I see plainly enough that I have been working half an hour or more to no purpose, and that very likely I have made matters worse. Yet what was my error?

Simply this: that I spent all my strength at the short arm of the lever. If I had gone to work with a kind and tender spirit, something as Nathan went to work at David, once on a time, and used the other end of the lever, I should have got a good _purchase_, at least, and I am not sure but the stone would have yielded. As it is, however, the troublesome thing is there yet, and it seems to be settling into the ground deeper than ever.

I know some good people, among whom I can count half a score of ministers, who try very hard to keep bad books and periodicals out of the family circle.

There is no end to their talk against these things. They tell their children that they must never read such and such books, and that if they ever catch one of them reading these books, they shall take good care to punish them for it.

But in spite of all the efforts of these people, they don't succeed in keeping these bad books out of the family. In some way or other, they are smuggled into the hands of a boy or girl, and they are read, while the parent, perhaps, knows nothing of it. That is all wrong, of course. I don't mean to say anything to excuse the boy or girl--nothing of the kind. But why didn't these parents go another way to work? Why, instead of preaching all those long sermons on bad books, and threatening their children with punishment in case they read these books, why did they not provide other books, equally interesting, though innocent and useful? That would have been a wiser course, methinks. That would have been the right end of the crow-bar to work at. The way to get rid of an evil is to find something else to put in its place. So I think.

But some of these very fathers and mothers, though they cry out so loudly against immoral books and periodicals, say they cannot afford to buy books for their children. It was only last week that I heard one of them tell a friend, who asked him to subscribe for a magazine for his daughter, that he was poor, and could not afford it. Poor! he gave one party last winter, on this same daughter's account, which cost him more than a hundred dollars. He cannot afford it! Well, if he does not afford to furnish reading for those children, I am afraid they will afford it themselves.

I have seen a little girl, when her sister had been doing something wrong, run straight to her mother, and tell her of it. But it only made the little mischief-maker worse. She went the wrong way to work.

She labored hard enough to come at her sister's fault; but her labor was all thrown away. She was at the wrong end of the crow-bar. If, instead of posting off, as fast as she could run, to her mother, every time that sister did wrong, as if she really _liked_ to be a tell-tale, she had said, as kindly as she could, "Susy, don't do so; that's naughty," or something of the kind, I presume it would all have been well enough.

VII.

THE FOX AND THE CRAB;

OR, A GOOD RULE, WITH A FLAW IN IT.

A FABLE.

A crab boasted that he was very cunning in setting traps. He used to bury himself in the mud, just under a nice morsel of a clam or an oyster; and when the silly fish came to make a dinner of this dainty morsel, he would catch him in his claws, and eat him.

He pretended to have a good deal of honor, though. He was quite a pious crab, according to his own account of himself. When he had caught a fish by his cunning, he used to say, "Poor fellow! it is his own fault, not mine. He ought to have kept out of the trap. If one does not know enough to keep away from my claws, he _ought_ to be caught. Poor fellow! I'm sorry for him; but it can't be helped."

That is the way he took to quiet his own conscience, and to excuse himself to others, when they complained of his deceitful conduct.

An old fox, having heard of our crab's mode of catching fish, and what he said about it, determined to set a trap for the crab. He did so. He went down to the sea sh.o.r.e, and thrust his long, bushy tail into the water. The crab, thinking he had got another dinner by his wit, seized the fox's tail with his claws. But the fox, giving a sudden spring, brought the crab out of the water, and prepared to make a meal of him at his leisure.

The crab complained, and accused the fox of being a deceitful fellow, and a murderer to boot.

"But," said Reynard, "I have only acted according to your own rule. If one does not know enough to keep away from a fox's tail, he _ought_ to be caught. It is the same thing as if he caught himself."

"Ah!" said the crab, with a sigh, "I made that rule for others, and not for myself. I see now that _there is a flaw in it_."

VIII.

THE GREEDY FLY.

A FABLE.

A fly, who was a great lover of sweet things, came across a cup full of mola.s.ses. He alighted on the edge of the cup, and commenced sipping the mola.s.ses. It pleased him very much. He thought he had never tasted anything so good before. At length, beginning to be surfeited with his dinner, instead of flying away, and going about his business, until he should be hungry again, he plunged into the mola.s.ses, so as to enjoy as much of it as he could.

Mistaken fly! He fared very much as you might suppose he would. He lost his life in the mola.s.ses.

MORAL.

That is just the way with thousands, who have fewer legs and ought to have more brains than this fly. They are not content with a right and proper use of the good things which G.o.d has given them. They plunge into a sea of pleasure, so as to enjoy as much of it as they possibly can. But such a surfeit, instead of increasing the enjoyment, makes them miserable. They are drowned in the midst of their pleasures.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

IX.

CAROLINE AND HER KITTEN;

OR, THE PRETTY FACE, WITH A SCAR ON IT.

Caroline Rose was as happy a girl as ever you saw in your life--"as happy as the days are long"--so her schoolmaster used to say. There were a great many good points in Caroline's character besides this, that she was so generally cheerful--for I consider that a good point in any one's character. She was kind to her companions, obedient, respectful, and affectionate to her parents; and she seldom got into a fit of anger, or made a fool of herself by being sulky. One might have met her frequently, and have supposed that he was well acquainted with her, and still have loved her very much. Yet there was one thing in her character which every one, as soon as he saw it, must dislike, and which sometimes, where she was well known, made her appear exceedingly unlovely. Shall I tell you what that was? I will do so, so as to put you on your guard in that particular point. That trait in her character was _selfishness_. If she ever got anything that she liked, she used to act as if she were not willing that any one else should enjoy it with her. Indeed, she appeared to be displeased, if one of her playmates, as was sometimes the case, did take a great deal of pleasure in her pretty things.

Her father once brought her home a fine set of tea things, when she was quite young. Now, should you not suppose that she would like to have all the girls in the neighborhood come and take tea with her, and use her pretty new cups and saucers, and spoons and plates? Well, so should I. But she showed a great deal of selfishness in this matter--so much, in fact, that she made herself appear ridiculous, as well as unlovely. She was glad to have the girls come and look at the tea things, and hear them say that they were very pretty. But that was as far as her generosity went. She did not ask the girls to sit down and drink tea with her. Indeed, she did not want her playmates to handle the cups and saucers. "I'm so afraid you will break them!" said she. What a foolish and unreasonable girl!

It got to be a sort of proverb in the little village where Caroline resided, when any one was not very generous, "She's almost as selfish as Carrie Rose," I don't know whether she knew how she was regarded among boys and girls of her own age; and I don't know how much she cared for their good will, if she did hear what they thought of her.

But this I know, that I could not bear to have such a character. I would rather give away half of all I am worth than to give any reason to people to think I was mean and selfish. How I should dislike to have folks say to themselves, and perhaps to others, when they meet me in the streets, "There goes a selfish man--a man who is about as good as people will average, in other respects, but who is as small as the little end of nothing, in his dealings." I think I would rather live on a crust of dry bread than to get money by being close, and small, and mean, and selfish.

[Ill.u.s.tration: MY PRETTY KITTEN.]

Caroline had a kitten given her, by her uncle, when she had grown up to be quite a large girl. It was a beautiful creature. I think they called it a Maltese kitten. Nothing of the kind had been seen in the place where Caroline lived, before Tommy, as she called her new pet, was brought there. Well, of course she told all the little folks what a fine present her uncle had made to her, and they were invited to come over and see the "dear little creature." She talked about her kitten as if it were one of the wonders of the world, and as if she thought she was a young queen, with the wealth of Cleopatra or Elizabeth, and that half the inhabitants of the globe would certainly come and bow before her and her wonderful kitten.

When she met her young friends, she talked of nothing hardly but "my pretty Maltese kitten."

That is the way with selfish folks. They think and talk a great deal of what concerns _them_, and you seldom hear them praise anything that belongs to their neighbors.

I shall never forget--if you will allow me to go a step or two out of my way for an ill.u.s.tration--I shall never forget how, when I was a little school-boy, Mother Budd, a rather selfish old lady, used to call us into her kitchen, to see the nice honey she had been taking out of her bee-hives. "Isn't that fine?" she would ask; "eh, isn't that fine honey, boys?" Of course it was fine, and we said so. "Well, you can go now," she would say, after that. As for letting us taste of her fine honey, that she never thought of doing.

I don't know but we should almost have served her right, if we had done something as a good old minister I have heard of, once did in very similar circ.u.mstances. He was making a call upon one of the ladies of his parish--upon Aunt Katy, who was noted all over the neighborhood for being close-fisted. Almost as soon as the good man had got into the house, she invited him to go into the b.u.t.tery, and look at her nice cheeses. He went in, the old lady acting as a guide.

"There," said she, pointing to a mammoth cheese which she had just made for the fair, and which she was particularly proud of, "there's a cheese for you." "Thank you, Aunt Katy," said the minister, "my wife was saying only this morning that we should have to get a new cheese pretty soon." And he took the cheese down from the shelf, carried it out to his wagon, bade the astonished lady of the house a good morning, and drove off to visit some of the rest of his flock.

Selfishness has the same face, look at it where you will. It made quite a scar in the features of Caroline's character. Without that, they would have been beautiful--with it, they were ugly enough.

But about that kitten. Clara Goodsell was as full of fun as a hickory nut is of meat. She heard of Caroline's kitten, and she, too, was invited to call and see it. She did not go, though, and, indeed, the girls very generally failed to comply with the invitation. They knew well enough that, if they went to see the kitten, they would not be allowed to take it, and that all they could do would be to stand a little way off, and look at it, and remark how beautiful it was.

One day, when the girls at school were required to write compositions, Clara thought she would write something which would make Carrie ashamed of her selfishness. The teacher read all the compositions aloud. When he came to Clara's, the girls had as much as they could do to keep from laughing, for they knew, before it was read, what it was about. The schoolmaster had to bite his lips to keep from smiling a little, too.

Clara did not call any names. But she wrote such a composition about "_My Pretty Kitten_" that anybody could see it was meant for Caroline. The selfish girl saw it, as well as the rest, and before school was out, she burst into tears, she felt so badly. But the composition did her good. She improved wonderfully after that.