Fred. And it is quite certain that he has never made the acquaintance of Mr. Worcester or Mr. Murray.

Uncle. True. He has cultivated corn and potatoes, rather than grammars and dictionaries; but, as I said before, he is a good man, and well maintains the heroic virtues of his ancestors. Let me tell you a story. Fred. O yes, a story,—a story. uncle.) Uncle. Less than a hundred years ago, two youths, Hugh and Hermann, lived on the borders of a dense wood in the northern part of Maine. They were friends. They went to school together, and were seldom separated in their amusements. They were both very fond of hunting, and one morning in the early spring they asked leave of their parents to go into the adjoining wilderness for a few days, to hunt the moose, which were then numerous and easily taken. Permission was given, and they provided themselves with blankets, guns, hatchets, snow-shoes, and provisions.

(Fred. and Lu. seat themselves near their

Fred. What fun!

Uncle. Thus equipped, they plunged into the gloomy forests of pines and hemlocks, which were so thick as almost to shut out the light of the sun. The snow was still more than a foot deep, but with their snow-shoes they easily pursued their way through the woods till afternoon, when they prepared for the night's encampment. This was done by clearing away the building a fire, and constructing from the boughs of trees a kind of booth or wigwam.

snow,

Lu. All very well for daylight and fine weather. But supposing a storm comes up?

Fred. O, never mind, Lu. You know you'll never camp out. So don't interrupt the story.

Uncle. Three days passed pleasantly enough, but without their seeing any moose. Not liking to fail in their enterprise, they pushed still farther into the wilderness. The next day, to their great delight, they espied a large moose endeavoring to escape from them; but it could not run as fast as Hugh could on his snow-shoes, and it was soon overtaken and despatched. Elated by success, they incautiously continued their march till they came to a stream of water, across which lay a log. They attempted to cross, but the log proved rotten, and precipitated them both into the water. What was the agony of Hugh, and the horror of Hermann, when they found that the knife which Hugh had carried in his belt had pierced his side, and that the lifeblood was oozing from the dreadful wound.

Lu. Poor fellows! what could they do in that terrible wilderness?

Uncle. Not much in the way of comfort,- Hugh burning with fever, and frantic with pain, Hermann replenishing the fire, listening to the distant howling of the wolves, and holding the gun ready for the fierce catamount, whose glaring eyeballs he had more than once seen through the darkness of the night.

Uncle. For four weeks they lived in this hut, subsisting on the stock of moose-meat, which Hermann took good care should never fail.

Lu. And what did poor Hugh do?

Uncle. Hugh's wound began to heal, but he still suffered much pain, and was too weak to walk. Their clothes were in tatters, and their provisions beginning to grow scarce. The generous-hearted Hermann, seeing nothing but destruction before them if they remained longer in these dreary wilds, told Hugh that he must commence the journey home, and carry him on his back. To this the poor invalid was obliged to consent. For four days Hermann was enabled to sustain his burden, till at length, utterly exhausted, he told Hugh, at the foot of a high hill, that he could carry him no longer. Hugh, in an agony of grief, rather than be left behind, began to climb the hill on his hands and knees, and actually accomplished the ascent; when, to their great joy, from the summit they espied a smoke.

Lu. How thankful I am! I could not believe that Hermann would leave poor Hugh to die.

Fred. No, indeed! Hermann's plan was to go forward and get help.

Uncle. Yes, doubtless. But now they pursued their journey with renewed courage, and that evening had the unspeakable joy of entering a log cabin, about five miles from their home. The next morning, the good man of the house provided them with horses, and set them forward on their journey. Reduced almost to skeletons, and with clothes all in tatters, they were at first scarcely recognized by their friends. But their story was soon told, and the fond parents embraced the children whom they had mourned as dead. These boys grew to be men. Hermann cleared the forests, and planted cornfields and orchards; and these fields and orchards are now the property of his grandson, Mr. Molson.

Fred. How I wish I had known all this before! I should so have liked to talk with Mr. Molson !

Lu. Remember you are going to his school next summer, and you can talk it all over then.

Uncle. Well, my young

friends, good night. I must go to work now. (Takes down his portfolio.) Fred, we 'll try to have the birthday box more satisfactory next year. I hope that watch will find an owner.

Lu. (rising to go.) And that penknife. And it is also to be hoped that that Latin Grammar will see hard service.

Fred. (drawing his sister away with him.)

O, never you fear, my sister dear,

But that penknife and watch are mine next year;
And as to the birthday box, I know,

That, as uncle would say, I must reap what I sow.'

A. Hartlie.

A

LITTLE PUSSY WILLOW.

IV.

ND now some of my little friends perhaps have a question to ask me.

Is not a little girl more likely to be happy who is brought up in the simple and natural way in which Pussy Willow has grown up, than one who has had all that has been given to Emily Proudie?

I began by telling you that the gift of being easily pleased was what made the difference between the two little girls, that it was a gift worth more than beauty, or riches, or anything else that could be thought of.

-

But I do think that a way of "bringing-up" like that in which poor little Emily was educated is the surest way to destroy this gift, even if a girl's birth fairies had given it to her. You know very well, that when you have been taking a lonely scramble among the rocks until long after your dinnertime, a plain crust of bread tastes so sweet to you that you wonder you ever have wanted cake or gingerbread; and that sometimes, in like manner, when you have walked till you are hot and thirsty, you have dipped up the water out of some wild-wood spring, and drank it with an enjoyment such as the very best tea or coffee or lemonade never gave. That was because you were really hungry or really thirsty; and the pleasure you get from food and drink can never be known unless you become really hungry and thirsty.

But many poor little children are brought up in such a way that they never know what it is to have a real desire for anything. They are like a child stuffed with cake and sweetmeats from morning till night. Every wish is anticipated, and pleasures are crowded upon them so fast, that they have none of the enjoyments of wishing, planning, and contriving which come to those who are left to seek their own pleasures and make their own way. The good God has so made us that the enjoyments which come to us through the use of our own faculties are a great deal more satisfactory than those which are brought to us by others. Many a little girl enjoys making a sand-pie out in the road far more than she would the most expensive playthings, because she trots about in making it, runs, laughs, works, gets herself into a healthy glow, and feels that she is doing something.

Poor little Emily Proudie never had that pleasure. From the time she was a baby, she has had constantly one, two, or three attendants, whose sole business it is to play with her and to contrive playthings and amusements for her, and a very wearisome time they all have had of it. Yes, I do believe that if little Emily, without any more of a gift of being pleased than falls to the lot of all children, had been brought up exactly as Pussy Willow was, she would have been far happier than she is now.

There is another reason why Pussy Willow was growing up happy, and that is, that she was every day doing something that she felt was of some When she was so little that her head scarcely came above the table, she used to stand propped on a small stool and wash the breakfast cups and

use.

spoons, and very proud she was of doing it. How she admired the bright bubbles which she could make in the clean, soapy water, and how proud she was of seeing the cups and spoons look so clear and bright as she rubbed them with her towel! — and then, getting down, she would trip across the kitchen with them, one or two at a time, and, rising on her little toes, by great good luck she could just get them on to the cupboard shelf; and then she would hang her towel on its nail, and empty her dish-pan, and wipe off the table, and feel quite like a large woman in doing it.

When Pussy was ten years old, her mother one day hurt her arm by a fall, so that she had to wear it in a sling. This would not be an agreeable thing to happen to anybody's mamma; but Pussy's mother had no servants, and everything that was to be eaten in the house had to be made up by her one pair of hands, and she therefore felt quite troubled, as the house was far from neighbors, and there were a husband and four hungry young men to be fed. In a city you can send out to a bakery; but in the country what is to be done? "I really think you'll have to harness and drive the old mare over to Aunt Judy's, and get her to come over," said Pussy's mother.

66

"That's a trouble," said her father. "The hay is all ready to get in, and there will certainly be rain by afternoon. The horse cannot possibly be spared."

"Now, mother, just let me make bread," said Pussy, feeling very large. "I've seen you do it, time and time again, and I know I could do it.” "Hurrah for Pussy!" said her brothers; -" she 's a trump. You let she 'll do it."

her try,

"Yes, yes," said her father. "I'd rather have my little Pussy than a dozen Aunt Judy's."

Pussy was wonderfully elated by this praise, and got one of her mother's aprons and tied it round her, which, to say the truth, came quite down to her ankles and made her feel very old and wise.

Her mother now told her that she might go into the buttery and sift eight quarts of flour into the bread-tray, and bring it out, and she would show her just how to wet it.

So away went Pussy; and right pleased was she to get her little rosy hands into the flour. It was far more amusing than making believe make bread with sand, as she had often done when she and Bose were out playing together. So she patted and sifted, and soon came out lifting the bread-tray, and set it beside her mother.

"Now scatter in a handful of salt," said her mother.

Pussy did so.

"Now make a little hole in the middle, and measure three gills of yeast, and put that in the hole."

Pussy found this quite easy, because their tin quart-measure was marked around with rings for the gills; and so, when her yeast was up to the third ring, she poured it into the hole in the middle of the flour, and began stirring it with a spoon, till she had made a nice little foamy lake in the middle of her mountain of puffy white flour.

"And now for your wetting, Pussy," said her mother. "You want about a quart of hot water and a quart of good milk to begin with, and we 'll see how you go on. But I'm a little afraid you 're not strong enough to knead such a big batch."

"O mother, I'm a large girl now," said Pussy, "and you 've no idea how strong I am! I want to knead a real batch, just such as you do, and not a little play batch, a baby's batch."

"Well, well, we 'll try it," said her mother; "and I'll pour in your wetting." So she begun to pour in, and Pussy plumped in both hands, and went

at her work with a relish. The flour stuck to her fingers; but she stirred about with vigor, and made her little hands fly so fast that her mother said they did the work of bigger ones. By and by the flour was all stiffly mixed, and now Pussy put out all her little strength, and bent over the tray, kneading and kneading, and turning and turning, till the paste began to look white

and smooth.

"O mother, I like this!-it's the best fun I ever had," said Pussy. "How soft and smooth I am getting it! It's beginning to rise, I do believe, this very minute; I can feel it rising under my hands. I shall be so proud to show it to father and the boys! Mother, you'll always let me make the bread, won't you?"

"We'll see," said her mother. "Mind you knead in every bit of the flour. Don't leave any on the sides of the pan. Rub all those ragged patches together, and knead them in. You are getting it quite smooth."

In fine, Pussy, elated, took up the whole white round cushion of dough,