THE POWER OF KINDNESS.
And Other Stories.

THE FIRST INTERVIEW

A TIMELY RESCUE
page [105]

The
Power of
Kindness

& OTHER STORIES.

T. NELSON & SONS

THE
POWER OF KINDNESS.
And Other Stories.

A BOOK FOR THE EXAMPLE AND ENCOURAGEMENT OF
THE YOUNG.

By T. S. ARTHUR.

LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.

1877.

Contents.

The Power of Kindness.

“I HATE him!”

Thus, in a loud, angry voice, spoke a lad named Charles Freeman. His face was red, and his fair white brow disfigured by passion.

“Yes, I hate him! and he had better keep his distance from me, or I—”

“What would you do, Charles?” asked the lad’s companion, seeing that he paused.

“I don’t know what I might not be tempted to do. I would trample upon him as I would upon a snake.”

For a boy fourteen years of age, this was a dreadful state of mind to be in. The individual who had offended him was a fellow-student, named William Aiken. The cause of offence we will relate.

Charles Freeman was a self-willed, passionate boy, who hesitated not to break any rule of the institution at which he was receiving his education, provided, in doing so, he felt quite sure of not being found out and punished. On a certain occasion, he, with two or three others, who were planning some act of insubordination, called into the room of William Aiken and asked him to join them.

“It will be such grand sport,” said Freeman.

“But will it be right?” asked the more conscientious lad.

“Right or wrong, we are going to do it. Who cares for the president and all the faculty put together? They are a set of hypocrites and oppressors: make the best you can of them.”

“They don’t ask us to do anything but what is required by the rules of the institution; and then, I think, we ought to obey.”

“You are wonderfully inclined to obedience!” said Charles Freeman, in a sneering voice. “Come, boys! We have mistaken Master Aiken. I did not know before that he was such a milksop. Come!”

The other lads retired with Freeman, but they did not insult Aiken, for they knew him to be kind-hearted and honourable, and felt more disposed to respect him for his objections than to speak harshly to him for entertaining them. Aiken made no reply to the insulting language of the hot-headed, thoughtless Charles Freeman, although his words roused within him an instant feeling of indignation, that almost forced his tongue to utter some strong, retaliating expressions. But he controlled himself, and was very glad, as soon as his visitors had left him, that he had been able to do so.

On the next morning, before daylight, some persons, unknown to the faculty, brought from a neighbouring field a spiteful ram, and tied him, with a strong cord, to a post near the door of the president’s dwelling. The president, who was very near-sighted, always read prayers in the chapel at five o’clock in the morning. At the usual hour he descended from his chamber, and came out at his front door to go to the chapel, which was distant some fifty yards. It was a little after break of day. In the dim morning twilight, the president could see but indistinctly even objects that were very near to him.

The ram, which had, after his fierce struggles with those who had reduced him to a state of captivity, lain down quietly, roused himself up at the sound of the opening door, and stood ready to give the president a rather warm reception the moment he came within reach of him. Unconscious of the danger that menaced him, the president descended from the door with slow and cautious steps, and received in his side a terrible blow from the animal’s head, that threw him, some feet from where he was standing, prostrate upon the ground. Fortunately the ram had reached within a few inches of the length of his tether when the blow was given, and could not, therefore, repeat it, as the object of his wrath was beyond his reach.

The president was rather severely hurt; so much so that he was unable to go to the chapel and read morning prayers, and was confined to his chamber for some days. No investigation into the matter was made until after he was able to be about again. Then he assembled all the students together and stated to them what had occurred, and the pain he had endured in consequence, and asked to have the individuals who had been guilty of this outrage designated. All were silent. One student looked at another, and then at the assembled faculty, but no one gave the desired information, although many of those present knew the parties who were engaged in the act. Finding that no one would divulge the names of those who had been guilty of the outrage against him, the president said,—

“Let all who know nothing of this matter rise to their feet.”

Charles Freeman was the first to spring up, and one after another followed him, until all had risen except William Aiken. The president paused for some moments, and then ordered the young men to take their seats.

“William Aiken will please to come forward,” said the president. As the lad rose from his seat, several of the faculty, who had their eyes upon Freeman, and who had reason for suspecting that he knew about as much of the matter as any one, noticed that he cast a look of anger towards Aiken.

“It seems, then, that you know something about this matter,” said the president.

“All I know about it,” replied Aiken, “is, that I was applied to by some of my fellow-students to join them in doing what has been done, and that I declined participating in it.”

“For what reason, sir?”

“Because I thought it wrong.”

“Who were the students that applied to you?”

“I would rather not answer that question, sir.”

“But I insist upon it.”

“Then I must decline doing so.”

“You will be suspended, sir.”

“I should regret that,” was the lad’s manly reply. “But as I have broken no rule of the institution, such a suspension would be no disgrace to me.”

The president was perplexed. At this point one of the professors whispered something in his ear, and his eye turned immediately upon Freeman.

“Let Charles Freeman come forward,” he said.

With a fluctuating countenance the guilty youth left his seat and approached the faculty.

“Is this one of them?” said the president.

Aiken made no reply.

“Silence is assent,” the president remarked; “you can take your seat, young man.”

As Aiken moved away, the president, who had rather unjustly fixed upon him the burden of having given information, tacitly, against Freeman, said, addressing the latter:—

“And now, sir, who were your associates in this thing?”

“I am no common informer, sir. You had better ask William Aiken. No doubt he will tell you,” replied the lad.

The president stood thoughtful for a moment, and then said,—

“Gentlemen, you can all retire.”

It was as the students were retiring from the room where this proceeding had been conducted that Freeman made the bitter remarks about Aiken with which our story opens. It happened that the subject of them was so close to him as to hear all he said. About ten minutes after this, against the persuasion of a fellow-student, Freeman went to the room of Aiken for the satisfaction of telling him, as he said, “a piece of his mind.” Aiken was sitting by a table, with his head resting upon his hand, as Freeman came in. He looked up, when his door opened, and, seeing who it was, rose quickly to his feet, and advanced towards him a few steps, saying, with a smile, as he did so:—

“I am glad you have come, Charles. I had just made up my mind to go to your room. Sit down now, and let us talk this matter over with as little hard feelings as possible. I am sure it need not make us enemies. If I have been at any point in the least to blame, I will freely acknowledge it, and do all in my power to repair any injury that I may have done to you. Can I do more?”

“Of course not,” replied Charles, completely subdued by the unexpected manner and words of Aiken.

“I heard you say, a little while ago, that you hated me,” resumed William. “Of course there must be some cause for this feeling. Tell me what it is, Charles.”

The kind manner in which Aiken spoke, and the mildness of his voice, completely subdued the lion in the heart of Freeman. He was astonished at himself, and the wonderful revulsion that had taken place, so suddenly, in his feelings.

“I spoke hastily,” he said. “But I was blind with anger at being discovered through you.”

“But I did not discover you, remember that, Charles.”

“If you had risen with the rest—”

“I would not, in word or act, tell a lie, Charles, for my right hand,” said Aiken, in an earnest voice, interrupting him. “You must not blame me for this.”

“Perhaps I ought not, but—”

Freeman left the sentence unfinished, and rising to his feet, commenced walking the floor of Aiken’s room, hurriedly. This was continued for some minutes, when he stopped suddenly, and extending his hand, said,—

“I have thought it all over, William, and I believe I have no cause of complaint against you; but I acknowledge that you have against me. I have insulted you and hated you without a cause. I wish I could act, in all things, from the high principles that govern you.”

“Try, Charles, try!” said Aiken with warmth, as he grasped the hand of his fellow-student.

“It will be no use for me to try,” returned Freeman, sadly. “I shall be expelled from the institution; my father will be angry; and I shall perhaps be driven, by my hot and hasty spirit, to say something to him that will estrange us, for he is a man of a stern temper.”

“Don’t fear such consequences,” said Aiken kindly. “Leave it to me. I think I can make such representations to the president as will induce him to let the matter drop where it is.”

“If you can do so, it may save me from ruin,” replied Freeman, with much feeling.

William Aiken was not deceived in his expectations. He represented to the kind-hearted but rather impetuous president the repentant state of Freeman’s mind, and the consequences likely to arise if he should be expelled from college. The president made no promises; but nothing more was heard of the subject. From that time the two students were warm friends; and Freeman was not only led to see the beauty and excellence of truth and integrity of character, but to act from the same high principles that governed his noble-minded friend.

There is not one of our young readers who cannot see what sad consequences might have arisen, if William Aiken had not kept down his indignant feelings, and been governed by kindness instead of anger.

Ada and her Pet Fawn.

THERE was once a dear child named Ada, who was of so sweet a temper that she only knew how to love; and the consequence was, that everybody and everything that could know her, loved the sweet little girl in return. I do not believe that a servant in her father’s family ever spoke unkindly to Ada, she was so good. There are but few of my young readers, I am afraid, that can say so of themselves. Cook scolds, the chambermaid is so cross, and nurse is out of temper, whenever you come near them. Yes, you know all that; but, my young friends, I am afraid it is all your own fault. Now, examine closely your own feelings and conduct, and see if you do not make this trouble for yourselves. Do you always speak kindly to those around you; and do you always try to give them as little trouble as possible?

As for Ada, everybody loved her; and the reason, as I have already stated, was plain: she didn’t know any feeling toward others except that of love. Even the dumb animals would come to her side when she appeared. The cat would rub against her, and purr as she sat in her little chair; and when she went out to play among the flowers, would run after her just as you have seen a favourite dog run after his master. She never passed Lion, the watch-dog, that he didn’t wag his great tail, or turn his head to look after her; and if she stopped and spoke to or put her hand upon him, his old limbs would quiver with delight, and his face would actually laugh like a human face. And why was this? It was because love prompted Ada to kind acts towards everything. Love beamed from her innocent countenance, and gave a music to her voice that all ears, even those of dumb animals, were glad to hear. Yes, everything loved Ada, because she was good.

The father of gentle, loving Ada was a rich English lord—a certain class of wealthy and distinguished men in England, as most young readers know, are called lords—and he had a great estate some miles from London, in which were many animals; among them, herds of deer. When Ada was three or four years old, her father went to live on this estate. Around the fine old mansion into which they removed were stately trees, green lawns, and beautiful gardens; and a short distance away, and concealed from view by a thick grove, was the park where roamed the graceful deer.

Under the shade of those old trees, upon the smoothly-shaven lawn, or amid the sweet flowers in the garden, Ada spent many hours every day, one of the happiest of beings alive.

One morning—it was a few weeks after Ada had come to live in this fair and beautiful place—she strayed off a short distance from the house, being lured away by the bright wild flowers that grew thickly all around, and with which she was filling her apron. At last, when her tiny apron would not hold a blossom more without pushing off some other flower, Ada looked up from the ground, and discovered that she was out of sight of her house, and among trees which stood so thickly together that the sky could scarcely be seen overhead, nor the light beyond, when she endeavoured to look between the leafy branches. But Ada did not feel afraid, for she knew no cause for fear. She loved everything, and she felt that everything loved her. There was not any room in her heart for fear.

Still Ada felt too much alone, and she turned and sought to find her way out of the woods and get back again. While yet among the trees, she heard a noise of feet approaching; and turning, she saw an animal that was unlike any she had seen before. It came up close to her, and neither of them felt afraid. It was a fawn, only a few months old. The fawn looked into Ada’s face with its dark bright eyes, and when she spoke to it, and laid her hand upon its head, the young creature pressed lovingly against the child.

When Ada found her way out of the woods, and came again upon the green lawn, the young deer was close by her side. As soon as Lion saw the fawn, he gave a loud bark, and came dashing toward the timid creature. But Ada put her arm around its neck, and said,—

“Don’t be afraid. Lion won’t hurt you. Lion is a good dog.”

And Lion seemed to understand the act of Ada, for he stopped short before he reached them, wagged his tail, and looked curiously at the new companion which Ada had found. First he walked round and round, as if the whole matter was not clear to him. He had chased deer in his time, and did not seem to understand why he was not to sink his great teeth into the tender flank of the gentle creature that had followed his young mistress from the woods. But he soon appeared to get light on this difficult subject, for he came up to be patted by Ada, and did not even growl at the fawn, nor show any disposition to hurt it.

The fawn would not stay in the park after this. Ada’s father had it taken back once or twice, but before the day was gone it managed to escape, and came to see its newly-found friend. After this it was permitted to remain; and every day little Ada fed it with her own hand. When others of the family approached, the timid creature would start away; but when Ada appeared, it came with confidence to her side.

Ada had a brother two years older than she was. He was different from his sister in not having her innocent mind and loving heart. Sometimes he indulged in a cruel disposition, and often he was ill-tempered. When William saw the fawn he was delighted, and tried to make friends with the gentle animal. But the fawn was afraid of him, and when he tried to come near would run away, or come up to Ada. Then, if William put his hand on it to caress it, the fawn would shrink closer to Ada, and tremble. William did not like it because the fawn would not be friends with him, and wondered why it should be afraid of him, and not of Ada. He did not think that it was because Ada was so good, while he let evil tempers come into his heart.

“But how could the fawn know this?” ask my young readers. “The fawn couldn’t see what was in William’s heart.”

No; for if it could have done so, it would have been wiser than a human being. But all good affections, let it be remembered, as well as all evil affections, represent themselves in the face, and picture themselves in the eyes; and there is, besides, a sphere of what is good or evil about every one, according to the heart’s affections—just as the sphere of a rose is around the flower in its odour, showing its quality. Animals, as well as human beings, can read, by a kind of instinct, the good or evil of any one in his face, and perceive, by a mysterious sense, the sphere of good or evil that surrounds him.

You do not clearly understand this, my young reader; nevertheless it is so. If you are good, others will know it at a glance, and feel it when you come near them. And the same will be the case if your hearts are evil.

Ada’s pet fawn stayed with her many months, and nothing harmed it. The horns began to push forth, like little knobs, from its head; and afterwards it grew up to be a stately deer, and was sent back to the park. Ada often went to see her favourite, which now had a pair of beautiful branching antlers. It always knew her, and would come up to her side and lick her hand when she held it forth.

Such power has love over even a brute animal.

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 favour, 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, and 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.

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 get away 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 on 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 afterwards, Edgar came to his father with a complaint against his brother.

“I never saw such a boy,” he said. “He will not do the least thing to oblige me. If I ask him to lend me his knife, or ball, or anything 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 anything 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.

“Whenever you want William to do anything for you,” continued the father, “use kind words instead of harsh ones, and you will find him as obliging as you could wish. I have observed you both a good deal, and I notice that you rarely ever speak to William in a proper manner, but you are rude and overbearing. Correct this evil in yourself, and all will be right with him. Kind words are far more powerful than harsh words, and their effect a hundred-fold greater.”

On the next day, as Edgar was at work in the garden, and William standing at the gate looking on, Edgar wanted a rake that was in the summer-house. He was just going to say, “Go and get me that rake, Bill!” but he checked himself, and made his request in a different form, and in a better tone than those words would have been uttered in.

“Will you get me the small rake that lies in the summer-house, William?” he said. The words and tone involved a request, not a command, and William instantly replied,—

“Certainly;” and bounded away to get the rake for his brother.

“Thank you,” said Edgar, as he received the rake.

“Don’t you want the watering-pot?” asked William.

“Yes, I do; and you may bring it full of water, if you please,” was the reply.

Off William went for the watering-pot, and soon returned with it full of water. As he stood near one of Edgar’s flower-beds, he forgot himself, and stepped back with his foot upon a bed of pansies.

“There! just look at you!” exclaimed Edgar, thrown off his guard.

William, who had felt drawn towards his brother on account of his kind manner, was hurt at this sudden change in his words and tone. He was tempted to retort harshly, and even to set his foot more roughly upon the pansies. But he checked himself, and, turning away, walked slowly from the garden.

Edgar, who had repented of his rude words and unkind manner the moment he had time to think, was very sorry that he had been thrown off his guard, and resolved to be more careful in the future. And he was more careful. The next time he spoke to his brother, it was in a kind and gentle manner, and he saw its effect. Since then, he has been watchful over himself, and now he finds that William is one of the most obliging boys anywhere to be found.

“So much for kind words, my son,” said his father, on noticing the great change that had taken place. “Never forget, throughout your whole life, that kind words are far more potent than harsh ones. I have found them so, and you have already proved the truth of what I say.”

And so will every one who tries them. Make the experiment, young friends, and you will find it to succeed in every case.

The Broken Doll.

NEARLY all the unhappiness that exists in the world has its origin in the want of a proper control over the desires and passions. This is as true in childhood as in more advanced age. Children are unhappy because they do not possess many things they see; and too often, in endeavouring to obtain what they have no right to, they make themselves still more unhappy. A spirit of covetousness is as bad a spirit as can come into the heart; and whoever has this spirit for a guest, cannot but be, most of his time, very miserable.

Albert Hawkins, I am sorry to say, had given place in his heart to this evil spirit of covetousness. Almost everything he saw he desired to possess. Had it not been for this, Albert would have been a very good boy. He learned his lessons well, was obedient and attentive at school and at home, and did not take delight in hurting or annoying dumb animals and insects, as too many boys do. But his restless desire to have whatever he saw marred all this, and produced much unhappiness in his own mind, as well as in the minds of his parents.

One day, on coming home from school, he found his sister Ellen playing with a large new doll that her father had bought for her.

“Oh, isn’t it beautiful!” he exclaimed. “Where did you get it? Let me have it to look at.”

And Albert caught hold of the doll and almost forced it out of the hands of Ellen, who resigned it with great reluctance. He then sat down and held it in his lap, while Ellen stood by, half in tears. She had only had it about an hour, and she could not bear to let it go from her. Albert, in his selfish desire to hold in his hands the beautiful doll, did not think of how much pleasure he was depriving his sister, who patiently waited minute after minute to have it restored to her. At last, seeing that her brother still kept possession of the doll, she said, gently and kindly,—

“Won’t you give it to me now?” and she put out her hand to take it as she spoke.

But Albert pushed her hand quickly away, and said,—

“No, no; I’ve not done with it yet.”

Ellen looked disappointed. But she waited still longer.

“Now, brother, give me my doll, won’t you?” she said.

“Don’t be so selfish about your doll,” answered Albert, rudely. “You shall have it after a while, when I’ve done with it.”

Ellen now felt so vexed that she could not keep from crying. As soon as Albert saw the tears falling over her face, and heard her sob, he became angry, and throwing the doll upon the floor, exclaimed in a harsh voice,—

“There! Take your ugly old doll, if you are so selfish about it!”

As the beautiful figure struck the floor, one of its delicate hands broke off from the wrist. But even a sight of the injury he had done did not soften the heart of Albert, who left the room feeling very angry towards his sister. He was trying to amuse himself in the yard, about half an hour afterwards, when his mother, who had been out, called to him from the door. He went up to her, and she said,—

“Albert, how came the hand of Ellen’s new doll broken? Do you know? I have asked her about it; but the only answer I can get from her is in tears.”

Albert’s eyes fell immediately to the ground, while his face became red.

“I hope you did not break it!” the mother said, pained to see this confusion manifested by her boy.

Now Albert, although of a covetous disposition, never told a lie. He was a truthful boy, and that was much in his favour. To lie is most wicked and despicable. There is no meaner character than a liar.

“Yes, ma’am, I broke it,” he replied, without any equivocation.

“How did you do that, Albert?” asked his mother.

“Ellen would not let me hold it, and I got angry and threw it upon the floor. I didn’t mean to break it.”

At this confession, Albert’s mother was very much grieved.

“But what right had you to Ellen’s doll?” she asked.

“I wanted to hold it.”

“But it was your sister’s, not yours; and if she did not wish you to have it, that was no reason why you should get angry and break it.”

“But, indeed, mother, I didn’t mean to break it.”

“I don’t suppose you did. I should be very sorry to think you were so wicked. Still, you have been guilty of a great wrong to your sister; and to this you have no doubt been led by indulging in that covetous spirit of which I have so often talked to you, and which, if not overcome, may lead you into some great evil when you become a man. But tell me just how it happened.”

And Albert truthfully related what had passed.

“I cannot tell you how much all this grieves me,” his mother said. “Ellen never interferes with your pleasures, and never covets your playthings nor books, but you give her no peace with anything she has. If your father brings each of you home a book, yours is thrown aside in a few moments, and you want to look at hers. It is this covetous spirit—this desiring to have what belongs to another—that leads to stealing; and unless you put it away from your heart, you will be in great danger of more temptations than now assail you. Poor Ellen! Her heart is almost broken about her doll.”

“I am very sorry, mother,” replied Albert in a penitent voice. “I wish I hadn’t touched her doll. Don’t you think it can be mended? Can’t I buy her a new hand for it? I will take the money out of my box.”

“We will see about that, my dear. If you can restore the hand, I think it is your duty to do so. It will be nothing but simple justice, and we should all be just one towards another in little as well as in great things. But your first duty is to go to Ellen and try to comfort her in her affliction, for it is a great grief for her to have her beautiful doll broken. I found her just now crying bitterly.”

All Albert’s better feelings came back into his heart. He felt very sorry for Ellen, and went in immediately to the room where she was. He found her with her head leaning down upon a table, weeping.

“Sister Ellen!” he said, speaking earnestly, “I am so sorry I broke your doll’s hand. Don’t cry, and I will take money out of my box, and buy you a new hand for it.”

Albert’s voice was so kind, and so full of sympathy, that Ellen felt better in a moment. She lifted her head from the table and looked round into her brother’s face.

“You will forgive me, won’t you, sister?” he said. “I was angry and wicked, but I am very sorry, and will try and never trouble you any more. After dinner we will go out, and see if we can’t find another hand, and I will buy it for you out of my own money.”

Ellen’s tears all dried up; and she said in a kind, gentle way, that she forgave her brother. After dinner they went out together, and Albert found a new hand, and bought it for his sister. The doll is now as good as it was before; and what is better, Albert has learned to restrain his covetous spirit, and to leave Ellen happy in the enjoyment of what is her own.

Harsh Words and Kind Words.

WILLIAM BAKER, and his brother Thomas, and sister Ellen, were playing on the green lawn in front of their mother’s door, when a lad named Henry Green came along the road, and seeing the children enjoying themselves, opened the gate and came in. He was rather an ill-natured boy, and generally took more pleasure in teasing and annoying others than in being happy with them. When William saw him coming in through the gate, he called to him and said, in a harsh way,—

“You may just keep out, Henry Green, and go about your business! We don’t want you here.”

But Henry did not in the least regard what William said. He came directly forward, and joined in the sport as freely as if he had been invited instead of repulsed. In a little while he began to pull Ellen about rudely, and to push Thomas so as nearly to throw them down upon the grass.

“Go home, Henry Green! Nobody sent for you! Nobody wants you here!” said William Baker, in an angry tone.

It was of no use, however. William might as well have spoken to the wind. His words were unheeded by Henry, whose conduct became ruder and more offensive.

Mrs. Baker, who sat at the window, saw and heard all that was passing. As soon as she could catch the eye of her excited son, she beckoned him to come to her, which he promptly did.

“Try kind words on him,” she said; “you will find them more powerful than harsh words. You spoke very harshly to Henry when he came in, and I was sorry to hear it.”

“It won’t do any good, mother. He’s a rude, bad boy, and I wish he would stay at home. Won’t you make him go home?”

“First go and speak to him in a gentler way than you did just now. Try to subdue him with kindness.”

William felt that he had been wrong in letting his angry feelings express themselves in angry words. So he left his mother and went down upon the lawn, where Henry was amusing himself by trying to trip up the children with a long stick, as they ran about on the green.

“Henry,” he said, cheerfully and pleasantly, “if you were fishing in the river, and I were to come and throw stones in where your line fell, and scare away all the fish, would you like it?”

“No, I should not,” replied the lad.

“It wouldn’t be kind in me?”

“No, of course it wouldn’t.”

“Well, now, Henry”—William tried to smile and to speak very pleasantly—“we are playing here and trying to enjoy ourselves. Is it right for you to come and interrupt us by tripping up our feet, pulling us about, and pushing us down? I am sure you will not think so if you reflect a moment. So don’t do it any more, Henry.”

“No, I will not,” replied Henry promptly. “I am sorry that I disturbed you. I didn’t think what I was doing. And now I remember, father told me not to stay, and I must run home.”

So Henry Green went quickly away, and the children were left to enjoy themselves.

“Didn’t I tell you that kind words were more powerful than harsh words, William?” said his mother, after Henry had gone away. “When we speak harshly to our fellows, we arouse their angry feelings, and then evil spirits have power over them; but when we speak kindly, we affect them with gentleness, and good spirits flow into this latter state, and excite in them better thoughts and intentions. How quickly Henry changed, when you changed your manner and the character of your language. Do not forget this, my son. Do not forget that kind words have double the power of harsh ones.”

A Noble Act.

“WHAT have you there, boys?” asked Captain Bland.

“A ship,” replied one of the lads who were passing the captain’s neat cottage.

“A ship! Let me see;” and the captain took the little vessel, and examined it with as much fondness as a child does a pretty toy. “Very fair indeed; who made it?”

“I did,” replied one of the boys.

“You, indeed! Do you mean to be a sailor, Harry?”

“I don’t know. I want father to get me into the navy.”

“As a midshipman?”

“Yes, sir.”

Captain Bland shook his head.

“Better be a farmer, a physician, or a merchant.”

“Why so, captain?” asked Harry.

“All these are engaged in the doing of things directly useful to society.”

“But I am sure, captain, that those who defend us against our enemies, and protect all who are engaged in commerce from wicked pirates, are doing what is useful to society.”

“Their use, my lad,” replied Captain Bland, “is certainly a most important one; but we may call it rather negative than positive. The civilian is engaged in building up and sustaining society in doing good, through his active employment, to his fellow-men. But military and naval officers do not produce anything; they only protect and defend.”

“But if they did not protect and defend, captain, evil men would destroy society. It would be of no use for the civilian to endeavour to build up, if there were none to fight against the enemies of the state.”

“Very true, my lad. The brave defender of his country cannot be dispensed with, and we give him all honour. Still, the use of defence and protection is not so high as the use of building up and sustaining. The thorn that wounds the hand stretched forth to pluck the flower is not so much esteemed, nor of so much worth, as the blossom it was meant to guard. Still, the thorn performs a great use. Precisely a similar use does the soldier or naval officer perform to society; and it will be for you, my lad, to decide as to which position you would rather fill.”

“I never thought of that, captain,” said one of the lads. “But I can see clearly how it is. And yet I think those men who risk their lives for us in war, deserve great honour. They leave their homes, and remain away, sometimes for years, deprived of all the comforts and blessings that civilians enjoy, suffering frequently great hardships, and risking their lives to defend their country from her enemies.”

“It is all as you say,” replied Captain Bland; “and they do, indeed, deserve great honour. Their calling is one that exposes them to imminent peril, and requires them to make many sacrifices; and they encounter not this peril and sacrifice for their own good, but for the good of others. Their lives do not pass so evenly as do the lives of men who spend their days in the peaceful pursuits of business, art, or literature; and we could hardly wonder if they lost some of the gentler attributes of the human heart. In some cases this is so; but, in very many cases, the reverse is true. We find the man who goes fearlessly into battle, and there, in defence of his country, deals death and destruction unsparingly upon her enemies, acting, when occasion offers, from the most humane sentiments, and jeopardizing his life to save the life of a single individual. Let me relate to you a true story in illustration of what I say.

“When the unhappy war that was waged by the American troops in Mexico broke out, a lieutenant in the navy, who had a quiet berth at Washington, felt it to be his duty to go to the scene of strife, and therefore asked to be ordered to the Gulf of Mexico. His request was complied with, and he received orders to go on board the steamer Mississippi, Commodore Perry, then about to sail from Norfolk to Vera Cruz.

“Soon after the Mississippi arrived out, and before the city and castle were taken, a terrible ‘norther’ sprung up, and destroyed much shipping in the harbour. One vessel, on which were a number of passengers, was thrown high upon a reef; and when morning broke, the heavy sea was making a clear breach through her. She lay about a mile from the Mississippi, and it soon became known on board the steamer that a mother and her infant were in the wreck, and that, unless succour came speedily, they would perish. The lieutenant of whom I speak immediately ordered out a boat’s crew, and although the sea was rolling tremendously, and the ‘norther’ still blowing a hurricane, started to the rescue. Right in the teeth of the wind were the men compelled to pull their boat, and so slowly did they proceed that it took more than two hours to gain the wreck.

“At one time they actually gave up, and the oars lay inactive in their hands. At this crisis, the brave but humane officer, pointing with one hand to the fortress of San Juan de Ulloa, upon which a fire had already commenced, and with the other to the wreck, exclaimed, with noble enthusiasm,—

“‘Pull away, men! I would rather save the life of that woman and her child, than have the honour of taking the castle!’

“Struck by the noble, unselfish, and truly humane feelings of their officer, the crew bent with new vigour to their oars. In a little while the wreck was gained, and the brave lieutenant had the pleasure of receiving into his arms the almost inanimate form of the woman, who had been lashed to the deck, and over whom the waves had been beating, at intervals, all night.

“In writing home to his friends, after the excitement of the adventure was over, the officer spoke of the moment when he rescued that mother and child from the wreck as the proudest of his life.

“Afterwards he took part in the bombardment of Vera Cruz, and had command, in turn, of the naval battery, where he faithfully and energetically performed his duty as an officer in the service of his country. He was among the first of those who entered the captured city; but pain, not pleasure, filled his mind, as he looked around and saw death and destruction on every hand. The arms of his country had been successful; the officer had bravely contributed his part in the work; but he frankly owns that he experienced far more delight in saving the woman he had borne from the wreck, than he could have felt had he been the commander of the army that reduced the city.

“Wherever duty calls, my lads,” concluded the captain, “you will find that brave officer. He will never shrink from the post of danger, if his country have need of him, nor will he ever be deaf to the appeal of humanity; but so long as he is a true man, just so long will he delight more in saving than in destroying.”

Emma Lee and her Sixpence.

EMMA’S aunt had given her a sixpence, and now the question was, what should she buy with it?

“I’ll tell you what I will do, mother,” she said, changing her mind for the tenth time.

“Well, dear, what have you determined upon now?”

“I’ll save my sixpence until I get a good many more, and then I’ll buy me a handsome wax doll. Wouldn’t you do that, mother, if you were me?”

“If I were you, I suppose I should do just as you will,” replied Emma’s mother, smiling.

“But, mother, don’t you think that would be a nice way to do? I get a good many pennies and sixpences, you know, and could soon save enough to buy me a beautiful wax doll.”

“I think it would be better,” said Mrs. Lee, “for you to save up your money and buy something worth having.”

“Isn’t a large wax doll worth having?”

“Oh yes; for a little girl like you.”

“Then I’ll save up my money, until I get enough to buy me a doll as big as Sarah Johnson’s.”

In about an hour afterwards, Emma came to her mother, and said,—

“I’ve just thought what I will do with my sixpence. I saw such a beautiful book at a shop yesterday! It was full of pictures, and the price was just sixpence. I’ll buy that book.”

“But didn’t you say, a little while ago, that you were going to save your money until you had enough to buy a doll?”

“I know I did, mother; but I didn’t think about the book then. And it will take so long before I can save up money enough to get a new doll. I think I will buy the book.”

“Very well, dear,” replied Mrs. Lee.

Not long after, Emma changed her mind again.

On the next day her mother said to her,—

“Your aunt Mary is very ill, and I am going to see her. Do you wish to go with me?”

“Yes, mother, I should like to go. I am so sorry that aunt Mary is ill. What ails her?”

“She is never very well, and the least cold makes her worse. The last time she was here she took cold.”

As they were about leaving the house, Emma said,—

“I’ll take my sixpence with me, and spend it, mother.”

“What are you going to buy?” asked Mrs. Lee.

“I don’t know,” replied Emma. “Sometimes I think I will buy some cakes; and then I think I will get a whole sixpence worth of cream candy—I like it so.”

“Have you forgotten the book?”

“Oh no. Sometimes I think I will buy the book. Indeed, I don’t know what to buy.”

In this undecided state of mind, Emma started with her mother to see her aunt. They had not gone far before they met a poor woman with some very pretty bunches of flowers for sale. She carried them on a tray. She stopped before Mrs. Lee and her little girl, and asked if they would not buy some flowers.

“How much are they a bunch?” asked Emma.

“Sixpence,” replied the woman.

“Mother, I’ll tell you what I will do with my sixpence,” said Emma, her face brightening with the thought that came into her mind. “I will buy a bunch of flowers for aunt Mary. You know how she loves flowers. Can’t I do it, mother?”

“Oh yes, dear. Do it, by all means, if you think you can give up the nice cream candy or the picture book for the sake of gratifying your aunt.”

Emma did not hesitate a moment, but selected a very handsome bunch of flowers, and paid her sixpence to the woman with a feeling of real pleasure.

Aunt Mary was very much pleased with the bouquet Emma brought her.

“The sight of these flowers, and their delightful perfume, really makes me feel better,” she said, after she had held them in her hand for a little while. “I am very much obliged to my niece for thinking of me.”

That evening Emma looked up from a book which her mother had bought her as they returned home from aunt Mary’s, and with which she had been much entertained, and said,—

“I think the spending of my sixpence gave me a double pleasure.”

“How so, dear?” asked Mrs. Lee.

“I made aunt happy, and the flower-woman too. Didn’t you notice how pleased the flower-woman looked? I shouldn’t wonder if she had little children at home, and thought about the bread that sixpence would buy them when I paid it to her. Don’t you think she did?”

“I cannot tell that, Emma,” replied her mother; “but I shouldn’t at all wonder if it were as you suppose. And so it gives you pleasure to think you have made others happy?”

“Indeed it does.”

“Acts of kindness,” replied Emma’s mother, “always produce a feeling of pleasure. This every one may know. And it is the purest and truest pleasure we experience in this world. Try and remember this little incident of the flowers as long as you live, my child; and let the thought of it remind you that every act of self-denial brings to the one who makes it a sweet delight.”

The Timely Aid.

“TAKE care of that wolf, my son,” said Mrs. Maylie to a boy about twelve years old, who had come from school in a very ill humour with a playmate, and kept saying harsh things about him, which were but oral evidences of the unkind feelings he cherished within.

“What wolf, mother?” asked Alfred, looking up with surprise.

“The wolf in your heart. Have you already forgotten what I told you last evening about the wild beasts within you?”

“But you told us too,” spoke up little Emily, “about the innocent lambs. There are gentle and good animals in us, as well as fierce and evil ones.”

“Oh yes. Good affections are the innocent animals of your hearts, and evil affections the cruel beasts of prey that are lurking there, ever ready, if you will permit them, to rise up and destroy your good affections. Take care, my children, how you permit the wild beasts to rage. In a moment that you know not, they may ravage some sweet spot.”

“But what did you mean by saying that there was a wolf in brother Alfred? Tell us the meaning of that, mother.”

“Yes, do, mother,” joined in Alfred, whose ill humour had already begun to subside. “I want to know what the wolf in my heart means.”

“Do you know anything about the nature of wolves?” asked Mrs. Maylie.

“They are very cruel, and love to seize and eat up dear little innocent lambs,” said Emily.

“Yes, my children, their nature is cruel, and they prey upon innocent creatures. Until now, Alfred, you have always loved to be with your playmate, William Jarvis.”

Alfred was silent.

“Was it not so, my dear?”

“Yes, ma’am; I used to like him.”