Chapter 8

When the bank was opened, the first of November it was found to contain seventy-nine dollars and eleven cents! This sum of money had been saved in seven weeks, by twenty-four boys. They were quite astonished at their own success. They learned the lesson by personal experience, that if they took care of the pennies, the shillings would take care of themselves. Some of them had saved enough to buy a new suit of clothes, others enough for pantaloons, and others for a cap or shoes. They were advised not to spend their money hastily; but a few were too impatient to wait, and the same evening they received it they went out to make their purchases. Others laid by their money till morning.

The news-boys found it was so much better for them to put their money in the bank, than to spend it in gaming, or for cigars, or in other useless ways, that they voted to close it again, not to be opened till December. During the month of November, nineteen boys saved sixty-three dollars and forty-seven cents. One of them had put in thirteen dollars. He did not spend it all for himself, but gave a part of it to his mother to pay her rent.

The boys were delighted with their wealth. "No hard times here!" they cried. "Money isn't tight with us. There is plenty of it."

One of the boys purchased an entire suit of clothes; and when he made his appearance among the others, in his nice blue jacket, with bright buttons, his pantaloons to match, and his blue navy-cap, he was greeted with cheers. One and another examined his wardrobe, and all enjoyed his success. "Who are you? Who'd think this was Charley ----? Is this a news-boy? Who'd believe this was a news-boy?" and various other exclamations escaped from them. "Charley has done well this time." Yes, Charley did well, and he will not soon forget the lesson he learned that month. He knows more of the true use of money than ever before.

The first of December the boys voted to keep the bank closed till the third of January. They decided not to have it opened on the first, because there are so many temptations to spend money that they feared, if they had it in their pockets, they should part with it foolishly.

One of the news-boys has been recently run over by a stage. I inquired about him, and learned that he is the very boy whom I met in a friend's office, and my interest in whom led me first to visit the lodging-house. This is the third time he has narrowly escaped death. The omnibus passed directly over his body. When he was taken up, his companions thought him dying. He was conveyed immediately to the hospital.

The boys at the lodging-house were saddened by Patrick's troubles. They expected he would die. They recounted his excellencies of character. His cheerfulness and ready wit were not forgotten. Patrick is not a boy of many words, but when he speaks, it is to the purpose. The boys called at the hospital to see him. The door-keeper said he never knew a boy who had so many cousins!

The next day Patrick was better. It was found that he was not so much injured as was at first supposed. There was great rejoicing in the evening at the lodging-house. A heavy load had been lifted from their hearts. Patrick would soon be among them again. They were cheerful and full of life and spirits. "Patrick must be half made of India-rubber!" they exclaimed, gleefully.

This sympathy with each other is one of the most beautiful traits of their character, and shows a nature that may be nobly developed. They cannot but learn much that is good in the hours spent in their reading-room, as they listen to the instruction of those interested in their welfare. Many of them have already found good situations, and give promise of becoming useful men. They appreciate kindness and civility. "Mr. ---- spoke to me in the street, when he was walking with another gentleman and _he shook hands with me too_," said one of them triumphantly, as if he had risen in the scale of being, and was more worthy of respect, in consequence of the respect with which he had been treated. Few can estimate the power of sympathy.

"Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; Let no harsh term be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word."

"I have never forgotten your words of kindness, when I was poor and almost discouraged," wrote one lady to another, and no more will any child of want forget the utterance of a warm, generous heart.

I should have told you, that besides the money the boys put in the bank, they earn enough to pay for their lodging, six cents a night, and to purchase their food, and, sometimes, various articles of clothing. They are obliged to be very active, and to be up early in the morning. They may be found in all parts of the city, crying their papers with loud, piercing voices, and running at full speed from street to street, stopping only to sell papers to any who may buy.

It would be well if they had some occupation which would expose them less to bad company and unsteady habits; but a news-boy can be honest, virtuous, and temperate, as well as any other boy,--if he will take the right way to be.

IDA'S DRESS.

At one time, when Mrs. Dudley was spending a few days in the city, she went with a friend to call upon a poor woman whom she heard was in great need. This woman had sent a daughter, about eight years old, to school for one day, and then found that she could not spare her; she felt obliged to keep her at home to take care of the baby.

Mrs. Carter--for by this name I shall call her--occupied a house back from the street. The ladies ascended the steps leading to the first floor, and inquired if she lived there. "She is in the basement," was the answer. They descended into the area. It was neatly swept, and in perfect order. "It must be a genteel woman who lives here," remarked Mrs. Benton. They knocked. A voice bade them come in. They opened the door and entered. Mrs. Carter was sewing by a table. By her side stood Georgianna, her oldest child, plainly and neatly dressed. At the other end of the table was a little girl about four years old, whose name I forget, and in the rocking-chair before the stove was a dark-haired babe, quietly sleeping.

The room was neat and tidy. There was a little fire in the stove, but not enough to thoroughly warm the room.

The ladies inquired of Mrs. Carter in regard to her circumstances. They learned that her husband left her last spring, and had gone she knew not where. He was a carpenter by trade, and could earn two dollars a day. She had always done what she could with her needle, and had earned a few dollars a month by binding shoes or doing other sewing. They had lived very comfortably, renting good apartments for eight dollars a month, and knew nothing of want or suffering.

Mrs. Carter was obliged to give up her pleasant rooms, to remove to the basement. She has laboured industriously, whenever she can procure work, to pay her rent, three dollars a month, and to provide food for her children. She has known what it is to be both cold and hungry. She has bought coal by the bushel, and has sometimes been without fire in the dead of winter. Her family have lived principally upon bread and water, and the little ones have cried for food when she had none to give them.

Little Ida is too young to know her mother's sorrow. She is a babe of only a few weeks old, and she sleeps as sweetly in that great rocking-chair as any babe ever slept in a cradle. She is warmly wrapped in a blanket, and does not suffer, although she has scarce a change of dresses.

When Mrs. Dudley returned to her happy home, she told her children about this family, and particularly about the poor babe, who so increased her mother's cares and labours, yet repaying it all by the wealth of maternal love her coming had developed. It was pleasing to see Georgianna lay her face so softly on the infant's, and so gently rock her when her slumbers were disturbed.

Mrs. Dudley's children listened to her story with great interest, and wished to do something for the family. Mary repaired some garments which her mother gave her, and when this was done, she went to her drawer and took out a small piece of calico, which had been given to her to make her doll a dress. She asked her mother if there was enough to make Ida a dress. Mrs. Dudley examined it, and told her there was. So she cut it out for her daughter, and showed her how to make it. This work occupied her several days, for Mary goes to school, and has not much time for sewing. The dress looked very pretty when it was completed. She had embroidered the tiny sleeves with a neat scollop, and had taken great pains to make it strong and neatly.

The next time Mrs. Dudley went to the city, she took several small parcels for Mrs. Carter, who was much pleased with them. None gratified her more than the dress for the baby.

It will always be a pleasant recollection to Mary that she made the heart of this suffering woman happy by sending a dress to her infant. She learned the pleasure of giving, and of exerting herself to do good to others.

If Mrs. Dudley had had the dress made by a seamstress, it would have been equally useful to Mrs. Carter; but Mary would have lost the reward which she now enjoys in the consciousness of relieving the sufferings of the destitute. I hope Mary will always be benevolent, and never grow "weary in well-doing."

WHAT MADE WILLIE HAPPY.

Willie was looking at the slippers which his mother had wrought for him, and admiring the freshness of the colours. They were a Christmas present to him, and had afforded him much pleasure.

"You were very happy the evening they were given to you," said his mother.

"But no happier than I was last evening," he replied.

I will tell you what made him so happy on the evening to which he alluded. At Christmas, two little books had been added to his library, and another had been lent him by one of his companions. When he had read these books, he was very desirous to get still another. He began to inquire how he could earn money enough to buy it, for he thought he should like to purchase it himself. He could think of nothing which could be done in the house, by which he could replenish his purse; so his mother told him, if he would control his temper for a week, she would get the book for him. If he did get out of patience, and immediately checked himself, he was to receive it.

Every evening Willie came to his mother, and told her how he had succeeded through the day. She observed him very carefully, and she knew that he really tried to conquer himself. She encouraged him in his efforts, and Willie was very happy--happy because he was succeeding in correcting what was wrong--and happy in the anticipation of the reward promised him.

The last day of the week came, and passed away. Willie's father returned from the city. He brought with him a parcel done up in soft white paper, and tied with a small red and white twine. His mother opened it, and there was the book for which she had sent. She wrote Willie's name in it, with the day of the month, and then wrote "A Reward of Merit." She thought those few words would remind him of the way in which he earned the book, and would encourage him to persevere in overcoming any bad or sinful habit.

All these things together made Willie quite as happy as on "Merry Christmas." It always makes people happy to endeavour to subdue what is wrong in themselves,--such efforts being their own reward. The consciousness of the approval of our heavenly Father must always occasion the truest pleasure.

DO YOU INTEND TO BE A GENTLEMAN?

(A QUESTION FOR BOYS.)

As I sat at the table a few evenings since, a gentleman called. He was invited to take a seat with us. As he had already supped, he declined. This person is a man of talent and education, but as I turned to look at him, in the course of conversation, I observed a habit which so disgusted me, that it was with an effort I could finish my tea.

This circumstance impressed on my mind the importance of forming correct habits in boyhood. "The child is father of the man," Wordsworth says in one of his poems. The habits and character you form now will, in all probability, be the habits and character you will retain when you are a man. I suppose the individual to whom I have alluded was entirely unconscious of doing any thing disagreeable. If not, perhaps he did not consider it of much consequence. He may have grown up with the opinion that little things are of small importance. Now, that this is not always so, you may easily see if you drop a spark of fire in a pile of shavings: the whole will be immediately in flames, and will do as much injury as if it had been kindled by a large coal.

Our happiness depends quite as much on little things as on great. Small trials are as difficult to bear as any. People often lose their patience when a dress is torn, or a pitcher broken, who would be quiet and calm if some serious misfortune had befallen them.

I hope, boys, you intend to be gentlemen. I do not mean fops and dandies, but true gentlemen. You have perhaps seen the remark made, that "dress does not make the man, but after he is made, he looks better dressed up." Neither do gentlemanly habits and manners make the man, but they certainly improve him after he is made, and render him agreeable and prepossessing.

A farmer, or a cabinet-maker, or a blacksmith, are no less gentlemen because they are engaged in these useful and honourable employments, than are judges, or merchants, or ministers. To be a gentleman is to be a man of gentle manners; and who would not desire to be distinguished for such a trait?

If you intend to be gentlemen, you must begin now, by always conducting, under all circumstances, just as well as you know how. Some of you, I suppose, have better advantages of society, and more careful instruction at home, than others; but no boy of intelligence need fail to be a gentleman if he tries.

A true gentleman is always courteous. He answers respectfully when spoken to--no matter by whom. Do you remember the anecdote of General Washington, who raised his hat and bowed politely to a coloured man he met, who had previously saluted him with the usual civility of the race? A friend with him expressed surprise. "Do you think," said he, "I would be less polite than a negro?" I hope, when you are tempted to be uncivil to those whom you consider beneath you, you will not forget the good example of the Father of his Country. I suppose the secret of Washington's politeness and greatness was, as his mother proudly said of him, that "George was always a good boy!"

He was a gentleman--such a gentleman as I should be glad to believe every boy who reads this book will one day be. If you would be polite to all, you must cultivate kind feelings towards all. A gentleman is not a rough man. He may have great energy and power of character, as had Washington, but still he is a _gentle_-man.

GENEROUS NELLY; OR, THE WILLING MIND.

Nelly Wallace is about six years old. She has a pleasant, attractive face. Her long hair curls in ringlets over her neck. She is one of the neatest and most gentle children I ever saw, and gives her mother but little trouble. Indeed, she is so orderly, and active, that she is quite an assistance to her. She sings like a lark, and is patient as a lamb. She is very generous, too.

Her father is obliged to live on a small salary.

Nelly is a favourite with her father's friends, and often receives a present from them.

One day, she heard her mother say to her father that they needed some particular article very much, but he told her he had not money enough to purchase it. She quietly left the room, and went up stairs. Presently she returned, and placed a five-dollar gold-piece, which had been given to her, in her mother's hand. "Please use my money, mother," she said; "I should rather you would use it for what you need, than keep it to buy something for myself."

At another time, her father was obliged to take a journey on business. Nelly brought forth her purse, and offered its contents to him to defray his expenses. Dear child! she knew nothing about the cost of travelling, nor the value of money. She thought her three-cent pieces would be all he would need.

Paul, when exhorting the Corinthian church to liberality, says, "If there be first a willing mind, it is accepted according to that a man hath, and not according to that he hath not." Nelly had a willing mind, and her father was as much gratified by her thoughtful consideration as he would have been if she had been able to furnish him all that he needed. So our heavenly Father is pleased with his children when they do what they can to provide for the wants of the needy; and the smallest gift, offered in love, is not forgotten by him.

You recollect that our Saviour, when he saw the rich men casting their gifts into the treasury and the poor woman casting in her two mites, said that she had cast in more than they all. They had given of their abundance; it had cost them no self-denial--but she, of her penury, had cast in all the living that she had. God looks not only on the outward act, but at the heart. He sees the motives which actuate us. He saw Nelly's heart, and he approved her generosity. He gave her an approving conscience, which made her very happy--far happier than she could have been if she had been selfish, and thought only of her own enjoyment.

LOVEST THOU ME?

Jesus, after his resurrection from the dead, appeared at various times to his disciples. Once, when Peter, John, and a few others were fishing in the Sea of Tiberias, he stood on the shore, and inquired of them, "Have ye any meat?" They answered, "No." Then he directed them to cast their net on the right side of the ship, and they should find fish. They did so, and caught one hundred and fifty-three. The disciples then knew it was Jesus who had spoken to them. After they had secured the fish by drawing the net to the shore, Jesus invited them to dine with him.

The disciples had observed, so soon as they came to land, a fire of coals, and "fish laid thereon, and bread." This was the refreshment our Lord had prepared for them, and he, himself, gave them the simple repast.

After they had dined, our Saviour said to Peter three times, "Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?" The first and the second time Peter answered, "Yea, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee." Peter was grieved because Jesus said unto him the third time, "Lovest thou me?" and he replied, "Thou knowest all things; thou knowest that I love thee."

How did Peter know that he loved Jesus? It was not because he always did right, for a short time before he had denied his Lord, and had more than once said that he did not know him! Yet, notwithstanding this, when he was now asked, "Lovest thou me?" he could unhesitatingly answer, "Thou knowest that I love thee."

If you should be asked, "Do you love your parents?" you would immediately answer, "Yes." You know you love them. How do you know it? It might not be so easy for you to answer this question as the other, but at the same time you are conscious that you do love them. You feel that they are your best friends. They provide for all your wants. They furnish you with food and clothes and the means of education. They take care of you when you are well and when you are ill. You feel grateful to them for what they do for you, and you enjoy being with them, and talking with them. You like to please them, and it makes you sad when you have grieved them. Children who love their parents very dearly sometimes do what they do not approve; but they are always sorry for it, as Peter was when he went out and wept bitterly.

If you should be asked, "Do you love your heavenly Father?" could you as readily answer, "Yes?" Do you like to hear about him and his wonderful works? Is the story of Jesus' love for lost man one that interests you? Is it pleasant to you to think of living forever with the Lord when you leave this world?

If you love your Father in heaven, you do not love to do what is wrong. If you are overcome by temptation, and sin against him, you are sorry, as you are when you sin against your earthly parents.

Children, and grown people too, sometimes seem to think that religion is to be kept by itself, separate and distinct from our daily duties, and that it consists in praying, going to church, hearing sermons, and wearing a sober face. It is true the Christian often feels sober, but there is no one who may be so cheerful as he, for there is none that can be so truly happy. True piety extends to all the acts of our lives, and influences them all. It does not forbid our doing any thing that it is right for us to do. A Christian child enjoys play quite as well as any other child.

If Jesus should say to you to-day, as he did to Peter, "Lovest thou me?" could you answer, "Yes, Lord, thou knowest that I love thee?" It is just as easy for you to know whether you love him as it is for you to know whether you love your father and mother. I trust there are many children who do love the Saviour, and who wish to live to be good and to do good.

MY LITTLE BAG.

On my table lies a little bag. It has no beauty to render it valuable. It is not made of silk or velvet. The material is plain muslin, and that by no means of the finest texture. It is not very neatly made. The stitches are irregular. Sometimes they are piled one above another, and again they are scattered far apart. The hemming shows that no skilful seamstress held the needle. And yet this bag has afforded me much pleasure. Every stitch was made by the hand of love, and with a desire to gratify me and add to my happiness. It was a work of toil, for the fingers were unused to such labour. Patient industry and persevering effort were required to accomplish it. Self-denial, too, was practised, for play was forsaken on its account.

It was a gift to me from a dear child; a token of his purest and warmest affection; and that has made this coarse muslin more precious than the richest material could be, which had no such extraneous value.

What a blessing is love! How it enriches us! Without it we must ever be poor. "God is love," and he has taught us to love one another. "Love is the fulfilling of the law." We must love our neighbour as ourselves.

"Little deeds of kindness, Little words of love, Make our earth an Eden, Like the heaven above."

No offering of true love is valueless, however small or imperfect it may be. My little bag is rich in pleasant associations, and I never look upon it but with a full heart.

God does not accept what we do for him because of any peculiar excellence in our devotion, but because it is the result of our love to him.

DO YOU LIKE YOUR SEAT?

On the day after one Fourth of July, I was obliged to go into the city. The cars were crowded with those who were returning, after spending our national anniversary in the country. How much they must have enjoyed that day of release from city labour, and dust, and close streets bounded by high brick houses! How beautiful to them the green fields, the shady trees, and the soft-flowing river! How they gazed on the hills luxuriating in verdure, and the valleys rich with their treasures of wealth and beauty!

"God made the country," and all his works are perfect. I pity those who are pent up in a large prison-city with nothing but a dwarf-maple before their windows which at all resembles the country, and who have to look up, up, up, before they can get a glimpse of the blue sky, and the fleecy clouds which sail majestically along, ever varying from one form of beauty to another. Thank God, my young friends, that he has given you a country home, and never leave it, unless stern necessity compels you to make your abode in the hot, crowded, feverish city.

The cars, on the morning of the fifth, were, as I have told you, crowded, and it was difficult to find unoccupied seats. A gentleman and his wife entered a car, near the door of which were two seats with only one person in each. The first was occupied by a boy about fifteen. The gentleman politely asked him if he would sit with another gentleman, that he and the lady who was with him might not be separated. The first impulse of the boy was a civil one, and he started to rise; but the second thought was ungentlemanly, ungenerous, and extremely selfish. "I like my seat very well," he muttered, and drew back to the window and looked out. Perhaps even then he began to feel ashamed of such rudeness.

The gentleman behind him immediately arose, and offered his seat. It was accepted with a bow, and a "thank you, sir." The lady was immediately behind the boy, and, as she seated herself, she said to him, in a low, kind voice, "I fear you will never be a gentleman." He made no reply, nor did he move his face from the window, but his very ears blushed. He was evidently ashamed. During the whole ride he kept nearly the same position, not being willing to meet the eyes of his fellow-passengers, for he must have observed their disapprobation of his ill-manners; and before the cars were entirely within the depôt, he went out upon the platform to escape from observation.

I hope the boy will never be rude in this way again, for he evidently was made unhappy by it. There is only one reason why I fear he will not profit by the well-merited rebuke he received, and that is, because I saw one of his cheeks puffed out with a quid of tobacco! I confess I do not expect so much improvement from a boy who indulges in such a filthy habit, as from one who does not.

A gentlemanly boy must always be happier than one who is rough and selfish. The boy in the car did not enjoy his ride, although, as he said, he liked his seat very well. His impoliteness made it unpleasant and the remembrance of it will never afford him gratification. I hope none of you, who read about him, will be guilty of a similar error.

Always try to be accommodating to those about you. If you are asked to do a favour, do it as if it gave you pleasure. You will never have occasion to regret it. Be civil to those in your father's employment. Their love and respect is of value to you. There are very few sunk so low as not to appreciate true politeness. Above all others, be polite to your parents, and your brothers and sisters. Do not indulge in harsh words.

Perhaps the boy of whose history I have given you a single incident never read Peter's instruction to the early Christians, in his epistle to them, and did not know that the apostle considered politeness of sufficient importance to be worthy of the attention of those to whom he wrote. "Be courteous," is his direction to them, and I cannot give you better advice on the same subject.

THE LITTLE BEGGAR.

As I was walking up street, a few days since, I met two little girls who looked very much alike, and were nearly of the same age. They wore gingham sun-bonnets, which came far over their good-natured faces. Their calico dresses were neatly made. Their blue woollen stockings looked warm and comfortable, but their shoes were old and much worn.

As I passed, the elder held out her hand in a way which I could not mistake, but I thought I would ask her what she wanted. She replied, "A penny to get mother some sugar for her tea." I talked with the children a few minutes about their mother, and inquired if she sent them out to beg. They said she was obliged to do it, for their father was dead, and she was not able to work.

The children had such good, honest faces, and gave such evidence, in their general appearance, of more care than most of this class of children usually receive, that I thought I would go home with them, that I might better judge of the correctness of their story, and of the necessities of their mother. So I said to them--

"Where does your mother live?"

They named the street.

"Will you take me there?"

"Yes, ma'am. We must go this way;" and they turned off in the direction of their home.

"What is your name?" I inquired of the elder child.

"Mary Ann ----."

"And what is your's?"

"Ellen ----," answered the younger.

"Have you any brothers and sisters?"

"We have one sister and one brother. Her name is Joanna, and his is Michael. A man took Michael away the fifth of July--the day after the Fourth--and we haven't seen him since. Mother thinks we shall never see him again."

They told me that their father was a stone-picker, and while he lived, they did very well, and went to school; but since he died, their mother had been ill, and had bled at the lungs, and was not strong enough to work.

I was pleased to see the children take each other by the hand, and walk along quite lovingly by my side. They appeared kind and polite to each other, and seemed to think that in me they had found a friend. They talked very fast, and told me many things about themselves and their way of life.

"We save our money to pay the rent."

"How much does your mother pay?"

"Three dollars."

"Three dollars a month!" I said, thinking how much it was for a poor woman, who had herself and three children to feed and clothe.

"I don't know whether it is a month, or a week, or how long; I only know it is three dollars.

"Once we were turned out in the snow. Oh! how cold my feet were!" The remembrance of her sufferings seemed almost to make her shiver.

"What did you do?"

"A woman took us in her house."

"It is a long walk for you," said Mary Ann, as we crossed one of the broad avenues, "and we live in the top of the house."

When we reached the house where the children lived, Mary Ann and Ellen ran up before me so fast that I lost sight of them. The hall was so dark that I could not see the stairs, but I could hear their feet pattering quickly on, and I followed as best I could. The last flight of stairs I could see distinctly, for the sky-light was just over them. They were brown with age, but they were evidently often swept and washed. I entered a room in which I saw the children. The woman there they introduced as their mother. She did not receive me with much cordiality. I suppose she wondered why I had come there. Her room was small and scantily furnished. It was heated by a small furnace. The great gray cat was dozing in the corner.

I seated myself on a clean wooden chair, and began to talk with the mother about her children. She told me of her only son, "as fine a boy as ever stood on two feet," and her anxiety in regard to him. I attempted to encourage her to hope that so soon as navigation closed, he would return to her, for he had been employed on a coal-boat; but she refused to be comforted. She wished to find a place for Joanna in the city.

Mary Ann, who is nine years old, said she should like to go to the country. She thought she could wash dishes, set the table, and sweep, and I thought so too, for she seemed to me one of the smartest little girls I ever saw. She would have been quite willing to accompany me to the country, if her mother had consented, and I could have taken her.

The children's mother came to this country when she was quite young, and lived for several years as a servant in different families. She showed me several papers which she carefully preserved in a basket. One was a certificate from a physician--another from the person who had employed her husband. As she opened her trunk I observed its contents were nicely folded and arranged, as if she had a love of order. She told me she was able to do nothing but sew and could not procure much of that.

After the children came in, they combed their hair, and braided it, and washed their hands and faces.

I inquired if the children could read. Ellen got her "Easy Lessons," and came and stood by my side while she read in it. Mary Ann read very well in her geography, and Joanna in some "Reading Lessons" which she had used at school. I asked them if they could write.

"I can," replied Mary Ann. "I can write my name, or I could your's if I knew it."

I gave each of the children a piece of silver. They immediately handed it, with a bright smile, to their mother. I told them I would call again and see them some time, but I could not do it often. When I bade them good-by, they all followed me to the door, and looked so pleased and happy that I felt amply repaid for my long walk. I had gone but a few steps, when Mary Ann came bounding along, and asked, "When will you come to see us again?" I took her hand, and we walked together to the next street.

There are many children as destitute as these little girls, and many, very many, who have not even a feeble mother to care for them. Many poor children are sent out to gather the coal from the streets, or bits of wood where new buildings are being erected, and their bread they beg from door to door.

In some of our cities benevolent people have opened schools for these miserable children, where they are taught to sew and read, and to observe to some extent the decencies and proprieties of life. In some, a dinner is given to its pupils, and, where it is possible, a home for the homeless in the country.

Children often save a part of their money for missionary or other benevolent purposes. I cannot conceive a more suitable object for their benefactions than other children who are poor and destitute. "It is more blessed to give than to receive," the Bible tells us.

I hope you do not forget to thank God for the comforts and happiness of home, which you enjoy; and I hope, also, that you will not forget that we have the poor with us always, and must do them all the good in our power.

"Have pity on them, for their life Is full of grief and care; You do not know one half the woes The very poor must bear; You do not see the silent tears By many a mother shed, As childhood offers up the prayer, 'Give us our daily bread.'"

LITTLE CHARLEY.

Charley was a sweet little babe. It was a pleasure to kiss his plump cheek, and pat his fat and dimpled arms. He was a dear babe, and we all loved him, and our blessed Saviour loved him even more than we did.

Before Charley was two years old, he became ill. All that physicians could do was done for him, but he daily grew more and more feeble. The bright blue eyes lost their brilliancy, and became faded and dim. The plump and rosy cheek became hollow and pale. The fat and rounded limbs grew thin and weak, and we all felt that little Charley would soon be taken from us.

The same sweet smile lingered about his mouth, although pain and suffering had saddened that baby-face. He no longer tottered about the floor, but was confined constantly to his bed. Not there even was he to remain more than a few short weeks. The angel of death came, and bore him to the Saviour's bosom. His friends looked at the beautiful casket, and felt that the spirit which had inhabited it, and made it precious, was no more there. They committed it tearfully to the grave, and, lonely and sorrowing, returned to their desolate home. The crib was vacant--the tiny shoe had no owner--the rattle lay neglected. There was no need of the noiseless step lest the sleeper should be awakened. Little Charley slept in death.

How sad and broken those loving hearts! Those parents were Christian parents, and they sorrowed not as those without hope. Jesus, their Saviour, had wept, and they knew their tears were not forbidden. One of the cords which bound them to earth was snapped asunder. They had one child in heaven, there to be a pure and sinless spirit in the immediate presence of his Father--God. There was comfort in the thought that Charley's tiny bark had safely passed over the sea of life, and was securely anchored in the haven of eternal rest.

Charley had a brother, Willie, two years older than himself. Little could he know of death--but he knew he had no baby-brother now, and his mother told him Charley was in heaven.

"I hope, mother," said he, "the apostles will not get him."

"Why, my child?"

"Because they did not want little children to go to Jesus," was his artless reply.

This little boy has recently removed, with his parents, to the city. He does not like it as he did the green grass and shaded fields of the country. He feels lonely without the companionship of the trees and the birds, and he wishes that "God would take him right up to heaven to play with Charley."

How is it with you, my dear child? Are you ready to be taken "right up to heaven?" Do you love your Saviour? Do you obey your parents? Are you truthful and conscientious? Do you study your Bible to learn all you can about God, and what he would have you be and do? Do you pray to him daily for His blessing, and ask Him to keep you from sin? Do you seek His forgiveness for all you have done that is wrong?

So live, that when the angel of death comes for you, he may carry you where Charley is, into the blessed home prepared for all who love God. _When_ He will come, you cannot know. Be always ready, and then He will not find you unprepared.

DARLING WILLIE.

Willie was an active little boy, just large enough to be dressed in frock and pantaloons. He was very affectionate, and everybody who knew him loved him.

When he left the green fields in the country, to come with his parents to the city, he did not feel so happy as in his pleasant home by the river side, where the wild birds sung to him, and where he could watch the branches of the old elm swaying in the breeze.

It was autumn when he came to town, and there were no flowers in the yard attached to his city home. The grass was brown and frost-bitten, and soon the white snow came and covered it. The stone walks were swept, and when it was not too cold, Willie could ride around the little square, seated on his velocipede. In his mother's parlour, he could make houses with his blocks, or stables for his tin horses, and often he went out to walk or drive with his mother, who always enjoyed taking him with her.

The winter passed away, and every month the strong cords of love were binding him still more closely to the hearts of his friends. Spring came--the fresh grass sprung up, and the dandelions opened their blossoms in Willie's playground. How he loved to look at them! Those blades of grass, and the yellow flowers, filled his heart with gladness. His eyes sparkled, and he could scarcely stand still as he talked about them.

Willie was, one day, sitting with his grandmother by the open window. The sun had just sunk below the horizon, and the clouds were gorgeously tinted with his parting rays. Some of them were of a rich golden hue, and others were dyed with rosy light. It was an exceedingly beautiful sunset, and Willie, who loved all nature, gazed for some time in silent admiration. Then, looking up to his grandmother's face, and pointing to the west,

"See, grandmother," said he, "what a beautiful home Charley has!"

Charley was Willie's little brother, whom the angels had taken from earth, and carried to live with Jesus.

He thought Charley must have felt lonely when he first went to heaven; but, as he would say, "now he has got acquainted, he is very happy."

Sometimes Willie would ask his mother, "Would you be lonesome without me, mother?" It was always a pleasant thought to him that he might early die and go to Jesus.

Willie liked to look at the blue sky. Perhaps it was because he thought it was Charley's home. He watched every evening for the moon, with her silvery light, and for the twinkling stars.

At one time, a cousin of his called to see him. He brought a basket with him. Raising the cover, he said--

"Willie, come, look in my basket."

Willie came as requested.

"Oh! I know what it is! It is a rabbit for me!"

So it was. George opened the basket, and out jumped a white rabbit, with pink eyes. It was a beautiful animal. Willie capered with delight. He had a live plaything, and it pleased him more than the velocipede, or his blocks, or any of his toys.

Willie said he loved his cousin George for bringing him the rabbit, and his cousin Walter for sending it to him. They were happy because they had made him so happy.

Not long after this rabbit was added to Willie's amusements, very sad tidings came to the home of George and Walter. It was said that Willie was dead. It seemed scarcely possible--for it was only a few days since he had sent a message of love to them.

Some member of the family immediately went to town, and called on Willie's father. It was indeed true that Willie was not there! He had gone to be with the angels. God had heard his prayer. Heaven was a better, safer, happier place for him than even his pleasant home, with his fond parents, and he was taken "right up there," as he wished, to be with Charley.

Saturday evening Willie went to his bed in apparent health. Sabbath morning he complained of not feeling entirely well, and on Wednesday he laid aside his garment of mortality, and put on the beautiful robes made white in the blood of the Lamb, in the spirit-world. He was a lovely child when he dwelt with us here below; how very lovely he must be in the bright world to which he has gone!

His mother often weeps when she thinks of him, and she misses him more than any one but a mother can. There is no one to play with his blocks, or his tin horses, or his pretty rabbit. Yet Willie is very happy, and his mother has no wish to recall him to earth, lonely and desolate as is their once cheerful home.

Willie will shed no more tears. He will never feel sad or lonely. He will suffer neither pain, nor hunger, nor weariness. But we, who love him, may weep, as did Jesus when Lazarus lay in the grave; and we shall never forget the sweet child, so full of life and love, who was given us for a little while, and then taken home to glory.

Dear children, who read about Willie, are you prepared to follow him and Charley, where they are gone to dwell with that Saviour who, when he was on earth, took little children in his arms, and blessed them, and said, "_of such is the kingdom of heaven_?"

WIDOW CAHOON AND HER GRANDSON.

"I wish to make a call in ---- street," said a lady to me, as we together were visiting some of the poor of the city. "There is a Mrs. Smith living there, a poor old woman nearly eighty years old. She is infirm and partially blind. She has a little grandson, and she has no means with which to take care of him. We hope to persuade her to give him to us, and let us find a good home, by adoption, for him."

It was a warm winter's morning. Snow had fallen the day before, but it was rapidly disappearing. The foot sank in the melting mass at every step. The crossings were muddy, and it required some skill to pick our way along dry-shod.

We turned into the street, and sought for the number which had been given us. We found it on the door of a low, shed-like building, old and out of repair.

"Does Mrs. Smith live here?" we inquired.

"No, ma'am."

"Is there an old lady, who is almost blind, and who has a little grandson, in the house?"--we further asked, thinking Mrs. Smith might not be known by name.

"No, ma'am. There is no such person here."

"Does she live in the neighbourhood?"

"She may be in No. ----."

We made inquiries at several doors, dodging in quickly to avoid the great drops which came pattering down on the pavement from the gutterless eaves, but we could learn nothing of the object of our search.

At length we came to a grocery, and, stepping in by the mackerel barrels which stood at the door, we repeated our inquiry--

"Can you tell us where Mrs. Smith lives? She is an old lady, almost blind, and has a little grandson."

"Oh, yes! I know her well. She is a deserving, needy woman."

The man followed us to the street to point out the house where she lived. As he was telling us, a woman passed by. He spoke to her, saying,

"You know where Mrs. Smith lives--the old lady who is almost blind, and who has a little grandson?"

"Yes."

"Will you show these ladies the place?"

"Yes."

She walked on with us till she came to a large tenement building, and then directed us to a room in the upper story. We thanked her, and entered the narrow hall, and passed up the still narrower staircase.

We knocked at the door, and were bidden to enter. The old lady was not there. We inquired for her again, and learned that she had just gone out. The woman said she would send for her. A boy, ten or twelve years old, went to find her. While he was gone, we talked with his mother,--a round-faced, good-natured, intelligent Irish woman. We asked her where Mrs. Smith lived, and she said she was most of the time with her. Poor woman! she had only a living-room and a bed-room for herself and four children, yet she was willing to share them with another as poor and more helpless than herself.

She was a widow, too, and had no one to depend upon. Her husband died last spring. During the summer she had provided for her family by washing and cleaning, but this winter she finds it almost impossible to get work. One of the children is a babe, who was lying on a rough, unpainted board-cradle, rudely put together by some unaccustomed hand. This infant had been taken care of during the summer by his brother, not more than ten or twelve years old, while his mother was absent at work. There was a little girl, about eight years old, who attends the Industrial School. She was quite unwell, and had not been able to go out for several days. She sat in the great rocking-chair, looking sad and disconsolate, as most sick children do. She was comfortably clothed. Her dress she had received at the school, and had sewed on it herself doing all her little fingers could do to make it. Her hair was neatly combed. She was feverish and very thirsty. Sometimes she went to the pail herself for a cup of water, and sometimes her brother would get it for her. He seemed kind, gentle, and sympathizing--a good example for some more favoured boys.

Pretty soon the door opened, and an aged woman, bent with years and breathing hard and painfully, entered the room. A boy, with a complexion fair and transparent, through which the blue veins showed themselves, immediately followed her. She greeted us kindly, and took a chair by my side, bending towards us that she might hear more easily, for she was almost deaf. She told us that since her daughter's death she had been entirely dependent on charity.

After talking with her a short time, Mrs. B----, the lady accompanying me, gave her little grandson a penny to buy some candy. She did so, because she wished to talk with his grandmother about him, and thought he had, perhaps, better not be in the room. So soon as he left, she asked the old lady if she had made up her mind to part with the child. She had been spoken to a fortnight previously in regard to it by another lady, and seemed then unwilling that he should leave her. She said she had come to the conclusion that she must give him up, for she was too old and feeble to take care of him, and she was constantly anxious about him. She could not do for him all that he needed, and she knew it would be much better for him to be adopted in some kind family, where he could be brought up as a son. She spoke of him most tenderly and affectionately. He was her earthly all. She had taken care of him from his infancy. She came from Ireland for that very purpose. His father had died before he was old enough to remember him, and his mother had supported him by her own industry.

The grandmother's name was not Smith, as we called her. It was, as she said, widow Cahoon. The daughter's name was Smith, and the sunny-haired boy was David. Last May, Mrs. Smith died of cholera, leaving her aged mother homeless, and her beautiful boy an orphan.

When David returned with a great piece of molasses-candy, he did not keep it all himself. He divided it among the other children without being told to do so. This showed that he was a generous child, and loved to make others happy. When he had eaten his portion, his grandmother washed his face, neck, and hands, and put on his best clothes, which his mother had made for him before her death. He looked very tidy and comfortable in his brown overcoat and his new boots--a New-Year's present.

The grandmother tied up a pair of shoes and a few socks in a little bundle. When she handed it to David, he burst into tears. He felt that he was really going from his dearest friend. She wept aloud for a few minutes, but when she saw how much it affected him, she wiped away her tears, and attempted to cheer him. He summoned his resolution and became once more calm.

Mrs. B---- took him by the hand, and led him down stairs. As he left the room, I gave mine to his grandmother, who uplifted it in both her's, as if pleading, in silent agony, for strength to bear this new trial. I shall never forget the expression of that wrinkled, up-turned face. Dear old grandmother! Who will comfort her now? David will not forget her, but he cannot put his arms around her neck, nor cheer her with the sunlight of his bright face. She is alone--none of her kindred near. The lady who took charge of David will do what she can for her, but her heart must yearn for the dear boy that poverty and age compelled her to give to the fostering care of strangers.

When David reached the street, the tears were tracing their way over his round, plump cheek, but soon a smile played around his mouth. Mrs. B---- took him into a toy-shop, and purchased for him a tin horse suspended in a wheel, which he could roll about the room. He selected this himself, and it was delightful to see with how much pleasure he looked at it, as he carried it in his hand.

We concluded to make no more calls that day, but to take David directly to Mrs. B----'s. When his coat and cap were taken off, he began to roll the horse across the floor. Sometimes he would come and stand by my side, and examine it closely. I said to him--

"Have you ever been in the country?"

"Oh, yes. I was there a month, when we buried mother."

"Where were you?"

"We were with Elek, grandma's son."

"Why doesn't your grandmother live with him?"

"He isn't kind to her."

"Was his wife kind?"

"No; she said she wouldn't live with him if grandma did."

"What did you see in the country?"

"I saw the fields, and the trees, and horses, and cows."

"Did Elek have a cow?"

"Yes; and she went away every day, and at night she came home, and they milked her."

"Did you see any birds?"

"I saw birds no bigger than that," said he, putting his hand over his horse so as to hide more than half of it, "and they sang all the time. And there were some chickens, that laid eggs, and then Elek's wife sold the eggs to the baker to pay for bread."

"And had you apples or peaches?"

"I used to throw small stones at the apples, and knock them off. The peaches I could reach with my hand. I had just as many as I wanted."

The little orphan's month in the country had been a sunny spot in his memory, clouded only by the unkindness of Elek towards the grandmother he loved so much.

How strange it is that children can ever forget how much they owe their parents! When the widow Cahoon was young, she had watched over his infancy. She had carried him in her arms, unmindful of her own weariness, and had done all for him that his helplessness required. But now she is old; her eyes are dim; her hearing is impaired; her hands are tremulous, and she is unable to provide for herself. Yet Elek's heart is hard. He has forgotten all her love, and will not even give her a home. He cannot prosper.

I well remember, when a child, what a fearful impression a passage from the "words of Agur" made on my mind: "The eye that mocketh at his father, and despiseth to obey his mother, the ravens of the valley shall pick it out, and the young eagles shall eat it." "Honour thy father and mother, (which is the first commandment with promise,") Paul writes to the Ephesian children, "that it may be well with thee, and thou mayest live long on the earth."

I should fear to hear Elek's future history. It must be dark and sorrowful. His poor old mother uttered a groan, when, as she was talking about David's mother, I asked if she had any other children. "He isn't kind to her," explained its meaning.

"Sharper than a serpent's tooth it is To have a thankless child."

I left David with Mrs. B----, who will find him a home in some family where they wish to adopt a little son. "He will make friends for himself,"--she said, confidently, and I felt so also, for his sweet, intelligent face is too attractive and winning not to find its way to some loving heart.

When Mrs. B---- talked with him about his mother, he wept. She soon comforted him, and told him that God would provide for him. He seems to possess a sensitive nature, with, at the same time, the power of self-control.

Who of you would like this orphan for an adopted brother? He is only five years old. I have written to a kind lady of my acquaintance, who has adopted two little girls, to inquire if she does not wish to add David to her household treasures. There are many such homeless children in New York, and it is an act of Christian charity to adopt and educate them, and one which is rich in blessings to every heart that is open to receive the fatherless and motherless.

Mrs. B---- would like to have adopted David herself but she has so much to do for so many orphan children, that she concluded she had not the time to devote to him. She sent him to a place known as the Home of the Friendless. This is a large brick house, built on purpose to shelter those who have no home of their own. There are always many children there, who are kindly taken care of till homes can be obtained for them. Those who are large enough attend school.

I was so much interested in David that I often called to see him. The first call was made one day just before dinner. I looked about for my little friend, and found him in the wash-room. He was standing by a great towel, and wiping his fair, plump face as nicely as he could. I kissed his clean, rosy cheek, and inquired if he remembered me. He smiled, and said, "Yes, ma'am." He appeared quite happy and contented. His teacher told me that he was a remarkably good boy.

Several applications were made for David by those who heard his story, and found room in their hearts and houses for the fatherless and motherless boy. His grandmother, knowing that she was too aged and feeble to take care of him, gave him to the Home. It was a great trial to do so, but she loved him too well not to seek his best interests. She was willing to live alone, uncheered by the presence and affection of her darling grandchild, if she could only feel that he would be kindly treated and educated by Christian people.

A lady in Illinois wrote that she had a dear little son in heaven, and wanted David to come to her to supply his place in the home circle, where he would find those whom he might call "father, mother, and grandmother." A clergyman in Connecticut proposed to adopt him, and was coming to New York the first of May to take him home, if it should be thought best.

While David was at the Home for the Friendless, his grandmother occupied a room not far from Mrs. B----'s. It was on the lower floor, so that she was no longer exhausted by going up so many flights of stairs. Several ladies united, and each sent her a dinner one day in the week, and saw that she was provided with breakfast and tea. They furnished her with comfortable clothing, for which she manifested much gratitude.

It was always pleasant to call upon "Widow Cahoon," and hear her talk about herself and her previous charge. She told us about his parents and grandparents. His father's father was a Methodist clergyman, and his grandmother, Smith, was a most devout woman. She loved to talk of their excellencies of character, and the good they had accomplished. I never heard her without being reminded of God's faithfulness in showing mercy unto thousands of them that love him and keep his commandments.

One day, when I was at Mrs. B----'s, "Widow Cahoon" was ushered into her private room--a back parlour on the second story. She was much out of breath, and it required some time for her to recover herself sufficiently to talk. At length she spoke of her children, some of whom she hoped were living. Two sons and a daughter had come to America long before she did, and had gone to Pennsylvania. She had not heard from them for twelve years. She had often prayed that she might see them before she died, and she hoped still that she should. She had been the mother of eleven children, and here she was entirely alone,--no relative near her to care for her in her age and helplessness. She was very desirous Mrs. B---- should write to Pennsylvania to make inquiries about her children. It seemed almost a hopeless effort, but, to gratify her, Mrs. B---- wrote to the postmaster of the town where her sons were last heard from. In about a week an answer came from the postmaster saying that he was well acquainted with James, and had seen him a short time previously. He spoke highly of him, as an industrious and respectable man, and one who would be happy to provide for his mother. In regard to her other son, he said he did not know him personally. His reputation was good, and his circumstances were such that he could assist in the care of his mother. From James the "Widow Cahoon" afterwards learned that her daughter had married and moved farther west, but she had not been heard from for ten years. When Mrs. B---- read the letter to her, she was much overcome, and the tears chased each other down her furrowed cheeks. "Glory be to God!" she exclaimed. "He has lifted a load off my heart. I shall see my sons before I die. Bless the Lord that I ever saw the like of you! I have been trying seven years to get that letter written!"

I had the pleasure of carrying to her a letter from James, and reading it to her myself. As I entered the room she was sitting by the little stove in a large rocking-chair, looking as comfortable as one could wish. She seemed very happy, and told me about the prospect of seeing her sons. "They will send for me, and I shall go to them," was a cheering and delightful thought. She said she was expecting every day a letter from James. When I told her I had brought it, her face lighted up, and she uttered expressions of thankfulness, evidently from a full and overflowing heart. She spoke of David, and of being once more with him, if "the boys should send for him." She wished to do what was best for the child, and was still willing he should be adopted, if it was thought desirable. She expressed the utmost confidence in Mrs. B----, and was willing to leave it all to her judgment. This was the last time I ever saw the "Widow Cahoon," and we shall probably never meet again. She had no earthly treasure to confer upon me, but she gave me her blessing, and, I doubt not, will remember me in her prayers so long as she remains upon earth; and when the spirit-world is our home, I shall expect her face, unwrinkled by sorrow or age, to beam upon me a heavenly welcome. It was but little I did for this poor widow, and yet that little has been rich in blessings to me, and may be to mine, for whom she fervently prayed.

James, in his second letter, sent a check to his mother to pay her fare from New York to Pennsylvania with a request that David might accompany her. He will provide for them both in future.

So soon as arrangements could be made, the now happy widow and her little grandson started, under the protection of a friend, for her new home in the country where, I suppose, they now are. What a pleasure it must be to James to have his mother once more with him, and to be able to do something for her who has done so much for him! Little David will again see the birds and the chickens, and be surrounded by kind and loving friends. The ladies of the Home will occasionally inquire about him, and if he needs their care they will provide for him, as his grandmother made them his legal protectors. If I ever hear more about David which I think will interest you, I shall write you again in regard to him.