with fragrant violets; and then we left the dear companions, with many tears that were not sorrowful, but tender, in lovely Greenwood, and came home reconciled because we knew how much our little pet had gained when God took him. And, now I think of the little fellow, and am very grateful that I knew him—because he taught me how good, and gentle, and full of hope it is possible to be when our trials seem very great.
The Baby-Carriage.
How different are the customs of savage and civilized life. If we should just peep into the wigwam of an Indian, we should see the mother of the family sitting down on the bare ground. At most, the skin of some wild animal would form the only article of upholstery. No sofa, no chair, no cricket. The baby would be lashed with thongs of deer skin to a piece of plank in the place of a cradle, and if the mother wanted to take it to any distance out of doors, she would sling it to her back.
How different is the case with both mothers and babies in a state of civilization. Just fancy their condition as above described, and then turn your eye to the cut with which we have embellished the present number; is there not a difference? See the group as they sit or stand beneath the vine-arbor. How attractive is everything about them. The two neatly dressed girls, listening to the directions of the lady while she tells them not to expose the face of the baby to the sun, as the domestic did the last time she had it out. The lady herself, so lady-like, and graceful. Above all look at the baby and its carriage; the former slumbering so tranquilly in its airy, charming little cradle, so different from the plank bed of the poor little savage. How comfortable it looks. Then the carriage—what a nice contrivance, and how much better to be wheeled about in this, than to be slung to the back of a jolting squaw. Believe me boys and girls, it is a great thing, after all, to live in a country where civilization exists. Think of it, young friends, and “be ye thankful.”
For the Youth’s Companion.
Travels by Sea and Land
Ship Fairthorn, Straits of Gibraltar.
My Dear Companion:—There was early rising among the passengers on board the ship Fairthorn this morning, for the cry of “land ho!” was heard from the mast-head before day-break. The mate had told Charles that we should sight land by 12 o’clock last night, and so he begged permission to wrap himself up in his great coat and sit up until then. As the moon was shining brightly, I consented.
But these sailor predictions, like those made about the weather at home, never come to pass at the right time, so, completely wearied out, Charles had to creep into his berth about half past twelve, without a single glimpse of “terra firma.”
In consequence, he was a little later than the rest of us, out on deck, and while we all stood silently admiring the high, dark promontories on the African Coast, with our hearts light, and our eyes filled with glad tears, he, poor fellow, had to lean over the ship’s side and relieve his heaving stomach, he was so sea-sick.
“Oh! fie, Charley!” said the Captain, “to give the Old World such a welcome as that!”
“It is too bad, sir,” said Charles, “but really I can’t help it.”
“Patient waiters are no losers,” added Mary, playfully.
We were now at the entrance of the Straits of Gibraltar. For the first time since we left Boston, the Star-spangled banner of “Columbia’s happy land,” floated gayly at the mast-head, and it was interesting to remember, that it was through these very waters Columbus sailed on his wonderful voyage of discovery.
As the day wore on, Cape Trafalgar on the Spanish Coast, came into view. It was in the waters of this Cape that Nelson’s last great battle was fought. Sixty ships sent their heavy cannonading into each other’s sides, until, with an immense loss of life, England was proclaimed the victor. “England expects every man to do his duty,” said Nelson to his men. These few words fired their ambition, and made the before doubtful combat, a complete success.
This was Nelson’s hundredth battle, and in this, he received his death-wound. To-day, the waters leaped merrily about us, as though they had never been red with the blood of the slain. The sun shone brightly, lighting up the wild, romantic, looking hills, with a rich beauty. One would never have dreamed, that agony such as that day saw, had ever darkened a scene so fair.
Sailing up to Gibraltar, we had on both sides of us, a grand and lovely prospect. A thin, purple haze, such as you may often have noticed in paintings, half-veiled the shore, and yet made it even more charming. All along the coast on the lonely headlands, we saw the watch-towers which the Moors are said to have built. You know they once held Spain.
But the view of Gibraltar itself, was the crowning picture of the day. Imagine a mountain of solid rock, standing out into the sea, with a large city and heavy fortifications at its base, a bright sky overhead, and the white, dashing foam, all around the rocky shore, leaping up and singing its wild surging song, and you will understand why Gibraltar is worth crossing the ocean to see. There is a high, rocky promontory, on the opposite shore of the Strait, on whoso summit is “Ceuta,” which is said to be the most cruel of the Spanish Prisons.
Do you remember hearing of Lopez, who, with a small army, attempted to raise a rebellion in Cuba, which should make the island free from its present government? Well, some of his followers, or soldiers, rather, are shut up in this prison. It made my heart ache to look at its white walls, and think of the misery within them.
These promontories of Ceuta and Gibraltar, are the famous Pillars of Hercules, mentioned in Ancient History.
You may not know that this great fortress of Gibraltar is in the hands of the English. I suppose it is better for American shipping that it is so, but yet it seems rather hard that it has been taken away from Spain, to whom it rightfully belongs. It is the strongest and most important fortress in the world. England has not obtained her foothold here, without hard struggles. The Spanish and French together tried to take it from her, about the time of the American Revolution. They besieged it for four years. One battle alone, cost them over a million of dollars. There was one English boy in the Fort at the time of this attack, whose eyesight was so remarkable, that he could follow the course of the enemy’s shell in the air, until it was about to fall, and then give warning to the British soldiers, in time for them to escape from danger. The attack, however, was not successful, and England has held Gibraltar in peace ever since.
The Captain “tacked ship” and went up into the Bay of Gibraltar to give us a nearer view of the city. We saw elegant dwellings, with spacious grounds around them,—saw tier on tier of flat roofed stone houses; (for the city is built on a slope, whether of rock or earth, I do not know,)—saw the soldier’s barracks; the sentinels in their stone boxes; and much more that I have neither the power, nor the time to describe.
I am writing all this by lamp-light. There is a good deal of motion to the ship just now, for we are sailing at the rate of nine knots an hour.
We expect to cast anchor in Malaga harbor before morning. Weary, but thankful, that our feet are so soon to stand again on solid earth. I close this, the last of my letters from the good ship Fairthorn.
Aunt Redi .
The Purple Emperor Butterfly.
Did you notice that splendid butterfly of a brownish color, shining with purple; with eye-like markings on the upper part of his wings? That is the purple Emperor Butterfly, one of the noblest of the whole tribe. In the month of July he makes his first appearance in the winged state, and fixes his throne upon the topmost branch of some lofty tree. From this exalted station he makes his excursions in the air, and sometimes ascends to a great height. Very likely a rival of his highness is enjoying himself at an equal height on an adjoining tree.—If so, it will not be long before a combat will take place between the two monarchs. Up they go into the air, each trying to ascend above the other; up, up they mount—higher and higher, higher and higher, cuffing each other with their wings as they ascend out of sight.
In a few minutes down they come again, reach resuming his former position and looking defiance at his daring adversary. If not too fatigued the contest will he renewed until one or the other shall quit the premises.
Few insects venture so high into the air as the Emperor butterfly. He is a bold, resolute flyer, and often puts his abilities to the full stretch in his ærial excursions.
The Primrose.
The early yellow primrose,
With broad and open face,
Springs up, all bright and cheerful,
In many a barren place!
While grander flowers are waiting
Till warmer days appear,
The primrose comes forth gladly,
The passer by to cheer.
In garden or on roadside,
It smiles alike on all;
It pines for no high station,
Contented to be small;
Nor does it ever murmur,
Because unknown to fame;
Admired, or disregarded,
It blooms on just the same.
Dear little child, wherever
Your happy home is found,
Be like the cheerful primrose,
And gladden all around:
Stay not for happier seasons,
Your virtues to display;
But put forth all your efforts,
In doing good to-day.
Nor wealth, nor power, nor talent,
Nor rank, you call your own;
But none, however humble,
Should live for self alone;
Fix on some deed of kindness,
And now at once begin it,
And let the world look brighter
Because you’re living in it.
The Family.
Saved from Drowning.
The 15th of August, 1848, was as lovely a day as ever blessed our sin-ruined world. The sky was blue, the sun was bright, the sea-breeze came balmly to the fevered brow, and the waves of the Atlantic played gently upon the sandy beach of Cape May.
Have my young readers ever visited Cape May? If not, turn to the map of New Jersey, and you will see that the State tapers down to a point at the southern extremity. This point, separating Delaware bay from the ocean, is Cape May. The village built upon it is called Cape Island. The beach is long, level, sandy, and dotted here and there with small frame-houses, which a western boy would call shanties, but which are really dressing-rooms for the bathers. For you must know that during the summer thousands of people from New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore and elsewhere, go thither to bathe, and almost every fine day during the season, hundreds of men and women, boys and girls, old folks and young folks wade, swim, plash about, dive, float, or frolic generally in the sea-water. To see the old ladies with their bloomer dresses, and pantalets puckered about the ankles, the young ladies with their coarse straw hats bound with red flannel scolloped into the shape of immense saw-teeth, and their red, or yellow flannel suits, racing about or ducking their heads down when a breaker came in, and the gentlemen also, in all manner of fancy garments, was indeed, an amusing spectacle.
Among the visitors was a young man, a colporteur of the American Tract Society, selling religious books to the visitors, who, as the intervals of time hang on their hands, are often willing to purchase and read attractive books.
About eleven o’clock in the morning, everybody who could, went in bathing, the hotels were deserted, and so in went the colporteur with the rest. His habit was, while going across the beach to enter the water, to lift up his heart for a moment in silent prayer to God for his preserving care. As this was the last day he intended to spend at Cape May, the thought flashed across his mind, “Why should I thus particularly entreat the Divine protection? Thousands have bathed during the fortnight I have been here, and not one has been in danger, even of those who cannot swim.” But in a moment this thought was repelled, and once more the prayer went up to the merciful Preserver of life—and that prayer was heard.
It was nearly the time of low tide. The young man was enjoying himself. He bounded up with the swelling billows out beyond the foaming crest of the breakers; he dived, he swam, and at last found himself north of all the bathers except one gentleman, who called out to him:
“You are venturing out too far.”
“No, I think not,” was the reply.
“Yes, but you are; don’t go there. You are in danger.”
The warning was not regarded; the young man swam out a little farther, intending to return in a minute. So when tempted to wander in forbidden paths, we are all apt to think, “I will go only a very little way, and then return.”
He turned his face to the shore. It seemed far off. He let down his feet to stand upon the bottom, and thus resist the current. What was his dismay, on finding that he was already out of his depth, and was thus wafting out on the broad waters of the Atlantic. In this strait he threw up one of his hands into the air, and cried, “Help, help.” He was heard by the one gentleman who had warned him of his danger. No other indeed was near. That one, however, seemed to give the alarm; the other bathers ceased from their sports, and stood gazing out at the floating speck that went riding up and down on the waves. To him the shore appeared to recede farther and yet farther. The people, the houses, the boats, all grew smaller and smaller, while he battled with the briny waters. “Oh,” thought he, “will they never man one of those boats, and come to my rescue? What delays them?”
While in this struggle he heard a voice behind him:
“Hold up a little longer.”
He turned and saw a boat with several hearty fellows pulling away for him, and one standing in the prow.
“Hold up,” he cried again.
In a minute they were alongside.
“Now give a little jump,” he continued, holding out his hand.
The young man complied with all his heart, and was lifted into the boat, and saved. God had heard his prayer. This boat had been plying all the time out beyond the bathing-grounds, and came like an arrow to his assistance; but it was not there every day, and only six weeks before a gentleman had been drowned for want of it.
The young man became a minister of the Gospel, and the hand that was lifted out of the water to appeal for help, is the hand that has penned these lines.—Am. Messenger.
Never Waste Bread.
Children, who always sit down to a table covered with good things, have no idea how many are suffering for the want of a few morsels of food. The following story from the Christian Inquirer may teach them never to waste bread:
{{fine block|“My father was a tenant of the good but unfortunate Lord Pitslisso. It was in the spring of the year ’45, immediately after the defeat of the Prince’s army at Culloden, and when the gentlemen out upon that unfortunate occasion, and many of the Commons, too, were hiding for their lives, and I, then a very young woman, was left in charge of the house—my father and all the servants being engaged at their seed-time, and my mother, who was delicate, being not yet out of bed.
“I was busy preparing breakfast, when a very old, infirm man came to the door, and, in a humble manner, requested to be allowed to warm himself by the fire. He was trembling from cold, and I not only requested him to enter, but hastened to place a chair for him, and make the fire warmer for his use. After sitting some time, he asked if I could give him a little bread and milk, and I immediately brought some, and placed the milk on the fire to take the chill off it.
“As I gave him the bread, a small morsel fell on the floor, and I reached with my foot to put it out of the way, among the ashes, when the old man immediately stopped me. ‘Do not that,’ said he, trembling with cold and emotion, ‘never waste bread! The time has been that I have given gold for a handful of drammock kneaded in a soldier’s bonnet. They that waste bread may fear that they shall one day come to want it;’ and, as he said this, he stooped down and picked up the crumbs I had dropped, and, cleaning it on his bosom, and looking upward, put it reverently in his mouth. I saw, as he stretched forth his hand, that it was fair as a lady’s, and that his linen, though coarse, was clean; and, as soon as I could, without alarming him, I asked him if I could serve him in anything farther, as I thought I heard my mother call.
“I went to her, securing the outer door in passing, for I feared he might be some person in trouble, and told her what I had seen. She immediately sprang up to dress herself, requesting me to stay where I was, and in a few minutes she was in the kitchen, closing the door after her. As I immediately heard her sobbing, I ventured to peep through the keyhole, when I saw my mother on her knees at the old man’s feet, and bathing his hands in her tears. It was Lord Pitslisso.
“After many sufferings from age and illness, and hairbreadth escapes in many disguises, and from living often in holes where scarcely a wild creature could have lived, he had drawn toward his own estates, to live the short period he might be allowed to live, or die among his own people—knowing that, if they could not save him, at least he might have their sympathy.
“He had been driven from a cave in the neighborhood, where he had taken shelter. He was soon after conveyed to Auchirios, where he lived long, and, after many escapes, at last died in peace. Everybody in this neighborhood knew of his residence. The very children would go and peep through the chinks of the garden-door, as he sat reading, but they never breathed his name.
“The farm on which was one of his places of refuge, is called ‘The Farm of the Lord’s Cairn’ to this day, and will never be named without reminding us the cause; nor shall I ever forget the lesson he taught me—‘Never to waste bread.’ ”
Scraps for Youth.
Order.
“Sister, help me to find my books, and tell me if you have seen my gloves and my veil. It is so strange that every morning I have to hunt all over the house for my things, and that is the reason I am always late at school, and then Miss Brown scolds me, and I get worried and miss my lesson, and every thing goes wrong all day. Oh dear! what shall I do.”
“Come here, Annie,” said her mother, “here are all your things; but I must speak to you again, and if possible, more earnestly than I have hitherto done, about this baneful habit of disorder you are acquiring. Yesterday afternoon when you came in from school, instead of putting your veil and gloves in their proper places, you took them with you to the dining-room, and left them under the table, where just before tea I picked them up. Your slate and Arithmetic you left in the arbor in the garden, where the last night’s rain would inevitably have destroyed your book and washed out your whole afternoon’s work, had not your brother James gone to the arbor on an errand for me, and being more careful than yourself, brought them in and laid them on the hall table. Your Atlas you carelessly threw on the bed in your own room when you were done studying, and this morning never thought of looking for it till the time arrived for starting to school. Bridget, in making up the bed, found it and brought it to me a good deal crumpled, as you perceive, and one leaf badly torn, for which Miss Brown will most probably reprove you, as well as for being late at school, as you so often are, in consequence of having, as you just now said, to hunt all over the house for your things. Now all this trouble to yourself and others, might be avoided, your own temper spared these frequent outbreaks, and your mother and teacher saved the necessity of giving so many reproofs, if you would only learn to put your things in place when you have done using them, instead of leaving them about as you so often do to be injured or destroyed. The loss of your new doll was occasioned by its being left on the bed, buried up under the clothes; from which it was thrown, as you know, to the floor, when the counterpane was removed, and the costly doll broken to pieces in the fall. Your best hat was destroyed by Fido’s dragging it all over the yard, when you left it on the turf while you were swinging, and afterward forgot to bring it in. Various other similar disasters might be mentioned; to say nothing of the peevishness and ill temper thus engendered. Besides, this habit, unless conquered, will ‘grow with your growth, and strengthen with your strength,’ and bring in its destructive train many other sins and sorrows. Begin, I pray you, from this hour to do differently, and remember always that both time and trouble are eventually saved by having a place for everything, and keeping everything in its place.”
And so Annie found it—her books, veil, and gloves had no more to be sought for from every corner of the house—she reached school in good time, avoided the “scold” and subsequent “worry”—knew her lessons, and every thing went right all day.—Reaper.
A Brave Boy.
A six-story building, in which were nearly one hundred human beings, was burned down one night lately in New York. Several perished. On the sixth floor of the burning house was a family by the name of Parrott—seven persons, the father, mother, and five children. The father, who is a cripple, was away at his shop in Grand street, when the fire occurred. The eldest child, a boy of fourteen, had taken off his coat and shoes, and was studying his lessons for school when the alarm was given. Opening the door he saw that the stairs were already impassable; and, returning to the room, he opened the window and leaped to the roof of the house adjacent, a two-story building, with a sharp pitched roof. Being in his stocking-feet, and the roof wet with freezing water, he was able to retain his footing, and called to his mother to toss him the children. The next oldest girl, of ten or twelve, was let down, but came near falling between the buildings,
