All

YOUNG.

pay themselves the compliment to think
They one day shall not drivel; and their pride
On this reversion takes up ready praise;
At least, their own; their future selves applauds :
How excellent that life they ne'er will lead !
Time lodged in their own hands is Folly's vails ;
That lodged in Fate's to Wisdom they consign;
The thing they can't but purpose, they postpone.
'Tis not in folly, not to scorn a fool;

And scarce in human wisdom to do more.
All promise is poor dilatory man,

And that through every stage. When young, indeed,
In full content we sometimes nobly rest,
Unanxious for ourselves; and only wish,

As duteous sons, our fathers were more wise.
At thirty man suspects himself a fool;
Knows it at forty, and reforms his plan;
At fifty chides his infamous delay,
Pushes his prudent purpose to resolve;
In all the magnanimity of thought,

Resolves, and re-resolves, then dies the same.

And why? Because he thinks himself immortal. All men think all men mortal, but themselves; Themselves, when some alarming shock of fate Strikes through their wounded hearts the sudden dread; But their hearts wounded, like the wounded air, Soon close; where pass'd the shaft, no trace is found.

As from the wing no scar the sky retains,
The parted wave no furrow from the keel,
So dies in human hearts the thought of death.
Even with the tender tear, which nature sheds
O'er those we love, we drop it in the grave.

I was the most unlucky child in the world in respect to my clothes. My frocks and aprons never kept perfect, like those of other little girls, but somehow went to pieces before I knew it. If there was a briar in my path, it was sure to fasten itself to my frock, and tear the

trimming off. If a nail protruded from a box, I was sure to come in contact with it, and find it was too much for me. If a rail had an ugly splinter, I was sure to undertake to get over the fence in that very place; and if there was a thorn-bush on my way from school, just as I was in quick homeward trot, my skirts were sure to be blown against it, and awful consequences to follow.

Some people said that these sad accidents happened to my clothes because I never was slow or thoughtful, but did everything with a hop, skip, and jump. But I said it was luck; I was born to have my frocks torn. My mother sometimes talked of dressing me in stout brown linen; but it would have been of no use. I don't think I should have been safe in even a canvas frock.

When I was between seven and eight years of age, my mother went away from home, to spend some months, and left us children under the care of a housekeeper. I suppose that the widow Wilkins was a very respectable, well-meaning woman; she kept the house neatly, sent us regularly to school, and gave us enough to eat; but I do think she was rather too hard on me for tearing my clothes. She didn't seem to believe in it being all ill luck. Sometimes I would steal slyly into the house, about dusk, with a rent in my frock carefully pinned up, hoping it would escape her notice; but she never failed to spy it out, and to be down upon me at once. You would have thought that she mistook me for her bottle of bitters, labelled, “When taken, to be well shaken," she exercised me in such a remarkable manner; then she would settle me in my chair, as though she meant that I never should rise again on any occasion. But I did not care so much for these things as I did for her talk. Such long lectures as she would give me on my carelessness; such awful warning of the poverty and want I was bringing on myself; such dreadful stories she would tell of the melancholy end of little girls who kept on "slitting up” their frocks and rending their pinafores!

In late years, I have heard women speak in public-lecture and preach—sometimes talking very fast, and often quite loud and brave; but, even now, as I look back, I think the widow Wilkins was a wonderful woman with her tongue.

I did not improve under her severe rule. I am sorry to say that I rather grew worse; for now, when I was not careless I was awkward, from fear of her, and still kept on tearing my clothes.

At last, our mother came home. How well I remember that morning! She arrived early, came to our beds, and woke us with her kisses. I remember how she laughed at our youngest, Albert, who did not know her at first, and, as he was very bashful, hid under

the bed-clothes, and when she caught him and pulled him out, said joyfully, "O, it's you, mamma! I thought 'twas a lady."

I remember that she brought the little fellow some toys, the like of which were never seen in our part of the country. There was a little man, called "Merry Andrew," with a mouth on the broad grin, and you had only to pull a string to make him fling out his legs and throw up his arms in a surprising manner. There was a cobbler always mending a shoe that was never done, and a pasteboard cuckoo, which, with a little squeezing, would send forth a sound which we were so polite as to call singing. This my little brother smashed the next day, to see what made the noise. But, most wonderful of all, was a village, the little white block-houses all standing in rows on a green board, and with little figures of men and women which you could move about. There was a meeting-house, with a sharp steeple; and when all was rightly fixed, a minister, with a very long face, was just going into the door, and the people were following him. But Albert turned this minister round, moved him across the street, and made him going into the tavern-door, which we told him was very wrong.

My sister Carry and myself received each a pretty black-eyed doll, all dressed, and a new frock. Such splendid fine-lady dolls we had never before seen. Why, they actually had knee-joints and elbowjoints, and red morocco shoes! Our frocks were of fine buff lawn, figured with the tiniest white rose-buds in the world; and our mother made them in some wonderful new fashion, which almost threw us into convulsions of delight.

There was in a distant part of the yard, surrounding our house, an old apple-tree, among the lower branches of which I had a favourite seat, which I used to reach by the help of a board, placed against the trunk of the tree. Two or three crooked limbs formed an easy seat, and one higher up made a nice shelf for books and playthings.

I have heard that the great Mrs. Hemans, when a little girl of seven, had such a perch, where she read Shakspeare. I never undertook such fine reading in my apple-tree, but I read "The Babes in the Wood" and "Goody Two-Shoes" there, with great pleasure; and, though I was no genius, I rather think I understood them quite as well as she understood her grand old Shakspeare. On my shelf, in pleasant weather, I kept two rather plainly-dressed cloth-dolls, called Polly and Betsy; and to these I went to complain when I had been ill-used at school, or widow Wilkins' scolding had been more than I could bear. I liked to talk to these two friends, they listened so respectfully, never interrupting or contradicting me. I can't say

that they comforted me, as I was obliged to say everything for them; but they never blamed me, or in any way took sides against me.

When, for the first time, I was dressed in my new buff lawn, and it had been admired by all in the house, I felt that I really must give Polly and Betsy a sight of it; and soon I was up in my lofty seat, spreading out my fine gown, and talking of the colour, the fit, the ruffles and tucks, in two little admiring voices, which I made believe came from the pink button-hole mouths of Polly and Betsy.. When they had said all the pretty and strong words I could think of, I very uncivilly forgot their presence, took up my book, and began to read. The day was sultry, I was tired, the story was an old one, and, at last, I fell fast asleep. When I awoke, some time after sunset, I found that one of my mischievous brothers had taken the board away from the tree, and that I must get down as best I could. I was too proud and independent to call for help, though I knew the boys must be somewhere near, but jumped at once. As usual, I forgot to gather my frock around me; and, as I leaped from my perch, there came an awful sound!—a sound I knew too well. As I rose from the ground and looked about me, I found that my beautiful new frock was torn half across one breadth, in that hateful zigzag way that my frocks were always tearing. Of course, the first thing I did was to sit down and have a good cry; then I stole up to my chamber by the back stairs, took off my buff lawn, folded it, laid it away in my drawer, and put on an old gingham frock, feeling that it was vastly too good for me.

After a while, I went down to supper, though I felt sure I could not swallow a mouthful. As I took my seat at the table, my brother Rufus looked up from his bowl of bread and milk, and said, "O, ho! you've come down, have you? I thought you had gone to roost for the night."

I wished to make a clean breast of it, and tell all to my mother, but did not dare, for fear she would punish me, or give me what widow Wilkins had taught me to dread a thousand times more-a severe scolding. That night, oh, how I longed to have some kind fairy come, when I was fast asleep, and nicely darn my torn frock!

The next day, at noon, my mother said that I need not go back to school, but might go with her to spend the afternoon at a neighbour's house, a most pleasant place. I knew that she would tell me to wear my new buff lawn; so I answered, “I would rather go to school, if you please." My mother was surprised at this, but she praised me for being so fond of my books. How ashamed I felt at her praises! That night, she told me that she had invited some little