Chapter IV: Part 4

So saying, Hiram ran down the garden, and on his way he was surprised to see a smoke rising from the direction of Ralph’s garden-house. He did not, however, pay any very particular attention to this circumstance, as it was very common for Ralph to have fires in the garden, to burn the dried weeds and the old straw which often collect in such places. He hastened on in the direction of Bruno’s barking, quite confident that the dog had found his lost fox, and was barking for him to come and get him.

Just at this moment he saw Bruno come running to the gate at the bottom of the garden. He was barking violently, and he seemed very much excited. As soon as he saw Hiram coming, he ran back again and disappeared. Hiram hastened on, and, as soon as he got through the gate into the field, he saw that Bruno was standing at the gate which led into Ralph’s garden, and running in and out alternately, and looking eagerly at Hiram, as if he wished him to come. Hiram ran to the place, and, on looking in, he saw, to his utter consternation, that the garden-house was on fire. Dense volumes of smoke were pouring out of the doors and windows, with now and then great flashes of flame breaking out among them. Bruno, having brought Hiram to the spot, seemed now desirous of giving the alarm to Ralph; so he ran up toward the house in which Ralph lived, barking violently all the way.

His effort was successful. In a minute or two he returned, barking as before, and followed by Ralph. Ralph was greatly terrified when he saw that the garden-house was on fire. He ran back to the house to call his mother. She came down to the place in great haste, though she seemed quite calm and composed. She was a woman of a very quiet disposition, and was almost always composed and self-possessed. She saw at a glance that the fire could not be put out. There was no sufficient supply of water at hand, and besides, if there had been water, she and the two boys could not have put it on fast enough to extinguish the flames.

[Sidenote: “What shall we do?”]

“Oh dear me! oh dear me!” exclaimed Ralph, in great distress, “what shall we do? Mother! mother! what shall we do?”

“Nothing at all,” said his mother, quietly. “There is nothing for us to do but to stand still and see it burn.”

“And there’s my poor robin all burning up!” said Ralph, as he ran to and fro in great distress. “Oh, I wish there was somebody here to save my robin!”

[Sidenote: The robin in danger.]

The cage containing the robin was hanging in its place, under the shelf by the side of the window. The smoke and flame, which came out from the window and from a door below, passed just over it, and so near as to envelop and conceal the top of the cage, and it was plain that the poor bird would soon be suffocated and burned to death, unless some plan for rescuing it could be devised. When Hiram knew the danger that the bird was in, his first thought was that he was glad of it. He pitied the bird very much, but he said to himself that it was good enough for Ralph to lose it. “He deserves to lose his bird,” thought he, “for having let my Foxy go.”

This spirit, however, of resentment and retaliation remained but a moment in Hiram’s mind. When he saw how much interest Bruno seemed to feel in giving the alarm, and in desiring to have the fire extinguished, he said to himself, “Bruno forgives him, and why should not I? I will save the bird for him, if it is possible, even if I get scorched in doing it.”

[Sidenote: Hiram rescues the robin by means of the ladder.]

He accordingly ran round to the back side of the garden-house to get the ladder. Bruno followed him, watching him very eagerly to see what he was going to do. Hiram brought the ladder forward, and planted it against the garden-house, a little beyond the place where the cage, was hanging. In the mean time, Ralph had run off to the house to get a pail of water, vainly imagining that he could do at least something with it toward extinguishing the flames and rescuing the bird. By the time he got back, Hiram had placed the ladder, and was just going up, amid the smoke and sparks, to get the cage.[5] Bruno stood by at the foot of the ladder, looking up eagerly to Hiram, and watching as if he were going to take the cage as soon as it came down.

[5] See Frontispiece.

Hiram had to stop once or twice in going up the ladder to get breath, for the wind blew the smoke and sparks over him so much at intervals as almost to suffocate him. He, however, persevered, and finally succeeded in reaching the cage. He took it off from its fastening, and brought it down the ladder. When he reached the ground, Bruno took it from his hand by means of the ring at the top, and ran off with it away from the fire. He then placed it carefully upon the ground, and began leaping around it, wagging his tail, and manifesting every other indication of excitement and delight.

Ralph was very much pleased, too, to find that his robin was safe. He took the cage, and, carrying it away, set it down at a still greater distance from the fire. The garden-house was burned to the ground. Hiram and Bruno waited there until the fire was almost out, and then they went home. Hiram experienced a feeling of great satisfaction and pleasure at the thought that he had been able to save Ralph’s bird. “I should have been sorry,” said he to himself, “if he had lost his bird, and I think, too, that he will be sorry now that he let my little Foxy go.”

The next morning, after breakfast, Hiram concluded that he would go round into Ralph’s garden, and look at the ruins of the fire. He passed out through the gate at the bottom of his father’s garden, and then turned into the path leading to the other gate, and there, to his surprise, he saw Ralph sitting on a stone, feeding Bruno with a piece of meat. It was a piece which he had saved from his own breakfast for the purpose. Bruno was eating the meat with an appearance of great satisfaction, while Ralph sat by, patting him on the head.

[Sidenote: “Hiram, I am giving Bruno some breakfast.”]

“Hiram,” said Ralph, as soon as he saw Hiram coming, “I am giving Bruno some breakfast.”

Bruno looked up toward Hiram and wagged his tail.

“That’s right,” said Hiram. “He seems to like it very much.”

“Hiram,” said Ralph, again.

“What?” said Hiram.

Ralph hesitated. He seemed to have something on his mind, and not to know exactly how to express it.

“How is the robin this morning? Did he get stifled any by the smoke?”

[Sidenote: Restitution. Ralph proposes to get another fox for Hiram.]

“No,” said Ralph; “he is as bright as a lark.” Then, after a moment’s pause, he added, “I am sorry I let your Foxy get away. I suppose I ought to pay you for him; and, if I could get another fox for you, I would. I have not got any thing but just my bird. I’ll give you him.”

To find Ralph taking this view of the subject was something so new and strange to Hiram, that at first he did not know what to say.

“No,” he replied, at length, “I would rather not take your bird, though I am very sorry that Foxy has got away. If you had only told me that you wanted your collar, I would have taken it off, and fastened Foxy with something else.”

Ralph hung his head and had nothing to say.

The boys went soon after this to look at the bed of ashes and embers that marked the spot where the garden-house had stood, and then they sauntered together slowly back into Hiram’s garden. Bruno followed them. He seemed to understand that a great change had somehow or other taken place in Ralph’s disposition of mind toward him, and he was no longer afraid. The boys went together to the place where Foxy had been confined.

“John Thomas hunts foxes sometimes with his father,” said Ralph. “There are a great many in the woods back of their farm. I am going to see if I can’t get him to catch you another young one. I shall tell him I will give him half a dollar if he will get one, and that is all the money I have got.”

Hiram did not reply to this suggestion. He did not know exactly what to say. His thought was, that no other fox that could possibly be found would supply the place, in his view, of the one that he had lost. He had taken so much pains to teach that one, and to tame him, that he had become quite attached to him individually, and he was very sure that he should never like any other one so well. He did not, however, like to say this to Ralph, for he perceived that Ralph was very much troubled about what he had done, and was quite anxious to make some reparation, and he thought that it would trouble him still more to learn that all reparation was wholly out of his power.

“And if he catches one for you,” continued Ralph, “then I’ll give you the collar for your own. I would give it to you now, if it would do you any good.”

“I’ll take the chain off, at any rate,” said Hiram, “and carry it in, and keep it, in case I ever should have another fox.”

[Sidenote: Foxy found.]

So he stooped down, and began to unhook the chain from the stake to which it was fastened. As he did this, his face was brought down pretty near to the hole under the wall, and, looking in there, his attention was attracted to two bright, shining spots there, that looked like the eyes of an animal.

[Sidenote: “Run and get the collar.”]

“Hi--yi,” said he, suddenly, “I verily believe he is here now. Run and get the collar.”

Ralph took a peep, first, into the hole, and then ran for the collar. When he came back, he found Hiram sitting down on the grass, with the fox in his arms. The truth was, that the fox had been treated so kindly since he had been in Hiram’s keeping, and he had become so accustomed to his hole under the wall, that he did not wish to go away. When he found himself at liberty by the removal of the collar, he had gone off a little in the grass and among the bushes, but, when night came on, he had returned as usual to his hole; and when he heard the voices of the boys at the wall in the morning, he supposed that Hiram had come to give him his breakfast, and he came accordingly out to the mouth of his hole to see if his supposition were correct. He submitted to have his collar put on very readily.

Thus there was a general reconciliation all round, and Bruno, Foxy, Hiram, and Ralph became, all four of them, very excellent friends.

Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good.

This story reminds me of another one relating to the burning of a small building in the bottom of a garden, called a tool-house. I will here relate that story, and then tell more about Bruno. It will be seen that this tool-house took fire in a very singular way. Precisely how Ralph’s garden-house took fire never was known. It was probably in some way connected with the matches which Ralph left upon the floor. Whether he stepped upon one of them, and thus ignited it, and left it slowly burning--or whether some mouse came by, and set one of them on fire by gnawing upon it--or whether one of the matches got into a crack of the floor, and was then inflamed by getting pinched there by some springing or working of the boards, produced by the gardener’s walking over the floor or wheeling the wheelbarrow in--whether, in fine, the mischief originated in either of these ways, or in some other wholly unknown, could never be ascertained.

At all events, however--and this is the conclusion of the story--the garden-house was soon rebuilt, and Ralph was effectually cured of his resentment and enmity by the noble and magnanimous spirit which Hiram and Bruno exhibited in saving his bird.

_Be not overcome of evil, but overcome evil with good._

Three times I have put this precept in the story, in order that you may be sure to remember it.

THE BURNING OF THE TOOL-HOUSE.

When one has committed a fault, to acknowledge it frankly, and to bear the consequences of it one’s self submissively, is magnanimous and noble. On the contrary, to resort to cunning tricks to conceal it, and especially to attempt to throw the blame of it upon others who are innocent, is mean and contemptible.

[Sidenote: Description of the tool-house. Thomas, the gardener.]

Once there were two boys, named William and John, who had a building for a tool-house and work-shop at the bottom of their father’s garden. It was very similar in its situation to the one described in the last story. The building was at a place where the land descended, so that while it was only one story high on the front side toward the garden, it was two stories high on the other side toward a brook, which ran along near the lower garden fence. The upper part of the building was the tool-room. This room opened out upon one of the alleys of the garden. The lower part was the shop. The door leading into the shop was behind. There was a fire-place in the shop, and the chimney passed up, of course, through the tool-room; but there was no fire-place in the tool-room, for there never was any occasion to make a fire there. The only use of that room was, that Thomas, the old gardener, used to keep his spades, and rakes, and hoes, and other garden tools in it; and sometimes of a summer evening, when his work was done, he used to sit at the door of it and smoke his pipe. The building was very convenient, though it was small, and old, and so not of much value.

In the winter, the boys were accustomed occasionally to have a fire in the work-shop below, when they were at work there. There was not much danger in this, for the floor of the room was of stone.

[Sidenote: Sealing the packages.]

In the summer, of course, they never required a fire, except when they wished to use the glue. Then they were accustomed to make a small fire to dissolve the glue. One summer morning, however, they wanted a candle. They had been collecting garden seeds, and they wished to seal them up in small packages with sealing-wax. It would have been better, perhaps, to have tied the parcels up with twine; but the boys took a fancy to using sealing-wax, for the sake of the interest and pleasure which they expected to find in the work of sealing. So, just before noon, when they had got their seeds all ready, William went up to the house, and his mother gave him a long candle.

When William came into the shop, John accosted him, saying,

[Sidenote: The boys have no candlestick.]

“Why, William, you have not brought any candlestick. What shall we do for a candlestick?”

“I forgot that,” said William.

“Never mind,” said John; “we can make one with a block and three nails.”

There is a way of making a candlestick in a shop, which consists of driving three nails into a small block of wood, at such a distance apart as to leave just space for the end of the candle between them. If the nails are driven into the block in a proper manner, and if the heads of the nails are not too large, this contrivance makes quite a good candlestick.

Another way is to take a similar block of wood, and bore a hole in the top of it just large enough to receive the end of the candle, and just deep enough to hold it firmly.

William proposed that they should make the candlestick by boring a hole, but John thought it was best to do it by means of nails.

[Sidenote: The two candlesticks.]

So they concluded to make two. John was to make one with nails, and William one with the borer. So they both began to look about among the shavings under the bench for blocks, and when they found two that seemed to answer their purpose, William went to a drawer, and selected a borer of the proper size, while John began to choose nails with small heads out of a nail-box which was upon the bench for his operation.

In due time the candlesticks were both finished. The one which William had made was really the best; but John insisted that the one which he had made was the best, and so William, who was a very good-natured boy, gave up the point. The candle was put into John’s candlestick, and William put his away upon a shelf, to be used, perhaps, on some future occasion. The boys then lighted the candle by means of a match, and put it on the end of the work-bench where they were going to do the work of putting up their seeds.

[Sidenote: The boys leave the candle burning.]

It was now, however, about noon, which was the hour for the boys to go home to dinner. They arranged their seeds a little upon the bench, but did not have time to begin to seal them up before they heard the dinner-bell ring. They then left their work, and went up to the house. Unfortunately, they left the candle burning. As it was bright daylight, and especially as the sun shone in near where the candle stood, the flame was very faint to the view; in fact, it was almost entirely invisible, and the boys, when they looked around the shop just before they left it, did not observe it at all.

After dinner, the boys concluded that they would go a fishing that afternoon, and not finish putting up their seeds until the following day.

[Sidenote: The matting. The pipe.]

While they were gone, the candle was burning all the time, the flame gradually descending as the combustion went on, until, about tea-time, it reached the block of wood. It did not set the wood on fire, but the wick fell over, when the flame reached the wood, and communicated the fire to a roll of matting which lay upon the bench behind it. The matting had been used to wrap up plants in, and was damp; so it burned very slowly. About this time, Thomas, the old gardener, came and sat down in the doorway of the tool-house above, smoking his pipe. He did not know, however, what mischief was brewing in the room below; and so, when it began to grow dark, he knocked the ashes out of his pipe upon the ground of the garden, shut the tool-room door, and went home.

[Sidenote: Fire! fire!]

That night, about midnight, the boys were suddenly awakened and dreadfully terrified by a cry of fire, and, on opening their eyes, they perceived a strong light gleaming into the windows of their bed-room. They sprang up, and saw that the tool-house was all on fire. The people of the house dressed themselves as quick as possible, and hastened to the spot, and some of the neighbors came too. It was, however, too late to extinguish the fire. The building and all the tools which it contained, both in the tool-room and in the shop, and all the seeds that the boys had collected were entirely consumed.

Nobody could imagine how the building took fire. Some said it must have been set on fire by malicious persons. Others thought that old Thomas must have been unconsciously the author of the mischief, with his pipe. Nothing certain, however, could be ascertained at that time, and so the company separated, determining to have the matter more fully investigated the following morning.

William and John, who had dressed themselves when the alarm was first given, and had gone to the fire, now went back to their room, and went to bed again.

[Sidenote: What was the origin of the fire? A conversation.]

After they had been in bed some time, and each thought that the other must be asleep, William said to John,

“John!”

“What?” said John.

“Are you asleep?” asked William.

“No,” said John.

“I will tell you how I think the tool-house got on fire,” said William.

“How?” asked John.

“Why, I believe we left our candle burning there,” replied William.

“Yes,” said John, “I thought of that myself.”

Here there was a little pause.

Presently John said,

“I don’t suppose that they will know that our candle set it on fire.”

“No,” said William, “unless we tell them.”

[Sidenote: The conversation continued.]

“They will suppose, I expect,” added John, “that Thomas set it on fire with his pipe.”

“Yes,” said William, “perhaps they will.”

Here there was another pause.

[Sidenote: The boys hesitate.]

“Unless,” continued John, after reflecting on the subject a little while in silence, “unless mother should remember that she gave us the candle, and ask us about it.”

“We could say,” he added again, “that we did not go into the shop any time in the afternoon or evening. That would be true.”

“Yes,” said William. “We did not go into it at all after we went home to dinner.”

The boys remained silent a few minutes after this, when John, who felt still quite uneasy in mind on the subject, said again,

“I expect that father would be very much displeased with us if he knew that we set the tool-house on fire, for it has burned up all his tools.”

“Yes,” said William.

“And I suppose he would punish us in some way or other,” added John.

“Yes,” said William, “I think it very likely that he would.”

“But then, John,” continued William, “I don’t think it would be right to let Thomas bear the blame of setting the tool-house on fire, when we are the ones that did it.”

John was silent.

“I think we had better go and tell father all about it the first thing to-morrow morning.”

“We shall get punished if we do,” said John.

“Well,” said William, “I don’t care. I had rather be punished than try to keep it secret. If we try to keep it secret, and let Thomas bear the blame, we shall be miserable about it for a long time, and feel guilty or ashamed whenever we meet father or Thomas. I had rather be punished at once and have it done with.”

[Sidenote: “Let us tell father.”]

“Well,” said John, “let us tell father. We will tell him the first thing to-morrow morning.”

The affair being thus arranged, the boys ceased talking about it, and shut up their eyes to go to sleep. After a few minutes, however, William spoke to his brother again.

“John,” said he, “I think I could go to sleep better if I should go and tell father now all about it. I don’t suppose that he is asleep yet.”

“Well,” said John, “go and tell him.”

So William got up out of his bed, and went to the door of his father’s room. He knocked at the door, and his father said “Come in.” William opened the door. His father was in bed, and there was no light in the room, except a dim night-lamp that was burning on a table.

[Sidenote: The explanation.]

“Father,” said William, “I came to tell you that I suppose I know how our tool-house caught on fire.”

“How was it?” asked his father.

“Why, John and I had a candle there before dinner, and I believe we left it burning; and so I suppose that, when it burned down, it set the bench on fire.”

“That could not have been the way,” said his father, “for, when it got down to the candlestick, it would go out.”

“But there was not any candlestick,” said William, “only a wooden one, which we made out of a block and three nails.”

“Oh! that was the way, was it?” said his father. “Indeed!”

Here there was a short pause. William waited to hear what his father would say next.

“Well, William,” said his father, at length, “you are a very good boy to come and tell me. Now go back to your bed, and go to sleep. We will see all about it in the morning.”

So William went out; but, just as he was shutting the door, his father called to him again.

“William!” said he.

“What, sir?” said William.

“Get up as early as you can to-morrow morning, and go to Thomas’s, and tell him how it was. He thinks that he must have set the tool-house on fire, and he is quite troubled about it.”

“Yes, sir, I will,” said William.

Then he went back to his room, and reported to John what he had done, and what his father had said. The boys were both very much relieved in mind from having made their confession.

“I am very glad I told him,” said William; “and now I only wish I could tell Thomas about it without waiting till morning.”

“So do I,” said John.

“But we can’t,” said William, “so now we will go to sleep. But we will get up, and go to his house the first thing in the morning.”

[Sidenote: The boys get up early to explain the accident to Thomas.]

This the boys did. Thomas’s mind was very much relieved when he heard their story. He went directly into the house to tell his wife, who, as well as himself, had been very anxious about the origin of the fire. When he came out, he told the boys that he was very much obliged to them for coming to tell him about it so early. “In fact,” said he, “I think it is very generous and noble in you to take the blame of the fire upon yourselves, instead of letting it rest upon innocent people. There are very few boys that would have done so.”

[Sidenote: The final result.]

William and John were fortunately disappointed in their expectations that they would have to suffer some punishment for their fault. In fact, they were not even reproved. They told their father all about it at breakfast, and he said that, though it certainly was not a prudent thing for boys to trust themselves with a wooden candlestick in a shop full of wood and shavings, still he did not think that they deserved any particular censure for having made one. “The whole thing was one of those accidents which will sometimes occur,” said he, “and you need not think any thing more about it. I will have a new tool-house and shop built pretty soon, and will make it better than the old one was. And now, after breakfast, you may go down and rake over the ashes, and see if you can rake out any of the remains of the garden tools.”

* * * * *

[Sidenote: An important principle.]

It would have been better for the story if it had happened that the boys, in setting fire to the tool-house, had really been guilty of some serious fault, for which they were afterward to be punished; for the nobleness and magnanimity which are displayed in confessing a fault, are so much the greater when the person confessing occasions himself suffering by it.

WILLING TO LEARN.

[Sidenote: Bruno was willing to learn.]

Bruno had one excellent quality, which made him a special favorite with the several boys that owned him at different times. He was _willing to learn_.

[Sidenote: Boys and girls.]

When you are attempting to teach a dog any new art or accomplishment, it is a great thing to have him willing to learn. It is the same, in fact, if it is a girl or a boy that is the pupil. Sometimes, however, when you are attempting to teach a dog, he shows very plainly all the time that he does not wish to learn. If you have got him harnessed into a little carriage, and wish to teach him to draw, he will stop and seem very unwilling to proceed, and, perhaps, sit right down upon the ground; or, if he has any chance to do so, he will run off and hide in the bushes, or, if it is in the house that you are teaching him, in a corner of the room or under the table. I was taking a walk once on the margin of a stream, and I met some boys who were attempting to teach their dog to dive into the water after sticks and such things, and the dog was so unwilling to make the attempt, that they were obliged every time to take him up and throw him in.

[Sidenote: A difficult lesson for a dog.]

I have known children to behave just in this way in learning to read or to write. They come to the work reluctantly, and get away from it as often and as quick as they can. But it was not so with Bruno. He was glad to learn any thing that the boys were willing to teach him. A boy at one time took it into his head to teach him to walk up a flight of steps backward, and although Bruno could not conceive what possible advantage it could ever be to him to learn such an accomplishment as that, still he went to work resolutely to learn it, and though at first he found it very difficult to do, he soon succeeded in going up very well.

If any boy who reads this book should make the attempt to teach _his_ dog to go up steps backward, and should find the dog unwilling to learn, he will know at once how hard it is for his teacher to teach him to write or to calculate, when he takes no interest in the work himself. If he then imagines that his dog were as desirous of learning to go up the steps backward as he is to teach him, and were willing to try, and thinks how easy it would be in that case to accomplish the object, he will see how much his own progress in study would be promoted by his being cordially interested himself in what he is doing.

[Sidenote: The dog that went to market.]

I am always surprised when I find a dog that is willing to learn, and am still more surprised when I find a child that is not willing. A dog learns for the benefit of his master, a child learns for his own benefit. I knew a dog who was taught to go to market. His master would put the money and a memorandum of the things that were to be bought in the basket, and the dog would then carry the basket to market by the handle, which he held in his mouth. Then the market-man would take out the money and the memorandum, and would put in the things that were wanted, and the dog would carry them home. Now this was of no advantage to the dog, except from the honorable satisfaction which he derived from it in the thought that he was usefully employed, and that he was considered worthy to sustain important trusts and responsibilities. So far as his own ease and comfort was concerned, it would have been better for him never to have learned such an art, and then, instead of carrying a heavy basket to and fro along the street, he could have spent his time in basking in the sun, or playing about with other dogs. There is no necessity for a dog to learn any thing for his own advantage. Nature teaches him every thing that he requires for himself. He has to study and learn only for the benefit of his master.

It is very different from this with a child. When a child is in his earliest infancy, he is the most ignorant and helpless being imaginable. He can not speak; he can not walk; he can not stand; he can not even creep along the floor. Then, besides, he _knows_ nothing. He does not know any of the persons around him; he does not know the light; he is bewildered, and filled with a stupid kind of wonder when he looks at it; he does not know how to open and shut his hand, or to take hold of any thing; and long after this, when he begins to learn how to take hold of things, he is so ignorant and foolish, that he is as ready to take hold of a burning candle as any thing else.

[Sidenote: Children learn for their own benefit.]

Of course, to fit such a child to perform the duties of a man in such a busy world as this, he has a great many things to learn. And what is to be particularly noticed is, that he must learn every thing himself. His parents can not learn for him. His parents can _teach_ him--that is, they can show him how to learn--but they can not learn for him. When they show him how to learn, if he will not learn, and if they can not contrive any means to make him, there is an end of it. They can do no more. He must remain ignorant.

Here is a picture of a child that is willing to learn. His name is Josey. His parents are teaching him to walk. He is just old enough to learn to walk, and you see by his countenance, although it is turned somewhat away from us, that he is pleased with the opportunity. He is glad that he is going to learn to walk, and that his parents are going to teach him. I do not suppose that he feels _grateful_ to his father and mother for being willing to take so much pains to teach him, for he is not old enough for that. But he is _glad_, at any rate, and he is willing to try.

His mother is helping him to begin, and his father is encouraging him to step along--holding out his hand, so that Josey may take hold of it as soon as he gets near enough, and thus save himself from falling. Since Josey is willing to learn, it gives his father and mother great pleasure to teach him. Thus all three are happy together.

[Sidenote: Some children unwilling to learn.]

Sometimes a child, when his father and mother wish to teach him to walk, is _not_ willing to learn. He will not try. He sits down at once upon the ground, and will not make any effort, like the dog who does not wish to learn to draw. So far as learning to walk is concerned, this is of no great consequence, for, as his strength increases, he will at last learn to walk himself, without any particular teaching.

There are a great many things, however, which it is very important for children to know, that they never would learn of themselves. These they must be taught, and taught very patiently and carefully. Reading is one of those things, and writing is another. Then there is arithmetic, and all the other studies taught in schools. Some children are sensible enough to see how important it is that they should learn all these things, and are not only willing, but are glad to be taught them. Like Josey, they are pleased, and they try to learn. Others are unwilling to learn. They are sullen and ill-humored about it. They will not make any cordial and earnest efforts. The consequence is, that they learn very little. But then, when they grow up, and find out how much more other people know and can do than they, they bitterly regret their folly.

[Sidenote: Some are willing.]

Some children, instead of being unwilling to learn what their parents desire to teach them, are so eager to learn, that they ingeniously contrive ways and means to teach themselves. I once knew a boy, whose parents were poor, so that they could not afford to send him to school, and he went as an apprentice to learn the trade of shoemaking. He knew how important it was to study arithmetic, but he had no one to teach him, and, besides that, he had no book, and no slate and pencil. He, however, contrived to borrow an arithmetic book, and then he procured a large _shingle_[6] and a piece of chalk, to serve for slate and pencil. Thus provided, he went to work by himself in the evenings, ciphering in the chimney-corner by the light of the kitchen fire. Of course he met with great difficulties, but he persevered, and by industry and patience, and by such occasional help as he could obtain from the persons around him, he succeeded, and went regularly through the book. That boy afterward, when he grew up, became a senator.

[6] A shingle is a broad and thin piece of wood, formed like a
slate, and used for covering roofs. The word is explained here,
because, in some places where this book will go, shingles are
not used.

[Sidenote: Things difficult to learn.]

Some things are very difficult to learn, and children are very often displeased because their parents and teachers insist on teaching them such difficult things. But the reason is, that the things that are most difficult to learn are usually those that are most valuable to know.

[Sidenote: The lawyer and the wood-sawyer.]

Once I was in the country, and I had occasion to go into a lawyer’s office to get the lawyer to make a writing for me about the sale of a piece of land. It took the lawyer about half an hour to make the writing. When it was finished, and I asked him how much I was to pay, he said one dollar. I expected that it would have been much more than that. It was worth a great deal more than that to me. So I paid him the dollar, and went out.

At the door was a laborer sawing wood. He had been sawing there all the time that I had been in the lawyer’s office. I asked him how long he had to saw wood to earn a dollar.

“All day,” said he. “I get just a dollar a day.”

[Sidenote: Difference of pay, and reason for it.]

Now some persons might think it strange, that while the lawyer, sitting quietly in his office by a pleasant fire, and doing such easy work as writing, could earn a dollar in half an hour, that the laborer should have to work all day to earn the same sum. But the explanation of it is, that while the lawyer’s work is very easy to do after you have learned how to do it, it is very _difficult_ to _learn_. It takes a great many years of long and patient study to become a good lawyer, so as to make writings correctly. On the other hand, it is very easy to learn to saw wood. Any body that has strength enough to saw wood can learn to do it very well in two or three days. Thus the things that are the most difficult to learn are, of course, best paid for when they are learned; and parents wish to provide for their children the means of living easily and comfortably in future life, by teaching them, while they are young, a great many difficult things. The foolish children, however, are often ill-humored and sullen, and will not learn them. They would rather go and play.

It is very excusable in a dog to evince this reluctance to be taught, but it is wholly inexcusable in a child.

PANSITA.

This is a true story of a dog named Pansita. They commonly called her Pannie.

Pansita was a prairie-dog. These prairie-dogs are wild. They live in Mexico. They burrow in the ground, and it is extremely difficult to catch them. They are small, but very beautiful.

Pansita belonged to an Indian girl on the western coast of Mexico. An American, who came into that country from Lima, which is a city in Peru, saw Pansita.

“What a pretty dog!” said he. “How I should like her for a present to the American minister’s wife in Lima.”

So he went to the Indian girl, and tried to buy the dog, but the girl would not sell her. She liked her dog better than any money that he could give her.

[Sidenote: Pansita bought with gold.]

Then the gentleman took some gold pieces out of his pocket, and showed them to the mother of the girl.

“See,” said he; “I will give you all these gold pieces if you will sell me Pansita.”

The Indian woman counted over the gold as the gentleman held it in his hand, and found that it made eighteen dollars. She said that the girl should sell Pansita for that money. So she took the dog out of the girl’s arms, and gave it to the gentleman. The poor girl burst into a loud cry of grief and alarm at the thought of losing her dog. She threw the pieces of gold which her mother had put into her hand down upon the ground, and screamed to the stranger to bring back her dog.

But he would not hear. He put the dog in his pocket, and ran away as fast as he could run, till he got to his boat, and the sailors rowed him away.

[Sidenote: She is taken off in a ship. Lima.]

He took the dog in a ship, and carried her to Peru. When he landed, he wished to send her up to Lima. So he put her in a box. He had made openings in the box, so that little Pannie might breathe on the way. He gave the box to a friend of his who was going to Lima, and asked him to deliver it to the American minister.

[Sidenote: A pretended chronometer.]

He was afraid that the gentleman would not take good care of the box if he knew that there was only a dog inside, so he pretended that it was a chronometer, and he marked it, “_This side up, with care_.”

A chronometer is a sort of large watch used at sea. It is a very exact and a very costly instrument.

He gave the box to his friend, and said, “Will you be kind enough, sir, to take this chronometer in your lap, and carry it to Lima, and give it to the American minister there?”

The gentleman said that he would, and he took the box in his lap, and carried it with great care.

Before long, however, Pansita, not having quite air enough to breathe inside the box, put her nose out through one of the openings.

“Ah!” said the gentleman, “this is something strange. I never knew a ship’s chronometer to have a nose before.”

Thus he discovered that it was a dog, and not a chronometer that he was carrying.

He, however, continued to carry the box very carefully, and when he arrived at Lima he delivered it safely to the minister, and the minister gave it to his wife.

[Sidenote: The beauty of the dog. The lady is much pleased.]

The lady was very much pleased to see such a beautiful dog. Its form was graceful, its eyes full of meaning, and its fur was like brown silk, very soft, and smooth, and glossy.

[Sidenote: The American flag hoisted.]

By-and-by a revolution broke out in Lima, and there was great confusion and violence in the streets. The Americans that were there flocked to the house of the minister for protection. The house was a sort of castle. It had a court, in the centre, and great iron gates across the passage-way that formed the entrance. The minister brought soldiers from the ships to guard his castle, and shut the gates to keep the people that were fighting in the streets from getting in. He hoisted the American flag, too, on the corner of the battlements. The Americans that had fled there for safety were all within the walls, greatly alarmed.[7]

[7] Such a minister as this is a high public officer of
government, who resides at a foreign capital for the purpose
of attending to the business of his own country there, and of
protecting the citizens in case of danger.

[Sidenote: Danger.]

Pansita, wondering what all the noise and confusion in the streets could mean, concluded that she would go out and see. So, watching her opportunity, she slipped through among the soldiers to the passage-way, and thence out between the bars of the great iron gates. The lady, when she found that Pansita had gone out, was greatly alarmed.

“She will be killed!” said she. “She will be killed! What can I do to save her? She will certainly be killed!”

But nothing could be done to save Pansita; for if they had opened the gates to go out and find her, the people that were fighting in the streets would have perhaps rushed in, and then they would all have been killed.

[Sidenote: Pansita is recovered.]

So they had to wait till the fighting was over, and then they went out to look for Pansita. To their great joy, they found her safe in a house round the corner.

After a time, the minister and his wife returned to America, and they brought Pansita with them. They had a house on the North River, and Pansita lived with them there many years in great splendor and happiness.

[Sidenote: Pannie’s bed.]

The lady made a bed for Pannie in a basket, with nice and well-made bed-clothes to cover her when she was asleep. Pannie would get into this bed at night, but she would always scratch upon it with her claws before she lay down. This was her instinct.

She was accustomed in her youth, when she was burrowing in the ground in the prairies in Mexico, to make the place soft where she was going to lie down by scratching up the earth with her paws, and she continued the practice now, though, of course, this was not a proper way to beat up a bed of feathers.

Pannie was a great favorite with all who knew her. She was affectionate in her disposition, and mild and gentle in her demeanor; and, as is usually the case with those who possess such a character, she made a great many friends and no enemies.

[Sidenote: Mistakes.]

By-and-by Pannie grew old and infirm. She became deaf and blind, and sometimes, when the time came for her to go to bed at night, she would make a mistake, and get into the wrong basket--a basket that belonged to another dog. This would make Looly, the dog that the basket belonged to, very angry. Looly would run about the basket, and whine and moan until Pansita was taken out and put into her own place.

[Sidenote: Pannie’s death and burial.]

At last Pansita died. They put her body in a little leaden coffin, and buried it in a very pleasant place between two trees.

This is a true story.

THE DOG’S PETITION.

[Sidenote: Letter-day.]

One day, about the middle of the quarter, in a certain school, what the boys called Letter-day came. Letter-day was a day in which all the boys in the school were employed in writing letters.

Each boy, on these occasions, selected some absent friend or acquaintance, and wrote a letter to him. The letters were written first on a slate, and then, after being carefully corrected, were copied neatly on sheets of paper and sent. The writing of these letters was thus made a regular exercise of the school. It was, in fact, an exercise in composition.

[Sidenote: Erskine’s conversation with his teacher.]

A boy named Erskine, after taking out his slate, and writing the date upon the top of it, asked the teacher whom he thought it would be best for him to write to.

“How would you like to write to your aunt?” asked the teacher.

“Why, _pretty_ well,” said Erskine, rather doubtfully.

“I think it would be doing good to write to her,” said the teacher. “It will please her very much to have a letter from you.”

“Then I will,” said Erskine. “On the whole, I should like to write to her very much.”

So Erskine wrote the letter, and, when it had been corrected and copied, it was sent.

This is the letter. It gives an account of a petition offered by a dog to his master, begging to be allowed to accompany the boys of the school on an excursion:

[Sidenote: Erskine’s letter.]

August 2, 1853.

DEAR AUNT,--I hope you have been well since I have heard from
you.

We took an excursion up to Orange Pond, and stayed all day. In
the morning it was very misty, but in about an hour it cleared
up, and the sun came out. Charles and Stephen went over to Mr.
Wingate’s to get a stage, and a lumber-wagon, and a carriage.
There were two horses in the stage, and an old gray one in the
lumber-wagon. Wright and I went down to get William Harmer, a
new scholar, to come up here before we started. At last we all
were ready, Crusoe and all. The teacher bought a little dog in
the vacation, and named him Crusoe. One of the boys wrote a
letter, and tied it about Crusoe’s neck, and this was it:

[Sidenote: The dog’s petition.]

MY VERY DEAR MASTER,--Can I go with the boys to-day on
the excursion? I will be very good, and not bark or
bite. I wish to go very much indeed, and I hope you
will let me.

From your affectionate dog,

Bow-wow-wow.

[Sidenote: Account of an excursion. Diving off the row-boats.
The hot rock. Coming home.]

Soon we started. It was very cool when we left home, but when
we got out on the hills it was very hot. The teacher let us
get out once and get some berries. After a ride of about nine
miles, we got out, and found it a very cool place. The public
house was very near to the pond, and we ran down there as
soon as we got our fishing-poles. Some of the boys got into
an old boat, and got a fish as soon as they cast their poles
out. The man said some of us should go out on an old rock
that was there, and the rest of us in a boat. We had a fine
time fishing, and caught about thirty small fish. Mr. Wingate
went out in another boat, and caught a very large perch and
pickerel, and a few other fish. After we had caught a few
more fish, we became tired, and wanted to go to the shore; so
the teacher took two or three of us at a time, and we went to
the shore. After we had played around a little, we had a nice
dinner, and then we went in swimming. The man said we might
dive off the small row-boats. We had fine fun pulling the boats
along while we were wading in the water, for it was nice and
sandy on the bottom. We found we could wade out to the rock
before named. We all waded out on it; but no sooner had we got
on the top, than we jumped off in all directions, for it was so
hot that one could roast an egg on it. We all ran back to the
shore as fast as we could go, laughing heartily. As soon as we
got up and were dressed, we went up to the house. Mr. Wingate
harnessed up the horses, and we were soon trotting home. We
went around by a different way from the one we came by, through
some woods, and had a fine ride home. That is the end of our
excursion to Orange Pond.

From your affectionate friend,

ERSKINE.

Erskine’s aunt was very much gratified at receiving this letter. She read it with great interest, and answered it very soon.

THE STORM ON THE LAKE.

[Sidenote: The philosophy of mountains, springs, brooks, and lakes.]

Mountains make storms, storms make rain fall, and the rain that falls makes springs, brooks, and lakes; thus mountains, storms, brooks, and lakes go together.