Part 2

_Woman._ She shall come; she longs to see you; I see her; she is just by.

_Little Girl._ How do you do; I am glad to see you here, Miss.

_Miss._ Ah, _Betsy_! how you are grown! I should scarce know you.

_Little Girl._ You are as much grown, Miss; you were but so tall when you were here.

_Miss._ Let us run and jump; and I want to see all your things.

_Little Girl._ Will you like to see the cows? or shall we go and see the lambs?

_Miss._ O, yes! let us go.

_Little Girl._ They are just by. I have a tame lamb; I reared it with milk, warm from the cow.

_Miss._ I like sheep, they look so mild; when I went home I had a great deal to tell my sister. She did not know that a lamb was a young sheep.

_Woman._ How could she, my dear, till she was told?—_you_ would not have known, if you had not been told.

_Miss._ I told her that we cut the wool off the backs of the sheep, and wore it. I told her how I had seen the lambs frisk and jump. I told her that I had seen you milk, and make cheese;—she did not know that cream came off the milk!

_Woman._ Did _you_ know when you came to me?

_Miss._ No—I did not.

_Woman._ You cannot know what you are not taught.

_Miss._ Tell me more, and when I go home I will tell my sister.

_Woman._ Come with me and we will talk; and I will show you the cow and her calf.

THE KIND BROTHER.

_Boy._ Where is _James_.

_Lady._ He is in the house; you may go to him there.

_Boy._ If you please, I like to stay here.

_Lady._ What shall we do?

_Boy._ I wish to have my knife and a stick; then with this small piece of board I will make a chair for _Jane’s_ doll.

_Lady._ That will please Miss _Jane_; that piece will do for a couch; you might stuff it with wool.

_Boy._ I wish I could; pray will you teach me how to do it?

_Lady._ If you make the frame well, I will stuff it for you.

_Boy._ Thank you; I think _Jane_ will dance for joy.

_Lady._ She does not dream of such a nice chair; stay, this is the right way to cut it; you must not notch it so.

_Boy._ I think I hear _Jane’s_ voice; I would not have her come till it is done. Will she thank me?

_Lady._ Yes, sure; she ought to thank you.

_Boy._ Why does she sleep in the day?

_Lady._ She is a babe—you slept at noon, when you were so young.

_Boy._ Now I do not sleep till night. I hear my ducks; what do you quack for?—May I fetch them some bread? Here is a crust which I left; pray may I give it to them?

_Lady._ If it be clean, some poor child would be glad of it; that is a large piece—We will give chaff to the ducks.

_Boy._ This bread is made of wheat; wheat grows in the earth; wheat is a grain. I am to see _Tom_ bind a sheaf: and when _Tom_ goes home to shear his sheep, I am to see him. He will throw them in a pond: plunge them in! Our cloth is made of wool; how can they weave cloth, and how can they stain it? How light this chair will be! it will not weigh much.

_Lady._ Who heard the clock; I meant to count it. I left my watch in my room.

_Boy._ Why did you leave it?

_Lady._ The chain was broken last night.

_Boy._ I like to have my couch of _green_. _Jane_ loves green. What do you call this?

_Lady._ A blush, or faint bloom; some call it bloom of peach; it is near white. That is quite white.

_Boy._ May I sit on the grass? I love to sit in the shade, and read my book.

_Lady._ The earth is as dry as a floor now.

_Boy._ If I could reach those sweet peas I would get some seed; they are such nice round balls. _Jane_ likes them to play with.

_Lady._ You may go now and fetch a quill for me; do not put it in your mouth. While you go, I shall go on with the work.

THE BEES.

A little girl was eating her supper; it was bread and milk, with some honey. “Pray,” said the little girl, “who makes honey for my supper?”

_Mother._ The bees collect it.

_Girl._ Where do they find it?

_Mother._ In the flowers.

_Girl._ Where do the bees live?

_Mother._ Those which supply us with honey, live in a hive.

_Girl._ What is it made of?

_Mother._ Ours are made of straw.

_Girl._ Pray, mamma, tell me a great deal about the bees, whilst I eat my milk.

_Mother._ In the night, and when the weather is cold, they keep in the hive. When the sun shines, and the days are warm, they fly abroad. They search far and near for such flowers as supply them with honey or wax. Of the wax they make cells which we call comb. In some of the cells they lay up stores of honey to support them in the winter, when they can not venture out to seek for food. In some of the cells they nurse their young ones, who have no wings. They are very neat creatures; they keep the hive quite clean. They carry out the dead bees.

THE FLIES.

The next morning this same little girl was eating her breakfast. It chanced that the maid had let fall a drop of honey as she mixed her milk; and a fly came and stood on the edge of her basin to suck it.

The good child laid aside her spoon to avoid frightening the poor fly.

What is the matter, _Sarah_? are you not hungry?

Yes, mamma; but I would not hinder this little fly from getting his breakfast.

Good child! said her mother, rising from her tea; we will look at him as he eats. See how he sucks through his long tube. How pleased he is!

Mother, can not flies make honey? said the little girl.

“No,” said her father, “they are like you, they can not make honey, but they are very fond of eating it.”

What do flies do, father?

_Father._ They are as idle as any little girl of you all; they frisk and buzz about all the summer, feeding upon what is made by others.

_Girl._ And in winter what do they do?

_Father._ Creep into some snug corner.

_Girl._ But what do they eat then?

_Father._ They sleep, and want no food.

THE SPIDER.

A little boy saw a spider; its legs were all packed close to its body; the boy thought it was a bit of dirt, and was going to pick it up.

His father stopped him, lest he should chance to hurt the spider; he told him that the poor creature had rolled himself up from fear; that if he stood still he would soon see the spider move.

The little boy kept close and quiet some time, watching the spider; he saw it unfold one leg, then another, till at last they were all loose, and away it ran. Then the little boy ran after his father, and heard the history of spiders.

He told him a great deal about them. Then he talked to him of other insects, which disguise themselves to escape the dangers which they meet with.

He picked up a wood-louse, and laid it gently in his little hand. There, said he, you see the wood-louse roll itself into a little ball, like a pea: let it lie awhile and when it thinks that you do not observe it—

_Boy._ Ah! it unrolls.—O! it will run away: shall I not hold it?

_Father._ No, my dear, you would hurt it.

_Boy._ I would not hurt any creature.

_Father._ No! surely—He who made you, made all creatures to be happy.

THE BIRD.

A boy was walking with his mother; he saw a bird fly past, with some food in its mouth.

_Boy._ Is not that bird hungry? for I see that he carries his meat fast in his mouth.

_Mother._ She is a mother bird, and has young ones in her nest.

_Boy._ Who makes the nest?

_Mother._ The old birds.

_Boy._ How do they make the nests?

_Mother._ Some make their nests of sticks; some of dry leaves; some use clay; some straw: they use all sorts of things; each kind of bird knows what is fit for its use.

_Boy._ What do they make nests for?

_Mother._ To nurse their young in.

_Boy._ And are they warm?

_Mother._ The old birds line them with moss, with wool, or with feathers, to make them warm and soft.

_Boy._ Where do they get all these things?

_Mother._ They fly a great way to fetch them; and sometimes they pluck their own breasts to supply down for their young to lie upon.

_Boy._ How kind they are!

_Mother._ So kind are good parents to their children.

_Boy._ Pray why do the birds sing?

_Mother._ One old bird sings whilst one sits on the eggs.

_Boy._ Why do they sit on the eggs?

_Mother._ To keep them warm, so that they may hatch.

_Boy._ What do you mean by that, pray, mother?

_Mother._ The young birds break the shells and come out.

_Boy._ What do they do then? do they fly?

_Mother._ Not at first: babes, you know, cannot walk.

_Boy._ But what do young birds do?

_Mother._ They lie in the nests, and gape for food.

_Boy._ And do they get it?

_Mother._ The old birds fly far and near to fetch it. You saw one with some in its bill.

_Boy._ I see a bird now with some in its mouth.

_Mother._ Do not make a noise, lest you fright the poor thing.—Hush! hush!—let us creep gently, and see the bird go to her nest.

_They saw the bird alight on a bush just by: she hopped from twig to twig till she got to the nest: she gave the little worm which she had in her beak to her young, and then flew away in search of more._

_Boy._ Now may I talk?

_Mother._ Yes, my dear;—are you not pleased to see the birds?

_Boy._ Yes, mother.—When will the little ones fly?

_Mother._ When they have got all their feathers.

_Boy._ How will they learn?

_Mother._ The old birds will teach them to fly as I taught you to walk.

_Boy._ I hope the little birds will always love their mothers. I shall always love you; mother, pray kiss me.

THE HAPPY FAMILY.

There were eight boys and girls of the name of _Freelove_; their kind parents taught them to do as they were bid in all things. They were the happiest children in the world; for, being used to control, they thought it no hardship to obey their friends. When one of them had a mind to do anything, and was not sure whether it would be right, he went in to inquire, and was always content with the answer. If it was proper, he was certain to have leave: and if it was not proper, he had no longer a wish to do it, but was glad that he had asked.

Mr. and Mrs. _Freelove_ took great pains with their children, and taught them, as soon as they could learn, all that was proper for their age; and they took delight in learning, so that it was a pleasure to teach them.

Such a family is the most pleasing scene upon earth.

The children were all very fond of each other. No one had an idea of feeling joy in which the rest did not share. If one child had an apple, or a cake, he always parted it into eight pieces; and the owner kept the smallest for himself; and when any little treasure was given which could not be so divided, the rest were summoned to see it, to play with it, and to receive all the pleasure which it could afford.

The little folks were fond of books: the elder ones would often lay aside their own, to read aloud to the younger ones in such as were suited to them. In short, they were a family of perfect love. Each boy had a little piece of ground for a garden, in which he might work to amuse himself. It would have made you smile to see how earnest they were at their work—digging, planting, weeding, and sometimes they had leave to water. Each was ready to lend any of his tools to his brother. Each was happy to assist in any plan, if his brother needed help.

The boys did the chief work in their sisters’ gardens; and their greatest joy was to present little nosegays to their mother and sisters.

There were sheep kept upon the lawn; the pretty creatures were so tame that they would eat out of a person’s hand. You may believe that the children were very fond of feeding them; they often gave them their little barrow full of greens. There was no danger of the little folks not thinking to perform so pleasing a task as this. One day _George_ was reading aloud to a younger brother, whose name was _William_—‘Do as you would be done by.’

_William._ Pray what does that mean?

_George._ I will show you now; you hear the sheep bleat.

_So he ran and got some greens, and gave to the sheep._

_George._ You see what it is to do as we would be done by; the poor sheep are hungry and I feed them.

_William._ I should like to feed them; but I have no greens.

_George._ Here are some of mine: take some, and give to them.

_William._ I thank you, brother; now you do to me as you would wish to be done by.

_The next day_, William _saw a poor woman standing on the outside of the iron gates. She looked pensive; and the child said_:

What do you want, poor woman?

_Woman._ A piece of bread; for I have had none to eat.

_William_ had a bit in his hand; he had just begun to eat it. He stopped, and thought to himself—If I had nothing to eat, and I saw a person who had a great piece of bread, what should I wish?—that he should give me some. So the good child broke off all but a very little bit, (for he was very hungry) and said,

You shall have this bread which the maid gave me just now. We should ‘do as we would be done by.’

Good boy! said his mother, who chanced to pass that way, come and kiss me. _William_ ran to his dear mother, and hugged her; saying, I am never so happy as when you say, good boy.

_Mother._ I was seeking for _Mary_ to tell her that _Mrs. Lovechild_ has sent to have you all go with us: but for your reward, you shall carry the message to the rest. Go; I know it will give you great pleasure to rejoice your brothers and sisters.

THE FAIR.

_James_ and _Edward Franklin_, with their _Sisters_, had leave to walk about, and amuse themselves in a fair. They saw a great many people who seemed very happy, many children merry and joyous, jumping about, and boasting of their toys. They went to all the stalls and bought little presents for those who were at home. They saw wild beasts; peeped in show-boxes; heard drums, trumpets, fiddles, and were as much pleased with the bustle around them, as you, my little reader, would have been, had you been there.

Mrs. _Franklin_ had desired them not to ride in a Merry-go-round, lest they should fall and hurt themselves.

Did you ever see a Merry-go-round? If you never passed through a country fair, I dare say you never did.

As they passed by, the children who were riding called, “will you ride? will you ride?”

_James._ No, I thank you, we may not.

_Edward._ I should like it, if I might.

One girl called, “See how we ride!” One said, “O! how charming this is!” One boy said, “You see we do not fall!”

_James._ I am not fearful; but my mother forbade us to ride.

One boy shouted aloud, “Come, come, you must ride; it will not be known at home. I was bid not to ride, but you see I do.”

Just as he spoke, the part upon which he sat broke, and down he fell.

In another part of the fair, the boys saw some children tossed about in a Toss-about.

They were singing merrily the old nurse’s ditty:

“Now we go up, up, up, “Now we go down, down, down, “Now we go backward and forward, “Now we go round, round, round.”

The voices sounded pleasantly to _Ned’s_ ear; his heart danced to the notes; jumping, he called to his brother _James_, “Dear _James_! look! if I thought our mother would like it, I would ride so.”

_James._ My dear _Ned_! I am sure that mother would object to our riding in that.

_Ned._ Did you ever hear her name the Toss-about?

_James._ I am certain that if she had known of it, she would have given us the same caution as she did about the Merry-go-round.

_Ned_ paused a moment; then said, “How happy am I to have an elder brother who is so prudent!”

_James_ replied—“I am not less happy that you are willing to be advised.”

When they returned home, each was eager to relate his brother’s good conduct; each was happy to hear his parents commend them both.

THE STUBBORN CHILD.

Mr. Steady was walking out with his little son, when he met a boy with a satchel on his shoulder, crying and sobbing dismally. Mr. Steady accosted him, kindly inquiring what was the matter.

_Mr. Steady._ Why do you cry?

_Boy._ They send me to school: and I do not like it.

_Mr. Steady._ You are a silly boy! what! would you play all day?

_Boy._ Yes, I would.

_Mr. Steady._ None but babies do that; your friends are very kind to you.—If they have not time to teach you themselves, then it is their duty to send you where you may be taught; but you must take pains yourself, else you will be a dunce.

_Little Steady._ Pray, may I give him my book of fables out of my pocket?

_Mr. Steady._ Do, my dear.

_Little Steady._ Here it is—it will teach you to do as you are bid—I am never happy when I have been naughty—are you happy?

_Boy._ I cannot be happy; no person loves me.

_Little Steady._ Why?

_Mr. Steady._ I can tell you why; because he is not good.

_Boy._ I wish I was good.

_Mr. Steady._ Then try to be so; it is easy; you have only to do as your parents and friends desire you.

_Boy._ But why should I go to school?

_Mr. Steady._ Good children ask for no reasons; a wise child knows that his parents can best judge what is proper; and unless they choose to explain the reason of their orders, he trusts that they have a good one; and he obeys without inquiry.

_Little Steady._ I will not say _why_ again, when I am told what to do; but will always do as I am bid immediately. Pray, sir, tell the story of Miss _Wilful_.

_Mr. Steady._ Miss _Wilful_ came to stay a few days with me; now she knew that I always would have children obey me: so she did as I bade her; but she did not always do a thing as soon as she was spoken to; and would often whine out _why?_—_that_ always seems to me like saying—_I think I am as wise as you are; and I would disobey you if I durst_.

One day I saw Miss _Wilful_ going to play with a dog, with which I knew it was not proper for her to meddle; and I said. Let that dog alone.

Why? said Miss—I play with _Wag_, and I play with _Phillis_, and why may I not play with _Pompey_.

I made her no answer—but thought she might feel the reason soon.

Now the dog had been ill-used by a girl, who was so naughty as to make a sport of holding meat to his mouth and snatching it away again; which made him take meat roughly, and always be surly to girls.

Soon after Miss stole to the dog, held out her hand as if she had meat for him, and then snatched it away again. The creature resented this treatment, and snapped at her fingers. When I met her crying, with her hand wrapped in a napkin. “So,” said I, “you have been meddling with the dog! Now you know _why_ I bade you let _Pompey_ alone.”

_Little Steady._ Did she not think you were unkind not to pity her? I thought—do not be displeased, father—but I thought it was strange that you did not comfort her.

_Mr. Steady._ You know that her hand was not very much hurt, and the wound had been dressed when I met her.

_Little Steady._ Yes, father, but she was so sorry!

_Mr. Steady._ She was not so sorry for her fault, as for its consequences.

_Little Steady._ What, father?

_Mr. Steady._ Her concern was for the pain which she felt in her fingers; not for the fault which had occasioned it.

_Little Steady._ She was very naughty, I know; for she said that she would get a pair of thick gloves, and _then_ she would tease _Pompey_.

_Mr. Steady._ Naughty girl! how ill-disposed! then my lecture was lost upon her. I bade her while she felt the smart, resolve to profit by _Pompey’s_ lesson; and learn to believe that her friends might have good reasons for their orders; though they did not think it proper always to acquaint her with them.

_Little Steady._ I once cut myself with a knife which I had not leave to take; and when I see the scar, I always consider that I ought not to have taken the knife.

_Mr. Steady._ That, I think, is the school-house; now go in, and be good.

THE PICTURES.

Mrs. _Lovechild_ had one room in her house fitted up with books, suited to little people of different ages.—She had likewise toys, but they were such as would improve, as well as amuse her little friends.

The book-room opened into a gallery, which was hung with prints and pictures, all chosen with a view to children. All designed to teach little folks while they were young; in order that when they grew up, they might act worthily.

There were written accounts of each picture, with which her ladyship would often indulge good children.

Sometimes she walked about herself and explained a few of the pictures to her little guests.

One day I chanced to be present when she was showing a few of them to a little visiter; and I think my young reader may like to hear what passed.

_Mrs. Lovechild._ That is Miss _Goodchild_.—I have read an account of her, written by her mother.

_Miss._ Pray, madam, what was it?

_Mrs. Lovechild._ It is too long to repeat now, my dear; but I will tell you a part.—She was never known to disobey her parents; never heard to contradict her brothers or sisters; nor did she ever refuse to comply with any request of theirs.—I wish you to read her character, for she was a pattern of goodness.

_Miss._ Pray, madam, was she pretty?

_Mrs. Lovechild._ She had a healthful color: and her countenance was sweet, because she was always good-humored.—That smile on her mouth seems to say—I wish you all happy; but it was not for her beauty, but her goodness, that she was beloved: and on that account only did I wish for her picture.

_Miss._ Pray, madam, why is that boy drawn with a frog in his hand?

_Mrs. Lovechild._ In memory of a kind action which he did to a poor harmless frog.—You shall hear the whole story.—I was taking my morning walk pretty early one day, and I heard a voice say, “Pray do not kill it; I will give you this penny, it is all I have, and I shall not mind going without my breakfast, which I was to have bought with it.”

“You shall not lose your meal!” exclaimed I; “nor you, naughty boys, the punishment which you deserve for your cruel intention.”

_Miss._ Pray, madam, what was the good boy’s name?

_Mrs. Lovechild._ _Mildmay!_ he was always a friend to the helpless.

_Miss._ How cruel it is in a great boy to be a tyrant!

_Mrs. Lovechild._ Dunces are often cruel.—My young friend redeemed a linnet’s nest from a stupid school-fellow, by helping him in his exercise every day for a fortnight, till the little birds were flown.

_Here a servant entered the gallery, and announced company, which put an end to Mrs. Lovechild’s account of the picture._

THE HEDGE-HOG.

Master William Gentle was riding on the back of his dog Cæsar, when his grandfather called to him and invited him to take a walk. They went out together, and as they were walking, they met some boys who had a hedge-hog, which they were going to hunt.—Mr. _Gentle_ ordered them to release it.—The boys pleaded that the hedge-hog would injure the farmers by sucking their cows, and that it therefore ought to be killed.

_Mr. Gentle._ If it were proper to deprive the animal of life, it would be a duty to do it in as expeditious a manner as possible, and very wicked to torment the poor creature; but the accusation is false, and you are unjust as well as cruel.—Release it this instant!

_William._ Will the hedge-hog be glad when he gets loose?

_Grandfather._ Very glad.

_William._ Then I shall be glad too.

_Grandfather._ I hope that you will always delight in making other creatures happy: and then you will be happy yourself.

_William._ I love to see the dog happy, and the cat happy.

_Grandfather._ Yes, surely; and you love to make them happy.

_William._ How can I make them happy?

_Grandfather._ By giving them what they want, and by taking kind notice of them, and when you get on Cæsar’s back again, as he lets you ride, do not strike him, but coax him gently.

_William._ Can I make my brothers and sisters happy?

_Grandfather._ You can each of you make yourself and all the rest of the children happy, by being kind and good-humored to each other; willing to oblige, and glad to see the others pleased.

_William._ How, pray?

_Grandfather._ If you were playing with a toy, and _Bartle_ wished to have it, perhaps you would part from it to please him; if you did, you would oblige him.