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Charles Masse, Esq. \i











Children's Books

$unsl)int ant Sfjatoofo jTronttiSptfCf.

' l I see it uow, Aunt Edith," Fauny answered eagerly, p.




" O ! Happy country life pure like itg air,
Free from the rage of pride the pangs of c



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1863, by the

in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the Eastern Dis-
trict of Pennsylvania-



ON a bright and lovely morning in the

^ month of May, two boys might have been

seen standing by the side of a rail fence, in

' the corner of a green field. They were boys

of eight and ten years of age, and were on

their way to school.

"Come, Charlie," said Fred, the elder of
the two, as he laid his hand on the highest
rail, and made the first step upward with his

- foot, "come along faster! What's the use of

* being late at school such a fine morning?
^ Hurry up, I say!"

.-, "No use at all, Fred," said the little boy;

?: 2


" I don't want to be late, but I tell you my
boot hurts my foot, and I must stop here and
take it off to see what the matter is."

Charlie sat down on an old stump near ;
Fred slowly mounted the fence, and, taking
his seat very deliberately on the upper rail,
opened one of the school-books which he had
carried under his arm.

These boys were Fred and Charlie Harris.
They were brothers. Fred was a frank and
fearless boy, with a kind heart, and many
faults. He relied too much upon himself;
thought it very pleasant to have his own
way, and did not always stop to consider
whether to follow out his various plans and
wishes would lead him in the right or wrong
path. Many other boys are like Fred in
these traits of character. -But his honest,
truthful face, clear bright eye, and kind
smile, gave him favour in the eyes of many,
and those who saw Fred Harris for the first


time, often wished to see more of "that fine,
manly-looking boy."

Charlie was very different from his brother.
His pale face and slender form gave him the
appearance of rather delicate health. Indeed
he had not been very robust from infancy.
Retiring, and even reserved in his character,
Charlie was gifted with a thirst for knowledge
on every subject, remarkable for his years.
To this was added a quick, intelligent under-
standing of anything that was taught him,
and a tenderness and warmth of feeling that
made him a favourite with every one.

The field in which the boys stood was ele-
vated quite above the surrounding country.
It was an apple-orchard. The blossoms had
not yet all fallen from the trees, though the
soft green leaves were putting forth on every
twig and branch. The rich carpet of grass
covering the soil was thickly strewed with
another carpet, the delicate leaves of the


pink and white blossoms which the breeze
had wafted in a gentle shower to the earth,
while sprinkled everywhere among the blades
of grass the yellow butter-cups lifted up
their golden heads. How lovely was the
soft air, and the sweet fragrance of the apple -
orchard, on that bright May morning!

" Well, old fellow, I can't study my lesson
here; it's too pleasant !" exclaimed Fred, after
a few minutes silence over his book. " Are
you ready, now?"

By this time Charlie had settled the matter
of foot and boot. He quickly mounted to the
top of the fence, by the side of his brother,
and both were soon over, on the ground
below, on their way again to school.

The boys were now on a high bank, which
overlooked much of the neighbourhood
around. Below this bank, on their right
hand, was the country wagon road. Beyond
that road, another bank not so high, and


then a wide, gentle slope of green, set here
and there with the old trees of the native
forest. This green slope, edged with those
fine trees, led to the border of a river. It
was a broad and noble river, and its blue
waters this morning sparkled and danced in
the bright rays of the sun.

Along the high bank, or on the road if
they pleased, quite near to the river, the
path of the boys lay, all the way to the
school-house. On the side of the bank, where
the soil had not been broken up for many
years, the wild blue-bell grew thickly, and
the clear blue of its scentless flower con-
trasted most prettily on the grassy sod, with
the golden yellow flower of the butter-cup.

"Now, Fred, do look at those flowers,"
said Charlie ; " would not Fanny like to see
them ?"

11 Well, you shall take her some, Charlie
as we go home, but now we have not time."


Then the boys quickened their steps a little,
as they crossed to the side of the road nearest
the river. " Now, I say, Charlie," said Fred,
"just look at that fellow out fishing in that
little boat. He has no business there any-
how, and I should like to send him away."

" He wants some fish, I suppose."

" Yes, but he has no right to them, I say.
The fish are none of his. Don't you know
the land is ours, all along the bank of the
river here, ever so far up the stream, and he
has no right to take the fish?"

" But I don't see that this makes the fish
ours till we catch them !" said Charlie.

" Well, we want them, and we mean to
catch them. Do you remember the nice pike
and perch father caught the day the men
went out with him to fish ? You liked them
for your breakfast, old fellow, I know that."

" Yes, I did, but still I can't think that
the fish are ours when they are in the water,


Fred, and the water is not ours, we know
who made it, and all that is in it." Charlie
spoke thoughtfully.

"Well, never mind: that's just like you,
Charlie. Hurry on. I am not sure that I
know my geography lesson. There, I see we
are in time. Some boys are still out at
play." Fred had caught a glimpse of the
play-ground as he spoke.

As they drew near to the cheerful-looking
old school-house, Charlie was glad to see that
the last window shutter to be opened (the
opening of which was a sign to the boys that
the school hour . had come) was still closely
shut. But at that moment, as he looked, the
sash was raised, the large shutters thrown
open, the group of boys under the trees dis-
persed, and in less than five minutes nearly
every scholar was seated in his or her place,
and ready for the order of the day.

Ned Green, usually a very punctual and


orderly boy, alone entered the school-room
late. The master asked for his excuse.

" I did not see that the shutter was open,
sir," the boy replied.

" Were you, at the time, where you could
see it, Edward?"

" No, sir."

" You will take your seat at the foot of the

Very sorry Fred and Charlie felt for the
boy, who was a playmate and friend of their
own. His paltry excuse seemed to lower
him in his own eyes, and in the eyes of all
the scholars. If it humbled him it would be

The other boys could not understand why
Ned Green should have given such an ex-
cuse. The reason was, that the boy had
wasted his time, he was hurried, and had no
better excuse to give.


AT the hour when Fred and Charlie Har-
ris were proceeding from the orchard on their
way to school, the green blinds were thrown
open, and the sash raised in the windows of
an apartment on the second story of the home
they had just left, to admit the fresh morning
air. It was a spacious, pleasant chamber,
overlooking the river.

On a neat, low bedstead, drawn for the
time quite near to the open window, a young
girl reclined in a position enabling her to
look out over the beautiful river, and to the
low hills beyond it on the opposite shore.
Her face was turned to the window, and the
soft, pure breeze, as it entered the room, was
grateful and refreshing to her. She might
be about twelve years of age. Her dark hair


and eyes resembled those of her brother
Charlie, her delicate cheek was rather pale,
and had lost a little of its roundness ; other-
wise she had the appearance of good health
and vigour of constitution.

Fanny Harris was just then entirely alone,
and, left to herself, her thoughts flowed on,
much as perhaps her words would have done
had she not been alone, so soon after awaking,
on that bright spring morning.

" Dear me !" she thought, " how nice it is
to get well!" The light shawl which had
been thrown over her shoulders by a kind and
ready hand was drawn a little more closely
around her, and she raised herself higher on
the pillows, that her view from the window
might be still more extended. " How lovely
everything looks this morning ! The river,
the fields, the trees ; and the birds are sing-
ing so sweetly ! 0, I shall ask Dr. Gray when
he comes if I may get up, and I think he will


let me. I feel so well." A short pause fol-
lowed, the head was laid back lower upon the
pillow, then soon the thoughts ran on again.

" Let me see, how long have I been sick ?
Two weeks ! I remember we had just finished
house-cleaning, and mother and Mary were
setting everything in order. For two Sun-
days I have not been to church or to Sun-
day-school that seems a long time. There
is my new green silk dress the one with the
buttons, I mean I have never worn it yet.
It hangs still in the wardrobe. Well, I do
not mind that much, I am sure. I am very
glad to get well, and thankful too. I wonder
if Fred and Charlie have gone to school."

Just then the door was slowly opened.
Fanny started up. " Mother, is that you?"


" Well, I am glad. I am well, mother,
now. I feel quite well this morning, and the
air is fresh, and everything so beautiful !"


" I am glad to hear that you feel well,
dear !"

" Where is Bessie, mother ? Is she awake ?
I do want to see the pet !"

" Bessie is fast asleep, taking her morning
nap. When she wakes up she shall come in
to see you. Now be very quiet, my child,
and Mary will come soon and see that your
room is in order; and you shall sit up a

" Thank you, mother, that will do nicely.
Will you please give me my Bible, mother?"

Fanny read a chapter in the Old Testa-
ment; then one in the New Testament, and a
portion of the Psalms. Then she laid her head
back upon the pillow, and closed her eyes for
some time. Her thoughts rested upon one of
the chapters she had just read, the four-
teenth of the gospel by John. She thought of
the love of Jesus, the Saviour, for all his people,
and of his goodness to her at this time. Then


she thanked Him that he had kept her
through this sickness, and that he was mak-
ing her well again, and prayed Him to bless
her and make her more entirely his child.

By and by a light footstep entered the
room, and passed out again. Fanny was
sleeping. The visitor was sister Mary, the
eldest of the family at the farm.

Mary Harris was not quite seventeen, yet
she was her mother's helper, and her father's
comfort ; the watchful and ready friend of all
the children ; the bright, loving spirit, cast-
ing not shadow, but sunshine all around
every day. No one knew, exactly, how it
came, but there it was. The way over rough
places was smoothed ; the little daily cares of
life were softened by a gentle hand. The
cheerful tone of voice, the winning smile, the
kind look and tender expression, how can
they be too much prized in the family circle,
in this world of anxious care and sorrow !


Mother was not always strong, but Mary was
the ready assistant. Father would come into
the house at evening, worn and weary, but
Mary could relieve and brighten all.

The morning passed on. When the early
dinner was all over below stairs, again sister
Mary appeared at Fanny's bedside. Then
Fanny was wide awake and ready to be cared
for. Her hair was nicely smoothed; and,
dressed in her neat white wrapper, she sat up
in the easy chair, feeling very comfortable,
and, as she said, "entirely well, only not
quite strong." Then a nice dinner was
brought for her by sister Mary, and after-
ward her mother came with her sewing and
little Bessie, and made quite a little party in
Fanny's room.

Bessie was the pet and plaything of the
whole house "the baby," as she was still
called, though now three years old. Fanny
played and even romped a little with the


child, and Bessie enjoyed it greatly. Then,
as Bessie sat upon her lap, Fanny curled the
ringlets of her soft hair around her finger,
kissed her again and again, and her loving
eyes sparkled with pleasure. Bessie was then
sent away by her mother to the next room
to find sister Mary.

" Now, mother, is not she the sweetest
darling in the whole world? Don't you
think so, mother?" asked Fanny. "I do."

" She is a very lovely child, we all know."

" But, mother, isn't she the very prettiest
baby you ever saw?"

Mrs. Harris' usually placid face was light-
ed up with a bright smile. " You forget,
dear, that I saw some babies I thought very
pretty before I saw Bessie."

"0, I know what you mean, mother; Mary
and Annie, and me ! Fred and Charlie you
would not compare them, because they are
boys !"


"They were very sweet babies, and very
good babies, too," said Mrs. Harris.

" Ah, I give you up, mother ! There you
are, Bessie; one more play, and then you
shall go." The child then played on the
floor, turning out the blocks and toys from
the basket which was given her, and strewing
them around, till Fred and Charlie came in
from school.

" I hope you will soon go to school with us
again, Fanny," said Charlie.

"Were all the girls there to-day?" Fanny

" All but Carrie Davis and Kate Wilson.
Carrie is sick. I don't know what was the
matter with Kate. But, oh, it was so plea-
sant at school to-day, and the master was
very kind," said Charlie.

"And did Fred know his lessons well?"
Fanny asked.



" That was right. I am glad."

" May I show you some of my books now,
Fanny? Ned Green lent me a new story-
book his father brought him from town."

The books were brought, and Fanny en-
tered with interest into the history of each
one, though some of them had been looked
over before more than once or twice. No
one was ever afraid to lend Charlie Harris
a book. When a little child, he was fond of
pictures, and Fanny loved to explain them to
him. Before he could read, he handled a
book with great care. He would turn over
the leaves slowly, and never turn them down
at the corners, as some children do, and
when he had done with a book, he was sure
to put it away in its place. He knew, too,
that the small hands must be quite clean that
were allowed to touch the cover of a book, or
to open its leaves.

As the twilight hour drew near, Charlie's


books were laid aside, and Fanny's pleasant
room was made ready for a visit from her
father, an event always looked for at the
closing hour of the busy day. Soon the well-
known step was heard in the passage, and
Fanny's father came in, followed by old Trip.
Trip took his place quietly on the carpet near
Fanny's feet, laid down his head, seemed
composing himself to sleep, and willing just
then not to be noticed, but Fanny, after
speaking to her father, did not forget to
caress her old play-fellow.

" And how is my little daughter now ?''
asked Mr. Harris, after taking his seat by
Fanny's side.

" Very well, father, thank you. I shall be
flitting about down stairs to-morrow, I hope."

" Well, we shall see, we shall see here
comes Dr. Gray, he can tell us, perhaps"
as the sound of wheels drew his attention to
the window. The horse, and the little mud-



bespattered vehicle of the good doctor, were
already fastened near the door of the house.
He had been away on a long ride that day ;
and it was seldom, indeed, that his carriage
did not show signs of hard service.

" How is my little singing-bird to-day?"
asked the kind physician, his most pleasant
tones falling very gratefully on Fanny's ear.

" The singing-bird is bright as a lark,
doctor," her father replied; " she wants to fly
out of the nest, and sing about the house, and
out in the fresh air, too, I suppose, soon."

" That is good news, my child, good news,"
said the doctor. He sat down by Fanny's
side, and at the close of his visit, chatted
awhile with Mr. Harris. He then took his
departure, declining the kind invitation to
tea from Mrs. Harris, and his tired horse was
was soon bearing him slowly towards his own

The sun had gone down, tinging the waters


of the river with the most brilliant colouring.
The evening air was pure and refreshing.
The moon rose bright and clear, and after
enjoying a cheerful hour together, and asking
God to keep them safely through the night,
the family at the farm retired early to their


ME. HARRIS was a working farmer. He
had been brought up on the farm where he
now lived. It had belonged to his parents,
and had been their home during all their
married life.

But though the homestead farm was really
the same, still it was in many respects dif-
ferent. Acre had been added to acre by pur-
chase, till its extent was largely increased,
for William Harris was a prosperous farmer.
By his careful improvement the soil had be-
come rich, and his crops were equal to those
of any other farmer in the county where he

In his education at school, he had not
enjoyed usual advantages. The schools that
were near when he was young were not well


taught, and his parents did not feel able to
spare the money necessary to send him away
from home. His only sister, Edith, a few
years younger than himself, had been placed
for a year at a good school when she was at
an age to appreciate the privilege, and both
brother and sister were possessed of intelli-
gence, refinement, and excellent judgment.

In their home education in the teaching
and training which is not confined to this
world, but looks forward to eternal things, to
a life that shall never end William Harris
and his sister had received many blessings.
Their parents were alike in their views of
duty, and their children had enjoyed to an
almost mature age the benefit of their watch-
ful care and experience.

While young William Harris had married
the object of his love and choice, their fami-
lies were neighbours and warm friends, and
his wife was worthy of his most tender affec-


tion. His sister Edith was also in many
respects very happy in her family relations.
Her husband, Henry Martin, was a lawyer
as well as a farmer, and her home was but a
few miles from that of her brother. She had
three children, and a widowed aunt, the
sister of her mother, resided with her.

Aunt Clara Leslie was now an aged lady,
but quite active for her years, and untiring
in seeking the comfort and happiness of
others. In early and in middle life, she had
known great sorrow. Her hair had become
white with age, but her cheerful smile yet
lingered ; the brightness of her eye was not
dimmed, nor did her step falter. With firm
trust and a clear hope, she looked forward to
her heavenly home, and the storms of life
seemed now scarcely to move her, nor did its
shadows ever darken her path. Wherever
there were children or young persons, Aunt
Clara was always a welcome guest, but she


could seldom be drawn away from the quiet
comforts of her home.

We have said that William Harris had im-
proved his farm by superior culture; he had
also increased the number of his out-build-
ings, and added to the old family mansion a
new wing, with spacious rooms, well lighted,
and a handsome piazza on two sides of the
house. A pleasant and favourite place of
meeting was that broad piazza, on the river
side, (as it was called,) in the warm evenings
of summer, for the home circle and the fre-
quent visitor.

" Were the sunsets ever so beautiful be-
fore?" was an exclamation often heard from
some one, as they sat watching the gradual
departure of the sun sinking beneath the calm
water. The gorgeous colouring of orange, pur-
ple and crimson that lighted up his track, and
the glorious radiance left behind, making the
river to appear like a clear sea of gold, was

" He liked," he said, " to have a
view "

winter and a summer
p. 23.


often so beautiful that, as every eye gazed
upon it, not a word was spoken. Yet many
times the full heart could have expressed
such thoughts as these : " Heavenly Father,
if thy works on earth are so glorious, what
must the enjoyment of them be for those who
are admitted to thy more immediate pre-
sence, in a world where all is bright and
holy, for God himself and the Lamb are the
light thereof!"

On the cultivation of the grounds around
his house, Mr. Harris had bestowed much
care. The smooth green lawn sloping gently
down to the water's edge, he had planted
with many fine trees and shrubs. " He
liked," he said, "to have a winter and a
summer view," and as the windows of the
family rooms most used in winter looked
away from the river, the lawn on this side
the house was occupied chiefly by different
varieties of the evergreens. The dark arid


heavy foliage of the Norway fir, the graceful
and more airy spruce of lighter shades, and the
formal juniper, with many others, adorn the
winter view. But the tree of the homestead
was the stately oak, which, near the corner
of the house, had stood no one knew how
long, its branches bending to the cold
blast; then rising again strong as before,
and lending its broad shade for comfort in
the heat of each returning summer.

Wherever the beds for flowers were to be
found, around or near the house, they were
under the direction of Mary Harris, at least
while Annie, the second daughter of the fa-
mily, was absent at school. Charlie was the
"patient and industrious helper of his sister.
He loved flowers, and his busy hands were of
great use in pulling up weeds, and keeping
the beds clean. He watched for the first
violet, the snowdrop and crocus in early
spring, and he first saw the yellow faces of


the daffodils peeping out among their narrow
green leaves. Charlie did not mind work;
he was never too much in a hurry, but neat
and careful in all he did.

After work was done among the flowers,
Charlie would see that the light garden hoe,
rake and spade were all in their right places
in the tool-house. He had been taught that
tools were injured by being left out in the
wet, or in the damp air. He did not often
waste his time, or complain of his work, or
want to run away to his play before his work
was done. He kept steadily on with what-
ever he had to do. It was the same with his
lessons as with his work they were always
well learned.

Fred Harris was not so thoughtful and un-
selfish, but in his way he was a kind and
loving brother, obliging and ready to do a
favour for any one. Not so fond of books as
Charlie, yet his lessons were more quickly


learned, and when Fred applied himself pro-
perly, he was never behind in any of them.

William Harris felt that his Heavenly Fa-
ther had been very gracious to him in his
family, and he would gladly share his happi-
ness with others. He loved to welcome his
friends to his pleasant home, and interest
them in the daily duties and pleasures of life
in the country. Among the children who as
summer visitors were most frequently at the
homestead farm were two little girls from
the city.

These children were the little daughter
and the orphan niece of Mrs. Wilmer, an
early and intimate friend of Mrs. Harris,
whose husband had only two years before
been called from his young and loving family
to enter into the heavenly rest. Deep sorrow
then filled the home of Mrs. Wilmer, which
God had thus made desolate. But all power
belongeth unto the Lord. He can make the


heart to rejoice in the darkest and heaviest

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