Her father, or Bill Hogan as he was called by his companions, was a man, with a hard, stern face. He heard his little girl, no doubt, for she was on the ground, close to his feet; but he made no answer.

I suppose you will want to know what poor Dilly had been doing to tire her so. Had she been throwing ball, or rolling hoop, or jumping rope? No.

Had she been playing with her dollies, putting on and taking off their best dresses, until she was tired with play? Oh, no!

Dilly knew nothing of these amusements, except as she sometimes saw children playing in the streets, or a little miss carrying a large dolly almost as smartly dressed as herself.

What was Dilly doing then? Why, she was a rag and coal picker. As soon as she was out of bed in the morning, she had some Indian porridge or a piece of dry bread, or sometimes a potato, and then she started off with her father, mother, and brothers, to pick rags, old paper, or coal.

Perhaps you have never heard of a coal field, and so I will tell you about it. Near almost all large cities some place is set apart where the rubbish gathered from the streets is carried. Persons who live in nice houses do not like to have old coal, broken crockery, or rags lying around their small yards, and so they gather all these things into barrels or boxes, and men go round with carts and take them away. These they carry and empty all over the great field kept for the purpose; and here men, women, and children go and gather up what they please.

This is a hard way to get a living, but the poor people who worked at it were glad to do anything to keep them from starving. The first man or woman who went into the field had the right to make choice of the place where he would work; so he walked quickly over the ground to see if one place looked better than another; and then he set himself to work, knowing that whatever he found would be his own.

Here old cinders, broken crockery, decayed potatoes or pumpkins, were thrown into the same heap with dirty house-cloths, old paper, or any kind of rubbish.

Some of the men who worked hero lived a few miles out of town, and were able to make a better living by keeping a horse and cart, and carrying away for sale so much of the coal as their neighbors wished to sell.

Here it was that poor Dilly had worked for ten long hours. Do you wonder she was tired? Oh, how she longed to jump up and run about, for her limbs ached from being bent under her. When she stopped just for a moment to look about, her father said, "Mind your work, Dilly!" or "Child, let other folks alone, and mind your own business!"

Then the little girl bent over her basket, her face growing every moment more sad, and wondering whether she should have to pick coal every day of her life.

To make the best of it, this was a bad school for Dilly to be brought up in, for she heard men, women, and even children swearing around her; and very often persons quarrelling about the lots they had marked out.

But there was one reason why the child was very anxious to go home. Only the night before God had sent her a baby brother, and she was just allowed to take a peep at him, as he lay on the straw pallet by her mother, before her father called her to go to work.

At last her father halloed to a man going by with an old shaky cart, to draw up and take his coal.

Dilly sprang to her feet, jumping with joy.

"Do keep still, can't ye?" cried Pat, her brother, in a surly tone.

"And what for would ye grudge the child the little comfort she has?" said Bill Hogan, turning toward his son in a threatening manner.

"And aren't ye glad to go home and see the baby, Pat?" inquired the child, laying her hand caressingly on his arm.

The boy shook her off without replying, and presently, her father having received the small sum due him for coal and junk, started to leave the field.

All around them the rag pickers were crying out for the carts, impatient to be gone, and Dilly, passing some children of her acquaintance, in a glad tone said, "I've got a baby, I have!"

When they were near the street where they lived, Bill Hogan stopped at a grocer's to buy some meal and a loaf of bread. He wanted to buy an ounce of tea for his sick wife, but after looking at the few coppers left in his hand, turned with a sigh from the counter.

In a few minutes they were at their own door. Dilly pulled her hand from her father, and darted up the rickety stairs.

"I want to see my baby!" she exclaimed, in an eager tone.

"Hush, child, the poor little cratur's slaping," said the mother softly.

Mrs. Hogan was sitting up on the straw, leaning against the side of the wall, trying to mend an old shirt for her husband. Her face was very pale, and as Bill and Pat came up the stairs, she cast a wishful glance at them. It said as plainly as looks could speak, "I am hungry. Have you brought me anything?"

The man did not reply, but calling Pat to pick up a few sticks, he took the only kettle in their possession, and went to a neighboring pump for some water.

When he returned, Dilly was on her knees by the bed, making the room ring with her merry laugh, as she touched by turns the soft cheeks and the rosy fingers of the baby boy.

"Will ye have a piece of the loaf now?" inquired Bill.

"Have ye enough for all?" she asked, with motherly anxiety.

He sighed as he broke a piece and put it into her hand.

Half an hour later the porridge was ready, and Dilly reluctantly left the baby to eat her portion. What was her delight to see a beautiful china cup in her father's hand, and to hear him say, "There, Dilly, I found that to-day among the old rubbish, and I saved it for you."

"It's always for Dilly ye're saving," muttered Pat sullenly.

"Get ye off to bed," said his father sternly, "I've enough to bear without your grumblings."

The next day when they reached the field, they found two women quarrelling about a lot which both of them had chosen; but without making any effort to settle their difficulty, Mr. Hogan called his children to follow him and went off to the farther end of the field. The lot he chose happened to be a very poor one, and long before night he had cleaned it of everything that was valuable.

Leaning his head on his hands he sighed heavily.

"We must all starve together," he said again and again. "There is no use in trying any longer. Now there's another mouth to feed, and winter coming on, there is nothing for us but to die."

Dilly heard her father and began to cry, but presently she went close to him, put her arms around his neck and laid her warm cheek against his.

If Dilly had been taught as you have, my little reader, she could have whispered words of comfort in his ear. She could have told him that God would take care of them, that he watches the sparrows, and gives the young ravens their food, and surely he will not forget the creatures he has made to love and serve him.

But though our little rag picker was a warm-hearted, loving child, she knew nothing about God, nor about the dear Saviour, who came into the world. So she only put her arms round him and said, "I love ye, daddy, I do."

Even this made the man feel much better. His face grew soft as he gazed at her, and his breast heaved as he said—

"After all, Dilly, I'd be worse off without ye; and now as we can't do any more here to-day, we will go home."

Leaving Pat to watch by their rags and coal till the carts came round, they walked briskly on, for the man had determined to take advantage of the opportunity and go through a street where a partly-burned house was being pulled down, in hope of getting some half-burned sticks of wood.

The gentleman who owned the place happened to be there, and seeing that Bill was sober and looked extremely destitute, he told him he might carry away as much wood as he could until dark.

"Now we wont have to starve, will we, daddy?" cried Dilly, jumping up and down in her joy.

"No danger of that, I hope," said the gentleman.

Mr. Hogan put his hand quickly to his breast, and turned away suddenly without saying a word.

"Come, little girl, you shall tell me all about it," continued the stranger kindly. "Don't you have enough to eat?"

"Oh, yes," she said, "and when I go home I shall have some porridge in my pretty cup. I've got a new baby, too. He's real funny, but he can't open his eyes yet—he's too little."

Before Dilly had finished her story, her father had gathered a large pile of wood, and tied it together with a cord he found in the street. This he took on his back, and then turning to the gentleman said, "I have five mouths to feed, and if ye could recommend me some work better than picking rags, I'll bless ye as long as I live."

Then turning to Dilly, he said, "Come child," and adding, "with your leave, sir, I'll be back soon," walked rapidly away.

The last load had been piled up against the wall, and the family were about retiring to their rest, when a knock was heard at the door, and Dilly sprang joyfully forward to meet her acquaintance of the afternoon. A young lady accompanied him, whom he introduced as his daughter.

"Father told me about the little girl with her new baby," said the lady, smiling, as she patted the child's head, "and I came to ask her to go to sabbath school. I am getting up a class for myself."

"We were Protestants in the old country," said Mrs. Hogan, "and I'd be thankful indeed to have her go, but it's yourself'll be loth to take her, I'm thinking, when ye know she owns no clothes but what she has on this minute."

"Oh, I'll make her some clothes," urged the lady, "if you'll let her come, and the boy, too! Only you must promise to keep them clean for Sunday."

"I'm so glad," said Dilly, dancing about on her toes. "I'll be ever so good, I will."

"I am sorry to see you looking so feeble," added the lady, turning toward the corner where Mrs. Hogan lay with her infant at her breast.

"Thank you, miss," replied the woman, gratefully. "If I had a lighter heart, I'd be better at once, though the poor baby is only two days old."

"I wish to have the yard, where you saw the wood, cleared of the burnt rubbish," remarked the gentleman, who had been a smiling witness of his daughter's success, and of Dilly's delight. "If you can do no better, I will give you employment there for a few days."

Mr. Hogan gratefully accepted the proposal, saying, "I shall be glad, sir, to do anything that is honest. It is a hard business to fill five mouths with what one can earn by rag picking."

[CHAPTER II.]

THE COUNTERFEIT DOLLAR.

PAT, however, continued in his old employment. He was entirely different from Dilly, who was a favorite with all the children, on account of her loving heart and cheerful temper. Pat was both selfish and sullen. He was ready to quarrel at the least offence of his companions. When the rude boys saw him come alone to the field, and select a spot for himself to clear, they said, "Now for some fun!"

They watched their chance when he had made a pile of coal and another of rags, and came up toward him as if for a friendly chat. Suddenly they threw themselves down, thus overturning all his work and obliging him to commence again.

Pat sprang to his feet and doubled his fist, screaming with anger.

"Come, now, be still, will ye?" cried one of them. "What harm have we done ye, anyhow?" At the same time he winked to his companions, to carry on the sport.

Pat saw the glance. He flew at the lad; and the affair might have become serious, had not an older man who was quietly at work near by interfered. He had witnessed the whole proceedings, and told the boys they had no business with Pat's lot, any way.

He separated them with some difficulty, and then returned to his work.

Pat had been pleased when his father told him he might work alone, and have all he could earn; but now he found it not so pleasant. Though he would not have confessed it, he missed Dilly's cheerful voice and sunny smile. The morning seemed very long, and by the time he sat down to eat a crust of bread which he had brought for his dinner, he had half determined to go home.

A few days before this, a party of ladies and gentlemen came into the field to watch the men, women, and children at their work. They stopped near the lot his father had selected and began to talk with a couple who were busily engaged in sorting rags. Pat had been near enough to hear what was said.

"You have a large pile of rubbish there," said one lady. "Do you make much by it?"

"And sure, ma'am," the woman answered, "we get a living; but it's a hard way."

"Tell us how you manage," said a gentleman.

"It's jist this way, sir," interrupted the man. "We comes here and takes each our own lot, striving, of coorse, for the best, sure. Then we sets ourselves to work to find what we can. Sometimes there's very little, and then again, there's more. My woman and I first picks out all the coal, putting it in one pile, and the junk in another, like this."

"But what can you do with those rotten pumpkins and potatoes?"

"And sure, that's a fine chance for us, ma'am. We live out of the city a bit, and kape a cow and a pig, besides a horse and a hen; so it's bad luck, indeed, if we don't find something to feed them all with."

"You are better off than I thought," rejoined the lady, smiling. "I suppose you own a cart, too, and carry your treasures home in it."

"Indeed, we do, ma'am; and that is it carrying off junk. We hires it out to our neighbors to carry their coal home, and their rags to the junk store. Ye'd laugh, ma'am, when we gets home, to see the craters jump into the cart to get their supper."

"You seem to make a very good living," remarked one of the gentlemen.

"We don't complain, sir," answered the man frankly. "We're not beholden to the city for a penny since we first landed in the States."

"Do you ever find anything of value money or jewels?"

"Feth, sir, and that's seldom. I wont deny we do find a little money."

"Well, I hope you'll make a good day of it to-day," said the lady, turning to another group.

Ever since he had heard that money was occasionally found with the other rubbish, Pat had been eagerly searching for some. This was why he had been so pleased to be alone. Every bit of broken glass or shining paper upon which the sun shone was eagerly seized and carefully examined.

After the rude boys left him to his work, Pat slowly went on sorting his piles again. He was quite discouraged, and wished he was anything in the world but a rag and coal picker. Suddenly he rushed forward to pull a pile of rubbish nearer to his seat when a torn envelope fell at his feet. He was just about to throw it away when it occurred to him to see whether it contained anything. He put in his soiled fingers, and to his astonishment pulled out a bank-bill—a one dollar bank-bill!

His first impulse was to secrete it,—glancing around to see whether any one had been watching him,—and then to go on rapidly with his work, as if nothing unusual had happened to him.

His heart beat faster than ever, as he remembered how much a dollar would buy!—a pair of boots, or a new jacket. Yes, he had seen a jacket at the secondhand store costing just one dollar.

Once, to be sure, he did think how poorly his mother was dressed; and how much good the money would do her; but, no; he would keep it himself. He had found it, and it was his.

As night approached he sold his coal and junk to the man who owned a cart and could more readily dispose of them, then hurried away to procure his new jacket before he went home.

The shop was already lighted when he reached it. He pointed to the jacket, which he was pleased to see had not been sold; tried it on, and it proved a very good fit. He buttoned it tightly to his chin, and found it exceedingly comfortable. Then he took the envelope from his pocket, and detaching the bill passed it to the merchant and was walking off, when the man called out, angrily,—

"Here, you young rascal, you just take that 'ere coat right off! Your money aint worth one copper! It's counterfeit."

"Counterfeit!" stammered Pat, ready to cry. "What is a counterfeit?"

"Don't you think to try any of your dodges on me," screamed the man, "I've cut my eye-teeth, I tell you. Take it off, I say, or I'll have the police here."

"I don't know what you mean," faltered Pat, beginning to sob. "You said 'twas a dollar, and I give you a dollar."

"No, you didn't, you only give me a counterfeit, and here 'tis," tearing the bill in halves.

Pat started forward to rescue his money, now really angry. "It's mine," he screamed. "I found it in the rags."

"Oho!" said the merchant, beginning to understand. "So you found it, hey? Well, I'm sorry for you; but 'twasn't a real dollar; it only looked like one. When you get a real dollar I'll sell you the jacket."

Poor Pat went home very much crestfallen. "I hate rag picking," he exclaimed, entering the room he called home.

"See what a nice supper I've got," cried Dilly. "I can take good care of baby. Only think, Pat, there's potatoes, and porridge, too. I'm so glad, I am."

"The lady has been here again," said Mrs. Hogan, trying to cheer her boy. "She has persuaded the gentleman to give your father work on the lumber-wharf."

This was indeed true. This kind man, who was a well known friend to the poor, inquired the character of Mr. Hogan, and, finding him to be a man of strictly temperate habits, resolved to give him steady employment.

The young lady, too, had been as true as her word. She had this day brought clothes for the two children, besides many articles for their parents, and the baby.

Pat was quite comforted when he found that he had a jacket quite as good as the one at the shop. The next sabbath he went with Dilly to sabbath school; and, after this, continued to attend regularly. They both learned to read the Bible and to obey the commands of God.

Our little rag picker is a rag picker no longer; but she is good Dilly, still, with her warm heart and cheerful temper. She has learned about the Saviour, and how he loves good children, and every day she tries to please him.

Pat did not long continue in the business after his father left it. The lady insisted that he ought to attend the day school, that he might be prepared to be a more useful man. This he did for nearly a year, filling up his time when out of school by carrying parcels for a neighboring grocer, and thus earning something toward his own support.

Now, little girl or boy, can you guess why I have written this story for you? It is that you may be grateful to God, who has given you a pleasant home and enough to eat; that he has given you friends to teach you about the Saviour, and that you may learn to do as the kind lady did—to pity and do good to those who are poor and distressed.

[Eddy and His Fishes.]

[CHAPTER I.]

THE CRUEL BOY.

"EDDY! please don't hurt so. I can't bear to see you!" sobbed little Susy, wiping her eyes with the back of her fat hand.

"What a baby you are, to cry just for these little fishes," replied Eddy, in a contemptuous tone. "I don't believe they can feel anything."

"They do! they do! See how they kick about."

Eddy laughed aloud, "ha! ha! ha! who ever heard of fishes kicking? Now here's a fat fellow, I'll cut him up, and see him kick."

Susy, with a fresh burst of tears ran toward the house.

"What's the matter, my dear?" inquired her aunt, coming to the door.

The child hung her head. She did not like to complain of her cousin, but as the lady insisted, and asked again, "Where is Eddy? What is he doing?" she began,—

"We went down to the brook and a boy was there catching little mite of fishes; and when he had done, he gave us some to fry for our dinner, but Eddy said he didn't want to eat them, so he put them on a board and chopped 'em all up with his hatchet."

The lady gave a scream of horror. "Where is he? Show me quick, Susy."

"It makes me ache, in here," sobbed the child, putting her hand to her breast. "I can't bear to see him hurt them."

Mrs. Lander did not speak, but her face was very pale, and she hurried on to the place where Eddy was still at his cruel sport.

The boy was so intent upon his wicked employment that he did not hear their steps; but threw his hatchet to the ground quickly when he heard his mother's voice calling, "Stop, Eddy! Stop at once!"

Oh, what a scene that was! On the top of an old wall lay a piece of board covered with pieces of the fishes. Their pretty, shining scales glistening in the sun. One, the last of the number, lay with a piece chopped off its tail, writhing in its agony.

Tears filled the lady's eyes, as she turned with a shudder to the boy, and exclaimed,—

"O Eddy! O my son! what will become of you? what a cruel, wicked boy you are!"

"They're mine," cried the child, his face growing very red. "A boy at the brook gave them to me." He glanced angrily at his cousin, because she had, as he thought, called his mother.

Mrs. Lander shook her head. "I couldn't have believed you would do so," she said, in a sorrowful tone. "See," she added, picking up the hatchet, "this is covered with the blood of the poor creatures. You have made such a wicked use of your uncle's present, that I shall take it away from you."

"It isn't yours! you've no right to! Uncle said it was to be my own!" shouted the boy, now in a fury of passion. He even tried to snatch it from her hands, and when he found he could not, he threw himself on the ground, kicking and screaming with all his might.

"Eddy, stop this minute, and come with me," said Mrs. Lander, in a firm, decided tone. She took him by the hand, and though he dared not disobey; yet he showed by his struggles that he went reluctantly. He was a boy of quick passions, but the fit of temper soon passed away; and by the time they reached the house, he looked and felt really ashamed of his conduct.

Mrs. Lander led him away to a room by himself, and then left, after telling him she wanted him to reflect upon his cruelty and bad temper; poor little Susy following her to her chamber, where she seated herself on a low stool, looking very sober indeed.

Mrs. Lander had been cutting work, and now returned to it with a sad countenance. For some time not a word was spoken, but at last, the lady noticed that Susy looked pale, and said, "You had better run out and play, my dear; or get your dollies? and dress them for a walk."

"Please, aunt," said the soft voice, "I don't feel like playing now;" and then, in a minute, she lifted her eyes wistfully to her aunt's face as she asked, "Wont God forgive Eddy this time? I don't want him to be naughty any longer."

Her red lips quivered, and she choked back a sob as she gazed earnestly at her aunt, waiting for a reply, but the lady did not speak for a moment. She drew Susy to her side and kissed her tenderly, and then taking her by the hand led her away to Eddy's room.

The little fellow was very quiet now. He ran eagerly to his cousin and drew her into the room, and then, in a humble tone, said, "I'm very sorry, mamma, I vexed you. I've got over my passion now."

She put her hand on his head, but she did not smile; indeed her face looked very, very sad.

"Please forgive me?" urged the boy.

"Yes, I will gladly forgive you, Eddy; but your conduct makes me very unhappy. What comfort can I expect from a child, who, on every trifling occasion, gives way to his passionate temper? And then think how displeasing your behavior, this morning, has been to your heavenly Father. Have you asked him to forgive you?"

Eddy blushed as he hung his head.

"No, mamma," he faltered; "but I will now."

They knelt together, Mrs. Lander and her boy, with Susy close by his side, her loving face beaming with satisfaction. The lady' prayed first—that her son might truly repent of his sins and earnestly ask the help of God to become a good boy; then Eddy said his little prayer, begging forgiveness for all that he had done displeasing to his heavenly Father.

After this, Susy kissed him and smiled as she said, "I'm glad you're good, now, Eddy."

As his mother left the room, Eddy wondered that she said nothing about the fishes. Usually, after she had forgiven him his heart was light, and he loved to sit near her and watch her smiles; but now she sat busy with her work, and he thought her face was very sober.

[CHAPTER II.]

EDDY'S RESOLUTION.

WHEN Eddy went to his room for the night, his mother always went with him, and, as he said, they had a fine time together. First he knelt by his low chair and repeated his prayers and hymns, and then she added a few simple petitions, asking the protection of God through the night. After this he loved to call to mind the actions of the past day, to receive praise when he had tried to conquer his quick temper, or encouragement to do better when he confessed his faults. On the evening following this day, Mrs. Lander summoned them earlier than usual, and then said, "I have a story, a true story, to tell you—one which I want you, Eddy, to remember as long as you live."

"There was once a little boy, whom I will call James. When he was very young he began to show a cruel disposition. He loved to stand near the window and pull the wings off the flies. Then he would laugh and clap his hands to see how they writhed about in their agony."

"As he grew older he tormented every animal on the place. One day he caught two kittens, and having tied their tails together, hung them over the clothes-line. Then he ran to call his companions, and tried to make them enjoy the cruel sport as much as he did. When his sister came home from school, and found what he was doing, she burst into tears. Instead of soothing her by the promise that he would never do so again, he laughed as he related the torture of the poor kittens."

"His father had a favorite dog, named Frisk, a faithful creature, to whom all the family were attached; but so dreadfully cruel was this wicked boy, that one day when his parents were absent from home, he found a large piece of board, and nailed Frisk to it by his four legs, each being stretched to its utmost length."

"The poor dog whined and cried most piteously, but James persevered until the poor creature was firmly fastened to the board. Having done this, he ran to cell his sister, and stood laughing at her distress."

"'Oh, take him off! take out the nails quick! he'll die!' screamed the poor girl. 'O James, see how the blood runs!' Finding he would not listen to her entreaties, she ran to the nearest house to call a neighbor; and they had just succeeded in releasing Frisk from his dreadful position, when her parents drove into the yard."

"'If he were my boy,' said the neighbor, after he had related in what a situation he found the poor dog, 'If he were my boy, I should give him a taste of the horsewhip for his cruelty. I've heard of his tricks before to-day.'"

"James was whipped most severely, besides being confined to his room for two days; but it did him no good. Only the next week, in a fit of passion, he threw one of the kitties into a boiler of hot water, where it died in dreadful agony."

"James was a bright boy in his studies, and almost always stood at the head of his class at school, but his schoolmates despised him for his fiery temper and his cruel disposition. He seemed to like nothing so well as to see others suffer. Even the little children at the school were afraid of him, for he often fixed pins in the cracks of their seats, so as to make them scream with pain, or hid their dinner-pails, and then laughed when they cried with hunger."

"I cannot stop to tell you all the wickedness of James's early life; but must pass over a great many years, till the time he was a man. He was quite distinguished for his learning, and having sense enough to conceal his wickedness, he had come to occupy an important station in society."

"One day a man who owed him a bill, entered his office, when, in order to avoid paying it, James struck the man a violent blow which killed him. Then he cut the body into small pieces, burning some of it, and hiding the rest. He was suspected of the crime, tried, condemned, and hung; and this was the end of the cruel boy."

"O mamma!" cried Eddy, "I'll never do so again. I'll never be cruel any more!"

Susy sat wiping away her tears with her dimpled hand, when Mrs. Lander called them both to her side. "Do you wonder, now, my dear, that I was so distressed this morning when I saw you chopping up the little fishes! My heart ached lest you should become like that wicked man."

"I never will hurt anything again," urged Eddy, trying to keep back his tears. "I will try to be kind to them, as Susy is."

"That is right, my dear boy. If ever you feel inclined to be cruel, think of the sad end of James; think of what the Bible tells you, 'The merciful man regardeth the life of his beast,' and pray God to help you to be merciful. Remember, too, my dear Eddy, that unless you learn to conquer your hasty temper, you will do many things while, in a passion, which you will afterwards regret. Every time you check yourself and control your temper, it will become easier for you to do so, while every time you give way to it, you make it more difficult to reform."

"But, mamma," cried Eddy, "sometimes I'm as pleasant as possible, and cook, or the nurse, worry me, and make me mad. It's not my fault then. I'd be good enough, if I was let alone."

"It is wrong in any one to try to vex you, my child," said his mother; "but that does not excuse you for doing wrong. We must all expect to meet with trials, but we must not give way to them. Ever since your uncle Edward gave you a drum and sword, you have liked to play soldier. Now, I'll tell you a good game, one which the Bible recommends. Call your quick temper, your impatience, and fretfulness, your enemies, and fight them as much as you please. Be too much of a man and a soldier to let your passion gain the victory over you; but fight till you conquer, then you may beat the drum over every successful battle."

Eddy's eyes flashed with a new light. He stood up proudly, gazing first at his mother, then at Susy, and at last exclaimed, "I'll do it!"

[Willie's Grave.]

[CHAPTER I.]

VISIT TO THE GRAVEYARD.

DID you ever go into a graveyard, and walk around among the graves? Did you ever measure whether any of the little mounds were shorter than you?

I am going to tell you a true story about a grave I once saw. It was on a lovely June day, that, in company with some friends, I took the cars to visit a large cemetery in the State of New York. As we were all strangers, we paid a man, whom we found near the gate, to show us the way through the winding paths, to the handsomest parts of the place. As we walked along, on every side of us were splendid monuments marking the spot where some dear father or mother or child had been buried.

Presently I heard the voices of children, and then a sweet, musical laugh. I hurried on to the edge of a lovely lake, and there saw a dear little girl throwing crumbs from her basket to some beautiful white swans that were springing from the water to catch them. Her brother, a year or two older than she, was standing by her side, looking pleased to see her so happy.

"What is your name, little girl?" I asked.

She gave me a quick glance from under her long lashes, and then softly answered, "Lily."

I smiled as I took her hand in mine; and then her brother said, "Her name is Lily Oliver. We come here almost every day to feed the swans, and bring flowers for mother's grave."

He glanced toward a handsome monument, close by, and Lily explained, "Mamma's in there. She's waiting for Berty and me, 'cause we're going up to God with her."

"She told us she'd wait," urged the boy, fixing his earnest eyes on mine. "Every night we pray to God to let us go quick, because we want to see her so."

There was a quiver in his voice, which brought tears to my eyes. For a moment I could not speak, my heart ached so much for these dear little ones whose mother was in heaven.

I held a hand of each as I said, "I'm sure if you are good children, and try to please the Saviour, that he will send his angels to watch over you, and at last take you, with your mother, to the happy world where he lives."

Lily smiled and nodded her head as I walked away; and presently I heard her sweet voice laughing merrily as the pretty birds sprang up to catch a crumb from her hand.

We passed one small yard almost hidden among the trees, where by the side of a low, green mound, was a flat piece of white marble, with a dog carved on the top of it.

This, our guide told us, was where a little boy was buried who had been drowned. The dog was carved like one who had tried to save his young master's life. He held the clothes of the drowning boy in his teeth, until help came, but they were so exhausted that they both died.

Then we came to a short grave, only as long as your baby brother. There was a piece of wood at the head of it, and painted on it were the simple words, "OUR JAMIE."

Lying on the grass which grew over it, was a tiny red shoe—the toe all sucked just as little babies love to suck their shoes; and tied to the end of the string were four large buttons. I wanted to stop there, and think about the dear babe who had so early been called to its home in the skies; but a young woman came up, and snatching the little shoe began to kiss it and weep over it.

"That is the mother," said our guide; and so we turned away that we might not intrude on her grief.

We walked slowly on, for our hearts ached for the weeping mother, and presently the guide led us up quite a steep path, to a family tomb built in the side of the hill. The door leading down the steps was in front; but it did not look at all like a place for the dead. It looked far more like a child's play-house. There were posts at the four corners of the yard, and an iron chain running from one to another. Opposite the door to the tomb was a gate from which a walk led into the yard. It was not covered with gravel like the others, but with little round pebbles from the seashore, mingled with sparkling shells. On one side was a large rocking-horse, which had been out so long in the rain and storm, that the saddle was damp with mildew, and the paint was quite washed off the rockers.

On the other side of the walk was a small wheelbarrow, half full of little pebbles.

"Do you know who is buried here?" I asked the guide.

"We must walk along," he said hurriedly, without answering my question. "There's a funeral coming up this path."

I was sorry to go away, for I wanted to hear about the little boy or girl who had been called away from its toys. I wanted to ask whether the child had loved God, and had gone to live with the Saviour; but there was no time, now. We turned off into a side path, and then after the procession of mourners had passed on, we followed to an open grave where a child was to be buried.

We all stood back while the men lowered the small coffin into the ground, and then I ventured near and looked down the narrow vault. I thought of the time when my little babe was buried from my sight, and the tears flowed down my cheeks.

"Did you ever lose a child?" sobbed a woman near me, catching hold of my arm.

"Yes," I said; "it was my first, and then, my only one."

"Did it die suddenly?"

I bowed my head.

"Then you can pity me. Yesterday, my darling Amy was as well as ever. Her father brought in some cherries, and she begged for some. I gave her three. Oh, how she jumped and screamed with joy!"

Hero the poor mother began to cry and sob so violently that she could not speak. A young woman near tried to soothe her, and presently said, turning to me, "Poor little Amy got a cherry-stone down her windpipe, and it killed her."

"Oh, dear!" sobbed the weeping mother. "Only yesterday she was alive, and so happy; I can't go home without her! Oh, what shall I do?"

"Can't you trust her with her Savior?" I asked. "You know how he loved little children. It was very hard for me, at first; but now it comforts me to think that my baby boy is happy in heaven. He wears—"

"'A crown upon his forehead

A harp within his hand.'"

"He is clothed with spotless robes and with the choir of infant worshippers is singing praise to the Lamb forever. Doesn't it comfort you to think of Amy there?"

She wiped away her tears and said, softly, "I should love to think of her in heaven; but, oh, I shall be dreadfully lonesome without her."

I put out my hand and she shook it as if she could not bear to part. When we were almost out of sight, I looked back, and she was weeping bitterly, while the sexton began to throw the earth upon the coffin.

[CHAPTER II.]

WILLIE'S HAPPY DEATH.

As we passed the yard where we had seen the rocking-horse, we found two ladies standing near the gate. Presently one of them took a key from her pocket, unlocked it and went in; and then a gentleman of our party recognized in her an old friend.

"This is where our dear Willie is buried," said the lady. "His mother made me promise to come very often to visit the place."

"The last time I saw him, he was riding on his rocking-horse," replied the gentleman, gazing round him with new interest.

"Do you remember how he loved to sing?"

"Yes, ah, yes! but, his songs are ended, now."

"No, indeed!" exclaimed the lady, earnestly; "they are but just begun; I often think how he used to walk with me hour after hour on the beach, humming to himself his favorite hymn,—

"'I have a Father in the promised land,

I have a Father in the promised land.

My Father calls me, I must go

To meet him in the promised land.'"

"How little his mother or any of us realized that his Father was calling him."

"Dear child!" I exclaimed, trying to keep back my tears. "And was he willing to go at last?"

"He was almost impatient to be gone. One day his mother sat bathing his hot head, and she said, 'Willie, are you going to leave mother all alone? I thought you loved your sea-side home,—that you liked to hear the waves roar and dash up against the rocks; I didn't think you would be so glad to leave us all.'"

"He looked sadly in her face for a minute, drew her hand to his mouth and kissed it, and then smiles lighted up his pale face as he began to sing,—

"'I have a Saviour in the promised land,

I have a Saviour in the promised land.

My Saviour calls me, I must go

To meet him in the promised land.'"

"'Don't cry so, mother,' he said, as he felt her tears drop on his hand; 'do let me sing the rest.' And then in a voice almost of rapture he went on,—"

"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,

I'll away, I'll away to the promised land.

My Saviour calls me, I must go

To meet him in the promised land.'"

"Not an hour before he died, and after he seemed to have lost consciousness, we heard a low, murmuring sound, and on listening intently he was once more repeating these words. I love to come here," added the lady, looking with moistened eyes at the playthings which had belonged to her beloved nephew, "but I love still better to think of him as he is now—a bright angel before the throne of God, tuning his harp to the praises of God forever and forever."

Dear little boy or girl who may road this story of Willie's grave, will you not try to live so that when your heavenly Father calls, you will gladly obey the summons to heaven? This lovely child was surrounded by everything to make life pleasant. He lived by the sea, where he could see the ships ride by in all their grandeur. He could wander along the smooth beach and pick up glistening shells and stones. His parents had money, and were ready to grant every desire of his heart; and yet he was willing to leave all, and lay his body to rest in the ground. Why could he do this? It was because he had a Friend—a Father—a Saviour in heaven, whom he loved better than the rolling ocean, his pleasant home, or even than his earthly parents.

For more than two years Willie had tried to please this heavenly Friend, by keeping his commandments, by honoring his father and mother, being kind to his brother, correcting the faults in his temper, and doing good to those about him.

This was the reason why Willie could answer so cheerfully when God called him home,—

"'I'll away, I'll away to the promised land,

My Saviour calls me, I must go

To meet him in the promised land.'"

[The Substitute.]

[CHAPTER I.]

GRANDMA FROST.

"I'm glad that old woman don't live at our house," exclaimed Helen Dobbs, in a petulant tone. "Is she any relation of yours, or what is it makes you wait on her so?"

"Oh, there's a sad story about her," answered Jane. "I must get mother to tell you about her son."

"Well, I know I wouldn't be bothered with her. Just think how often she calls you to do something, when we're having such a good time at our play."

"Yes, I know; and I'm sorry to say that often I am angry to be interrupted. Then she is sometimes cross herself; and I have to think of all we owe her before I can readily oblige her. But mother says, instead of hurting me, all this discipline will do me good, if I keep my own heart right."

"I'm sure, Jane, I don't know what you mean."

"Well, perhaps I don't explain it right. But I'll try to tell you. One day, Grandma Frost—we always call her grandma, though she's no relation to us—was sick, or nervous, or cross, and as I was going down stairs I heard her speak quite sharply to mother. I was real angry; you know, I have naturally a very passionate temper, though I do try to control it, so I ran right into the room with my face as red as fire."

"'I shouldn't think you would speak so,' I exclaimed, 'when mother does nothing but wait upon you from morning till night.'"

Helen laughed aloud. "That's right! What did the old woman say?"

"No. I knew I was doing wrong; at least as soon as I had spoken. And when mother fixed her eyes upon me in such a grieved way, I was sorry enough to bite my lips off. 'Go out of the room,' grandma said. I ran to my chamber, and had a great cry. Then mother came in and sat down by me, and talked, oh, so beautifully! I cried harder than ever, but I wasn't angry then; and ever since, when she asks me to do something which I dislike I have only to stop a moment and call to mind what mother said, to be ready to do anything grandma asks."

"Well, you may do it if you like," cried Helen, her nose turned up in a most contemptuous manner; "but I shan't be such a fool as to humor all her whims. All I can say is, that if such an old woman were at our house I'd soon make her mend her manners or I'd contrive some way to be rid of her."

"You wouldn't say so, if you knew how she came to be here," was the tremulous reply. "I can't tell you, for I always begin to cry, but mother will; I'll ask her this very evening."

Company called, however, which prevented this; and a day or two of Helen's visit passed, without her learning the reason for Mrs. Dobbs's great kindness and forbearance with a woman, evidently from a low station in life, and who exhibited no gratitude for such favors.

One morning Mrs. Dobbs accompanied her husband to the city, about four miles distant, and Jane was away on an errand. Helen, therefore, was left to amuse herself as she pleased. She read in the library until she was tired, and then sauntered through the hall up-stairs to her own chamber.

As she passed Mrs. Frost's room she heard a querulous voice, calling, "Miss Dobbs!" "Jane! Jane!"

Helen, naughty girl that she was began to laugh. "Now I'll have some fun," she thought.

She kept quiet, and the calling ceased; but the moment she began to make her boots squeak, the old lady cried, "Jane!" "Miss Dobbs! I want yer."

"I have a great mind," said Helen to herself, "to go in and give her a real blowing up. I'm sure she deserves it, and it's somebody's duty; for she does abuse, Mrs. Dobbs shamefully." She started to go into the room just as the old lady began to sob out, "I might as well be dead and laid by the side of Jotham; for nobody cares for me now."

"What are you crying for?" inquired Helen, walking toward the bed.

"Where's Miss Dobbs?"

"Gone to the city."

"And Jane, too?"

"No; Jane has gone down to the store."

"They might have told me they were going," faltered the old woman, beginning to cry again.

The rag pickers

The Rag Pickers.

THE RAG PICKERS,

AND

Other Stories.

BY MRS. MADELINE LESLIE,

AUTHOR OF "TIM THE SCISSORS GRINDER," "SEQUEL TO TIM,"

"THE BOUND BOY," "THE PRIZE BIBLE,"

"TIM'S SISTER," ETC.

BOSTON:

PUBLISHED BY HENRY HOYT,

NO. 9 CORNHILL.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by

HENRY HOYT,

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court

of the District of Massachusetts.

CONTENTS.

[The Little Rag Picker.]

[CHAPTER I.]

THE RAG AND COAL FIELD.

[CHAPTER II.]

THE COUNTERFEIT DOLLAR.

[Eddy and His Fishes.]

[CHAPTER I.]

THE CRUEL BOY.

[CHAPTER II.]

EDDY'S RESOLUTION.

[Willie's Grave.]

[CHAPTER I.]

VISIT TO THE GRAVEYARD.

[CHAPTER II.]

WILLIE'S HAPPY DEATH.

[The Substitute.]

[CHAPTER I.]

GRANDMA FROST.