Wreaths of Friendship: A Gift for the Young

What have we here? That kind-looking old gentleman must have something for these children; his hand is in his pocket, and they are all gathering around him. I wonder who he is, and what he is going to give them?

"He's their uncle, may be."

"Or their grandfather."

"Or somebody else that is kind to children."

No doubt of it in the world. He is some one who likes children, you may be sure. And I suppose he's got a pocket full of sugar-plums or nuts for his favorites. The little girl who has seized his cane, I rather think, will get the largest share; but I don't suppose her young companions will be at all displeased at this, for no doubt she is a very good girl, and beloved by all. Indeed, if we may judge by the faces of the children, not one of them will look at what the other receives, to see if he has not obtained the largest share.

This is not always so, however. I know some little boys and girls, who, when their parents, relatives, or friends give them cakes, candies, or playthings, immediately look from what they have themselves to what the others have received, and, if one thinks his share smaller or inferior, becomes dissatisfied, and, from a jealous and envious spirit, sacrifices his own pleasure and that of all the rest. Because there is a square inch more of cake in his brother's piece, that which he has doesn't taste good. If he have one sugar-plum less than the others, they become tasteless, and he throws them all, perhaps, upon the floor.

How bad all this looks, and how very bad it really is! The friends of such children are never encouraged to make them presents. They rather avoid doing so; for they know that their greedy, envious, covetous spirit, will turn the good things they would offer them into causes of strife and unhappiness.

THE BOY AND THE ROBIN

I

So now, pretty robin, you've come to my door;
I wonder you never have ventured before:
'Tis likely you thought I would do you some harm;
But pray, sir, what cause have you seen for alarm?

II

You seem to be timid—I'd like to know why—
Did I ever hurt you? What makes you so shy?
You shrewd little rogue, I've a mind, ere you go,
To tell you a thing it concerns you to know.

III

You think I have never discovered your nest;
'Tis hid pretty snugly, it must be confessed.
Ha! ha! how the boughs are entwined all around!
No wonder you thought it would never be found.

IV

You're as cunning a robin as ever I knew;
And yet, ha! ha! ha! I'm as cunning as you!
I know all about your nice home on the tree—'Twas
nonsense to try to conceal it from me.

V

I know—for but yesterday I was your guest—
How many young robins there are in your nest;
And pardon me, sir, if I venture to say,
They've had not a morsel of dinner to-day.

VI

But you look very sad, pretty robin, I see,
As you glance o'er the meadow, to yonder green tree;
I fear I have thoughtlessly given you pain,
And I will not prattle so lightly again.

VII

Go home, where your mate and your little ones dwell;
Though I know where they are, yet I never will tell;
Nobody shall injure that leaf-covered nest,
For sacred to me is the place of your rest.

VIII

Adieu! for you want to be flying away,
And it would be cruel to ask you to stay;
But come in the morning, come early, and sing,
For dearly I love you, sweet warbler of spring.

SOMETHING ABOUT CONSCIENCE:

OR MR MASON'S STORY

Two little boys, Robert and Samuel, were one day assisting the gardener about some flower-beds. They were rather young to be of much service to the old man, and gave him some trouble, once in a while, by the clumsy way in which they did their work. Still, they meant to please the gardener, and he ought not to have got out of patience, if they did now and then make a blunder. Well, he was usually very patient and kind; but that day, for some reason or another, things did not go right with him at all. Pianos and violins, though they sometimes make sweet music, get out of tune occasionally, and then, no matter what you try to play on them, nothing sounds well. It is so with men and women too often; and with boys and girls, too, it is to be feared. At any rate, it was so with Mr Mason's gardener, at the time I speak of. He was peevish and fretful, and said some harsh things to Robert, because he accidentally destroyed a fine tulip with his spade. Robert cried, and said he did not mean to do it. Then the old man was sorry, but, probably feeling too proud to confess it, he was silent for a long time. By and by, however, he told Robert that his conscience troubled him on account of his speaking so unkindly, and he hoped the little boy would forgive him. So you see the gardener was a good man, although he was hasty at that time. Robert cheerfully forgave him, and things went on a good deal better. The boys tried to be more careful, and the gardener tried to be more patient.

THE GARDENER REPROVING ROBERT.

Robert thought a good deal about the old man's mention of conscience, and when he saw his father, he asked him what the conscience meant.

Robert's father liked to have his children make such inquiries, and did all that he could to encourage them in doing so.

"There are two ways, Robert," said he, "of explaining things. One is by telling what they are, directly, and the other is by telling what they do. I find that my children generally like the last of these methods better than they do the first; and I am not sure but, on the whole, it is quite as good as the other. At any rate, I shall try to describe conscience by pointing out some of its effects. In other words, I shall tell you a story. Some twenty-five years ago—it may be thirty; how time slides away!—I knew a boy who had one of the kindest of mothers, but whose father had died before his recollection. I think—indeed I know—he loved his mother, though he was sometimes thoughtless, and once in a while disobedient. One day, in midsummer, when the blackberries were ripe in the woods, and the trout were sporting merrily in the brook, Charles—for that was the name of the boy—came running to his mother, all out of breath, and said that Joseph Cone and Charley Corson had come with their baskets and fish-lines, and wanted he should go with them. 'Oh, such fine times as they are going to have, mother! Mayn't I go? Blackberries are ripe now, and there are lots of them over in Mr Simpson's woods. And oh! such splendid trout! One of the boys caught a trout last Saturday, so big that he couldn't hardly pull it out of the water! Oh, I do want to go, mother! I'll bring home a fine string of trout—I know I will. Ha! ha! ha!' And Charley danced up and down the room, and clapped his hands, and laughed very loudly at the idea, I suppose, of his outwitting the simple little fish."

Robert laughed, too, when his father came to this part of the story, and said he thought that was something like counting the chickens before they were hatched.

"Yes," continued Mr Mason; "but I am afraid that was not the worst of it, by a good deal; for Charles knew well enough that his mother wanted him at home that day, and he ought not to have urged her so hard. 'My dear,' said that kind, indulgent lady, 'I will let you do just as you choose about going. You know I want you to help me about the house to-day, and I should be very sorry to have you leave me. But I don't wish to govern you by force. I want to see you mind because you love me—not because you are obliged to. So I shall not say any more. Do as you please, this time.'

"Charles thought a moment or two. He saw plainly enough that there were two sides to the question about going a-fishing that day. His mother was not very well. He thought of that; and he thought that if he went, she would have more work to do, and perhaps she would then be quite sick. His conscience was at work, you see. 'Well,' he thought, 'I guess I will let the trout stay where they are to-day,' But just then he heard one of the boys say, 'Halloo, Charley! what do you say? We're tired of waiting. Shall we go without you, or will you come along?'

"Well, what do you think Charley did, Robert?"

"Why, he stayed at home, and helped his mother, of course."

"No, I'm sorry to say that he changed his mind, and started off with the boys. His conscience said no, but his will said yes."

"Then he did very wrong."