Wreaths of Friendship Part 10

[Ill.u.s.tration: ROVER AND HIS LITTLE MASTER.]

"Come, Rover!" said Harry, as he pa.s.sed a fine old Newfoundland dog that lay on a mat at the door; "come, Rover! I am going down to the river to sail my boat, and I want you to go with me."

Rover opened his large eyes, and looked lazily at his little master.

"Come! Rover! Rover!"

But the dog didn't care to move, and so Harry went off to the river side alone. He had not been gone a great while, before a thought of her boy came suddenly into the mother's mind. Remembering that he had a little vessel, and that the river was near, it occurred to her that he might have gone there.

Instantly her heart began to throb with alarm.

"Is Harry with you?" she called up to Harry's father, who was in his study.

But Harry's father said he was not there.

"I'm afraid he's gone to the river with his boat," said the mother.

"To the river!" And Mr Lee dropped his pen, and came quickly down. Taking up his hat, he went hurriedly from the house. Rover was still lying upon the mat, with his head upon his paws and his eyes shut.

"Rover!" said his master, in a quick, excited voice, "where is Harry? Has he gone to the river? Away and see! quick!"

The dog must have understood every word, for he sprang eagerly to his feet, and rushed toward the river. Mr Lee followed as fast as he could run. When he reached the river bank, he saw his little boy in the water, with Rover dragging him toward the sh.o.r.e. He was just in time to receive the half-drowned child in his arms, and carry him home to his mother.

Harry, who remained insensible, was placed in a warm bed. He soon, however, revived, and in an hour or two was running about again. But after this, Rover would never leave the side of his little master, when he wandered beyond the garden gate. Wherever you found Harry, there Rover was sure to be--sometimes walking by his side, and sometimes lying on the gra.s.s, with his big eyes watching every movement.

Once Harry found his little vessel, which had been hidden away since he went with it to the river, and, without his mother's seeing him, he started again for the water. Rover, as usual, was with him. On his way to the river, he saw some flowers, and, in order to gather them, put his boat down upon the gra.s.s. Instantly Rover picked it up in his mouth, and walked back toward the house with it. After going a little way, he stopped, looked around, and waited until Harry had got his hand full of flowers. The child then saw that Rover had his boat, and tried to get it from him; but Rover played around him, always keeping out of his reach, and retreating toward the house, until he got back within the gate. Then he bounded into the house, and laid the boat at the feet of Harry's mother.

Harry was a little angry with the good old dog, at first, but when his mother explained to him what Rover meant, he hugged him around the neck, and said he would never go down to the river again any more.

Harry is a man now, and Rover has long since been dead; but he often thinks of the dear old dog that saved him from drowning when he was a child; and it gives him great pleasure to remember that he never beat Rover, as some boys beat their dogs, when they are angry, and was never unkind to him. Had it been otherwise, the thought would have given him great pain.

SOMETHING WRONG.

[Ill.u.s.tration: SOMETHING WRONG.]

What's the matter here? There is something wrong. It is clear that the little boy in the picture is not receiving kind treatment at the hands of his sister. But what is she doing to him? Not pulling his ear, we hope.

Something is wrong; what can it be? We must try and make it out. There is a whip and a top on the floor, and also a chair thrown down, to which a string is tied.

The little boy, we suppose, was whipping his top, while his sister was playing with the chair.

"Take care, now, Johnny," says the sister, as the lash of her brother's whip comes every little while close to her face; "take care, or you will cut me in the eyes."

But Johnny either doesn't hear, or doesn't heed, and keeps on whipping his top.

"There, now!" says Anna, "you came as near as could be to striking me. I wish you would go out into the pa.s.sage or down into the dining-room with your top."

"John," says mamma, looking up from her work, "you must be careful and not cut your sister with that whip."

"No, ma'am," replies Johnny, and keeps on with his sport as carelessly as ever.

Presently there is a cry, and then an angry exclamation. The lash of Johnny's whip has fallen with a smarting stroke on Anna's neck. The little girl, without waiting to reflect, follows the impulse of her feelings, and seeks to punish her brother by pinching and pulling his ears.

This is the story of the picture, and we are sorry it will not bear a more favorable explanation.

We do not think that any of our young readers will approve the conduct of either of the children. Undoubtedly, Johnny was wrong not to have been more careful how he threw his lash about. Anna had as much right to be in the room as he had, and if Johnny wanted to whip his top, it was his place to do it so cautiously as not in the least to endanger his sister's face and eyes; and he deserved to have his top taken from him as a punishment for his carelessness and indifference; and no doubt this was done by his mother.

And Anna was wrong, likewise, for permitting her angry feelings to so carry her away as to lead her to hurt her brother, in revenge for what he had done to her. So, you see, Johnny's wrong act was the cause of a still greater departure from right in his sister. If Johnny had loved his sister, he would have been much more careful how he used his whip; and if Anna had loved her brother, she would never have been tempted to strike him or pull his ear, even if he had hurt her.

It is a very sad thing for little brothers and sisters to quarrel with each other.

"Birds in their little nests agree, And 'tis a shameful sight, When children of one family, Fall out, and chide, and fight."

We hope, among all our little readers, there is not a brother and sister who have quarreled--who have ever called each other hard names--or, worse, who have ever lifted their tiny hands to hurt each other.

THE FAVORITE CHILD.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE FAVORITE CHILD.]

In a very pretty little village not many miles from N----, in Connecticut, lived Susan Meredith. She was the youngest of three sisters, the eldest of whom could not be more than twelve or thirteen years of age. A year or two before the period when our history of this little group commences, the mother had gone to her rest.

Weighed down with a sorrow too heavy to be borne, and of a nature too delicate to be confided to others, she sank under it while in the noon of life, and died commending her children to G.o.d. Susan--little Sue, as she was frequently called--young as she was, remembered a thousand incidents connected with the departed one, and seemed, so late as the time at which our story begins, to be never happier than when her mother was the theme of conversation.

There was something remarkable in this. One reason for it might have been, that the surviving parent of these sisters, though once a kind and affectionate father, was now so altered by habits of intemperance, that they found very little enjoyment in his society. But there was another reason. Little Sue was an unusually thoughtful, serious child, for one of her years. Was there not another reason, still? I do not know. I cannot tell what words G.o.d may whisper to the child that loves him; but this I know, that little Sue talked much of heaven, and seemed to have learned more of the language of heaven than men can teach.

One bright Sat.u.r.day, in the early spring time, when there was no school, these sisters might have been seen winding their way through the woods, not far from the house where they lived, searching for the first wild flowers.

Little Sue, the youngest, was very happy, but, as usual, more grave than the other sisters. By and by, wearied with their walk, they sat down under the shadow, of a tree, and talked a great while. At first, the conversation was about birds and flowers; but Sue soon gave a serious turn to it.

"I wonder," said she, "if dear mother has pretty flowers in heaven. I hope so--she loved them so well. Do you remember the little monthly rose she wanted we should bring into her room, just before she died? How happy she was, when one of us went and brought it to her bed. And she went to heaven so soon after that! Oh, I think there must be flowers up there in the sky, or she would not have thought of them and loved them so, when she was dying. Don't you think so?"

And she was silent. So were her sisters, awhile. Thoughts of heaven made them serious. They were sad, too. When the youngest--their darling Sue--conversed in this strain, a cloud always came over their sunny faces.

They could scarcely tell why it was so; for they, too, loved to think of heaven. But the language of their sister seemed to them to belong to another world; and often, in the midst of their brightest hopes, would come the fear, like a thunderbolt, that G.o.d would crush that cherished flower, and remove her from their embrace while she was young.

"Sue," at length said Eliza, the eldest sister, "why do you always talk so much about heaven?"

"I don't know," was the reply; "perhaps, because I think a good deal about it. I dreamed last night"----

"Oh, I thought so," said Maria, playfully interrupting her sister; "I should think the little fairies were playing hide and seek all around your pillow every night. I wish they would whisper in my ears as they do in yours. Why, the naughty things hardly ever speak to me, and when they do, they tell a very different story from those they tell you. It is generally about falling down from a church steeple, or something of that kind. Well, what did they say to you this time, dear?"

"I never had such a dream before," said the favorite, her face glowing with a new, almost an unearthly radiance; "I mean I never had one just like it.