One of the news-boys has been recently run over by a stage. I inquired about him, and learned that he is the very boy whom I met in a friend's office, and my interest in whom led me first to visit the lodging-house. This is the third time he has narrowly escaped death.

The omnibus pa.s.sed directly over his body. When he was taken up, his companions thought him dying. He was conveyed immediately to the hospital.

The boys at the lodging-house were saddened by Patrick's troubles.

They expected he would die. They recounted his excellencies of character. His cheerfulness and ready wit were not forgotten. Patrick is not a boy of many words, but when he speaks, it is to the purpose.

The boys called at the hospital to see him. The door-keeper said he never knew a boy who had so many cousins!

The next day Patrick was better. It was found that he was not so much injured as was at first supposed. There was great rejoicing in the evening at the lodging-house. A heavy load had been lifted from their hearts. Patrick would soon be among them again. They were cheerful and full of life and spirits. "Patrick must be half made of India-rubber!"

they exclaimed, gleefully.

This sympathy with each other is one of the most beautiful traits of their character, and shows a nature that may be n.o.bly developed. They cannot but learn much that is good in the hours spent in their reading-room, as they listen to the instruction of those interested in their welfare. Many of them have already found good situations, and give promise of becoming useful men. They appreciate kindness and civility. "Mr. ---- spoke to me in the street, when he was walking with another gentleman and _he shook hands with me too_," said one of them triumphantly, as if he had risen in the scale of being, and was more worthy of respect, in consequence of the respect with which he had been treated. Few can estimate the power of sympathy.

"Speak gently, kindly, to the poor; Let no harsh term be heard; They have enough they must endure, Without an unkind word."

"I have never forgotten your words of kindness, when I was poor and almost discouraged," wrote one lady to another, and no more will any child of want forget the utterance of a warm, generous heart.

I should have told you, that besides the money the boys put in the bank, they earn enough to pay for their lodging, six cents a night, and to purchase their food, and, sometimes, various articles of clothing. They are obliged to be very active, and to be up early in the morning. They may be found in all parts of the city, crying their papers with loud, piercing voices, and running at full speed from street to street, stopping only to sell papers to any who may buy.

It would be well if they had some occupation which would expose them less to bad company and unsteady habits; but a news-boy can be honest, virtuous, and temperate, as well as any other boy,--if he will take the right way to be.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

IDA'S DRESS.

At one time, when Mrs. Dudley was spending a few days in the city, she went with a friend to call upon a poor woman whom she heard was in great need. This woman had sent a daughter, about eight years old, to school for one day, and then found that she could not spare her; she felt obliged to keep her at home to take care of the baby.

Mrs. Carter--for by this name I shall call her--occupied a house back from the street. The ladies ascended the steps leading to the first floor, and inquired if she lived there. "She is in the bas.e.m.e.nt," was the answer. They descended into the area. It was neatly swept, and in perfect order. "It must be a genteel woman who lives here," remarked Mrs. Benton. They knocked. A voice bade them come in. They opened the door and entered. Mrs. Carter was sewing by a table. By her side stood Georgianna, her oldest child, plainly and neatly dressed. At the other end of the table was a little girl about four years old, whose name I forget, and in the rocking-chair before the stove was a dark-haired babe, quietly sleeping.

The room was neat and tidy. There was a little fire in the stove, but not enough to thoroughly warm the room.

The ladies inquired of Mrs. Carter in regard to her circ.u.mstances.

They learned that her husband left her last spring, and had gone she knew not where. He was a carpenter by trade, and could earn two dollars a day. She had always done what she could with her needle, and had earned a few dollars a month by binding shoes or doing other sewing. They had lived very comfortably, renting good apartments for eight dollars a month, and knew nothing of want or suffering.

Mrs. Carter was obliged to give up her pleasant rooms, to remove to the bas.e.m.e.nt. She has laboured industriously, whenever she can procure work, to pay her rent, three dollars a month, and to provide food for her children. She has known what it is to be both cold and hungry. She has bought coal by the bushel, and has sometimes been without fire in the dead of winter. Her family have lived princ.i.p.ally upon bread and water, and the little ones have cried for food when she had none to give them.

Little Ida is too young to know her mother's sorrow. She is a babe of only a few weeks old, and she sleeps as sweetly in that great rocking-chair as any babe ever slept in a cradle. She is warmly wrapped in a blanket, and does not suffer, although she has scarce a change of dresses.

When Mrs. Dudley returned to her happy home, she told her children about this family, and particularly about the poor babe, who so increased her mother's cares and labours, yet repaying it all by the wealth of maternal love her coming had developed. It was pleasing to see Georgianna lay her face so softly on the infant's, and so gently rock her when her slumbers were disturbed.

Mrs. Dudley's children listened to her story with great interest, and wished to do something for the family. Mary repaired some garments which her mother gave her, and when this was done, she went to her drawer and took out a small piece of calico, which had been given to her to make her doll a dress. She asked her mother if there was enough to make Ida a dress. Mrs. Dudley examined it, and told her there was.

So she cut it out for her daughter, and showed her how to make it.

This work occupied her several days, for Mary goes to school, and has not much time for sewing. The dress looked very pretty when it was completed. She had embroidered the tiny sleeves with a neat scollop, and had taken great pains to make it strong and neatly.

The next time Mrs. Dudley went to the city, she took several small parcels for Mrs. Carter, who was much pleased with them. None gratified her more than the dress for the baby.

It will always be a pleasant recollection to Mary that she made the heart of this suffering woman happy by sending a dress to her infant.

She learned the pleasure of giving, and of exerting herself to do good to others.

If Mrs. Dudley had had the dress made by a seamstress, it would have been equally useful to Mrs. Carter; but Mary would have lost the reward which she now enjoys in the consciousness of relieving the sufferings of the dest.i.tute. I hope Mary will always be benevolent, and never grow "weary in well-doing."

[Ill.u.s.tration]

WHAT MADE WILLIE HAPPY.

Willie was looking at the slippers which his mother had wrought for him, and admiring the freshness of the colours. They were a Christmas present to him, and had afforded him much pleasure.

"You were very happy the evening they were given to you," said his mother.

"But no happier than I was last evening," he replied.

I will tell you what made him so happy on the evening to which he alluded. At Christmas, two little books had been added to his library, and another had been lent him by one of his companions. When he had read these books, he was very desirous to get still another. He began to inquire how he could earn money enough to buy it, for he thought he should like to purchase it himself. He could think of nothing which could be done in the house, by which he could replenish his purse; so his mother told him, if he would control his temper for a week, she would get the book for him. If he did get out of patience, and immediately checked himself, he was to receive it.

Every evening Willie came to his mother, and told her how he had succeeded through the day. She observed him very carefully, and she knew that he really tried to conquer himself. She encouraged him in his efforts, and Willie was very happy--happy because he was succeeding in correcting what was wrong--and happy in the antic.i.p.ation of the reward promised him.

The last day of the week came, and pa.s.sed away. Willie's father returned from the city. He brought with him a parcel done up in soft white paper, and tied with a small red and white twine. His mother opened it, and there was the book for which she had sent. She wrote Willie's name in it, with the day of the month, and then wrote "A Reward of Merit." She thought those few words would remind him of the way in which he earned the book, and would encourage him to persevere in overcoming any bad or sinful habit.

All these things together made Willie quite as happy as on "Merry Christmas." It always makes people happy to endeavour to subdue what is wrong in themselves,--such efforts being their own reward. The consciousness of the approval of our heavenly Father must always occasion the truest pleasure.

DO YOU INTEND TO BE A GENTLEMAN?

(A QUESTION FOR BOYS.)

As I sat at the table a few evenings since, a gentleman called. He was invited to take a seat with us. As he had already supped, he declined.

This person is a man of talent and education, but as I turned to look at him, in the course of conversation, I observed a habit which so disgusted me, that it was with an effort I could finish my tea.

This circ.u.mstance impressed on my mind the importance of forming correct habits in boyhood. "The child is father of the man,"

Wordsworth says in one of his poems. The habits and character you form now will, in all probability, be the habits and character you will retain when you are a man. I suppose the individual to whom I have alluded was entirely unconscious of doing any thing disagreeable. If not, perhaps he did not consider it of much consequence. He may have grown up with the opinion that little things are of small importance.

Now, that this is not always so, you may easily see if you drop a spark of fire in a pile of shavings: the whole will be immediately in flames, and will do as much injury as if it had been kindled by a large coal.

Our happiness depends quite as much on little things as on great.

Small trials are as difficult to bear as any. People often lose their patience when a dress is torn, or a pitcher broken, who would be quiet and calm if some serious misfortune had befallen them.

I hope, boys, you intend to be gentlemen. I do not mean fops and dandies, but true gentlemen. You have perhaps seen the remark made, that "dress does not make the man, but after he is made, he looks better dressed up." Neither do gentlemanly habits and manners make the man, but they certainly improve him after he is made, and render him agreeable and prepossessing.

A farmer, or a cabinet-maker, or a blacksmith, are no less gentlemen because they are engaged in these useful and honourable employments, than are judges, or merchants, or ministers. To be a gentleman is to be a man of gentle manners; and who would not desire to be distinguished for such a trait?

If you intend to be gentlemen, you must begin now, by always conducting, under all circ.u.mstances, just as well as you know how.

Some of you, I suppose, have better advantages of society, and more careful instruction at home, than others; but no boy of intelligence need fail to be a gentleman if he tries.