie.

Pansita was a prairie-dog. These prairie-dogs are wild. They live in Mexico. They burrow in the ground, and it is extremely difficult to catch them. They are small, but very beautiful.

Pansita belonged to an Indian girl on the western coast of Mexico. An American, who came into that country from Lima, which is a city in Peru, saw Pansita.

“What a pretty dog!” said he. “How I should like her for a present to the American minister’s wife in Lima.”

So he went to the Indian girl, and tried to buy the dog, but the girl would not sell her. She liked her dog better than any money that he could give her.

[Sidenote: Pansita bought with gold.]

Then the gentleman took some gold pieces out of his pocket, and showed them to the mother of the girl.

“See,” said he; “I will give you all these gold pieces if you will sell me Pansita.”

The Indian woman counted over the gold as the gentleman held it in his hand, and found that it made eighteen dollars. She said that the girl should sell Pansita for that money. So she took the dog out of the girl’s arms, and gave it to the gentleman. The poor girl burst into a loud cry of grief and alarm at the thought of losing her dog. She threw the pieces of gold which her mother had put into her hand down upon the ground, and screamed to the stranger to bring back her dog.

But he would not hear. He put the dog in his pocket, and ran away as fast as he could run, till he got to his boat, and the sailors rowed him away.

[Sidenote: She is taken off in a ship. Lima.]

He took the dog in a ship, and carried her to Peru. When he landed, he wished to send her up to Lima. So he put her in a box. He had made openings in the box, so that little Pannie might breathe on the way. He gave the box to a friend of his who was going to Lima, and asked him to deliver it to the American minister.

[Sidenote: A pretended chronometer.]

He was afraid that the gentleman would not take good care of the box if he knew that there was only a dog inside, so he pretended that it was a chronometer, and he marked it, “_This side up, with care_.”

A chronometer is a sort of large watch used at sea. It is a very exact and a very costly instrument.

He gave the box to his friend, and said, “Will you be kind enough, sir, to take this chronometer in your lap, and carry it to Lima, and give it to the American minister there?”

The gentleman said that he would, and he took the box in his lap, and carried it with great care.

Before long, however, Pansita, not having quite air enough to breathe inside the box, put her nose out through one of the openings.

“Ah!” said the gentleman, “this is something strange. I never knew a ship’s chronometer to have a nose before.”

Thus he discovered that it was a dog, and not a chronometer that he was carrying.

He, however, continued to carry the box very carefully, and when he arrived at Lima he delivered it safely to the minister, and the minister gave it to his wife.

[Sidenote: The beauty of the dog. The lady is much pleased.]

The lady was very much pleased to see such a beautiful dog. Its form was graceful, its eyes full of meaning, and its fur was like brown silk, very soft, and smooth, and glossy.

[Sidenote: The American flag hoisted.]

By-and-by a revolution broke out in Lima, and there was great confusion and violence in the streets. The Americans that were there flocked to the house of the minister for protection. The house was a sort of castle. It had a court, in the centre, and great iron gates across the passage-way that formed the entrance. The minister brought soldiers from the ships to guard his castle, and shut the gates to keep the people that were fighting in the streets from getting in. He hoisted the American flag, too, on the corner of the battlements. The Americans that had fled there for safety were all within the walls, greatly alarmed.[7]

[7] Such a minister as this is a high public officer of government, who resides at a foreign capital for the purpose of attending to the business of his own country there, and of protecting the citizens in case of danger.

[Sidenote: Danger.]

Pansita, wondering what all the noise and confusion in the streets could mean, concluded that she would go out and see. So, watching her opportunity, she slipped through among the soldiers to the passage-way, and thence out between the bars of the great iron gates. The lady, when she found that Pansita had gone out, was greatly alarmed.

“She will be killed!” said she. “She will be killed! What can I do to save her? She will certainly be killed!”

But nothing could be done to save Pansita; for if they had opened the gates to go out and find her, the people that were fighting in the streets would have perhaps rushed in, and then they would all have been killed.

[Sidenote: Pansita is recovered.]

So they had to wait till the fighting was over, and then they went out to look for Pansita. To their great joy, they found her safe in a house round the corner.

After a time, the minister and his wife returned to America, and they brought Pansita with them. They had a house on the North River, and Pansita lived with them there many years in great splendor and happiness.

[Sidenote: Pannie’s bed.]

The lady made a bed for Pannie in a basket, with nice and well-made bed-clothes to cover her when she was asleep. Pannie would get into this bed at night, but she would always scratch upon it with her claws before she lay down. This was her instinct.

She was accustomed in her youth, when she was burrowing in the ground in the prairies in Mexico, to make the place soft where she was going to lie down by scratching up the earth with her paws, and she continued the practice now, though, of course, this was not a proper way to beat up a bed of feathers.

Pannie was a great favorite with all who knew her. She was affectionate in her disposition, and mild and gentle in her demeanor; and, as is usually the case with those who possess such a character, she made a great many friends and no enemies.

[Sidenote: Mistakes.]

By-and-by Pannie grew old and infirm. She became deaf and blind, and sometimes, when the time came for her to go to bed at night, she would make a mistake, and get into the wrong basket--a basket that belonged to another dog. This would make Looly, the dog that the basket belonged to, very angry. Looly would run about the basket, and whine and moan until Pansita was taken out and put into her own place.

[Sidenote: Pannie’s death and burial.]

At last Pansita died. They put her body in a little leaden coffin, and buried it in a very pleasant place between two trees.

This is a true story.

THE DOG’S PETITION.

[Sidenote: Letter-day.]

One day, about the middle of the quarter, in a certain school, what the boys called Letter-day came. Letter-day was a day in which all the boys in the school were employed in writing letters.

Each boy, on these occasions, selected some absent friend or acquaintance, and wrote a letter to him. The letters were written first on a slate, and then, after being carefully corrected, were copied neatly on sheets of paper and sent. The writing of these letters was thus made a regular exercise of the school. It was, in fact, an exercise in composition.

[Sidenote: Erskine’s conversation with his teacher.]

A boy named Erskine, after taking out his slate, and writing the date upon the top of it, asked the teacher whom he thought it would be best for him to write to.

“How would you like to write to your aunt?” asked the teacher.

“Why, _pretty_ well,” said Erskine, rather doubtfully.

“I think it would be doing good to write to her,” said the teacher. “It will please her very much to have a letter from you.”

“Then I will,” said Erskine. “On the whole, I should like to write to her very much.”

So Erskine wrote the letter, and, when it had been corrected and copied, it was sent.

This is the letter. It gives an account of a petition offered by a dog to his master, begging to be allowed to accompany the boys of the school on an excursion:

[Sidenote: Erskine’s letter.]

August 2, 1853.

DEAR AUNT,--I hope you have been well since I have heard from you.