Kitabı oku: «The Looking-Glass for the Mind; or, Intellectual Mirror», sayfa 10

THE BIRD'S EGG

Master Gregory was fond of walking in a wood, which stood at a short distance from his father's house. The wood being young, the trees were consequently small, and placed very near to each other, with two or three paths between them. As he was one day walking up and down, in order to rest himself a little, he placed his back against a tree, whose stem was quite slender, and therefore all its branches shook as soon as it was touched. This rustling happened to frighten a little bird, who sprang from a neighbouring bush, and flew into another part of the wood.

Gregory was vexed to think he had disturbed the bird, and fixed his eyes upon the bush, in hopes of seeing it return. While he was thus attentively on the watch, he imagined he saw among the twisted branches something like a tuft of hay. As his curiosity was raised to know what it was, he went up close to the hedge, and found this tuft of hay was hollow, like a bowl. On putting aside the branches, he saw something like little balls within it, which were spotted, and of an oval shape. They lay close to each other, on something very soft. "Bless me," said Gregory, "this must be certainly what I have heard some people call a bird's nest, and the balls must be eggs. They are indeed less than our eggs, but then our hens are larger than these birds."

He had some thoughts, at first, of taking away the whole nest; but, upon second consideration, he contented himself with taking only one of the eggs, with which he instantly ran home. In the midst of his haste, he met his sister. "See this little egg," said he to her, "I have just now found it in a nest, in which were five others."

She desired to have it in her hand, examined it attentively, and then returned it to her brother. At last, they began rolling it up and down a table, just as they would a ball. One pushed it one way, and the other a different way, till at last they pushed it off the table, when it fell on the floor and broke. This set them a crying, and each mutually accused the other of being the cause of this sad disaster.

Their mamma, happening to hear them cry, came to inquire into the cause of it, when both began at once telling their sorrows; and, having heard their different stories, she took them affectionately by the hand, and led them to a tree, whose stately boughs afforded a pleasant shade to a verdant bank, on which they all sat down together.

"My dear children," said their mamma, "make yourselves easy. You have broken the egg between you, and that, to be sure, is a misfortune; but it is of too trifling a nature to suffer it to make you unhappy. After all, Gregory, there is some room of complaint against you, as it was an act of injustice to rob the poor bird of its egg. You must have seen how the hen places her eggs in a nest, on which she sits to warm and animate them. In about three weeks, from the eggs proceed chickens, which pierce the shell, and in a few days come and feed out of your hand. This egg, which you have just now broken, had you left it in the nest, would have become a sort of chick. The bird you saw fly out of the bush was probably the mother, who will, very likely, return again to see what mischief you have done her, and perhaps she will forsake it altogether, which they frequently do when disturbed.

"Though the loss is only a single egg, yet that perhaps will inform them that their habitation is discovered, when they have every thing to be afraid of from our violence. They guess, that when their little ones shall be hatched, those that robbed them of an egg, will return and seize upon their infant family. If this nest you have been robbing, for I cannot call it anything less than a robbery, should be on that account forsaken, I think you will be very sorry for it."

Gregory replied that it would indeed give him much uneasiness, and seemed very sorry that he had meddled with the egg. "But," said he to his mamma, "I had not the least thought of what you have been telling me, nor did I suppose there could be any harm in bringing it to my sister, for it was principally on that account that I took it."

His mamma replied, that she readily believed him; for she told him she was sensible that he had too good a heart to wish to do mischief, merely for the sake of tormenting others. Gregory was, indeed, a very good boy, and was as remarkable for his duty to his parents, his tender attachment to his sister, and his universal benevolence to every one.

The little girl observed to her mamma, that the nest which her brother had shown her did not in any degree resemble the swallow's nests that were seen about the corners of the windows of some houses. "My dear," replied her mamma, "every nest is not alike, any more than every bird, some being great, and others little; some are never seen to perch on trees, while others are hardly ever out of them; some are bulky and inactive, others slim, and full of cunning and industry; the plumage of some are beautiful beyond description, with an amazing variety of colours, and others have a plain and homely appearance; some subsist on fruits, some feed upon insects, and many live by making a prey of and of devouring the smaller birds."

Here her little daughter exclaimed, "Oh, what wicked creatures! I am sure I should think it no crime to destroy the nest of such unnatural birds." – "Very true," replied her mamma, and there are many more of your way of thinking; and therefore these great birds, who live upon the smaller class, build their nests in places where they cannot be easily disturbed, such as in woods, in crevices of rocks, and in other places most unfrequented by men, or at heights beyond our reach.

"Since, therefore, my dear children, these birds are greatly different from each other, as well in size as in the mode of living, and in the variety of their plumage, it will naturally follow that their nests must also differ. The lark never perches on a tree, and sings only when mounting in the air, and builds her nest on the ground. The swallow builds about the roofs of houses, under what we call the eaves, and sometimes in the corners of windows. The owl, which flies abroad only in the night, seeks out deserted habitations, or some hollow trees, wherein to deposit her eggs; and the eagles, who soar above the clouds till absolutely out of sight, bring forth their young in the cliffs of craggy rocks. Those birds, which so prettily sport round our houses, and hop from branch to branch, make their nests in the trees and hedges. Those who sport on the water, and find their living therein, build their nests among the rushes that grow on the banks.

"We will, one fine day, take a walk into the little valley that terminates our large meadow, and you will there see a number of these pretty creatures busy in selecting the materials of which they compose their nests. You will observe one employed in carrying off a wheaten straw, another with wool or feathers in its beak, another with a dried leaf, and perhaps with a little moss. You may frequently notice the swallow, on the borders of a limpid stream, moistening in the water a little bit of earth which he holds in his beak, and with this he builds his habitation; and, though the outside of its nest is formed of hard and durable materials, the inside is lined with the softest and warmest. There are even some birds, who pull off their own feathers to make up a comfortable bed, wherein to secure their young from every inclemency of the elements.

"Their nests are made large or small, in proportion to the number of eggs they are to contain. Some birds hang up their nests by a kind of thread, which they have the skill to form of flax, of different sorts of weeds, and of the webs of spiders. Others place it in the middle of a soft and gluey substance, to which they carefully stick many feathers. All birds seek retired and solitary places, and use every endeavour to make their nests strong and solid, to secure them from the attacks of enemies of various species.

"It is in this kind of habitation they lay their eggs, where the mother, and at times the father, sits upon them, puts every thing within them into motion, and at last produce little creatures, who break through their shell, and come forth.

"I doubt not but you have often seen a fly in winter, which appeared to have no life in it: yet, upon taking it into your hand, the warmth proceeding from it has brought it to life. It is nearly the same thing with birds, the perseverance of whose parents, in brooding upon their eggs, converts them into living creatures.

"While the mother is sitting, the cock is her constant attendant, and amuses her with his music. When the young birds are hatched, the old ones endeavour to release them from the confinement of the egg. At this period their diligence is redoubled, they do everything to nourish and defend them, and are constantly employed in that interesting pursuit. No distance deters them from seeking their food, of which they make an equal distribution, every one receiving in his turn what they have been able to procure. So long as they continue young and helpless, they contrive to procure such food as is adapted to their delicacy; but as soon as they are grown stronger by age, they provide for them food of a more solid nature.

"The pelican, which is a very large bird, is obliged to go a great distance for food for its young, and therefore nature has provided it with a sort of bag, which she fills with such food as she knows is most agreeable to the palate of her young ones. She warms what she procures, and by such means makes it fitter for their tender stomachs.

"While they are thus acting the parental part, they seem to be forgetful of themselves, and attentive only to their little family. On the approach of either rain or tempests, they hasten to their nest, and cover it as well as they can with expanded wings, thereby keeping out the wind and water from hurting their infant brood. All their nights are employed in nourishing and keeping them warm. The most timorous among the feathered race, who will fly away on the least noise that approaches them, and tremble at the most trifling apprehensions of danger, become strangers to fear as soon as they have a young family to take care of, and are inspired with courage and intrepidity. We see an instance of this in the common hen, who, though in general a coward, no sooner becomes a parent, than she gives proofs of courage, and boldly stands forth in defence of her young. She will face the largest dog, and will not run even from a man, who shall attempt to rob her of her young.

"In nearly a similar manner, the little birds endeavour to protect their infant family. When an enemy approaches, they will flutter round the nest, will seem to call out for assistance, will attack the invader, and pursue him. The mother will frequently prefer confining herself with them, to the pleasure of rambling through the woods, and will not quit her little progeny."

Here their mamma ended, and her two children promised they never would any more disturb those pretty feathered animals. They promised only to look at their nests, without being so cruel as to do them any harm. They said they would be satisfied with gazing on them, while employed in the delightful task of attending on their young, and comforting and caressing their unprotected offspring.

"My dear children," said their mamma, "this is the conduct you ought to pursue. Keep your resolutions, and I shall love you the more tenderly for it. Do no injury to any creature, for He who made you made them also. Take no delight in giving pain to the most insignificant part of the creation; but endeavour on all occasions to contribute to their happiness."

THE COVETOUS BOY

Young Samuel was the only son of a capital merchant, and was tenderly beloved by his father. He had by no means a bad heart, his countenance was pleasing, and his friends would all have been very fond of him, had he not shown, in every part of his conduct, a covetous propensity, that eclipsed all his accomplishments.

His covetous disposition made him wish for every thing he saw others possessed of, and, even carried him to so great a length, that he would not share among his playmates any thing that he had, or even let them see it.

It was with little Samuel, as it generally is with every body else, that he lost more than he gained by his avarice. If any body gave him any sweetmeats, he would get into some private corner of the house and there swallow them, for fear any of his acquaintance should want part of them. His father, in order to cure him of this greedy disposition, used, while he was feasting in private, to give a double portion to his companions. He perceived this, and therefore left off hiding himself; but he no sooner fixed his eyes on any nicety, than he appeared ready to devour it at once; and pursued the hand of those that held it, as a vulture does its prey.

From what has been already said, his father may be supposed to be much hurt at this conduct; and, in order to save himself as much vexation as possible, he ceased to give him any more niceties, or even have them within his house, so that they might not, at any rate, be within the reach of his voracious son.

If Samuel had a pleasing toy of any kind, he would never show it, but conceal himself in the enjoyment of it, without ever being happy. If he had any sort of fruit, he would not share it with his playmates, but devour it in private, even refusing any to those he happened to love most. Consequently, none of his playmates would ever give him a part of what they had, and seemed always desirous of shunning his company. When he chanced to be engaged in a quarrel with any one, none appeared ready to take his part, not even when they knew him in the right; and, when he was in the wrong, every one joined against him.

It one day happened, that a little boy observed him with an apple in his hand, and gave him by surprise a knock on the elbow, which made him let the apple fall. However, he picked it up hastily, and, in order to revenge himself on the boy, set off to catch him; but, in running, fell into a hog-pond, and had like to have been suffocated in the soil. He exerted all his power to get out, but to no effect: he endeavoured, but without succeeding, to prevail on his playmates to take hold of his hand and help him out.

Instead of assisting him, they laughed at his distress, and joyously danced about the pond, from which he could not relieve himself. They told him to ask the assistance of those to whom he had done the least kindness; but among all his playmates, there was not one whose help he could demand on that score. At last one of the boys, who took pity on him, came forward and gave him his hand, when he safely got out.

Samuel shook off the mud as well as he could, and then to show his gratitude to the little boy who had assisted him, he bit off about a quarter of the apple which caused this disaster, and which he never let go, and desired him to accept of it. But the boy, disgusted with so pitiful a gift, took the morsel, and then flung it in his face; and this served as a signal for all the boys to scout him. They pursued Samuel quite home, hooting him all the way he went.

This was the first time he had ever been hooted, and, as he did not want for feeling, it threw him into a depth of thought. He kept out of his father's presence, and confined himself to his room for some days. There he reasoned with himself on the cause that could produce such treatment from his playfellows. "For what reason," said he to himself, "could my little neighbour, who even lent me his hand to get out of the pond, throw the apple in my face, and set the boys to hoot me? Why has he so many good friends, while I have not a single one?"

On comparing the good boy's behaviour with his own, he soon discovered the reason. To become sensible of our errors is half the work of reformation. He recollected, that he had observed his friend was always ready to help every one; that whenever he had any fruit, confectionary, or the like, he seemed to feel more pleasure in sharing it with his companions, than in eating it himself, and had no kind of amusement in which he did not wish every one to bear a part. On this short review of circumstances, he plainly perceived wherein lay the difference between himself and this little good boy. He at last resolved to imitate him; and the next day, filling his pockets with fruit, he ran up to every boy he met and gave him a part of it; but he could not, on a sudden, give up self, having left a little in his pocket to eat at home in private.

Though it is evident that he had not yet completely conquered his avarice, yet he was not a little pleased with the advances he had made, since his companions were now, on their part, more generous to him; they showed themselves much more satisfied with his company, and admitted him a partner in all their little pastimes; they divided with him whatever they happened to have, and he always went home pleased and satisfied.

Soon after, he made a still greater progress in conquering his selfish disposition; for he pulled out of his pocket every thing he had, and divided it into as many shares as there were mouths to eat it, without reserving any more than an equal part for himself. Indeed, it was the general opinion of the boys, that his own share was the least. This day he was much more satisfied than before, and went home gay and cheerful.

By pursuing this conduct, he soon acquired a generous habit, and became liberal even to those who had nothing to give in return. He consequently acquired the love and esteem of his companions, who no sooner saw him than they ran to meet him with joyful countenances, and made his pleasure their own. Thus, instead of being miserable and wretched through avarice, he became completely happy in the practice of generosity.

His father was, undoubtedly, highly pleased with this change, and, tenderly embracing him, promised to refuse him nothing in future that might add to his pleasure and delight. Samuel hereby learned in what true happiness consists.

DISSIPATION THE CERTAIN ROAD TO RUIN

A young man, whose name was Humphries, was a dull companion, but an excellent workman. Nothing ran in his head so much as the wish to become a master, but he had not money to gratify that wish. A merchant, however, who was well acquainted with his industry, lent him a hundred pounds, in order that he might open a shop in a proper style.

It will from hence naturally follow, that Humphries thought himself one of the happiest men in the world. He supposed his warehouse already filled with goods, he reckoned how many customers would crowd to buy them, and what would be his profits thereon.

In the midst of these extravagant flights of fancy, he perceived an alehouse. "Come," said he, on entering it, "I will indulge myself with spending one sixpence of this money." He hesitated, however, some few moments, about calling for punch, which was his favourite liquor, as his conscience loudly told him that his time for enjoyment ought to be at some distance, and not till he had paid his friend the money he had borrowed; that it would not be honest in him at present to expend a farthing of that money but in absolute necessaries. With these right ideas, he was nearly leaving the alehouse; but, bethinking himself, on the other hand, that, if he spent a sixpence of his money, he should still have a hundred pounds all but that sixpence, that such a sum was fully sufficient to set him up in trade, and that a single half-hour's industry would amply make amends for such a trifling pleasure as he wished then to enjoy; he called for his punch, and the first glass banished all his former qualms, little thinking that such a conduct would, by insensible degrees, open a way to his ruin. The next day he recollected the pleasures of the former glass, and found it easy to reconcile his conscience to the spending of another sixpence. He knew he should still have a hundred pounds left, all but one shilling.

The love of liquor had at last completely conquered him, and every succeeding day he constantly returned to his favourite alehouse, and gradually increased his quantity, till he spent two shillings and sixpence at each sitting. Here he seemed to make a stand; and every time he went he consoled himself, with saying, that he was spending only half-a-crown, and that he need not fear but he should have enough to carry on his trade.

By this delusive way of reasoning, he silenced the prudent whispers of conscience, which would sometimes, in spite even of liquor, break in upon him, and remind him, that the proper use of money consisted in prudently applying every part of it to advantageous purposes.

Thus you see how the human mind is led into destructive extravagances by insensible degrees. Industry had no longer any charms to allure him, being blindly persuaded, that the money he had borrowed would prove an inexhaustible source for all its extravagance. He was at last convinced, and his conviction suddenly fell on him like a clap of thunder that he could not recover the effects of his preceding dissipation, and that his generous benefactor would have little inclination to lend another hundred pounds to a man who had so shamefully abused his kindness in the first instance.

Entirely overcome with shame and confusion, his recourse to hard drinking, merely to quiet his conscience and reflections, served only to bring on his ruin the sooner. At last the fatal moment arrived, when, quite disgusted at the thoughts of industry, and becoming an object of horror even to himself, life became insupportable, and nothing presented themselves to him but scenes of poverty, desolation, and remorse.

Overtaken by despair, he fled from his country, and joined a gang of smugglers, whose ravages were dreaded through every town and village on the coast. Heaven, however, did not permit these iniquities to have a long reign, for a disgraceful death soon put a period to the existence of this unhappy wretch.

Alas! had he listened to the first dictates of reason, and been wrought upon by the reproaches of his conscience, he might have been easy and happy in his situation, and have comfortably enjoyed the repose of a reputable old age, instead of coming to that deplorable end, which is the certain reward of vice and folly.