Wreaths of Friendship: A Gift for the Young

Better, wiser children be.

STRETCHING THE TRUTH.

STRETCHING THE TRUTH

It is a very bad habit, this stretching the truth, as one does a piece of India rubber; and the worst of it is, that when any body forms the habit, there is no telling how much it will grow upon him.

There is Jack Weaver, for instance. He is a sailor all over, to be sure—an "old salt," as he would call himself. But that does not confer upon him any license to spin such yarns as he does, to his young shipmates on the forward deck. He has cruised half a dozen years after whales, in the Pacific ocean, and, of course, has seen some sights that are worth speaking of. But that is no reason why he should fill the head of that young fellow sitting on a coil of rope with a hundred cock-and-bull stories, that have scarcely a word of truth in them, from beginning to end. Why, he don't pretend to tell stories without stretching the truth.

I know some boys, too, who seem to find it very difficult to relate any incident as it took place. They are so much in the habit of stretching the truth, in fact, that those who are acquainted with them seldom believe more than half of one of their stories. These boys, however, have not the slightest intention, when they are pulling out a foot into a yard, of doing any thing wrong. Very possibly they think they are telling a pretty straight story. Habits are strong, you know—especially bad habits. Just look at Selden Mason, one of the best-natured boys I ever saw, and who has not got an enemy among all his school-mates; it is wonderful what a truth-stretcher he has got to be. Every boy shakes his head, when he hears a great story, and says it sounds like one of Selden's yarns. And yet be is so particular and minute in relating any thing, sometimes, that one who did not know him would not suspect him of treating the truth so badly. His apparent sincerity reminds me of an anecdote related of another boy, who had this habit worse than Selden has, I should think. The boy remarked that his father once killed ninety-nine crows at a single shot! He was asked why he did not say a hundred, and have done with it. The fellow was indignant. "Do you think I would tell a lie for one crow?" said he!

Selden Mason's habit of truth-stretching has got such a hold of him now, that you can perceive the marks of it in almost every thing he says. I have sometimes been half sorry he was so good a boy in other respects; for, as his companions like him pretty well, there is the more danger that they will catch the habit of him, before they are aware of it. His teacher was once asked what he thought of Selden, on the whole. "I can't help being pleased with the fellow," said he; "he is a good scholar, and very obedient; but I should like him a great deal better if he didn't tell such monstrous stories. He is like a book all printed in italic letters, with an exclamation point at the end of every sentence." Selden has often gone by the name of the "Exclamation Point," since that time.

Poor fellow! I wish he had tried to break himself of that habit, before it became so deeply rooted. I am afraid it will stick to him as long as he lives now; and if it does, he will get a very bad character as a man of business. Scarcely any reliance can be placed upon his word. No matter how careful he may be to state a thing exactly as it is, in his business matters, if he keeps up this general habit, people will say, "Oh! that's nothing but one of Mason's italic stories!"

Look out, my boy! It wouldn't be the strangest thing in the world, if you had got into a habit something like this of Selden's, though it may not yet be half so strong. But keep a sharp look-out, at any rate. Take care that you never stretch the truth.

THE CITY PIGEON

With all is the beautiful lingerer in our crowded cities a favorite. All love this gentle bird, that, shunning the cool and quiet woods, stays with man in the hot and noisy town, and, amid strife and the war of passions, passes ever before him a living emblem of peace. "It is no light chance," says Willis, in his exquisite lines "To a City Pigeon,"

THE CITY PIGEON.

"It is no light chance. Thou art set apart
Wisely by Him who has tamed the heart,
To stir the love for the bright and fair,
That else were sealed in this crowded air;
I sometimes dream
Angelic rays from thy pinions gleam."

In these same lines, how truly and how sweetly has he said:

"A holy gift is thine, sweet bird!
Thou'rt named with childhood's earliest word!
Thou'rt linked with all that's fresh and wild,
In the prison'd thoughts of a city child;
And thy glossy wings
Are its brightest image of moving things."

In the language of the same poet, how often have we said, as we looked forth upon the gentle bird:

"Stoop to my window, thou beautiful dove;
Thy daily visits have touched my love.
I watch thy coming, and list the note
That stirs so low in thy mellow throat;
And my joy is high
To catch the glance of thy gentle eye."

In his lines to "The Belfry Pigeon," Mr Willis has expressed most truthfully the feelings and thoughts which all have had for this gentle creature, which,

"Alone of the feathered race,
Doth look unscared on the human face."

As we know of nothing on the subject more appropriate and beautiful than the address referred to, we will copy it for our young readers.

THE BELFRY PIGEON

"On the cross beam under the Old South Bell,
The nest of a pigeon is builded well.
In summer and winter that bird is there,
Out and in with the morning air.
I love to see him track the street,
With his wary eye and active feet;
And I often watch him as he springs,
Circling the steeples with easy wings,
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd,
And the belfry edge is gained at last.
'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note,
And the trembling throb in its mottled throat;
There's a human look in its swelling breast,
And the gentle curve of its lowly crest;
And I often stop with the fear I feel—
He runs so close to the rapid wheel.

"Whatever is rung on that noisy bell—
Chime of the hour or funeral knell—
The dove in the belfry must hear it well.
When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon—
When the sexton cheerily rings for noon—
When the clock strikes clear at morning light—
When the child is waked with 'nine at night'—
When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air,
Filling the spirit with love of prayer—
Whatever tale in the bell is heard,
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd,
Or, rising half in his rounded nest,
He takes the time to smooth his breast,
Then drops again with filméd eyes,
And sleeps as the last vibration dies.

"Sweet bird! I would that I could be
A hermit in the crowd like thee!
With wings to fly to wood and glen.
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men,
And daily, with unwilling feet,
I tread, like thee, the crowded street;
But, unlike me, when day is o'er,
Thou canst dismiss the world and soar;
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest,