' I UNCLE BUDDY'S
• ·' GIPT BOOK
FOR
I'ONTAllSI NG A Y AllfET\" OF
Tales, Translations, Poetry, Chronology, Games, Anecdotes, Conundrums, &c., &c.
··! ... . ' • ...... _ • • .. • IJ \ . . '• . " • ' AUGUS1'A, GA : Hl...OME & TEHAN, J:> UBL.lSHER~.
1863. TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Prefnce . .. , ...... 1'ho Compliments o! the Benson, n ·=·Tale ...... • ...... •...•...... ~Agl'l· 6 l The Young Robinson Crusoes, Poetry ...... 12 < The Young Confedera~ Soldier, a Tale ...... 14 A Fable ...... l 6 Helen Norcross, n1'ale •• , ...... 17 For the Little Ones, Poetry...... •.•....•••...... •...... 20 Obrletmas Eve, a Tale ...... , ...... 21 God and Little Chllrlren. a Poem ...... 24 ~ A Conversation about Cotton, a Sketch•....•...... •. •...... 26 To My Darling, Poetry ...... 27 The Little Wnnderers, a Tale ...... 28 Be G·ood, Poetry ...... 31 A. Firat Lie, a Tale ...... 82 ()ur Baby, Poetry ...... :lS 'fby Will be Done, Poetry ...... 84 Tbe Fawn, Poetry...... 1\6 Gn.ndfnther'& Story, a Tale ...... 86 A. Leason of Life, Peetry ...... •...... •...... 46 Little George'& Story, Poetry ...... •...... •..••...... •..... 47 The True Test, a Tale ...... 48 Wbere Is God ? Poetry ...... •...... ••.•...••.•...... 49 Carrie's Faith In her Fathl'r, a Tnle ...... 49 A. Mother's Preyer, Poetry, ...... 6: Never Tell a Lie, a Tale ...... 62 Good for Evil, a sketch ...... ·...... 64 The Turtlt~ Dove, a Tale ...... 0.~ Very Hnrd. a sketch...... 116 Amelia nod the Deceitful Servant, n Tale ...... 1'>6 Grammnr In Rhyme, Poetry ...... •...... ••...... 66 Trevels of Santn Glaus. n Tale., ...... 66 Items of Southern Ul&tory. Chronology ...... 69 The Fox and tbe Goose, Poetry ...... 14 Ftrcatde Amusements ...... 7:) The Throne of Ooropllml'nts ...... 7~ Lady Queen Anne ...... 7 6 The Huntsman ...... 77 Bunt tbe Bare ...... 78 The Flour i\-lerchnnt ...... 78 How Do You Like It? ...... 79 My Lady,s Toilet ...... 79 The Dtttch Concert ...... •...... 80 The Lawyer...... 80 Arithmetical Amusements ...... 82 To Tell any Number Thought of ...... 82 The Money Game...... 84- The Game o! the Ring ...... 85 The Sovereign and the Sage ...... SIS The Horse Dealer's Bargain ...... 81 1'he Dinner Party ...... ST The Old Man ln the Wood, Poetry...... 88 The Boy at the Dyke. a Sketch ...... 89 T ho Two Misers, a Sketch ...... 90 Charades...... •...... 91 Answers to Chnrodes...... •...... •...... 93 Coaundrnms ...... 98 Answers to Conundrums...... • ...... 116 The Goard and the Acorn, n sketch ...... 96 The Passenger and the Pilot ...... 96 - J
. UNCLE., BUDDY'S
' GIFT BOOK,
- FOR-
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\ AUGUSTA, GA : IU.AOl\:lE & TEHAN, PUBLISHERS. J 1863. / \ ' ·l -
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PREFACE.
MY DEAR YOt:NG FmENDH: In presenting thi3 little offering for your amusement and instruc tion, it may not be out of place to explain to you the origin and meaning of tho word '·Preface." It is derived from the Latin word, "Prefatio,'' from "pra·," mo»ning " before." and "for," "fati, '' 41 jatus," to speak. That is, to ~peak or write something before the discourse ot· book whic:b is about to be commenced. Prof. Webster, in his Dictionary, defines the word thus: "Something spoken, ~s in· troductory to a discourse, or written, as iutro:luctory to a book, or essay, intended to inform the hearer or reader of the main design, or, in general, of whatever is necessary to the understanding of the discourse, book, or essay, to present au introLlttction, or series of pre liminary remarks." This preface, then, is intended as an explanation of the .design of the ltttle volume which is ~10w presented to you for your instruction nod amusemenL. Yon are aware that the Southem Contodoracy is a new Govern· ment-tbat it is formed by the States which separated in 1860--61 from the Northern States of the Confederacy known as the United States of North America, because of the injustice of the people of those Northern States; and that., in consequence of this separation, those people are waging a cl'llel and nnjust war upon the people of this Confederacy. Now, iu consequence of this war, our ports bemg blockaded, and our means of communicating with other countries cut off, we are unable to obtain a great many things to which we were once accustomed. Among tbose things, are the juvenile books, with which our bookstores were \Vont to be largely supplied during the holidays, but which we cannot now obtain, and must, therefore, either do without, or procure the best substitutes that we can. With this object in view, I have prepared this little volume, hoping that it will supply the deficiency in the rospecL mentioned, give you some information, and afford you some amusement. \
tv I'HIW.ACH. You will perceive that it contains a variety of rcndiug, both iu prose and poetry, carefully selected for the spectal object for which ' the book is published. And while you may be deprived of more elaborate or more sprightly books, I am not sure but that the depn· vation will, after all, be to your advantage, for the reason t.hat books better adapted to the wan ts and tastes of Southern boys and girls will find their way into your bands, and Northern publications, with their religious and political isms, be excluded altogether from .South ern patronage. Having thus introduced this volume to yoar notice, I can only add the nope, that it will prove acceptable, and serve the purpose for which it is published. . UNCLE BUDDY.
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, THE ~ ottt}Jlittttnt~ of tltt $ ta~ ou; A NEW YEAR'S STORY.
TRANSI. ATED FRO& TllE Fnr.li<:J! OF llf:RQ\;JN1 BY A LADY Of' AUCU8TA1 GA.
Mr. Do Vernon was a wealthy citizen of Paris, and a most cxcel1ent father. It was his great delight to converse with his children, and to explain to them things which they could not understand, and to inculcate, in all his teachings, correct moral principles. · Little Harry was his youngest son, a bright cUl'ly headed boy of twelve summers, who dearly loved his parents, and thought no pleasure greater than that of listening to the ad vice, counsels, and instructions of those kind parents. , It was the first day of the N cw Y car. J.~i ttle Ilarry en- tered the sleeping apartment of his father, before the latter had risen from his couch, and very gravely walked up to his bed, until within a few feet of it, when he made a respectful bow, and, raising his voice, commenced: '' As the Romans of old offered up their vows on the firet day of the year, so, my most honored father; I come-I come --I come-'' H ere, the little orator stopped short. It was in vain that he stamped his foot upon the ground, scratched his head, and searched in his pockets-he could not find nor recall the re mainder of his New Ycar 's speech. The unfortunate little fellow was exceedingly worried at his failure. But his father, taking pity on bini, in his embarrassment, made a sign to him to approach. Drawing close to his father, the latter em- braced him tenderly, and. said : . " This is a beautiful discourse, my son. Did you COillpose it ?'' ''No, Papa," said Harry; ''but you are very good to think so wall of me. But I don't know, enough to do as much yet.
,.. I 6 UNCLE BUDDY';:; H is my brother William, who is studying Rb~toric,. '!'ho composed it. Oh! but you ought to have seen htm reettmg it, r~pa-it was all in ben.utiful figures of speech, as he told it to me. Hold on; I will go over it only once, and you will sec how fine it is. ·Do you wish me to repeat the one that is for Mama? It is taken from tho Ilistory of Greece." ''No, my dear boy," said hi:s father, ''that is unnecessary; 'yout· mother and I think just as well ofyou and your broth er, as though you had repeated it. The will is taken for the deed.'' " Oh ! but, Papa, William took fifteen days to compo ~ e it, and I as long to learn it. It was too bad that I should have for· gotten it just at the very moment that I should have remem bered it! Even yesterday, I said it so well before the statue in your study, from one end to the ot her, without missing a word. If the statue could only have told you of it!" ''I was then in my study, my dear boy, and beard you." '' You heard me! Oh, Papa ! Let me embrace you. Did I not say it well ?'' ' · 0 h yes, finely !" '' Oh ~ but it was beautiful, Papa~~~ exclaimed Harry, en raptured at the thought of his brother's composition. " Your brother tried all his eloquence on the subject, no doubt; but I must confess that I would have preferred only three words, had they come from your hear&," replied :Mr. De Vernon. " But, Papa, to say only 'llappy New Y car ~~ is so short and dry." "Yes, and you might have exhausted yourself in saying to me, ' Papa, I wish you a Happy New Year!' accompanied by several other similar expressions ; but in place of t his trivial compliment, could you not think of something in your own mind, some good wishes, that would be more acceptable to me on this New Year's Day ?" '' That would not be very difficult, Papa ; for instance, I might wish you would ha.ve good health, that you would pre serve your family, your friends, and your fortune ; that you migh~ have a great deal of pleasure, and no sorrow." "And do you not wish me n.ll this?'' ' '' Oh, P apa, with all my heart.'' " \Vell, then, Harry, here • is your compliment aU made;
- Gll"T UOOK. • 7 and yov. perceive that you have no uecd of having recourse I to any person.'' "I did not know that I was so wise ; bu~ whenever you converse with me/ I always learn so me~hiog new. And now 1 can offer the compliments of the season to any body. I have but to say to them what I came to say to you, Papa." "It can suit a great many ; but, nevertheless, you will baYe to make a difference according to whom you may address " ''I understand very nearly what you wish to tell me, but I cannot exactly explain it alone, and hope that you will ex plain it to both brother William and myself." '' Very willingly, my son. '!'here are good things in gen eral that we can wish to any body, like those, for instance, which you have been wishing me. '!'here arc others which relate to condition, age, and the duties of each one. For example, you might wish to a fortunate person the duration of his fortune; to an unfortunate person an end to his misfor· tunes; to a public officer, that God would bless his projects for the public good; that H e would give him strength of mind and courage to execute those projects, and that such public officer would get his reward in the plaudits of his fellow- citi zens and the satisfaction of his own conscience; to an aged person, you might wish a long life, exempt. froru troubles ; to children, the preservation of their parents, rapid progress in their studies, and love of virtue and wisdom ; to fathers and mothers, the success of their hopes and desires for the education of their children ; and all possible prosperity to our benefactors, and a continuation of their happiness. W c should not oven forget our enemies, and should, therefore, pray to Heaven to bless them and make them know and feel their injustice to us, and to· inspire them with a desire to become reconciled to us.'' " Oh, Pa.pa, how I thank you ~, replied Ilarry ; " Lere I am now supplied with a sufficient number of compliments to suit evary one whom I ara going to visit to-day. Be as· sured that I will give to each one that which is most appro· ' priate, without need of resortin~ to my brother's Rhetoric. I But tell me, pray, Papa, if we have all these good wishes in our he:>rts all through the year, why is it that we speak them only on New Year's Day?" " It is, my dear boy,'' said the father, '' because our life is
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' - 8 UNCLE BUDDY'S like a ladder, in which each year forms a round ; hence, it is very natural that our friends should rejoice with us that we have reached thus far upon the ladder of life, and express a desire to sec us mount the other rounds happily aud success fully. Do you understand me, Harry?'' " V cry well, Papa." 1 ' I can explain this by another comparison again, my son." "Well do so, at once ); Papa, I am all attention.'' "Do you remember the day we visited the Church of Notre Dame?" '' Oh that I do ! and what a splendid view we had from the top of the t'ower. w· e could sec the country for miles around." "Yes, and we could sec St.Clourl, where we were to take dinner ; and, as your eyes are not accuspomcd to measuring distances, you imagined it was very close to us, while, indeed, ' you now know, it was very far, and expressed tho de &ire that we should walk there." "Well, Papa, you walked very well, I am sure." "Very well, I admit ; and I was very well satisfied with your legs, too ; but I had to take the precaution to make you sit down at each mile stone that you might rest yourself, and not become excessively fatigued." "That is true, Papa ; and that is not a bad idea to put so many mile-stones on the road ; for you nrc thereby enabled to see how far you have walked, and know how far you still have to walk ; and this is a great advantage, I am sure." '' In what you say, my child, you are really explaining for yourself tbe advantage of the division of time into equal parts, which we call years ; as, for instal)ce, each year is Jike a mile in the course of our lives." "Ah, I understand, a.nd the seasons are, perhaps, quarter and half miles, which assure us tha.t a, new mile will soon commence.'' "Very well , my son; your observation if! correet. I am really delighted that our little journey to Notre Dame is still fresh in your memory ; and if you will reflect upon it, it will present to your mind a perfect picture of human life. Try to recall all the circumstances, and I will make the ap plication." " I remember it all as well as if it had been yeste1·day, P apa .
• GIFT EOOK. 9
As I felt very fresh and nimble, and was so proU 1 10 UNOLl~ JIIJD))Y H '' Well, I will, Hany ; and you must give me a!! the at '. tention of which you are cnpablc." ''I will not lose any, I can assure you.'' ''The view of the surroundin~ scenery which yo~ . took from the top of the tower was hke the first reflection of a child in the society which surrounds him. The road which you took from the Church was like the career which you pro pose to follow in life. Tho ardor with which you attempted to run, without consulting your &trengtb, and which made you take so many false steps, wa ::~ like the impetuosity which . is so natural to youth, and which would lead him to danger ' ous excesses if some wise and experienced friend did not ad vise him of the proper course to pursue. The agreeable knowledge you acquired along the road, in our conversation, I and in our reading, your task, which you, withal, had the time to fulfill1 the acts of be,.nevolence and charfty which • • you performed so often and which seemed to lighten the fatigue of the journey, shorten it in a measure, and make you run gaily along, in spite of the rain and the thunder, were all like good deeds in life, than which there are few more certain means to banish sorrow from our minds, preserve a quiet conscience, and remove the griefs an l reverses which would otherwise overcome us. And, in conclusion, the good repast of which we partook at the end of the journey was but a feBble type of the reward which the Almighty has in reserve for us at the end of our lives for the good actions which we have performed in this world." "Yes, Papa; this includes all that I saw on the journey. What happiness I sec for me in the year that I have just 0ommen.ced to day ~·' " Upon you, yourself, depends your happiness, my dear child. But to return to our journey. Do y0u remember when we arrived at the place called Le Point de Jour (Break o' Day,) the sky was clear and serene, and we could see the entire space over which we had passed?" "Oh, yes ~ and I was so proud of having walked so well." ' '' Would you be as proud to day, Harry, now that you be gin to reason for yourself, in casting your eye back upon the road you have travelled in life, as you were in looking back over that road ? You came into this life naked and without the means of supplying your wants and obtaining your sub- ...... ______GU''l' BOOK. 11 I sistancc. It is your dear Mother who gave you your first nourishment. It is I who sustained your first steps. And what have we asked as the price of our trouble and cares ? Nothing but that you should be a dutiful and obedi ent child, just an~hon orablc, studi~1 s and industrious. ·vve have instructed you in your studies and in your duties, and hope that you have acquired a taste for improving the one and performing the other. Have you fulfilled these con ditions- so advantageous to you, as they are ? Have you I been grateful to God for having placed you in the easy and comfortable circumstances that you are in? Have you shown to you-?-parents that tenderness, and affection, and sub mission which you owe to them? H ave you profited by the instrucLions of your teachers ? Have your brother and sister - had no cause to complain of injustice, envy, or teazing on your pa rt~ H ave you treated the servants kindly ; or have you not exacted too much frqm their willingness to oblige you? Do you possess the good qualities of order, justice, a good temper, frankness, patience, moderation, and a desire to im· prove in your studies as well as in aU those good qualities in all of which your Mother and I have endeavored to in struct you by precept and by example ?'' '' Ah, Papa! do not compel me to look back upon my past life ; I bad much rather look to the future. All that I should have done in the past, I promise you I will do in the future,'' said litt.Je Harry. ''Embrace me, then, my dearest boy," sald Mr. DeVer non, drawing hil' son close to him, and pressing him to his bosom ; " and I renew here, on this first day of the New Year, all the promises which I have made to you.'' I hope that my young readers will profit by the conversa tion which they have just read; and, hke little Harry, "com mence the New Year with the determination to be good and dutiful cl:.ildren." · ' I THE GoLDEN R uLE.-VVould you like me to g'ive you a shilling? asked a little boy of a gentleman in the street. To be sure, I would, was the reply. Very well. then, said the boy ; " do unto others as you would others should do unto you.'' • ...... 1.· • 12 U~CLE BUDDY'S \ 1: Or Pn.r e ntn.l A d v i ce Should be Sou~ht l~'or. r -9- \VItlT1'F.N JlY UNOJ.ll DUDDY• . -' Through 'Squire William'R pleasant farm, A pretty streamlet sped ; Tts chrystal waters gently coursed TJpon its pebbly bed. And from 1ts peaceful bosom rGse, Not far from neighboring highland, A spot of earth, with verdure clothed A pleasant littlo island. The 'Squire's boys.... James aud John···· Had read the tale of Crusoe, And to some distant isle, like him, Resolved that they would go. "This island/' on their father's farm, "Was just the place," they said~ , And for their voyage each one saved, From breakfast, cheese and bread. '!'hen to the streamlot's nearest bank They started forth to go, Determineel to enjoy the life Of Robinson Crusoo .. Arriving there, they found a skiff And boldly stepping in, " Our voyage on tbe raging deep, " John said, "we'll now begin." And soon the island they did reach, And quickly jumped ashore.• '' Oh, John I what will our parents say Should we return no more? " - Tbus spoke young James to brother ,John, Who quickly calmed J ames' fear, By saying, "James, you kuow we have Commenced n new cnrecr ; • • ' GifT BOOK. lS Cl And 'Lwill not do to grieve and freL, And carry on, you know ; . So cheer, up man, and be just like .~ Poor Robinson Crusoe I 11 I 'll Crusoe be, and Friday you; We'll httnt, we'll fish, we'll play; We'll build a hut here in the woodS···· And happ'ly spend each day I" That night, upon the quiet I sle The two young 'tand' rers slept,··· Or rather tried to ~eep····for fear j Upon the broLhers crept. They thought of bears, and boars, aud wolvos, Aud could not close their eyes ; And now resolved home to return Ere next day's sun would rise. \ And thus they did····and glad they were Their parents' home to reach ; But, shamed, they hung their little beads···· They feared their father's speech···· But now, instead of angry words, Their father kindly said : ct My boys, you suffered much, I know, Last night, without a bed ; You suffered, too, from hunger, cold, And fear, I have no dou bt; But by a sad experience now, This truth you have found out: No matter what you wish to do···· No matter where you'd go, Your parents you should first consult, ,B ecause they better know What's for your good---what not, • '" And good advice will give," Cl .Ah l" said the boys we'll not forget This truth long as we live. " Good men have the fewest fears. He has but one who fears to do wrong. Ho h~c; a. thousand who has overcome that one. ' • \ UNCLE BUDDY• S •. ·, -%- flY t.rNCL!t \HJDDY. - - ~· - The drums were beating, trumpets blowing. and banners flyina, and large bodies of men were marching to the railroad depot. They were Confed'eratP. soldiers going to the scene . · of war to do battle for their country, and drive away from • its soil the 1•ude invaders who had come to subjugate the South, and lay waste its farms and cities. Great numbers of people were gathered around tho train of cars, to bid an affectionate farewell and a heartfelt (Sod-speed to the gallant soldiers : there were mothers. wives, and daughters, fathers and brotJlers in that crowd of spectators, my children ; but, al • though many a heart was full with grief, and many a ncye was moist with the tear of pure love and affeet.ion, yet all seemed to be willing to offer up their lives, their fortunes, everything upon the altar of their suffering country. Amid this crowd of people was little Johnny Williams, the subject of my story. H e was but fourteen years of age, yet he I felt a martial spirit within him, and resolved to obtain, if pos sible, the consent of his parents, to join the army of patriots I who were hurrying to Virg!nia's &acred soil. This was the right course. A soldier's first duty is obedience ; and a diso bedient boy could not make a good soldier. At first1 John's parents were averse to his going into the army. H e was 86 very young, and unfitted for the arduous duties of a soldier ; but his importunities were such that his wish was at last gratified, and he was permitted to join one of the volunteer companies which were being organized in the city of A., in which his parents resided. The company was finally mustered into service, and was ordered to go to Virginia. Johnny went with them. No doubt, he felt it hard to part with his kind parents ; but he was resolved to be a soldier, and with his company he went to Virginia. -- GIFT BOOK. 16 Time wore on, and the Yankees, commanded by General .. McClellan, had gathered in large numbers around the city of Richmond, the capital, as you know, of Virginia, and of the Southern Confederacy, and they wcte determined to drive the Confederates away and take possession of the city. But I our Generals were pre~ared for them, and at the proper time, when everything was in readiness, marched out fro Ul Rich mond to give the enemy battle, and to drive his army from our capital. Previous to this, however, the Gencral of the brigade in which J ohnny's company was bad taken such a fancy to Johnny, on account of his good behavior, that he took the little fellow under his especial C'l re and protection. Well, the day of the battle came, as 1 have told you, and the fighting was terrible. The ground was corered with the killed and wounded of both armies ; and the groans of the wounded and the dying were very agonizing. . In one of the enemy's ca mps whi ch they had deserted, while retreating before our victorious troops, was a flag staff, from which .a Federal banner was still floating. Now, J obnny thought that he would hM·c :-orn e shar<;: in the fight, and re solved to secure this flag as a trophy; so, watching an oppor tunity, he boldly marched up to the flag staff, caught hold of the ropes, and was about pulling down the flag staff, when he saw a half dozen men with arms in their hands, rapidly approaching him. " Ah ~,, said the brave little hero, " I am afraid it's all up with me now; for these are, doubtless. Federal soldiers, and I will either be killed or taken prisoner. But, perhaps, if I show them that I am not afraid of them, they will not trouble me." Saying which, he drew out a rcvolvcl'from his belt, and presenting the mu~zle towards the approaching fo e, awaited their coming. As soon as they got within hailing distance of the boy, however, instead of 'firing upon him, or demand ing his surrender, to his surprise the foremost of the party, ' who was an officer, cried out : " Don't shoot., my lad ; we have come here to deliver our selves up as prisoners of war." He then detached his sword from his be'lt, and handed it to J ohnny, who was now as much overjoyed as he was before surprised, and could not, for a few moments, know what to do. Seetng. his hesitancy, the Federal officer eaid to him : \ 16 nWLE IIUDlrr'!'; " Go ahead, my boy ; show us to your quarters, as we arc ,, exceedingly fatigued and hungry, and desire some rest and something to cat." I • The party then started off for the head quarters of John ·. ny's General, J ohnny proudly leading the way, with the flag and the sword in his hand. Arriving there, he said : ''General, these are my prisoners; they surrendered to me, while I was in the act of hauling down this flag. Here is the flag, and here is this officer's sword.'' "Well done, my brave boy,'' said the General ; "you have done well; and, as a reward, I will present you with tho sword for yourself:" 1 Of course, this made Johnny fe el still prouder of himself : but it did not make him foolishly vain ; on the contrary, he resolved to deserve the good opinions of his General and his comrades even more ' fully in the future ; and I hope I that his good resolution in. this respect-to obtain and ,deserve the good opinion of parents and friends, will be the earnest, decisive, and constant endeavor of my little readers . ... • A FABLE, DY CHARLES L AMB.-'' My dear children," said an old rat to his young ones, '' the infirmities of age arc pressing so heavily upon me that I have determined to dedi cate the short remainder of my days to mortification and pe nance, in a narrow and lonely hole which I have lately dis· covered ; but let me not interfere with your enjoyments. ¥ outh is the season for pleasure; be ha.ppy, therefore, and only obev my last injunction, never come near me in my re treat. God bless you all. '' Deeply affected, snivelling audi bly, and wiping his paternal eyes with his tail, the old rat withdrew, and was seen no more for several days, when his youngest daughter, moved rather with filial affection than by that curiosity which has been attributed to the sex, stole to his cell of mortification, which turned out to be a hole, made by his own teeth, in an enormous Cheshire cheese. Men of the noblest dispositions think themselves happiest when others share their happiness with them . • \ ' ' , ·~ l~· ~I ' QlF'f :B00l{. 1'7 \" •. •J • I' It ltn ,, I ' t OR t -.. T HE TWO FRIENDS. ' - -~- BY UNCLE B UDDY• ~ I have given the boys a. story-aud a war story, at that. I now propose to give one for the girls-and it must be a peace 'I story. Well, to begin : H elen Norcross was a little girl of some twelve summerf: of so gentle a disposition that she was loved by all who knew - her. Respectful to old age, kind to her playmates, polite to all, it. was by no means singular that she made friends of eve- ry one. 1 But bow differeut was Alice vVingfielcl! Wild •. rude, dis respectful to those older than herself, she was gcneral1y dis liked. Helen was the only friend whom she bad among her girlish acquaintances. Alice would, oft.en times, speak very rudely even to thi ~ friend, and ridicule her, and endeavor to tantalize her in vari ous ways. But Helen's evenness of temper wpuld enable her, to resist any ill feeling against her companiob, and con quer any rising disposition to resent her insults. One day, these two young friends were walking together, going to the Hall of the ]~ad i es' Association, where a great many ladies and little girls were engaged in cutting out and sewing up garments for the soldi e~·s, knitting socks for them, and doing various other good acts for the comfort of the Con federate army. Alice suddenly stopping, remarkeq pettishly to her companion : '' Oh ! I don't care about working to-day ; I shall go and see Susan Snappet, and play with her.'' "But, my dear Alice,'' remonstrated Helen, "your moth er has told you to go to the :S:all, and she will be a!Jgry with )'OU if you disobey her." · , ''La! I don't care for that," was Alice's reply. "She'll - get pleased again after a while. So, good morning.'' ' . : • . 18 USCLE BUDDY'S \ . . • The two young friends then parted-Helen to go to work for the soldiers, as her good mother had directed her, and • Alice to play with Susan Snapper. But Alice was doomed to a serious disappointment, and to a sever'e punishment for her disobedience. As she turned the corner of the street, \ on which Susan Jived, a military company was passing, ac companied by a band of music, which frightened a horse at tached to a. vehicle, and caused the animal to run away. As he dashed wildly down the street, be ran against Alice, knocked bet: down, and the vehicle passing over her, bruised her se verely. :h"'or some time, she was senseless; but when she re covered her consciousness, she found herself at home, with her mother and the servants bathing her forehead, applying various restoratives to her, and Doctor Physic giving general directions for her treatment . • • Dr. Physic was a very gruff old man, but very good heart ed ; and, though be sympathised with Alice in her sufferings, he could not avoid· giving expression to his feelings, know· ing. as he well did, her disobedient disposition. " Well, l\liss,, said he, sarcastically, " and so you have been trying to run over the horses in the stree~, eb ! Now, if you bad not disobeyed your good mother, and bad gone to the Hall, you would not be lying on your back, suffering, as y'ou are. But I hope, my dear little girl,'' he added, ''that you will resolve to behave better in the future ; and with this hope, I am going to do my best to get you well soon.'' '' Oh! Doctor," sobbed Alice, "you speak the truth. If I had minded Mama, and my dear little Helen, I would not be suffering as I am. I will do better in the future, I prom ise you.'' The Doctor having given all the necessary directions, left the house; but being a very attentive physician, called often to see his little patient, and although he gave her very nau seous medicines, gave her some very good advice. Helen was nearly all the time by the bedside of her suf fering little friend, reading to her, or conversing with her, and endeavoring to make her as cotnfortable as possible. One day while Alice, now convalescent, was able to sit up jo her bed, she gently took Holen's hand jn her own, and, ' with tears in her eyes, ~aid: · !' A!l Helen, you don't know how I have changed. Your CliFT BOOK. 19 good example has often made me feel that I was doing wrong, and I am now fiqnly resolved to do wrong no more. The les son which I learned is a very severe one, but it has had a good effect, and I will now endeavor to be worthy to be the com panion of so good a girl as you arc. I will not be the cause of so much grief·to my dear Mama, who has lost so many sleepless nights, watching by my bedside, and attending to all my wants. And good old Dr. Physic shall see that I have deserved all his efforts to make me well.'' " Ah! you little mouse, you don't know how glad I am to hear you say that,'' &'tid the Doctor, who had overheard the conversation of the two young friends ; " I am going to turn you over to the cook to day, as I think you have no more need of my services at present ; but it has given me a great deal of pleasure to know that in doing ao, I give that excel lent physician, the cook, a patient who is not only cured of her injuries but also of her disobedience and bad temper.'' And, kissing his little patient, he bade her adieu and took his departure. Alice's mother was also made acquainted with her daugh ter's determination, and embraced her fondly, commending her resolution, and asking God to give her child grace to ful- fil) it. . It is said that " all's well that end's well," and so it is in this case. 1 Alice is indeed, a changed girl-is a fit companion of our good little friend, Holen. Her mother and friends all no tice the pleasing change and arc delighted. And now, in conclusion, if any of my little friends are like Alice once was, disobedient or ill tempered, let them, like her, resolve to do better in the future ; let them resolve to make their parents happy by their good conduct; and to profit by the example of their vi1·tuous companions, for the good command the respect of the world, :md obtain the blessing of Provi dence. Of a truth, a 4omc without n girl is only half blest; it is an orchard without blossoms, and a spring without song. A house full of sons is like Lebanon with its cedars, but da.ugll tcrs by the fireside n1.·c like roses in Sharon. • .·., • '' 20 - tQJ- P'RQ)I TIIP. OIIAIILESTON COUI:Ilm, " - @- ..•' You sec I'm but a little chap, 'Bout three feet high or so, , .. But look I 1\·o got my lrowsers ou, And I intend to g1·ow . The Ocean vast is made of drops, Tbe Barth is mado of graios, I mean to study and be rp·eat, ]\fy head is full of brains. CALUOt;N was once a litlle boy, Upon his mother's kn.ee, I -guess he too was of~en StiJilclted About bis .\ B C. I And so I firmly am 1·esolved, With all my might to try, Not only to be great, but good And so, kind folks--Good bye ! McClellanville, August 15, 1862. CHARLTON. AroLOGY·.MAKING.-Dr. Franklin, we are told, once had a servant who was never in tho wrong. At last, the devices to which the servant resorted to cover up his deficiencies be came too much for the philosopher. My good friend, was his final reply, you and I must part. I never knew a man who was good at an excuse to be good at any thing else . • I Cilfl' BOOK. T R A NSL A T ED FROM T HE C ERMAN, -~-- llY CIIA!tl__,m; ._ A_ l>AN .\. Evening had come over the earth, the sacred eve of Christ mas, and It was the saying of Sir Robert Peel-'' I never knew a man to escape failure, in either body or mind, who worked seven days in the week." , . .' .. '. . • t;XCLE BUDDY'S • ' <$.\ltt ~tud &Ut!t (1tlti:ttlr~~n··~ ~O'tm . '' Writlcm for lhe Scrui-Ccntcnninl Ccleurntlon of tho Snbbnth Schools in Bcvorly. ~ •' -~- . :' IJY :unS. J. H. llAN.U"Or.D, --~- ,.' "I love God and little children." ·. [Jean Paul Richter. ~ \ The flowers of the field, and the ge~s of the mine, Tho pearls of tbe deeo, and the stars of the sky, " May be brilliant and beauteous, but not so divine, ,• As the dear little children born never to die. God's hand we behold b the tints blossoms wear, As they deck earth with beauty, and gladden our eyes ; But no star-spangled midnight, nor flowers may declare, So well, as dear ch1ldren, our God in the skies. J fF~ knew this wllO blessed them, and said, "T•:ver more Oh, suffer the children to come unto mo !" For the glorified host oo Eternity's shore Are like little children in innocency ; J n heaven their angels forever behold His face whose bright glory no prophet could benr; 'l'hat heart, like a glacier, must ever be cold, Which could wish fnr a heaven no iufaut could eharo. We lovo them who gather among them to-duy, And greet their glly baouers, oud fnces so uright, Rejoicing that none need to fali.or or sLray l n their path through this world to the region of light. \Ve celebrate now an historic evont; Here first children gnthered-n Sabbath school band I We proudly rejoice that from this village went A voice for the Sabbath school, through our fai r land. t Tbe women-Clod bon01·edl- --who gathered tbom first In the school of the Sabbath to learn of the Lord, How the bud of bright promise to full beauty burst, And then "went up higher" to take their reward. Be their mem'ry still cherished while children nre founc! Life's alphabet conning in innocent glee I :May thfir spirit of faithfulness ever abound, With all who the teachers of children may be'! '!.'his day a new motto wc/ ll tttke n'l our own: • " Little Children and God I'' " Little Cb ildron and God r·• And pray that our pathways on earth may be known By tbe flowers that we plan~ along infancy's road. And then when our toil in this life shall be o'er, All our labors in Sabbath school faithfully done, Lite-crownud, and rejoicing we'll sing ever more, "All praise to that Savior tilr~>ugh whom we have won I" ' ·.~ GIFT BOOK . 25 .lfrom tile Little Pilgrim. •. ~ .• --~- { };y A O.XT NANNll':. -~-- Little Minnie sat before a large wood fire, gazing intently upon the flames, as they merrily chased each other over the rough logs, and then, changing into millions of sparks, flew away up the chimney. But from the earnest expression of • her da.rk eyes, it was very evident her thoughbts were far away from the bright fire, which was_ making her pretty brown curls look like gold. At length, looking up, she said : ''Aunt Nannie, did you tell Eva yesterday that my dress grew on a bush?" ~ Aunt Nannie.-Not exactly, my dear. I told her that your dress was made of cotton, and that cotton grew on bushes. JJ1innie.-Did I ever see a cotton bush ? Aunt Nannie.-Yes, Minnie; don't you remember, on the day we went in the country, to see your cousins, the pretty flowers I showed you, which looked something like holly bocks ? Minnie.--0 yes, I remember those. One was pale yellow, and the other such a beau~ful pink color, and you told me, then, that the same flower whi ~h was yellow one day, would change to pink the pext. But, Aunt Nannie, do people make dresses out of those flowers? Aunt Nannie.-Net from the flowers ; but after awhile the blossoms drop off, and the boll begins to grow. Minnie.-Boll ? What is a boll ? Aunt Nannie.--If you will look in your dictionary, you will find th~t a boll means a seed-vessel. The cotton-boll at first looks like a large green hickory-nut, and if you open it, the inside resem'Q l~s an orange, only it looks as if it was made of white satin. After a while, the b'Olls turn dark brown, all most black, and, bursting open, curl backwards, disclosing the beautiful white cotton, which hangs over the sides, and sometimes falls to the ground. · ·when it is ripe, the black people have a busy time gathering it. Each one has a cer· • ' ,.. .•'. •. ~·.. i· 26 UNCLE BUDDY'S l, I tain number of rows to pick, at the head of which a large ;, basket is placed, to receive the contents of the bags as they • ...• become fulL ...•'• .M~nnie.-What bags, Aunt Nannie? , ' ' Aunt Nannie.-All the pickers have large linen bags, . ' '~·· . tied around their necks, hanging before them to hold the cot " ' ton, which they pick out of the bolls with their fingers. As .,. . soon as the baskets are full, they are carried to the scaffold, I. (which is a kind of low shed,) and emptied, so that the cot •I ton may dry. Every night it is heaped up to prevent its be· ·ing wet with- the dew. After it becomes perfectly dry, it 0 is taken to the Cotton Gin, and placed in a large box, some· ,, what resembling a hopper, having a cylinder made inside .. covered with teeth, which turn~ round and round, separating " the seed from the cotton. The seeds fall out in a great heap by themselves, while the pure white cotton falls softly, in- a room prepared for the purpose, looking like a heavy fall of snow. · The cotton is next taken to the press, and pressed qown · very hard, a.fter which it is tied up in bales, and is then ready for the factories, where it is spun, woven, and print ed in ·various patterns, and comes back to us in the shape of goods for tlresses. Do you understand all I have told you Minnie? Minnie.- Yes ma'am- all except what you said about the cylinder. ·what is a cylinder ? Aunt Nannie.--A cylinder is a long round body-for in stance, my lead-pouch is a cylinder, but it is a very small one. Minnie.-Thank you, Aunt Nannie, I think I understand you now. You said the cylinder had teeth on it-is it like the cylinder in my music box.? Aunt Nannie.-Yes, my dear; only very much larger. Now, my little pet must go to bed. Eva has been asleep for half an hour, and it is quite your bed-time-so good - night~ Minnie.-Good-night, Aunt Nannie ~ NEGLECT.-A little ne~lect may breed great mischief For want of a nail, the shoe was lost ; for want of a shoe, the horse was lost ; and, for want of a horse, the rider was lost · boing overtaken and slain by an enemy, all for want of car~ about a horse·shoe nail.-FRANI(LIN. • ' • GfFT BO OK. 2i ' I<' rom tho Little Pilgrim. ~ ~ - -4- .i •' B Y )IRS, } !All.\' A. G REF.:-\. j -~- I J,(y own little darling, my beautiful one, Wit.h ringlets so golden, and bright in the suo, With eyes of such softness, and sweetness, whose ray, Serenost and purest, doth brighten my way:· What pure aspirations should mine e"'er be, That the prayers may be granted I offer for thee, And, if good without measure, and gifts most divine I m1ght ask for my treasure, what should be thine? Oh, I must not ask for great riches for thee, For gems trom the mountain, and pearls from the sea, • Lest they should allure,thee, and lead thee astray F rom wisdom's most pleasant and beautiful wny. ·Shall genius upon thee her purest light shed, :With a halo of glory encircle thy bead ? EvEJn genius might prove but a wearisome guest, ' Steal the bloom from thy cheek, and the balm from thy rest. Shall fame twine a wreath for that fair, sunny brow, Shall the great pay thee homage, the lofty ones bow ? They are not always happy who win a groat name, Or most blest who have riches. and genius, and fame. Oh, then I will ask of "Our Father," that He 'l'rue wisdom and riches will give unto thee ; The wisdom that leads in the path of the just, Wealth laid up in Heaven, safe from moth and from rust. • Beloved, whatever thy lot here may be, May the prayers be occupied I offer for thee; ' May the Good Shepherd lead thee, and bring thee safe home. In his bosom to rest, when Life's labors are done . • I • . , . ' . .'I .' • • 28 UNCLE llUDDY1S ' \. • • lt'1•om the lluys aud Girl':s Own Maga~ in c . ..; ..... • • A ~outhern Sketch . .. . - -®-- I . "' ~11:8 . lol, S . B, DA NA S III~D LI;r. . -~- There was a rich old gentleman, who lived all by himself in a grand house, surrounded by lofty, moss-covered oaks, the \, growth of a century at l eas ~. His broad acres lay stretched out before him and his immense fields of corn arid rice and • cotton ought-if riches could do such a thin_g- to have made him happy and contented. But he was far from being happy. lie had lived only for himself, and only for this world, and he felt now, that the time was coming when he must leave the things he had loved so well-when all that he had toiled for would be to him as nothing. When he looked into the future, there was but a blank prospect before him. It was night. The wind roared through the distant pines, and shook the sturdy branches of the old oak trees, making them to groan as if some human soul were imprisoned within their massive trunks. The rain fell in torrents. In vain did • the old daddy, Scipio, pile log after log in the huge fire-place. He brightened up the room, but failed to brighten up the deso late heart of his old master. There was a lull in the storm. Old Scipio pricked up hi11 cars and listened. At length, he said to his master, " Ent you hear somethin', my maussa ?': " Certainly I do,'' was the answer, for the storm had re- newed its how lings. ' "You only jus' wait, my maussa," said Scipio; " wait till the wind stop roarin', and dem old trees stop creakin', an ' you'll hear. 'Taint no storm l hear ; 'tis somethin' oncom- mon.'' · The wind lulled again, and they both listened attentively. • " Hear dat ?" exclaimed Scipio . • I G I rr .BOOKt 29 11 That certainly must be a human voice, '' sa.id the old ",• gentleman. ' " Dat's what I say, too, maussa." "G.ood heavens !" exclaimed the old gentleman, "who can be out in such a storm ? Let's go and see 1 Scipio." Old Scip looked at his master as though he thought him I bereft of his senses. "You gwinc, ole maussa !" exclaimed I he, in a voice of incredulity. 11 Certainly. Of course. Why not?, " You'll catch your death of a cold, my mau::;sa.lt " Poh, poh, nonsense ! Cold indeed! Get the lantern, Scipio.'' ' . • The lantern was soon in readiness, and the old gentleman, tying his large silk bandanna over his cap, and grasping his gold-headed cane, led the way down stairs. They opened the front door, and a blast of wind nearly took away their breath. The old gentleman recoiled, and upset Scipio, who, however, managed to preserve his lantern unbroken. They soon gathered themsel:ves up and made a fresh start. Wihh great difficulty, the two old men made their way through the storm, picking a path through the scattered boughs which lay in all directions, and following, as well as they could, the plaintive sounds which they continued still to hear. Every now and then a blast of unusual power would cause them to stop and turn their backs to the wind till it:~ violence was past, and then they would resume their search. They were at length rewarded. Crouching in a corner of the old wortn fence, they found, to their horror and sur prise, two delicate-looking children, a boy and a girl. " Mercy on us !" exclaimed the old gentleman ; " Can it be possible ?'' '' Did any body ever see the likes of dat now ?'' exclaimed Scipio. Without word or question, the old gentleman took each of the children by the baud, and endeavored to lead them to the house ; but it was a more difficult task than he had ima· gined. Tho gold-bead cn.ne, which he bad hastily handed to Scipio, was quite neccs~n.ry to his support ; and after floun dering and stumbling about for some time, he suddenly halt ed, turned his back to tho wind, and held a consultation with Sci.pio. .. '. ...,. .. ' 1 •• 3{) r~CLE DUDD'Y ~ \ . '' How can we ever get these poor little creatures to the \. . ' house ?" inquired he. • . .:' ''You and dem two little creatures wait here, my maussa,'' said Scipio, "and let me run to de quarter, and bring some of de 'hands' to tote 'em. Dem cllildren never can nabi . ··• gate trough all dis yer." ~· The little things now spoke for the first time. " vVe can ., get along by ourselves,!' said the,little boy, in a most musical voice, and with a slightly foreign accent; "don't you think we can, sister?" "Oh yes, kind old gentleman;'' said the girl, tu1:ning from her brother to their conductor, "we can pick our way, I am sure." ~ "Well, then, &ive me ooce more my trusty cane, Scipio," .. said the old gentleman. · Slowly, and with infinite toil and trouble, they now pro ceeded· towards the house, which, however, they reached 1-. without any serious mischance. The children, cold, weary, hungry, and drenched to the skin, were first of ali, made as comfortable as possible; and then the old gentleman, with a warmth at his heart to which he was a stranger, drew from them their history, and the rea son of their being on the road in such a fearful storm. Their mother, a French lady, had recently died in a neigh boring State, and left them without money or friends. 'With ' ! her dying breath she had charged them to find her only brother, who lived about thirty miles from the spot in which she theu was, and to whom she was going when the cold hand of death ha?Jaid her low. They thought, they said, that they must now be in their uncle's neighborhood. "Do you know your uncle ? Have you ever seen him?" "No, sir, never ; he came to this country before we were • born.'' ''And you say you walked all the way?'' " Not quite. Sometimes we got a short ride in a. wagon." '' And did nobody try to stop you-did nobody offer you a home?" "Oh, yes, kind sir, many people; but we promised· our mother we would go straight to uncle." "And what is your uncle's name?" " Henri JJacoste." ' GIFT DOOK. 31 " Alas ! my children, he was my nea1·est neighbor. He died a week ago." The children burst into tears. But when the old gQntle l man drew them to his bosom, wept over them, told them he !• would b~their uncle-nay more, their father-they dried I their tears. Old Scipio and his master are now as happy as the day !I is long ; they have fount something .to care for and to love. The chilciren are happy, too . ••• ~~ ®®®dJf) -~ FROM TilE BOYS AND OIRL' S OWN f•U.G AZO.,.., - Q- Be good, be good, my bright·eyed ·boy; Roaming the fields in thy childish joy; Laugh, shout, as you bound over meadow and wood, Be merry as you will; but, 0 be good I Rob not the nest that your quick eyes see Perch otf the boughs of yon chestnut tree: Bruise not the butterfly's tender wing; Harm not even the smallest thing. Be good to all, even to bird and bee, Even as God is good to thee; Be good, my little girl, be good, Be not selfish, nor vain, nor rude; Ne'er from your lips let a cross word fall ; Be patient, and humble, aud kind to all. Ne'er let that brow with frown be dark, Be cheerful and blithe as the warbling lark ; Ever be gentle nnd pure as the dove, Your words and your actions full of love. "Be good to all," let your motto be, Eveu as God has been good to thee. • ••• CANDOn.-A scholar, a little boy in the Cambrian Institu tion for the D eaf and Dumb, on being asked a question which he was not prepared to answer, thought for a minute, then wrote on. his slate, ''short of information on the subiect." How lt!.any might learn from: this child ! ' ,. ,•. . ' .'., . i)'' 2 n wr.:& uurmr'r ' ,. ' I. ' .Fr' om 1:\urgcnt's tichool :M onlllly . • I .,' 1, , -~- BY A LADY. -~ I shaH never forge~ my first lie, although i~ happened when I was a very little girl. My younger sister had a far thing, with which she wished to buy a fig ; and, being too ill : , to go down to the shop her~ elf, she engaged me to go. Ac \. . cordingly, I went. As I was returning with the fig nicely done up in a small paper, suddenly the thought occurred to ••• me that I should like to look at the fig. So I very carefully .- opened the paper, when the fig looked so very tempting, I thought I could not help' tasting it at· one end. I had scarce ly dispatched that bit before I wanted it all, and without much more thought I ate up the whole fig. Then when the fig was all gone, and l bad nothing to do but to think, I began to feel very uncomfortable-! stood dis graced before myself. I thought of runoing away off some where,-! did not know exactly where, but from whence I should never come back. It was' long before I reached home, and I went as quickly !I.S I could, and told my sister that 1 had lost the farthing. I remember she cried sadly, but I went directly out into the garden, and tried to think of some thing else ; but in vain-my own guilt stared me steadily in the face, and I was wretched. A lthouga it wanted a few minutes to our dinner-hour, yet it seemed very long to me. I was anxious some event might intervene between me and the lie I had told. I wandered about the garden with a very heavy spirit. I thought I would give worlds if it had not happened. When the din ner-hour came, I was seated in my high chair at my father's side, when my sister made her appearance, crying, and look ing very much grieved. My father immmediately inquired what the matter was. • Then my mother stated the story, the conclusion of which was, that I qad ''lost the farthing.,, I can never forget the • ~ , "I i GUT BOOK. 33 .'• look of kind, -perfectly unsuspectin~ confidence with which my father turned to me, with his blue eyes full in my face, ' said, ''WHEREABOUTS did you lose the far~hing? Perhaps we can find it again.'' Not for a. single instant could I brave that tone and that look, but, bursting into tears, I screamed out, " -0, I did not lose the farthing ; I ate up the fig !" A silence, as of the grave, ensued. No one spoke. In an instant I seemed to be separated at an immense distance from all the rest of the family. A great gulf yawned be tween us. A sense of loneliness and desolation came over me, the impre~sion of which, I presume, will go with me for • ever. I left the table, and all that afternoon, the next day, and during the week, my feelings were melancholy in the extreme. But, as time wore away, and my father and moth er, brothers and sisters, received me back to their love and favor, my spirits recovered their wonted tone. Tlie whole event left an indelible impression on my mind and heart. It convmced me that the way of the transgressor is hard. I From the Little Pilgrim. @WJfr laJfb>ye -~ BY J. ~- Little laughing baby boy, I How my heart is filled with joy, When your winning ways I see, As I hol How your dimpled hands you clap, Springing almost from my lap, .. When I tell you-" Baby make For dear papa, a pat-a-cake." Then those little cherry lips ' Parting, sbow th~ pretty tips Of four lmle milk-whiLe teeth, Peepiqg out from underneath. What a cunning, well-shaped nose, And then dainty little toes I Then your large blue eyes, are bright, Like the stars, that shine by night. .,. •• I ' ..•' .., ., . • • •• 34 UNOLE BQDDY18 1.' .. , Sister says you have red hair; .. So you have---we do not care; It • !'' .. is soft, and fine, we know, . .And your skin is 'vbite as snow. ' •.. By and by you'll learn to walk, • f' And perhaps you then will talk; ..'· Your first word must be "papa," · Then you'll say " my des.- mamma." ' Oh, I hope when you are grown Old enough to run alone, .... You'll be good, and mindful too, Of all mamma shall say to you. ·'•' • \ '' May your little feet ne'er stray . I . Far from duty's pleaBant way; May you always be our joy, .•. Precious little baby boy. ' • "Come hither, George and Martin, Come hither, Isabelle," Thus spake a. youthful mother, And soft her accents fell. And George, the rosy, dark-eyed roiue, Came bounding at her will; And Isabelle, the darling, And Marian meek and stm. "Now if you offer prayers to Heaven, • And each but one might say, For what, roy precious children, Would you this moment pray?" "Oh! I would pray that God would send His bright Heaven down to earth, Nor take from us His lovely ones!" Said George, in thoughtless mirth. " And I," said lovely Isabelle, "Would ask my darling mother, That we might die together Thou) Marian, I, and brother!" Then Marian taised her thoughtful eyes, Our little dreamtop nun , « Be this »Y prayer' -she murmured, "Father, Thy will be done!" . ------.1 I •' •~ ~ QIFT BOOK. 35 ~ I ' ,:' Frow the Youth's Penny Gazell.e. • I l • Have you ever seen a fawn ttuite near, And standing at your side? And did you stroke his silky ear, And pat his spotted hide ? When we were little girls, like you, Once walking 'neath the trees, . In the dim shadows of Carclew, '.Mongst wood-anemones, We beard a sound, and looking back, A fawn, all blithe and tripping, Across a soft and mossy track Was comming towards us, skipping I • He stood be'side us, and his eyeP, So large, and black, and bright, Did seem to speak of kind surprise, And fondness and deli!!ht His tiny hoofs of polished black Deep in the moss were dinted ; His arching neck and velvet back With glossy specks wero printed. He rubb'd his.little silky nose • Against my cheek and hand, And look'd as if he'd like to coze, So kind he seem'd, and bland I He search'd our basket, smelt our gloves, And how he sneezed and grunt~d, For we bad nothing that be loved, And so he felt affronted I Our cuckoo flowers, and prickly rose, And wood-anemones, . At such, he twisted up his nose, . And could not relish these. 0, spotted fawn I 0, speckled fawn I He sees a soft eye glisten, I And there, across Lhe grassy lawn, An ear is pricked ~o listen. He sees that ear, be knows that eyo, (There dare approach no other,) Away his glinting footsteps fly- It is the doe-his mother I . '•' •' .' '.,' ; .. 36 UNOLE DUl>»Y'S ': ' r '" •' ,. r ll'rom tho ll'Jy.J.~a.r. • !.'.. '. . ••' '.. DY XTHKL WATUND. J'. . ' • .. It was at the close of one of the first ·sultry days of sum ... mer, that my grandfather called to me, as I lounged, half ,. awake, half asleep upon a settee .on the broad veranda: . "Come. Mary, my child, will you walk in t~e garden with , grandpa?" ~· 0 I felt tha~ sluggisyh lassitude, that is the sure consequence . ' of sleep in such warm weather, and being weary with my plays of the morning, was not inclined to move ; but I loved my grandfather devotedly, and these walks with him, were a source of the greatest pleasure to me, for the time was al ways spent in a gay romp, or in listening tosome humorous story of his youth. So I quickly hastened to join him. But to-day, neither of us seemed disposed to talk; he appeared abstracted, and I too inert; so we wended our way, in silence through the winding avenue of pines, to his favorite resort once a kind of rude summer-house, or arbor, but, now, so cov ered by a luxuriant growth of Cherokee roses, that the origi nal structure had long since been concealed. The vine, in its unrestrained freedom, had reached out its long, green arms, and clasped the drooping branches of the surrounding pines; twisted and twined itself among tpe~, and threw down pendant wreaths of bright green leaves and snowy blos soms, that swayed to and fro among the clouds of long gray moss that hung like drapery around them. Naught in this Sylvan retreat gave evidence of other training,than Nature's infallible direction, snve that the vines were always trimmed from the Southern entrance, that the breezes might come in, and that the view of the river and the undulating scenery on the other side, might be unobstructed-and a carefully cul tivated bed of fragrant violets that grew up to the door. These, my grandfather had planted-he watched over them , • '• GIFT BOOK. , tenderly and lovingly, and was rewarded by their fragrant • little ?looms, earliest and latest in the season. Long before _ those m our garden had dared to open their blue eyes, these peeped modestly from the green leaves, and when the scorch ing sun had every where else driven them away, in this place they lingered delightfully cool and refreshing. Here, it was, we -came·silently, hand-i~-hand , grandfat.her taking the seat at the entrance, while I, throwing my hat aside sat down at his feet, and leaned my head upon his knee. The breeze came moaning through the moss, fragrant' with the breath of the pine, and ever, and anon, wns borne to my ear the refrain of some plantation melody, as the Negroes sang gaily at the wood yard. I know not how long I might have sat thus dreamilyiwatching the twhite petals of the rose vines, as they floated in, and gracefully F.ettled like snow flakes ; for I had been building air castles and dreaming bright dreams of what I should do, when I reached the gold en land of womanhood ; when I was aroused by a heavy sigh froin my grandfather. I looked up. The old man was gazing vacantly towards the river, and trailing his !taff ner vously among the leaves of the violets. ' ''What is the matter,fgrandpa? What are you looking at ?'' I asked. · But the old man was so absorbed in his revery, th:~t I had to ask the question again, and then he seemed to arouse him self so 1·eluctantly, that I threw my arms around his neck, saying: " Are you sick, dear papa !" He kissed my cheeks, and, with a bright smile, said: " No, my pet, not sick-but looking a long, long way off.'' - '' Where ?'' 1 eagerly asked, for his mood was so unusual that it frightened me. . ·' At my youth," he said, with a scarce perceptible sigh. ·'fAre you sad, dear p11pa ?'' " No, my child:' " Then, do tell me a story of it?" I cried ; " for I was al- - ways delighted to hear:him tell of when he was a naval of ficer, of his home in '' Merrie England," and of the strange lands and people he had seen. So, I quickly nestled a~ his knee again, ready to listen ; but he did not speak. I turned, and, rather impatiently, said : '"II .• '.,'' ' 38 UNCLE BUDDY1fl .... • • .,j•. ~· Grandpa, why don't you begin !" ''I He smoothed the hair softly from my face, and said: ' " My darling, the story I should have to tell to-day, is too old, I am afraid, for your young heart.'' '' Oh ! do tell me," ~id I coaxingly, " I love to hear old t"f ' I stories, if you tell .them.'' ' " Well,'' he began, after a moment's hesitation, " if my little Mary will remember it, and learn the lesson it teache!, 'I and when she becomes a woman, will try to be as good and as p~ient as the one I tell her of, t~en I will.'' . " I do promise ; tell me now., .·• ,. ''You know alroady, Mary, that I was left ::m ~orphan when I was quite young-not more than six years old-and was .;· • taken by my uncle Frederick, an Admiral in the British N a· vy. He had no wife-no children, and for me, his nam~ ·•. sake, and only heir, he cherished the greatest love. He was, by naturet one of the best men I have ever seen, and endowed with some of the noble,st attributes ; but he was an avowed infidel. :Be believed religipn to be a mere fable, and those who professed it, either pretenders, or deluded fanatics : yet, notwithstanding t~ese erroneous and fatal principles, I have never, in my life, seen one, whose code of morals was higher. or whose honor or integrity was less impeach able. He was proud of his charge, and f11ithfully he im agined he performed his duty towards me. Every advan tage was mine, every facility for mental improvement was •' given me. I was deeply grateful for it all, and can honestly say, that, when I returned from College with the honors of the institution, I rejoiced more on his account than my own. He intended me for the Navy, and l being rather weakly, he gave me the best physical training. I rode, walked, hunted, swam, rowed a boat, and did every thing to give me a goo<\ constitution; and make me active and strong; and now I am indebted to that training for my vigorous old ag~. But, alas ! the training he gave my heart had well I nigh proved its ruin. It is true, his arguments ~gainst Christianity could not fail to effect one who had no thought or heard any.'thing in its defence-but it was not that which influenced me most, for of that I cared or tho1,1ght little ; it was my uncle's example. He was my ~tandard of excel lence, and if he sneered at religion, it was certainly wrong. I • I GIFT BOOK. 39 1 1 Great Heavens! I tremble when I think of the meshes then '' thrown around me. " Thus it was, at three and twenty, I found myself, thanks t.o my uncle's patronage, a Lie•utenant on nn English man of-war. I was as light hearted and as happy as I thought it possible for any one to be. I was loved by the subor dinates, caressed by my superiors, and (what I was then foolish enough to be vain of, my child,) was pronounced the handsomest man belonging to our crew. Our vessel was stationed for several months at a port in Ireland. One day, while one of our officers and myself were returning from a visit to the city, we passed the Cathedral. There was a great crowd in the street, for it was the hour for vespers, and many were going in. I felt great contempt for them, and said to my companion: "What a crowd _2f hypocrites and deluded fools !" "I had scarcely uttered it, when he touched my arm and said: "Look, Fred, by Heavens ! if there is such a thing as a deluded angel, here is one.'' ''I looked in the direction he pointed, and saw a delicate 1 oking lady crossing the st1·eet. She was alOne, and, with • a prayer book in her hand, was evidently on her way t o Churoh. She appeared unconscious of any one else on. the street, for she did not raise her eyes, and her long black lashes seemed almost to rest upon her cheeks. Her eye brows were most exquisitely arched-indeed, all her features were most perfectly and delicately moulded H er face was spotlessly fair, but entirely colorless, except the lips, which. looked like two delicate lines of coral. Just as we ap proaohed her, a man, coming in the opposite direction, pass· ed in such haste before her, and so near, as to knock the prayer book from her band. My compauion very politely picked it up, and gave it to her. She raisea her eyes, thanked him, and passed on-the whole affair having trans· pired in less than a minute- but ~hat moment gave us a. view of the loveliest eyes that were ever allowed to mortal. They were of that shade of blue so seldom found , real violet hued, and had that spiritual light, and soft, velvety Axpres sion that is always ascribed to angels. "By the Virgin, Freq1' said ~l fri ~nd, 'l beli ~n ~b~t i ~ , f/ 40 UNCLE DUDDY'S .,., ' •, .. · ~ some Saint that has slipped out of the prayer books, and is I • walkin~ on earth again-or is it an angel of light from another place, that T wont mention 1'' ,.. '\"uch eyes !" I rather murmured to myse]f, for, though I . "'· hnd never before been flO attracted with one's appearance, .'.. . yet I could not enjoy my friend's remark . .' · ''Yes, you may flay ' such ey'~s :' they are regular heart ·';of . ~ ' breakers. Those violet eyes are sure to belong to one of two extremes--either a perfect Saint or a very devil. Mark . I me, Fred, that little violet-eyed saint is a wonder of con· '. . stancy or n consummate coquette. Say, which will you guess?'' . ·~ "Neither. It is nothing to me what she is,, said I, rather ,...; coldly, for I felt annoyed, I knew not why, by his remarks. ' ''Well." said be gaily, as he turned to look after her. ~·. . "for charity's ~ake, I guess the best. There goes St. Violet • eyes into the church, and I'll wager lf dozen of wine that · ~ • she prays for ·me." • t As I did not reply to this, the subject was dropped, and we hurried to our boat as the night was approaching. But all the night, I could not forget t4e violet eyes, and every • evening that I could lea.ve,unobserved by my friend, I would hurry to the Cathedral at' vesper hour, to watch for her com· ing; but I never was once repaid for my trouble by tP,e sight of her, and had to bear·the railery of my friepd, who, by some means, had found out my going.-He would ask, 'whe was my patron Saint for the past few weeks-that he . must write t o my uncle, that his nephew, had of late, become .' very pious,' and a great many such remarks, very annoying to me, but which I took in good part, rather than let him see they vexed me. I. . He had gradually ceased to talk of it, when I obtained a leave of absence for a month, and was going to &J>end it with a college friend, at hi~ father's, Sir Barry Moore. I had anticipated a gay time, for there were many other invit ed guests, but what was my delight, when being introduced J to tho company, I found the violet eyed beauty aruong them. Her name was Catharine Doyle. I bad thought her appear· ance lovely, but I found her manners even more so. Her features in repose had always tha~ saintly, '1\fadonna expres4 siop. tl~at I bacl first seen ; but when she spoke t~ere were a • GIFT BOOK. 41 ' thousand varying ones. We were mutually pleased, and, in the few weeks spent together, had become so intimate, that I had only to gain her guardian's consent, and we would be · betrothed. I found that she, like myself, was an' orphan, with only one brother, whom she seldom saw, and lived with her guardian, who was a cousin. The time of my visit had nearly elapsed, and our host was to give a fete on an island in the lake, a few miles distant. All the neighboring fami lies were invited,the island decorated and prepared for danc ing, the promenades and tables all ready, and we anticipat ed a day of unalloyed pleasure. I was an early riser, and in the morning I gat)lered a bouquet of violets that I sent to Cathorine to wear to the fete. She knew why I sent them, for I had told her of my friend's conceit, and often called her violet eye's. When we were to start to the island, I thought of nothing but escorting her, but as I approached her and before I could ~peak, a gentlelflan whom I had just before observed in play ful conversation with her, ' claimed the honor of Miss Cath erine's company that day.' She accepted, of course. I felt rather chagrined at. that; but what was my mortification, as I turned off,to see some of the crushed leaves and violetf1 that I had given her in the morning, protruding from his pock et. I gave her a withering look, nor stopped to mark its effect, but quietly sought, and engaged the gayest lady in the crowd. It was not a matter to cause me such anger, but r was very passionate, very exacting, and very jealous ; and the words of my friend the day we met her going to vespers, "consummate coquette,'' rang constantly in my ears. Yes, I thought, it is true, and I am her dupe. In my anger I would admit of no extenuating circumstance. And· to prove to her I was indifferent, I exerted myself ·to be mor.e agreeable, more brilliant than I had ever been. I danced, sung, talked with all, but not once did I give her a look or a word. In the midst of the hilarity, I received an order to return . to the ship immediately, as we were to leave the port in so many hours, and I only had time to make my adieus hm· riedly to the company. I did not see Catharine, but my heart began to reproach me for my manl?er toward her ; and, p~>Uld I h.ave. found her,. I '"fOuld ~ave made ap. ologies, and • ' .,, J •.! ' . ,.•• ..,,, ,•.. 42 UNCLE BUDnY'S \·;",,,., .. then all had been well ; but none knew where she was ; and .,. ~ I left the company to their merriment, and with my friend, went to the hall to prepare with 4ll despatch for my depar· .. ture for the ship. After I had taken my seat in the car .. riage, and had bid my friends adieu, a servant handed me a ' ' .. note. The driver popped his whip and we were rolling ' . rapidly down the avenue before I had read it. I found it was fromCatbarine,ex.plaioing bow the young gen· tleman had playfully sna:tched the violets, and claimed her ..,- '· company to the fete, as a ransom for the flowers. She had "· sought to explain to rue, but I had avoided her and given her no opportunity, until, heart-sick and weary of the gaiety •• • of the party, she had come off unobserved to the hall, just be fore I did, and accidently hearing of my departure, from a servant, she had only a moment to write a note vindicating ..'; herself. Oh! how my conscience upbraided me for my • I conduct, how longed to beg her forgiveness for every unlt~nd •'! I '· thought of her, and had I ono moment to have spared, I .. should have returned to her, but I had scarcely tim~, making all haste, to reach the ~hip before it would sail. I tore a. leaf from my note-book, wrote, making all apologies and • begging her, if I had not forfeited her love, to write after I had left ; that I would write to her again from the ship, tell ing . her where to address me. This, I sent back to her by .. the postillion, rewarding him handsomely for its safe deliv .•' ery. "The next five years of my life, my child, were only a dark blank in my life.-I had written again and again to Catharine, telling her always where to answer me, but re ceived no reply. I waited patiently, so much afr:tid of do ing her injustice a second time, and thinking, perhaps, it was not unusual, for we were on a long cruise in the south seas ; but finally, after I had waited in vain, and written again and aga.1n, there ca.me a short note, 'begging me not to tronble her again with letters, that she was now married and did not care to be reminded of her old flirtations.' I felt aggrieved, injured, insulted, and every angry and reven~eful feeling that a man of my passionate nature ever did. ~oon after this my uncle died, when I was far away; and truly, I felt then like one entirely alone, with nothing t'o live or care for. I became a hard and gloomy misanthrope-a most GU'T BOOK. !3 reckless adventurer. Then it was that all the infidel doc· trines of my uncle came back to me with force, and I recived them eargerly. Every dissipation I rushed into, every dan ger I meb defiantly, reckless of life, I would brave death in every form. Thus, five years passed, when death, that I had in vain sought for years, seemed to claim me for its own. I had just· returned from a long cruise in the· tropics, and was visit ing, as a pastime, a city in Italy, when I was suddenly at- . tacked with a violent fever. I know not how it was,for it all seemed a blank to me, but when I returned to consciousness, I found myself in a seaman's hospital. I took no notice of anything, and lingered,halfbewildered, waiting for the death that did not come. At last. I began to notice the dark forms of the Sisters of Mercy, as they glided around the sick, and one in particular who tended me most frequently-smoothed my pillow and bathed my tel)lples--whose touch was the gentlest of any ; but she was a poor frail little woman and she would sometimes cough until she would have to lean against the window to recover her strength, that she might go on in her visits to the sick ; and a glimpse under 4er long black hood showed a face so pale and haggard, yet so mild and serene, that I would be wondering which would die first, she or I. One day, after I bad grown better--but the spark of life seemed stili so faint that it would go out- I was alone in my room, when one-of the Sisters carne soft ly to attend me. " Where is the other '?" I peevishly asked. "What other ?" she inquired. "The Sister that was lierc before," I said. "That is .Sister Mary. She is sick, too weak to come any more. She will die very soon I fear." I did not speak, or care I thought, but I missed her gentle touch to my aching head, and it fretted me till I grew worse. After several 'days, one morning I felt stronger than I bad been yet ; I looked up an~ sister Mary, as they called her, came quietly in as usual, but looked much thin· ner and if possible paler than I h:id ever seen her. . "You look better,'' said she. "Ycs," I answered, ''will you raise my head with pillows, and open the windows, that I may see the sun shine once more?'' • ...... I ' • • ·~ ., . .• UNCLE DUDDY'S ...... ( l ~. ' She hastened to open t.bc windows, and the light fell full I ·' .I on her face. She stopped a moment and gazed abstractly at ...••.. the blue sky. It was the first time I had seen a full view '.,.' of her face, and the expression startled me, it seemed so familiar. I looked again, and my heart ceased to beat my gaze was rivited on her eyes--1 could not look a'Yay I~· ,, . it was Catharine Doyle. She turned away from the window, .... ' and came to raise my head. She did not notice wy excite- "I , I .., . ment until she was placing the pillows, for then she gave a startled look that seemed to ask, what was the maUer? I could not answer-could not speak--! could only whis· per hoarsely : ''Catharine ~, ·~' · . ~· . She started a little and opened her eyes bewildered. ' "Violet eyes ~, I murmured, looking at her. '·Who are you she gasped faintly. ·~ ! ''l am Frederick Aldrich," I said. • She staggered back, and would have fallen, had she not clutched the bed clothes. She sank to her knees, and Mid faintly: "It cannot b e-Frcderick Aldrich is dead." "No ~, I flaid, "l am he. She hid her face in her hands, and for a while her whole frame seemed convulsed with sobs; but after a struggle, she ••• became calm, and looking up with a serene face, said : .· • ·'Yes, Frederick, you may explain it all. There can be ' no sin in it now. We are both too ncar the grave for an • earthly love to come between us and Heaven. If it had been sinful, I should not have been attracted here by a Power I could not resist." For a time I could not speak. My tongue felt paralyzed ; but she put the water to my lips to revive me, and sat wait· ing for me to speak, as calmly and as serenely as a Saint. I told her all-of how I had written repeatedly, and re· peatedly, and received only that note, that made me so reck less.- What a wicked li(e I lived-what an infidel I · was, and how I had cherished hatred for the whole world. She told me what she had suffered, waiting in suspense to hear <>ne word from me, never receiving another letter after I left; that she had never married-never loved another, and the letter I received with her name, she had never written. ' ' • GIFT BOOE:. 45 S~eing the announcement of my uncle's death, she thought it mine, and feeling that she could no longer find pleasure in the world,she determined to devote herself to religion and auf· fering humanity, and joined the Order of Sisters of Mercy. She told me all-everything, from first to last. She rose to go, and bendidg over me, said : ·~Frederick, I shall see you again in-'' Oh! Catharine," do not go-do not leave me- - l shall die.'' '' No," she sa~d, '' I cannot stay ; but I will sec you again not in this, but in a better world, where we will never be separated." · '' Oh !" I cried, '' I shall die if you leave me ;" and im ploringly I caught her hand to detain her. Gently she released her hand, and said, soothingly : "No, Frederick, I may dio first. I cannot live much longer: I feel that I must leave very soon; but remember, my dear Fredrick, that I shall be waiting for you in Heaven.'' She seemed as composed as a sta~ue , but when she stooped to press her lips to my throbbing brow, I felt a scalding tea.r upon it as she raised her face. And then she passed out as quietly as she had ~n t ered. "And what did you do, grandpa ~,, I eagerly asked. " I know not, my child, for I grew worse, and raved in a delirium for several weeks, and when I became better, I was weaker than a child, an The fire-flies are comin(J'0 out, and it is time tor little girls to be in. And, now, you know why grandpa always loves violets, and when he is laid in the Church yard; why he wants you to plant them ~ver him. n :..-··., . ~·~· .' .'· 46 U.NOLE BUDDY'S • ... :-• . • I ,. As we went slowly up tho winding avenue, the fire-flies .-:.... showed brighter and brighter among tho dusky pines ; but not ·' ...\I... one did I chase that night, but walked quietly by the old '·' man's side, for I knew he was thinking of the two loved ones who were waiting for him in Heaven. ~.... · ~, . . •. t ''·. '··: ' ~- "· .·."'. ,,' . . ' : ~ L~ss®m ®f lb®w~ . ,I - :9:-- ... I Little children, love each other ; Kind, and good, and gentle be; • •< Brother should be kind to brother; Sisters should in love agree. Love your playmates, try to pleas9 them ; L Let nothing be said or done .· Whigh_ would hurt, or vex, or Lease them, Or would injure any one. Quarrel not, but lovo each other, And be ready to forgive; I Let each sister and each brother Seek io love and peace to live. Not in word or tonguo love marbly, ' But io deed, with heart and mind; Show you love them truly, dearly; Both in word and act be kind. I Little children, love each other; Show tr~.;e love to great and small; Love your father and your· mother, .And love God the most of all. God is love ; and be baa told you , If yos try to live in love, Then will He with love behold you, And will bless you from above. , GIFT BOOK. · --Q-.- FHOll THE BOYS AI\D GIRL'S O'I'I'N MAGA~IN.I!• -Q- 11 Mamma, tell me a story/' said little George one day, '' Please do, Mamma, I'm. tired of every kind of play. My ball is getting lazy, and will not bound so high As it did the other morning. I'm sure I don't know why I .My top's forgot its humming, my kite bas lost its string- -,. Indeed, I'd like a story more than any other thing, I've heard about the children lost in woods, you know, And all about the noble dogs who go out in the snow To pick up tired travelers, who else would die of cold- But now I 'd like a story that you have never told." 11 Well, George, I'll tE>ll a story that you .Cave never beard, or a little boy ·on whom, 'tis said, a strange gift was conferred ; It was a curious instrument which, by some magic art, Could waken joy or sorrow, could cheer, or grieve the heart, Where he went be took it with him, and if he gently played, Those who heard were glad to listen to the music that be made ; Their eyes would shine the brighter, their lips would wear a smile, As the tones so soft and thrilling would their weary hearts beguile; But the boy was very careless, he never thought that he Had such a wonderous instrument nor seemed its good to see, He would play upon it roughly till its no~es were wild and rude, Awakening evil passions that should have been subdued." 11 If I could make suoh music, mamma, I'm certain quite, l'd be so very careful, I'd always play it right; I'd never strike it rudely, nor rouse an angry tone." Said his mother, ''.If I told you, that such a gift you own, You hardly could believe it, but indeed my words are true; And the child of whom I'm speaking, my little George, .is you. Your TONGuE'S the wonderous instrument, that rightly used will give Pleasure to all around you, so strive, roy son, to live That the music of your voico shall be listened to with joy. There, I have done roy story,-and do you like it ,boy?" You cannot fa~hom your mind. There is a well of thought there ·which has no bottom. The more you draw from it the more clear and plentiful -it will be. When we _think of good, angels are silent; when we do it they rejoice. • ..• . ~ ' ' .. ' ..,. . ' ..' ...... ,. . ' UNOLE l3UDDY'S \').._ .• :0 - • ' .. • ' ,.. ~ ; ~ ' BY MRS, Y. A, Y'ORllllolON. ·: . •.•.. --~- ' Oh, mother,' said Willie Moreton, 'I love you so ~t ucu '· -better than anything in the world.' .. ' Do you, darling?' his mother asked, kissing his forehead . ~ f ' Yes, mother, he replied, returning the kiss : and I think ··.':. I love you much better than Emma, for I am sure I kiss I'.... , , you oftener than she does .' t' Well, dear,' returned Mrs. Moreton, 'if you love me so ·'-'' very much, be so kind as to keep still now, for I have some I ,.'l' letters to write, and ·besides, my head aches a little.' ' That I will,' said Willie, dancing away to where his sister ·- was busy with her lesson. Very soon he. and Emma got into a discussion about a picture of some birds, which was in Emma's book. Their talk about the picture soon became . animated, when Willie, 'forgetful of his mother's request, ·' made a good deal of noise, and could hardly restrain himself, ·. even after his mother reminded him of his professions of t; love, and of his promise to be silent. At length, careless ' a.bout interrupting his mother, who was absorbed in writing, he exclaimed : ' I'll go and ask mother,' said Willie. 'She knows a great deal better than you do.' 'Stop, Willie,' said Emma, 'don't now; mother requested you not to be disturbed while she was writing.' -• 'But it won't trouble her much, to ask her just one ques tion,, Willie persisted. ' You told her a while ago that you loved her better than I did,' said Emma·, rather sadly, 'but I am sure I love her well enough not to want to trouble her at all.' 'That is the true test,' said Mrs. Moreton, coming in at Willie said nothing; but after seven days of prompt obe dience and continued effort to plea. e his mother, he one eve ning whispered in her ear : 'Mother, don't I show my love by ACTIONS now ?' His mother kissed him, and said he did, which made Willie very happy. And if my young readers would be happy all tlie while, let them do all they can to please their parents, and obey them in whatever they desire. - - • To tbe suo, the moon. the sky ; On the mountains wild nnd high; • Jn the thunder, in tho rain, '\ J n the grove, tiH~ wood, the plui 11 ; Jn the little birds that sing ; God is seen in e verything. I :From the Sunday School Advocate. Carrie's father and uncle had gone one afternoon, with the horses and carriage, to a part of the farm a mile or more distant from home. Before it was time for them to return, the horses came home alone. A }armed lest some accident had befallen them, Carrie's mother asked her if she would be willing to go all that long distance, and tell th~m of the horses' 1·eturn. It was then nearly dark, but she had often rode there with hor father, and knew that he would return with her-so she was not afraid to go ; but when she reached the place, her father and uncle were nowhere to be found. Little Carrie waited and looked awhile, then climbed into the wagon and seated herself quietly till they should come. It waa a long time for a little girl of seven years to wait in a strange place in the dark, too ; and you may imagine the l'elief and joy she ' ' ' . I '. ,., .. ·•,_,... H'... ' 50 UNOLE DUDDY'S t :'"· felt when at last she heard her father's voice .calling ' Carrie !' ' .. ' ' ' I am here, father ; I am in the wagon,' she cried. ··: ·}' '·were you not afraid, my daughter, to stay here alone eo ·,...... long?' . . .,:!,. I 'Not much,' she replied: 'as I knew you would come back here ; and I thought if I tried to find you, perhaps I ~~. ; I should get lost.' .... .,.. ' But,' Raid her father, 'we have been home another way ,•'. '.r to look for the horsts ; and bow did you know that I should come back for you ?' '0, I knew you would,' she answered. ' And were you not very lonesome here in the dark ?' ' I was a little ; but I 'thought mother wished me to come ; and I could not get back alone, it was so dark ;. so l thought God would take care of me till you came, and I said over my little hymns and prayers, and then you came.' Precious child ! Her confidence in her father was not misplaced. He had never deceived or neglected her. She knew he would come. Dear children, you have a kind heavenly Father. He does more for you than any earthly parent. He loads you with favors. He preserves you in your going out and com· ing in. He blesses you with home and friends. Will you not trust Him as fu1ly as Carrie did her earthly parent? He bas given you directions, which, if followed, will keep you safely in all dangers and trials of life, and bring JOU at last '. to His glorious home. "Will you not obey His commands, and wait His blessing with the same child-like confidence and trust? • ,·1 Style is only the frame to hold our thoughts. It is like the sash of a window, if heavy, it will obscure the light. The object is to have as little sash as will hold the light, that we may not think of the former, but have the latter. That was a beautiful thought which fell from the lips. of a young lady, in our hearing: 'When we are chastened by l . God, we should do as children and servants do when they are whipped-l'Un up close. lie can't hurt us much, then.' ' , • GIFT BOOK. 51 From the Maryland News Sheet. ~ Ml®t~otr~S ~r~Jtllre - 0 - J)'IWJCATRD TO MRS, --1 liT. J.OtJia. - g - I Father I in lbe battle-fray, Shelter his dear bead, I pray, Nerve his young arm with the might Of Justice, Liberty, and Right. Where the red bail deadliest ia:ta, Where stern duty loudly calls, Where the strife is fie rce and wtld, Father I guard, oh, guard my child I Where, the foe rush swift and stroug, Madly striving for the wrong; Where tpe clashing arma men wield Ring above the battle-field ; Where the stifling air is hot 1 With bursting shell and whistling ahol Father I To my boy's brave breast Let no treal!herous blade be pressed I Father I if my woman's heart- Frail and weak in every part- • Wanders from Thy mercy's seat, Aftor those dear roving feet, Let 'l'hy tender, pitying grace, Every selfish thought erase; If this mother love be wrong Pardon, bless, and make me suoog. . • For when silent shades or night Sh.ut the bright world from my sight When around. the cheerful fire Gather brothers, sisters, sire- 'l'here I miss my boy's bright face From his old familiar place ; , And my sad heart wanders back To tented field and biTouac. Often in my troubled sleep Waking, wearily to weep, Often dreaming he is near, Calming every anxious fear Often startled by the flash ... I 'r ' . • • ..:.•. . I '•,.. .4 • 52 UNCI,~ DUDDY'S ···"'• ·.~. Of hostile swords, that meet and clash, ~~ ' .. Till the caunou's smoke and roar •' ..I ~ Hide him from my eyes once more I ... ' "t'.. Thus I dream, and hope sod pray .. . All the weary hours aw(ly I .' . ,\ But I know his cause is jnst, • ~. ., . .And I center all1my trust .' . In thy promise : " .As thy day ~ .. So shall thv strength be !-alway!" •\ I Yet I need Thy guidance still ; Father I Let me do Thy will! > If new sorrow ehould befall- ' If my noble bo1) should fa1l!- • j .. ~ If the bright head I have blessed '. On the cold earth tinu its rest ; Still, with all the mother's heart, Torn and quivering with the sm1ut, t·. ' I yield him, 'neath Thy chastening rod, 1 To his Country and his Gocl! t • • Two lads came at an early hour to a country market town, and spreading out their little stands, they sat down to wait for customers. One sold melons and other fruit; the o~her dealt in oysters and fish. The market hours passed along, .. and each little de~lcr saw with pleasure his store steadily decreasing, while the money was filling their 'pockets. The last melon lay on Harry's stand, when a gentleman came by, and placing his hand upon it said, ' What a fine large melon ! I think I must buy it. What do you ask for it my boy?' ' The melon is the last 1 have sir ~ and though it looks fair, there is an unsound spot on the other side,, said the • boy, turning it over . 'So there is,' said the man; I think I will not take it. 'But,' he added, looking into the boy's face, 'is it very busi- OlfT BOOK. 53 ness-like to ~iut out the defects of your fruits to cus tomers?' 'It is better than being dishonest, sir,' said the boy, mod estly. 'You are right, my boy; always remember to speak the truth, and you will find favor with God and man also. You have nothing else I wish for this morning, but I shaH not . forget your little stand in fu ture. Are thos.e oysters frc~h ?' he continued, turning to B en "Wilson's stand. ' Yes, sir, fresh this morning,' was the reply ; and a pur chase being made, the gentleman went his way. 'IIarry, what a foo ~ you was to show the gentleman that spot i~the melon~ Now you can take it home for your pains, or throw it away. H ow 'm'i.tch wiser is he about those oysters? Sold them at the same ~price I did the fresh ones. He would. never have looked at the melon until he had 0"O ne away.' ' B en, I would not tell a lie, or act one either, for twice • what I have earned this morning. Besides, I shall be better off in the end, for I have gained a customer, and you have lost one.' And so it proved ; for the next day the gentleman bought ' quite a supply of fruit of Harry, but never spent a penny at the stand of B en Thus the season passed ; the gentleman, finding he could always get a good article of Harry, always bought of him, and sometimes talked a few minutes with him about his future hopes and proipeets. To become a tradesman, was his great ambition; and when the winter came on, the gentleman, wanting a trusty boy for his shop, decided on giving the place to Harry. Steadily and surely he advanced in the confidence of his employer, until, at length, be became an honorable partner in the. firm. - ' The Banana tree,' said Humboldt, 'will furnish food for fifty persons upon the same surface, which, under wheat will maintain but two. The potato will maintain three times as many as wheat.' There is no one else who bas the power to be so mnch your friend, or so much your enemy, as yourself. '•'( . :• ·. -. I ·~·,. '.,., .•... 1>4 UNC£,E BUDDY'S .. :•1\ . .• ~· • ;,. }<'rom tho Jlannor and Bnptlat. '·'· } •' '•. A little boy in a public school had often been laughed at ou account of his mean clothes by another boy older and )' richer than hirnRelf. This grieved the little boy much, and . ' - he was afraid to venture- on the play ground at all from fear of the bad boy who so roughly treated biro ; and so he would go away alone, and s~end his play time in reading or learning his lessons. . .• On. one day be bad beon so employed, when he heard the -• • larger boy say, in tones of distress : .' '' I have learned the wrong history lesson, and now I shall ,, be su,re to lose my place, for I have left my book at home, and there will be no time to go after it, and learn my lesson •.' too, before t.he class is called. \Vhat shall I do?'' .r Most of his clnss mates only laughed, for they were envious of him for keeping at tho head so long, and they rejoiced at the prospect of dil'placing him. Not so with Edward, the little boy he had so misused. Edward felt and nctcd just as he would have desired another to do towards him unde r similar circumstances, and so going up to the larger boy, he suid : '' Here, Henry, is my book; you arc welcome to use it as long as you wish, and I will help you about your lesson if I can." Was not this a noble boy? And did he not beautifully ex emplify tpe precept laid down in God's own Word : ''If thine enemy hungcl', feed him·; if he thirst, give him drink : for in so doing thou shalt heap coals of fire on his head !" • \ - - - -- . , ' HorE -llopc is a prodigal young heir, and experience is • his banker. · But his drafts are seldom honored, since there is often a heavy balance against him, because he draws largely on n sma.ll capital, is not yet in possel'sion, and if he were, would DIE.' .. • ~ OlFT BOOK. 55 l, f ' . i From the Countryman. Mister King had two sons named John and Sam. They were going along through the orchard one . day, with their father ; and when they got near a peach tree, the boys saw a dove drop out of the tree on the ground, as if it had been shot. So John and Sam ran to it, to pick it up. And when they got near it, it began to flutter off, as if it had a broken wing. The boys ran fast, to sec which could catch the dove firet. By and by, when it had gone a long way from the tree, _it flew off as if there had been nothing the matter with it. And there was not anything the matter with it, either. John and Sam asked their father what made the dove do so. · Mister King told his boys to go back with bini to the tree · that the dove dropped out of, and they would sec what made it do so. ~ So the two boys and their father went back to the tree. And when they got to it, Mister King said to his sons : Look in the tree, and you will find the dovo's nest. And J ohn and Sam looked, and they found the nest upon a limb, very near the ground. And in the nest were two young doves that did not have any feathers on them . • Mister King told his boys that the reason the bird fell down out of the tree, and did like it was crippled, was to get them to run after it, and thus lead them away from its young ones; for it was afraid that they would hurt them. When it led them far away. from it~ nest, it then did not pretend to be crippled any longer, but flew away. The partridge, the kildee, the sparrow, and the bull bat all do like the dove did, to get any one away from their nest& .• SaUl asked his father if he might take the young doves home But Mister King told him not to do so, as it is very wrong to take the eggs, or the young ones out of a bird's nest. • I • "' ' ' .•. ~' ''. ..' •i· ' ..'·, '(' • 1 ' GG U~OLE 3UJH>Y R • • •., I ~· From tho Danner and Bnptlst• . ~ •••' •. ..l ... !'It's very hard to have nothin~ to cat b{!t porridge, when 'I''·, •I others have every sort of dainty, ' muttered Charlie, as he . ' sat with his wooden bowl before him . . ~ ''It's very hard to get up so early on these bitter cold .' . mornings, and work hard all day, when others can enjoy .•.,• . themselves without an hour of labor !'' '· . " It's very hard to trudge along through th e SllOW, while ;· ·, .. others roll about in their coaches!" ; "It's a great blessing,'' said his grandmother, as she eat at ~· her knitt.ing, "it's a great blessing to have food when so •.. many arc huJ?gry ; to have a roof over. one's head, :when so many arc homeless ; it's a great blessmg to have s1gbt, and hearing, and strength for daily lttbor, when so many arc blind, deaf, or suffering !'' " 'Vhy, grandmother, you seem to think that nothing is hard," said the boy, still in a grum bliug tone. ''No, Charlie, t.hcre is one thing that, I think very hard." " What'~ that ?" et·ied Charlie, who thought tha.t at last his grandmother bad found some cause for complaiat. '' Why, boy, I think that herr,rt is t·e·ry hard that i ~ not thankful for so many blessings!" ~ntclht & tlte ~ettitful. $ trvaut. -~- 'I'RA:O.RI.ATI>D FROll TllK rnKNC'It Of DIIRQUlli, BY A J.. ADT OJ' AUOUST.A, -~ ' • Mamma.,'said Amelia, ' will you permit me to go and see cousin Henry this evening?'. .. 'No, my dear,' rephed her mother. ' I cannot.' 'And why not, Mamma?' persisted the little girl. ! I am not obliged to tell you my reasons, my daughter, said Mrs. De Blamont. 'A little girl should always obey her • O!FT !lOOK. 67 parents, without questioning them. Nevertheless, as I wish you to b6 satisfied that I always have a reasonable motive • t for refusing a favor to you, [will tell you why. Your I cousin is not a good boy, and I am afraid, if you are in l company with him too often, that you will become as wild and unmana.g13able as be is.' ' B ut, Mamma, ,' interrupted Amelia. ' Do not reply. It is useless. You must obey, my child.' Amelia tried to c6ncea1 her tears, until her mother loft the room, when she seated herself.in a. corner, and gave way ... to her feelings of grief at being refused the privilege of visiting her cousin. She was about' ten years of age-a prett-y ctild, and generally obedient to her parents. But on this occaRion, she was grcaHy disappointed, and could not repress her tears. While she was thus engaged, Nannette, a se r va~ who had but lately been employed by Mrs. De Bla mont, entered the room, and said: ' Why, bow is this, 7\iiss A mcl ia? ·what is distressing you so much? Can I do anything to comforL you ?' 'No, Nannette,' sobLed Amelia, 'you can do nothing to comfort me.' 'And wh y not, Mi :::~; Amelia? When I was a servant to ' Miss Sophie Dupont, and she was in trouble, she always came to me for comfort. ' My dear Nannette,' she· would Ray, 'you sec what has happened to mc.:._tcll me, what shall I do?' and I always had some good advice to give her.' • Oh, l ha\C no nceu of your advice, Nannette,' said Amelia. ' I tell you again that you can do nothing for me.' ' You cao, at least, permit me to go and call your mother ; she will, perhaps, be more succe~sfu l in comforting you than I am. I cannot bear to sec a little gid like you so sorrow ful.' • Oh, yes, Mamma~ UamUta ~' said Amelia, impatiently. 'I cannot think it is she .who is tho cause of your sorrow, Miss Amelia,' continued Nannette. • And who else could it be ?' added Amelia, through her tears. ' I never would have imagined it,' said the artful and de signing servant; ' I think that you are so reasonable that your mother ought not to refuse..you any request which' you may make of her . Why, if I had a pretty little daughter like "'..> , ...... ~~'l, ..... 58 :. .~ ..~. ' ~. you, I would let her do as she pleased. But your mother ••. loves to command ; and, just to be contrary, will oppose your ·." ' ' most innocent wishes. How can any one have so amiable a '· ., daughter as you are, and delight in contradicting her ? I ·'. cannot tell you how sa.cl I feel to see you so unhappy.' '' ..~ . These soft and winning words of the deceitful servant had their effect upon Amelia. The former wished to use the latter for her own purposes. and hence, like all designing people, commenced by flattering her and pretending to sym " ... pathize with her in her troubles . .. , 'Oh,' said Amelia, crying still more bitterly, 'I believe ·' \ that I shall die with grief.' . ' I really believe so, too, my dear child ; how red and '·.,. swolleh your eyes are ~ Really, you are cruel to yourself, not to unburden your heart to one who loves you so dearly as I I, do. MiJ~s Sophie would certainly have done it,' safd Nan- nette. · .· 'Oh, Nannette,' sobbed Amelia, ' I would never dare to tell you what my trouble is.' I \ ' I t is not on my own account that I wish to know,' con tinued the servant; though, perhaps,your Mamma made you , • stay at home while ~he went to the Fair ?' . 'No, she promised not to go without me.' 'Well, what is it, then? for your sorrow seems to increase, instead of getting"less. Would you like me to go for your little cousin ? You would forget your troubles in playing with him,' said Nannette. 'I will never again have that pleasure,' replied Amelia, sighing. ' It is not very difficult to procure you such a pleasure. Would your mother wish to make a recluse of you ?' ' She has forbidden me to play with him.' 'Really, Miss Amelia, I do not know what to think of your mother Miss Sophie's Mamma was just the same. She did not wish her to play with little Sergy; but we knew how to fix her,' said Nannette, with a knowing wink of her eyes. 'Well, how did you manage ?' asked Amelia, now drying her tears, and becoming more friendly towards the servant. ' Why, I'll tell you,' said the latter; 'we used to wait until she would go out visiting, and then Miss Sophie would go and see Sergy, or Sergy would come to see her.' I ' •' GIFT BOOK . 59 • t 'And her Mamma did not discove r it?' asked Amelia. 'No ; she used to put me to watch her mother.' ' But if I should go to !lee my cousin, and Mamma should ask, " where is Amelia ?' " ' Why,' said Nannette, 'I would tell her that you were taking a walk in the garden ; or, if it was a little late, I would tell her that you went to lie down and fell asleep .i and then I would run for you as fast as I could.' ' Oh! If I could only think that Mama would not find it out!' exclaimed Amelia. 'Trust to me!' said the unworthy servant. 'She will never discover it. Will you believe me ? Go, and spend the evening with your cousin, and make yourself easy about 1't • , 'I would like to try it· once,' replied Amelia. ' But arc you certain that Mamma ' ' Oh, go, and do not be uneasy, Miss.' Amelia, unable to resist the temptation, and misled by the deceiving servant girl, followed her wicked advice, and went to play with her little cousin, contrary to her )Ilother's orders. lJer mother soon after returned home, and asked for her. Nannette replied that the little girl felt lonely, and after eating her supper had gone to bed. In this way, Amelia endeavor~d to deceive her mother several times ; for the first step in evil doing is often fol lowed by others : but it was herself that she really deceived, for she was often unhappy while pursuing this course. Be fore this change in her cqnduct, it had been her delight to sit by her mother and converse with her, or to run and meet her on her return from her walks; but now she was ashamed to remain in her mother's presence ; and would often say to herself: '0 if Mamma only knew where I have been she would be so angry.' Then, Amelia, thus troubled by her c.on acience, would tremble with fear at the thought of her m~th er's displeasure. If she heard her mother's voice, or saw her looking somewhat sad, she would say to herself: ' Oh, I am lost. Mamma has discovered my disobedience, and will never forgive me for it.' And this was not all she suffered. The artful Nannette would often tell her how generous Miss Sophie had been towards her; how often Miss ~ophie had given .her. sugar and coffee; and how often Miss Sophie had even given her the keys of the pantry and the sideboard. .• .• 60 UNCLll: JlUDDY1H ·•'•. II .r \ Now, Amelia did not wish Nannette to think tbaL l.Uiss :-. ,, Sophie was more generous or more confiding than she was ; ' so she would take her mother's coffee, and sugar and give '··'~ .. 1.' them to Nannette; and even found the means to obtain the ··"'· keys of h'er mother's sideboard and cupboard, and gave them to Nannette. Sometimes, her conscience would re proach h~r for her evil deeds. 'I am doing wrong,' she would say; 'and pe!haps my mother may soon discover what I am about ; and I will lose her friendship and esteem.' So she went to Nannette, and told her that s)lc would not P·· give her anything more. ~ ·· •I, • ' 'Well, you arc the mistre s~,' said Nannette ; 'but take '. ~ care, Miss Amelia, that you do not have cause to repent your •.' conduct. Only let your mother come home, and I will tell I her how you have obeyed her orders,' ••.. Amelia would cry, and then do whatever Nannette would ... wish of her. Before this, Nannette would obey Amelia ; but now Amelia had to obey Nannette, to prevent the latter ' from disclosing her faults to her mother. She experienced from the deceitful ser-vant all kinds of ill treatment and im politeness, and could complain to no one, but had to submit .• to it all. Thus it is with those who place themselves in the power of wicked perso~s . How horrible a situation for a person to be in! Good reader, avoid bad company, and never do anything that weuld make you afraid of your God or ashamed of your parents. ~rhis wicked girl said to Amelia one day : 1 'Do you know that I wish to taste the pie that is in the cupboard ? and besides this, I must have a bottle of wine to .. drink with it. You must go and get the keys in your ruoth er'::J drawer.' • But, my dear Nannette,'-said Amelia. ' You may well say, " My dear Nannette." Go on and do as I told you,' said the dishonest servant. 'But,' remonstrated Amelia, 'Mamma may sec us; and if she docs not, God will, and He will punish us.' ' And didn't He see you every time that you went to your cousin's, without your mother's consent ? and He has not punished you for it yet,' said Nannette. Amelia had received from her good mother a. strictly re- OIFT l300K. 61 f I ligious education, and good moral principles had been incul j cated into her young mind ; and she knew that the eye of God was always ou us; that He rewards us for ow· good ac tions, and punishes us' for being wicked. It was through pure mere thoughtlessness that she had gone to her cousins, against her mother's orders. · I3ut when we commit one fault we are too apt to fall into another. She was obliged I to do everything the servant, Nannette, ordered her to do, through fear of being betrayed. So you can imagine how she must have suffered. She retired to her chamber one day to cry at her ease. 'l\fy God,' she cried, 'how unhappy we arc when we are disobedient. Unhappy child that. I am-the slave of my servant~ Oh, God ~ I can no longer do what you. wish me to, and I am compelled to do what a wicked girl orders me ' to do, I am a hyRocrite and everything that· is mean. Take pity on me, Oh God, and save m~.' She hid her face, that was bathed in tears, between her hands. All at once she raised her head, and ex.claimed: ' Yes, I am resolved, even if Mamma "Bhoutd drive me away from her presence for a month ; but I know that she will not. She will forgive me. She will again call me her dear Amelia. I have confidence in her goodness ; but how am I to bear her •looks and reproaches ? But anyhow, I sba.ll go to her and confess everything to her.' Soon after, she perceived her mother walking alone in the garden, and flew towards her, and threw herself in her mother's arms ; but, for a time, her confusion prevented her from speaking. Her mother, struck with the singular con· duct of her little daughter, asked her : ' What is the matter, my dear Amelia?' ' Ob, 1\famma ;' sobbed tbe daughter, still unable to speak. ' What is the meaning of these tears, my child ?' asked her mother. \ 'My dear .Mamma.!' still sobbed Amelia. 'Speak, 111y daughter,' said Mrs. DeBlamont ; ' what means these tears and this agitation ?' ' Oh, if I could only think that you would fot~ive me !' said Amelia. 'Well, my daughter,' answered Mrs. DeBlamont, you seem so repentant, that I must forgive you. But what am I to for give you for ?, • ...., • ..I 62 UNCLE BUDDY'S ' Ob, my dear Mamma,! have been a very disobedient gir[, exclaimed Amelia, hanging clown her head, and still weep ·.,,' ing. ' I have been several Limes to soe my cousin Henry.' "'t'•: ' Is·it possible, my dear Amelia-you, who were once so :.· '· much afraid of displeasing me?' said her mother. \ . .'•.' 'I am no longer your Amelia. Dh, if you but knew all that I have done.' 'You make me uneasy, my dear child. • Explain. You must have been led into error. You have never given me any cause until now to be displeased.' 'Yes, Mamma, I have been misled by Nannette.' ' What., by her ?' asked Mrs. DeBlamont. ' Yes, Mamma : and that she might not say anything to you about it, I have often taken the ~eys of your cellar and ..' sideboard, in order to give her your sugar and coffee.' r.. ' Unfortunate mother that I am ~~ exclaimed Mrs. DeBla '• mont. ' It is my own daugliter who thus makes me un •• happy. Leave me, unfortunate child. l must go and see your father and consult with him, as to the course we must I,. pursue in this affair.' 'No, Mamma, do not lea.ve me,' cried Amelia. 'You may punish me ; but oh, do promise me to restore me one day to your friendship.' ' Ah, unhappy child, you will be sufficiently punished,' •, responded her mother. With those words, Mrs, DeBlamont left Amelia quite distressed on the green turf. ~he found Mr. DeBlamont, and together they consulted about the con duet of their erring little daughter ; and soon after sum moned Nannette. After overwhelming her with severe re proaches, Mr. DeBlamont ordered this wicked servant to leave his house immediately. I n vain she oried, and en treated him to treat her with less severity. In vain she promised that she would never do the like again. Mr. De Blamont was inexorable. ' You know,' said be, 'with what kindness you have been treated, and what indulgence I have ' had for your faults. I thought to entice you by my kind ness, to be careful of the morals of my cnild ; and yet, it is you who have taught her to be disobedient and even to steal ! You are a. monster in my eyes. Leave roy pres· ence ; and try to correct your evil ways, if you do not wish to falllinto the hands ofajudge more terrible than I am. ~ ., ' OIFT DOOK. • 63 Then came Amelia's turn. She appeared before her pa rents in a most pitiable ::tate. ller eyes were swollen with tears ; a.nd all her features seemed altered ; her cheeks were frightfully pale, her whole body trembled, as if in con vulsions. She could not utter a word ; but awaited in si· leJ1ce, the sentence of her father. ' ' You have,' said he, ' deceived and offended your parents What could have led you to believe in that wicked girl in· stead of your mother, who loves you so tend~rly, and who desires only your happiness ? If I should punish you as I feel that you deserve, I would drive you forever from my presence, with the accomplice of your faults. Who coqld ace use me of injustice in that case ?' ' Ah, P apa,' replied the sorrowful Amelia ; 1 punish me with all the severity which you may .deem neuessary, I will endure it all. But commence by taking me in your arms, and calling me, once more, your Amelia.' ~ 1 I cannot embrace you now. I do not wish to punish you on account of the confession and promise which Y?U have voluntarily made ; but I cannot call you my Amelia, until you have merited it by long experience. Be careful of your condqct in the future. P unishments always follow the commission of faults ; and you have, by your evil con duct, punished yourself.' Amelia did not entirely unqerstand what her father meant by th es~ last words. She did not expect to be treated so leniently ; she went toward her parents with an aching heart ; she kissed their hands, and promised them that she would never displease them in future. She kept her word ; but alas ! her punishment came very su1·e, as her father had said. The wicked Nannette told the most injurious false· hoods about Amelia. She told all that had passed between Amelia and herself. with false and wicked additions. She said that Amelia, by begging her and stealing from her parents had long labored to couupt her ; that she had at last \ promised to manage to secure interviews between Amelia. and her cousin Hanry ; that these two children were to gether almost every evening, without the knowledge of their parents : and that Amelia came home often very late. She related all this, with such knowing and meaning looks, that Amelia's friends thought very badly of her. Consequently, "'( . ·' • . "'~ .. .', ...... ••,1,• 64. • UNCLE JJUDDY1S ·•.•, I ~".. she endured the most cruel mortification. \Vhenevcr she · ' I :0· , wont into eompany witu her little friends. she would observe •' . • •• J them whispering together, and looking at her with contempt ..... '· . and insulting smiles. If she remained out a little later than .,.· ," . usual, they wou!djecr her about it.. If she had a new ribbon, they would say, when one knows how to obtain her mother's keys, ·she can well afford to buy all that she needs. And if she got into the least difficulty with her companions, 'Shut up your mouth, Miss !' they would say : 'It is your cousin Henry who is bothering your ideas.' 'l'hese reproaches filled Amelia with grief. Often, when she would be overcome with sorrow, she would throw herself into her mother's arms, t.here to seck comfort and consolation. Her mother would sny to her: 'Suffer with patience my dear child ; it is your impru dence that has caused you all this trouble, Pray God to for give you all your faults, and shorten the time of your morti cation ~rhese troubles will be ot service to you during the rest of your life, if you will only profit by them, God has said to children: ''Honor thy father and mother," and be subm ssive to their will. Poor children ; you do not yet know the worM . You do not foresee the .consequences of your actions. God has given you to the care oi your pa rents, to cherish you as they do themselves : and who have .. more experience and reflection, in order to shelter you from the dangers which surround you. You would not believe this. You feel to-day, the wisdom of the Almighty, in con fiding children to the wisdom of their parents, since you have suffered so much from your disobedience. My dear Amelia, may your misfortune prove your instruction. It is the same .. with all the commandments of God; for Godonly commands that which is for <}ur good ; and forbids that which is nn in jury to us We mjurc ourselves whenever we do wrong. You will often find yourself in circumstances where it will n9t be possible to see how much vice will be injurious to you, or virtue useful to you. Remember how much you have suffered by one single fault, and regulate your con duct by this infallible principle, that whatever is contrary to virtue is an evil to us.' Amelia followed strictly the wise counsels of her good mother. The more she suffered from the effects of her · GIFT BOOK. 65 imprudence, the more reserved and attentive to her beha vior she became. She profited so well by her disgrace, that, by her good conduct,shc silenced all her calumniators, and acquired the honorable appellation of the irreproacha ble Amelia. • I My liLLie readers will do well to commit the folio .ving littlo poem to memory. It gives them the names of the parts of speech in Grammar, and in a very pleasant way, too: 1. Three little words you often see, · Are Articles-a, an, and the. 2. A Noun's the name of anything, As school, or ganlen, h0011, or king. 3. Adjectives tell the kind of Noun, · As great, small, p1·etty, white or brovm. 4. Instead of Nouns, the Pronouns stand, As h~· bead, his face, yow· arm, my band. 5. Verbs tell of something being done, To t·ead, count, sing, laugh, jump, or run. G. How things are done, the Adverbs tell, As slowly, quickly, ill: or well. '1. Conjunctions join the words together, • As IX!OD and womon, wind or weather. 8. Tbe Preposition stands before A. Nou n~ as in or through a door. 9.•Tbe Interjection shows surprise, As oh I bow pretty, ah I ,how wise. Tbe whole are called Nine 'Parts of Speech, Which Reading, Writing, Spelling teach. L IFE IS No T RIFLE.-One drop of water helps to swell the oc.:n; a spark of fire helps to give light to the world. You are a small man passing amid the crowd, you arc hardly noticed ; but you have a drop, a spark w\thin you, that may be felt through eternity. Do you belieye it ? Set that drop in motion ; ·give wings to that spark, and be h~d the resulta. It may renovate the world. ' None are too small, too feeble, or too poor to be of service. Think of this and act. Life is no trifie. • "., I .,,, '· ;.·.,;·• ·~·, • '' 66 UNCLE DUDDY'S '·"' • I t:\ ,. . ~ \ 1"• , ' From the Youth's Catholic .Magaziue. .• ' ~.. ' ",.. ,. . ' \ ' ..'•.. ~- A TAI,E FOE TilE LITTLE FOLKS. -~ In a certain island, not easily found in Mitchell's Atlas, is the palace of Santa Claus, the lover of children. It is surrounded by a beautiful garden, always in bloom, full of the sweetest fruits, fragant with the most delicio,us flowers, and enjoying the most delightful weather. It surpasses, in ·'' • ' . extent and magnificence, every other palace in the world ; ... and if you only knew precisely where to find it, it would be well worth going to visit. There you would sec a long gal "• I lery, containing beautiful ambrotypc portraits of all t.be chil • dren in the worJd who have distinguished themselves by •• their good cunduct or their application i and the most won derful part of the matter is, that these:, portraits reply to .' ' whoever questions them, and relate their whole history. On • the right of this gallery is the library ; a vast collection of works-' I • GIFT BOOK . company, tl~e drums beat, the trumpets sound, the barmoni cans tinkle- oh, 'tis as sweet to hear as o. murmurinvg stream ; 'tis as grand to sec as the sun shining through the , woods. The Steward 'Of this beautiful palace is called Bulby. He is a very nice little fellow, always smiling, jumping about, and enjoying an immortal childhood. He has for servants, other little sprites, who often disperse themEelvcs O\'er the earth after sunset, and bring pleasant dreams to children who are good and obedie.nt. ' ' Bulby,' says Santa Claus,one day, ' I want to talk a little with you.' 'All right,' says Bulby, ' I have just got through my work, and can attend to you as long as you please. Go ahead.' ' Have you ever heard of Snooks?' asked Santa Claus. ' IIaven't I, though ?' says Bulby. ' Hardly a child I ever spoke t0 in all my life but told me about Snooks. Snooks is a terrible fellow. It. i ~ he who brings punishments, rods, and bread and water. lie is all the time hiding in cellars and dark corners, and takes the greatest pleasure in fright ening the life out of the pqor children.' ' '\Vell,' says Santa Claus, ' my mind is 1pade up; I must kill this Snooks. Henceforth, children. are to get nothing but what I shall bring them ; that is, candies, toys, pictures, pretty books, and other nice things. I love them too well to think that they should have anything else. Snooks must die~ Bulby, give me my gilt helmet, my pasteboard breast plate, and my tin sword. Snooks must not live to torment ' any more poor children. Am I not right in my determina tion to:rid the earth of the monster?' ' I really cannot say, my lord,' says Bulby; ' for I know for certain, that the fear of Snooks keeps many children tol erably good. Before putting hi li1 to death, I think it woulu be a good plan to try and find out if children really deser'\'e that you should fight for tbem; for if not, you would do them more harm thati good by killing Snooks.' 'You are perfectly right, Bulby,' says Santa Claus~ 'and I am glad that I consulted you. I \vill go this molllent over the world, and judge for myself of the behavior or 'my youn ~ friend~. Get my summer carriage ready.' ~~ . .. ,;~:.' ~ .. ,.. ~·( ' ,.,• 68 UXCLE BUDDY's ·.~· ,. ;11,: ~~.l. . • Bulby obeyed; and Santa Claus set out in his carriage of ...' gold and ivory, drawn by forty-five thousand fire-fiios. In ·., 'f . the summer nights, they all made a splendid fignrc indeed. "·'· . ,. :. Santa Claus passed some time in traveling; but be had no "~ ' ....\ ... great reason to rejoice at what he saw. lie saw greedy t. ~ children, who neYer thought they had enough. He saw lying children, who were continually excusing themselves. H e saw noisy children, who did not leave a moment's peace in the house. lie saw aisobedient children, always getting. them selves and others into trouble. lie saw awkward children, ~I" always losing their handkerchiefs, and trying to do without I • ~.J: them. H e saw idle children, running about the streets or '! • flying kites, when they should be at school. He saw rowdy children, always talking loud, and beating their companions. ..• He saw dishonest children, stealing apples, and climbing I.. trees, at the risk of breaking their necks. He saw jealous •• children, always saying, 'l'iy brother has got more than me !' lie saw ungrateful and rebellious children, annoying their poor mother, and making faces at her. He saw profane chil dren, and he shuddered with horror, as the air resounded with their oaths, curses and blasphemi.es of the name of the • Most Holy God . • Seeing all this, poor Santa Claus was very much troubled, and he said, with a deep sigh : ' Alas ! I sec it too plainly, \ Snooks must live! It would not be right to kill Snooks.' , . THE RorE.--.Two beggar boys, Y eit and Klaus, found an ! an old rope on the road, 1and pulled and quarreled for it till ! hill and valley echoed with their noise. V eit held the rope •. at one end, Klaus tugged at the other ; and each sought to .. draw it, by main force out of the other's hands. All on a sud dco, the rope broke asunder, and both the boys rolled over into the mire. A' man who happened to come up .at the moment said : 'Sue~ is the fate of quarrelsome people ! They raise a great noise, anA quarrel about some paltry little matter ; and what have both parties gained at the end? Nothing-except to cover themselves with shame and disgrace, as you are now both besmeared with mud. ' , GIFT BOOK. 69 I For the bcncfi,t of lllY little readers, I have collected the following soraps of history, showing the pate of secession of each State, and other interesting incidents connected with our great shrugglc for I ndependence ; • 1 s 60. ; March 4th-Abraham L incoln and Hannibal Hamlin elected President and Vice P resident of the United States. This result of the Presidential election was viewed by the people of the South as aa assurance that their political rights in the Union were no longer to be respected ; and they,there fore resolved to assort their independence, as our forefathers did jn tho Revolution of 1776, and set up a Government for themselves. They determined first, however, to try and settle - all difficulties, by. an e:ffo~t either to obtain some guarantees from the North that their rights would be respected, or to separate peaceably, if possible. For this purpose, offers of compromise were made by Southern members of Congress, and a P eace Convention assembled in Washington city ; and Commissioners were, also, sent to Washington city from , 'outb Carolina: but all to no purpose. lienee, the States now composing the Southern Confederacy seceded by the adoption of ordinances of sc9ession, which were adopted in St.atc Conventions in the order in which they a.ro here pre sented: · Dec. 20th-South Carolina . . 1861!.. Jan. 9-Mississippi. Jan. 1Oth-Florida. ' Jan. 19th-Georgia. Jan. 20th-I,jouisiana. Feb. 1st-Texas ; declared, by the State Convention, out of the Union, March 20. April 18th-Virginia. May 6th-Arkan~as . - • .. . I ••" .. ·· ··~ ... ;.., .,~ .· .. .( " 70 UNCLJ~ TIUilllY'H .May Gth--Tcnncssee ; ratified hy th~ people, ,Juno 8Lh. ;-'\...... l\fay 20th-North Carolina. •.,J.,.,,' (. 1\Iissouri-Dccl:l.ration of Independence issued by Gov. ·•. . Jackson a.L New Madison, April 15th. . ,.. ' ·~· Kcntucky- \ ' '•• .,• • • OTIIER EVENTS OF lll.IPORTANCE. ,. .\ l . Feb. 4-Provisioual Congress meets at .Montgomery, Ala . ' . I Feb. 7..-T~c Provisional Congress adopts a Provisional Constitution. .., ... Feb. 9th--J c:fferson Davis, of :Mississippi, and Alexander I ' I • II. Stephens, of Georgia, elected Provi:sional President and .,'· ·, Vice President of the Confederate States of Ameriea.-the name adopted by the new nation. • I ~ .... , Feb. 18th-,Jcffcrson DaYis inaugurated in Montgomery, Ala., as Provisional President of the Confederate States. '•. March 9th-Permanent Constitution of the Confederate •• SLates adopted by the Provisional Congress . '' ' BATT~ES. I •• April12th--13th~--Batqe of Fort' Sumter, in Charleston ;. harbor---Confederate victory. . Juno 3d---Battle of Phillippi, in Western Virginia---Fed eral victory. \ June lOth-Battle of Great Detbel, Virginia---Confedcr-- crate victory. . J unc 17th---Batttle of Kansas City, 1\Io.-Confoderate victory. J unc 18th---Battle of Boo~cvi ll c, Mo.---Federal victory. •' • I July 2d--3d- --Battle of IIaynesville, Va.---Confcderates re- tire. July 5th---Battle of Carthage, Mo.---Confederate victory. ,July 12th---Battle of Rich Mountain,Ya.---Federal victory. ' July 13th... -Battle of St. George, Western Virginia---Fed- eral victory. July 17th---Battle of Searcy Creek, Western Virginia--- Confederate victory. July 18th-.. Battle of Bull Run, Va.---Confederate victory. July 21th---Great Battle of Manassas--Confederate victory. J u1y 25th---Battle of i\Icsilla, Arizona Territory---Confed- erate victory. . . \ GJl.'T BOOK. '11 August lOth--Battle of Oak Hill, Missouri--- Confederate victory. August 27th---Battle of Cross Lane, in Western Virginia ---Confederate victory. , August 28--29th---Battle of Fort Ilatteras-,-Federal vic tory. September lO th---Battle of the Gauley, at Carnifex Ferry, in vVestern Virginia---both parties retired. September 11th---Battle of Lewisville, on the Potomac-- Confederate victory. September 11th---Battle of Toney's Creek, on the Ka nawha---Confederat.e victory. September 19th---Battle of Barboursville, Kentucky--· Confederate victory. September 20th---Battle of Lexington, Missouri---Confed erate victory. September 25--26th---Battle of Alamesa, in New l\Icxico-- Confederate victory. October 3rd---Battle of Green Briar River, in Western Virginia---Confederate victory. October 9th---Battle of Santa Rosa I sland, Fla..---Confed erate victory. October 12th-Battle of the Mississippi Passes-· Confed- . \ . crate VIctory. October 16th-Battle 10f Bolivar, near Harper's Ferry-- Confederate victory. Oct, 21st---B attle of Frederickstown, Mo.---Federal victory. Oct. 21st--· Battle of Leesburg, Va----Confederate victory. Nov. 6th---Battle of Belmont, Mo.---Confederate victory. Nov· 7th---Battle of Port Royal. s. C.---Federal victory. Nov. 8th---Battle of Piketon, Ky----Confederate victory, Nov. 9th---Battle at Guyandotte, Va.---Qonfederate victory Nov. 22--23rd---Bombardment of FprtPickens, near P en- sacola---Loss light on both sides. Dec. 5th---Battle of Drane ~ viUe, Va. ---Confederate victory. Dec- 13th---Battle of the AUegha.ny, in vVestern Virginia ---Confederate victory. · ' Dec. 17th---Battle of 'Voodsonville, Ity----Confederate vic tory- J Dec. '16th---Battle between Opotheyoholo, (Yankee In dian,) and Col. J as. Mci ntosh, (Coafederate,! 70 mile~ ~Qrth· I '72 I N'('l.'E lll'DDY'S west of Fort Gibson, Indian Tcnitory---Confederate victory· Dec. 28th---Battle of .Moun t Zion, Mo.---Federal victory. 1862. ' J aouary 1-Battle of rorL Royal, S. C. Coofcder!ltO victory. ,Tan nary 2-Bombardment of Fort Pickens, and Bragg's batLeriPB resumed. Result unimportant. January 6-Battle between the Indians in tho Cherokee counlry. Confederate victory. ,January 15-Battlo of Prestonsburg, Ky. Confederate victory. January 19-Battle of Falling Creek, Ky. l!'cderal victory. February 1-Attack on Fort Henry, Tenn. Abolitionists repulsed. I<'ebruat·y 6-Fort Henry, •reno., captured by the .Abolitionists. February 7-Buroside's fleet attacks Roanoke Island, N. C. February 8-Roanoke Island, N. C., captured by the Abolitionists. Felfruary 13- Attack on Fort Donelson, Tenn., hy the Abolition- ists. February 15-Bowling Green, Ky., sh,•lled by the Abolitionists. February 16-Fort Donelson, Terw., cuptured by the .A.bolitioni11ts .,· February 22-Inauguration of President Davis at Ricbmoud . ,, !farch 6, '7, 8-Battle of l~lk Horn, or Pea Ridge. Confederates , ' retreat. • March 8, 9-Naval battle in Hampton Roads. The Yi1·ginia· I . Merrimac defeats the Abolition vessels. •• March 15--Bombardrnent.of :Mow :Madrid, Mo., sod Island No.·IO, in tho Mississippi, commenocd . '•!. . March 23-Battle of Kernstown, Ya. Stonewall Jackson defeats the Abolition General Shields. March 2'7-Battle of Olorietta, New Mexico. Confederate victory. '· .April 6, '7-Battle of Shiloh, Tenn. Confedt!rate victory. April7-CaptNre of Island No. JO, by the Abol itioni s t~. Aprilll- Attac'k on :b'ort Pulask1; near Savannah, Ga . .April 12- Capture of Fort Pulaski by the Abolitionists. April13-Attal!k on Forts Jackson and St. Phillipe, near New ~~ Orleans, La., by tbe Abolitionists. t April 12-A Ltack on Fort Macon, N. C., by the Abolitionists. ' April 19-Battle of South Mills, or Sawyers' Laue, Va. Confede· ' · rate victory. April 21- Naval cnga~ement above Fort Jackson, near New Or· leans, La. April 25.-Fort Macon, N. C., surrendered conditionally to tho ·Abolitionists. .April 26.--The Abolition fleet arrives in front of New Orleans and takes possession of Lh e city. April 27, 28-Battle of Carstille, 1Io. Federal victory. May '7-Battle or Barhamsville or West Point, Va. Confederate victory. 17': M~y 8-.Battle of McDowoll ' ~, or Lithington's :Mills, Ya. Confeder· a~9 VICtory. • GIFT BOOK. . May 9-- Battle of Farmington, Tenn., near Corinth. Confederate victory. May 15-Attack on Drury's Bluff, James River, noar Rich mood, Va., by the Abolition fleet, which is repulsed. May 17-Battle of Princeton, .Western Va. Confederate victory. May 18, 19-' Battle near Searcy, A.rk. Confederate victory. May 21-Bombardroent of Fort Pillow, near Memphis, Tenn., re. sumed. May 23, 24-Battle of Front Royal, Va., Conf~derate victory. May 25-Battle ofWmchoster, Va. Confederate victory. May 31-Ba.tUe of the Seven Pines, near Richmond, Va. Goo· federate victory. , June 6- - Naval battle on the Mississippi river. in front of Mem phis, Tenn. Federal victory. June 6-Tbe city of Memphis, Tenn., smrendered to the Aboli- tionists. , Juno 8, 9-Batile of Port Republic, Va. Confederate victory. June 11-BatLle of Cross Keys, Va. Gen. Ewell defeats the Abo lition General Fremont. June 14.--Battle of Languelle, on White river, Ark. Confederate vict?ry. June 16-Battle ofSecessionv1lle, S.C. Confederate victory. June 25- Baitle on Lhe Williamsburg road, near -Richmond, Va. Confederate victory. , June 26, July 1-Bau.Jes of the Chickahominy, or the Seven Days' Battles before Richmond, as follows: J uue 26-Baltle of ~!ecbanicsvillo. June .Z7-Battle of Gainesville. ' _June 29-Battle of Frazer's Farm. June 30-Battle of Willis' Church. July 1-Battlo of Malvern Hill. All Confederate victories. June 28- Borobardment of Vicksburg, Miss., by the Abolition fleet. July 13- Ba tLie of Murfreesboro,' Tenn. Confederate victory. July 15-The ram Arkansas successfnlly runs the guauUet. of tho A bolition fleet near Vicksburg. , . July 24--The seige anG bombardment of }Ticksburg, abandoned by the Abolitiot;tists. • July 28-Battle of Moore's Mill, near Fulton, Mo. Federal victory . August 5, 6---Second battle of.Malvern Hill, near Richmond, Va. ]federal victory. August 5-Battle of Tazewell, Tenn., near Cumbel'land Gap. Con- federate victory. • I August 5-Battle ofBaton Rouge, La. Confederate victory. August 6-The ram Arkansas abandoned and destroyed by her officers and crew. Aurrust 8 9-Battle of Sout.h West Mountain, Va. Confederf/.Le victory.b ' • August 11-Battle of!ndependence, Mo. Confederate victory. August 15, 16-Battle of Lon,e Jack, Mo. Confederate. victory. Au~ust 21-Bat~h'> near Gallatin, Tenn. Confederate vtctory . '1~·: • r. •.I i4"o~:..· . ' f ,:.. • ' .,·~· I ,,, .' U N( ' f,J~ numw's ·.: r' ~· i ...'".\. .. August 22-Battlo of Big II ill, near Richmond, Ky. Confederate victory. ..t August 30-Battle of Richmond, Ky. Gen. Kirby Smith victo Jious. August 28-Battle of Thoroughfare Gap, Va. Confederate victory. August 30-Second battle of Manassas Plains. Confederate vic· tory. August 31-IBattle of Slovonsoo, .Ala. Confederate victory. September 13-Battle of Iuka, Miss. Coufederate victory. September 14.-Battle of Boonsboro,' Md. Canfederate 'victory. September 15-Harpers Ferry, Va., captured by Gen. Stonewall Jackson's army. Septe:nber 1 '1-Battlo of Sbarpesburg, Md. Confederate ndvan · ta~e. October 3-Battle of Corinth, Miss. Federal victovy. ' OcLober 8-Bat.tle of Perryville, Ky. Confederate victory. October 23-ABattle ofPocataligo, S. C. Confederate victory. October 30-Galvoston, Texas, surrendered to tho Abolitionists. ... November !-Bombardment of Port Lavaca, Texas. '· From tho Youth's Cntbolic Magazine. I ·; .l!'ox-Good mis~ress Goose, this charming day, Pray walk with me a little way ; The sun is up, the air is clear, \ A walk will do you good, my dear. Suppose we just go into town, To see and hear what's going on; l!'olks all admire yout· snow:white coat, .•' Bright eyes, and long and slender throat. GoosE-I thank you kindly, ll.fr. Fox, But more I thank the bolts and locks, • That make you stand outside the door, To try elsewhere your lying lore; Before you came, the day was fair, But since you spoke, I do declare, The sight of you, good sir, to·day, \ Has sent the whole sunshine away. ' That man is of a base n.nd ignoble spirit that only lives for himself, and not for his friends, for we were not born for ourselves only, but for the public good. nu"r noor-. '75 ~ i t t 1J i tl t j ttl tt s t ltt t ut ~ . 1' Oh, Uncle Buddy,' exclaimed the children, ' do let us have some games.' Well, my children, here arc sevcrals which I have gathered from the Catholic Youth's Magazine, aud other sources, from which you can take your choice : TilE THRONE OF 'COlliPLilUE NTS. . The girls take it in turn to be Lady Fair, beginning with the tallest, who takes her scat in a chair, at the upper end of the room. The others all remain at the lower end, in a row, except one, who stands in the middle of the apartment, and is called the J udge. When all arc ready, every one makes a low courtesy to tho Lady, and the J udge says: 'The Lady Fair sits like a Queen ou her throne, Give her your praises, and let her alone.' Each of the girls in tum goes up to the Judge and whispers something in praise of the Lady, taking care to remember what it is. When the compliments ha.ve all been paid, the J udge repeats them aloud, one at a time, and the Lady Fair endeavors to guess the author of the compliment, and the J udge tells her whether she is right or wrong. Whenever tb:c Lady guesses wrong, she pays a forfeit, f all of which she is to redeem before another takes the throne. The most ac· curate way of recollecting the compliments, is for the Judge to have a slate, and wn te them all down as she hears them. EXAl\IPLE: LuCY····Fanny, you arc the tallest, so you must be our first Lady Fair, and, as I am the next in height, I will be Judge. Comc,girls, range yourselves in a row at the bottom of the room, while I stand in the middle with my slate, and Fanny takes her seat at the upper end. Arc you all ready? Then let us make our courtsies, (they court~"Y to Fanny.) • The Lady Jt'air sits like a Queen on her throne, Give her your praises and lot her alone.' (The girlc; go up one at a time, to Lucy,and whisper to her •., ..' - ~.. ~. ' ·'·· 0 ' ( I .,• '76 J U~CLE RUDl{r'::; something in compliment to }lanny, which the Judge writes down on her slate.) Well, have you aU paid your compliments ? Then I will read them to the Lady Fair, (she reads)· Somebody says the Lady Fair is very good tempered. FANNY---That was Susan. LucY---No, it was Lydia. So a forfeit from your Lady· ship. t. j FANNY-As the forfeits will be a.ll mine, and as I expect to have ulany, I will give for each forfeit a flower from this nosegay, Hero is a rosebud. Now, go on. I' ' LucY-Some one said t,he Lady l?air had very bright • eyes . FANNY-That was Jan e. LucY-No, it was Isabel. So, another forfeit. Some one says the Lady Fair has beautiful ringlets. • ! . FA NNY-That was Catharine . LucY-Yes, it WAS Catharine. Some one says the Lady Fair sings very well. F ANNY-Rosc said that. hucY-No; Susan said it. So a forfeit. Somebody says the Lady Fair dances gracefully. 1 FANNY---That was Mary. I.JUCY--·Nq, it was Ellen·. A forfeit again. Some one has said the Lady Fair always minds her stops when she reads aloud. FANNY---That !ust be Jane. LucY---No, it was Rosa. So a forfeit again. Somebody said the Lady Fair takes short stitches when she sews. , . FANNY---Anne must have said that. LucY---You are right this time; it WAS Anne. Some one said the Lady Fair is clever at all sorts of plays. F ANNY···That was l\1ary. LucY---No ; it was myself. That is the compliment that I have written at the close of the list. But as you guessed wrong, one mord forfeit. You have now six pawns to re deem. When that is done, I shall have the honor of being Lady Fair, and Susan will perform the Judge. LADY Cl1JEEN ANNE. - We will imagine five little girls engaged in this play, and GIFT BOOK. I ~1 their names may be Fanny, Lucy, Mary, Ellen, and J ane. A ball, or pincushion, or something of tho kind, having been procured, Fanny leavos the room, or hides her face in a corner, that she may not see what is going 'on, while her companions range themselves in a row, each concealing both hands under her frock or apron. The ball has been given to Ellen, but all the others mu.st likewise keep their hands under cover, as if they had it. "'When all is ready, Fanny is desired to come forward, and, ad,rancing in front of the row, she addresses any one she pleases (for instance, Lucy,) in the following words : ' Lady Queen A one, she sits in the sun, As fair as a lily, as brown as a bun·, She sends you three letters, and prays you'll rend oao.' LUCY-I cannot read one without I read all. FAKNY-Then pray, Misl:i Lucy, deliver the ball. Lucy, not being the one that llas the ball, and Fanny . fi nding that she has guessed wrong, retires, and cernes back ' again as she is called. She then addresses Mary in the same words, 'Lady Queen Anne,' &c. ; but she is still mis t aken, as Mary has not the ball. Next time, Fanny ac~osts Ellen, and finds that she is now right--Ellen producing the ball from under her apron. Ellen now goes out, and Fanny takes her place in the row. Sometimes, the real holder of the ball happens to be the first person addressed. TilE HUNTSlliAN. This game is one of the 1i velicst winter evening's pas· times that can be imagined. It may be played by any num· ber of persons above four. One of the players is styled the 'Huntsman,' and the others must be called after tho differ· ent parts of the dress or accoutrements of a sportsman \; thus, one is the coat, another the h~t. whilst the shot, shot belt, powucr, powder fla sk, dog, and gun, and every other appur· tenancc belonging to a huntsman, has its representative. As many chairs as there are pl:l.yers, excluding the Huntsman, should nexe be ranged in two rows, back to back, and all the players must then scat themselves ; and being thus preparad, the Huntsman walks round the sitters, and calls out the name of one of them ; for instance, 'Gun!' when. that \ • ,. ;r · ... ' .."t~ / ·1 ~ !I ' . '18 UNCLE BUDDY'S ~ . • f\ / r I . player immediately gets up, and takes hold of the coat skirts "....· '· ,.• ••. of tho Huntsman, who continuos the walk, and ca11s out all .... ' the others, one by one; each must take hold of the skirts of the player before him, and when they are all summoned, tho Huntsman sets off, running round the chairs as fast as )lc ., •. (• can, the other players holding on, and running after him . ~ When he has run round two or throe times, he shouts out, ''I ' Bang~· and immediately si~s down in one of tho chairfl, 1: leaving his followers to scramble to the other seats as best they can. Of course, one must be loft standing, there being one chair less than tho number of players, and the player so left must pay a forfeit. The game is continued ! until all have paid their forfeits, when they are cried, and I •; t.he punishments or penances declared. The Huntsman is ) not changed throughout the game, unless he gets tired of his ti i post. JIUNT 'THE HARE. " The company all form a bircle, holding each other's hands· One, called the Hare, is left out: who runs several times round the ring, and at last stops, tapping one of the players • on bhe shoulder. The one tapped, quits the ring, and runs • after the hare, the circle again joining hands. The hare runs • in and out in every direction, passing under the arms of those in the circle, until caught by tho pursuer, when he becomes Hare himself. Those in the circle must always be friends to the Hare, and assist its escape in every way possible. TH1E FLOUR MERCHANT. The one who personates the Flour Merchant will try every way to dispose of his stock of flour, by asking questions of the others, who must, in their answers be careful not to usc these words : FLOUR, I, YES or No, as they arc forbidden, and the one who is caught using them is considered out of the game. The Flour Merchant must persevere in his endeavors to make the players use one of the interdicted words. For in· stance: · ' Do you wish any flour to·day ? 'There is none required.' .. \ • OIFT llOOK. 79 I 'But you will soon want it; let me persuade you to take some.' 'That is impossible.' '\Vhy so?~ It is t.he very best of flour; just look at it ; it is so very fine and white.' ' The quality is a matter of indifference to me.' ' But it will make such good sweet bread. Do take some.' 'You have had my answer.' ' Have I ? I must have f01·gotten it. \Vhat was it?' 'My answer was decidedly, not any.' 'But, madam, consider, it is a very reasonable price.' ' 'I will not take any.' The .Flour Merchant having succeeded in making her say ' I,' proceeds to the next one. HOW DO YOlJ Lili.E IT? This is an excellent and very amusing game for winter evening parties. It may be played by any number of per sons T he company being seated, one of the party, called the Stock, is sent out of the room, and the company then agree upon some word which will bear mbre than one mean ing. When the Stock comes back, he or she asks each of the company in S\lccession, ' How do you like it ?' One answers, 'I like it hot;' another, ' I like it cold ;' another '1 like it old;' another,' I like it new.' H e then asks the company in' succession again, ' When do you like it?' One says, 'At all times,' another, ' Very ::.eldom,' a. third. 'At dinner,' a fomth, ' On the water,' a fifth, ' On the Ian d' etc. Lastly, the Stock goes round1 and asks, ' \Vhere would you put it ?' One says, 'I would put it up the chimney;' another,' I would throw it down a well;' a third, 'I would hang it on a tree ;' a fourth, ' I would put it in a pudding.' From these answers a witty girl may guess the ·word chosen ; but should she be unable to do so, she has to pay a forfeit. Many words might ~e chosen for the game, such as Aunt and Ant ; Plane and Plain ; Rain and H.ein ; Vice a tool, and Vice, a crime ; Veil, an ai·tiole of dress, and Vale, a valley MY LADY'S TOILET. Each having ta.kcn the name of some article of dress, .. •," 80 UNCLE llUDDl'18 ~"-"l :.~...t' . chairs arc placed for all the party buL one, so as to leave one .t ' .·"',, ' chair too few. They all sit down but one, who is called the .!'l·· 'Lady's Maid,' and stands in the centre. She then calls out, '· ' ' ' My Lady's up and wants her shoes,' when the one who has \., ~ ' taken that name jumps up and calls' abocs,' sitting down di ~; ~; rectly. If any one docs not rise as soon as called, she must ~·• I • \j forfeit. Sometimes she says, ':My lady wants her whole iJ toilet,' then every one must jump up and change chairs, and ·' I as there is a chair too few, of course, it occasions a scrabble, and whoever is left standing must be Lady's Maid, and call to the others a.s before. THE DU'i'C:II CONCERT. In this game, all the parties sit down. Each person ma.kes a selection of an instrum en t --. s~y, one takes a flutP., "• another a drum, a third the trombone, and a fourth the piano, and each person must imitate, in the best way he can, tho ,. sound of the instrument, and the motions of the player. The leader of the ba11d commencing with his instrument, all the { others follow, tuning some popular Air, such as 'Dixie,'' The Volunteer,' or ' The Bonnie Blue Flag,' or ' ':rho Captain l • t with his Whiskers,' or any other air. The fun consists in this, that the leader may take any instrument from either of the pla;v.crs, who must watch the leader, and take the instru I ' • \ ment which he was previously playing. If he or she fai ls to do so, he or she pays a forfeit ; or, if he or she makes a mis· take and takes the instrument, he or she pays a forfeit. Sup pose John be the leader, playing the violin , and James to be one of the band playing the trombone. Directly, as John ceases to pl~ the violin, and imitates the trombone, James must cease the trombone and imitate the violin, and imme diat,ely as J obn returns to the violin, James must take u'p the trombone or -whatever other instrument John was playing the moment before he took the violin. If he makes a mis· take, he pays a forfeit. · This is a very laughable though rather a noisy game. It should not be continued too long. A good leader will soon be able to impose forfeits lJl>On all the players. T II E L A \V 1:· E R . • This gawe mu l3t be played by an odd number, as tJevena • GIFT BOOK. 81 I nine, eleven, thirteen, that there may be one to personate .. th~ lawyer, after all the others have arranged themselves in pa1rs. The company must saat themselves in two rows, facing each other, each girl taking for a partne'r the one opposit e. She that performs the Lawyer, walks slowly between the lines, addressing a question to whoeve r she -pleases . . T his 'question must not be answered by the one to whom it :s ad- dressed, but the reply must be made by her partner. If she inadvertently answers for herself, she must pay a furfei£; so, also, must l11er partner, if she forgets or neglects to answer ' for her companion. ' EXA"'MPLE: MARTA-Now, let us arrange the chn irs in two rows, that · you may all take your seats facing ench other. Julia, you shall be Harriet's partner; Loui s , ' ~• ~:~ ' • /~\ ( \ • .: 82 UNCLE BUDDY'S "~ ..·' ' i !){ MaitiA·--Louisa, which do you prefcr·--macaronios, or rich • t •• • cakes? , J,.II• • •• LoulSA ···Maccaronies, certainly . ~ .·,,.·\. MARIA··-A forfeit! a forfeit ~--you should not answer for }, . yourself. • , •; •,, LoursA- - llere is my waist ribbon. t.. MARIA-Harriet, did you ever before play at the Lawyer? t) J ULIA--Yes, fr equently. · ·i'·' I '~I ' t' • ~titlUtltiital ~UlUtltllttUt~, . The delightful and valuable science of Arithmetic first arrived at any degree of perfection in Europe among the '• Greeks, who made use of the letters of the alphabet to ex press their numbers. A similar mode was followed by the Romans, who, besides characters for each rank of classes, in· troduced others for five, fifty and five hundred, which are still used for chaptenrof books, and some other purposes. The common arithmetic, in which the ten Arabic figures, 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, ~~ 9, 0, are used, was unknown to the Greeks and Romans, and came into Europe, by way of Spain, from tho Arabians, who are said to have reeeived it from the In· dians. It is supposed to have taken its origin from the teu fingers of the hand, which were made use of in computa· tions, before Arithmetic was brought into an art. TO TELL ANY NUMBER THOUGHT OF. Desire any person to think of a number, say a certain number of coppers; tell him to borrow that sum of some one in the company, and add the number borrowed to the amount thought of. It will here be proper to name the per son who lends him the coppers, and to beg the one, who makes the calculation, to do it with great care, as he may readily fall into an error, especially the first time. Then say to the person, ' I do not lend you, but give you 10, add them to the former sum.' Uontinue in this manner: ' 'l'he sum, the half,of which is given to the poor, is nothing \ else than twice the number thought of, plus 10; and wh en the poor have received their part, there remains only the • number thought of, plus 5 : but the number thought of is cut off when the sum borrowed is returned--and conse- quently, there remain only 5. . It may be hence seen, that the result may be easily known, since it will be the half of the number given in the third. part of the operation ; .for e~ample, whatever be the number thought; of, the remainder will be 36 or 25, accord ing as 72 or 50 have been given. If this trick be performed - several times successi\ely, the number given in the third part of the operation must be always different; for, if the result were several time!!! the same, the deception might be discovered. ·when the five first parts of the calculation for obtaining a result are finished, it will be best not to name it at first, but to uontinue the operation, to render it more ' complex, by saying, for example : 'Double the xemainder, deduct two, add three, take the fourth part,' &c. ; and the different steps uf the ca~culation- may be kept in mind, 4n order to know how much the first result has been increased or diminished. This irregular process never fa.ils to confountl those who a.ttcmpt to follow it. ' I ' '·.. . , (.( 84 UXCLE DUDDY'S ''' ;.1' A SECOND METJIOD.--Bid the person take 1 from the num , ~; "• ber thought of, and then double tho remainder ; desire him .,t ,,." , .. to take 1 from this double, and to add to it tho number ••• thought of; in the last place, ask him the number ansmg ' . from this addition, and if you add 3 to it, the third of the sum will be the number thought of. A TmRD 1\1 l!:TIIOD.-Dcsire the person to add 1 to the triple of the number thought of, and to multiply the HllU by 3 ; then bid him add to this product the nurnper thought of, and the result will be a sum, from which if 3 be subtracted, W!e remainder will be ten times of the number required ; and 1f the cipher on the right be cut oft' from the remainder, the " other figure will indicate the number sought. ' EXAMPLE: . Let tho number thought of be 6, the triple of which is :t... . 18 ; and 1 be added, it makes 19 ; the tri plc of this last number is 57, and if 6 be added, it makes 63, from ·which if 3 be subtracted, the remainder will be GO ; now, if the ci ,. pher on the right be cut off, the remaining figure, G, will be the number required. A FouRTH METHOD -Bid the person multiply the num '• ber thought of by itself·; then desire him to add 1 to the number thought of, and to multiply it also by it::~ elf; in the ~ ' last place, ask him to tell the difference of these two pro ducts, which will certainly be an odd number, and the least half of it will be the number required. Let the number thought of, for example, be 10 ; which .. multiplied by itself, gives 100 ; in the next place, 10 in crea'sed by 1 is 11, which, multiplied by itself, makes 121 ; and the difference of these two squares is 21, the lca.<>t half of which being 10, is the number thought of. This operation might be varied by desiring the person to multiply the second number by itself, after it has been dimin ished by 1. In this oase, the number thought of will be equal to the greater half of the difference of the two squares. Thus, in the preceding example, the square of the number ' thought of is 100, and that of the same number, less 1, is 81 ; the difference of these is 10---the greater half of which, or 10, is the number thought of. THE l'tiONEY GAl'tll~ A per:;on having in one hancl a pic<:e of gold, and iu t.he • GIF'r nooK. 8G other a piece of silver, you may tell in which hand he has the gold, and in which the silver, by the following method : Some value, represented by an even number, such as 8: must be assigned to the gold, and a value represented by an odd number, such as 3, must be assigned to the silver ; after which desire the person to multiply the number in the rigbt hand by any even number whatever, such as 2 ; and that in the left by an odd number, as 3 ; then bid him add together the two products, and if the whole sum be odd, toe gold will be in the right hand, and the silver in the left ; if the sum be even, the contrary will be the case. 'To conceal the arti:fice.hetter, it will be sufficient to ask whether the sum of the two products can be halved without a remainder; for in that case the total will be even, and in the contrary case odd. It may be readily seen, that t6e pieces, instead of being in the two hands of the same person, may be supposed to be in the hands of two persons, one of whom has the even num ber, or piece of gold, and the other the odd number, or piece of silver. 1'hc same operations may then be ·performed in re· gard to these two persons, as arc performed in regard to the two h'ands of the same person, calling the one privately the right and the other the left. T II E G A Ill E 0 F T H E Jt I N G • This is an appli0ation of one of the methods employed to tell several numbers thought of,and ought to be performed in a company not exceeding nine, in order that it may be less complex. Desire any one of the company to take a &ring, and put it on any joint of whatever finger he may think proper. The question ,then is, to tell what person has the ring, and on ~hat hand, what finger, and on what joint. For this purpose, you must call the first person 1, the sec· on d :2, the third 3, and so on. You must also denote the ten fin ger~ of the two hands by the following numbers of the natural progression. 1, 2. 3, 4, 5, &c., beginning at the thumb of the right hand, and Cf\ding at that of the left, that by this ordes of the number of the finger may, at the same time indicate the hand. In the last place, the joints must be denoted by 1, 2, 3, beginning at the joints of the fingers. . ' .. lJ:';Clr.F: DUDDY'S To render the solution of this problem more explicit, let .. us f;u ppose that the fourth person in the company has "tltc .. ~ .. •• ring op the sixth fingCJ·, that is to say, on the little finger of the left hand, and on the second joint of that finger. Desire oome one to double the number expreflsing the per son, which, in this case, will give 8 ;, bid hin1add 5 to this double, and multiply the sum by 5. which will make 65 ; then tell him t•J add to this product the number denoting t.he finger, that is to :-ay, 6, by which means you will ba\e 71' and, in the last plat'e. dc~ire him to multiply the last number by 10, and to add to the product the number of the joint, 2; the last result will be 712 ; ,if ft·om this number you deduct 2;30, the remainder will be 462 ; the first figure of which, on the left, will denote the person ; th.e next, the finger, and consequently, the l1and ; an4 the last, the joint. 'i It must here be observed,. that when the last result con ·, fains a cipher, which would have happened in the present example, bad 1he number of the finger been 10, you must privately subtract from the figure preceding the cipher, and assign the value of 10 to the cipher itself. THE SOVEREIGN AND TilE SAGE. A Sovereign being dc ~ irous to confer a liberal reward on .. one of his courtier:) who had performed some very import I ant service, desired hi Ill to ask whatev~r he thought proper, . > assuring him it should be grn.nted. The courtier, who was well acquainted with the scicn~e of numbers, only requested ·' that the monarch would give him a quantity of wheat, equal to that which would ari~e from one grain doubled sixty-three times successively Th'c valnc of the reward was immense; .. for it will be found, hy c1lcnlation, that the sixty-fourth term of tho double progr·ession, divided by 1, 2, 4, 8, 16, 32, &c., • is 922337203685-1:77 3808. 13ut the sum of all the terms of a double progression, beginning with 1, may be obtained by doubling the last term, and . subtracting from it 1. The \ number of the grains of wheat, therefore, in the present case, will be 18-!:-!67 44073709551615. Now, if a pint con tain 9210 grains of wheat, a gallon will contain 73728 : and ::s ci;ht g'-: '!"ns n:~k <>nc lm~hel, if we divide tl1c above re ~ ult by eight times 7:17~ 8 , we shall have 31274997-111295 (Uf"r ROOK. 8'i for tho number of the bushels of wheat equal to the above number of grains : a quantity greater than what the whole surface of the earth could produce in severa.l years, and which, in value, would exceed all the ric.hes, perhaps, on the globe. 'I'HE llORSE DEALER'S BARGAIN. • A gentleman taking a fancy to a horse, which a horse dealer wished to dispose of at as high a price as he could, the latter, to induce the gentleman to become a purchaser, offered to let him have the horse for the value of the twenty fourth nail in his shoes, reckoning one farthing for the first nail, two for the second, four for the third, and so on to the twenty-fourth. The gentleman thinking he should have a good bargain, accepted the offer ; the price of the horse was, therefore, necessarily great. l3y calculating as before, the twenty-fourth term of the progression, 1, 2, 4, 8, &c., will be found to be 8388608, equal to the number of farthings the purchaser gave for the • horae ; tho price, therefore amounted to £g738 2s. 8d. T ilE DINNER PARTY. A club of seven persons agreed to dine together every day successively, as long as they could sit down to table differ ently arranged. How many dinners would be necessary for that purpose? I t may be easily found by the rules already given, that the club must dine together 5,040 times before they would exhaust all the arrangements possible,- which • would require above thirteen years. ' Straws swim on the surface, but pearls lie at the bottom. Showy parts strike e\"ery eye, but solid qualities are only to be discovered by the most accurate observation. IIow sweet are the slumbers of him who can lie down on his pillow and review the transactions of every day, without condemning himself. I ' ~, . .· t · ,. .' ...... ~· .. ; 88 ~~~ UNCLe DUJJJJY'S • . .'~. ~.. 7. ,.'· 'f', 0 ...... }'rom tho Vntbolic Youth's Mngnzlnc, • 1 : ,,~.. ' .. There was An old man who lived in a wood. As you shall plainly see, • He thought he could do more work io a day Thau his wife could do in three. "With all my heart," the old wife said, " If you will me allow ; 'Tis you !!baH stay at borne to-day, ·- ..0 nd I will hold tho plow. ··And you shall rtlilk the Tiny cow, Lest that sbe should ~o dry; And you shall feed the litlle pigs, 'I 'l'uat are within the stye. " And you sha 11 watch the speckled hou, Lest she should f{O astray, And not forget the spool of yaru Tlrat. I spin every day." • • The old wife t{)ok her stick in hand, And went to bold tho plow; The old man put his pari on his head, And wont to milk tl,e cow. • But Tiny winch'd. and Tiuy Hincb'd, And Tiny toss'd her uose, And Tiny gave him such a kick, 'l'hat the blood J'llll down to his toe~;. A od then he went to feed the pigs, Thllt were within the stye; • Bnt he hunched his head a~aiust the shed, Aud made the blood to fly. • 4 I And then bo watched the speckled hen, Lest she should go astray; But be quite forgot the spool of yarn That his wife spun every day. And when his wife cam~ home at night, He said be could plainly see That she could do more work in a d~ty \ Than he could do in tbreo. / / (a.fl' BOOK. 89 l<"t•om t'bc Bon tl of.J3rotbcrbood. i ltt ~ll~ ttt the ~ulut ' A little boy in llolland was returning one night from a village to which be had been sent by his father on an errand, when he noticed the water trickling thro~gh a narrow open ing in the dyke. H e stopped anu thought what the conse- . quences would be if the bole was uot closed. lie knew, for be had often beard his father tell, the sad disasters which happened from small beginnings; bow, in a few hours, the opening would become larger, and let in the mighty mass of waters pressing on the dyke, until the whole defence being washed away, the rolling, dashing, angry waters would sweep on to the next village, destroying life and property, and everything in its way. Should he run home and alarm the . villagers, it; would be dark before they could arrive, and the hole might even then be so large as to defy all attempts to close it. Vrompted by these thoughts, he ~eated himself on the banks of the canal, stopped the opening with his hands, and patiently awaited the approach of some villngcr. 13ut no one came· H our a.fter hour roHed slowly by, yet there sat the heroic boy, in eold and darkness, shiYcring, wet, and tired, but stoutly pressing his hand against the dangerous breach. All night he stayed at his post. Ali last the morn ing broke. A clergyman, walking up the canal, h eat:~ a I groan, and looked uround to see where it came from. ' \\ hy :1re you there, my child ?' he a:skecl, seeing the boy and sur • prised at his strange position. ' I am keeping back the w,a .. . ter, sir, and saving the village from being drowned,' answered the child, w-ith lips so benumbed with cold that he could scarcely speak,. The astonished Minister relieved the boy. T he dyke was closed, and the danger which threatened hund reds of lives was prevented. In matters of conscience jint thoughts are best : m mat~ ters of prudence, last thoughts arc best;. 90 U.NOJ,E IIU lJDY1$ From Fniry 'fnlos of nll Nations . .., tt ,•, ' • .,.. .. ., A miser living in Kufa had heard that in Bass01·a also K there dwelt a miscr-Iporc miserly than himself, to whom he might go to sehoo~, and from whom he might learn much. He forthwith Journeyed thither, and presented himself to the . \ great master as an humble commencer in tho art of avarice1 anxious to learn, and under him to become a student. ' W cl " . - come ~· said the miser of Bac:sora., ' we will straight go into ' ' the market to make some purchases.' They went to the r'' baker. ' Hast thou good bread ?' ' Good indeed, my mas >II ters ; and fresh and soft as butter. ' Mark this, friend,' .said the man of Bassora to the one of Kufa, ' butter is compared . with bread as being the better of the two. A s we can only ,.• consume a. small quu.ntity of that, it will also be the cheaper ; and we shall therefore act more wisely, and more savingly too, in being satisfied with butter.' They then went to the butter merchant, and asked if .he had good butter. ' Good, indeed, and ftavory and fresh as the finest olive oil,' was the answer. 'Mark this also,' said the host to his guest, ' oil is compared with the \Cry best butter, and therefore, by • much ought to be preferred to the latter.' They next went I to the oil vender. ' H ave you good oil?' 'The very best • quality-white and transparent as water,' was the reply. ' ' Mark that, too,' said the miser of Bassora to the one of Kufa, ·by this rule water is the very best; now, at home, I have a pailful, and most hospitably therewith will I entertain you.' And, indeed, on their return, nothing .but water did he place before his guest, because they had learned that wa ter was better than oil, oil better than butter, butter better than bread. ' God be praised !' said the uVSer of Kufa, ' I have not journeyed this long distance in vain.' --- - '1)--- ·- -- Those who are the most faulty are the most prone to find faults in others. , I faFT R001C. l. Tho riddle of riddles I It dances aud skips; It is fair to the eye, though it cheats to the lips; If it. meets with its match, it is easily caught, But. if money can buy it, 'tis not wo~th a grol\t. 2. I am in the fire, but not in tho ftame; 1 belong to the master, buL not to the dame: I am in the Church, but not. iu tile steeple; I belong to tb,e parson, but not to the people. \ 3 A wor 5. 'Tis true I have both face and hand~; And move before your eye; Yet when I go, my body stands, And when I stand I lie. 6. There's not a creature lives beneath tho sky . Can secrets keep so faithfully as I. 7. I'm useful to the· young•and old, And serve to keep them bot and cold ; I change my shape, I'm short or tall, I'm thick .or thin, but fair to all, I'm sick and hardly seen at morn ; I love the fire, the w~ter hate, And fear each breatli"of wind like t'a te. 8. I'm seen in lhe moon, but not in tt e sun ; I'm put in the pistol, but not in the gun ; I'm found in a fork, but not in a knife; I belong to the parson but not to his wife ; I go with the rogue, but not with the thiei; I'm seen in a book, but not in a leaf; .. 1 ' ";,·r ~ ..I :.· ' t.l . I y~·"'·.t ••t~- , :·~. . .~-11' I dwell in n town, but not a streot; ,,.' ). ·..; .. I go with your toes, but not with your Jcot. . ') ···'''• ' 9. Pray, children, tell-- me, if you can, - ~ ·.;.~I I;, II Who is that highly favored ·man; ; \ .. Who, though he's married a wife, I~ Still lives single all his life. ~~;.. ,,,. . 10. The beginning of-- ctemity, ~) The end of time and space ; ;1, The beginning of every cod, f· f • L And the cud of every place. 11. I have no bead, and a tale I lack, But oft have arms, and head, and back; ~. I inhabit the palace, tho tavern, the cot; :r 'Tis a beggarly res1dence where I am noi.. If a monarch were present, I tell yon no fable, "''I ·• I still would oe placed at the head of tho table. • -- 12. I'm found in loss, but not in gain, If you search them, you'll search in vaiu; I'm found in hour, but not in day, And what I am, you now may say. !. -- ' ' U. There was a thing a full month old, t When Adam was no more; I; But oro that thing 'vas five weeks old, ' Adam was five score. --- H. 1'wo legs I've got, which never walk oq grouud, But when I gG --to run, ono leg turns round. 15. In marble walls, as white as milk, Lined with a skin as soft as silk; Witlun a fountain, crystal clear, A golden apple does appear. No doors there are to this strong-hold, Yet thieves-break in aud steal tho gold. 16. I never in a house was born, Nor did I evt:r fly; And yet to make rny puzzle out, I soar mto the sky. I \ 17. A word there is, five syllables it contains; ' Take one away, no syllablo r~ains, ' \ • OIFT DOOK. 93 1. Tho Hearl. . 2. Tho letter R. 3. Bye. 1. A pair of shoes. 5. A clock 6. A key . . 7. fl. lighted candle. 8. The let.ter 0. 9. A Priest. • 10. 1'he leLter 1 ~. 11. A Chair. 12. Tho letter 0. 13. The Moon. 14. Divide r~. lG. An l ~g g. lG. Balloon. 17. Monosylable. ~ OltltttdtUlU~. 1. What. do we do whon, t.o increase the effect, wo di m mi~h t.h e cause ? 2. Why is a dog biting his tale like a good economist? 3. What is t.hat whicll no one likes to give away, and yet 110 one likes to keep? 4.. Why i!! the human mind like soaling wax? 5. What thing is that. which is len${Lhened by being ont. at both ends? . 6. W hat makes mor'3 noise than a pig under a gate ? 7. Why is a bee-hive likoa spectator? 8. What burns to keep a secret ? 9. What are all m11n doing at sunrise 7 JO. What is the difference between half-a-dozen dozen and six do7.en dozen ? 11. Where wa<~ Peter when the candle went out ? 12. Why is a Clergyman's horse like a King ? 1:1. Why is an Attorney like a beggar? 14. Pray, children, who, m seeming wit delight, Say what's invisible yet never out of sigbt f · Hi. I am perfect] with a bead, perfect witho:Jt a head, perfect with a tail. perfect without a tail, and perfect with both. 1 -16. Hold np your hand, and you will soo what you never uid see never :!aD sec, and never will see. \¥bat is it? l'i. Where did Napoleon stand when he landed at St. Helena? 18. Why is a State prison like d'pack of cards ? 19. Who is t.bat lady whose visits nobody desires to receivo, t.ho' her mother is welcomed by everybody ? 20, Why does a miller wear a white hat ? 21. How many sides are there to a plum pudding ? 22. Why are two laughing girls like the wings of a chicken ? 23. When is a man over head and ears in debt? 211. Why is the nose on your face like the letter T, m the word civility '! 2G. Why is n dancing master liko a tree 7 \. , I ' • • ''·~· c· ·t ,~~, • ... 94 ·~ ~"l.l' 26. Why is a pig with a curled tail liRe the ghost in Hamlet? :~.~ l r••, 27. What do we all do wbon wo firdt go to bed 'l :,,.., 28. Why is a bonnet with a faded ribbon like a lump burning ij dimly '/ • I 29. Why is a drunkard like a tanuor ? •·/ • 30. Why is a beggar like a batrister '? '., 31. Why is a butLon·hole like a cloudy day 1 t'"• '. 32. What makes all women alike? 33. What does a 74 gun-ship weigh, wiLh all her crew on board, just before she sets sail ? • 34. Why is a short neg ro like a white man ? 35. What is most like a horse's shoo 'l 36. If' you give a kiss and take a kiss what does it make ? 37. Why is a towu in Essex like a noisy dog ? 38. Why is a man who is making cent by cent at a trade, like Ireland ? ·' 39. When is a door not a door? 40. Why is a Jew in a fever ltke a precious stone? 4J. Wby does the eye resemble a severe whool master? 42. What word is that in the English language, of one syllable, which, by taking away the firs~ t.wo leuers, becomes a word of two syllables? 43. Why is a peach stone like a regiment ? ' 44. Why is a man who runs in debt ltke a clock ? 45. What frmt is that whose name answers to a busy body ? 46. If you buy four books Cor a penny, and give them away, why are you like a telescope ? . 47. What is that wbich is often brought to the table, always cut, and never eaten ? · f 48. What is tbat which lives in wmter, dies in summer, aod grows with its root upwards ? · 4.9. My first is a play thing; my second few pl~y with, my third plays with nobody'? 50. Why is it ndvis~blo to cultivate the friendship of a knock kneed man? f1i. Why is an angry person like a loaf? 52. Why is a shallow person like a pane of glass? 53.' My first is a malenal used for ships; my second is to commit .... a fault ; my whole is a useful vessel ? 54. What trade is the sun ? • 55. What is that which goes from Charleston to Augusta without, moving? 56. My first makes time ; my second spends it ; and my whole tells it ? , 57. In spring, I am gay in my aLtire; in summer, I wear heavy clothing ; in winter, 1 am naked. 58. Why are fixed stars like pen, ink, and paper 'l 59. Why is a good story like a parish bell ? 60. Why are deep sighs like long stockings ? • I • \ I GIFT BOO:&: . 95 • l. We snulr the candle: 2. Because he makes both ends meo~ 3 . .A bed. 4. Because it is capable of receiving an impresaion. 5. A ditch. 6. Two pigs under a gate. 7. Because it is a be· bolder. 8. Seahng wax. 9. Growing older. 10. Half-a-dozen dozen is 72, and six dozen dozen is 864; answer, the differooco is 66 dozen, or 792. 11. In the dark. 12. He is governed by a Minister. 13. He is a Solicitor. 14. The eye. 15. A wig, 16. Your little finge r is ns long as your middle finger. 17. On his feet. 18. Because it contains Knaves. 1!> . Misfortur:e. 20. To keep his bead warm. 21. Two-an inside and an outside. 22. They have a "merry thought" betw~en them. 23. When his wig is not paid for. 24.. It is placed between ~he two l's (eyes). 25. He is full of bows (bouqhs). ·26. It can a tail (tale) unfold. 27 . Make an impresl!ion. 28. It wants new trimming. 29. He soaks his hide. 30. He pleads.· 31. It is overcast. S2. The dark. 33.. She weighs anchor. 34. He is not at all (a tall) black. 35. A mare's shoe. 36. A rebuss. 37. It is Barking. 38. Because his capital is doubling (Dublin). 39. Wbeo 1t is a-jar. 4.0. Because be is a Jew-ill (jewel). 41. It bas a pupil under the lash. 42. Plague-Ague. 43. Because it bas a kernel (Colonel). ' . 44. Be goes on tick. 45. A medlar (medler). 46. You make a farthing present (ajm· thing p1·esent). 47. A pack of cards. 48. An icicle. 49. A raLtle ::make. 50. Because a friend in-kneed is a friend indeed. 51. He is crusty. 52. He is easily seen throtJgh. 53. Pitch-er. 54. A tanner. 3G. Tur~pike or railroad. 56. Watchman. 57 . A tree. 58. They are stationary (stationery). 59. It is often told. 60. Because they, are heigh·hos (high hose). Gratitude for rept·oof and being found fault with, is a roark that we love the virtues contrary to those failings for which we arc corrected or reproved ; and, therefore, it is a great sign of our making progress towards perfd'ction. T he refined luxuries of the table, besides enervating the body, poison that very pleasure they are intended to pro mote ; for, by soliciting the appetite, they exclude the · greatest pleasure of taste, that which arises from the gratifi. cation cj hunger. I ndulge not desire at th,e expense of the slightest article of virtue ; pass once its limits, and you fall headlong into vice. ... ' ~~ · 9G l'X('LE nrooy':-; f:U'T DOOK. • A counLryman was lying ouc un.y ip Lltc shade of an oal{ tree, and looking at a gourd which w~ growing in t.hc hedge of tho garrlen c lo~c by. lie f'hook his bead. ' No, no,' said he ; ' it strikes me as not right, thn.t the paltry little gourd should produce su,ch a. large splendid fruit and that the large ~tately oak tree shoul • 'l'HE PASSENGER. AND THE PtLoT.-It had blo'' n a violent gale at sea, and the whole crew of a large vessel were in imminent danger of shipwreck. After the rolling of the waves was somewhat abated. a passenger wlJo had never been at sea before, having observed the pilot calm and apparently unconcerned even in their greatest danger. had the curiosity to ask him what death his father died. ' He perished at~a.' answered the pilot, '.o.s my grandfather did before him. ' And are you no.t a~raid of trusting yourself to an· element that has proved thus fatal to your family ?' ' Afraid ! by no .means ; why we must all die : is not your father dead ?' 'Yes, but he died in his bed.' 'And why then nre you not afraicl of trusting yourself to your bed ?' Surely, if the hand of Providence is equally extended over all places, there is no more reason for me to be afraid of going to sea, than for you · tO be afraid of going to bed.' ' A man who gives his children a habit of industry, pro vides for them better than giving them a stock of money. ~,~&---~---~--~v~~~-=-~--~. ~. ~- ~-~----~c ~===~~~------~ t ! CQJilllf~dJ~IJ'eJJt~ (QQ;~OIJ'Illllllill~llllt . ; I PRESIDE NT, JEFFERSON DAVIS, l ~ OF MIIS188IPPI. ( ~ ~ VICE·PRE SIDENT, ' ~ ALEXANDER H. STEPHENS, ~ l Uf' GBOBOIA. ! l ::)eeretary if State-J. P. llENJ AMIN, of Loui!!iaua. ~ '' Secretary of the T reasury-C. G. MEMMINGER, of S .C . ~ Secretary of War-JAS. A. SEDDON, of Virginia. ~ Secretary of the N avy---S. R. MALLORY, of Florida. Attorney General-THOS. H. WATTS, of Alabama. Post .~laster General-J. H. REAGAN, of Texas. STATES OF T HE CONFE DERACY. OAPIT AL-Hichmond, Virginia. ! POPULA' N STATU. OAP1TAL8. GOVBBNOB8. ' rN 1860. ------Alabama ...... -·------Mon tgome------ry ...., .....--&1 J---. G. S----horter...... ------... l----91$4 296 Arkansas...... Little Rock ...... H • .!!'lanagan...... 486 427 r }'lorida ...... , .. ·rallahassee ... , ...... ~. J ohn .Milton ...... 140 489 Georgia ...... Mllledltevllle ...... J oaeph E. Brown...... 1 067 sn Kentucky ...... Frankfurt ...... R. Hawes...... 1 1~ 1ll~ Loollliana ...... Baton Rouge ...... Thoe. 0 . Moore...... 709 488 1 Ml1111laalppt...... J ackson ...... J obn J. Pettus...... 791 895 1\Uaeourt ...... J eft'eraon City ...... C. F. J ackson...... 1 178 817 North Carollna ...... Raleigh ...... C. H. "ft.~~ ce ...... 992 667 South Caroltna ...... Columbia ...... !!'. W. Pickens ...... • 7o.t 812 Tenneaaee...... Naahville ...... I. G, Harris...... 1 109 847 Te:u.a...... Austin ...... F. R. Lubbock... . • .. . 601 089 VlrgtniL, ...... Richmond ...... ; ... J ohn Letcher...... 1 :196 08a 11,480,79[) The Terrltorle11 or Arizona and New Mexico are all!o cll\lmed as part or the ~ Conrederate 8tatAa. ( ~ ~ • ...---~ · (------~.. ~~· ~~~~~~<~~Q ~ UNCLE BUDDY'S ~~ ~ottntiug-lottst ~dtuda:r, ! f -FOR.- ~ ------=~== • ~ ?;:; d' ~ ~ ~ ~~ o S ~ ~ I ~ ~ ~ ~ Y, ~ tol t:1 0 6 >-:1 Y. :.;. tol M C: 6 -i .M o.nths. ? ~ ~ ~ ill ~ ;il/Months. ~ d ~ ~ / ::o ;.. ~ ~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~ ------·--- ~ ...... 123 ...... 1234 'JAN'Y. 4 5 6 7 8 910 JULY... 5 6 7 8 91011 11121314151617 12131415161718 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 . 19 20 21 22 23'24 25 ~~ ~~ ~: ~~ ~~ ~~,~~ ~~ ~: ~~ ~~~~~ ~~ .i FEB'Y. 1 2 a 4 5 6 7 AUG'T. 2 3 4 5 G 7 8 8 9 10 1112 1314 910 11121131415 15161718192021 16171819202122 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 23 24,25 26·27 28 29 MAR'H 'i '2 ·3 '4 ·5 '6 '7 SEP'R .. ~~~~ 'i '2/'3 ·4 ·5 8 9 10 1112 1314 6 7 8 9:10 1112 15 1617 18 19 20121 13 14151617 1819 22 23 2125 26 27:28 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 ~ 29 30 3] ...... 27 28 29 30 ...... ~ ~ APRIL ...... l 2 31 4 0CTO'R ...... 1 1 2 3 5 6 7 8 9 10111 4 5 6 7 8 910 12131415161718 11121314151617 19 20 2122 23 24 25 18 19 20 21/'22 23 24 ~ ~· 26127 28 29 30 .. .. 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 ~ MAY ...... 1 2 NOV'R ...... 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 ', 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 10 111213 14 15 16 / 8 910 1112 13 14 ~·..-. 17 1819 20 21 22 23 1516171819 20 21 ~ , :i ~~ ~~ ~: ~~ ~~ ~~ 1~~ i~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~~ ~~ > ~ > JUNE .. 1 2 3 4 5 6:DEC'R I . . .. 1 2 s / 4 .5 ··. 7 8 910 111213 .. 6 7 8 9·10 11 12 14151617 18 19120 113 14151617118 19 ~; ~evet j!,.£ o# Ttl/ ~:-.tl<>w •o-ha£ ca.• ld ~ 6-e df»te ~ =da;y. ~ ~ 1 ~.-- " - ·~"'>· ~v. • • ~~~ • •"-• •· • -~~· ·~ ~..._..__..._~ J9 ' ~C~<1:A_~.;CD338!0.:X~.JO~~c~){(" .·._ ..... • \ ' '