Chapter III: Part 3

“What are you afraid of?” asked Dick Rogers. “It will not be dark for a long time yet, only the trees keep out the light; besides, there is nothing to be afraid of in these woods,—neither lions, nor tigers, nor bears, nor wolves. So help me find some good clubs, Frank, and we will knock off some burs, at any rate.”

“And, if it grows too dark, we can carry them home, and get the nuts out there,” said Frank, as he eagerly looked around for a club.

Sam felt somewhat re-assured by the courage of his companions; and all three of the boys were soon busily employed in knocking the burs from the trees.

It was quite dusk when they reached home. Frank found his supper ready for him; and, after this was over, he spent an hour or two very pleasantly in getting the nuts from the burs, and roasting some of them in the kitchen fire. His sister Clara enjoyed this as much as he did; and they were quite surprised when their father came to tell them that it was half-past eight, and time for them to go to bed.

“Can we go into mother’s room and say good night?” asked the children; for their mother had been ill for some weeks, and had not yet recovered sufficiently to leave her room.

“Yes, if you will move gently,” replied Mr. Wilbur. “I think she is not asleep.”

The children opened the door of their mother’s room very softly, and peeped in. She was sitting in a large easy-chair, and smiled pleasantly upon them as they entered.

“You have been very quiet this evening, my children,” she said. “How have you amused yourselves?”

“We have been cracking chestnut-burs, and roasting some of the nuts,” answered Frank. “I went to the woods after school, and got a fine lot of burs; but the frost has not opened them very well yet.”

“I am glad that you got so many,” replied his mother. “And are your lessons all prepared for to-morrow?”

“O mother!” exclaimed Frank, “I have forgotten them entirely! I promised father to study them this evening. I am very sorry; but I will get up very early in the morning, and study them before breakfast. Will that do, mother?”

“It would do, Frank, if you could be sure that you would rise early, and that nothing would take your attention from your lessons. But it is very dangerous to delay the performance of any duty until the last moment. Perhaps there is time to look over at least one lesson before you go to bed.”

“I am pretty sleepy, mother,” replied Frank, yawning. “I do not think I could understand the lessons. But I will be sure to get them in the morning.”

“I hope nothing will prevent you, my son; and so now kiss me a good-night, and go to your own room.”

“Will you come down stairs to-morrow, mother?” asked Clara, as she affectionately twined her arms around her mother’s neck, and gave her a good-night kiss.

“Yes, dear, if I feel pretty well I think I shall come down to breakfast.”

The children clapped their hands with delight, and joyfully went to their own rooms.

Frank’s sleeping-room was on the west side of the house, and it was not very light there early in the morning. The clock was just striking when Frank awoke the next morning.

“That’s right!” he exclaimed, “just six o’clock. I knew I should have time to learn my lessons before breakfast.”

But, to Frank’s great astonishment, the clock gave another stroke after he had counted six.

“It cannot be seven,” he said to himself. “It looks very early yet. Perhaps I counted too fast.”

Frank thought it better to hurry to dress himself, however, and was soon seated by the window, with his book in his hand.

But he had scarcely commenced studying when the breakfast-bell rung. Frank knew then that it must be half-past seven; and he ran down stairs, feeling a good deal mortified, and somewhat anxious as to how he should get through his lessons.

He found his father already seated, with the large Bible open before him; for morning worship always preceded breakfast. So Frank took his place at once, only waiting to give his mother a smile and a kiss; for he felt delighted to see her in her accustomed seat once more.

The family remained at the breakfast-table rather longer than usual, because it seemed so pleasant to be all together again; but at length Mr. Wilbur rose, and said he must go to his business.

“I am half an hour behind-hand this morning,” he added, smiling; “but, as it is mother’s first appearance since her illness, I did not like to be in haste.”

Frank cast his eyes toward the clock as his father spoke, and saw to his dismay that it was half-past eight.

“Are your lessons prepared, Frank?” asked his mother rather anxiously, as he sprang up in haste.

Frank felt ashamed to say that they were not, for he remembered how positive he had been the evening before that nothing could prevent him from learning them in the morning. But he was an honest boy, and told the whole truth at once.

There was no help for it now, for it was time for him to go to school; and so, with a heavy satchel of books upon his shoulder, and with a heart almost as heavy as the books, Frank bade his mother good-morning, and set off on his walk.

Mental arithmetic was the first lesson. It was always a difficult one for Frank; and, as might have been expected, he failed entirely in the recitation, and was obliged to leave the class and retire to his seat. This was but the beginning of troubles. The mortification of being sent from the class in arithmetic quite unfitted him for learning his other lessons well. His next recitation was very imperfect; his sums were all marked “_wrong_;” his writing was blotted, and looked very badly; in short, it was a day of misfortunes. He was not allowed to leave the room at recess, and was also detained nearly an hour after school to recite the lessons which he had failed to learn through the day.

It was with a sad countenance that he appeared in his mother’s room on his return home.

“Where is Clara?” he asked, observing the absence of his sister.

“Gone to town with your father, my son,” was the reply.

There was a large town near the village where Mr. Wilbur resided, and the children thought it a great privilege to be allowed to accompany their father when business obliged him to go there.

“Gone to town, mother!” echoed Frank. “Are they going to see the menagerie?”

“I believe they are, Frank.”

“O mother! mother! why could not I have gone with them?” And, quite overcome by the disappointment and the previous disasters of the day, the poor boy burst into tears, and hid his face in his hands.

His mother pitied him very much; and, moving her chair nearer to him, placed her hand gently and soothingly upon his head.

Frank was comforted by this, and gradually ceased his sobs, and, seating himself at his mother’s feet, laid his head in her lap.

“Your father waited more than half an hour after the usual time of your return from school, my son. He could not wait longer, as it would have made it too late for him to attend to his business. Why did you not come home sooner?”

“I could not, mother. I was kept after school because I did not know my lessons,” answered Frank, sadly.

“And why did you not know them, Frank? Were you idle?”

“No, mother, I was not idle; I really tried to learn them, but somehow they would not stay in my mind. I think it was all because I did not know my first lesson this morning; and that made me feel so sorry and ashamed that I could not get the next one; and then I was sorry again, and could not get the third; and so on. One lesson knocked the other down,” continued Frank, smiling a little, “just as one card-house knocks the other, when I build the row of tents.”

His mother smiled also at this comparison, for she was glad to have Frank feel cheerful again.

“And why did you not know your first lesson?” she asked. “We must find out what gave the first blow to your tents; for, if we know the cause of the evil, we can perhaps find a remedy for the future.”

“The first lesson is in mental arithmetic, mother, and the boys are expected to learn it at home. I got up too late to study it this morning; and so, of course, I did not know it.”

“But yesterday afternoon was the time to study it, Frank. An hour before tea is the rule. Your school closes at three, and this leaves you time for a good play until half-past five; then you should study till half-past six.”

“But I went to the woods for nuts, mother. I wish father had not given me leave to go.”

“Your father likes to leave you in freedom sometimes,” replied his mother. “He wishes you to observe and feel the consequences of your own actions.”

“Well, I have felt the consequences this time, and they are bad enough,” said Frank, sighing. “You do not know how much I want to go to the menagerie, mother.”

“I know you want to go very much, and I feel much grieved at your disappointment, Frank; but the misfortunes of the day may be a useful lesson to you through your whole life, if you will try to profit by them.”

“I will, mother. I am resolved to act up to father’s motto in future,—‘There is no time like the present.’ You will see that all my duties will be done in proper time.”

“I hope so, my son. A habit of promptness, in the performance of even the most trifling duties, will be invaluable to you through life.”

“For a good beginning, mother,” continued Frank, “I will learn my lesson for the morning now, before Clara comes home, and then I shall be at leisure to talk to her.”

“I shall be glad to have you do so, Frank. And now I will tell you that your father intends going to town again on Saturday, and, if you are a good boy, will then take you to the menagerie.”

Frank’s face grew bright with pleasure.

“I am very glad!” he exclaimed. “But why did you not tell me before, mother?”

“I thought it better not to do so, my son. And now get your book, and I will explain the lesson to you.”

Frank obeyed; and the next half-hour was a pleasant one, although the dreaded arithmetic was in his hand.

* * * * *

Our young readers will wish to know whether Frank kept his resolution of never delaying the performance of duties; and if they will pass over with us the lapse of some six or seven years, and take another peep at him as a young man of seventeen, they will, we think, be able to answer the question to their own satisfaction.

Frank was now the only earthly protector of his mother and sister, for Mr. Wilbur had been removed to the spiritual world about two years before. He had left but little property; and Mrs. Wilbur found it better to leave her pleasant home in the village, and hire rooms in the town to which Frank and Clara used to love to go when they were children. Frank was very desirous to earn something to aid in their support; and his mother at length found a good situation for him in a large shipping-store. His salary was small, however; and Mrs. Wilbur and Clara were obliged to take fine sewing to do, and, even with this assistance, found it difficult to maintain themselves comfortably.

“To-morrow I shall be seventeen, mother!” suddenly exclaimed Frank, as he sat thoughtfully gazing into the fire one evening after his return from the store.

“Yes, my son,” answered his mother. “You are almost a man.”

“And I ought to be able to take care of you and Clara, mother. My salary is too small. I know that my services are worth more than Mr. Lewiston pays me.

“That may be, Frank; but he gives you as much as it is customary to allow boys of your age. I do not know that we ought to expect him to do more.”

“I cannot bear to have you and Clara work so constantly, mother. I am the one to work.”

His mother smiled affectionately upon him as she replied,—

“You do work for us all the time, Frank, and we love to look to you for help; but it cannot be supposed that, at your age, you can support us entirely.”

Just at this moment, Clara put the last stitches to the work upon which she was engaged; and, throwing it aside, she said joyfully,—

“Come, Frank, I have finished work for this evening. Bring your flute, and I will sing the new song that we like so much.”

Frank readily complied; and Mrs. Wilbur listened with delight as Clara’s sweet voice mingled with the soft notes of her brother’s flute.

But, at the end of the first song, Frank rose hurriedly, as if suddenly recollecting something, saying as he did so,—

“Mother, I must go back to the store for a little while.”

“Go back to the store, my son! For what purpose, at this hour?”

“A cask of gunpowder was brought there this afternoon, mother, and I fear that it was not put in a place of safety. We have a particular place for keeping it, in order to guard against accidents. It was given in charge to our head clerk; but he was unexpectedly called away this evening, and I do not feel sure that he attended to it.”

“But as you were not desired to take care of it, Frank, will it not answer to leave it where it is until morning?” asked Mrs. Wilbur, for the walk was a long one, and she felt sorry to have Frank go at so late an hour.

“You can move it to-morrow, when you open the store,” urged Clara. “You will need some one to help you, and there is no one there to-night.”

“There are men enough near by,” replied Frank, smiling. “I think I will go, mother. I do not love to leave this pleasant room, especially as Clara is ready to sing with me; but I believe it is my duty to attend to that powder immediately. _There is no time like the present_, you know, mother. I do not forget father’s motto.”

“You have always remembered it well since the day of misfortunes at school,” answered his mother, “and I will not urge you to act contrary to it now. Go, if you think it your duty.”

And Frank went. As he expected, the gunpowder had not been put in a place of security. He attended to its removal, and then, with a quick step and a light heart, returned home. Clara had already retired to rest, and his mother was only awaiting his return to follow her example. Soon all were sleeping quietly.

An alarm of fire in the middle of the night, and the noise of the engines as they passed, aroused Frank; and, on looking from his window, he felt convinced that the light was in the direction of the store in which he was employed.

Hastily dressing himself, and pausing at his mother’s door to tell her where he was going, he was soon walking rapidly to the spot.

As he approached, he felt relieved at finding that the fire had not originated in the store, as he had at first feared. It was, however, fearfully near; and, in spite of the efforts of the firemen, one part of it was soon in flames.

It was at this moment that Frank arrived at the scene of action; and, at the same instant, Mr. Lewiston and the head clerk came running from opposite directions.

Frank followed his employer as he was hastily passing into the store, hoping that the most valuable goods might be removed; but they were both forcibly pulled back by the clerk, who, with a countenance full of horror, exclaimed,—

“The powder! O, Mr. Lewiston, I did not remove it; and the fire is in that part of the building!”

Mr. Lewiston uttered an exclamation of despair, and was springing from the door, when Frank laid his hand upon his arm.

“All is right, Mr. Lewiston. I saw the powder properly stored.”

“Bless you, my boy!” was the heartfelt reply; and, relieved from this dreadful fear, all hands were soon at work to rescue the property from the devouring flames.

But the firemen had now gained the victory, and the fire was extinguished before it had reached the main part of the building. Only the left wing was burned; but it was there that the powder had been placed, and from there Frank had removed it, in his late visit at the store the previous evening. He thanked the Lord that he had done this, as he thought of the dreadful loss of life and property which might otherwise have taken place.

* * * * *

Again the little party had assembled around the table to enjoy their pleasant evening chat. It was on the day after the fire, Frank’s seventeenth birthday.

“And now, mother, I have a piece of good news to tell you,” he said, as he finished the recital of the adventures of the previous night; for, at Clara’s request, he had told the story a second time.

“Mr. Lewiston has doubled my salary; and, moreover, he assures me that he will continue to advance me, and will at some future time endeavor to establish me in business for myself. And now, Miss Clara, you may put away your needle, and read and study a part of your time; and mother will no longer be so incessantly occupied with her work, but will have leisure to take some air and exercise, and she will look bright and happy again, as she used to when dear father lived with us.”

“I ought to look happy when I have such kind children to take care of me,” answered Mrs. Wilbur, smiling through her tears.

“I am _so glad_ you went back to the store last evening, Frank!” exclaimed Clara. “I will never again try to persuade you to neglect the prompt performance of any duty.”

“It will be a lesson to both of us,” replied Frank. “You do not know how happy I felt this morning when our head clerk offered me his hand, and told me that I had saved him from a life of misery; for, had there been an explosion, he should have considered himself as the cause of the disasters which must have followed.”

“It must make you very happy to think that you have been the means of preventing so frightful a calamity,” answered Mrs. Wilbur. “The lesson is indeed a useful one to us all; and in every duty, whether great or small, we will ever bear in mind your favorite motto, ‘There is no time like the present.’”

THE LITTLE MATCH BOY.

“Don’t cry, mother. I shall soon be older and stronger, and then I can do more for you and little sister. You shall never want for bread when I am a man. Don’t cry, mother, _please_ don’t; it breaks my heart.”

The speaker was a manly little fellow of some seven years. His countenance would have been beautiful, but for an expression of premature and anxious care, and a look of patient suffering which it was painful to see on the face of happy childhood.

One arm was thrown around the neck of a pale, sad-looking woman, while the other clasped a chubby little girl, who, smiling through her tears, lisped, in her pretty childish accents,

“Don’t cry, mother. Rosy loves you.”

There was comfort in this. The last crust of bread had been eaten, and not a solitary sixpence remained to buy another loaf. The mother was too feeble and ill to ply her needle with that unremitting diligence which was necessary for the support of her little ones. Her strength had already been too severely taxed; and now the time had come when Nature could no longer support the heavy burden. The future was very, very dark; and yet the mother’s heart was comforted by the innocent love of her darlings. She wiped away those bitter tears, and tried to smile, as she clasped them to her bosom.

“My good Ernest,” she exclaimed, “my sweet little Rosy, I will weep no more. Our Heavenly Father careth even for the sparrows. Surely He will not forsake us in our hour of need. You must go to Mr. Thayer’s, my son, and see if he will give me some more work. Tell him that I have been very ill, but am better now, and should be glad of employment. Tell him, also, that it would be a great relief to me if he would pay me one dollar in advance. Perhaps he will do this for me.”

“If he does not, he will be a cross man,” said Ernest, “for he has a pocket-book full of dollars. I saw them the last time I was there.”

“Yes, dear; but he employs a great many people, and has to pay out a great deal of money.”

“You are not able to sew, mother,” said Ernest, thoughtfully, as he took up his hat. “It will bring back the bad pain in your side.”

“Perhaps not, Ernest. At any rate, I must try. Go now, my son, for I have no bread to give little Rosy for her dinner; and you, too, will soon be hungry.”

The heart of the boy swelled almost to bursting, as he obeyed his mother’s command. For many weeks she had been stretched on the bed of sickness; and the kind physician, whom she was at length obliged to call in, had said, in Ernest’s hearing, that she needed rest; that such constant exertion would certainly cause her death.

“And now she has sent me for the sewing again,” sobbed the poor child, “and I know it will kill her: and then, what will become of poor little Rosy and me. Oh! how I wish I was older. If I could only earn a very little, it would be some help. Is there nothing in the world that little boys can do?”

As Ernest said this, the shrill cry of a match boy attracted his attention; and a bright thought entered his mind.

He could carry a basket, surely. It could not be so heavy as the baskets of wood and blocks which he often picked up around the new buildings for his mother. And he could call matches, and sell them, too, and take the money to his mother. And then, how comfortable she would be; and she would not have to work so hard.

Pleasant visions of tea and bread, and even of a pound of butter, passed before Ernest’s eyes; but then an unexpected difficulty arose. Where was the sum necessary for the outfit to come from? It certainly did not need a very extensive capital; but dollars, or even shillings, were hard to find. Ernest had not answered the question to his satisfaction, when he found himself at the door of the building, where he was to obtain the work for his mother. There was little trouble in making the desired arrangement. Mrs. Lawrence was well known at the establishment as an excellent workwoman; and the work, and the dollar in advance, were readily furnished.

Encouraged by this success, Ernest involuntarily exclaimed,

“Oh, how I wish that some one would lend me a dollar!”

“And what would you do with a dollar, my little man?” inquired a gentleman standing by, attracted by the earnestness of the boy’s manner.

Ernest blushed deeply, but answered, in a firm tone,

“I would buy a basket and some matches, and other things, and sell them in the street; and then my poor mother would not have to work so hard.”

“You are a good son,” was the reply; “and I would willingly lend you the dollar, if I thought you were old enough to carry out the plan.”

“Only try me, sir!” exclaimed the animated child. “Only try me! You shall see that I can do it.”

At this moment, a hasty summons from a friend reminded the gentleman that he must not miss an approaching omnibus. He placed a dollar in Ernest’s hand; and without waiting to hear his expressions of gratitude, sprung into the coach, and was soon out of sight.

With rapid steps, Ernest passed through the crowded streets, until he turned down the narrow alley which led to his own home.

His delight was almost too great for utterance; and he clasped his arms around his mother’s neck, and fairly sobbed for joy.

“What is the matter, my dear son?” exclaimed Mrs. Lawrence, in alarm. “What new misfortune has befallen us! Would not Mr. Thayer give me employment?”

“Oh yes, mother; yes, indeed; and here is the dollar he sent you. I am not crying because I am sorry, mother. My heart is very glad. You will not have to work so hard any more, mother; and I shall help to support you and little Rosy. See what a kind friend has lent me.” And as Ernest spoke, he held up the dollar which the gentleman had given him.

“And how will this enable you to support us, my child?” asked the widow, in astonishment, for she could not understand the meaning of Ernest’s words.

“You shall see, mother. I will try my best, and our Heavenly Father will help me. This dollar will buy me a basket, and a few things to put in it; and when I have sold those, I can buy some more. You do not know how well I can call matches, mother;” and he imitated the shrill cry so skilfully, that Rosy clapped her hands with admiration, and even his mother smiled at his enthusiasm.

But it was a sad smile; for it was a trial to her to have Ernest commence this new mode of life. He was a bright boy, and a good scholar for his age; and she had hoped that he would continue steadily at school, until he had acquired a good education.

But something must be done for their relief; and it was possible that the boy’s small earnings might at least help to supply their scanty food.

So the basket was bought, and a moderate supply of matches and other trifling articles placed in it; and early on the following morning, Ernest commenced his new life.

His neat appearance, and bright, animated countenance, were so prepossessing, that many who observed him were disposed to buy; and one kind lady even bestowed an extra sixpence upon him, because he thanked her so gratefully for buying half-a-dozen boxes of his matches.

With a joyful heart, he placed his earnings in his mother’s hands.

“Look, mother!” he exclaimed, “all this, besides what I need to buy more things with, and the sixpence which I have laid aside toward paying the dollar. You know I must lay by some every day to pay the gentleman. But how am I to find him, mother? I never thought to ask where he lived.”

“He probably meant to give you the money, Ernest, or he would have told you where to bring it.”

“Oh no, mother, he only lent it to me; I will pay it back, if I search the city to find him. How much I thank him for his kindness.”

“And I thank him too,” said little Rosy. “Now, we shall never be poor any more—shall we, Ernest?” “I think not,” replied Ernest. “Mother shall have a cup of tea every evening; and after a little while, Rosy, we will have butter to eat on our bread, and I will buy you a pretty new frock.”

“Poor children!” thought the mother, as she gazed fondly upon them. “How little it takes to make them happy!”

It was really wonderful what success attended our little match boy. Not only were many daily comforts provided, but quite a sum was laid by for time of need. Ernest was almost too happy when he saw both his mother and Rosy dressed neatly in frocks which had been bought with his earnings; and his only trouble was, that he had not yet been able to discover the good gentleman who had lent him the first dollar.

“I should so love to thank him, and tell him how nicely we are getting along,” he would sometimes say. “Your cheeks are not quite so pale as they used to be when you sewed so many hours in the night, mother. I am very glad that I am old enough to help you.”

“You are a great help to me, indeed, my son,” replied Mrs. Lawrence; “but I feel anxious that you should have a little time to devote to your learning. We have some money laid by now, and I think you may let your basket rest for awhile, and attend school.”

Ernest loved his books, and his eyes brightened at the thought of school; but after a moment’s thought, he said,

“It would not do, mother, to give up my basket altogether, because there are a good many kind ladies who buy many things from me, and always wait for me to come; and besides, we should soon spend the little money that we have, and then you would have to work so hard again. But I will study, mother; you will help me, and I will try my best. I can spare two or three hours every day for my books.”

And from that time, with his mother’s help, and his own patient industry, Ernest made rapid progress; and even found leisure to instruct his little sister in several branches.

Rosy was an active little girl, and loved to make herself useful. It was her busy fingers that placed everything in such neat and attractive order in her brother’s basket; and it was she, also, who made the room look so very bright and cheerful, to welcome his return. While her mother was engaged with her sewing, she would sweep the floor, wipe every particle of dust from the scanty furniture, set the table, and do everything that one so young could do toward preparing their frugal meal.

“See, Ernest,” she said, as her brother seated himself by her side one evening, after the tea table was cleared away, and Mrs. Lawrence had resumed her work. “See how nicely I have pasted this strip of sand paper over the mantel-piece, that you may have a place to light the match upon when you kindle the fire for mother in the morning.”

“Yes, it looks very nicely,” answered Ernest; “and I will try to remember never to draw the matches across the wall any more, since it leaves such ugly marks. But, Rosy, I see those same marks in very nice houses sometimes.”

“Perhaps they did not think about pasting up sand paper,” replied Rosy, thoughtfully; and then, after a moment’s pause, she added, “You might cut some little strips, Ernest, and sell them with your matches.”

“I might do something better than that,” exclaimed her brother, as a sudden thought struck him. “If mother will give us some paste, and you will let me use some of your pasteboard and bits of colored paper which the paper hanger, next door, gave you, I think I can make something very pretty to hold matches, and light them too.”

The paste and paper were readily supplied, but Ernest soon found that it was quite beyond his skill to carry out the plan which he had formed; and he was delighted when his mother laid aside her work, and offered to assist him.

With her help, a stiff piece of pasteboard, seven or eight inches square, was partly covered with sand paper, and neatly bordered with colored paper. Two little round cases were then fastened upon the upper part of the card, to hold the matches; and a small hole was made in the middle, so that it could be hung upon a nail driven into the wall.

Ernest and Rosy fairly jumped for joy when the first one was completed and placed upon the mantel-piece to dry. The second one was made much quicker than the first; and Mrs. Lawrence soon became so expert, that she had finished half a dozen in a very short time. These were enough for an experiment. Ernest was sure they would sell for sixpence a-piece; and after he went to bed, he could hardly close his eyes, his mind was so busy thinking what a little fortune he should make with this pretty invention.

His expectations were not disappointed. At every house where he called with his basket, the match cases were noticed and admired; and before he had been an hour from home, he had sold the last one, and with a light heart returned to tell his success to his mother.

A fresh supply was soon obtained; and for several days, he was equally successful in disposing of them.

At one house, where a little girl had purchased one of the first cases which had been made, he received an order for half-a-dozen, to be furnished as soon as possible.

“And be sure to make them very pretty, little boy,” said the young girl, as she stood at the door talking with Ernest; “for my father will look at them himself, and he will want them very nice. He was quite pleased when I showed him the one which I bought the other day, and he said you were an ingenious boy.”

“My mother makes the greater part of them, Miss,” replied Ernest, blushing. “We will do our best to please you.”

Rosy had been uncommonly successful, that day, in collecting pretty pieces of colored paper; and the six little cases, far prettier than any which had been made before, were soon completed and placed upon the mantel-piece to dry, that they might be in readiness for Ernest’s morning expedition.

Very happy he felt, as with his basket upon his arm, he knocked at the basement door of the handsome house where he had often sold his little wares, and inquired of the girl who opened the door, if he could see the young lady.

“Oh, you are Miss Ellen’s little match boy,” was the reply. “Wait a moment, and I will call her.”

Just then the door of the breakfast room opened, and Miss Ellen herself appeared.

“Have you brought them so soon?” she exclaimed, joyfully, as Ernest eagerly displayed his treasures. “Oh, they are very pretty! Come with me, and I will show them to papa. He has finished his breakfast, and is reading the morning paper. Come right along. Do not be afraid.”

Ernest took off his hat, and followed his little conductress into the front basement. A pleasant-looking gentleman sat in an arm-chair, with a newspaper in his hand.

“Here is the little match boy, papa,” said Ellen, as they entered. “He has brought the cases which you wished for. Look! are they not pretty?”

“Very pretty, my daughter, and very neatly made. What is your name, my little lad?”

But Ernest made no reply. He was looking intently and eagerly at the gentleman, and after a moment’s pause, exclaimed,

“It must be the very one! I am so glad!”

“Glad of what, my little fellow?” asked the gentleman, smiling.

“Glad to find you, Sir. Do you not remember that you lent me a dollar? Oh, it has been of great use to me; and I have wanted so much to thank you, and pay it back to you. I have carried it in my pocket for a long time; but I did not know that you lived in this house.”

As Ernest spoke, he drew a silver dollar from his pocket, carefully wrapped in a piece of paper, and offered it to the gentleman; but he drew back, saying,

“This is some mistake, my lad. I never lent you a dollar.”

“Oh yes, Sir, a long time ago; more than a year. It was in Mr. Thayer’s shop, Sir. We were very poor then, and I was so anxious to do something to help my mother. You thought I was too small to carry a basket; but you lent me the dollar.”

“I remember it now, my boy. You are an honest little fellow. And have you really succeeded well?”

“Very well, Sir. We are not so poor now. Mother does not have to work so hard, and we have good food and comfortable clothes. It is all owing to your kindness, Sir.”

Once more Ernest offered the dollar; but the gentleman refused it, saying,

“I intended to give it to you, my child.”

“But I should feel happier if you would take it, Sir; I have saved it for you so long.”

“I will take the little match boxes instead, then,” replied his friend. “Will that satisfy you?”

“They are not worth a dollar,” replied Ernest; “but I can bring you more, if you like.”

“We have enough, my good boy. A dollar is not too much for them. And now, give me your name, and tell me where you live, for I shall wish to see more of you.”

“My name is Ernest Lawrence, Sir; and we live in one room of the large white house near the Baptist church.”

“Ah, yes, I know the place. Well, Ernest, tell your mother that I will call to see her to-morrow morning, about ten o’clock.”

“Thank you, Sir; I will not forget to tell her. She will be very much obliged to you for your kindness, and so will Rosy.”

“Who is Rosy?” asked Ellen, who had been an attentive listener to the conversation between her father and the little match boy.

“My sister, Miss,” replied Ernest, as he took up his basket, and made his best bow to the gentleman.

The next morning was a long one to the two children. Very early had Rosy assisted her mother in putting their little room in the neatest order; and two hours before the time when they might expect the gentleman, she was gazing eagerly from the window, hoping that he would soon arrive.

The right time came at last; and Mr. Burnap—for this was the name of Ernest’s benefactor—was seen ascending the steps. The children ran to the door to receive him, and show him the way to their room.

He spoke kindly to them both, and stroked Rosy’s golden curls; but he had not long to stay, and seemed anxious to have some conversation with their mother. So the children employed themselves quietly in another part of the room, and were careful not to speak a loud word, for fear of disturbing their guest.

After a little while, they softly left the room, and seated themselves on the step of the outer door, where they could talk together in more freedom, and yet be very sure to see Mr. Burnap before he left the house.

In about half an hour, their mother called them.

“Come here, my boy,” said Mr. Burnap, extending his hand to Ernest, as he advanced. “Your mother tells me that you are fond of your books. Would you like to give up going out with your basket, and attend a good school?”

Ernest hesitated.

“Speak out, my boy. Tell us what is in your mind.”

“I should love to go to school very much, Sir, if I was sure that my mother would not have to work too hard. My basket earns enough to buy us many comforts.”

“I will see that your mother is provided for. Would you, then, like to attend school?”

“Oh, very much, Sir. I will study hard.”

“That is right. You are a good son, and I think you will be a good man. As for my little Rosy, I am sure she is a good little girl, and does all she can to be useful.”

“I can sweep the room, Sir,” replied Rosy, smiling pleasantly, as the gentleman drew her to his side.

“I thought so, my child. It looks very nice. I must bring my little daughter to see you some time. And now, I must bid you all good morning. I will call again in one week, Mrs. Lawrence; please to have all in readiness.”

Mrs. Lawrence bowed her head gratefully, but her heart was too full to speak; and she quite alarmed the children by weeping some time after Mr. Burnap left the room.

At length she grew calm, and was able to tell them all that had passed. Their kind friend had expressed his interest in Ernest’s welfare, and had offered to give him a good education at his own expense. He had asked Mrs. Lawrence many questions concerning her present employment; and finding that constant confinement to her needle was injurious to her health, and yielded them but a scanty support, he had proposed to her to remove to some comfortable rooms in a house of his own, part of which was at this time vacant. One of these rooms was fitted for a shop; and he offered to advance a sufficient sum to enable her to open a small thread and needle store, which would, he thought, be successful, and might be gradually increased.

Ernest and Rosy were almost wild with delight, when their mother told them of this plan. Rosy was sure she could soon learn to attend the shop as well as her mother; and Ernest thought he could help a great deal when he was not in school. Their hearts were filled with gratitude to their Heavenly Father, who had raised them up such a kind friend.

In about a week they were established in their new home, which seemed to them almost like a palace. Several articles of furniture were given them by Mr. Burnap; and the whole place presented a remarkably neat and attractive appearance.

The little shop was very successful; and before many months had passed away, Mrs. Lawrence was able, not only to repay the sum which their friend had advanced to them, but also to increase her stock of goods considerably.

Mr. Burnap would have objected to receiving the money, but Mrs. Lawrence begged that he would take it, and if he pleased, use it to assist others who were poor and needy.

Ernest applied with great diligence to his studies, and made rapid progress. Little Rosy, also, was soon placed at school; and was no less an industrious scholar than her brother. They delighted to do everything in their power to assist their mother, and often wished they could do more, to show their gratitude to the friends who had been so kind to them.

Mr. Burnap had no son, and Ernest became very dear to him. After several years, he took him into his own counting-room, and, as he grew older, made him a partner in his business.

Ernest, while still a young man, was a wealthy merchant. If you could have looked into his beautiful parlors, and have seen that handsomely-dressed, cheerful-looking old lady, seated in her rocking-chair, and that lovely young girl by her side, you would not have recognized poor Mrs. Lawrence and her little Rosy; and in that gentlemanly-looking man who has just entered, you would have been still more unable to have recalled the little match boy, whose shrill cry had once been heard through those very streets, where he was now known and respected.

Ernest still loved to tell the story; and when Rosy would sometimes say,

“That little thread and needle store seems like a dream to me now,” he would produce the very basket which he had formerly carried, and the silver dollar which he had so long reserved to repay his benefactor, and would smilingly reply,

“My match basket is still a reality to me, Rosy. We will not forget the days gone by.”

I FORGOT.

“I am glad you have come, Clara,” said Mrs. Gray, as her little daughter entered the room, on her return from an errand to a neighboring shop; “I began to fear you would be too late. Where are the buttons?”

“The buttons!” exclaimed Clara. “Oh, mother, I forgot to buy them!”

“Forgot to buy them, Clara; how is that possible, when you went to the shop for the very purpose of getting them? I gave you no other errand.”

“I know that, mother; but you gave me leave to buy the worsted to work the slippers for father, for which I have been saving my money so long. I met Anna Lee, and we were so busy talking together, and selecting the prettiest shades of worsted, that I quite forgot the buttons. I will go back again, mother.”

“No, Clara, it will be too late; your father is now eating his dinner, and he expects the coach in a few minutes. I should have but just time to sew the buttons on his coat, if I had them now. If he had not been so suddenly called from home, his clothes would have been in readiness. I have exerted myself all the morning to put every thing in proper order for his journey, and all is now ready excepting his overcoat, which needs new buttons very much.”

Clara looked sorry and ashamed, and just then her father entered the room, saying,—

“Is my coat nearly ready? I think the coach will be here in five minutes.”

“I am sorry to say that Clara forgot the buttons,” replied his wife, “and there is no time to send her again to the shop.”

“Oh, no!” said Mr. Gray, “I must wear the coat as it is. I should be gone before she could reach the shop. It is not pleasant to think that my little daughter’s forgetfulness obliges me to wear a shabby coat; but do not trouble yourself about it. I will get a tailor to repair it at the town where we stop for the night.”

A few minutes passed, and the coach rattled to the door. Mr. Gray hastily bade his wife an affectionate farewell, and stooping to kiss Clara he said, “My daughter must remember that forgetfulness is, often, only another name for selfishness.”

In another minute he had taken his place in the coach, the door was closed, the driver sprang to his seat, and they whirled away as fast as the four stout horses could carry them.

Clara stood at the door until the coach was out of sight, and then slowly and sadly returned to the parlor, and seated herself by her mother.

“I am very sorry I forgot the buttons,” she said; “but what did father mean by saying that forgetfulness is only another name for selfishness? I did not mean to forget, mother; I was willing to go for them. Selfish people are unwilling to do any thing to help others.”

“There are many kinds of selfishness, Clara, and forgetfulness is certainly one kind. You have a bad habit of excusing many acts of thoughtlessness and carelessness by saying, ‘I forgot.’ Now can you tell me why you forgot to buy the buttons?”

“Because I was so engaged in selecting the worsteds and in admiring the pretty colors, mother.”

“And was not that selfish, Clara? You did not forget your own errand, but you allowed it to engross your mind so entirely, that you forgot the real object for which you were sent to the shop. If you loved to be of use to me, as well as you love to please yourself, you would have remembered what I sent you for, and purchased that before you attended to your own wants.”

“I will try to do better another time, mother,” replied Clara, “and in this case I believe I was a little selfish; but I do not believe that forgetfulness is always selfishness.”

“Not always, perhaps; but very often,” said Mrs. Gray. “If we love our neighbor as ourselves, we shall remember his desires as well as we do our own. It is a poor excuse for any fault to say, ‘I forgot to do right.’ Now, tie on your bonnet, Clara, and we will take a short walk this fine afternoon.”

“Oh, thank you, mother! I love to walk with you; and will you tell me where father has gone, and all about it, as you said you would do when you were at leisure.”

“I will,” replied her mother. “We will take the pleasant retired path which leads through the woods, and when we reach our favorite seat we will rest ourselves, and talk about your father’s journey.”

Clara always found a walk with her mother instructive as well as delightful; for Mrs. Gray allowed nothing to escape her observation, but made even the most trifling objects the means of conveying pleasant and useful information. A simple flower, or blade of grass, often served to impress upon Clara’s mind the wisdom and beauty which is visible in all the works of the Lord; and the music of the birds never fell unheeded upon her ear, but elevated her affections to her Heavenly Father, without whom not even a sparrow falleth to the ground. From her earliest childhood her mother had endeavored to give her habits of observation, and had taught her to regard nothing which the Lord has made as too trifling to be instructive and useful, if examined with proper attention.

“Anna Lee has collected specimens of a great many different kinds of leaves, mother,” said Clara, as she plucked a large oak leaf from a tree which they were passing, and admired its deep green and smooth glossy surface. “She has a very large book quite full, and yet she tells me that she has never been able to find two leaves exactly alike.”

“She will never find two leaves alike, Clara. There are no two things in creation that are exactly alike.”

“Why, mother, how can you know?” exclaimed Clara, in surprise. “There may be two things alike which you have never seen.”

“No, Clara, this cannot be. The Lord is infinite, and therefore there is an infinite variety in all things that He has made. There is not given any thing the same as another, and neither can be given to eternity.”

“Not even two blades of grass, mother?” asked Clara.

“No, Clara,” replied her mother, smiling. “When you are older you will understand this better, but it will always fill your mind with wonder and admiration. At present, it is sufficient for you to recollect what I have said,—that the Lord is infinite, and that therefore, there is an infinite variety in all things. To impress this upon your mind, you may compare as many things as you please, and you will soon find that although they will frequently look alike, yet by careful observation you will always find some slight shades of difference.”

“Yes, mother, I will try,” said Clara, “and I think I should like to collect a book of leaves like Anna’s, if you are willing, mother.”

“I have no objection, Clara; and, if you like, I will give you a short lesson to learn in a little book which I have on Botany, and then you will know the names of the different forms of leaves, and I will show you how to arrange them properly in your book.”

“Oh, thank you, mother! I shall like that very much. And now here we are at our mossy seat, and I shall hear where father has gone, and why he looked so grave when he read that letter this morning.”

“Yes, you shall now hear all about it,” replied Mrs. Gray. “I was pleased to observe that you tried to suppress your curiosity this morning, and when your father requested you to leave the room, as he wished to talk with me alone, that you obeyed readily and without asking any questions. The letter was from your aunt Catharine. She tells us that her husband’s health is evidently declining, and the physicians strongly recommend a milder climate. They also think that a voyage at sea might be useful to him. He will leave home for Italy in a few days, and your aunt has decided to accompany him.”

“And is little Ellen going with them, mother?” asked Clara, who was listening with eager attention.

“No, my dear,” replied Mrs. Gray; “your aunt thinks that she could not devote herself so entirely to her husband if little Ellen was with her, and she has therefore decided to leave her behind, although it is a great trial to part with her. She would like to have Ellen remain with us during their absence, and this was the principal subject of the letter to your father.”