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then she was not very kind to me; not so vēry kind as my aunt Jane used to be; for my aunt Jane never beat me, but used to take me upon her kneé, and tell me pretty stories', and teach

way to read them myself', and to sew”, that I might learn to be a useful woman'; and used to kiss mé, and


she loved me very dearly' when I was a good girl.”.

“And I hope you were always a good girl',” said Mr. Hardy, patting her cheek. A confused blush covered the face of his little companion as he said thìs.

“Nò, sir'," said shé, “ I was not always good, for once I told a story, and my aunt Jane did not love me for a great many days', and I was very unhappy." “ That was indeed naughty'; but you

will never tell another story', I trust.”

“I hope not,” said the child modestly; and Mr. Hardy, desirous of knowing something more of her history, asked her again what had become of her mother. “I do not know where she has gonè tó; but I an afraid she has lost herself', for when we got to the large town, she told me to sit down upon a doorstep till she came back to mé; and I sat a very long time, till it was quite dark, and I was very cold and hungry, and she never came to me, and I could not help crying; so the lady heard me that lived in the house, and came to me, and asked me what was the måttér; and when I told her', she took me into the kitchen', and gave me something to eat, and was very kind to me."

At this simple narrative the passengers were all much affected; and even the gentleman who had, at first, opposed her coming into the coach', rubbed his hand across his eyes' and said', “ Poor thing —poor thing";" while Mr. Hardy pressed her more closely towards him', and rejoiced that Providence had enabled him to provide his own daughter with every indulgence that affection could desire.

NOTE.—Children use the rising inflection more than adults.



We should learn to endure patiently the common afflictions of life. By exercising fortitude and submission', we can greatly alleviate the evils we cannot avoid.

Every body has to bear pain': now let us see how Jâmes submits to the toothaché. Perhaps there is no harder pain to


bear', because we are thinking constantly of the suré, speedy', though very unpleasant', remedy. When we complain, our friends say, “ Well, why don't you have the tooth extracted'?”* James has suffered three days with the toothache. He has remained at home three days from school, and submitted patiently to the usual remedies for this disease. Sometimes the pain has been very sevēré, but he has not allowed himself to shed one teār', or', for one moment', to lose his self-command.

At length his father and mother advise him to have the tooth extracted. Poor James dreads the operation' as much as any

He considers the subject for some hours', and then resolves to submit to it manfülly. He slips quietly out of the house, and directs his steps towards † the dentist's. His voice falters a little as he inquires if the doctor is at home. “Yes”," is the reply', and James summons all his courage.

“ Sir'," he says pleasantly', “can you extract a tooth for me this afternoon'?” Arrangements are soon madè, and James seats himself in the great ārm-chāir. It is all over in a moment', and he is on the way homè. How light is his step', and how happy his heart'! He knows that he has done his duty', and exercised a becoming degree of fortitude. How surprised is his mother to hear that the troublesome tooth is actually gone, and how approvingly his father smiles upon him!

Georgè has been suffering with the same complaint', but as yet he cannot be induced to apply to a dentist for relief. He is fretful and peevish. He complains of every application", and of every proposed remedy he says'," it will do no good, and it is of no úse to try it.”

He is finally hired to have his tooth out, and he goes with his father to the dentists. As soon as George finds himself in the presence of the doctor', he begins to cry. He declares that he can not and will not have the tooth ouť, and that the operation will kill him. His father threatens', and the doctor flatters', but all to no effect. At length he is compelled to open his mouth. His father holds his head and hands firmly, and the doctor succeeds', in spite of George's efforts to the contrary', to place the instrument properly on the tooth ;—and now he screams loud enough to disturb the whole neighborhood. Who does not admire James's

superior fortitude and courage ? A restless, discontented spirit, is a serious injury to a sick

* This mark : denotes that the syllable over which it is placed is raised a Bote higher than is denoted by a simple point.

† Pronounced as one syllable, tõrds; or, térds. See page 16.

person. It always retards recovery. The effect of medicine is often counteracted by this disposition.

It is always necessary to use sélf-control in sickness. There was a boy who suffered much with weak eyes. His friends thought he would have recovered much sooner, if he could have been induced to give up cry'ingé; but the boy had not self-commānd enough to do this. On every occasion when he was vexed or disappointed”, he would be found in tears. This always had the effect to increase the inflammation', and, no doubt, prolonged his sufferings.

The design of sickness is', not to call into exercise wicked and wrong feelings', but the op`posite of thesé, patience', fortitude', and submission.

So with fatigue ; when it is excessivé, it is certainly painful; but pain is in no way diminished by constant complaints. Who can sympathize deeply with the boy', whó, when a little tired', is constantly talking about it', and making it an excuse for neglecting his dùty'? Some persons are always annoying their friends with a recital of their hardships and fatigues. True benevolence would rather wish to conceal thāt which could in no way be remedied by exposure.

Boys often complain bitterly' of cold weather'. To be sure, it is bad enough to have one's fingers aché, and ears tingle; but it makes a bad matter worse", when a boy whines and cries about it.

William is an example of manliness in this respect. When the hour for school arrives', he quietly collects his books', buttons on his great-coat', puts on his mittens', and courageously makes his way through the snow without a murmur' or complaint. When he is in school', he pursues his studies in spite of the chilling atmosphere, and soon forgets that it is a cold December morning. He is acquiring habits of self-control in his youth', which will prove a blessing to him as long as he lives.



When John awoke in the morning', he saw that the light was coming in at the windows', and he knew accordingly' that he ought to get up. His brother Roger was sleeping in the same bed. It was a trundle-bed, so low that he could easily get out and in. He lay thinking for a few minutes', happy in


heart', and grateful that God had kept him through another night. He saw, toó, a beautiful star out of the window. It was the last stār,—all the others had gone out in the light of morning.

While he lay thus', he began to grow sleepy again ;* but just then he heard a bell ringing below!, at the foot of the stairs ;for this was a very regular family', and the father always rang a bell at a certain hour of the morning', when the fires were madé, for the boys to get up. When John heard the bell' he began to dress himself', calling, at the same time, “Röger', Rögér.”

Roger began soon to move; he turned over', half opened his eyès, and said, “ What do


want?It is time to get up,” said John; “the bell has rūng'."

Roger said nothing,—but he looked displeased and fretful,— and presently John saw that he was going to sleep again.

John then took a long feather which he pulled out of the pillow', and began playfully to tickle his brother's nose. This waked him up',-he rubbed his facè, opened his eyes', and when he saw John laughing', and with the feather in his hand, he looked very cross, and said, “ Be still.” Then he turned over', and half covered his face with the pillow.

At first John began to feel a little angry; but very soon he reflected that he ought not to be so'. He thought that he ought not to do any thing which would trouble his brother; so he came to the bedside and leaned over him', and said, “ Roger', I am very sorry I tickled you with thāt feather', if


do not like it'; I was only at play. But it is really time for you to

get up."

Roger still looked displeased, though when he heard John speaking so pleasantly', he was a little ashamed of his own conduct. He knew that he ought not to lie in bed any longer; -but he had no love, no fear of God in his heart, and so did not care much about doing wrong. He therefore lay still until John was nearly dressed. He, however', gradually grew goodnatured', and being a little ashamed of his ill-humor', began to talk very pleasantly with his brother.

Now the father of these two boys had taught them to kneel down, every morning, by the bedside, as soon as they were dressed', and each to say a prayer; but this morning', when John was dressed and ready for this', Roger was still lying in bed.

Roger proposed, therefore, that they should say their prayers then', while he was lying still', and accordingly John kneeled

Again; this word should be pronounced as if spelt, agen; the last syllable is too often pronounced as though it had a long vowel, like a in name.

down' and repeated his prayer. While saying it', he thought what he was saying. He knew that God heard him', and he rēally desired the blessings that he asked. But Ròger' was all the time thinking of something else.

Roger said his prayer too; but his saying it was a mere form. In the prayer was a petition that God would forgive his sins; but Roger did not feel that he had committed any, nor that he needed any forgiveness. While we must believe that John's prayer was heard', we are forced to suppose that God could pay no regard to Roger's', except to be displeased at its being offered in so heartless a manner.

After the prayers were over, Roger leaped out of bed and began to dress himself in earnest. He was afraid that he should not be down in season.—John went to the door to go down stairs.

“ Wait fòr me,—can't you ?” said Roger.

John stood a moment' with his hand upon the door. He wanted to wait for his brother', but he did not like to be late. He did not know exactly what he ought to do.

While he was thus hesitating', he heard the second bell ring below. It was to call the family together for prayers.

"I mùst go," said hé, “ the second bell is ringing." “Oh wait a minuté,” said Roger', hurrying on his clothes, “ I shall be ready very soon.".

Roger knew that his brother ought not to wāiť, but he thought that he should appear less to blame if they both went down together.-John'hesitated a moment.

“I must do my duty,” thought he. He then said aloud to Rogér, “ I would wait for you, but father says we must always be down when the second bell rings', and I must go.”

Roger was vexed and angry. He said some fretful words to him in reply,—but John shut the door gently and walked down stairs. He bid his father and mother good morning', and then, sitting down by the side of the firé, in his low chair', he took little Lucy, his sister', up in his lap', and began to show her the pictures in a picture book. When he came into the room', Lucy was troubling her mother', who was setting the table, and John thought that by amusing her he could help his mother. He wanted to do all the good he could.

When they were all ready for prayers', his father asked him where Roger was'. “He was not quite ready when I came down,” said John.

may go and see if he is ready now," said his father. John opened the door and began to go up stairs; and when he had gone about half way up, he met his brother coming down'.

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