From that time for nearly two weeks the sick boy was conscious of little more than great bodily distress. When the fever at last gave way, he was just upon the brink of the grave. The slightest neglect on the part of those who attended him with more than the care that a new-born infant requires, would have proved fatal. But the skill of his medical attendant, and the unwearying care of his parents, were the means of saving his life.

About a week after the crisis of the disease had pa.s.sed, when Wilson could sit up in bed, supported by pillows, as his father sat by him, he said, in a penitent voice, while the tears came into his eyes:

"I have been a very wicked boy, father; and that is the reason why I have been so sick."

"How so, my child?" asked Mr. Green, in surprise.

"You remember having told me that I could not go over to see Alfred Barlow, one day when I asked you. Well, I wanted to go so bad, that I disobeyed you. I found little Anna Barlow very sick--so sick that Alfred could not play with me. As soon as his mother saw me by Anna's bed, she told me to go right away home at once. And so I did, without having had any of the pleasure, to gain which, I had done what you had told me not to do. It was the scarlet fever that Anna had, and no doubt I took it from her. But I have been severely punished for what I did."

"Severely, indeed, my dear boy!" Mr. Green said, wiping a tear that came to his eye. "But not too severely, if it prove the means of restraining you from ever doing so wrong an act in future. To disobey your parents, is to do yourself one of the worst of injuries. For if, in early years, you are not obedient to your parents, you will not be truly obedient to just laws when you grow up to be a man; nor, above all, obedient to G.o.d.

And if not obedient to Him, you never can be happy. It is not from any selfish desire to command your obedience, that I forbid your doing certain things at times. I have only your good at heart. I know, much better than you can possibly know, the evil that you ought to shun--and much better than you can know, the good effects which will be produced in your mind by obedience. But I need not, I trust, say more now. You have had a practical lesson that you can never forget, and which will, I am sure, have upon you a most salutary influence."

"Indeed, father, I can never forget it," Wilson replied, with much feeling. "No one knows how much I have suffered, in mind as well as body, for my faults. From the hour I disobeyed you until this moment, I have been unhappy. And I believe, until I had told you all, I should never again have been happy."

"Repentance and confession are the only means of obtaining peace after a wrong act," the father said.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE GAME OF WEATHERc.o.c.kS.

The company arrange themselves, and give to the four corners of the room, or the part of the park where they are playing, the names of the four cardinal points. To avoid disputes, it is best to place the words east, west, north, south, in writing, at the points agreed upon. One of the players, and it should be a lively, gay person accustomed to the game, takes the part of EOLUS. All the other players arrange themselves in one or more rows. When it is possible, a lady should have a gentleman on each side, and a gentleman, a lady. After having ordered silence, Eolus points to one of the corners designated by name, it is no matter which, and from which he means to have the wind blow. When the G.o.d of the winds points one way, the company must all turn in the opposite direction.

It is a party of WEATHERc.o.c.kS, and consequently each one must turn his back upon the wind, to show which way it blows. When Eolus cries _south_, everybody faces north, and in the same way at all the points.

When he says _tempest_, everybody must whirl round three times, and come back to the same place. At the word _variable_, they must balance them, first on one foot, then on the other, until the G.o.d of the winds names one of the four points. If he says _variable west_, then they vacillate towards the east, but not rapidly, as most of the motions of the game are made, for the wind is changeable, and often, as soon as they have got round to a certain point, Eolus gives a shout which sends them all round to another.

When the capricious deity is pleased to name a point directly opposite to the one where the company is placed, they must all remain motionless.

It may easily be imagined that this opposition of order and motion, the variety, the multiplicity of movements, must give occasion for forfeits to be paid whenever a mistake is made. The game affords a great deal of sport.

JAMES CARTIER.

AN EARLY TRAVELLER IN AMERICA.

James, or as he is commonly called, Jacques Cartier, was the first who explored the sh.o.r.es of Canada to any extent, and the first to discover the existence of that great river, communicating between the Atlantic Ocean and the great North American lakes, the St. Lawrence. The Indians called the river Hochelega, and told him that they had never heard of any one who had reached its source.

Cartier sailed up the river, and anch.o.r.ed his vessels near the island of Orleans, below the place where Quebec now stands. It was in the summer of 1535, when he sailed up the river, and he found Orleans island nearly covered with loaded grape-vines, from which circ.u.mstance, as well as from the beauty, variety, and luxuriance of its vegetation, he named it the Island of Bacchus.

All the early navigators to this continent were in search of a north-west pa.s.sage to India, by which they thought they might reach the East Indian islands by a shorter voyage than that in use. They were formerly obliged to sail along the coast of Africa, and around the Cape of Good Hope, when they had still another, the Indian Ocean, to cross before they reached China. This was a very long and a very dangerous voyage, and they wished for a shorter one; and the learned men of those days were of opinion that there existed a pa.s.sage somewhere in North America, which joined the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans together.

When Henry Hudson discovered the bay which bears his name, he thought that he had found the desired object, and Cartier indulged the same hopes, when sailing up the n.o.ble river Hochelega, which he called the St. Lawrence, because he had discovered it on the day of the festival in honour of the saint of that name, the 10th day of August. On the 15th, he discovered the island now known by the name of Anticosti. At Bacchus island he was visited by the princ.i.p.al chief of the neighbouring tribes, whose name was Donnacona. The chief and his attendants were very hospitable to the navigators, and in a solemn a.s.sembly he welcomed them, in the name of five hundred of his warriors, to the sh.o.r.es of the Hochelega. Donnacona had his residence and chief town at Stadacona, which occupied part of the place where Quebec now stands.

Cartier had already made numerous and surprising discoveries; but the great object of his expedition had not been certainly attained, although he had strong hopes of ultimate success. Stadacona neither satisfied his curiosity, nor limited his progress. The Indians informed him that there was a town of much greater importance farther up the river; but when he intimated his intention of visiting it, they were displeased, and resorted to every artifice to divert him from his project. One of them was very curious. The savages were themselves superst.i.tious, and imagined their visitors to be so likewise. They dressed up three men in black masks and white dog-skins, with their faces blackened and great horns on their heads. They were put into a canoe, with oars, in such a situation as to be carried near the ships by the flowing of the tide.

Their appearance was awaited by the Indians, who lay concealed in the woods. When the canoe neared the ships, the white men were harangued by one of the three ugly creatures, who stood up in the boat; and as soon as they reached the land, they fell down, as if dead, and were carried off by the Indians into concealment. Some of the Indians immediately came on board to Cartier, and, feigning the greatest consternation, explained to him the meaning of what he had seen. Their G.o.d had sent these three emissaries to signify that there was so much ice and snow, in the far country, that whoever ventured there would surely perish.

Notwithstanding their predictions, Cartier determined to explore the river farther, and, equipping two long-boats for the purpose, he commenced his voyage. He was delighted with the scenery on both sides of the river, and the natives cheerfully furnished him with what they could procure to supply his necessities. At Lake St. Peter, the French were much perplexed by the shallowness of the water, and their ignorance of the channel. On the 2nd of October, 1535, Cartier effected a landing, six miles from the town, below the rapids of St. Mary's, which were becoming difficult and dangerous. Here they were met by more than a thousand of the natives, who received them with every demonstration of joy and hospitality, in return for which Cartier made them many simple presents.

The next day, having engaged three Indians as guides, Cartier, with a number of his own people, entered for the first time the Indian village of Hochelega, which stood on the site of the present city of Montreal.

Cartier remained among these people for a short time, when the cold of a Canadian winter began to approach, and he returned in his boats to St.

Croix, and afterwards to France. He came again to Canada, in the course of a few years, with Roberval, but did not stay long, and returned to France, where he soon after died.

ANSELMO'S ESCAPE;

OR, THE DOG SAINT BERNARD.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a rich farmer, named Pierre, with his wife Mary, and son Anselmo. When Pierre was very young, he had been found, almost dead, in the snow, by one of the monks of St.

Bernard, and his dog; and he felt so grateful that, now he was rich, he had sent to the Convent of St. Bernard for one of those large dogs which are so famous for saving people that are lost in the snow; for Pierre was a good man, and he wanted to have one of the dogs himself, so as to be able to save any traveller who might have lost his way. So one of the monks who had taken care of him brought him a little puppy, and he trained it so well, that even in the first year he had brought home several travellers; but the first life he saved was Pierre's own son, Anselmo.

The little fellow had been sent across the hill to a distant village; it was a clear, frosty day, and if he had minded what his mother had said, and come home quickly, he might have been home long before dark; but Anselmo did not think of this;--now he stopped to make snow-b.a.l.l.s, and roll them before him, till they were larger and higher than himself; then he would push them over the rocks, and watch them, as they bounded from one part to another, breaking to a thousand pieces on their way; now he wandered from the path to follow the track of an Izard, that perhaps had pa.s.sed hours before, and that he well knew would never allow him to come within sight of it. And so the time pa.s.sed on, and when he ought to have been there, he was not even half-way. When he did reach the village, there were too many little boys ready to play with him, for Anselmo to leave it soon; so that it was already getting dark when he stood alone on the top of one of the highest hills between him and his home.

The wind had begun to blow, and the snow was drifting around him; he grew cold and frightened, and at last sat down and burst into tears.

Now, for the first time, he thought of all his kind mother had told him, and remembered that in disobeying her, he had offended G.o.d. The longer little Anselmo sat in the snow the more cold he became, until at last he seemed to fall asleep--a sleep from which he would never more awake, had not G.o.d, from whom he had asked forgiveness for his disobedience, watched over him in the hour of danger.

Many hours before this, his mother had gone, again and again, to look for his return, and now when the wind began to blow, and the grey light of evening come on, she trembled to think that her child was alone on the hills, with snow on every side.

Pierre had been away from home two days; he was to return that night.

And oh! how she feared it might be to find Anselmo gone, his little boy lost to him for ever; for she thought that if he should miss the path in the drifting snow, he would never find it again.

"Here, St. Bernard," said she to the dog, "go and find Anselmo; go and seek for my child, my brave dog!" and she burst into tears, and threw her arms round his neck. Well did St. Bernard understand her words; he sprang from her hold, and darting through the door, was out of sight in a moment.

The poor woman smiled. "It will be a comfort to him," she said, "to see his good dog, and will cheer his heart and give him strength for the rest of the way." Poor Mary! little did she think that already her boy was stretched upon the snow, stiff and cold, and almost without life.

An hour had pa.s.sed; but neither Pierre, Anselmo, or St. Bernard, had yet returned. Again and again she wandered round the house and looked down the path. At last a figure was seen, and as it came nearer, she saw it was Pierre, and that he had his child in his arms, and that St. Bernard was at his side. "Thank G.o.d! thank G.o.d!" she said; and she ran down the hill to meet them. Anselmo is tired with his long walk, thought she, and no wonder. Pierre must be tired too; I'll carry the boy myself. But as she came near, she stopped; for a sudden fear seemed to have struck her, and she covered her face with her hands.

"He is not dead, Mary," shouted Pierre; "he is better already; see, he looks up to you," and the child tried to raise his hand, but it fell by his side.

Anselmo was laid in a warm bed--they rubbed his hands and feet; and soon he began to revive, and to look about him, and then to thank his father and mother, and to tell them that he felt better.

After Pierre and Mary had knelt by the bedside of their child, and thanked G.o.d for his mercy in restoring him to them, his mother for the first time asked how it had all happened, and where he had been found.

Anselmo turned his face away, and for a moment did not answer; then he said: "Mother had sent me to the village, and I staid too long there; I had played by the way too as I went. So it was getting dark, and I lost my way, and was cold long before I could reach home; so I sat down, meaning to rest a little, and began to cry, but I do not know anything after that. I think I remember feeling very sleepy, and I suppose I did fall asleep, but I do not know; my father can tell you best, mother, for he found me."

"No," said Pierre, "I did not find you, my dear boy; I was close to the foot of the hill, thinking that I should meet you all well, and at home, when I saw something moving on the snow; it stopped; and then I heard St. Bernard's bark; it seemed wanting my help, and I hastened up the hill. He was coming to meet me, his head high in the air; his step through all the drifting snow was firm and sure, and I saw that he carried a child in his mouth; but when he laid the child at my feet, I saw it was Anselmo, my own son!"

"Then it was St. Bernard, good, kind, St. Bernard," cried the boy, "who carried me all the way from the top of that high hill, for I am quite sure it was there I sat down."