poor

little crea

covered with a thick film. Ellen spoke to it, but the ture was not to be so cheered, and she looked at her mamma, more grieved than ever.

"Yes," said the latter, smiling, "I had no doubt you would soon discover your error, or I should not have so readily agreed to your wishes. I had no doubt you would be very kind to the bird, but your kindness could not supply the place either of its liberty, or of the pleasure it doubtless has among its own proper companions in the woods. Besides, Ellen, though you might love it very much, you would never feel great satisfaction in attending to a thing which would have no reason to thank you for your pains, and could never talk with you!"

"No, indeed, mamma," said Ellen, and she hung down her head, looked again at the bird, and, after playing a few moments with the door of the cage, continued: "Well, I am sure you are right, and it would be very useless and very cruel to keep a thing a prisoner only for my own satisfaction, and it would be a bad companion after all." So saying, she opened the door, the bird put its head at first fearfully out, and then, shaking its wings, darted out, and was soon perched and singing on one of the trees hard by. Ellen looked again at her doll, and began almost to think that she must be contented with her playthings, which could neither fade nor feel it cruel to be locked up. But this thought continued only a moment, and as they passed through a field where several lambs were lying about, she made another attempt at finding something which she might play with and love at the same time. But she was again disappointed; a lamb was very pretty, very gentle, and very playful; but after she had succeeded in getting near one, and had spoken to it very kindly, and called it by a hundred tender names, it looked at her for an instant, and then bounding away, could not be induced to return by all the persuasion she could employ.

The walk was now nearly at an end, and the sweet spring morning had only made Ellen dissatisfied with her senseless and inanimate doll. Before, however, reaching home, her mamma had to call at the cottage of one of the villagers, and thither they now went. A neat little garden before the door was smelling sweetly with some carefully-cultivated plants, and everything about the place bore an air of great neatness. But what struck Ellen the most were three or four children who were playing among the flowers, the youngest of which was about seven years old.

“Oh, what a dear little baby," said she, going up to it, and at the moment it stretched out its arms, and laughing in her own smiling face,

put its little flaxen head against her bosom. "Indeed, indeed, mamma," said she, "it is a live doll;" and she gave her own painted one to the young nurse, and took the infant, all joy and innocence, in her arms.

Ellen had now found something which was as beautiful as the spring-flowers, as gentle and happy as the free birds, as gay as the sportive little lambs, and, which was better still, endowed with a mind and reason like her own to rejoice in all that is bright, and beautiful, and good upon the earth. The thoughts with which she returned home, led her ever afterwards to employ her summer days and winter evenings in more profitable occupations than formerly; and there was many a live doll in the neighbourhood whose little lips soon began to lisp its thanks for the pretty presents or the warm clothing with which her industry furnished it.

As in the sunshine of the morn
A Butterfly, but newly born,
Sate proudly perking on a rose,
With pert conceit his bosom glows;
His wings, all glorious to behold,
Bedropt with azure, jet, and gold,
Wide he displays; the spangled dew
Reflects his eyes and various hue.

His now-forgotten friend, a Snail,
Beneath his house, with slimy trail
Crawls o'er the grass, whom when he spies,
In wrath he to the gardener cries,
"What means yon peasant's daily toil,
From choking weeds to rid the soil?
Why wake you to the morning's care?
Why with new arts correct the year?
Why grows the peach with crimson hue
And why the plum's inviting blue?
Were they to feast his taste design'd,
That vermin of voracious kind?
Crush then the slow, the pilfering race,
So purge thy garden from disgrace.”

“What arrogance!" the Snail replied,
"How insolent is upstart pride!
Hadst thou not thus, with insult vain,
Provoked my patience to complain,
I had conceal'd thy meaner birth,
Nor traced thee to the scum of earth:
For scarce nine suns have waked the hours,
To swell the fruit, and paint the flowers,
Since I thy humbler life survey'd,

In base, in sordid guise array'd.
A hideous insect, vile, unclean,
You dragged a slow and noisome train,
And from your spider-bowels drew
Foul film, and spun the dirty clue.
I own my humble life, good friend;
Snail was I born, and Snail shall end.
And, what's a Butterfly? at best,
He's but a caterpillar drest;
And all thy race, a numerous seed,
Shall prove of caterpillar breed."

ON PRESENCE OF MIND.

FROM "EVENINGS AT HOME."

MRS. F. one day, having occasion to be bled, sent for the surgeon.
As soon as he entered the room, her young daughter, Eliza, started
up, and was hastily going away, when her mother called her back.
Mrs. F. Eliza, do not go; I want you to stay by me.

Eliza. Dear mamma! I can never bear to see you
Mrs. F. Why not? what harm will it do you?

bled.

E. Oh dear! I cannot look at blood. Besides, I cannot bear to see you hurt, mamma!

Mrs. F. Oh, if I can bear to feel it, surely you may to see it. But, come--you must stay, and we will talk about it afterwards.

Eliza, then, pale and trembling, stood by her mother, and saw the whole operation. She could not help, however, turning her head away when the incision was made, and the first flow of blood made her start and shudder. When all was over, and the surgeon gone, Mrs. F. began:

Well, Eliza, what do you think of this mighty matter now? Would it not have been very foolish to have run away from it?

E. Oh, mamma! how frightened I was when he took out his lancet ! Did he not hurt you a great deal?

Mrs. F. No, very little. And, if it had, it was to do me good, you know.

E. But why should I stay to see it? I could do you no good? Mrs. F. Perhaps not; but it will do you good to be accustomed to such sights.

E. Why, mamma?

Mrs. F. Because instances are every day happening in which it is our duty to assist fellow-creatures in circumstances of pain and distress; and, if we were to indulge a reluctance to come near to them on those occasions, we should never acquire either the knowledge or the presence of mind necessary for the purpose.

E. But if I had been told how to help people in such cases, could not I do it without being used to see them?

Mrs. F. No. We have all naturally a horror at everything which is the cause of pain and danger to ourselves or others; and nothing but habit can give most of us the presence of mind necessary to enable us, in such occurrences, to employ our knowledge to the best advantage.

E. What is presence of mind, mamma? Mrs. F. It is that steady possession of ourselves in cases of alarm that prevents us from being flurried and frightened. You have heard the expression of having all our wits about us. That is the effect of presence of mind, and a most inestimable quality it is; for, without it, we are quite as likely to run into danger as to avoid it. Do you not remember hearing of your cousin Mary's cap taking fire from the candle ?

E. Oh

yes-very well.

Mrs. F. Well-the maid, as soon as she saw it, set up a great scream, and ran out of the room; and Mary might have been burnt to death for any assistance she could give her.

E. How foolish that was!

Mrs. F. Yes-the girl had not the least presence of mind; and the consequence was, depriving her of all recollection, and making her entirely useless. But as soon as your aunt came up, she took the right method for preventing the mischief. The cap was too much on fire to be pulled off; so she whipped a quilt from the bed, and flung it round Mary's head, and thus stifled the flame.

E. Mary was a good deal scorched, though.

Mrs. F. Yes-but it was very well that it was not worse. If the maid, however, had acted with any sense at first, no harm at all would have been done, except burning the cap. I remember a much more fatal example of the want of presence of mind. The mistress of a family was awakened by flames bursting through the wainscot into her chamber. She flew to the staircase; and, in her confusion, instead of going up-stairs to call her children, who slept together in the nursery overhead, and who might have all escaped by the top of the house, she ran down, and with much danger, made way through the fire into the street. When she had got thither, the thought of her poor children rushed into her mind, but it was too late. The stairs had caught fire, so that nobody could get near them, and they were burned in their beds.

E. What a sad thing!

Mrs. F. Sad, indeed! Now, I will tell you of a different conduct. A lady was awakened by the crackling of fire, and saw it shining under her chamber door. Her husband would immediately have opened the door, but she prevented him, since the smoke and flame would then have burst in upon them. The children, with a maid, slept in a room opening out of theirs. She went and awakened them; and, tying together the sheets and blankets, she sent down the maid from the window first, and then let down the children one by one to her. Last