Part 6

All this while their parents and friends were out looking for them everywhere; for Mrs. Morton, seeing the dark cloud arise, and finding that the children did not come home, was very uneasy. At first, she was sure that they would be in directly, as Philip had always been so obedient to her, and so careful of his brother and sister. But night coming on, and seeing nothing of them, she became greatly alarmed. She went out herself with nurse Annie, and looked and called in vain. When Mr. Morton came home, he found her in the deepest distress, for all her children were gone, she knew not whither, and it was dark and raining, and there was a mill-race and pond not far off, where the children had often walked with her and their father,--and oh! if they had lost their way and fallen in there! Mr. Morton, and some gentlemen in the neighbourhood, who kindly lent their assistance, took lanterns, and all went out, some on foot and some on horseback, to search far and near for them.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when the children thought they heard some one calling them. They listened--no! they could not mistake their father's voice calling, "Philip! Philip! Jessie!"

Oh! how their hearts beat! Philip ran farther into the wood and called again, "Father! Father! here we are!"

But no answer was returned. Just then they saw a light through the trees, at a distance, and Philip, running in the direction, saw his father, and their old man Tom, and Philo. Presently Philo barked, and Philip knew, by the sound, that they were all coming towards them.

"Don't leave me, Philip!" cried out little Jessie. "I will take the baby up, if you will help me."

So Philip ran back to the shed, and called again. His father heard him now, and came directly up to where they were. There he found Willy fast asleep, and Jessy trying to put on his apron and shoe.

Old Tommy had a bundle of shawls, and some cakes for them, that their mother had put up.--They were so glad to see their father, and to know that they were found, that they did not care for the cakes; but Jessie took a shawl for herself, and her father wrapped one around Willy, who opened his eyes, and seeing his father had him, fell asleep again.

They were soon on their way home,--Philo running on before them, as if to be the first to announce their coming; and Tommy, with Philip on one side,--and Jessy, holding her little school-basket in her hand, on the other; and Mr. Morton with the baby.

Mrs. Morton ran to meet them, and I cannot say who were the happier,--the children, to be once more safe at home, or the mother to hold again her darlings in her arms!

"Mother, I am afraid you will never trust Willy with me again," was the first thing Philip said.--"But, indeed, I will never disobey you again. I did not know what a terrible thing it is to be naughty!"

His mother could not speak--she wept; but it was with joy and gratitude to God for restoring to her her children.

"Don't cry so; indeed I think God will make me a good boy, after this, always," said Philip, looking up earnestly in his mother's face.

"May He indeed do so, my dear boy, and ever bless, and strengthen you!" said his mother. "May you never forget to obey your father and mother, now you are young, and I am sure you will be a good _man_."

Philip never forgot the night in the woods. He is now grown up, and what his mother said was true. He is a good man, because he learned to be a good boy.

FORGIVENESS.

A very little child, one day, Too young to know the harm it did, Trampled, with his small naked foot, The place in which a violet hid.

The violet sighed its life away, Embalming, with its last faint breath, The little foot, that thus, in play, Had put its soft, blue flower to death.

Ah, was it not a tender flower, To lavish all the wealth it had, Its fragrance, in its dying hour, Mild, meek, forgiving, mute, though sad.

My little girl, the lesson learn; Be thou the violet--love _thou_ so; Retort no wrong; but nobly turn, And with thy heart's wealth bless thy foe.

SNOW DROP.

THE TWO NOSEGAYS.

One fine summer evening, as the mother of Virginia and Maria was walking with them in the garden, she observed that, from time to time, they went away by themselves, and whispered mysteriously together; and whenever she went towards them, to inquire into the subject of their conversation, they stopped, and began to play about.

This conduct disturbed her very much; for she knew that when girls have anything which they wish to conceal from their mothers, there must be something wrong about it.

This case, however, was an exception to the general rule, Virginia and Maria had nothing improper in their minds; but the next day was their mother's birth-day, and they wished to think of something which would be a suitable present for them to make her.

Virginia was two years older than Maria, and the two sisters were very different. Virginia was lively, quick, and graceful; Maria was quiet, modest, and loving.

"Let us make mamma some present which will prove which of us possesses the finest taste," said Virginia. "In our garden and the meadow the flowers are all striving to see which will excel in beauty. Let us choose, from among them, the flowers we like best, and make a nosegay, each by ourselves; and then see which our mother will prefer."

Maria agreed to her sister's proposal, and, early on the next morning, they went, by different paths, through the meadow and garden, to make their choice. All the flowers smiled upon them, and seemed to invite attention: but they flew, like butterflies, from one to the other, uncertain where to choose. At length the early morning was gone, and it was time for them to return to breakfast.--They both knew that a want of _punctuality_ would displease their mother, more than any nosegays could give her pleasure. So they broke off their flowers hastily, and carried them to the house, without even suffering each other to see what they had.

Soon after breakfast, Virginia approached her mother with a smile of satisfaction, and very gracefully presented her a bunch of fresh moss-roses, in a little basket curiously woven of the green leaves of the bush.

"Dear mother!" said she, "see how, from this little basket of leaves, this full-blown moss-rose lifts up its head in the centre, with a colour so lively and so soft. This beautiful rose is you, mother, and this little bud beneath its shadow is your Virginia."

Maria approached with a timid step, and spoke in a low, hesitating voice:

"Mother, here is my nosegay. It is not so beautiful nor ingenious as Virginia's rose-basket.--It is only a bunch of honeysuckle blossoms, from the vine which twined around the nut-tree, as I would rest on you."

When Maria said this, she threw her arms around her mother's neck, and wet her cheeks with tears of quiet love.

The beauty and ingenuity of the rose-basket had delighted the eye of the happy mother, but Maria's present touched her heart; and tears filled her eyes, as she returned the embrace of her affectionate child.

"My dear children," said she, "your gifts are like yourselves, and you shall both be precious to me."

As she said this, she took the rose-bud from the basket, and twining it with the honeysuckles, put them both into her bosom.

CAMGNO; OR, THE TAME ROE.

A TRUE STORY.

And now, little girls, I am going to tell you of the life and history of a young roe-deer. It is quite a true story, as I have very good reason to know.

When Fanny Grey was about seven years old, one day her father opened the door of the room where she sat, and said, "Come here, Fanny, and look at the beautiful present I have brought you."

So she got up in great haste, and followed her papa to the lawn, and there, in a nice square box, was a young roe.

"It is for you, my child, as a reward for your attention to your studies."

I wish you could have seen Fanny's joy. She danced about, and clapped her hands, and ran to the dairy to get some milk for the little stranger. When she had taken it out of the box, she could see it much better: she could see the white spots that make the coat of roe-deer, when they are very young. She could see its pretty little graceful feet, and its soft, black eyes; and Fanny was so happy, that she said she should like it better than any of her pets. She had birds, and dogs, and a beautiful grey horse, but this dear little roe was better than all. She gave it the name of Camgno; and by this name it would come whenever she called.--She made a velvet cushion for it to sleep upon, and every day she thought it grew more pretty. After some time Camgno became quite strong, and Fanny had a silver collar made for it; and the gamekeeper made a "nice little house" for her favourite, where it could sleep every night. Camgno would always come when Fanny called, and they loved each other very much. But Camgno was taken sick, and it was necessary to carry him to the pheasant-house, where the gamekeeper could take care of him; for Fanny was not old enough to take all the care of her little pet, when he was so sick, and so she consented to its being removed.

One day her father came home and told her a sad tale, that Camgno could not live. Oh! how sorry she was!--the tears came into her eyes, and she ran away, as fast as she could, to see her poor roe. When she came to the pheasant-house, Camgno was lying on the ground, and looked quite dead.

"Oh, my poor Camgno!" she cried.

Camgno opened its black eyes at the sound of her voice; and Fanny sat down by the roe, and raised its little head, and laid it upon her knee.--She staid a long time beside her dear little pet, till her father said he was afraid she would catch cold, and she must now go home.

The next morning she got up very early, and went to the gamekeeper; but just before she reached the house, she met James, who said, "It is of no use; Camgno is dead; but if I live till another spring, I will get you another roe."

"Thank you James," said Fanny; "but I shall never want another roe; it might die too; and it makes me very sorry: but I will thank you to dig a grave for my _pet_, and help me to bury it."

So Fanny covered the grave with flowers, and resolved that she would try and not love anything so much again that could be taken away from her; but she was always kind to all animals, and every living thing,--and, after this, she was led to think of and love such things as could not be taken away from her: and that made her truly happy.

THE SECRET.

"Come, Fanny," said George Lewis, "put on your hat, and go out with me among the trees and bushes. It is a bright, glorious morning, and I have a secret to reveal to you, sister, when we get where nobody will overhear us."

"Oh, that's grand," cried Fanny, with her face kindling up with joy, and her curiosity, like herself, all on tiptoe. "I love to find out secrets."

She took her brother's hand, and away they hied, running and leaping, over the field, past the new hayricks, across the rivulet, and into the flowery border of a thicket. Here was a little silvery fountain, gushing from a mossy rock, and flashing to the light over its pebbly basin; and there a green, arching bough, hung with clusters of wild berries, and trembling from the weight and motion of their light-winged gatherer; while the air was filled with sweet perfume, and the songs of the feathered warblers sounded from shrub and tree on every side.

"But what _is_ it--what _can_ it be that you have to tell me, George?" said Fanny; "I'm out of breath to know the secret."

"Be patient, and you shall know it in the right time," replied her brother.

"Oh! how can you be so cruel as not to tell me _now_?" said Fanny. "How long have you known the secret without letting me know it, too? I shan't be able to go much farther, if you keep it from me. My heart is all in a flutter."

"I don't want to tell you, with your heart all in a _flutter_. You should be calm, so as to hear what I say, and to enjoy the sight I have to show you," said the young philosopher.

"I am calm, now, and I have been patient," said Fanny. "Come, dear Georgie, do tell me."

Georgie kept silence, and proceeded a few paces, when he paused; and lifting a long, leafy branch, disclosed to the eye of the delighted girl a beautiful nest, full of young birds, so closely snuggled in their little round cell, that they looked as if, from below the neck, they grew together.

In momentary surprise at the sudden flood of light that poured upon them, the nestlings put up their heads, as if to ask what was meant by it, and who it was that had unroofed them. They had never received anything but what came from care and kindness; they were innocent, and therefore they knew no fear. Putting forth their open beaks at the strange visitants, they cried, "Petweet-tweet, petweet-tweet," as if their mother had hung over them with their morning gift of food.

Fanny was for a moment as much surprised as they. Then, in an ecstacy of delight, she sprang forward, and would have dislodged the nest from its place, to take the birds, and examine them with her fingers, as well as her scrutinizing eye, had not her brother checked her motion, and stood between her and his casket of living jewels.

"Oh! I want to touch them!" said she. "But how long have you known of this nest?"

"Ever since it was begun to be built," said George.

"And didn't tell _m-e_!" said Fanny, in a whimpering tone.

"No," replied George, "but I will tell you the reason why I did not. Had I told you then, Fanny, we should never have seen these little birds here. You haven't the art of keeping a secret belonging to your own concerns or another's, long enough for anything depending on its being kept to come to pass. You will surely, in some way, let it slip too soon. You would not tell it if you promised not to do so; but by some air or act, or mysterious manner, you would show them that you knew something that was unknown to others, and set them to watching and studying for it. If I had told you of the nest, you would have wanted to be running out every little while to see how it went on, till the bird would have found herself watched, and forsaken it, to build somewhere else. Or you would have wanted to break the blue shells, to see if the insides of the eggs were growing into birds; just as you dug up your flower-seeds, to know if they were sprouted; and broke open the green rose-buds, to find out if the under leaves were turning red. So your seeds never came up, and your roses didn't bloom; all for your impatience and curiosity. If you had not done this, your continual coming would have drawn the attention of some of the boys or girls, to learn what was here, till they would have found the nest, and robbed it. You have too much _curiosity_, Fanny. If you choose, tell your own secrets, and take the consequences. But they who cannot keep their own, are not very likely to be trusted with those of others. And as to coming at them by prying, I should feel as if I was 'tiefing,' as the Frenchman told his little boy he had been doing, when he cut the shoot from grandpapa's English walnut-tree, to make him a _rattan_. If I discovered, by accident, what concerned another, and was not designed for my knowledge, I should feel sorry, and that I had no more right to tell or expose it, than I should have to spend a piece of money that I saw another drop. This secret was the _bird's_--and I should have caused her great distress by telling it. It is the kind of curiosity which makes you want to know what others are about, what they have, and so on, that gets you into your worst troubles, sister. You saw John bring in a covered basket, and put it on a shelf in the cellar closet. The next that was heard was the basket, eggs and all, smash upon the brick floor; and sister Fanny shouting lamentably and crying, 'Oh, dear, dear, they are all over my feet!' So none of us had pudding that day. Then, when you saw your mother wet her eyes with clear water from a phial, and thought you'd try it too, you found the sal volatile not quite so cooling to yours, as the rose-water to hers. No wonder that they wept!

"Now, Fanny, since I've played minister, and preached you such a sermon on curiosity over this nest, I know you'll prove so good a hearer as not to show that you know anything about the secret, till the birds are a few days older, and can fly away.--Then they'll come and do the singing part of the service, from the trees around our house."

Fanny looked thoughtful and solemn, and only replied, "I'm glad I didn't break the bird's eggs. There never would have been any music nor pretty birds come from these if I did break them. They would have been made into a pudding; the pudding would have made me heavy and sleepy, so that I should not have got my lesson so well, and I should have been mortified at school."

SCIENCE OF THE HUMAN FRAME.

THE SKIN.

FATHER. It is pleasant and profitable, my children, to learn the uses of various parts of the human body; for when we understand the uses of any member of the body, and the manner in which it is composed, we shall be better able to avoid all things which would interfere with those uses. It seems to me that it would be useful for you to give your attention to these subjects, and I will give you all the assistance that I am able.

ALBERT. I wish to learn the use of a great many parts of my body that I do not now fully understand; for I have been told that the human form is the most perfect of all material things; and it seems to me that we ought to give much more attention to it than we have yet given.

CHARLES. It seems to me that it would be a good plan, if you are willing, father, to spend a part of each evening in teaching us these things. Albert and I can ask some questions, and you can answer them, and give us any other information that you think may be useful to us.

FATHER. I think that this is a good plan; and as we are now together, we will begin this evening. We will begin with the _skin_,--for though the skin covers the whole body, and is so exposed to view, there are many things concerning it with which you are not familiar.--The skin is that thin covering which is spread over the whole surface of the body. It serves to bind together and to protect from injury the more delicate parts which are beneath it. Come, Albert, tell me some of the things which you have observed respecting the skin.

ALBERT. The skin differs in its appearance in different animals, and in different parts of the body. With young people and females it is soft, smooth, and delicate; it is firmer and more resisting in middle age, and with males; it appears loose and wrinkled in old age, and after some diseases; it is puckered or disposed in folds in places where it would otherwise interfere with the proper movements of the limbs, as over the finger-joints, and in the palm of the hand.

FATHER. Very well, my son. Should you suppose, Charles, that the skin is one sheet, or that it is composed of layers?

CHARLES. I have observed that a very thin coat of the skin has sometimes risen in blisters, from being rubbed when I have been working, or from a burn, or slight scald; and sometimes I have peeled it off, as I can the outside bark of a birch tree; and from these things I suppose the skin is composed of thin layers.

FATHER. It is so. The skin is composed of three membranes, or layers. The outside layer is called the "cuticle," or "scarf-skin." There are some other names for the three layers of the skin besides those that I shall use; but if you remember those which I give, it will be sufficient until you are old enough to understand more fully the good books which have been written concerning the different parts of the body. The cuticle has no blood-vessels. It is very thin. There is still some doubt whether the scarf-skin has any nerves or not. Perhaps it has nerves which are so unsusceptible to external impressions, that we do not notice their effects.

ALBERT. If there were nerves in the scarf-skin as sensitive as those in some parts of the body, we should be in constant pain; we could not take a single step without extreme pain; for the scarf-skin is, I suppose, a protection to the parts which are tender; and unless its nerves were blunt, it would not answer this purpose. I never thought of this before; but this, as well as the structure of every part of the body, shows us the kindness and wisdom of our Creator.

CHARLES. And if there were blood-vessels in the scarf-skin, we should continually be in danger of being covered with blood, since a slight blow is sufficient to break this skin. I have also observed, father, that those parts of the body which are the most exposed to pressure and friction, such as the palms of the hands and soles of the feet, are provided with a scarf-skin much thicker than that on other parts of the body.

FATHER. Yes, my son. The difference in the thickness of the cuticle in different parts of the body is apparent even at birth. But the farmer and blacksmith, who are constantly engaged in manual labour, need a thicker scarf-skin to protect their hands, than would be convenient for a student or a merchant; and it has, for this reason, been so provided, that the scarf-skin increases in thickness when it is much used, and decreases when it is but little needed.

CHARLES. If we have got through with talking about the scarf-skin, I should like to ask about the next layer, for you told us there are three coats.

FATHER. Yes, there are three coats. Immediately beneath the scarf-skin, is what is called the _mucous coat_. The mucous coat is chiefly remarkable as the seat of the colouring matter of the skin.

ALBERT. Then I should think that persons of dark complexion must have much thicker mucous coats than those of light complexion.

FATHER. They have. It can scarcely be seen with those who are of a very light complexion, but in the negro it is thick. If the mucous coat were the same in all persons, all would be of one colour. The mucous coat is very bright in those fishes and other animals whose skins have beautiful, variegated colours, and is the cause of their brilliant appearance. The mucous coat, like the cuticle, is destitute of blood-vessels, and of very active nerves.

ALBERT. As it is not yet late, let us talk about the third layer, and then we shall have some idea of the composition of the skin.

FATHER. The third, or inmost layer, called the _true skin_, is much thicker than either of the other layers of the skin. The true skin seems to be a complete network of extremely small blood-vessels and nerves.

CHARLES. I can see that this is so; for I cannot prick entirely through the skin, even with the point of the finest needle, without giving some pain, and drawing some blood; and I suppose that the pain is caused by piercing a nerve, and the bleeding by opening a blood-vessel.

FATHER. You are right, my son. There are so many nerves in the true skin, that in amputating a limb, the principal pain is always in the skin.

ALBERT. I suppose we should not be able to distinguish different things by the touch, unless the true skin were furnished with nerves.

FATHER. One of the great uses of the skin is to remove from the body the impure matter which is constantly collecting. You both have, when warm, perceived drops of sweat, or perspiration, on your faces and other parts of your bodies. Much impure matter is removed in that way, which, if not removed, would be very injurious to the health.

CHARLES. It seems to me that but very little impure matter can be conveyed away in the perspiration which falls from us.