Part 2

_H._ Oh, he can say foolish things as well as I; and then he tells me so many funny stories; there’s Puss in Boots, and I don’t know how many more, and there’s his story about Old Uncle Natty.

_M._ What! do you mean his Uncle Nathaniel?

_H._ Yes, mamma; William one day asked him for three-pence to buy a pound of cherries, but he would only give him a penny, and William always calls him--

_M._ Stop, Henry; I am afraid William is a naughty boy, and I do not wish to hear such a story as that.

_H._ But, mamma, may we not laugh sometimes?

_M._ Certainly but not at such silly or wicked things:--in what other manner do you and William amuse yourselves?

_H._ In a great many ways; sometimes we draw, or we play in the garden.

_M._ Pray which of you draws the best?

_H._ William draws houses better than I do, but I can draw horses and trees the best, and I often draw landscapes and men on horseback for him.

_M._ And which of you can run fastest?

_H._ I can.

_M._ Is not William sometimes out of humour because you do these things better than he can?

_H._ O no; the other day he told me I drew so prettily, that he had rather see me draw for a quarter of an hour than draw for a whole day by himself.

_M._ What becomes of these pretty drawings?

_H._ He pins them against the wall in his bed-room.

_M._ Why do you not ask William to come home, sometimes? As you are such great friends I should think he would be glad to come to see you.

_H._ Why, mamma, William says he does not feel so comfortable here; he is always afraid of you.

_M._ How so?

_H._ Why, mamma, you are so wise, that he is afraid to say just whatever comes into his head.

_M._ But Thomas always seems very happy when he is here.

_H._ Oh, he is so wise, we call him the Judge: we have always called him so since the day we went to see farmer Martin.

_M._ But why do you call him so?

_H._ You know, mamma, that we must cross the long meadow to go to farmer Martin’s. To save the trouble of going all the way round to the gate, William said we had better scramble through the hedge and make a short cut across the grass. Thomas looked as grave as a judge, and told us that the hedge was made on purpose that people should not scramble through it, and that it was not right to trample down the grass. William said, that we should not do much harm, and that many others had often done so before us. Thomas asked him if we were to do wrong because others did the same? William directly jumped over the hedge and ran across the meadow crying out, “Who cares for cowards; not I, for one.”

_M._ Did you follow William?

_H._ No; Thomas would not let me; he made me go round by the gate, and along the path with him.

_M._ And what did William say, when you arrived at the farm?

_H._ Why, he had tumbled into a ditch which the long grass had prevented him from seeing; the cow-boy pulled him out and was washing him at the pump.

_M._ Did Thomas tell William he had done wrong?

_H._ Not at first; but when the cow-boy was gone, he said, “William you had better have gone along the path as we did.”

_M._ Is this the reason why you call him the Judge?

_H._ Yes, mamma, but you ought to have heard with what a grave tone he spoke--just like a judge on the bench.

_M._ Ought not serious things to be said in a grave manner?

_H._ Yes; but he makes such grave speeches.

_M._ Do you recollect one of these grave speeches?

_H._ Oh, yes, I can easily do that. The other day I was going to tell him something his sister had said; it was nothing very particular, but somehow I hoped it would have made him angry with her. All at once Thomas stopped me, and said, “A whisperer separateth chief friends;” and if you had but seen how grave he looked.

_M._ Open the Bible and you will find this grave speech as you call it, in the 17th chapter of Proverbs. My dear Henry, it was not Thomas but the word of God that stopped you.

_H._ Indeed, mamma, I did not know it was in the Bible. But Thomas is always so grave; he looks as if he meant to tell you every thing I say or do. As we came home from farmer Martin’s I got up behind a carriage, and the coachman did not find me out for a long while; but when Thomas overtook me, he said such a deal about its being wrong to get up behind a carriage without leave.

_M._ What did he say?

_H._ Oh, I hardly recollect all: he said it was unjust, for I did it without asking leave. I am sure you will say that it is nonsense to call such a trifle as that unjust.

_M._ I am quite of Thomas’s opinion; what would you have thought, if a person had put two or three sacks of corn behind the carriage?

_H._ That would have tired the horses and made them go slower, and the people would not have arrived so soon at their journey’s end.

_M._ Then to do so would have been unjust, would it not?

_H._ I understand what you mean, mamma; though I am not so heavy as a sack of corn, yet I see I was wrong.

_M._ Well, then, you also see that Thomas was right; but what said William?

_H._ He whispered to me, “Never mind him; you had a nice ride.”

_M._ Was that right?

_H._ No, I see it was wrong.

_M._ Well, my dear boy, as you understand what I mean, I will tell you something more. Do not forget what I am going to say, for it is in the Bible. “A man that flattereth his neighbour spreadeth a net for his feet,” (Prov. xxix. 5.); and “Every man is a friend to him that giveth gifts.” (Prov. xix. 6.) Now, tell me the truth: should you be so fond of William if he contradicted you, or would not do just as you wished him?

_H._ Perhaps not. Yesterday I was angry with him because he would not take a walk with me.

_M._ Has he ever told you that you are too fond of play, that you like to be idle, that you are greedy for every thing nice, and that you sometimes fly into a passion? I rather think that he never told you so.

_H._ But, mamma, am I so naughty?

_M._ What do you think? Remember, _God_ sees and hears you.

_H._ Why, I am not always quite so good as I should be; but one cannot help being naughty sometimes.

_M._ And is it right to be naughty?

_H._ Oh, no, quite wrong; it is much better to be good.

_M._ Then are those right or wrong who see your naughty tricks, I mean your faults; or, as they really are, _your sins_; and do not tell you of them?

_H._ Certainly it is right to tell me of them; but then, mamma, it is so unpleasant to have Thomas always finding fault with me. He never is with me for a quarter of an hour without blaming me for something.

_M._ Do you recollect the day we went to Sir Edward Walton’s? When the carriage came to fetch us, and it was time to get ready, you ran and asked me for your best clothes.

_H._ Yes; for I should have been quite ashamed if I had gone to play with Sir Edward’s children in my old jacket and trowsers.

_M._ Suppose, just as you were getting into the carriage, Thomas had pulled you back, and told you there was a great spot of dirt upon your frill, should you have been angry with him?

_H._ Certainly not; I should have thanked him, and should have gone directly and put on a clean shirt.

_M._ Then your wish to be neat would have made you willing to listen to his advice! Ah, my Henry, tell me, is not there one who is much greater than Sir Edward, and before whom we must one day appear?

_H._ You mean, mamma, that we must appear before God.

_M._ Yes, that is what I mean, and I speak seriously. But are not we _always_ in his presence? Whenever we pray to him, whether at home, or in the House of God, we present ourselves before him. And above all, when our life in this world is ended, shall we not have to appear before the judgment seat of Christ?

_H._ Yes, mamma, the Bible tells us so.

_M._ And do you think that he who is so holy will be pleased to see things which are so wrong in your conduct; for instance, anger, idleness, disobedience, greediness, or other wicked ways?

_H._ No; for the bible tells us that God “is of purer eyes than to behold iniquity.”

_M._ Well then if a person warns you of these faults is he your friend or your enemy?

_H._ Oh, I understand you now, mamma; he is really my best friend.

_M._ But what is he who will hide these faults and prevent you from seeing them, or even persuade you that they are beauties: what ought you to think of him?

_H._ Why, he would be unkind, just as if he had let me go to Sir Edward’s with a dirty frill or a hole in my coat.

_M._ Henry are you aware that every sin is rebellion against God, against our Lord and Saviour; and therefore is very wrong?

_H._ Yes, I recollect it now; but I did not think of it before as I ought to have done.

_M._ Well, then, be thankful to those who tell you of these things, and love you so as to tell you of them, when they see that you have forgotten them.

_H._ Then, mamma, do you think that William does not love me, because he does not tell me when I do wrong?

_M._ My dear boy, I fear that William flatters you, and that he will do you much harm; and I think that Thomas is a REAL FRIEND, because he fears God, and faithfully warns you when you are wrong.

_H._ But ought I to like Thomas better than William?

_M._ The Bible tells us, “He that rebuketh a man afterwards shall find more favour than he that flattereth with the tongue,” (Prov. xxviii. 23.); and I am sure, if you wish to obey God you will believe his word.

_H._ Yes, mamma, I do wish to obey God, because I know that is the only way to be happy.

_M._ Well; now, Henry, I will let you choose; you may go where you like best.

_H._ Then, mamma, I will go to Thomas, and ask him to come and see me.

_M._ I also wish you to see William and tell him how wrong he has been, and how unkind he is to you. Do this openly and with truth, and shew him that you do not wish him to be a _flatterer_ but a REAL FRIEND.

IDLE DICK.

Richard Watson was twelve years old; his father kept the village public-house.

I am sorry to say that Richard’s father was not a good man; he drank and swore, and his house was the resort of all the wicked fellows in the neighbourhood.

There was no Bible in the house; he never prayed to God nor attended public worship, but spent Sunday just like any other day. He bought and sold, and drank, and swore, and quarrelled on that day, just as if there was no Fourth Commandment and as if God had never said, “nor drunkards nor revilers, nor extortioners, shall inherit the kingdom of God.” (1 Cor. vi. 10.)

I need not say that such a wicked man did not bring up his family in the fear of the Lord. He was a widower, and Richard was his only child. It was even said that his mother’s death had been hastened by sorrow for her husband’s evil conduct.

While she lived, Richard was sent to school and had learned to read; but after her death his father kept him at home, and said he would teach Richard himself, but he never took any trouble about it.

Richard grew up without learning any thing more, except to write just enough to keep an account of what the customers called for. His time was employed in waiting upon them, or in washing the pots and glasses, and setting up ninepins for those who played. Poor boy! you may suppose he heard nothing good. At last, by listening to oaths and wicked words, he took pleasure in hearing them, and soon began to make use of them himself.

What was the end of all this! Why before he was twelve years old, Richard Watson was looked upon as the most good-for-nothing mischievous fellow in the neighbourhood.

He was idle, fond of play, and what was worse, a gambler, a thief, and a complete scoundrel.

You might hear him speak saucily to his father, and even laugh at him and disobey his orders.

He had frequently been punished, but at length he despised both blows and reproofs, and used to run away from home whenever he expected to be punished.

He was the disgrace of the village, and was known by the name of “Idle Dick.”

Mr. Watson began to think that if his son went on in this manner he would come to the gallows at last, and determined that he would try and reform him.

How did he begin? at first he said, “Dick, if you do not mind your work you shall have nothing to eat.” Dick laughed at this, and went to the pantry and helped himself.

His father discovered it, so he shut Dick in the cellar for two days and gave him nothing but bread and water.

This punishment had some effect. Dick behaved better for one week, but the Thursday following he went to a fight in the neighbourhood, and staid there all day among gamblers and pickpockets.

His father saw Dick on his way home, and gave him such a beating that he laid down on the path-way unable to stir. Old Joseph, an honest basket-maker, and another man who lived in the village, came by and together they carried him home, where he was for some days confined to his bed; and he was so much hurt by the severe beating, that for a whole week he could not walk further than to the bench at the door.

Poor Dick, as you will recollect, had lost his mother! Ah! it is a sad loss for children when God takes away their mothers. Nobody in the house cared about Dick, nobody tried to persuade his father to treat him kindly, or advised Dick to behave better. If any body noticed him it was only to laugh and say, “Ah! you idle fellow, you have got what you deserve.”

A few doors off lived a poor woman named Maud. Her husband was a pedlar, and was absent from the village a great part of the year; but she staid at home and earned her living by making lace.

This good woman had a daughter named Jenny, about the same age as Richard, but she had been brought up in a very different manner; for as soon as Jenny could understand what was said to her, her parents had taught her to love and serve God, as the Bible directs us. She learned to pray regularly, and attended divine service every Sunday.

Whenever Jenny was naughty, her mother used to remind her that God saw her, and that she had disobeyed his word, which tells us, that children are to honor their parents, to be gentle and industrious, and always to speak the truth.

Sometimes it was necessary to punish Jenny, but her parents did not chastise her in wrath, but with kindness, as we read in the book of Proverbs; “Withhold not correction from the child for if thou beatest him with the rod he shall not die. Thou shalt beat him with the rod, and shalt deliver his soul from hell.” (Prov. xxiii. 13, 14.)

This kind correction had been blessed by Him who directed it in His word; and as Jenny grew up she was the most dutiful, the most industrious, and the most pious of the young people in the village.

She never was seen flaunting about with those idle giddy girls who are so fond of laughing and giggling at every thing they see, and forget that a modest quiet spirit is, in the sight of God, an ornament of great price. 1 Pet. iii. 4.

Jenny lived quietly at home, and tried to be as serviceable as possible to her mother; and very useful she was, as all little boys and girls may be who try to make themselves so.

It was Jenny who swept out the cottage every morning and dusted the furniture; it was Jenny who fetched water and went to the shop for every thing that was wanted, and her mother often trusted her to carry work home to her employers.

Every thing she did, Jenny tried to do well, and it was always done quickly and properly.

Now can my little readers tell me, how so young a person could be so useful and behave so well? It was by the blessing of God; for, like Joseph of old, God was with her, and that which she did, the Lord made it to prosper.

You will suppose that her time passed very differently from that of _Idle Dick_, who was, as we read in Isaiah lvii. 20, 21: “Like the troubled sea when it cannot rest, whose waters cast up mire and dirt,” for “there is no peace saith my God to the wicked.”

My readers will observe, from this history, how great a difference there is between the righteous and the wicked, between those who serve God and those who serve him not. Compare Jane and Richard, and say which of these two was the happiest? The boy who knew nothing about Jesus, or the girl who had taken the yoke of Christ upon her?

But to return to my story. Maud was at home the first day that Dick was able to come out after the beating of which I told you. Poor fellow! he was sitting at the door in the sun, and looked very pale and ill. Maud saw him, and asked him how he did.

Dick did not answer, though she spoke very kindly; he only made a face at her, and looked another way.

Maud did not mind this, and at last got him to say that he was unwell, owing to the beating which his father gave him.

This kind neighbour then tried to make him understand that it was very wrong to go from home without leave, and that a child committed a great sin when he rebelled against his father.

“My father hates me,” said Dick in a revengeful tone, “he always has hated me, and he would be glad to see me dead; but--but I’ll run away from him some day or other.”

Maud tried to calm him, and to convince him that he was wrong in thinking that his father hated him, but her kindness seemed to be of no use; Dick got up and went into the house without even saying, “I thank you.”

In a few days Dick got well again, and I am sorry to say the first thing he did was to go with some other good-for-nothing fellows to rob an orchard, when one of whom fell and brake his arm.

This was done one Friday night, Dick got out at his bed-room window, which was over the roof of the stable. They were the greater part of the night about this wicked robbery, and when it was done Dick returned to his room in the same way, after hiding his share of the plunder among some faggots in the yard.

It so happened that his father wanted to move this wood to make room for something else, and he and the ostler set about it the next morning. They soon found the bag full of apples and pears which Dick had put there.

“What is this?” exclaimed the father with an oath, “this is another trick of that good-for-nothing fellow master Dick; I’ll give it him properly for this.”

Dick was still in bed; hearing this he jumped up and ran to the window, where he saw that his father had snatched up a horsewhip and was coming in doors. “O father, father!” cried he, “forgive me this once, pray put down the whip.”

Maud was in her garden and heard what was passing. She came to the hedge and said, “My good neighbour, pray do not treat your son so severely, it will only harden him,”--“My good woman,” replied he, “mind your own daughter; I know how to teach dogs good manners, and my good-for-nothing son must be treated like Boxer yonder.”

Maud continued to intercede, and at length Mr. Watson consented that Dick should not be flogged, but only shut up in the cellar. “The Publican, saying Well neighbour, I will do so, if it is only to shew you how kind and gentle I am. Go, Peter, and put the good-for-nothing fellow into the cellar: you nay give him a crust and a mug of water. But Dick, mind me, I promise you that the next nonsense you are after I’ll give you a thorough flogging.”

Perhaps you will say, now Dick will be more careful, or he must be a very foolish fellow. The Bible tells us, that “the sow that was washed is turned again to her wallowing in the mire,” (2 Peter ii. 22.) and Dick returned to his wicked ways, as I am going to tell you.

One Saturdays afternoon, as he was setting up the ninepins in the skittle ground, he saw some of his companions passing by, and they beckoned him. Dick made a false excuse to join them, and promised to go with them the next day to a wake in a neighbouring village, where there would be rope-dancing, wild beasts, and a puppet-show.

He thought of the horsewhip: but such is the power of sin over the heart that is led captive by Satan at his will, that neither punishment nor suffering can keep back those who are not restrained by the grace of God.

The next morning at day-break Dick and his companions set of to the village.

“But,” my readers will say, “how could this be--the next day was Sunday.”

What I am telling you about happened in a country where the people did not keep holy the Sabbath-day, not even in an outward manner, and where God’s holy day is despised, there can be but little of true religion. But although most of the people in that country profaned the Lord’s day and did not love the Saviour, still there were some few among them who were his children, and who both loved and served him.

You may suppose that neither Maud, nor her daughter Jenny, nor old Joseph the basket-maker, wished to go to this wake. On the contrary; in the morning when they saw their neighbours preparing to go, they felt more strongly than ever, that the pleasures which a Christian enjoys, are more pure and more lasting, than the foolish empty enjoyments of those who despise God and his holy word.

Dick spent the day in all sorts of tricks; he pilfered gingerbread and cakes from the stalls that he might have something to eat, and I am sorry to say he stole half-a-crown from a little girl who wanted to get it changed, and set some dogs to fight; in a word, he committed all sorts of roguery.

When night came, most of the people had left the fair. One of Dick’s companions said to him, “It is late, let us go home.” “Presently,” answered Dick; “I have been playing at pitch and toss for more than an hour and have lost almost all my money, I must go on a little longer and win some of it back again.”

A quarter of an hour first, and then half an hour passed away. Dick still continued the game, and lost more and more, and swore, and used a great many bad words, till at last his companion was tired of waiting, and returned home by himself.

The clock struck nine, when all at once Dick recollected the horsewhip and his father’s threat; away he ran as fast as he could, but it was near ten before he got to the village. All was quiet, not a light was to be seen, except at the parsonage, and the public-house.

You can hardly suppose how much afraid this unhappy wicked boy felt as he came to his father’s house. He stopped at the door and listened. His father was speaking in a very angry tone, and swore he would break his horsewhip over the back of his good-for-nothing son directly he appeared.

Dick was afraid to enter; he put his hand upon the latch, but dared not lift it up. How sad it is when a child dares not enter his father’s house!--After walking all round the house he got upon the dunghill, and so climbed on the roof of the stable, from whence he could just reach the window of his room. He got in and sat down, not daring to stir, nor hardly venturing to breathe.

His father continued to threaten louder and louder; Dick trembled from head to foot, and did not know what would become of him, for he knew that his father would find him at last, and that he might depend on having a severe flogging.

“The fear of the wicked shall come upon him,” (Prov. x. 23,); the Bible tells us this. Dick had hardly been ten minutes in his room, when he heard his father open the door at the foot of the stairs, saying, “Perhaps this good-for-nothing fellow has got in at the window, I’ll go and see.”

In a moment Dick was out of the window, over the roof of the stable, down upon the dunghill, and along the garden, and had jumped over the hedge before his father got up stairs.

When he was in Maud’s little field, he saw a light in her lower window;--not knowing what to do, he determined to knock at the window, and ask this good woman to help him.