"For whom do you want it?"

His kind mother said.

"You know a big apple I gave you at noon; And now for another, My boy, it's too soon."

"There's a poor little girl At the door, mother dear,"

Said Will, while within His mild eye shone a tear.

"She says, since last evening She's eaten no bread; Her feet are all naked And bare is her head.

Like me, she's no mother To love her, I'm sure, Or she'd not look so hungry, And ragged, and poor.

"Let me give her an apple; She wants one, I know; A nice, large, red apple-- O! do not say no."

First a kiss to the lips Of her generous boy, Mamma gave with a feeling Of exquisite joy--

For goodness, whene'er In a child it is seen, Gives joy to the heart Of a mother, I ween-- And then led her out, where, Still stood by the door, A poor little beggar-girl, Ragged all o'er.

"Please ma'am, I am hungry,"

The little thing said, "Will you give me to eat A small piece of bread?"

"Yes, child, you shall have it; But who sends you out From dwelling to dwelling To wander about?"

A pair of mild eyes To the lady were raised; "My mother's been sick For a great many days So sick she don't know me."

Sobs stifled the rest And heaved with young sorrow That innocent breast.

Just then from the store-room-- Where wee w.i.l.l.y run, As his mother to question The poor child begun-- Came forth the sweet boy, With a large loaf of bread, Held tight in his tiny hands High o'er his head.

"Here's bread, and a plenty!

Eat, little girl, eat!"

He cried, as he laid The great loaf at her feet.

The mother smiled gently, Then, quick through the door Drew the sad little stranger, So hungry and poor.

With words kindly spoken She gave her nice food, And clothed her with garments All clean, warm and good.

This done, she was leading Her out, when she heard w.i.l.l.y coming down stairs, Like a fluttering bird.

A newly bought leghorn, With green bow and band.

And an old, worn out beaver He held in his hand.

"Here! give her my new hat,"

He cried; "I can wear My black one all summer-- It's good--you won't care--

"Say! will you, dear mother?"

First out through the door, She pa.s.sed the girl kindly; Then quick from the floor Caught up the dear fellow, Kissed and kissed him again, While her glad tears fell freely O'er his sweet face like rain.

THE GOOD SON.

Little Martin went to a peasant and endeavored to procure employment, by which he might be able to earn some money.

"Yes," said the peasant, "I will take you for a herds-boy, and if you are industrious, will give you your board and ten dollars for the whole summer."

"I will be very industrious," said Martin, "but I beg you to pay me my wages every week, for I have a poor father at home to whom I wish to carry all I earn."

The peasant, who was pleased beyond measure at this filial love, not only willingly consented, but also raised his wages much higher. Every Sat.u.r.day the son carefully carried his money, and as much bread and b.u.t.ter as he could spare from his own mouth, to his father.

Children, love and grat.i.tude Always please the wise and good, But contempt and hate from all, On the thankless child will fall.

THE SICK MOTHER.

A mother once lay very sick, and suffered great and constant pain. Her children were all very sad and melancholy, and the large ones often kneeled down together, and prayed that G.o.d would restore their mother to health once more.

The youngest child would stand all day by the bed of her mother, and with tearful eyes, anxiously inquire when she would be well and get up again. One day this little child observed a gla.s.s filled with some dark fluid standing by the sick bed, and asked, "Mother, what is this?" The mother answered, "My dear child, it is something very bitter; but I must drink it, that I may get well again." "Mother," said the good child, "if it is so bitter, I will drink it for you; then you will be well again."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

And the sick mother, in all her pains, had the comfort and consolation of seeing how dearly all her children loved her.

Parents, joy and comfort find In a child that is good and kind; But their hearts are very sad, When the child they love is bad.

CORNELIA'S PRAYER.

Cornelia was the joy and pride of her parents, for she was a slender, graceful little creature, darting about like a young fawn, and her cheeks were as fresh and blooming as the young rose when it first opens to receive the dew. Added to this, she was blessed with a temper as sweet and serene as a spring morning when it dawns upon the blooming valleys, announcing a fair and delightful day.

Cornelia had never in her life known what it is to experience trouble and anxiety, for her youth had been all brightness and sunshine. But such freedom from all trials does not generally continue for a long time uninterrupted. And so it was with Cornelia. She was one day very much delighted at being shown a little brother with which her mother had presented her, but her joy was soon clouded by the severe illness of that mother. She lay many long days without noticing or appearing to know her little Cornelia, for her fever was strong, and her senses were continually wandering.

Cornelia was almost heart-broken at this, and they could scarcely persuade her to leave the bedside of her dear mother, for a single moment. She would entreat and implore until she won their consent that she should remain in the sick room; and then all night long would the affectionate little girl watch by her mother's bed, and attentively study her every want, wetting her parched lips and moving around her with the lightest and most anxious footsteps.

On the seventh day of her sickness the fever approached its crisis and there was deep silence in the little chamber, and stifled weeping, for every one thought that death was near.

But with the night came long absent slumber, and revived the almost dying mother, and seemed to give her back to life. What a season for Cornelia! Through the whole night she sat by the bed listening to her now soft and regular breathing, while hope and fear were struggling together in her bosom. When daylight appeared the mother opened her eyes, and turning them upon the anxious Cornelia, knew her. "I am better, my child," said she in a clear, but feeble voice, "I am better, and shall get well!" They then gave her drink and nourishment, and she went to sleep again.

What joy was this for the affectionate little girl! Her heart was too full for utterance, and she stole softly out of the chamber, and skipped out into the field, and ascended a hill near by, just as the sun was dawning. Here she stood her hands clasped together, and her bosom swelling with many contending emotions of pain and hope. Presently the sun arose and streamed over her face, and Cornelia thought of the new life of her mother after her reviving sleep, and the anguish of her own feelings. But she could not long shut up the flood of feeling within her own heart, and she knelt down upon blooming flowers with which the hill was covered, and bowing her face to the fragrant sod, her tears were mingled with the dew of heaven.

After a few minutes silence, she lifted up her head, and rising from the ground, returned to her home, and the chamber of her mother. Never before had there been so sweet and calm a loveliness on the face of Cornelia. It was a reflection of the peace and tranquility of her soul, for she had held communion with her G.o.d!

FORGIVENESS.

A friend with whom I was conversing a few weeks since, told me of a beautiful example of this Christian grace, even in a little child. It has often dwelt in my memory since, and perhaps some of my little readers may be induced to cultivate the same spirit, if I repeat it to them.