Part 2

MRS. V. I cannot tell why, Julia; but that plants require light to make them thrive, is a fact which has been proved by many experiments. When you are old enough to read natural history, you will find many other curious things. The world is full of wonders. The works of God are extremely curious and wonderful. The more you see and hear of them, my dear, the more cause you will discover to love the Almighty for his mercy and goodness, and to adore and admire his infinite wisdom and power.—Now, my dear little girl, kiss me, and go to bed: it is past eight o’clock.

JULIA. Good night, my dear mamma. I shall get up very early to-morrow morning. If it be fine, I may gather the flowers before breakfast, without waiting to ask you: may I not, mamma?

MRS. V. You may. Good night, my love!

As soon as Julia awoke, the next morning, she recollected the bow-pot. She jumped up and washed and dressed herself. Though Julia was a little girl, not quite seven years old, she could dress herself. Her mother did not wish her to be helpless, and had therefore taught her to do many things for herself, that some children, of her age, are obliged to have done for them. The little gown she wore in the morning fastened in the front, therefore she could button it without assistance. She was glad her clothes were made in a way that enabled her to put them on without help. If she could not have dressed herself, she would have been forced to have staid in bed till the servant had been at leisure to attend to her. She made haste to get ready, said her prayers attentively and devoutly, and then ran off merrily. Her mother had taught her that it was right to pray to God repeatedly; and she was too good ever to forget this important duty. She never allowed her pleasure, or her business, to make her forget her prayers. Every night, before she lay down, she entreated God to forgive all her faults, and thanked him for the blessings she had enjoyed. Every morning, before she left her room, she returned him thanks for the refreshing sleep she had had, and prayed him to watch over her, and enable her to do what was pleasing in his sight.

When she reached the bank, she was sadly disappointed: all the finest flowers were gone: only a few faded ones were left, which were hardly worth the trouble of gathering.—“Oh dear, what a pity!” said poor Julia, “I wonder who has been here! I wish I had got up earlier. However, perhaps it was last night that they were plucked. I saw some boys and girls at a distance, as I went home: probably they came this way and took the primroses. I wish they had not touched them. I dare say they did not want them as much as I do: but I will pick some of these, and ask mamma if she thinks Mary will like them. I fear she will not, for they look half dead!”—The disconsolate Julia walked slowly back, with the faded nosegay in her hand. She met her mother, who was coming down to breakfast, in the passage.

JULIA. Oh, mamma! you were right in saying we could not be sure of the future. I have lost my bow-pot, notwithstanding it is a fine morning: all the good flowers are gone! See, mamma, only these shabby things were left. Did you think, last night, somebody would take them before I went to gather them?

MRS. V. No, Julia, I did not: I am very sorry for this second disappointment; particularly as you bear it with good humour, and do not indulge in fretful repinings. These flowers, in their present faded state, would be no ornament to your sister’s room. But I believe I can assist you in your distress. On Monday, when we walked through the lane on the other side of the church-yard, I observed a profusion of wild flowers in the hedges; and in the fields adjoining there are primroses and cowslips. It is too far for you to go alone; but after breakfast I will accompany you there. I hope that, after all, you will have the bow-pot you are so desirous of. You have conducted yourself very well, my love, both last night and this morning. Yesterday you gave up your own pleasure to assist the poor lamb; and now you support the loss of the flowers with good temper. I am glad it is in my power to make you some amends.

Whilst at breakfast, Julia expressed her fears that Mary might arrive before she returned from her walk. “At what o’clock, mamma, will my aunt and Mary be here?” said she. “I cannot tell exactly,” replied Mrs Vincent. “Not so early, however, as you seem to expect. London is more than twenty miles from this village. Your aunt will, I believe, set off soon after her breakfast; but we can walk to the church-lane, and back again, in a shorter time than she can travel twenty miles. I expect you will be able to do a great deal of business before they arrive. I think you will have time to ornament Mary’s room, say your lessons, and work, all before they come. I do not suppose they will be here till nearly three o’clock.” “Not till three o’clock!” exclaimed the little girl: “that is a long time.”—“It will not appear long, if you employ yourself.”

When breakfast was finished, Mrs. Vincent put on her hat and cloak, to walk with her little daughter. Julia fetched her clogs, and just as she was tying them on her mother’s feet, she heard some one knock at the hall-door. “Oh, mamma, I do believe they are come! I am so glad!“ She was so delighted at the thoughts of seeing her sister, that she did not, even at that moment, recollect the bow-pot. ”May I open the door to let them in, mamma?“ said Julia.

MRS. V. You may open the door, Julia, though I do not imagine it will be to let Mary in: it is much too early.

Julia opened the door, but instead of Mary, she saw Miss Beauchamp, holding a large bow-pot, and a servant, who was with her, carrying a beautiful rose-tree, in full bloom, in her arms. Julia exclaimed, in raptures, “What lovely flowers!”

MISS B. I am glad you admire them. They are yours. Mamma sends them to you, with her love. All these hot-house flowers mamma sends you; but these primroses, violets, cowslips, and blue-bells, I give you. Mamma gave me permission to get up very early this morning, to gather them for you. I did not know the gardener had been desired to bring in a nosegay, so I arose very, very early, and gathered all these. I do not mean I picked them every one myself: no, Charlotte, who went with me, helped me. Do you know, whilst I was at breakfast, this bow-pot was brought into the room. Mamma put it into my hands, and said, “Emily, you may carry these flowers, with my love, to your little friend, who kindly took care of Bello last night.”

Julia was lost in admiration: she nearly forgot to thank Miss Beauchamp. She took the flowers to her mother, and asked if she had ever before seen any so extremely beautiful: “Pray smell them; they are very fragrant.” Then she turned to Miss Beauchamp, and said, “I thank you, very much: pray tell your mamma, I am very much obliged to her. I am sure Mary will be surprised: she will never expect to see such beauties? Is the lamb well, to-day? How is its poor leg? Does it bleed still?

MISS B. No, it does not bleed now. Papa dressed it last night, and he thinks it will soon heal: it is getting well; but it is still sore. Poor Bello cannot skip about the lawn, as he used to do. I nurse him, and bring him fresh grass and flowers to eat, as he cannot go in search of them himself. I hope he will soon be strong again. Will you come and see him? Mamma told me she should be happy to see you, whenever it is convenient to Mrs. Vincent to spare you. Bello will soon know you, if you play with him. He will eat out of your hand. I dare say he will be fond of you:—he ought to be so, you were so kind to him last night.

JULIA. I shall like, very much, to feed him and play with him.

MISS B. Will you, ma’am, allow Miss Vincent to come and spend this evening with me, or to-morrow evening? Mamma said, any evening that was agreeable to you. I hope it will be convenient to you to permit her to come soon.

MRS. V. Julia, my dear, what are your own wishes?

JULIA. Thank you, mamma; not this evening, I shall have so many, many things to tell Mary, and to hear from her.—If you will give me leave to go to-morrow, I shall be very happy.

MRS. V. I will trouble you then, my dear, to return Lady Beauchamp my thanks for her kindness to my little girl, who will be happy to accept her ladyship’s invitation for to-morrow evening.

MISS B. Good morning, ma’am. Mamma told me not to stay long, lest I should be troublesome. Good bye. Pray come early to-morrow evening: I have a great many pretty things to show you, that I think you will like very much.

On turning to go out she saw the rose-tree, and returning, added, “I had forgotten the rose-tree. I brought it to help ornament your sister’s room. See, there are several buds on it, besides the full-blown roses. If you take care to water it, and give it fresh air, it will continue blowing a long time. It is my own tree, so I may give it to you.”

Julia was delighted with her presents. She knew not how to express sufficiently her thanks. She repeated, “thank you, thank you,” many times. She smelled the nosegay again and again.—She jumped and danced in ecstacy.—She exclaimed, “Mary will be quite astonished! I wonder what she will say! My dear Miss Beauchamp, I am greatly obliged to you. I will take care of the rose-tree, after all the roses are gone. I shall always love it, because you have given it to me. I never thought, last night, when I went to gather some primroses, that I should enjoy all this pleasure.—Pray do not forget to tell your mamma, I thank her very, very much indeed. How good she is!—Kiss the lamb for me, and give him my love: I hope he will be very well by to-morrow evening.—I dare say we shall be very happy.”

As soon as Miss Beauchamp was gone, Julia begged she might put the flowers into water immediately, before they began to droop. Her mother was kind enough to lend her a large flower-pot and two small ones, and to offer her assistance in arranging her treasure, that the various colours might appear to the greatest advantage.—“Dear mamma, that water is still warm, I am sure!” exclaimed Julia, in amazement, on observing her fill the large flower-pot out of the urn which was standing on the table: “though it is a long time since the urn was brought up for breakfast, I do not think the water can be quite cold yet.”

MRS. V. Neither do I wish that it should be quite cold, Julia.

JULIA. You are not going to put the flowers into warm water, mamma! I always put mine in cold water. I never remember your putting any into warm water before!

MRS. V. Probably not, my dear: you never have been accustomed to flowers out of a hot-house. Hot-house flowers live longer after they are gathered, if they are put into water with the chill off. They have been reared in the warmth, and the sudden change from heat to cold is not good for them.

JULIA. How shall we manage, mamma, to keep the water warm? I shall forget, perhaps, to add a little now and then; and what you have put in, will become cold soon. How shall we keep it warm?

MRS. V. It is not necessary it should continue warm: it will cool gradually, and the flowers will, by degrees, be familiarized to the temperature of the water, as well as of the room—that is, familiarized to the heat of the air which is in the room. The degree of heat or cold of any thing, is called its temperature.

Julia carefully untied the bass, which was wound round the stalks in order to hold them together. She displayed the whole of her treasure on the table, and consulted with her mother, to determine what flowers would go best together, and how to form the prettiest groups.—“Only smell this rose!—Look at this sprig of myrtle! See how delicate this lilac is! These lilies of the valley are quite lovely!—Did you ever see a brighter yellow, mamma, than this jonquil! Look at this hyacinth—and this—and this! I do not know which is the finest. Which do you admire most? the white, the pink, or the blue? I will place your favourite in the centre—here, just in front. That does very well. But, mamma, do not you think it will be better to have a little more green? Shall I put these geranium leaves here, at the back?—Oh, thank you! that does beautifully!—There, that flower-pot is full.—I wish I could draw. I dare say Mary will copy some of these beauties: I will ask Mary to teach me how to copy flowers.—Well, now we may begin to fill another flower-pot.”

In this manner did little Julia chatter on, as busy as a bee, till this important affair was finished. Then she assisted in carrying the flower-pots and rose-tree into the small parlour, which was set apart for Mary’s room. It was a pretty, cheerful room: the window opened into the garden. The prospect of the country beyond was rich and fertile. The inside was fitted up with shelves, on which Julia had ranged all her sister’s books. There were likewise drawers for work, &c. and convenient places for writing and drawing implements, as well as maps of different kinds. It was in this room that Julia expected to spend many delightful hours. She could amuse herself quietly, without disturbing her sister when she was engaged; and therefore she was often allowed to remain the greatest part of the morning with her. She was very attentive, and desirous of learning; and therefore her sister willingly instructed her, and, when at leisure, was in the habit of reading and conversing a great deal with her; teaching her geography and other useful things, which afforded her much amusement. The two small flower-pots were placed on the chimney-piece, by Julia’s direction: the large one stood on a high green basket. The rose-tree was placed on a small table, opposite the door, that Mary might see it the moment she entered the apartment.—Julia went out and came in again, that she might judge of the effect on first opening the door.—“Do, mamma, be so good as to come here. Will not Mary be delighted?—will she not be astonished?” she repeatedly asked.

MRS. V. Yes, Julia; I expect this grand display will surprise her. You will wish to enjoy the pleasure of showing her the house, particularly this room, yourself; therefore I advise you to begin your lessons, that you may be at leisure when she arrives.

JULIA. It is early yet, mamma. There is no hurry. I need not walk to the church lane now, you know, mamma.

MRS. V. Very true; yet, admiring these flowers, and settling them and the room to your satisfaction, has taken up more time than the walk would have done. It is now past twelve.

JULIA. Past twelve!—I should think you are mistaken, mamma.

Mrs. Vincent showed her watch.

JULIA. So it is—five minutes past twelve!—I could not have believed I had been more than two hours with the flowers. Well, mamma, I will run and fetch my books: they shall be ready by the time you get back into the breakfast-room. You shall see I will be very good and attentive.“

Julia was very attentive: she did all her lessons well; she wrote a copy; cast up two sums in addition, without a single error; read a little French, and did some grammar.—When the grammar was finished, she sat down to work. She asked her mother if she might talk to her while she was hemming her handkerchief. Her mother said she might.

JULIA. Pray, mamma, why do you not have a hot-house, as well as Lady Beauchamp? It would be very agreeable to have flowers and fruits at this season of the year, when there are none in the open air. Do not you think so, mamma?

MRS. V. Yes, certainly, it would be agreeable.

JULIA. Then why do not you have one?

MRS. V. Because I am too poor.

JULIA. Oh! now, mamma, you seem to be joking: you are not poor—not very poor.

MRS. V. I did not say I was very poor; but still, I am too poor to have a hot-house, with propriety. Hot-houses are extremely expensive: the glass costs a great deal of money to keep it in repair; for it is so brittle that it is frequently broken. Coals are likewise very expensive; and the constant fires which are necessary to bring the fruits and flowers forward, during winter, consume a great quantity. Then the wages of the gardeners would be very high. All these things would be more than I could afford.

JULIA. But still, mamma, I do not think you poor. I call Mrs. Jones, who lives in the cottage at the end of the lane, poor.

MRS. V. No, certainly, I am not as poor as Mrs. Jones is: she and her husband are obliged to work hard, to earn enough to buy coarse food and clothes for themselves and children. When the poor man was ill, in the winter, and could not labour, the family were almost starved. Do not you recollect, Mrs. Jones told me her husband would have died, and herself and children would have perished through want, if Sir Henry and Lady Beauchamp had not sent medicines to Jones, when he was so ill with the rheumatic fever, good warm flannel to clothe him, meat to make him broth, and plenty of potatoes and rice, for the children to eat, till he was well enough to earn his wages again? Sir Henry Beauchamp and his lady are also kind to a great many other poor people, and assist them when they are ill and unable to work. They are very rich, and are therefore able to do all this good, and at the same time have hot-houses and other expensive things.—I could not.—If I were to attempt to have a hot-house, I should have no money to pay the butcher and the baker for bread and meat. Besides, it is not right to spend all we have on ourselves: we should always take care to save some of our money, to give to those who are in distress, and who are still poorer than ourselves.

JULIA. I am sorry you are not very rich, mamma!

MRS. V. Why, Julia?

JULIA. It would be so pleasant to have money enough for every thing.

MRS. V. My dear little girl, if we do not learn to be contented with what we have, we shall never be happy. Even Sir Henry and Lady Beauchamp, whom at present you consider the richest people in the world, would not be happy if they encouraged a discontented disposition. No one, my dear Julia, has every wish gratified; but each person has reason to be grateful to God for many blessings. Jones and his family, though poor and miserable, have great reason to be thankful that their rich neighbours are so kind and attentive to them. Reflect, my dear child, how many blessings _you_ enjoy. You have all that is necessary, and even much more—you have many pleasures that thousands of others cannot obtain.

JULIA. Yes, mamma; yet, do not you think I should be a little happier if I had flowers all the year round? I am sure the flowers this morning, have made me very happy.

MRS. V. These flowers are a novelty to you; that is the reason you admire them so extremely. Hot-house flowers do not afford Miss Beauchamp, who is accustomed to them, more pleasure than common roses give you, in the midst of summer: and, last summer, how often you passed a rose-tree without bestowing a thought on it. To-morrow night it will be the same—you will be delighted with many things which she disregards. But is all the happiness you feel on the present occasion, produced by the beauty of the nosegay? Try and discover, if you can, some other source of delight.

JULIA. I believe one reason that I am so gay and merry, is, because I expect Mary will be pleased and surprised.

MRS. V. Yes, my dear, I am sure the thought of giving Mary pleasure makes you happy. But reflect again. Perhaps the cause of Lady Beauchamp’s kindness has some share in your happiness.

JULIA. Oh, mamma! I guess what you mean—about the lamb.

MRS. V. True, Julia. The consciousness of having done a humane action, is always pleasing. If you had lost your bow-pot entirely, you would still have had the comfort of reflecting that you had acted properly. Recollect, we settled last night, that you were happier without the flowers than you would have been with them.

JULIA. So we did, mamma; but I am glad I have this beautiful nosegay, as I did not get it by cruelty.

MRS. V. So am I, my love: I rejoice that your compassion has been rewarded. You must not, however, expect it will always be the case. Many humane and benevolent actions are not recompensed in this world. We must endeavour to do our duty, without thinking whether the immediate consequences will be agreeable or not. Though we may sometimes lose a pleasure, we shall enjoy the happiness of possessing the approbation of God, and of our own conscience.

Little Julia thanked her mother for having talked so much to her, and said she hoped she should always be good, that God might love her. She had now finished her work, and her mother desired her to fetch her book to read. She did as she was bid to do, immediately, sat down, and read the following story.

THE RED-POLE.

A little girl, whose name was Emma, was anxious to have a bird; but her mamma refused to give her one, as she disapproved of confining the pretty little creatures in cages.—“Mamma,” said Emma, one morning, “I know a great many little girls who have birds.” “Very probably,” replied her mother: “it is not uncommon to keep them in cages; but that circumstance does not make it less wrong. When you are older, if you do what other people do, without considering, you will often do wrong. You must think for yourself. If you were to catch one of those happy little birds, which are flying about from tree to tree, and hopping from branch to branch, chirping so gaily and singing so sweetly, you would render it miserable.” “Indeed, mamma,” interrupted Emma; “I have seen canary birds, goldfinches, and many other kinds, which are very cheerful, and seem to enjoy themselves very contentedly.” “But,” said her mother, “they do not pass their lives in the same degree of enjoyment, as if they were flying about.”

A few days after this conversation, Emma’s cousin came to spend a few days with his aunt, before he returned to school. He had a very pretty bird called a Red-pole: he had reared it from the nest. It was very tame. He had taught it many tricks: it would eat out of his hand, and stand perched on his finger whilst he walked about the house. Emma was extremely fond of it, and wished, more than ever, that her mamma did not think it improper for her to have a bird. She spent much time, every day, with her favourite: it grew fond of her quickly, and appeared to know her as well as it did its master. The day before her cousin went to school, Emma entered her mother’s dressing-room with the red-pole on her finger. “Mamma,” said Emma, fixing her eyes anxiously on her mother’s face, “Cousin Edward says, he must not take red-pole back to school with him. Dr. Barton desired him not. He said it took up too much of his time and thoughts. So he told me, just now, that he was glad red-pole loved me, and that he would give it to me. Poor red-pole, it is of no use your loving me, I fear! I may not keep you.—I suppose you must fly away!”—“No, Emma,” answered her mother; “we must do the best that we can for it now. The poor creature has been rendered so helpless, that it would perish from want: you may therefore keep it. Remember, however, you undertake a great charge. Children are little to be trusted: they frequently neglect their pets. Many unfortunate favourites perish, from the carelessness of their thoughtless masters and mistresses. Let me see that, in this instance, you will act wisely and humanely.” “Oh!” cried Emma, eagerly, “I never shall forget my dear little red-pole! Thank you, mamma.”