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Page 27
We do not think that any of our young readers will approve the conduct of
either of the children. Undoubtedly, Johnny was wrong not to have been more
careful how he threw his lash about. Anna had as much right to be in the
room as he had, and if Johnny wanted to whip his top, it was his place to
do it so cautiously as not in the least to endanger his sister's face and
eyes; and he deserved to have his top taken from him as a punishment for
his carelessness and indifference; and no doubt this was done by his
mother.
And Anna was wrong, likewise, for permitting her angry feelings to so carry
her away as to lead her to hurt her brother, in revenge for what he had
done to her. So, you see, Johnny's wrong act was the cause of a still
greater departure from right in his sister. If Johnny had loved his sister,
he would have been much more careful how he used his whip; and if Anna had
loved her brother, she would never have been tempted to strike him or pull
his ear, even if he had hurt her.
It is a very sad thing for little brothers and sisters to quarrel with each
other.
"Birds in their little nests agree,
And 'tis a shameful sight,
When children of one family,
Fall out, and chide, and fight."
We hope, among all our little readers, there is not a brother and sister
who have quarreled--who have ever called each other hard names--or, worse,
who have ever lifted their tiny hands to hurt each other.
THE FAVORITE CHILD.
[Illustration: THE FAVORITE CHILD.]
In a very pretty little village not many miles from N----, in Connecticut,
lived Susan Meredith. She was the youngest of three sisters, the eldest of
whom could not be more than twelve or thirteen years of age. A year or two
before the period when our history of this little group commences, the
mother had gone to her rest.
Weighed down with a sorrow too heavy to be borne, and of a nature too
delicate to be confided to others, she sank under it while in the noon of
life, and died commending her children to God. Susan--little Sue, as she
was frequently called--young as she was, remembered a thousand incidents
connected with the departed one, and seemed, so late as the time at which
our story begins, to be never happier than when her mother was the theme of
conversation.
There was something remarkable in this. One reason for it might have been,
that the surviving parent of these sisters, though once a kind and
affectionate father, was now so altered by habits of intemperance, that
they found very little enjoyment in his society. But there was another
reason. Little Sue was an unusually thoughtful, serious child, for one of
her years. Was there not another reason, still? I do not know. I cannot
tell what words God may whisper to the child that loves him; but this I
know, that little Sue talked much of heaven, and seemed to have learned
more of the language of heaven than men can teach.
One bright Saturday, in the early spring time, when there was no school,
these sisters might have been seen winding their way through the woods, not
far from the house where they lived, searching for the first wild flowers.
Little Sue, the youngest, was very happy, but, as usual, more grave than
the other sisters. By and by, wearied with their walk, they sat down under
the shadow, of a tree, and talked a great while. At first, the conversation
was about birds and flowers; but Sue soon gave a serious turn to it.
"I wonder," said she, "if dear mother has pretty flowers in heaven. I hope
so--she loved them so well. Do you remember the little monthly rose she
wanted we should bring into her room, just before she died? How happy she
was, when one of us went and brought it to her bed. And she went to heaven
so soon after that! Oh, I think there must be flowers up there in the sky,
or she would not have thought of them and loved them so, when she was
dying. Don't you think so?"
And she was silent. So were her sisters, awhile. Thoughts of heaven made
them serious. They were sad, too. When the youngest--their darling
Sue--conversed in this strain, a cloud always came over their sunny faces.
They could scarcely tell why it was so; for they, too, loved to think of
heaven. But the language of their sister seemed to them to belong to
another world; and often, in the midst of their brightest hopes, would come
the fear, like a thunderbolt, that God would crush that cherished flower,
and remove her from their embrace while she was young.
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