Wreaths of Friendship: A Gift for the Young

I pity him so! how cold he must be!
And yet he keeps singing his chick-a-de-de.
Chick-a-de-de, &c.

IV

"If I were a barefooted snow-bird, I know
I would not stay out in the cold and the snow.—
I wonder what makes him so full of his glee;
He's all the time singing that chick-a-de-de.
Chick-a-de-de, &c.

V

"O mother! do get him some stockings and shoes,
And a nice little frock, and a hat, if he choose;
I wish he'd come into the parlor, and see
How warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-de."
Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VI

The bird had flown down for some pieces of bread,
And heard every word little Emily said;
"How queer I would look hi that dress!" thought he;
And he laughed, as he warbled his chick-a-de-de.
Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VII

"I'm grateful," he said, "for the wish you express,
But I've no occasion for such a fine dress;
I had rather remain with my limbs all free,
Than to hobble about, singing chick-a-de-de.
Chick-a-de-de, &c.

VIII

"There is ONE, my dear child, tho' I cannot tell who,
Has clothed me already, and warm enough too—
Good morning! O, who are so happy as we?"—
And away he went, singing his chick-a-de-de.
Chick-a-de-de, &c.

EDGAR AND WILLIAM;

OR HOW TO AVOID A QUARREL

Here! lend me your knife, Bill; I've left mine in the house," said Edgar Harris to his younger brother. He spoke in a rude voice, and his manner was imperative.

"No, I won't! Go and get your own knife," replied William, in a tone quite as ungracious as that in which the request, or rather command, had been made.

"I don't wish to go into the house. Give me your knife, I say. I only want it for a minute."

"I never lend my knife, nor give it, either," returned William. "Get your own."

"You are the most disobliging fellow I ever saw," retorted Edgar, angrily, rising up and going into the house to get his own knife. "Don't ever ask me for a favor, for I'll never grant it."

This very unbrotherly conversation took place just beneath the window near which Mr Harris, the father of the lads, was seated. He overheard it all, and was grieved, as may be supposed, that his sons should treat each other so unkindly. But he said nothing to them then, nor did he let them know that he heard the language that had passed between them.

In a little while Edgar returned, and as he sat down in the place where he had been seated before, he said,

"No thanks to you for your old knife! Keep it to yourself, in welcome. I wouldn't use it now, if you were to give it to me."

"I'm glad you are so independent," retorted William. "I hope you will always be so."

And the boys fretted each other for some time.

THE TWO BROTHERS AT PLAY.

On the next day, Edgar was building a house with sticks, and William was rolling a hoop. By accident the hoop was turned from its right course, and broke down a part of Edgar's house. William was just going to say how sorry he was for the accident, and to offer to repair the damage that was done, when his brother, with his face red with passion, cried out—

"Just see what you have done! If you don't clear out with your hoop, I'll call father. You did it on purpose."

"Do go and call him! I'll go with you," said William, in a sneering, tantalizing tone. "Come, come along now."

For a little while the boys stood and growled at each other like two ill-natured dogs, and then Edgar commenced repairing his house, and William went to rolling his hoop again. The latter was strongly tempted to repeat, in earnest, what he had done at first by accident, by way of retaliation upon his brother for his spiteful manner toward him; but, being naturally of a good disposition, and forgiving in his temper, he soon forgot his bad feelings, and enjoyed his play as much as he had done before.

This little circumstance Mr Harris had also observed.

A day or two afterward, Edgar came to his father with a complaint against his brother.

"I never saw such a boy," he said. "He won't do the least thing to oblige me. If I ask him to lend me his knife, or ball, or any thing he has, he snaps me up short with a refusal."

"Perhaps you don't ask him right," suggested the father. "Perhaps you don't speak kindly to him. I hardly think that William is ill-disposed and disobliging naturally. There must be some fault on your part, I am sure."

"I don't know how I can be in fault, father," said Edgar.

"William refused to let you have his knife, the other day, although he was not using it himself, did he not?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do you remember how you asked him for it?"

"No, sir, not now, particularly."

"Well, as I happened to overhear you, I can repeat your words, though I hardly think I can get your very tone and manner. Your words were, 'Here, lend me your knife, Bill!' and your voice and manner were exceedingly offensive. I did not at all wonder that William refused your request. If you had spoken to him in a kind manner, I am sure he would have handed you his knife, instantly. But no one likes to be ordered, in a domineering way, to do any thing at all. I know you would resent it in William, as quickly as he resents it in you. Correct your own fault, my son, and in a little while you will have no complaint to make of William."

Edgar felt rebuked. What his father said he saw to be true.