Chapter III: Part 3

This sad condition would, I think, soon have delivered me from the possibility of any other misfortune; and here, gentle reader, my history would have terminated, had not my master, who was not ignorant of my talents, now thought proper to turn them to some account. When he told Miss Amelia that my song was not that of a Robin, he spoke truth, but not the whole truth. He affected to depreciate my value, that he might get possession of me. I was separated so early from my parents, that I did not learn their song, but being naturally disposed to music, and hearing no other than that of the piano-forte, when with my first dear mistress, I had contrived to pick up a few notes here and there, and put them together at my leisure; thus forming a kind of wild melody, not resembling the song of any other bird. Had Miss Amelia been aware of this circumstance, she certainly would not have parted with me; for, as I observed before, she valued things in proportion as they were difficult of attainment. Well had it been for her if this disposition had extended to her studies: in this instance they might have been subservient to her darling propensity. But such is the lot of those who are wilfully ignorant; they are continually duped by the artful, and not unfrequently defeat their own plans of enjoyment, by not knowing how to pursue them.

But to return to myself. I was now to assume a new character—no less than that of preceptor. My master procured some very young birds, so young that several of them died for want of that delicate attention which the parent alone can bestow. Two or three survived, and these were placed in small cages near mine, that they might hear my song and adopt it. I sincerely pitied the early misfortunes and captivity of these poor little creatures, and sang rather to sooth and cheer than to instruct them. As they grew older, however, they tried to imitate my note, and soon acquired it so exactly, that my master sold them to great advantage.

I must say I regretted losing my little pupils, particularly one, a linnet, who had evinced great affection towards me; but I consoled myself with the assurance, that they must be better off any where than with the mercenary bird-fancier, who valued them only as a means of getting money.

CHAP. IX.

My business for the year was now finished, and I mournfully resigned myself to my fate, expecting no release from prison, nor any amusement in it, till the following spring, when my mind would be at least relieved by a similar occupation. My deliverance was, however, much nearer than I expected, for the lady who had purchased my pretty linnet, came to enquire particularly of my master about its song, with which she was much pleased.

“I suppose he learned it of some foreign bird,” said she, “for I never heard any wild note like it.”

This lady was very rich, and a good customer to my master, so he thought it best to satisfy her entirely; he therefore produced me as the instructor of her bird, relating all he knew of my history, at least, all that was creditable to himself. The lady admired me very much, and offered to purchase me.

Oh! how my heart beat while I heard my master enumerating my services to enhance my value, that he might obtain a high price for me, or deter the lady from becoming a purchaser; for he did not like to sell me, though he could not well refuse her the favour.

At length my anxiety was relieved by the lady’s saying: “Come, come, do not hesitate; I will give you the price you ask, and what is more, I will lend him or the linnet to you, for a month or two next spring, if you wish either of them to be your singing-master.”

An offer so advantageous could not be refused; the bargain was concluded, and I, exulting in the hope of happier days, was placed in the carriage, and conveyed to the lady’s house.

I cannot express the joy I felt on seeing my dear little pupil the linnet, nor describe his demonstrations of pleasure on our meeting. Here we were, indeed, comfortable! What an alteration we found! I almost rejoiced that we had been at the bird-fancier’s, for privation had given a greater value even to common enjoyments: cleanliness, comfort, and occasional liberty, were now luxuries.

Our good mistress had many other birds, to all of which, as well as to ourselves, she was extremely indulgent; but I was particularly noticed by her, not only for my song, but for my familiarity also, for I took every opportunity of showing her how happy I was, and how grateful I could be. I had, to be sure, no way of expressing my gratitude, but by flying to meet her, perching on her shoulder or her arm; but I found that she understood my caresses, and valued me for them.

I had been some time with this good lady, having every thing I could desire, and regretting only that there were no children in her house, (for I have always been extremely fond of children,) when I one day heard her giving directions about beds and other things, that were preparing for her two grand-children, who were coming to spend a few weeks with her. I was greatly delighted at the prospect of again having it in my power to observe the manners and behaviour of young persons. Besides, I had a presentiment that my mistress’s grand-children were well-disposed and amiable; supposing she would not otherwise be so anxious as she appeared to be to give them pleasure. I am happy to assure you, my young readers, that I was not at all disappointed in my expectations, for when they came, every favourable prepossession was realized. But, perhaps, you will like better to judge for yourselves, so I will describe them as well as I can.

Now it is probably expected that I should mention the colour of their hair, their eyes, and enumerate all the charms of their persons. But as we do not contribute any thing either to our personal graces or defects, and consequently cannot derive any merit from the former, or disgrace from the latter, I consider those points of no importance, therefore, shall pass them over in silence. Mary, the eldest, was about nine years of age, her brother Henry about seven: the former, I understood, had been some time at school: it was now her vacation. Both of these children seemed to have been well brought up, for they were never at a loss for employment or amusement; were never lounging about on the chairs or sofas, or leaning listlessly against the fire-place. But what I particularly admired in them was the affection they evinced towards each other, and the attention they paid to every wish of their parents, though absent from them. In short, all their conduct seemed to proceed from some principle superior to self-gratification, or, in other words, they sought _true_ gratification, where only it was to be found—in the performance of their duty.

As I was naturally fond of all children, it is easy to imagine that I became particularly attached to these, amiable as they were. I do not, however, mean to represent them to my young readers as models of perfection, for such would be as far beyond their imitation as they are from resembling nature. I have observed that all children have their faults; but those who are most patient of reproof, and most open to conviction, are also most likely to amend their trivial failings; for great defects such cannot have. Henry and Mary were certainly every thing their parents could wish, and their sensible grand-mamma was greatly delighted with them, yet she never extolled them when present: a single word of approbation, or an affectionate smile, repaid all their endeavours to please her. And, indeed, so sweet was her smile, so judicious her approbation, that the dear children seemed to desire nothing more.

Though my good mistress did not indulge her young visitors in an unlimited manner, or teach them to be selfish by making their recreations the price of their good behaviour, yet she found means to amuse and improve them at the same time, by taking them to museums, manufactories, &c. where they saw a profusion of the works of nature and art. These morning excursions furnished subjects for conversation in the evening, which, with a magic-lantern, representing some of the most remarkable occurrences in history, a geographical game, and other similar recreations, filled up their time so agreeably, that the hour of rest always seemed to arrive too early; yet they did not on that account repine or loiter when the maid came for them, but went off immediately and cheerfully.

In this manner three weeks elapsed. I grew very fond of these interesting children, and they were no less so of me: all the family had been so cheerful since they came, that I anticipated their departure with great regret. One day, when Henry and his sister had accompanied their grand-mamma to a menagerie, where they had seen a fine collection of birds, the former said, on his return: “Well, dear grand-mamma, of all the birds I have seen to-day, not one pleased me so well as your little Robin. Some of them, to be sure, were beautiful, but they had not that docility and tameness which I admire in him.”

“The difference, my dear boy,” replied my mistress, “proceeds from education. You may observe that children who are well brought up, are generally docile and intelligent, while those who are neglected or spoiled, are usually destitute of those amiable qualities. But,” continued she, “my dear Henry, I think you seem to respect the old tutor, so I will make you a present of him; and may you, my dear boy, improve your talents for the benefit of your fellow-creatures, as he has done.”

I felt much gratified by this encomium, and I could perceive that Henry was no less delighted with the thought of possessing me, though he modestly declined the offer, saying, he did not like to deprive his grand-mamma of her favourite, and observing, that, perhaps, his sister might like to have me.

“Your sister,” said my mistress, “shall have her choice among my Canary-birds, but you, Henry, shall have the Robin: you shall keep him for my sake. Come, Mary, my love,” continued she, “and choose your bird.”

Mary had been present during the whole of this conversation, her countenance expressing the greatest pleasure at her brother’s acquisition, and beaming with tenderness when he offered to resign it to her. She had not spoken, but all she felt was fully expressed in her mild and ingenuous features. Now summoned by her grand-mamma, she said: “Indeed, Ma’am, I should like a Canary-bird very much; so much that I could not bear any one to feed or attend it but myself, and as I am mostly at school, I could not do that; so I think I am better without one. You know I have the little pug you gave me last Midsummer. Henry feeds him while I am away, yet, whenever I return home, he knows me again and loves me as well as ever: but birds are not so sagacious.”

“Your reasons are so good, my dear,” said my mistress, “that I feel as much pleased as if you had accepted my offer; and that is saying a great deal, for I have real pleasure in bestowing my little pets on good children.”

The entrance of a servant with letters, here interrupted the conversation. One of these was from Henry’s papa, requesting that his little ones might be sent home early in the ensuing week, as Mary’s vacation had nearly expired, and an elder brother of Henry’s was expected from college, whose instructions were likely to be useful to the little boy.

Nothing material occurred before the day of separation. Great regret was evinced, both on the part of the children and that of their dear grand-mamma; but her promise to visit them the following summer, and the prospect of meeting their parents, soon consoled the former, and they set out for their paternal dwelling, about twenty miles distant, taking me with them.

CHAP. X.

It was not till I had been some time with my little master that I could fully appreciate his amiable character: nor do I, indeed, think that I was ever acquainted with the whole extent of his goodness; but so many admirable traits fell under my immediate notice, that I became daily more attached to him. He was extremely kind to me, procuring me every comfort and indulgence in his power, and giving me liberty whenever he was at home. I might frequently have taken advantage of his confidence in me, had I wished to escape; but I loved him too well to think of leaving him, and had also experienced such vicissitudes, that I had no desire to go in quest of new adventures. Here I had every thing I could wish for, and I felt happy under the protection of a master whom I could at once admire and esteem.

Henry was by no means insensible of my regard. “Dear mamma,” he would frequently say, “I am sure my bird knows me, and loves me too, for he is always so much rejoiced when I return home, if I have been absent ever so short a time.”

His dear mother always seized the occasion, when he made these observations, to inculcate some amiable impression, or draw some useful inference. “You see, my dear boy,” she would observe, “what pleasure there is in pleasing. You are kind to your little bird, he is, in return, affectionate and grateful; his caresses, though of no real value, are delightful to you. In them you experience what I have so often represented to you, that trifling acts of kindness and gratitude, though in themselves unimportant, are of inestimable value to the receiver. You in some measure resemble your little bird, when you display affection and gratitude towards your parents, and I trust that the pleasure you now feel from his acknowledgement of your kindness, is but an earnest of that you will enjoy when you are able to be useful to your fellow-creatures. I have to add, though, that you are not always to expect gratitude for your kindness; that is not the reward I would wish you to seek, but rather that recompence of which no one can deprive you—the approbation of your own heart.”

Perhaps my young readers will not admire this long digression, but I cannot forbear repeating, occasionally, some of the excellent advice I so frequently heard; and I hope there are some children whose hearts will (as Henry’s did on similar occasions) expand with a noble emulation to approve themselves every thing their parents’ most sanguine hopes can anticipate. Henry’s father was no less sensible than his mother, nor was he less indulgent. His time was much occupied in a professional employment, but he still found leisure to improve, and frequently to amuse, his little boy. Henry’s favourite amusement was riding. Hitherto he had ridden only a donkey, but his kind papa had promised to purchase a poney for him the ensuing spring, provided he profited by his brother’s instructions.

The little boy was usually diligent and attentive, but on this occasion he displayed so much assiduity, and so entirely satisfied his papa, that the promised reward was already earned; and Henry, in idea, mounted his poney and rode beside his dear papa, though the winter had yet to elapse before his idea could be realized.

The season was peculiarly severe, and I had great reason to rejoice that I was not exposed to its inclemency; for I frequently observed from the windows multitudes of little birds flying in every direction, in search of that sustenance the snow-covered earth refused them. I pitied them very much, and would gladly have shared my food with them, but as I could not express my benevolent wishes, they were, of course, fruitless, and compassion was all I could bestow. Happily, however, Henry observed their distress, and soon found means to relieve them. He obtained his mamma’s permission to have the window-sash taken out from a small empty room, and there he put abundance of food every evening, but never went in during the day. The plan succeeded according to his wish, for the birds meeting with no interruption, came there every day to feed, and the dear boy had frequently the pleasure of seeing his numerous little pensioners busily employed about the window of his aviary.

The snow continued very long on the ground, but as Henry was a robust boy, that did not prevent his walking out. One morning he came home, and ran hastily into the room where his mamma was sitting.

“How now, my Henry,” said she, “why you have been up to your knees in the snow. That is not like your usual obedience.”

“Dear mamma,” said Henry, “I am sure you will excuse me when you know the cause. Look at this poor little fellow,” added he, producing a redbreast of the preceding spring; “he flew a few paces before me on the path where I was walking, and then stopped, as if unable to proceed: when I advanced he made another effort, and reached the foot of a tree, where he sat quite still for some time, and I, fearing that he was dying, ventured across the snow and brought him home. I think we may, perhaps, recover him, mamma.”

“We will hope so, at least, my dear,” said his mother; “but do not bring him near the fire, rather place him on the window-frame, the warmth of the sun through the glass will be sufficient for him at first.”

Henry, in pursuance of his mother’s advice, placed his little nurseling on the window-frame, where, finding some comfort from the warmth, he fell asleep. Henry was delighted at the idea of having saved the bird’s life, but I, who understood the nature of birds better than he could, saw only the torpor of approaching death in his apparently tranquil slumber, and pitied my poor little master, for I knew what his tender heart would feel when he was undeceived.

My fears were not groundless, for the poor little bird appearing very uneasy soon after, Henry took him in his hand, and begged his mamma to get something to feed him. She complied, and was preparing some of my food to give him, when he expired in that hand which had been vainly extended to save him. Poor Henry, who seldom wept, now burst into tears, and his mamma had some difficulty in consoling him.

“My dear boy,” said she, “your grief will not recal the poor little fellow to life: he is released from pain, and placed beyond the possibility of future suffering. I am sorry for your disappointment, but you must be consoled with the reflection of having intended to do good, though you have not succeeded. One advantage, however, may be derived from this circumstance, that of learning to bear a disappointment with fortitude. Remember how much you admired the conduct of Porus when brought before Alexander, and that of Caractacus when led in triumph through Rome, and endeavour to imitate the firmness with which they sustained misfortune.”

I did not understand the whole of this speech, being unacquainted with the persons alluded to; however, I dare say my young readers are better informed on the subject. Henry seemed so deeply impressed with it, that he immediately dried his tears, and endeavoured to resume his accustomed cheerfulness.

CHAP. XI.

Some time after the event just related in the preceding chapter, the snow disappeared, the poor birds became more lively, and winter at length yielded to the mild influence of spring: all nature seemed to rejoice at the change, which appeared more delightful from the late severity of the season. With the return of spring Henry’s desire of riding returned also, my young readers may therefore suppose, that he was greatly delighted when his papa informed him, one evening, that, if he would rise an hour earlier than usual on the following morning, he would take him to a neighbouring town, where there was to be a fair, and procure a poney for him.

The morning came—it was a delightful one! Henry was ready in time, and set out with his father to make the long-expected purchase. They had arrived within a mile of the fair, when a most distressing scene was presented to their view—a cottage in flames, which the villagers were vainly endeavouring to extinguish, and the wretched inhabitants of the heretofore peaceful and comfortable dwelling, deploring, with fruitless tears, the loss of their little all. The family consisted of a man, his wife, and six children, the eldest of whom was not more than eight years old, the youngest scarcely eight months.

I not having been present, cannot be expected to describe the agony of these unfortunate people, thus suddenly reduced to poverty, and destitute even of a resting-place for the night; indeed, I imagine that such misery surpasses description, and cannot even be conceived, except by those who have witnessed it. Henry for some time surveyed the sad scene in silent dismay. His father at length roused him by saying, “Come, my boy, we shall be too late, and I fear we can do no good here.”

“Dear papa,” said the amiable child, “I am in no hurry, and I think, if you would agree to my proposal, we might do some good here.”

“Indeed!” said his father: “pray what is your plan?”

“Why, you know, papa, that I can ride a donkey as well as a poney, but these poor people cannot do without a lodging and food; now, papa, if you would spend the money on them instead of the poney, I should be very glad.”

“But are you quite sure, Henry,” said his father, “that you will not regret this surrender? You cannot go to see Mary on your donkey, and you might frequently go on your poney, besides riding out with me:—consider well before you decide.”

“I have considered so well, dear papa,” returned the child, “that I am sure, were I to wait a whole week, I should not change my mind; and I know Mary would advise me to do so too, even though she did not see me so often.”

“Well, then, my dear boy, I had intended giving ten pounds for your poney, you may, therefore, bestow that sum on the poor family.”

Henry was overjoyed at obtaining his father’s permission to relieve the unhappy sufferers, and begged his assistance and advice as to the manner of doing so. These the delighted father readily afforded, and so judicious were his arrangements, that, before night, Henry had the satisfaction of seeing the whole family settled in a snug little habitation, not far from his father’s house. His mamma kindly lent her assistance, sending provisions sufficient for their immediate wants, with some clothes for the poor woman and her children, all their own having been consumed in the flames.

It may easily be imagined, that this event was much talked of; indeed, many ladies and gentlemen called on Henry’s parents, in order to be more particularly informed on the subject; and by this means it was that I became acquainted with the facts I have just detailed. Numerous were the comments and compliments of the visitors, but happily for my little master, he heard very few of them. One lady in particular, after she had for some time extolled the child’s generosity, said (addressing his father,) “but surely, Sir, you still intend to get him a poney: I wish you would allow me to send him one.”

“Madam,” replied the sensible father, “I am greatly obliged to you, but I cannot allow Henry to have a poney till he has earned it: if he has done a good action, that must be his reward at present. Were I to reward him for it, two bad consequences would ensue; he might hereafter pretend to be generous from self-interest or vanity, for it would not be difficult to make a show of resigning what he was sure to obtain afterwards; and he might be taught to expect a reward for his good actions here, whereas, experience shows that kindness is frequently not only unrequited, but is even returned by ingratitude and enmity.”

“Indeed, that is too true,” returned the lady, “but I should have thought your observations more applicable to a grown person than to a child.”

“That,” said the father, “is, I know, a very general idea; but it is precisely because I expect Henry to become a _grown person_, and because I should wish him then to have such sentiments, that I now endeavour to inculcate them. The human heart cannot be too early formed to virtue: good principles cannot be impressed too soon.”

This and many similar arguments used by Henry’s father, convinced me of the propriety of his conduct with regard to his children: his prudence was amply rewarded by their improvement, for they daily became such as he desired they should be. My dear little master’s sister, the amiable Mary, came home shortly after this time for the Midsummer vacation, and it was then settled that she should not return to school, but that her mamma, (whose health had been delicate for some time, but was now considerably amended,) should, with some assistance, superintend her education.

This arrangement was highly pleasing to all parties, and I partook of the general joy; for Mary was a charming girl, and her presence added to my happiness as well as to that of my young master.

The summer of this year passed delightfully with me, for I had one great enjoyment, to which I had long been a stranger. Henry one day conversing with his sister about me, at the open window, before which was a balcony, regretted keeping me confined to the house. “Do you know, said he, I have a great mind to let him out; if I lose him by the experiment, I must console myself by thinking that he will be happier in the possession of his liberty: but I really think he will not go away, so let us try.”

Mary concurring in his opinion, he came and opened the door of my cage, then walking to the balcony, he called me to follow him. I joyfully complied, and flew to his shoulder, from thence I hopped to the rails of the balcony, and at last perched on a tree close to it, where I repaid his indulgence with a song. I saw Henry’s colour change when I flew towards the tree, therefore, to assure him that I had no intention of leaving him, I shortly after returned to my cage, and went out no more that day.

My behaviour on this occasion was so satisfactory to my young master, that he repeated the indulgence every fine day, and allowed me to bathe on the balcony, where he placed water for that purpose. However, towards the end of autumn he thought it prudent to discontinue this practice, on account of the following circumstance, which has something interesting in it, more than relates to myself.

From having been brought up more tenderly than other birds, I was not so hardy as they, and not having had the same necessity for exerting my limbs, I was not so expert in the use of them; so that one day, when I was perched on my accustomed tree, a sudden gust of wind blew me down. Had I been wise, I should have reascended the tree, but finding some amusement on the ground, I continued hopping about till I got so far into the shrubbery, that I could not distinguish one tree from another, nor get a glimpse of the house through the foliage, so that I was fearful of getting further from home in my endeavours to return. In the mean time, Henry, who soon missed me, came himself in search of me, but not finding me near the spot, he returned to the house, to beg assistance from the domestics, promising a guinea (his whole stock at that time) to any one who should discover me, well knowing that I would return to him at his call. The search was continued some time in vain; for the noise of their approach terrified me so much, that I crept into the fork of a tree, where I remained in a state of great perplexity. At last, however, I was descried by a little boy, who helped my young master in his garden, and attended his donkey.

“Here, Master Henry, here he is!” exclaimed the boy, his countenance glowing with delight.

Henry, to my great joy, now appeared. I flew to him immediately, before he had time to call me, and testified my joy as well as I was able.

“Well, Frank,” said Henry, addressing the boy, “the guinea is yours; I am glad of it, and hope you will make a good use of it.”

CHAP. XII.

I must now beg leave to introduce my young readers to Frank, for his amiable and grateful conduct deserves to be recorded, as an example to those who may have the power of imitating it. He was an orphan, about two years older than Henry. His father, who was a sailor, had been lost at sea, and his poor mother, overcome with grief at this melancholy event, survived him only a few months, leaving her little boy to the care of her sister. The latter was a kind, good-hearted woman, who, though she had five children of her own, received the boy (then only two years old) and reared him with the greatest tenderness. She, however, was unfortunate also, for when Frank was about six years old, she lost her husband, on whose industrious exertions the family chiefly depended for support. Her own children were yet too young to go to service, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she procured them a scanty supply of the coarsest provisions. Her neighbours, knowing her distressed condition, advised her to send Frank to the workhouse, and thus rid herself of one incumbrance. This, however, she strenuously refused to do, saying, that while they had a morsel of bread, he should share it with them.

Her kindness was not lost on the grateful heart of Frank: it made so deep an impression, that he strove, on all occasions, to evince his affection to her and his cousins, all of whom, except the youngest, were girls.

For nearly two years the poor widow had to contend with all the hardships of poverty, when Providence, as if to reward her kindness to the little boy, made him the instrument of future comfort to her. Frank’s quiet and obliging conduct had attracted the notice of Henry’s father, who, finding that his morals corresponded with the idea he had formed of them, fixed on him, as a proper assistant to his little boy in the before-mentioned employments. Frank was a diligent and good-natured boy, and Henry proved an indulgent and generous master to him; so that the poor little boy was enabled to assist his aunt a little with his weekly earnings, which Henry paid out of his own pocket-money. Nor was this all, for Frank’s good behaviour induced Henry’s mother to enquire into the circumstances of the family, which she greatly ameliorated, by affording the poor woman employment suited to her abilities. My little friend Mary, also, contributed to the comforts of the poor children, by making for them, in the holidays, such little articles of dress as she could afford to purchase. Yet the greatest benefit conferred on this poor family, was reserved to my young master. He contrived, every evening, to devote a small portion of time in teaching Frank to read, write, and cipher; and the poor boy took so much pains to learn, that it was rather a pleasure than a trouble to teach him. But what most of all delighted Henry was, that Frank never failed teaching his cousins the lesson he had learned the preceding day; so that six children, instead of one, profited by Henry’s instructions. My young master did not discover this for some time, but when he did, he procured the good boy books, and other things necessary for this laudable undertaking, in which he succeeded so well, that the three eldest girls were able to read fluently, and to repeat and understand their catechism. And now Frank’s only ambition was to see them neatly dressed, and fit to appear at church, whither they constantly went, though in very mean attire; for their mother was sensible that the want of good clothes was not a sufficient excuse for the neglect of any part of their duty.

The poor woman’s circumstances were so much improved since she had been employed by Henry’s mother, that she had refused to receive Frank’s wages, desiring him to lay them by, to procure decent apparel for himself. Frank did not urge her to use his little stock, but he did not reserve it for himself: he now saw, in idea, the accomplishment of his favourite project. Think then, my young readers, how delighted he must have been, when he had, for many weeks, saved his wages, without making known the purpose to which he intended applying them, to receive, at once, the means of gratifying a wish so dear to his heart. This, then, was the use Frank made of his guinea. His cousins appeared the following Sunday, in neat, plain clothes of his purchasing, while he accompanied them in habiliments no otherwise distinguished than by the industry which had been displayed in patching them: a garb, however, in which, under these circumstances, he certainly appeared to greater advantage than he could have done in the richest clothing.

Henry’s father, who was informed of Frank’s generous conduct, did not fail to reward it. Perhaps it may be imagined that he gave him new clothes: no, he rewarded him in a manner more congenial to his own sentiments and the boy’s disposition, by taking the widow’s eldest daughter into his family; where, under the superintendance of his housekeeper, she was likely to become a good servant, and consequently a useful member of society.

CONCLUSION.

Autumn was now past, and winter set in with some severity. My prospects at this time became very gloomy, for Henry’s father was appointed to a lucrative situation abroad, which he accepted the more willingly, as he knew that a residence in a warm climate would be beneficial to the health of his amiable partner. I cannot describe the regret of my young friends at leaving their comfortable home, nor the grief of their poor neighbours at losing their kind benefactors. Frank’s aunt, however, was taken care of, she had the charge of the house during the absence of the family, and Frank was retained about the farm. Mary was to accompany her parents; but my poor little master was to be sent to school, as his father did not approve of a foreign education for him.

Amidst all these arrangements, I dare say my young readers are anxious to learn how I was to be disposed of; and, indeed, this was a subject of frequent discussion between Henry and Mary, till the latter fortunately remembered that the lady with whom she was at school was very fond of birds. When this circumstance recurred to her, she immediately communicated it to her brother, who, as he was obliged to part with me, was happy to procure me a safe and comfortable asylum. It was therefore decided that I should be sent on the following day, and Frank was accordingly deputed to take me, with a letter from Mary to her late instructress, begging her to accept me, and recommending me to her favour by a recital of my various qualifications.

Ah! with what a heavy heart I went on this journey. My young conductor, too, seemed no less grieved than I was: but how great was my surprise, and how much my uneasiness was abated, when I was conveyed into the presence of a lady whom I instantly recognized to be my first kind mistress, Miss Sedley, who it seems had quitted the charming family in which I left her, to watch over the declining years of an affectionate mother, and had established a school, in order to reside near this beloved object. She received me very kindly, observing, when she had read Mary’s letter, that my accomplishments greatly resembled those of a little bird she once possessed. Oh, how I then wished to speak! Action, however, is eloquent where language fails: she opened the cage door, and I immediately flew on to her shoulder.

“This is surprising,” said she: “it must be my bird; but I will make one more trial.”

She then walked to the piano-forte and began to play. I immediately understood her motive, and, anxious to convince her of my identity, perched on her music-book. This was the proof she wanted: therefore she now rose, and returning to the table, wrote a kind answer to Mary, thanking her for her present, and relating the curious coincidences above mentioned.

Now, my dear young readers, I have been some time happily settled with my kind mistress, and with her I hope to spend the remainder of my days. I have frequently seen Henry and Mary, who continue as amiable as they always were, and are the delight and comfort of their parents. My life is no longer chequered by variety, but flows on in one uninterrupted stream of happiness. Here then I shall close my memoirs, though, if any new vicissitudes happen to me, (which I trust will not be the case,) I may again appear before you as an author.

THE END.

_Printed by Darton, Harvey, and Co.
Gracechurch-Street, London._

Transcriber’s Notes

pg 11 Changed: depicting sentimens of which
to: depicting sentiments of which