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Title: The Broken Vase, and Other Stories;
   for Children and Youth.
Author: Anonymous ["Compiled by a Teacher."]
Date of first publication: 1847
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   Fitchburg, [Massachusetts]: S. & C. Shepley, 1847
Date first posted: 15 November 2009
Date last updated: 15 November 2009
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #414

This ebook was produced by:
Marcia Brooks, woodie4
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available
by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




  THE BROKEN VASE,

  AND

  OTHER STORIES;

  FOR

  CHILDREN AND YOUTH.

  Compiled by a Teacher.

  FITCHBURG:

  PUBLISHED BY S. & C. SHEPLEY.

  1847.




  THE BROKEN VASE.

  [Illustration]

  THE BROKEN VASE,

  AND

  OTHER STORIES;

  for

  CHILDREN AND YOUTH.

  Compiled by a Teacher.

  FITCHBURG:

  PUBLISHED BY S. & C. SHEPLEY,

  1847.


  WM. J. MERRIAM, PRINTER, FITCHBURG.




THE BROKEN VASE.


"Don't shake the table so, Frank," said Mrs. Mervyn to her little son, a
pretty blue-eyed boy, about six years old, who was building houses of
small blocks on the same table where she was arranging flowers in a very
beautiful China Vase. Little Frank rose and removed his blocks to
another table, where he could build and throw down his castles without
disturbing any one. Mrs. Mervyn was pleased with his ready obedience,
and gave him a book of colored pictures to look at, while she continued
to arrange her flowers. A few moments after, she was called out of the
room, but before she went, she cautioned Frank not to touch the vase,
and told him to remain where he was until she returned. The little boy
promised, and continued for some time busily engaged with his blocks and
pictures; but at length, growing tired of his playthings, he threw them
down, and walked to the open window. It was a lovely afternoon; the sun
was shining bright, and the birds were singing gaily in the trees. He
thought how delightful it would be to go out in the garden and chase
butterflies, or to sail his little boat in the pond, and he longed for
his mother to return; but still she came not, and the little boy
wandered listlessly round the room in search of amusement. He took up
his picture-book, and turned over a few leaves; but he thought of his
rabbits, and threw it down. He remembered he had not fed, or even seen
the little animals that whole day; so he went to the door, and listened
for the sound of his mother's footsteps,--but no--all was still. He
walked again to the window; after a few moments, he saw a beautiful
butterfly winging its way towards him; it alighted on a lovely rose,
within a few feet of the window. In an instant, Frank forgot his
mother's commands. He turned to seize his straw hat that lay on the
table; but, in his eagerness, his arm brushed past the vase, and it fell
to the floor! Poor Frank stood speechless with fright,--there lay his
mother's elegant vase, that she so much valued as a present from her
mother! The butterfly, the innocent cause of all this mischief, was
forgotten. At this moment, Mrs. Mervyn entered the room. She instantly
saw what had happened, for Frank still retained his hat. "My vase,--my
poor vase!" she exclaimed, the tears starting to her eyes, as she knelt
to gather up the fragments. "It was not me, mother," stammered Frank;
"It must have been pussy." Mrs. Mervyn looked up at her little son,--he
trembled violently, and the blood mounted to his forehead. "Is this
true, Frank?" she asked. He made no answer, and as a servant entered at
that moment to assist Mrs. Mervyn, he ran out of the room. His mother
observed him, but, preferring that he would confess his fault, allowed
him to depart unnoticed.

In an unfrequented corner of the garden, was an old summer-house,
falling to decay. Thither Frank bent his steps; it was a favorite spot
of his, for it was cool and shady. The sides were covered with vines, in
all their native luxuriance, and the old gardener, knowing that his
little master loved this spot, had trained them over the broken windows,
and placed many little conveniences inside for him. It was quiet and
still, for no sound could be heard save the hum of insects, and now and
then the note of a bird.

Frank, hurried along the gravel walk, and, pushing aside the
overhanging vines at the entrance, threw himself on a low seat, and,
covering his face with his hands, burst into tears. He wept bitterly. He
thought of nothing but that he had told a lie! and to his dear, kind
mother. She would have forgiven him for breaking the vase, for that was
an accident. But what would she say, when she knew that he had told a
falsehood to conceal his fault? Why did he not confess it at once? For a
long time he sobbed and wept piteously,--but after a while a sweet calm
stole over him, only broken now and then by short convulsive sobs, and
then gentle "sleep slid into his soul," and, for a moment, his sorrows
were forgotten. And then he dreamed. He thought he was again weeping in
the old summer-house, and then the same gentle calm came over him. He
continued for a long time in this state, when he saw a shadowy being
approaching him. As she came nearer, her figure became more distinct,
and he saw that she looked very mournful, and she wore a band round her
head, and on this was embroidered her name, _Reflection_. As she
approached him, the boy leaned his head on his folded arms, and fell
into a deep revery. But still he thought he saw her distinctly in his
mind's eye, and he saw she was followed by a shadowy train, so shadowy
that it seemed if he breathed on them they would melt away. The foremost
gradually grew more defined, and he saw her name was _Memory_. She
hovered over him, and he _felt_ her presence, though he could see her no
longer. She assisted _Reflection_ in recalling to his mind the fault
that he had committed. While _Reflection_ bade him meditate upon it,
_Memory_ whispered to him of his mother,--how kind she had always
been,--how much she loved him,--how she had taught him to hate a
falsehood,--how she had watched over him when an infant, and prayed for
him! Again he burst into tears, and exclaimed, "Oh! how sorry, how
sorry I am!" As he spoke, he thought he saw at his feet a pale,
sorrowful looking spirit, with eyes tearful as his own. On her forehead
was stamped _Repentance_.--She did not try to soothe him; but when
_Memory_ recalled his fault, she wept with him, and besought him to
return to his mother, and tell her the whole truth. But then
_Reflection_ whispered, "Will not thy mother be angry, instead of
grieved, when she knows you have told a cowardly falsehood?" And then,
_Fear_, (another of _Reflection's_ train) crept into the boy's heart,
and whispered, "Yes, yes,"--and then she pictured to him his mother
frowning upon him,--she who had never looked upon him but with kindness
and love, and he shrank from acknowledging the truth. _Repentance_ began
to melt into mist, and _Deceit_ came to the assistance of _Fear_, and
bade him still deny the accident, while _Fear_ told him he would he
punished, if he avowed it,--and though _Memory_ recalled to him his
mother's goodness again and again, he was still under the dominion of
_Fear_, and _Repentance_ had almost vanished. _Deceit_ still whispered
him to deceive, and _Fear_ seconded her, and spoke of punishment. But
Frank's heart could not harbor _Deceit_, and he recalled _Repentance_ to
his bosom. At the re-appearance of this good spirit, _Deceit_ fled, and
the little boy grieved that he had suffered her to remain, and rebuked
_Reflection_ for introducing this, her wicked follower. _Repentance_
still besought him to look upon _Truth_, the beautiful spirit of
_Truth_, and bade him take _Courage_, and drive _Fear_ from his heart;
for, said she, "_Fear_ and _Deceit_ are companions, but _Courage_ is the
friend of _Truth_." The boy smiled, and _Fear_, feeling that her
influence was fast diminishing, was on the point of giving him another
warning, when Frank felt the approach of another spirit, and heard her
say, in a low tone, "_Repent, and thou shall be forgiven._" _Fear_
instantly vanished, and _Courage_ usurped her place, and whispered
_Hope_! Then he thought that _Repentance_ took him by the hand and led
him to the feet of _Truth_. He knelt and kissed the hem of her spotless
garment, and looked up in her glorious face. She smiled upon him and he
felt happy. Then _Truth_ and _Repentance_ took him by the hand and led
him to his mother, who pressed him to her bosom and forgave him,--and,
filled with a sense of unspeakable happiness, he awoke! He started to
his feet, and was about to leave the summer-house to seek his mother,
but, turning round, he saw Mrs. Mervyn standing in the same place he had
fancied he had seen the beautiful spirit of _Truth_. He had been absent
so long she had come to seek him, and thinking he might have gone to his
favorite retreat, she had bent her steps thither, and there she found
him, his head resting on his folded arms, in deep sleep. She saw his
cheeks were wet with tears, and she threw herself down beside him and
listened to his quiet breathing, only now and then broken by a
convulsive sob. She lay there for some time, but at length finding that
he was awakening, she arose and stood at a short distance, wishing to
see what he would do. But _Fear_ had entirely vanished from the heart of
little Frank, and he sprung forward, and, throwing himself in his
mother's arms, begged to be forgiven, Mrs. Mervyn pressed him to her
bosom and kissed his pale cheek; then, taking him on her knee, she told
him how grieved she had been to find her little boy could deceive her.
The tears again started to poor Frank's eyes, and, leaning his head on
her shoulder, he told her all,--how he had broken the vase, and how
very, very sorry he was that he attempted to conceal it; and then he
related his dream and all the doubts and fears _Reflection_ gave rise
to; he dwelt long on the beautiful appearance of the spirit of _Truth_;
her glorious countenance had made a deep impression on his mind. His
mother smiled, and, kissing him tenderly, bade him always to cherish
_Truth_. She then explained to him his dream, and talked gently and
soothingly to him until long after the sun went down, but the shades of
evening beginning to gather round, soon warned them of the lateness of
the hour. She then rose, and led her little repentant and now happy boy
into the house.

[Illustration]




LITTLE BERTRAM.


Bertram, the young son of an Anglo-Norman baron, had obtained leave to
pass a summer's day in the woods with Hubert, the forester. Early in the
morning he came to summon the young lord; and they left the castle
whilst the dew-drops were yet standing on leaf and flower, and all
nature, renovated by the cool repose of the night, looked joyous and
young.

Merrily rang the woods with their own sylvan minstrelsy; merrily the
bright sunbeams danced on the green-sward wherever they could find
entrance; and not less merrily our friends pursued their sports, till
fatigue converted pleasure into toil, and the noontide hour invited to
rest and food.

Under the branches of a solitary oak, round which the other trees of the
forest, receding, left an irregular and spacious glade, the child and
his attendant took their welcome meal. The south-western breeze, which
the whole day had blown so cheerily, still refreshed them as they
reclined under the venerable tree, and well nigh soothed them to sleep
by its soft, rustling sound amongst the branches. The stout forester at
last, shaking off the inclination to slumber, his dogs having arrived,
prepared for the chase; but noticing the still pale and tired look of
the boy, he pointed to a hermitage not far distant from the spot where
they had dined, and bade him rest another hour within its safe retreat:
ere long he would return and conduct him home. Young Bertram yielded to
his counsel; and, approaching the rustic cell, seated himself at its
entrance; and Hubert, calling to his dogs, all but one old faithful
hound, whom he left to guard the child, withdrew. A little while his
steps were heard, crushing the last year's leaves; a little longer his
voice might be distinguished speaking cheerily to his dogs; but soon all
trace of him was lost, and the child remained alone. The hermitage was a
small, rude building, surmounted by a cross, which showed that it had
been devised for holy retirement; but at this time it had no occupant,
and contained nothing but dried leaves and moss.

The boy, as before said, seated himself upon the ground at the entrance
of the cell, not feeling now disposed to sleep; and old Lion lay
stretched before him, his nose resting between his fore-paws, and
evermore looking with his bright eyes into young Bertram's face. Thus
these two remained in the heart of the wild forest, and sole tenants of
the deserted hermitage.

The summer gale waxed louder and stronger; and the boy, as he listened
to its varied sounds, raised his eyes to the tops of the tall trees,
where it played freely amongst the branches. Backwards and forwards they
waved in the blast; and as if agitated by conflicting passions, they
sometimes bent their stately heads, and each seemed to communicate to
his neighbor some tale of wo. Sometimes in wailing tones they would seem
to lament and sob, and then, as if frenzied with rage, they wildly
tossed their branches in the air, and made the forest resound with their
fierce complaints.

Long young Bertram gazed and listened. At length, wearied with the
continued struggle, he averted his eyes, and tried to converse with old
Lion; but there was fascination in the sound; again he gazed upward,
and again sat fixed in the contemplation of the same wild tumult.

Time passed--hours passed--and Hubert returned not. Was he faithless? or
had some dire mischance detained him from his youthful charge? Who can
say? The sad presaging notes among the trees--their mysterious gestures
seemed to speak of treachery or wo. The sun at last went down, and with
it the briskness of the gale. A soft, murmuring breeze crept through the
quivering foliage, lulling all things to meek and trustful repose.

The child turned into the cell, and stretching himself on its mossy
floor, with Lion by his side, fell into a dreamy sleep.

Bertram retained a consciousness of his own position; knew that he was
resting in the hermitage, but he seemed still to listen to the roar of
the wind amongst the tall trees; and opening (as he thought) his eyes,
he perceived the figure of a youth, who, although some years older,
bore a strong resemblance to himself. The youth stood in the court-yard
of his own father's castle, and with the assistance of a page, was
buckling on his armor. A cross-bow was lying on the ground; it seemed to
have been carelessly thrown aside. The child viewed the visionary form
with intense interest, for he knew it was himself. "Speak to him," said
a voice close to his elbow, but from whom it proceeded he could not
tell: "question him." The child obeyed: "What do you? where go you?" he
inquired. The youth replied, "I prepare for my departure; I am going to
the Holy Land." Bertram felt pleased to hear him say so, and attentively
watched his proceedings, till the whole scene faded gradually away, and
he slept, or seemed to sleep, again.

Once more he thought that sleep had left his eyes; they rested on a
belted knight, whose raised visor disclosed the same features that the
boy had seen before--the same, and not the same. The complexion was
richer and more manly, but with the bloom of youth had vanished its
ingenuous innocence; the glance of the eye was brighter, but it was hard
and reckless. Bertram gazed earnestly on the figure now before him; for
he believed it to be the same whom he had spoken to before, and he felt
that it was himself. As he gazed he thought that he could dimly descry
other forms--his parents, most clearly that of his mother, and others
whom he did not know. There were the aged and the young, the gray haired
man, and the fair young girl; but all, all looked sorrowful, and some
wrung their hands and wept. He almost fancied, as he considered the
countenance of the knight, that its expression varied. A cloud of grief
or remorse passed over it; but it did pass, and the scornful laugh of
the eye succeeded. Again, urged by the invisible prompter, the child
falteringly pronounced the words, "Are you going to the Holy Land?" A
faint blush seemed to suffuse the cheek of the young knight; his eye was
slightly troubled; but he replied with readiness, "Not yet--not yet:
this is a busy time; I shall go when I have leisure." The child sighed
as he turned away his head, resolved to look no more.

He slept; but once again imagining himself to be awake, he looked into a
room--what room he knew not. The floor was strewed with papers of
various sorts, letters and memorials. Against the wall hung a suit of
armor. At a table on which were writing materials, sat a personage
apparently of high degree; he with thoughtful look and finger on his
brow, dictated to a secretary who was placed at the opposite side of the
table. The eyes of the nobleman, if such were his rank, had lost much
of their vivacity; there was a contraction of the brow, a compression of
the lip, a care-worn thinness of the cheek; but still the child thought
that he resembled those who had gone before. The lattice of the window
was thrown open, and seemed to admit a view of the scenery beyond; he
could perceive the pinnacles of a stately cathedral, and not far distant
from them the battlements of a kingly palace. The nobleman cast, from
time to time, anxious and impatient looks towards the latter; and there
seemed to be a constant coming and going of messengers between his
private apartments and the court. But the other object, the beautiful
cathedral, he could not see; for the high back of his richly carved
chair was turned towards it. With fearful interest young Bertram
considered the objects now presented to his view. "Speak," said the
voice; but he spoke not. "Speak," was repeated, "he _must_ reply."

Once more the boy put this simple question, "Are you going to the Holy
Land?" At the clear, young voice, the statesman seemed to start, but not
to comprehend the meaning of the words. "Are you going to the Holy
Land,?" again inquired the boy. "Folly! the fashion of crusades has
passed away:" such was the reply which Bertram seemed to hear. Sorely
perplexed, he gladly saw the unpleasant vision melt away.

He wished to view no more; but he had no power to control his dreamy
phantasy. What saw he now? There was the same figure, habited in the
same rich dress, but seated on a stone bench in front of some monastic
building.

His cheek was paler--his eye even more sunk than when the child had seen
him last. The gloomy, downcast eye spoke more of sullenness than
submission, and was still fixed upon the coronet and mace, which lay on
the ground before him. A religious man read aloud from some holy book;
but his words were, to all appearance, unheeded. The phantom seemed not
to listen. Presently voices from the church were heard, rising in sweet
and holy chant. The priest departed to join in the sacred service; and
the penitent, if penitent he were, remained alone.

And now spoke the child: "Shall you go to the Holy Land?" With a gesture
of impatience the vision waved his hand, then with a sigh replied,
"Alas! it is now too late."

"Then let me dream no more!" Thus murmured in troubled sleep young
Bertram; but the dawn was approaching, and fairy visions came to bless
his leafy couch. The eager stripling--the belted knight--the ambitious,
as well as the degraded statesman--had each appeared and vanished. Now,
in their place, Bertram beheld a man advanced in years, who, bearing
some resemblance to those whom he before had seen, yet differed from
them all. The hand of time had laid its withering touch on every
feature; it had blanched the hair, and robbed the form of every youthful
grace. The body, once so vigorous and erect, was bending towards its
kindred dust; and the expression of the eye, how changed! how chastened!
No longer it rested on the vain emblems of earthly pride still scattered
round; but on the lowly and the destitute, whose shadowy forms hovered
near, it beamed with love and holy charity; and brightened with more
than youthful ardor whenever and anon the aged pilgrim--for such he
seemed to be--looked heavenward.

Pleased with the vision, the child dwelt on each particular with
reposeful and contented feelings. He could distinguish the interior of a
stately hall, from whence proceeded, as he thought, strains of
minstrelsy. Banners waved high over the heads of brave knights and
noble dames, and the "feast was eating merrilie." But the pilgrim, with
cross on shoulder, and staff in hand, careful for nothing but one sacred
book, which was ever pressed closely to his heart, turned his back on
the gay revellers, and stood as one prepared for instant travel to some
far distant land.

Unbidden, the child with hopeful tone renewed his oft-repeated question,
"Go you to the Holy Land?" "Ay, by God's grace," was the prompt and glad
reply; but scarcely had it fallen on the pleased ear of the listening
boy, when the vision passed away.

Again Bertram slept, and again in sleep he looked into the small, but
rich apartment which had once before been pictured in his dreams.

There stood the table, with its fringed and velvet covering; but no one
was now seated at it. The rich chair was there, with its high carved
back, but there was none to fill it. The armor on the wall was gone, and
the bell of the church tolled a solemn knell. As Bertram listened
intently to the heavy sound, others not less mournful fell upon his ear;
mournful but not discordant voices were heard to lament over some
departure; they were the voices of the poor and needy.

But all besides was bright and fair. The boy, as he looked upwards,
thought that the pure blue of the summer sky was purer and more lovely
than he had ever seen it. The sun poured its cheerful rays through the
lattice, and lighted up the deserted room; they fell upon an open
volume, which seemed to have dropped recently from some hand. Bertram
gazed steadfastly on its pages; he could not read what thereon was
written, but on each he plainly perceived the impression of a cross; and
as he gazed, he heard a voice close to him whisper, "He is gone to the
Holy Land."

The first rays of the sun were slanting on the forest glade. The tiny
throats of innumerable birds were swelling with delight as they poured
forth their earliest, happiest songs. The bees were up and abroad,
intent upon providing for future want; whilst the butterfly, careless of
all but present enjoyment, flitted from flower to flower, tasting the
sweets of all, but constant to none. Bertram, too, was awake, and,
leaving the hermitage, looked out into the gay, green wood. By his side,
stood Lion, who, having shaken himself, fixed an inquiring eye on his
young lord, as if to say, "What next?" The spirit of the boy was
troubled, and his heart oppressed by the visions of the night; and
falling on his knees, he with clasped hands repeated aloud the simple
prayer taught him by his mother:

"O Lord, my Saviour! have pity on a sinful child, and give thy holy
angels charge to keep me in all my ways."

Ere he had risen from the ground, a clear, sweet voice was heard to
sing:

    "Thy promise, Lord, is sure to stay,
      Thy faith immovable;
    To thee we turn at dawning day,
      To thee our wants we tell.

    Blessed is he who in thy breast
      Himself doth wholly hide;
    No whirlwind's power shall break their rest,
      Who in that rock abide."

At the first sound of a human voice, Lion had bounded forward in the
direction whence it seemed to proceed, and again returning, seemed by
his looks to invite Bertram to follow.

"Lead on," quoth the child; and Lion, through tangled bush and briar,
led on. With such speed as he could make, the boy followed, and
sometimes pushing aside, sometimes creeping under sprays laden with the
morning dew, reached, ere long, an open space, and from the summit of a
steep, ferny bank, looked upon a clear rivulet which trickled at its
base. A young girl had filled her pitcher at the stream. Alarmed at the
appearance of the hound, she had ceased to chant her morning hymn, and
was retiring up the glade. Faint with care and hunger, the boy vainly
sought to overtake her nimble steps; but Lion kept closely by her side,
and with friendly gestures and persuasive looks, at last prevailed upon
the forest maid to halt, and listen to young Bertram's tale.

Soon the wood resounded with the tramp of horses, the clang of horns,
and the shouts of those who had left the castle to seek the missing
child; nor did the fierce blood-hound fail to trace his steps, first to
the deserted hermitage, and then through the tangled brake to the
woodman's lowly hut. There, feasting on such homely fare as cottagers
could give, young Bertram and his faithful dog, were found.

[Illustration]




ELM TREE HALL.


About twenty years ago there lived a singular gentleman in the old Hall
among the Elm Trees. He was about three score years of age, very rich,
and somewhat odd in many of his habits, but for generosity and
benevolence he had no equal.

His dress was as old fashioned as his habits. He wore a cocked hat,
richly embroidered, a waistcoat reaching nearly to his knees, and his
shoes came almost up to his ancles. No poor cottager stood in need of
comforts which he was not ready to supply, no sick man or woman
languished for want of his assistance, and not even a beggar, unless a
known impostor, went empty handed from the Hall.

    The sick he sooth'd, the hungry fed,
      Bade care and sorrow fly,
    And loved to raise the downcast head
      Of friendless poverty.

Now it happened that the old gentleman wanted a boy to wait upon him at
table, and to attend to him in different ways, for he was very fond of
young people. But much as he liked the society of the young, he had a
great aversion to that curiosity in which many young people are apt to
indulge. He used to say, "The boy who will peep into a drawer will be
tempted to take something out of it, and he who will steal a penny in
his youth will steal a pound in his manhood."

This disposition to repress evil, as well as to encourage good conduct,
formed a part of his character; for though of a cheerful temper, and
not given to severity, he never would pass over a fault till it was
acknowledged and repented of.

No sooner was it known that the old gentleman was in want of a servant,
than twenty applications were made for the situation; but had there been
forty, no one would have been engaged until he had undergone a trial;
for a boy with a curious, prying disposition, the old gentleman would
not engage. It was on a Monday morning that seven lads, dressed in their
Sunday clothes, with faces as bright as cherry-cheeked apples, made
their appearance at the Hall, each of them desirous to obtain the
situation they applied for. Now the old gentleman, being of a singular
disposition, had prepared a room in such a way that, if any of the young
people who applied to be his servant were given to meddle unnecessarily
with things around them, or to peep into cupboards and drawers, he
might be aware of it, and he took care that the lads, who were then at
Elm Tree Hall, should be shown into this room one after another.

And first, Joseph Turner was sent into the room, and told that he would
have to wait a little; so Joseph sat down on a chair near the door. For
some time he was very quiet, and looked about him, but there seemed to
be so many curious things in the room that, at last, he got up to peep
at them.

On the table was placed a dish cover, and Joseph wanted sadly to know
what was under it, but he felt afraid of lifting it up. Bad habits are
strong things, and as Joseph was of a curious disposition, he could not
withstand the temptation of taking one peep; so he lifted up the cover.

This turned out to be a sad affair; for under the dish cover was a heap
of very light feathers; part of the feathers, drawn up by the current of
air, flew about the room, and Joseph in his fright, putting down the
cover hastily, puffed the rest of them off the table.

What was to be done? Joseph began to pick up the feathers, one by one;
but the old gentleman, who was in an adjoining room, hearing a shuffle,
and guessing the cause of it, entered the room to the consternation of
Joseph, who was very soon dismissed as a lad not at all likely to suit
the situation.

When the room was once more arranged, Thomas Hawker was placed there
until such time as he should be sent for; no sooner was he left to
himself, than his attention was attracted by a plate of fine ripe
cherries; now Thomas was uncommonly fond of cherries, and he thought
that it would be impossible to miss one cherry among so many. He looked
and longed, and longed and looked for some time, and just as he had got
off his seat to take one, he heard, as he thought, a foot coming to the
door; but no, it was a false alarm. Taking fresh courage, he went
cautiously and took a very fine cherry, for he was determined to take
but one, and put it in his mouth. It was excellent, and then he
persuaded himself that he ran no great risk in taking another; this he
did and hastily popped it in his mouth.

Now the old gentleman had placed a few artificial cherries at the top of
the others, filled with cayenne pepper; one of these Thomas had
unfortunately taken, and no sooner did he put it in his mouth than he
began to sputter in such an outrageous manner, that the old gentleman
knew very well what was the matter. Thomas Hawker was sent about his
business without delay, with his mouth almost as hot as if he had put a
burning coal in it.

William Parkes was next introduced into the room, and left to himself,
but he had not been there two minutes, before he began to move from one
place to another. He was of a bold, resolute temper, but not
overburdened with principle; for if he could have opened every drawer in
the house, without being found out he would have done it directly.
Having looked round the room, he noticed a drawer on the table, and made
up his mind to peep therein, but no sooner did he lay hold of the drawer
knob than he set a large bell ringing which was concealed under the
table. The old gentleman immediately answered the summons, and entered
the room. William Parkes was so startled by the sudden ringing of the
bell, that all his impudence could not support him: he looked as though
any one might knock him down with a feather. The old gentleman asked him
if he had rung the bell because he wanted any thing? William stuttered
and stammered, but all to no purpose, for it did not prevent his being
ordered off the premises.

Samuel Tonks was then shown into the room, by an old servant, and, being
of a cautious disposition, touched nothing, but only looked at the
things about him. At last he saw that a closet door was a little open,
and thinking it would be impossible for any one to know that he had
opened it a little more, he very cautiously opened it an inch further,
looking down at the bottom of the door that it might not catch against
anything and make a noise. Now had he looked at the top instead of the
bottom, it might have been better for him, for to the top of the door
was fastened a plug which filled up the hole of a small barrel of shot.
Samuel ventured to open the door another inch, and then another, till
the plug being pulled out of the barrel, the leaden shot began to pour
out at a strange rate; at the bottom of the closet was placed a tin pan,
and the shot falling upon this pan made such a clatter that Samuel Tonks
was half frightened out of his senses.

The old gentleman soon came into the room to inquire what was the
matter, and there he found Samuel Tonks nearly as pale as a sheet.
Samuel had opened one door, the old gentleman soon opened another,
bidding him walk out of it, and never again to show his face at Elm Tree
Hall.

It now came to the turn of Edward Roberts to be put into the room, and
as it was in a distant part of the house, he knew nothing of what had
happened to the other lads.

On the table stood a round small box with a screw top to it, and Edward,
thinking that it contained something curious, could not be easy without
unscrewing the top, but no sooner did he do this, than out bounced an
artificial snake, full a yard long, and fell upon his arm. Edward
started back and uttered a scream, which brought the old gentleman to
his elbow. There stood Edward with the bottom of the box in one hand,
the top in the other, and the snake on the floor. "Come, come," said the
old gentleman, handing him out of the room, "one snake is quite enough
to have in the house at a time, therefore the sooner you are gone the
better;" with that he dismissed him, without waiting a moment for his
reply.

Henry Ball next entered the room, and, being left alone, soon began to
amuse himself in looking at the curiosities around him. Ball was not
only curious and prying, but downright dishonest, and observing that the
key was left in the drawer of a bookcase, he stepped on tiptoe in that
direction, but the moment he touched the key, he fell flat on the floor.
The key had a wire fastened to it which communicated with an
electrifying machine, and Henry received such a shock as he was not
likely to forget. No sooner did he sufficiently recover himself to walk,
than he was told to walk off the premises, and leave other people to
lock and unlock their own drawers.

The last boy was John Grove, and though he was left in the room full
twenty minutes, he never during that time stirred from his chair. John
had eyes in his head as well as the rest of them, but he had more
integrity in his heart; neither the dish cover, the cherries, the drawer
knob, the closet door, the round box, nor the key tempted him to rise
from his seat, and the consequence was, that, in half an hour after, he
was engaged in the service of the old gentleman at Elm Tree Hall.

John Grove followed his good old master to his grave, and received a
legacy of fifty pounds for his upright conduct in his service. Read
this, ye busy, meddling, peeping, pilfering young people, and imitate
the example of John Grove.

[Illustration]




BELLEVILLE SCHOOL.


    Bonny Belleville! bonny Belleville! I can think upon thee yet,
    And many a year will pass ere I thy pleasant scenes forget;
    Thy summers and thy winters all may in their turn depart,
    But their record still is graven on the tablet of my heart.

Belleville school was delightfully situated, and when the morning sun
shone on the grove of chestnut trees, gilded the church spire, and was
reflected from the winding brook, a more lovely scene was not to be
gazed on.

Many a light hearted girl received there that instruction which made her
the ornament of her domestic circle, and added to the happiness of her
future days. There the ignorant were informed, the timid encouraged,
the bold reproved, the vicious punished, and the virtuous rewarded.

What has a young person to do with pride? Pride may make all around it
uncomfortable, and excite a great deal of angry feeling, but it can
never render its possessor happy.--Many a pretty face has been spoilt,
for a short time, by being rubbed over with blackberries, but a little
clean water has made the face as beautiful as before. This is not the
case when a countenance is disfigured with pride, for neither cold nor
hot water will penetrate more than skin deep, whereas pride is rooted in
the very heart.

Of all the young people at Belleville school, Arabella Clarke had the
most pride. She was indeed unbearable. No one could discover half the
beauty or half the cleverness which she saw in herself, though none of
her companions could deny that she had a fair face and a tolerable
understanding.

Arabella Clarke was sixteen years of age, and had nearly finished her
education; every hour of the day she gave herself airs, nor was there a
young person near her, whom she had not displeased, at one time or
other, by her insufferable pride. It was a common saying, "You are as
proud as Arabella Clarke;" and no circumstance gave the school girls
half so much pleasure, as an opportunity of mortifying their vain
companion.

Now it happened that a grand spectacle was to be seen in the park, and
every one expected that the place would be thronged with fashionable
people. A few of the elder girls of Belleville school were permitted to
attend, and as the park was at some distance, a coach was ordered for
the occasion. Arabella was foolishly determined to outdo her comrades,
and for this purpose she borrowed of a friend a very handsome feather.

With this feather stuck in her hat, she walked about among her
companions, giving herself more airs than before, and ridiculing the
less showy bonnets of those around her. Pride ought always to be
mortified, and it generally is. Two of Arabella's schoolfellows made up
their minds to punish her for her ill behaviour, and, before the coach
drove up to the school they contrived to pin on the back of her pelisse
a paper with the following inscription:

"Miss Wiggens lent her the feather." Little suspecting the trick which
had been played her, Arabella skipped into the coach, and in a short
time alighted at the park, which was thronged with company. Scarcely had
she proceeded a dozen yards, looking about her with an air of
self-satisfaction, before she heard a titter, while some one whispered
loud enough for those around to hear, "Miss Wiggens lent her the
feather." Arabella, believing that one of her companions was the
whisperer, turned round, with a frown, and saw a whole party laughing.
"I wonder who Miss Wiggens is?" asked one of them provokingly. "I cannot
tell that," replied another; "but you see, Miss Wiggens lent her the
feather."

Mortified at these remarks, Arabella hurried on to get away from the ill
mannerly people around her; but wherever she went, a laugh reached her
ear, and the provoking observation, "Miss Wiggens lent her the feather."

The higher you shoot an arrow into the air, the deeper will it sink into
the ground when it falls, and in like manner the prouder a spirit is,
the deeper shame and humiliation it has to endure when humbled.
Arabella Clarke was stung to the quick. "Look, look," cried a young man
fashionably dressed, "what do you think of that, Tom? Miss Wiggens lent
her the feather." "I wish Miss Wiggens would lend me one," replied his
companion, "but what necessity is there for the whole world to be told
of it?" "A well dressed young woman," said a fat gentleman, as he passed
her. "True, my love," replied his wife, who turned back to look at her;
"but Miss Wiggens lent her the feather."

In pushing among the crowd, to get out of the park, the paper fell from
Arabella's pelisse, but not before fifty persons, at least, had repeated
in as many different tones, "Miss Wiggens lent her the feather."

Arabella with a flushed face, a heavy heart, and a wounded spirit,
reached the school, without ever suspecting the cause of her
mortification.

The stratagem had succeeded so well that the two girls who had contrived
it, determined to resort to it again, if Arabella did not conduct
herself in a more affable and humble manner.

Bad habits are not easily overcome, and in a short period Arabella
became as unbearable as she was before.

About this time, Arabella and the two schoolfellows, who had played her
the trick in the park, set off to a little village at no great distance.

The pride of Arabella had led her, on this occasion, to put on a pair of
pink silk stockings, that she might be smarter than her companions.

Now these silk stockings had a large hole in one of the toes, which she
had neglected to mend. Her schoolfellows being aware of this
circumstance, laid their plan accordingly; and when they arrived at the
entrance of the village, under pretence of arranging Arabella's shawl,
they pinned a paper to it written as follows:

     "She has a hole in the toe of her stocking."

There happened to be a merry making in the village, so that a throng was
gathered together. Two or three rude lads who had observed the paper
came up to read it, and one of them cried out, "She has a hole in the
toe of her stocking." This was immediately repeated by the rest, and
half a dozen young ragamuffins hooted out at once, "She has a hole in
her stocking."

Poor Arabella reddened up to her very ears, for she was too conscious of
the fact, not to apply what the boys said to herself. By turning,
however, into a shop, she escaped from her tormenters. Her two
companions made some excuse to leave her by herself. When she came once
more into the street a butcher cried out to another, on the other side
of the way, "Bill, lad, she has a hole in the toe of her stocking."

Arabella hastened on extremely mortified, and yet wondering how it was
possible for any one to see that the toe of her stocking was out of
repair. As she crossed the market place, the jeering of the country
fellows, the laughing of the women, and the hallooing of the lads were
intolerable. "What a pity it is," said one, "that such fine stockings
should have a hole in the toe!" "What is the matter?" cried another. "O,
nothing at all," said a third, "she has only got a hole in the toe of
her stocking."--The uproar increased, and Arabella was half dead with
vexation and fright, when she joined her companions, humbled to the very
dust, she caught hold of them to support her, and burst into tears. The
paper, unseen by her, was unpinned from her shawl, and thankful was
Arabella Clarke to escape from the mortification she had endured.

An obstinate malady requires strong medicine, and nothing but such
complete humiliations as she had endured, would have corrected the
insufferable pride of Arabella Clarke.

In course of time the whole school became acquainted with the tricks
which had been played Arabella, and the extreme mortification they had
drawn upon her. Their proud schoolfellow became more humble, affable and
amiable; for whenever she manifested the accustomed pride and
haughtiness of her disposition, she was immediately rebuked by an
allusion to the past. "Though her hat did look smart in the park," one
would say, "_Miss Wiggens lent her the feather._" "And if she does toss
up her head," another would reply, "yet, for aught I know, _she has a
hole in the toe of her stocking_."

[Illustration]




HONEST POVERTY AND BENEFICENCE.


The emperor of Germany, walking one day in the streets of Vienna,
dressed as a private individual, met a young girl who appeared in great
distress, and who carried a packet under her arm. "Where are you going?"
said the emperor. "What have you in that bundle? Can I not assist in
calming your grief?"

"These," said the young girl, opening her bundle, "are the clothes of my
mother: alas, sir, they are our last resource. I am hastening to
dispose of them to procure food for our family. If we had received the
pay of our poor father, who was killed in the service of the emperor, we
would not have been reduced to this sad necessity."

"And why have you not applied at court?" said the other: "you should
have stated your case upon paper, and sent it to the sovereign, when he
doubtless would have relieved you."

"All this has been done, sir; but the lord who undertook to befriend us,
said that nothing could be obtained, and that it was useless to renew
our application."

"There must have been some sad mistake," answered the emperor,
concealing the mortification which the story caused him. "I am sure that
the emperor has never seen your petition; because he is too just to
allow the widow and children of an officer, who perished in his service,
to want the comforts of life. Draw up another petition, and bring it to
the castle to-morrow morning; then, if I find that what you have stated
is true, you shall see the emperor, and I have no doubt that you will
obtain what you require. But in the mean time you must not sell your
mother's clothes.--How much did you expect to receive for them?"

"Six ducats," replied the astonished female.

"Here are ten," said the other, "which I will lend you until you can
repay me out of the pension, which I am in hopes we will, together, be
able to procure on your visit to court."

The emperor turned away, and the delighted daughter flew back to her
mother with the ten ducats and the bundle of clothes.

After describing to her relations the person and manners of the
stranger, they at once recognised the emperor, and became excessively
alarmed at the consequences which they thought would ensue from the
freedom with which his apparent injustice had been mentioned. The young
girl refused to go to court, and was at last taken, almost by force, on
the following morning, to the appointed place.

On the appearance of the emperor she recognised in him the person of her
benefactor, and fainted. The emperor assisted in the kindest manner in
recovering her; and, when she became again sensible, said to her--"Here,
my young friend, is the grant of a pension for your mother, equal to the
full pay of your father, with the reversion of one half of it to you,
should you be so unfortunate as to lose her. Could I have learned sooner
your situation, I should have been able sooner to have relieved it.
Hereafter, that none may have cause to complain, I will set aside one
day in each week to receive the personal applications of my subjects."

[Illustration]




INTEGRITY, AND ITS REWARD.


After the well-contested action of Stono, during the revolution, an
American lieutenant, passing over the field of battle, saw a British
officer dangerously wounded, and unable to move. The latter, on seeing
the American, besought him in the most moving accents for a draught of
water to allay the burning thirst which was consuming him. There was no
refusing such a request, even had the American felt inclined to do so;
he procured the water therefore, and stooping down, held it to the
parched lips of the sufferer. The Englishman drank, and then drawing an
elegant and valuable watch from his pocket, presented it to the other.

"Take it, sir," he said; "'tis yours by conquest, and your generous
behavior still further entitles you to possess it."

"I came into the field to fight, and not to plunder," was the answer:
"it gives me pleasure to have rendered you a service, and I ask no other
recompense."

"Keep it for me then, in trust," rejoined the officer, "till we meet
again; for if left in my hands, it may be wrested from me by some
marauder, who to secure silence may inflict death."

"I will take it on these terms only," said the American, "that you shall
receive it when I meet with an opportunity to return it."

Many were the chances of war against the second meeting, and the
Englishman had almost forgotten the circumstance, and had entirely given
up all hopes of recovering his property, when a package was presented to
him, which, on opening, he found to contain his watch, which the
American had taken advantage of a flag of truce, to return uninjured to
its owner.

[Illustration]




CONTENTS.


                             Page.

The Broken Vase,                 5

Little Bertram,                 16

Elm Tree Hall,                  33

Belleville School,              45

Honest Poverty,                 56

Integrity, and its Reward,      61

[Illustration]


[Illustration]

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  |                                                              |
  | Transcriber's note:--                                        |
  |                                                              |
  | Italics are indicated in this text version by underscores    |
  |                                                              |
  | The following printer errors have been corrected:--          |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 20 'jestures' to 'gestures'                             |
  |         'their mysterious gestures'                          |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 26 'peninent' to 'penitent'                             |
  |         'and the penitent'                                   |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 48 'Bellville' to Belleville'                           |
  |         'girls of Belleville school'                         |
  |                                                              |
  | Page 49 'Wiggins' to Wiggens'                                |
  |         'Miss Wiggens lent her'                              |
  |                                                              |
  |                                                              |
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[End of _The Broken Vase, and Other Stories_ by Anonymous]
