
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE HISTORY OF A TAME ROBIN  ***





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[Illustration: _Frontispiece._

_Tame Robin & Goldfinch._]




  THE

  HISTORY

  OF A

  TAME ROBIN.

  SUPPOSED TO BE

  WRITTEN BY HIMSELF.

  _LONDON_:

  PRINTED FOR DARTON, HARVEY, AND DARTON,
  No. 55, Gracechurch-Street.

  1817.




THE HISTORY

OF A

TAME ROBIN.




CHAP. I.


You will, perhaps, wonder, my young readers, how I attained to a
sufficient knowledge of literature, to relate my adventures; but your
astonishment will subside when I inform you, that the early part of
my life was passed in a school-room, where, though few were taught,
much was inculcated; and I, though a silent auditor, partook of the
general instruction. I once heard the “Life of Carlo” read by one of
the pupils; I was greatly pleased with it, and resolved from that time
to improve as much as possible the advantages I possessed, that, if
any of the events of my life should be worth relating, I might be able
to publish them. Of the ultimate success of my endeavours, it will be
your province to judge when you have read my history, to which, without
further preface, I now proceed.

I was hatched in a thick, sheltered box-tree, or bush, for it was not
more than a yard from the ground. My father and mother attended on me,
my brother, and sister, (for there was three of us,) with the most
tender solicitude: my mother, indeed, scarcely ever left us, but when
her affectionate mate, alarmed for her health, insisted on taking her
place, that she might enjoy some relaxation from the arduous, though,
to her, pleasing office of maternal tenderness.

My father brought us plenty of food, which, from his account, was
procured with little difficulty; for he mentioned some persons who
were so kind as to strew crumbs of bread near our dwelling, on purpose
for our use. I frequently felt an ardent curiosity to behold these
good friends. My brother and sister expressed the same desire, and we
frequently entertained ourselves with conjectures respecting them,
which, however, always ended with the supposition that they resembled
our good parents. Judge then of our astonishment, when, one day, we
heard a rustling noise in the box-tree, and the next moment beheld
three or four large objects, regarding us with apparent delight. We
were all greatly terrified, not knowing whether they intended to do us
good or harm: fear naturally suggested the latter. However, we were
soon reassured, by their closing the branches gently, and regretting
that they had disturbed my mother, who, on their approach, had flown
to an adjacent paling, where, in breathless anxiety, she waited their
departure.

“Well, my poor children,” said she, on her return, “you have at last
seen our benefactors; they are called _human beings_, and though many
of them are a terror to our race, yet I do not think those you have
seen are of that number, for I have witnessed several instances of
their affection towards the feathered tribe; and a young blackbird, who
is our neighbour, informed me, that, during the last winter, which was
uncommonly severe, he found an asylum in their dwelling, where a small
apartment was allotted him, and that in the spring he was brought near
this spot and set at liberty, though not without some regret on their
part; which evinces that they preferred his happiness to their own
gratification, and practised their duty, though in opposition to their
inclination; therefore, I trust we have not much to fear from them, for
they must be actuated by principles of justice and humanity.”

After this first visit, we generally saw our friends daily, and our
fear of them daily diminished; yet we could not help observing, that
our parents always flew away on their approach, and we once ventured to
ask our mother the cause.

“It is not,” said she, “that I apprehend any injury from them; on the
contrary, we have continual proofs that they desire to increase rather
than to diminish our happiness, but my own experience, and the many
instances I have heard of the cruelty of some of their species towards
us, have produced, in my mind, such an habitual mistrust, that I never
venture within their reach; though I have observed that we Robins
approach much nearer than any other birds, except, indeed, when they
are impelled by famine, in an intensely cold winter.”

Several days passed after this conversation without any extraordinary
occurrence. Our friends, came to visit us as usual; we throve very
fast; and as we were nearly fledged, and the weather fine, our parents
were longer and more frequently absent. One morning, when they had just
quitted us, after many kind injunctions respecting our conduct during
their absence, we heard the sound of voices, which we soon recognized
to be those of our friends. They approached, and one, as usual, came to
peep into our nest. “Pretty little creatures!” said she, “they are all
safe: really they are gaping for food. How close they lie beside each
other, just as if they were packed.” “How I should like to see them!”
exclaimed another voice. “Well, I will show you one,” resumed the
former; and so saying, she put her hand gently into the nest and lifted
me out.

What a different scene now presented itself to my view, to any I had
before imagined. I had fancied that the environs of our box-tree were
the boundaries of the world, and our nest no inconsiderable part of
it. I now found myself in a pretty, circular garden, enclosed by a
rustic paling, and surrounded by a delightful shrubbery, excepting on
one side, where stood a green-house. My friend (though I was somewhat
alarmed at this new proof of her friendship) carried me to a little
distance, where I saw three young ladies, who appeared more healthy and
fresh-coloured than the one who held me, whom, from their respectful
manner towards her, I supposed to be their governess; for they did not
call her mamma. They all agreed in admiring me very much, and I still
continuing to gape, the elder lady put a bit of bread into my mouth,
which I immediately swallowed; she then conveyed me back to the nest,
and retired.

I began to relate what I had seen to my brother and sister, which so
strongly excited the curiosity of the former, that he resolved to get
out of the nest. My sister and I endeavoured to dissuade him from so
rash an attempt, but without effect, for he got on the edge of the
nest, and almost instantly disappeared. Just then I heard our friends
returning, and trembled for my brother, lest he should be crushed
to death. The elder lady peeped into our nest, to see, as she said,
whether I was hurt by her having fed me, and missing my brother,
informed her pupils of it, with expressions of regret at having
disturbed us at first.

“What shall I do?” exclaimed she; “the poor little thing will be
killed or starved. I wish I had not touched them.” She then began to
search about the bush for the little truant. My poor sister now became
dreadfully alarmed: the shaking of the bush, and the confusion of
voices, in her idea, seemed to threaten us with immediate destruction.
I too was somewhat afraid, but concealed my fear, in order to repress
my sister’s.

The search was continued, but my brother was not found; and my
sister’s fortitude at last entirely forsaking her, she also quitted the
nest. My terror increased after her departure, but still I resolved to
await the event where I was, as I thought it probable that the dangers
I might encounter elsewhere, were as great as those from which I should
escape by flight. Our friend now looked again into the nest, and her
distress was greatly increased on finding two of us gone. “Worse and
worse!” said she: “how have I disturbed the happiness of this peaceful
little family! I will never again venture near a nest. Poor little
things, I fear they will all die!”

At this moment the gardener coming past, offered his assistance. He
soon found my brother and sister, to the great joy of our friends, who
immediately placing us side by side, as if nothing had happened, left
us.

They were scarcely gone, when my brother and sister began to describe
what they had seen, and expressed such satisfaction from this first
excursion, though they had been only under the box-tree, that they
resolved to stay no longer in the nest. I begged them to remain where
they were, at least till our parents’ return; but they told me, that,
instead of giving advice, I ought to take it, and accompany them in
their excursion. This I could by no means consent to, so they again
left me.

Our parents had now been a great while away, and I, anxiously expecting
their return, sat on the edge of the nest. At length I heard the
welcome sound of their voices at no great distance. But, alas! I was
never again to behold them; for at the same time I heard other voices,
not so agreeable, and the ladies once more approached the box-tree.

“Are they safe?” said one. “Oh dear, no!” was the answer, “they are all
gone except one, which is sitting on the edge of the nest, ready to get
away. How I pity the poor parents! What will be their distress, when
they find their snug little nest deserted, their pretty little ones,
perhaps, destroyed. I have a great mind to preserve one, if possible.
The old birds may find the others, and feed them on the ground; at
least, I shall be sure that they will not _all_ perish of hunger.”

You may easily imagine, my young readers, that the children admired
this project, and were very anxious for its execution. Accordingly, I
was taken home with them, and soon ceased to regret the change; for my
mistress fed and attended me with the greatest tenderness, and I soon
got accustomed to her way of feeding me, and grew fond of her. I will
pass over the surprise I felt at every thing I saw in the school-room,
(whither I was conveyed,) lest I should fatigue my young readers by
depicting sentiments of which they cannot partake: besides, I dare
say they are anxious to be introduced to the family of which I am now
become an inmate.




CHAP. II.


Sir Charles and Lady Seymour were the amiable possessors of a
delightful mansion. They had, I found, seven children, five daughters
and two sons: three only of the former were in the school-room, the
other two, with their infant brother, occupied an adjoining room,
called the nursery, and the eldest boy was at school. My chief
acquaintance was with the elder girls, whom I shall consequently
mention most frequently in the course of my narrative, and therefore
shall now more particularly describe them.

Caroline, the eldest, was in her twelfth year, very tall, and rather
pretty; but her good, sensible mother had taught her, how little
personal advantages are to be esteemed at any time; and that they
should be considered rather as a misfortune, when not accompanied
by corresponding charms in the heart and mind. The precepts of her
mamma were always dear to Caroline; nor were they ever counteracted
by any extraordinary anxiety in the former, respecting her own or
her daughter’s appearance. Her example always showed the possibility
of obeying her precepts, and, consequently, they were never wilfully
disobeyed. Few children, however, are faultless; nor was Caroline
always exempt from blame. She was naturally proud, and though her
excellent parents had, by reason and religion, in some degree repressed
this unamiable quality, yet, in unguarded moments, it would sometimes
display itself. She could not bear reproof, though, from a degree of
heedlessness in her manners, she more frequently required it than
many children who are not half so amiable; for she was gentle,
affectionate, and very attentive to her studies, in which she had made
considerable progress. She did not like to be reminded to hold up
her head, though she scarcely ever did so without being told; and I
frequently observed, that, when told, her heedlessness made her almost
immediately forget, and her head resumed its usual position.

Anna was the name of the second. She having less good sense than
her sister, possessed a small portion of personal vanity, with some
disinclination for study: yet she was good-humoured, obliging, and
compassionate; always seeking some opportunity to assist or relieve her
fellow-creatures.

Julia, the youngest, was nine years old, and, had she not been
sometimes rather idle, would have been a charming little girl, for
she united all the good qualities of her sisters, with few of their
defects. In short, the failings of my young friends were such as time,
and some attention on their part, with a great deal on that of their
governess, would doubtless eradicate; while their virtues were such as,
matured and confirmed by their own exertions, and the example of their
dear mother, could not fail to render them an ornament to society, and
a source of happiness and comfort to their parents.

It is not difficult to imagine, that in this charming family I enjoyed
every comfort that could be procured for me. At first I slept during a
great part of the day, often in my mistress’ hand, in her lap, or on
her shoulder. She was delighted with me for being so tame, and made
me her little companion, when her pupils, having finished their daily
lessons, left the school-room to spend the evening with their parents.
It was then my chief delight began; for my mistress being very fond of
music, generally amused herself with it for some time every evening.
On these occasions I usually lay on her knee till I fell asleep; but
one night, being more merry than usual, I hopped on her music-book,
where, finding a safe and comfortable roosting place, I remained, and
ever after chose to go to sleep there. When my mistress retired to her
room, she always took me with her, in a little warm basket, lined with
flannel and feathers.

I was not, however, always confined to the house: my dear mistress
frequently took me out, and I found that the pretty garden where I
was hatched, belonged to her; for as Lady Seymour esteemed her very
much, she spared no proof of kindness, and this garden had been, by
her desire, enclosed for my mistress, who, taking great pleasure in
flowers, here cultivated them herself. When thus employed, she let
me hop about the flower-beds, and I generally made a good use of my
time, by catching such small insects as I could manage. This practice
continued during several weeks, till one day (my wings being full
grown) I took a longer flight than usual: this alarmed my mistress,
and induced her to keep me at home much more than before.

Having by this time become familiar to the language of the school-room,
I began to feel an interest in whatever passed there. I observed, one
day, that the children were in higher spirits than usual, and soon
learned, from their discourse, that they were expecting the arrival
of their papa, with their brother from school, where he had been six
months; and as he had never before been so long absent, his return
was now joyfully anticipated by his affectionate sisters. But who can
express their disappointment and grief, when, instead of their brother,
came a letter from their papa, informing them that the former was
extremely ill, and unable to proceed, though he had already come more
than half way. Poor little girls! how distressed they appeared: yet no
impatient expressions escaped them on this severe disappointment. They
had learned, from their dear mamma, the duty of resignation, and now
seemed to partake of her fortitude in practising it.

“Disappointments,” said she, after having read the letter, “are
extremely beneficial to young persons, and I trust that my dear girls
will prove, by their behaviour on this occasion, that all my lessons
of patience and submission have not been disregarded. Your brother’s
return is doubtless retarded, but I trust that is all. When he recovers
and arrives, you will meet him with greater pleasure from this
transient affliction, particularly if you bear it properly.”

“But are you really going to leave us?” mamma, said little Julia: “papa
says he wishes for you.”

“I have no doubt, my love, that your papa will procure Charles every
thing that is requisite, and I could do no more; however, I shall wait
till after the post comes in to-morrow, before I decide that point.”

“Your absence would be doubly painful to us now,” said Anna, “for we
want you to comfort us.”

“That is true,” observed the amiable Caroline, “but our poor sick
brother stands more in need of comfort than we: besides, it is so long
since he saw mamma.”

“Well, my dears, it will be time enough to-morrow to discuss that
subject,” said Lady S. “now I must go and write an answer to this
letter, and you had better continue your studies.”

The dear girls dried their tears, and, resuming their occupations,
seemed to feel their grief alleviated, though the anxious expressions
that at intervals escaped them, showed that it was not forgotten.

At length the next day arrived, and the post brought the pleasing
intelligence that Charles was better; however, not being yet allowed to
leave his room, he would not be with them till the following week.

At last the happy day arrived, and towards evening, just as the
children had finished their supper, a post-chaise stopped at the
door. “Papa and Charles!” exclaimed they all at once, and flew to
meet and embrace their beloved relatives. I remained quietly with my
mistress, and, in about a quarter of an hour, Charles, accompanied by
his sisters, came to pay his respects to her. He was a fine little boy,
about the size of Julia, though somewhat younger. I observed, with
pleasure, that he seemed very fond of his sisters; answering their
numerous questions with affectionate attention, though it certainly
required some judgment to do so; for they scarcely gave him time to
reply to one, before they asked another, so eager were they to know
whatever concerned him.

“Oh! Charles,” said Julia, “do you know, Miss Sedley has the prettiest,
tamest Robin you can imagine. But do you know whether papa has brought
me a cage? I asked him for one in my letter.”

“A cage? Oh yes,” said Charles, “and I have brought you a goldfinch in
it.”

“For me?—a goldfinch!—where is it?” said she, and ran out of the room,
to fetch this newly-acquired treasure.

“But where is this Robin?” asked the little boy: “may I see it?”

“Yonder on the music-book,” replied Anna; “Miss Sedley will show him to
you.”

“That I will,” said my mistress, and taking me in her hand, she
introduced me to my new friend, who admired me so much, that, if Robins
were susceptible of vanity, I should have been one of the vainest.

Little Julia now returned, bringing in a large cage, in which I saw a
pretty-looking bird, apparently much older than myself; but as it was
getting rather dark, I was too sleepy to make any further observation,
so putting my head under my wing, I settled myself to sleep in my
mistress’s hand.




CHAP. III.


The next day I had an opportunity of observing my new friend, and
the companion he had brought me, more leisurely, and I conceived no
unfavourable opinion of either. As I was not at all timid, I jumped
about on the outside of the goldfinch’s cage, which my mistress
perceiving, she opened the door and allowed me to go in. I was by no
means displeased at finding myself thus shut up, as I found such little
pieces of food as I could manage, and this greatly amused me; for I had
hitherto been unable to feed myself at all, except when out of doors.
The goldfinch, too, seemed by no means averse to my company, though
I observed that she did not like me to come too near her: much less
would she allow any of the children to touch her, for she fluttered
violently if they only approached her cage. I thought this timidity
very silly, and one day ventured to tell her so; representing, at the
same time, that I got no harm by my familiarity, and, therefore, why
should she apprehend any.

“Ah, I perceive you are a novice,” said she; “you would cease to wonder
at my fears, if you knew my history.”

As I had never known any other birds than my father and mother, and
them only a short time, I felt my curiosity very strongly excited, and
requested her to gratify it by relating her adventures, which she did,
in nearly the following terms.

“I, with four others, first saw the light in the delightful month of
June. We were hatched in an apple-tree, which stood in the midst of a
good kitchen-garden. I need not describe to you the affectionate cares
of our beloved parents: you have too recently experienced the tender
solicitude of yours, to have lost the remembrance of it; and as it is a
sentiment which pervades the whole of the feathered race, it is nearly
the same in all the species. Let it suffice then, that their cares were
more than repaid by our health and safety. We became very fine little
birds, and were just fledged: our parents began to talk of teaching us
to use our little wings, which as yet we had not so much as expanded,
and one evening I heard my mother telling my father that it was high
time we should decamp, as she had great reason to suspect that the nest
had been closely observed by the gardener. My father, on hearing this
suspicion, immediately concluded that it would be expedient to remove
on the following day; and we, who were sufficiently awake to hear the
conversation, promised ourselves much pleasure from the projected
excursion of the morrow. But, alas! how often have I experienced that
we deceive ourselves with the hopes of happiness we are destined never
to enjoy! These, my first hopes, were the more sanguine, as I had never
known disappointment, and, consequently, I suffered more acutely from
their not being realized.

“We were all asleep, my mother in the nest with us, my father on an
adjoining branch, when suddenly we were aroused by a rustling noise
immediately over our heads, and I felt myself, with one of my brothers,
in the grasp of some unknown being. Our parents fled, they knew not
whither, (for it was a dark night,) and we were conveyed by the
stranger to a room which overlooked the garden, and placed in a basket,
where, after having remained some time very comfortless and chilly, we
at length fell asleep.

“Our clamours aroused the gardener (for he, it appeared, was the
disturber of our peace) by day-break; he arose and endeavoured to feed
us, but so awkwardly, that we were more fatigued than refreshed by
his kindness, for such I am sure he intended it. Finding, therefore,
his efforts were of little use, he put us into a small cage, which he
carried into the garden, and hung up in the tree where we were hatched.
It was then I saw our once comfortable little nest entirely forsaken. I
looked around, in the hope of seeing our parents, but neither of them
appeared: however, in a fork of the tree, I discovered my little sister
lying very still, as if she had not yet recovered the panic into which
we had all been thrown the preceding evening. I pointed her out to my
brother, and we both called to her; but she either did not hear, or was
afraid to answer us.

“The noise we made, however, had one good effect, for it brought our
parents, who were just then hovering over their late peaceful abode,
in order, if possible, to regain their lost family. They were much
distressed at finding us in captivity; but as our present wants were
on that account the more urgent, they tried to comfort us with the
assurance that they would speedily return with food, and then left us,
not forgetting to take our little sister with them.

“They soon returned, and when the calls of hunger were satisfied,
we made some enquiries about our two brothers, whom we had neither
seen nor heard. They informed us, that they had conveyed them to a
place of safety soon after day-break, and had then returned, in the
hope of finding our sister and us. I will not detail the whole of our
conversation, nor weary you with the relation of our complaints, and
the consolations offered by our parents; but proceed to inform you,
that their visits were constant, and our wants always supplied. At
length, however, the weather became very hot, and we began to suffer
much from thirst; for though the food our parents brought us was
generally moist, it was by no means sufficiently so to supply the
want of water, which, had we been at liberty, we could have procured
abundantly for ourselves. Our friend the gardener did not perceive our
uneasiness, though he took us in every night, till one morning he found
my poor brother just expiring, and me apparently very ill. He then
tried to recover us by giving us water. With me his efforts succeeded,
but my poor brother was too far gone, and, though he revived for a
short time, died that day.

“I now felt my condition so forlorn, that confinement was doubly
painful to me, and grief for the loss of my beloved companion was
nearly effecting what pain had not accomplished, when the gardener
observing that I did not thrive, resolved to set me free. Accordingly,
he one day opened my prison door, and I, who did not want much
persuasion to depart, immediately flew out. My first sensation was
exquisite delight at finding myself at liberty. I hopped from bough to
bough, on the first tree I came to, and exerted the little voice I
then had, in strains of rapture.

“When my ecstasy had somewhat subsided, I remembered my parents, and
anticipated the pleasure I should have in ranging at large with them;
but it being about noon, and not expecting them till the evening, I
purposed hovering near the spot till the interval (which never before
appeared so long) should elapse. The gardener, however, was again
destined to be the destroyer of my hopes, for some time after he
came into the garden, and though I thought myself quite secure from
observation, he soon perceived me. He called to me, and I, seized with
terror, lest, repenting his late precious gift, he had come to reclaim
it and convey me back to my prison, immediately flew away.

“So fast and so far did my fright carry me, that I could not find my
way back again, when the thought of my parents recurred to me; so
that, with extreme anguish, I now found myself obliged to relinquish
the hope of ever seeing them again. This, as you may suppose, was a
severe stroke to me; and I began to discover that there are other evils
besides captivity, scarcely less insupportable.

“Having no one now to provide food for me, and being hungry, I sought
it for myself, and soon found abundance; but even in this particular I
experienced fresh mortification, for whether, having been brought up
in a cage, I had imbibed habits different from those of my species who
were at large, or whether my being a stranger was the cause, I know
not; but all the goldfinches I approached treated me with contempt and
derision, and when I once attempted to expostulate with them, they
proceeded to further violence, and attacking me with their beaks, drove
me from their society.

“My days were now passed in solitude, but my nights were not the less
peaceful; for though my situation was somewhat forlorn, I was not
conscious of having done any thing disgraceful; and surely, thought I,
misfortune is no crime; nay, so far from it, that I am persuaded, were
my persecutors to hear my sad adventures, they would pity and console
me.

“In my rambles to seek food and amusement, I often approached a
village, by which you are to understand several houses near each other.
One day, being near this place, I saw a very large bird just above me,
with his eyes intently fixed on me. I flew from the spot where I was,
but found, to my great astonishment, that he followed me. Not knowing
his intention, I continued my flight, and he his pursuit, till we came
near one of the houses in the village. I had often seen the little
birds pursue each other in sport, and at first imagined that to be his
object; but as I was now nearly exhausted, and unable to fly so fast as
before, my pursuer gained upon me; and, as he came nearer, I perceived
that his feet were large, strong, and armed with immense claws; his
eyes fierce and piercing, and his whole appearance terrific.

“My fears had now nearly overcome me, and I was on the point of sinking
to the ground, an easy prey to this destroyer, when one effort saved
me. I perceived an open window in the habitation nearest to us, and
collecting the little strength I had left, made towards it, entered,
and sunk breathless on the bosom of a young lady who was sitting near
it. She immediately rose, and taking me gently in her hand, shut the
window. ‘Poor little bird,’ said she, ‘something must have alarmed you;
but here you are safe and sure of protection. I will take care of you.’

“She then gave me some water, which I found very refreshing, and
presently after, one of her sisters coming into the room, I learnt
her intentions respecting myself. ‘See, Lucy,’ said she, ‘what a
treasure I have.’ ‘A goldfinch! Where did you get it?’ ‘In a manner so
extraordinary, that I shall not easily be prevailed on to part with
it. Though I am much averse to slavery, and should not like to keep it
entirely a prisoner, yet, as it came to me for protection, I should be
unwilling to expose it again to the danger it so lately escaped.’

“She then related the manner of my coming to her, and observed, that
she supposed some bird of prey had pursued me. ‘Well,’ said Lucy, ‘and
what do you intend to do with it?’ ‘I shall keep it in a cage till it
becomes familiar; I shall accustom it to eat out of my hand, and when
I have tamed it a little, I shall frequently let it out.’ ‘I like your
plan, my dear Sophy, and trust that it will be the means of assisting
our endeavours to restore your health. How we shall all love the little
bird, if it adds to your happiness!’ ‘Oh! do not think of my health,’
returned Sophy, ‘you know I mean to get quite well soon.’ ‘Do so, my
beloved sister,’ said Lucy, with a faint smile; but her countenance
expressed no hope that her sister’s prediction would be verified. I
even observed a tear trembling in her eye: to conceal it she hastily
left the room, saying she would look for a cage.

“You, perhaps, think that the prospect of a cage terrified me, but I
was now less satisfied with my liberty than at first, since I found
that there were dangers and misfortunes attending it, of which I had
not dreamt when in captivity: besides, I was shunned by my own species,
and led a solitary life, which was extremely irksome to me; so that,
upon the whole, I was not dissatisfied at becoming the companion of the
interesting Sophia, of whom I shall now give you some account.

“Her father was an honest, intelligent tradesman, who had, by his
reputation and diligence, obtained a very good business, by which he
maintained his family, consisting of his wife, three daughters, and
a son. The latter was very useful to his father, for, being a good
accomptant, he kept the books, and otherwise assisted him in business,
though scarcely fourteen. Sophia, my mistress, was fifteen, but in such
a delicate state of health, that she had few opportunities of being
useful to her family, though her disposition was so amiable, that,
had she possessed the power, I am sure she would not have wanted the
inclination. Lucy and Mary were twins, nearly two years older than
Sophia, and so active and industrious, that they not only superintended
the domestic concerns of the family, and did all the needle-work,
but also found time for recreations, the chief of which was making
clothes for their poor distressed neighbours. When Sophia was confined
to her room, one of them always contrived to be with her; and Arthur
generally joined them in the evening, to amuse his sister by playing on
the flute; for she was very fond of music, and he had applied himself
to it so earnestly, in order to afford her a new gratification, that
he had made some progress in that delightful science. Sometimes the
elder girls accompanied him with their voices, which were sweet and
unaffected. My mistress took great pleasure in these little concerts;
indeed, she frequently appeared as if beguiled of all her pain by them,
and tears of delight would fill her eyes. I was no less enraptured
on these occasions, and could not forbear joining my little notes in
chorus, for which I was greatly admired.

“My sensible, kind-hearted protectress, as you may imagine, soon gained
my affection. How, indeed, could it have been possible to know any one
of this amiable family, without sentiments of esteem; but Sophia was
constantly near me, and I was continually discovering something new to
admire in her. The patience she displayed in suffering; the restraints
she imposed on herself, in the presence of her dear relatives, lest any
expression of pain should escape her, and add to the grief they already
felt on her account; and, above all, the kind attention she bestowed
on me, made me not only admire, but love her so much, that, had she
opened the window and offered me liberty, I should have preferred
staying with her. Indeed, my ideas of liberty were now very different
to those I had formerly entertained: my enlargement had been attended
with so many misfortunes, that I considered my present confinement much
more tolerable.

“I was not always kept in a cage, but often allowed the full range of
Sophia’s apartment. Besides, she taught me several diverting tricks;
such as eating out of her hand, flying up to her mouth for a hemp-seed,
and drawing up a little pasteboard box, which was suspended by a string
to my cage, and into which she put something nice, as an inducement to
my exertions. I found that these performances pleased and amused her
very much, and I was, consequently, very docile and obedient.

“The amiable traits I discovered in each member of this family, led
me to imagine that all human beings were equally well disposed, and I
even pitied the timidity of our race, which made them mistrustful of
such benevolent creatures; but I was soon undeceived, by a circumstance
which is even now painful to my remembrance.

“Poor dear Sophia had with difficulty passed through the winter, but
spring, which revives all nature, seemed to promise the restoration
of her health. She was frequently able to quit her room, and on these
occasions she sat in a neat little parlour which overlooked the
garden. I, her constant companion, and more her favourite than ever,
was always brought down in my cage, and placed near the window. The
garden was separated on one side by a very close hedge, from that of
a neighbouring gentleman, whose children often walked there. In this
hedge a sparrow had constructed her little nest, and had been sitting
some time, when it was discovered by Arthur, who pointed it out to his
sisters. Sophia, from the window, observed the sparrow and her mate
alternately relieving each other from the confinement of the nest, and
frequently fed them. By this means they became very tame, and generally
sought their food at the accustomed time and place, chirping, as if to
thank their benefactress, whose gentle heart rejoiced at the idea of
affording pleasure or assistance to the minutest living creature.

“At length Arthur informed her that the young ones were hatched, and
she pleased herself with the hope, that they would soon come to feed
with their parents at the window. But three days only had elapsed, when
William Stanton, son of the gentleman before mentioned, came, attended
by a servant, to walk in his father’s garden, and as they approached
the hedge, we heard them conversing very familiarly together. ‘Master
W.,’ said the footman, ‘had you any bird-nesting at school?’ ‘Very
little,’ said the young gentleman, ‘for one of the boys met with an
accident, which made our master prohibit it, and we were too closely
watched to disobey. But you know, John, that will not prevent my having
some sport in that way now I am at home. You shall help me.’

“I was much surprised, as you may suppose, to hear a young gentleman
acknowledge, that he was obedient only when he was watched; for I had
always thought, that, as greater praise is due to those who perform
their duty voluntarily, the inducement to do so must be stronger where
confidence is reposed, at least to a generous mind. Master William,
however, could not, I imagined, possess any generous sentiments, since
he was so cruel as to deprive little, inoffensive animals of their
beloved offspring, and that too for sport.

“He and his servant were now approaching that part of the hedge where
Sophia’s poor little birds had built. She was at the window during
the above conversation, and was, doubtless, greatly alarmed for the
helpless nestlings. After a short pause, Master William suddenly
exclaimed, ‘I do think there are young birds in this hedge, for I heard
some chirp.’ ‘Like enough,’ said John, and immediately they began to
search.

“Poor Sophia, on hearing the last words, left the room, in order to
request her mother’s interposition in behalf of _her_ nest, as she
called it. Her mother, therefore, went down into the garden, where she
found Master William actually in possession of the nest, the little
ones chirping with terror, and the parent birds fluttering about the
hedge in visible distress. ‘Dear Master Stanton,’ said she, ‘I am sure
you cannot be sensible of the pain you are inflicting on those poor
little birds, by disturbing their nest, for I am persuaded that you do
not intend depriving them of it.’ ‘Yes, but I do, though,’ said he.
‘And what do you propose to do with them?’ ‘Oh, I shall play with them,
and give them to my little sisters to amuse them.’ ‘But can you find
amusement while giving pain to any animal?’ ‘Why, as to that, I shall
not hurt them; and then, you know, they will not feel any pain.’ ‘But
is hunger no pain?’ ‘Oh, I shall feed them.’ ‘That I am not sure you
will be able to do; and even if you were, do you think the old birds
will suffer nothing from the loss of them? See how distressed they now
appear.’ ‘Oh, the boys at school say that is all nonsense; they will
soon forget their grief.’ ‘Well, I see you are not to be prevailed
on, for the sake of the poor little birds, perhaps you will replace
them when I tell you, that they have been for some time a source of
amusement to one of my daughters, who is deprived of many comforts by
an illness which confines her entirely to the house, and from which we
have indeed every thing to apprehend.’

On this account, Master William seemed somewhat inclined to yield his
prize, but as he was entirely guided by his servant, he sought in his
countenance the approbation of his half-formed resolve. But alas! for
the poor little ones, John had once taken offence at some trifling
circumstance relating to this excellent family, and now, glad of an
opportunity of showing his consequence, he smiled sarcastically at
Master William. The latter seemingly understood that this smile taxed
him with weakness, for he immediately said, ‘Excuse me, Ma’am, I cannot
give up this nest, so good morning to you. John,’ continued he, ‘do not
you see a carriage going up the avenue? Let us make haste; there are
certainly some visitors going to mamma.’

“I heard no more of this bad boy’s conversation, for he was soon at a
distance. When poor Sophia learned from her mother the failure of her
mission, she was very much grieved; the latter, however, endeavoured
to console her by all the arguments she could adduce. ‘My dear mother,’
said the amiable girl, ‘how kind you are to console me! How can I
grieve at any trifling loss, while you are so good to me! Yet I feel
that I shall not easily forget this occurrence. The poor little ones
will doubtless all perish! The old birds, too, what they will suffer!
All their fond hopes destroyed in one moment, by the cruelty of that
naughty boy! But, indeed, I ought rather to pity than condemn him,
for it appears that false indulgence and improper company are leading
him from the only path in which true happiness can be found—that of
rectitude and humanity.’

“Here the entrance of Arthur and his father put an end to the
conversation. The family shortly after sat down to dinner, and the sad
fate of the nestlings seemed to be forgotten by all but Sophia, whose
accustomed cheerfulness was somewhat abated during the rest of the
day. I partook of her sensations at this time, for the event of the
morning had greatly distressed me, and I was by no means sorry when the
close of day invited me to repose.

“A few days after this memorable occurrence, one of a more serious
nature happened. My dear young mistress, whose flattering appearance
had lately induced her parents to hope that she would recover, suddenly
became so ill, that their too sanguine expectations were converted
into the most distressing apprehensions. She could not even bear my
presence, as I unconsciously disturbed her by my artless song, which
had always hitherto diverted her. I was, in consequence, removed from
her chamber, and I now passed my time very sorrowfully. Little notice
was taken of me, for all the family were too much occupied with my
dear mistress. They did not, however, neglect to feed me and clean my
cage, to which I was constantly confined. I should have suffered from
this restraint, had not the thoughts of my dear mistress rendered me
melancholy, and consequently, unfit for any amusement. The place I was
removed to, was the little parlour I mentioned to you before. Here the
doctors who attended poor Sophia frequently came, to inform her anxious
parents how they found her. One day the benevolent physician, who had
been most constant in his attendance, came in, and seeing Sophia’s
mother, he appeared greatly agitated. She fearfully enquired after her
daughter, when the good man, with tears in his eyes, begged her to be
composed and prepare for the worst. ‘Your child, dear madam,’ said
he, ‘has but a short time to suffer; she will then be as happy as she
deserves to be!’ He could add no more, and abruptly quitted the room,
leaving the unhappy mother in such distress, as can hardly be imagined,
much less described.

“I will pass over the mournful scenes that ensued, and briefly inform
you, that poor Sophia died that night! I was, as you may imagine,
deeply impressed by this sad event, and being still closely confined,
and deprived of my accustomed indulgences, I sat mournfully in my
cage, without uttering a note. At last, however, the fine weather and
my natural cheerfulness prevailed, and I ventured to sing a little;
but the sound of my voice seemed to revive the grief of this afflicted
family. The mother, in particular, was so much affected, that her
children proposed conveying me to some place where I might be more
welcome. They consulted together in my presence, (little thinking that
I understood them,) and decided that I should be presented to Miss
Stanton, the eldest sister of that cruel boy I told you of. I was
struck with terror at the name; but as some alleviation of my sorrow
and dread, I afterwards heard them expatiate on the amiable qualities
of the young lady to whose care they meant to consign me.

“The same evening the sisters sent a polite note to Miss Stanton,
(to whom they were not entirely unknown,) explaining their motive for
requesting her acceptance of the ‘little favourite,’ as they called me.
Arthur was the messenger on this occasion. He soon returned with an
answer, in which Miss Stanton, after condoling with them on the loss
they had sustained, expressed her willingness to receive me; at the
same time promising that every attention should be paid to my comfort;
for she justly imagined that they had some regard for me, and well knew
how to appreciate the motive which induced them to part with an object
that had been so dear to their lamented sister.

“On the following morning, Arthur was again deputed to convey me to
my new residence. The distance was very trifling, and on our arrival
a woman-servant ushered us into a little room, where there was a neat
book-case, a piano-forte, and other things which gave it the appearance
of a study. Here Miss Stanton soon joined us, and receiving me kindly
from Arthur, heard, with apparent delight, the catalogue of my various
accomplishments. She then dismissed my young conductor, with a present
of some handsomely bound books for himself and his sisters, requesting,
that whenever they read them they would remember their goldfinch, and
feel assured that it would be carefully attended, for their sake as
well as its own.

“I was greatly pleased with my reception, and the agreeable manners
of my new mistress; but still I could not divest myself of the grief
I felt for my beloved Sophia, nor of a degree of apprehension on
the score of Master William; and I was, in consequence, a prey to
melancholy reflections, which rendered me almost insensible to the
caresses Miss Stanton lavished on me. My spirits were still more
depressed by an event which occurred on the following day. Master
William, it seems, had heard of my arrival, and he now sent a little
girl to request that his sister would bring me to the drawing-room,
as he was not allowed to stir from the sofa. She complied, and was
ascending the staircase with me in my cage, when I beheld from a window
a sight that made me shudder: it was nothing less than the whole brood
of little sparrows, lying dead on the top of a portico. I afterwards
learned, that Master William, in his haste to get home, had slipped
down and sprained his ancle. The pain this accident caused him, and
the bustle it occasioned in the family, united in banishing from
his remembrance, and that of his attendant, the wants of his little
captives: they were found dead on the following morning, and John
carelessly tossed them out of the window.

“You may judge then what was my terror, when I found myself in the
actual presence of the obdurate boy, who had so wantonly exposed
these little innocents to a painful death, by taking them from their
parents. Happily for me, my mistress did not quit the room, or allow
him to touch me. I really think I should have expired through fear, if
he had.

“After this unpleasant visit, I remained some time without any material
interruption to my comfort. My new protectress was very fond of me,
and treated me with the greatest kindness. The room I inhabited was,
as I had supposed, her study; and as she was there occupied several
hours in the day, I was not without company, nor often shut up in my
cage. I had, indeed, abundant reason to be satisfied, as far as she was
concerned; yet I was not without apprehension on account of the younger
children of the family, who were all spoiled by indulgence. You,
perhaps, wonder how it happened that Miss Stanton was so amiable; but I
have yet to inform you, that the present Mrs. Stanton was not her own
mother. She was so unfortunate as to lose the latter, when about seven
years old, and her father had shortly after married a good-hearted but
weak woman, who rendered her children miserable, by the very means she
employed in order to promote their happiness. They were incessantly
wishing for something they had not, and never satisfied with what
they had; and their mother, instead of endeavouring to repress this
unreasonable propensity, encouraged it, by attending, with the utmost
anxiety, to their most trivial or capricious wishes, which were no
sooner gratified, than new desires arose in endless succession. I could
here enumerate several instances of their whims and humours, which fell
under my notice, but such details of folly would rather fatigue than
amuse you. I must, however, observe, that Miss Stanton was so amiable,
that she conciliated the affection of the children (though she never
indulged their caprices) and that of her mother-in-law, to whom she
always behaved with the greatest tenderness and respect.

“You must now prepare for a more eventful period of my history, for I
am about to enter on a new mode of life. I had not been two months with
Miss Stanton, when she and Mrs. Stanton were invited to spend a few
weeks, with a friend who lived at a considerable distance. On hearing
of this, I was extremely anxious to learn how I was to be disposed
of during their absence, and finding that I was to be entrusted to
the servants, all of whom were entirely controlled by the children, I
thought it high time to provide for my safety by flight: determining to
risk any thing, rather than remain exposed to the malice and mischief
of these spoiled children, or, at least, to continual apprehension from
them.

“I found no difficulty in effecting my escape, for I was considered so
tame, that I was sometimes allowed to be about the room when the door
was open. On one of these occasions (Miss Stanton being busily occupied
in finishing a drawing, which she intended as a present to the lady
she was going to visit) I dexterously slipped out.

“I now found myself in the hall by which I at first entered. My heart
palpitated with terror, lest I should be perceived by any one, and I
anxiously sought for some opening by which I might get into the garden;
fortunately, I perceived that the staircase-window was open. My joy on
this discovery is indescribable. It almost deprived me of the power of
flight: but making, at last, one vigorous effort, I darted into the
garden, where I remained no longer than was absolutely necessary to
recover myself, lest I should be pursued, and conveyed back to a place
which I now considered as a prison.

“My freedom at this time was less irksome to me than formerly, for I
felt a degree of courage to which I was before a stranger; and that,
I imagine, preserved me from the attacks of the other birds, for
they now treated me very courteously. One of them in particular, by
his kindness, so engaged my affection and gratitude, that we became
inseparable companions, and shortly after the commencement of our
friendship, we mutually agreed to build a nest together. Ah! then it
was that I first knew the delights of liberty and society. Our labours,
sweetened by affection, were converted into pleasures; while hope,
displaying to our imagination the little brood nourished by our mutual
toils, and reared by our mutual cares, imparted a new relish to every
enjoyment.

“Time thus happily spent passed quickly, and the blissful period at
length arrived, when our little ones, bursting their brittle enclosure,
greeted our delighted ears with their chirping, sweeter to us than
the most melodious warblings. Oh, what were my feelings then! To you
they must be inconceivable, for it is not in the power of language
to describe them. Of the cares and anxieties of a mother, you may
form some idea, by recurring to the solicitude of your own; but the
sensations of delight she experiences, can be appreciated only by one
in a similar situation. For some time we tended our offspring with
unremitted care: they throve amazingly, and becoming strong enough to
sustain a longer absence on our part, my mate and I ventured to fly
abroad together. Our first excursion was short, for I was all anxiety;
but finding our little ones safe and well on our return, we were, by
degrees, emboldened to quit them during a longer period.

“One delightful morning, after having supplied the wants of our family,
we set out together. We were allured by the charms of the weather,
further than we intended. I being the soonest tired, wished to rest on
an adjacent hedge: my mate followed, and had nearly overtaken me, when
my cries warned him not to approach he fatal spot; for, to my utter
astonishment and dismay, I found myself held, as it were by magic,
and unable to raise my feet. When my first surprise was abated, I
discovered that it was owing to a glutinous substance which was spread
on the branch I had sought to rest upon, and from which I vainly strove
to disengage myself. My poor mate, finding that he could not effect my
release from this cruel snare, (for such in reality it was,) wished
to remain with me and share my fate; but I besought him, in the most
earnest and pathetic terms, to consider our helpless little ones, who
must certainly perish, if he, their only protector, abandoned them.
My entreaties had the desired effect; for, after some hesitation, he
consented to go and feed them, promising to fly back quickly, in order,
if possible, to ascertain my fate.

“Ah! what a dreadful moment was that of our separation. It seemed as
if we were never to meet again; and the event but too well justified
the forebodings of my despair, for, shortly after, two boys came to
the hedge, and gently extricated me from the spray, rejoicing at the
success of their plan, and reckoning the amount of what they expected
to gain by disposing of me. I was a little consoled at finding they did
not intend keeping me themselves; for what could I have expected from
such cruel boys, or how could I have borne the sight of those, who, in
a single moment, had destroyed all my happiness.

“They walked on together till we came to a large town, where entering
a shop, in which were birds of various kinds in cages, they offered
me for sale. The dealer’s proposals, however, came very far short
of their expectations; for being a hen bird, my song was held in
little estimation. The boys were almost inclined to keep me, but the
shopkeeper making a trifling advance in his offer, the bargain was
closed, and I established in a situation entirely new to me, but which
proved more tolerable than I had imagined it could have done. Comforts
I had none but food and cleanliness. Indeed, such was my dejection
when I remembered my late happiness, that I should not have been
susceptible of any enjoyment short of restoration to my family.

“I remained a long time with the bird-fancier, for, though frequently
offered for sale, I was as often refused, for the reason I before
mentioned. At length, that Providence which deigns to watch over the
meanest of our species, conducted Master Charles to deliver me from my
prison. He purchased me for his little sister, and, from his attention
to me during our journey, and from the apparent kindness of the whole
family towards our species, I have some hopes of comfort here. Yet,
such is my aversion to confinement, under any circumstances, that I
shall certainly seize the first opportunity to regain my liberty.”




CHAP. IV.


When the goldfinch had thus ended her interesting narrative, with which
I was at once affected and delighted, I no longer wondered at her
timidity. Indeed, the relation of her numerous misfortunes inspired
me with a degree of respect towards her, which I had not before felt:
our intimacy strengthened daily, and at last ripened into sincere
friendship. I had, too, frequent opportunities of observing some new
trait in my young friends, which excited my esteem and admiration; so
that I considered myself extremely fortunate, in having an agreeable
companion and worthy protectors.

My happiness, however, met with a transient interruption, from a severe
fit of illness, which attacked me about this time. I shall never
forget the kindness of my dear mistress on this occasion. She nursed
me with the greatest tenderness, and administered such things as were
likely to conduce to my restoration, with so much judgment, that I
happily recovered.

As my illness had given my mistress great uneasiness, you may suppose
that my recovery afforded her proportionate pleasure; and in order
to confirm my re-establishment, she ventured to take me again to her
garden, when she went to work there. I kept so close to her, and showed
so little inclination to fly away, that she left me alone on one of the
borders, while she went to the green-house. On her return she found me
near the place where she had left me, and offered me something to eat,
which I refused, for my attention was otherwise engaged. A sudden gloom
seemed to pervade all nature! The sun was concealed by thick clouds,
the birds were entirely silent, and a slight rustling among the trees
indicated an approaching storm. I looked up anxiously at my mistress,
but she seemed quite insensible to the terror that had seized me, and
merely urged me to eat. Finding that she did not understand me, and
that no time was to be lost, I flew for shelter to a neighbouring tree.
My mistress called to me, and I answered; but the pattering of the
rain, which began to descend in torrents, prevented her hearing me,
and obliged her to enter the green-house. I was sadly frightened when
I found myself alone; but I hoped, when the storm was over, to rejoin
my best friend. I heard her calling me at intervals, but I durst not as
yet quit my retreat.

At length the rain ceased, and the sun shone more brightly than
before, at least, so it appeared to me after the storm. I hastened to
the green-house, but what was my astonishment on perceiving that my
mistress had left it. I now gave myself up as lost, for I knew that I
was unable either to provide for or defend myself. All the dangers the
goldfinch had encountered, rushed on my imagination, and all seemed to
threaten me, young and defenceless as I was.

Time, though it passed heavily with me, passed on. The sun, fast
sinking in the west, indicated the decline of day, and I contemplated,
with extreme terror, the approach of night. I frequently thought of my
father and mother, and our comfortable little nest. I had once some
idea of retiring to it for the night; but how could I be sure of safety
there? My parents were no longer in it to protect me: besides, though
I had never slept out alone, I had reason to think that the night air
must be very chilly, as our parents always took such care to keep us
warm; and I already felt cold and comfortless, for every leaf was wet,
and I so tired of hopping about, that I could no longer keep myself
warm by exercise.

Amidst this assemblage of misfortunes, I had just sense enough to keep
near the green-house. The surrounding shrubbery was very beautiful,
but to me, at present, its charms were all lost. The birds, too, that
inhabited it, sung very sweetly; but the voice of my mistress, or the
sound of her approaching footsteps, would have been much sweeter to me.

At length, when I had nearly lost all hope, I was aroused by the
shutting of the green-house door, and the following instant I heard my
beloved mistress calling me, as she was accustomed to do, by imitating
the chirping of a bird. I answered, in accents half joyful, hair
mournful, for I was nearly starved with cold and hunger, and overjoyed
at meeting with her again. She followed the sound of my voice, and I,
as soon as I saw her, flew into a little tuft of ivy, close to where
she stood, that she might see me; and there I remained quietly, till
she took me gently in her hand to convey me home. I was glad enough
to see the school-room again, and well contented, after a plentiful
feeding, to retire to rest on my accustomed music-book.

On the following morning, my companion, the goldfinch, informed me of
what had passed in my absence. My mistress returning without me excited
no surprise, as she frequently shut me up in her own room, that I might
be at liberty, without interrupting her business in the school-room;
but one of the children happening to enquire where I was, my flight was
proclaimed.

All the young people evinced great regret, but my mistress told them
she had no doubt that I should be much happier out of doors; adding,
“You know I never intended keeping him a prisoner, and have, therefore,
frequently taken him out, that he might learn to provide for himself.”

“I fear he cannot do that yet,” said Clara.

“Beware, my love,” returned her governess, “lest, under that fond
concern for the little favourite, there should lurk a degree of
self-love. I must acknowledge, that, for my own gratification, I should
have preferred keeping him; but I love the little creature well enough
to consider his happiness, and that I think must consist, in a great
measure, in freedom. The very make of birds indicates that they ought
to be as free as the element in which they range.”

These arguments seemed to satisfy the children. “But,” enquired Anna,
“how will you be able to ascertain that he is happy? Do you expect ever
to see him again?”

“I intend,” said my mistress, “to go out a little before sun-set; if
when I call him he comes to me, I will receive him again under my
protection; but if, on the contrary, he shuns me, I shall conclude that
he no longer stands in need of it.”

The dear girls were much pleased with this arrangement, and still more
so with the result, of which my young readers are already informed. The
forlorn state in which my mistress had found me, induced her to believe
that I was yet too young to be set at liberty; and I was by no means
sorry on that account, for my late ramble had given me no exalted idea
of the happiness I should enjoy out of doors. Besides, I was perfectly
happy in my present situation, for I had every comfort that could be
procured for me; and I have observed that birds are not, like human
beings, apt to grow tired, even of good things, after having enjoyed
them some time.

No one, however, grew tired of me: I was daily more admired and
caressed by my young friends in the school-room, by their dear mamma,
and by the visitors who sometimes came to hear my little friends play
on the piano-forte. And here I cannot omit one remark, which I think
extremely creditable to them, because I have since seen many young
persons very deficient in that respect. When requested to play, though
their execution was by no means superior, they complied so readily,
and acquitted themselves with such modest good-humour, as could not
fail to enhance the merit of their performance, and create in the
minds of their auditors, that admiration which is never excited by
talents alone. I also got my share of praise on these occasions, for
I contrived sometimes to settle on the music-book, and at others on
Lady Seymour’s arm or shoulder, where I frequently fell asleep, though
not till I had heard many expressions of surprise at my familiarity.
I cannot say that I felt much vanity arise in my mind, from the
admiration lavished on me; for I did not think it at all surprising,
that extreme kindness on the part of my friends, should excite a
similar degree of confidence in me. I am, indeed, convinced, that were
there more such persons as the goldfinch’s Sophia and my protectors,
few little birds would be kept, as I have seen many, in small cages,
hung up in a corner, and scarcely noticed except when fed. But as it is
time to return to my history, after this long digression, it shall be
resumed in the succeeding chapter.




CHAP. V.


The wet weather, of which we had had abundance, at length disappeared,
and summer, in her gayest apparel, rapidly advanced. I greatly
enjoyed the genial warmth of the sun, and frequently basked on the
window-frames, where it was transmitted, with increased ardour, through
the glass.

My young readers may remember, that when I was out for two or three
hours, the ground was wet and the air chilly, and I was consequently
unwilling to remain in so uncomfortable a state; but now that the
weather was warm and settled, the trees covered with beautiful foliage,
and I able to provide for myself, I must confess that I frequently
viewed the pleasing landscape before me, with something like a wish
that I were at liberty to roam at large in it, and I began to calculate
the happiness I should enjoy, when, according to the avowed intention
of my mistress, I was to be at my own disposal. I indulged myself
the more freely in these anticipations, as I was not guilty of any
ingratitude in so doing, for I knew that she rather wished to encourage
than repress my desire of liberty.

One morning my mistress rose much later than usual, on account of
a slight indisposition, and I finding the time rather long, amused
myself by looking out at the window. There was before the house an
extensive lawn, in which were a few trees. I saw a multitude of little
birds alternately flying about, and resting on the waving branches,
and sporting with that active gaiety which a delightful summer morning
inspires. Suddenly there appeared among them a much larger bird, who
seemed to terrify them all, for they flew with great precipitation
towards the shrubbery. One of them, however, was closely pursued by the
large bird, and though he made every effort to escape, was overtaken
and caught by him. If this is play, thought I, it is very rough play.
But how shall I describe the horror I felt, when I saw the monster
begin to devour the inoffensive little bird! I uttered a scream, and
flew to hide myself behind my mistress’s pillow, scarcely knowing what
I did or where I was; though, had I reflected for a moment, I should
have known that I was entirely out of danger.

When I recovered myself, I remembered the goldfinch’s narrow escape on
a similar occasion, and I felt my ardour for liberty somewhat abated;
for I began to consider that there might be other dangers, of which I
was entirely ignorant, and this one was sufficiently appalling.

When my mistress had been up some time, she took me with her to the
school-room. I was fully intent on relating what I had witnessed to
my companion, so flew immediately towards her cage. She was not there;
but this did not surprise me, for neither she nor I was much confined.
I expected to find her about the room, but she was not to be found;
and the entrance of Lady Seymour put an end to my doubts and my search
at the same time, for little Julia met her with tears in her eyes, and
deplored the loss of her bird, which had, she said, flown out at the
window.

“But why, my love,” said her mamma, “did you let her out when the
window was open?”

“It was I, dear mamma,” interrupted Anna, “who was so unfortunate; I
did not know the window was open.”

“You mean careless, not unfortunate,” returned Lady Seymour: “you ought
to have been sure it was shut.”

“Dear mamma,” said Julia, “poor Anna is very sorry: if I had let out
her bird, I should not have needed one reproach; and I did not intend
to cry, for fear of vexing her more, but, indeed, I could not help it.”

“I am pleased with your affectionate conduct on this trying occasion,
my little Julia,” said Lady S. “particularly as it is founded on the
noblest of all principles—that of doing as you would be done to. A
hundred little birds are not to me so valuable, as one instance of
goodness in my children. I will soon procure you another little pet.”

“I shall not soon like another so well as my own poor little Goldey,”
said Julia: and I thought just as she did. I had become much attached
to my companion, and felt her loss very severely, especially when my
friends went out, for I was then quite solitary. Besides, I knew not
what might be her fate; nor was I certain that she was not the unhappy
victim I had seen in the morning.




CHAP. VI.


My readers may remember, that little Charles came home merely for the
holidays, which being now over, his papa proposed taking him back to
school; at the same time expressing a wish that Lady Seymour would be
of the party, as she might then visit some relations, whom she had not
seen for several years. The excellent mother did not like to leave
her home, where she was always usefully occupied, for the benefit of
her family or her poor neighbours; or agreeably entertained by the
innocent gaiety of her children, during their hours of relaxation,
which they always passed with her. No society was so delightful to her
as theirs nor could any more pleasing indulgence be granted them, than
permission to go to their dear mamma. However, she now yielded to Sir
Charles’s earnest solicitation to accompany him, well knowing that she
could place implicit confidence in Miss Sedley, during her absence.

My young friends behaved very sensibly on this occasion; for though
they felt great uneasiness at parting with their beloved mother,
they forbore all expressions of regret in her presence, lest they
should diminish the pleasure she was likely to enjoy in visiting her
relations. The two little girls who were in the nursery accompanied
their mamma; for she observed, that it would be no loss of time to
them, as they had not yet commenced their studies.

I shall pass over the parting scene, which was, indeed, a mournful
one, and introduce my readers to my young friends in the school-room,
where they assembled soon after the departure of their parents. They
were evidently dejected, but no impatient expressions escaped them.
Their kind governess insensibly diverted them from the contemplation of
their grief, by various amusements, all contributing to their health
or improvement. She at length succeeded in tranquillizing their minds,
and they, sensible of her kindness, evinced towards her affection and
gratitude.

I had now an opportunity of seeing them at all times, and my esteem
for them was by no means diminished. Indeed, I never beheld a happier
little society: they were obedient and attentive during the hours
allotted to study, and so united in all their sentiments, that
it seemed as if one mind animated the three. Their governess was
indulgent, because she found that indulgence was not injurious to them;
and they were happy, because they deserved to be so. Even their motives
and incitements to virtue were of the noblest kind. They were early
taught to believe, that happiness is derived from conferring benefits,
rather than from receiving them. Their excellent mother knew this truth
from experience, and was anxious that her daughters should learn it
by the same means. She had established a school for poor children, on
Sir Charles’s estate, to which she allowed each of the young ladies
to send a little girl; and in order to enable them to pay for their
_protegées_, she allowed a weekly stipend to those who, by their
amiable conduct, deserved it. My young readers may easily suppose, that
they always endeavoured to merit this reward; for it would have been at
once vexatious and disgraceful, not to have had a child in the school.
They were allowed to visit the poor children occasionally, to inspect
their progress; and I observed that they always came home more cheerful
and happy, from their favourite walk to the hill, on the summit of
which stood the little school-house; so that I did not doubt that they
already felt the good effects of their mother’s sensible plan.

Several weeks passed without any material occurrence in my history,
and my young friends were beginning to anticipate the return of their
beloved parents, when my mistress remarked, one day, that I was not so
merry as usual, (for I was not quite well.) “Poor little fellow,” said
she, “he perhaps regrets being kept in doors this fine weather: I must
let him out.”

The children looked as if they did not wish me to go, but said nothing.
I should not have been so silent, could I have made myself understood;
for I really wished to stay where I was so comfortable.

Not long after this they went out, and I was rejoicing at being
left behind, when my dear mistress returned, and taking me in my
cage, conveyed me to the shrubbery, where she rejoined her pupils.
They, remembering what had passed on a former occasion, offered no
remonstrance on this. We arrived at the little garden where I had so
often been before; my cage was set down, and the doors placed open. I
was still irresolute: I chirped to my mistress, came on the outside of
my cage, and then went in again, to show that I was willing to remain
with her. At length I ventured out again, and hopped on one of the
flower-beds. My friends watched me for some time, and I, still anxious
to show my affection and gratitude, flew on to my mistress’s shoulder.

“Dear little bird!” said she, “I trust you will be happy, and I shall
then congratulate myself on having been the means of making you so.”

These words seemed to assure me, that my liberty was a desirable
object, and, encouraged by the manner in which they were uttered, I
ventured a short flight to an adjacent syringa. My friends followed me,
and having scattered food near the spot, left me, in order to continue
their walk. I felt rather timid when left alone, but my sensations were
very different to those I experienced when I was out before. I soon
acquired sufficient courage to explore my new place of abode, which I
found so delightful, that I regretted when the approach of night put
an end to my rambles. I met with many other little birds, but felt
no terror on their approach; for they seemed by no means inclined to
molest me, and I was now strong enough to defend myself, if they had. I
found plenty of food, for the trees abounded in insects; and my friends
did not fail to strew about the paths, such seeds as they knew I liked.
I frequently saw them pass along, and wished to show myself to them;
but there was a little dog which generally accompanied them, and I was
afraid of getting too near him. Once, however, I heard them talking
very earnestly about me, and wishing to know whether I was still alive.
This made me resolve to watch for an opportunity of assuring them of my
safety.

It was not long before I fulfilled my intention, for my mistress
and little Julia came out one afternoon without the dog. I was on
a laburnum-tree near the house, and immediately flew from it to a
grass-plot before them.

“There is my bird!” exclaimed my mistress, in an accent of delight.

“Where?” said Julia.

“There, on the grass. Do not you see him? Now he has flown towards the
kitchen-window.”

“Now I see him, indeed,” said Julia: “are you not glad to find him
alive and well?”

“And in good company too,” added my mistress; for just then I was
taking a little flight with some young birds, who were very friendly
to me, and with whom I made many pleasant excursions about the
shrubbery, though we seldom passed its boundaries: for my young readers
are, perhaps, to be informed, that Robins do not assemble in large
companies, and take long flights, as larks, thrushes, linnets, and
many other birds do, but content themselves with a less extensive
range, about the hedges, woods, or gardens, where they are brought up.

After the first interview, I saw my friends almost every day, and as
the dog seldom came with them, I took care that they should see me; for
I knew that it gave them pleasure, and I was anxious to prove myself
grateful for their kindness.

I was now extremely happy, much more so than I had ever been, enjoying,
at once, liberty, society, and the affectionate notice of those to whom
I owed all my enjoyments. But an unforeseen event deprived me of all
my felicity. My mistress, in her extreme solicitude lest I should be
unable to find food, or should be deprived of it by the other birds,
who sometimes attack those who have been brought up tame, left my
cage fixed to the enclosure of her garden, and constantly replenished
the troughs with food and water. I frequently fed there, and found it
extremely convenient; but it seems that I was observed by one of the
little boys who weeded in the garden, and swept the gravel-walks of the
shrubbery. He watched for an opportunity, and when I was feeding one
evening, he suddenly shut the door of the cage. Soon after this he left
off work, and taking me gently out of the cage, carried me home with
him.

He lived in a little cottage, at some distance from my late residence.
I had never seen any poor person’s house, therefore was greatly
surprised at the appearance of this. While I was looking at the outside
of it, a neat-looking little girl came to the door. “Ah, Willy! is it
you,” said she: “I am glad you are come, for I wanted to show you my
pretty kitten.”

“Oh! I am afraid I shall not wish you joy of it,” said the boy, “for
I have something here worth twenty kittens, and both must not be
together.”

“Then that must be a mouse,” said the child.

“Not a mouse. Guess again.”

“Perhaps a young rabbit, or a squirrel—but do show it me, pray do.”

“Yes, if you will promise to give me the kitten, that I may take it to
aunt Patty, or give it to somebody; for see, you would not like this
pretty little bird to be killed.”

“Oh dear, no! my good Willy. Did you bring it for me? Pray let me have
it in my own hand.”

“Be patient,” said the boy; “first go and shut up your kitten in the
shed, till I can take it away.”

“Aunt Patty gave it me,” said the little girl, “and she will take it
back again. I should have been glad to have kept it, but I shall like a
little bird much better.”

“Peggy, Peggy, where are you?” said a voice from the interior of the
cottage: “I want you, child.”

“Coming, mother,” replied Peggy; “only I am looking at a pretty Robin
Willy has brought me.”

“A Robin!” returned her mother; “then mind the cat you have been
nursing all the afternoon. The bird would not like her so well as she
would like him.”

“So Willy says, mother; and I am going to put puss in the shed, till he
can take her back. May I, mother?”

“Yes, child, and make haste, for I want you here.”

Peggy made great haste, and when her mother had done with her, she
returned to her brother, who had now entered the cottage, and requested
to have me in her hand.

“Gently, then,” said Willy: “do not pinch it: it is not like a cat.”

“Oh! I will take great care,” said she, and she took me very tenderly
from the boy, greatly surprised that I did not flutter, or struggle to
get from her; and still more so, when, gently disengaging myself from
her feeble grasp, I perched on her shoulder. “Oh! you dear little
creature,” said she, “why you know me already. But how did you contrive
to make him so tame, Willy?”

“I did nothing to him,” said the boy; “I got him only this evening.”
And then he related what my readers already know, about his finding me
in the cage.

“Come, William,” said the boy’s mother, “get your supper, for I am sure
you must be hungry; but, stop a moment, first take off your coat, that
I may put a patch on the elbow. I cannot bear to see you in rags; no
more could your poor father, he was always so tidy.”

“And so will I be, mother, when I am a man: and so shall you and Peggy
be too, for I will buy you comfortable clothes.”

“What! will you buy me a new frock?” said Peggy: “when will you get it?
I can make some of it myself. Cannot I, mother?”

“Not so fast, Peggy,” interrupted her brother; “I am not rich enough
yet, nor shall not be neither, till I am bigger, and able to earn more
money.”

“I hope that will be soon, then, for both my frocks are very old:
mother has patched them so often. And see, I put in these two pieces,”
added she, showing her frock; which I then first observed to be of
various pieces and colours. “But,” continued the talkative little girl,
“I know what I had rather have now than a new frock:—dear Willy, if you
could get me a little cage for my bird!”

“That will not cost much,” replied her brother, “for I can make you one
myself, and so I will, when I have done my supper.”

“Thank you, thank you, dear Willy! You are always so good-natured,”
said Peggy, “and that makes me feel so happy, that I never want a new
frock, or any thing else, when I think of it.”

This interesting dialogue did not pass unnoticed by the poor mother.
She had let fall her boy’s coat, and was gazing intently on her
children, her eyes filled with tears of joy.

“Dear mother, you are crying!” said Willy: “what is the matter? Are you
unhappy? Can I do any thing for you?”

“I am not unhappy, my dear boy,” replied she, “it was joy that overcame
me, and, like Peggy, I seem to want nothing, while I am blest with two
children so dutiful to me, and so fond of each other.”

“That, I hope, we shall always be,” said Willy, and he rose hastily, to
get, as he said, the twigs for the cage; but I saw him brush off a tear
from his cheek, with the back of his hand.

Willy was, indeed, a good-natured boy, and that in a different degree
to what the common acceptation of the term implies; for I have known
many children who thought themselves good-natured, because they
gave away what they did not want, or deprived themselves of some
superfluity, to relieve the wants of others. This boy, however, had
no superfluities, but he gave up what he really wanted to his mother
and sister, seeming never to consider himself; and his coat had not
now been so ragged, if he had not expended the money which was to have
bought a new one, on his little sister, the preceding winter. His poor
mother had hoped to make it up to him, by the little she could earn at
needle-work or spinning, but in this she had been disappointed. Her
little girl had been ill of the measles in the spring, and all her
resources had been then exhausted, in procuring proper nourishment and
remedies for the little sufferer. Nor was this the only privation to
which Willy submitted; for I am sure he frequently refused his share of
their scanty provisions, that there might be more for his mother and
sister.




CHAP. VII.


I was treated very well by this poor family, and, by degrees, got
acquainted with their history. They had known better days. The father,
when living, had been an honest, industrious, and thriving farmer; but
a fire had, in one night, consumed all his stock, and thus reduced
him and his poor children to a state little superior to beggary. He
had lost all but his industry, and that he exerted for some time with
indefatigable ardour; but the anxiety of his mind, and the continual
fatigue he underwent, at length brought on a fever, which terminated
his distresses and his life together.

He had now been dead a twelvemonth, having left four children, (the two
I have mentioned, and two much younger,) who must have gone to the
workhouse, had it not been for Willy’s industry. He not only worked all
day in the garden, but frequently went on errands to a neighbouring
town in the evening; and such were his diligence and honesty, that all
the neighbours were glad to employ him on these occasions.

I must confess, that, though I greatly admired the conduct of this
worthy family, I was not so happy in it, as I had heretofore been.
Little Peggy had not much time to bestow on me; for, though only six
years old, her mother thought it right to habituate her to domestic
employments and the use of her needle, in both of which she was already
very handy. I was, of course, confined much more than I liked; but my
poor little mistress seemed so delighted to possess me, that I was not
very anxious to leave her. However, my opinion was not consulted, for I
soon after left her, owing to the following circumstances.

As Peggy was one day standing at the cottage-door, with one of her
patched frocks on, two young ladies came past. One of them accosting
Peggy, said, “Who mended your frock so nicely, little girl?”

“My mother, Miss,” answered the child; “but the other is done the best,
because I did some of this.”

“Should you like to have a new one?” said the other young lady. “I
think, dear Amelia,” added she, addressing her companion, “this little
creature would do very well for one of them.”

“But do you think she could learn the verses?” said Amelia.

“I dare say she could: I would try to teach her myself.”

“You, Louisa! What would your mamma say?”

“My mamma would have no objection, I am sure; for she often takes me
with her to the Sunday-school, and then I sometimes hear the children
say their hymns.”

“Willy goes to the Sunday-school,” interrupted the little girl; “and he
taught me a hymn; and when he gets a new frock for me, I am to go too.”

“Come,” said Miss Amelia, “we must not stay here; my mamma does not
allow me to visit the cottagers, she has such a terror of infection.
You know I am an only child, and much depends on my life,” added she,
with a mixture of importance and affected languor.

“That is true,” said Louisa, “but you know my mamma has plenty of us,
and she says we must all be useful, for that is the only good of living
at all. However, what do you decide? Shall I prepare the poor child or
not?”

“Just as you like—with all my heart,” returned Amelia, in a tone that
indicated her heart had nothing to do with it.

“Well, then, I will ask mamma,” said Louisa; and away they both went,
without saying any thing more to Peggy.

I must here beg leave to anticipate some part of my history, for the
purpose of informing my readers, what I afterwards learned respecting
these two young ladies. Amelia Wyndham was, as she said, an only
child, and heiress to immense property. Her father had died when she
was an infant, and her mother, on whom the entire management of her
had devolved, indulged her to excess. Misguided affection had some
share in producing such unwise conduct, but pride had a still greater.
She imagined, that because her daughter would possess ample means to
gratify all her fancies, she need not be denied any thing; and because
riches and noble descent confer importance, and induce submission,
she need not be taught obedience or humility, therefore, was never to
be contradicted. It seems, however, that Amelia’s mother forgot that
there are enjoyments which neither rank nor wealth can confer; for
I have observed, that, though rich or proud people may excite fear,
they cannot command esteem or respects—tributes which belong to the
virtuous only. I thought Willy and his little sister much more to be
admired than this young lady. Besides, they appeared much happier than
she, which I supposed was the consequence of their being more useful.
However, lest I appear tedious, I will return to Miss Amelia.

Such sentiments as Mrs. Wyndham’s were not calculated to produce any
salutary effects on the mind of her child, who, though naturally active
and well-disposed, was rendered helpless, indolent, and perverse. When
little, she had not been allowed to walk out, like other children,
lest she should be tired; nor to romp with her little playfellows,
because they were too robust, and might overpower her tender frame.
Her mind, too, was neglected, because study was irksome to her. Her
natural activity had, indeed, induced her to begin many things, but
her habitual indolence had inclined her to relinquish them as soon as
any difficulty arose; so that at twelve years of age she had merely
acquired an imperfect idea of those studies and accomplishments, in
which most young ladies of the same age have made some proficiency.

Such was Amelia Wyndham, to whom Louisa Carleton was a striking
contrast. She was the eldest of a numerous family, and about six
months older than her companion. She possessed sensible parents,
who had accustomed her to habits of obedience and industry from her
infancy. She had been taught, that the best use of riches is to assist
the needy; the best use of knowledge, to instruct the ignorant; and
the best use of time, to employ it in improving her own mind, or
in benefiting her fellow-creatures. An education founded on such
principles seldom fails of success, and in the present instance it had
produced the most happy effects. Louisa was well-informed, obedient,
gentle, and humane; the admiration of all who knew her, the delight
of her parents, and her mother’s principal assistant in the domestic
economy of her family, and in her plans for relieving the poor.

I shall now return to the cottage, and inform my readers what passed
there. On the day after the two young ladies spoke to little Peggy,
Louisa Carleton came again, accompanied by her mamma: the latter
enquired into the circumstances of the family, and finding that the
poor woman had no employment but spinning, desired her to come to her
house the ensuing week, when she should be at home, and would give her
some work, which would be more profitable than her present occupation.
Mrs. Carleton then proceeded to explain the purport of her visit,
by informing Peggy’s mother, that Mrs. Wyndham intended to invite a
large party to a splendid breakfast on her daughter’s birthday, and
that Miss Amelia wished to surprise her mamma and the visitors, by
procuring a group of little girls, who were to recite some verses she
had selected for the occasion. “They are all to have new clothes given
to them,” added she: “Miss Wyndham has fixed on your little girl as one
of them, so, if you choose her to earn a new dress by this means, my
Louisa will teach her what she is to do.”

“Most willingly, Ma’am, and a thousand thanks to you,” said the poor
woman; “but Peggy cannot read, and if there be much to learn, I am
afraid Miss will find her troublesome.”

“But I will try, mother, indeed I will,” said Peggy.

“Do not be afraid,” said Louisa, “there is but little to learn, and I
have plenty of time to teach you.”

Very little more passed during this visit: the ladies took leave,
Louisa promising to come again shortly. She kept her word, and came
regularly for several days, to instruct little Peggy in her part.
Finding her very docile, she taught her to spell, and heard her read.
The child’s mother was delighted, and Miss Louisa was no less so, with
the progress of her pupil; for she hoped to surprise and please her
dear mamma, by letting Peggy read to her at some future time.

My readers may suppose, that I was not unnoticed by Miss Louisa. Peggy
displayed all my accomplishments to her young benefactress, who was
very much pleased with me, and who did not fail to expatiate on my
tameness, &c. to her friend Amelia. The latter no sooner heard that
I was something uncommon, than she wished to possess me; for Amelia
estimated the value of things from their scarcity, rather than any
other quality they possessed.




CHAP. VIII.


Mrs. Carleton’s visit to Mrs. Wyndham was protracted longer than she at
first intended. At length the great fête-day arrived. Every thing went
on in the best manner possible. Miss Wyndham’s generosity in clothing
the poor children, and her taste in the judicious arrangement of her
part of the entertainment, were talked of throughout the neighbourhood;
yet, for my part, I discovered nothing so meritorious in the young
lady’s conduct, nor could I forbear thinking Louisa Carleton much more
entitled to admiration, even on this occasion; for she bestowed her
time and attention in teaching little Peggy. And I afterwards learned
that it was she, who, with the assistance of one of her sisters, had
entirely made the children’s dresses; for Amelia was neither able nor
willing to work for any one, so that all the praises bestowed on her,
were, in reality, due to Louisa. However, I am sure each was rewarded
according to her own taste:—Amelia with the applause of the multitude,
Louisa with the more grateful, though less pompous testimony of her own
heart.

The grand business of the _fête_ was no sooner over, than Amelia’s
thoughts recurred to me, and she accompanied Louisa, on the following
evening, to the cottage. I shall pass over the poor woman’s expressions
of gratitude, (which Miss Amelia did not receive with that openness and
affability I had so often observed in Louisa on similar occasions,) and
continue my narrative.

Amelia asked to see me. “It is a Robin,” said she: “does it sing?”

“Yes, Miss,” said Peggy; “perhaps, if you stay a little while, you will
hear him.”

I was not willing to disappoint my little mistress, so I presently
after began to sing.

“That is not the song of a Robin,” said Amelia.

“So I have often observed,” returned Louisa; “but it is a very sweet
song, and he is a very nice little bird, I think.”

“So do I,” said Amelia: “I wish I had one like him. Could not you get
me one, child?” enquired she, addressing Peggy.

“I don’t know, Miss, but I’ll try—I mean, I’ll ask our Willy to try.”

“Do so,” said Amelia; “but I suppose there are few like this: I never
saw one so tame. Besides, I thought Robins could not be kept in a cage.”

The object of the visit being thus far attained, the young ladies
departed. Louisa, however, ran back to tell Peggy’s mother, that though
she was now about to return home with her mamma, the little girl
should not be forgotten; for that she would come, though perhaps not
so often, to teach her. “After Christmas,” added she, “I shall be able
to send her to the village school; and in the mean time, you can send
her every Sunday with her brother, to learn her Catechism, and then I
can teach her; for mamma has promised to take me always with her to the
Sunday-school.”

When Louisa was gone, Peggy’s mother said: “Child, you must give that
little bird to Miss Wyndham, for I am sure she wants it.”

“Must I, dear mother,” said Peggy: “why, I did not wish to part with
it; yet, if I did, I thought I should like to give it to Miss Louisa.”

“She does not wish for it, and Miss Amelia does,” replied the mother:
“you know she gave you clothes, and you must not be ungrateful.”

“Well, if I must, I must,” said the child, with a sigh; “but may I not
wait till Sunday, to ask Miss Louisa what she thinks?”

“That you may, with all my heart,” returned her mother; “she is sure to
tell you what is best.”

Peggy appeared pleased with this short respite. Perhaps, indeed, she
hoped, as I did, that her benefactress would advise her not to part
with her favourite. It happened, however, quite otherwise. Louisa
contrived to visit the cottage once more before her departure, and when
little Peggy, with artless simplicity, told her all that was in her
mind, the excellent girl refused to deprive her of her _pet_, (as she
called me,) but advised my being sent to her friend Amelia.

I was much distressed at this decision; yet I could not help admiring
the disinterestedness and prudence displayed in Louisa, who well knew
that the child would gain more than an equivalent by the sacrifice; and
for herself, though I am sure she would have liked to possess me, she
was too generous to deprive Amelia of an object she so ardently desired.

In pursuance, therefore, of her advice, Willy took me on the following
morning to Wyndham Hall. His poor little sister shed some tears on
parting with me. “My poor little Bob!” said she, “you may get a finer
house and better food, but you will not find a mistress who loves you
better than I do.”

I felt as much grieved as herself, and had I been able to speak, would
have told her that I did not desire any thing better than she had
provided me; but as my language was unintelligible to her, I could not
afford her even this consolation.

On our arrival at the hall, Miss Amelia received me with apparent
delight, and having put me safely in a very handsome cage, ran to
show me to her mamma, and to request that she would give the child
something in return. Mrs. Wyndham, who could not bear that her daughter
should be under an obligation, particularly to a poor person, made
now a very judicious return for the favour, far, indeed, exceeding
its value. She ordered a good milch-cow to be sent back with the boy.
This was, indeed, a valuable present to the poor woman, as it not only
supplied her family with milk, &c., but enabled her to sell some to the
neighbours, which, with the promised assistance of Mrs. Carleton, no
doubt made her circumstances tolerably easy. And I must acknowledge,
that these considerations consoled me for the separation. Besides, I
felt myself of more consequence than heretofore, as I had been the
means of affording relief to an amiable family, who stood much in need
of it.

The first fortnight I spent at Wyndham Hall, passed very agreeably;
for Miss Amelia was continually seeking something new to please me. I
cannot say, however, that my esteem for her was equal to the kindness
she lavished on me, for she was not so assiduous in striving to please
every body; and not only the servants, but even her too-indulgent
mother, sometimes felt the effects of her peevish humours. Besides,
not having been accustomed to occupy her time steadily and usefully,
she was perpetually changing the objects of her attention. This fickle
disposition made me conclude, that novelty was my chief recommendation,
and that, consequently, some new favourite would soon supplant me.
My conclusions were but too well founded, for her attention to me
gradually diminished, and was shortly after engrossed by a new object.

By the time I had been with her a month, I found myself little noticed.
However, as Amelia minded appearances very much, she thought proper
to order me a new cage, not thinking the one I had, sufficiently
ornamental to the drawing-room. A bird-fancier, with whom she had
formerly dealt, was accordingly sent for, to receive her directions
about it. He came, and I observed that he regarded me with particular
attention, and listened earnestly to my song. He soon after asked my
mistress, in an apparently careless manner, where she got that bird.
“It is a Robin,” added he, “but it has not the right song.”

Had Miss Amelia read some of the nice books which remained untouched in
her library, she would, perhaps, have known, that the circumstance he
mentioned greatly enhanced my value; but, though surrounded with the
means of obtaining knowledge, she was very ignorant. Guided, therefore,
by the man’s manner of speaking, she seemed suddenly to lose all regard
for me, and by her answer convinced him that he might get me at a very
easy rate.

“Ah, Miss,” said he, “as to song, you should hear a bird I have at
home!”

“What bird?” demanded Amelia, eagerly.

“A piping-bullfinch, Miss: he has learned _Rule Britannia_ and the
_College Hornpipe_, and”——

“Do you mean to sell him?” interrupted Amelia.

“Why, as to that, Miss, I could get more by keeping him to teach
others; yet I would not much object selling him to some particular
customer, like you, Miss, for example.”

“What do you ask for him?” said Amelia, to whom the idea of one bird
teaching another was quite novel, and who was also flattered by being
termed _a particular customer_.

“Why, to you, Miss,” answered the man, “I could sell him for five
guineas; though that is too little, for there is not another bird like
him in the kingdom.”

This last observation of the cunning bird-fancier, decided Amelia; she
produced her purse, but, alas! the contents did not amount to four
guineas. “What shall I do!” exclaimed she, “mamma is out, and will not
return till just before dinner, and I did so wish to surprise her with
my piping bullfinch.”

“Why, Miss,” said the man, “as you seem to have no great fancy for that
silly bird yonder, if you like, I will take him and his cage for what
is wanting, and send home Piping Tom in the new cage you have ordered,
and all in time before your dinner.”

Amelia readily acceded to this proposal, and I was taken by the
bird-fancier, to supply the place of Piping Tom, whose removal I
considered no more enviable than my own, unpleasant as it was.

My new situation was extremely uncomfortable, for I had always been
more or less accustomed to liberty. Here I was closely confined, and
what was to me worse than all, my cage was seldom cleaned, and my food
and water remained so long unchanged, that I frequently found it almost
impossible to touch either.

This sad condition would, I think, soon have delivered me from the
possibility of any other misfortune; and here, gentle reader, my
history would have terminated, had not my master, who was not ignorant
of my talents, now thought proper to turn them to some account. When
he told Miss Amelia that my song was not that of a Robin, he spoke
truth, but not the whole truth. He affected to depreciate my value,
that he might get possession of me. I was separated so early from my
parents, that I did not learn their song, but being naturally disposed
to music, and hearing no other than that of the piano-forte, when with
my first dear mistress, I had contrived to pick up a few notes here
and there, and put them together at my leisure; thus forming a kind of
wild melody, not resembling the song of any other bird. Had Miss Amelia
been aware of this circumstance, she certainly would not have parted
with me; for, as I observed before, she valued things in proportion as
they were difficult of attainment. Well had it been for her if this
disposition had extended to her studies: in this instance they might
have been subservient to her darling propensity. But such is the lot
of those who are wilfully ignorant; they are continually duped by the
artful, and not unfrequently defeat their own plans of enjoyment, by
not knowing how to pursue them.

But to return to myself. I was now to assume a new character—no less
than that of preceptor. My master procured some very young birds, so
young that several of them died for want of that delicate attention
which the parent alone can bestow. Two or three survived, and these
were placed in small cages near mine, that they might hear my song and
adopt it. I sincerely pitied the early misfortunes and captivity of
these poor little creatures, and sang rather to sooth and cheer than
to instruct them. As they grew older, however, they tried to imitate
my note, and soon acquired it so exactly, that my master sold them to
great advantage.

I must say I regretted losing my little pupils, particularly one, a
linnet, who had evinced great affection towards me; but I consoled
myself with the assurance, that they must be better off any where than
with the mercenary bird-fancier, who valued them only as a means of
getting money.




CHAP. IX.


My business for the year was now finished, and I mournfully resigned
myself to my fate, expecting no release from prison, nor any amusement
in it, till the following spring, when my mind would be at least
relieved by a similar occupation. My deliverance was, however, much
nearer than I expected, for the lady who had purchased my pretty
linnet, came to enquire particularly of my master about its song, with
which she was much pleased.

“I suppose he learned it of some foreign bird,” said she, “for I never
heard any wild note like it.”

This lady was very rich, and a good customer to my master, so he
thought it best to satisfy her entirely; he therefore produced me as
the instructor of her bird, relating all he knew of my history, at
least, all that was creditable to himself. The lady admired me very
much, and offered to purchase me.

Oh! how my heart beat while I heard my master enumerating my services
to enhance my value, that he might obtain a high price for me, or deter
the lady from becoming a purchaser; for he did not like to sell me,
though he could not well refuse her the favour.

At length my anxiety was relieved by the lady’s saying: “Come, come, do
not hesitate; I will give you the price you ask, and what is more, I
will lend him or the linnet to you, for a month or two next spring, if
you wish either of them to be your singing-master.”

An offer so advantageous could not be refused; the bargain was
concluded, and I, exulting in the hope of happier days, was placed in
the carriage, and conveyed to the lady’s house.

I cannot express the joy I felt on seeing my dear little pupil the
linnet, nor describe his demonstrations of pleasure on our meeting.
Here we were, indeed, comfortable! What an alteration we found! I
almost rejoiced that we had been at the bird-fancier’s, for privation
had given a greater value even to common enjoyments: cleanliness,
comfort, and occasional liberty, were now luxuries.

Our good mistress had many other birds, to all of which, as well as to
ourselves, she was extremely indulgent; but I was particularly noticed
by her, not only for my song, but for my familiarity also, for I took
every opportunity of showing her how happy I was, and how grateful I
could be. I had, to be sure, no way of expressing my gratitude, but by
flying to meet her, perching on her shoulder or her arm; but I found
that she understood my caresses, and valued me for them.

I had been some time with this good lady, having every thing I could
desire, and regretting only that there were no children in her house,
(for I have always been extremely fond of children,) when I one day
heard her giving directions about beds and other things, that were
preparing for her two grand-children, who were coming to spend a few
weeks with her. I was greatly delighted at the prospect of again having
it in my power to observe the manners and behaviour of young persons.
Besides, I had a presentiment that my mistress’s grand-children were
well-disposed and amiable; supposing she would not otherwise be so
anxious as she appeared to be to give them pleasure. I am happy to
assure you, my young readers, that I was not at all disappointed in my
expectations, for when they came, every favourable prepossession was
realized. But, perhaps, you will like better to judge for yourselves,
so I will describe them as well as I can.

Now it is probably expected that I should mention the colour of their
hair, their eyes, and enumerate all the charms of their persons. But
as we do not contribute any thing either to our personal graces or
defects, and consequently cannot derive any merit from the former, or
disgrace from the latter, I consider those points of no importance,
therefore, shall pass them over in silence. Mary, the eldest, was
about nine years of age, her brother Henry about seven: the former, I
understood, had been some time at school: it was now her vacation. Both
of these children seemed to have been well brought up, for they were
never at a loss for employment or amusement; were never lounging about
on the chairs or sofas, or leaning listlessly against the fire-place.
But what I particularly admired in them was the affection they evinced
towards each other, and the attention they paid to every wish of their
parents, though absent from them. In short, all their conduct seemed
to proceed from some principle superior to self-gratification, or, in
other words, they sought _true_ gratification, where only it was to be
found—in the performance of their duty.

As I was naturally fond of all children, it is easy to imagine that
I became particularly attached to these, amiable as they were. I do
not, however, mean to represent them to my young readers as models of
perfection, for such would be as far beyond their imitation as they are
from resembling nature. I have observed that all children have their
faults; but those who are most patient of reproof, and most open to
conviction, are also most likely to amend their trivial failings; for
great defects such cannot have. Henry and Mary were certainly every
thing their parents could wish, and their sensible grand-mamma was
greatly delighted with them, yet she never extolled them when present:
a single word of approbation, or an affectionate smile, repaid all
their endeavours to please her. And, indeed, so sweet was her smile,
so judicious her approbation, that the dear children seemed to desire
nothing more.

Though my good mistress did not indulge her young visitors in an
unlimited manner, or teach them to be selfish by making their
recreations the price of their good behaviour, yet she found means to
amuse and improve them at the same time, by taking them to museums,
manufactories, &c. where they saw a profusion of the works of nature
and art. These morning excursions furnished subjects for conversation
in the evening, which, with a magic-lantern, representing some of the
most remarkable occurrences in history, a geographical game, and other
similar recreations, filled up their time so agreeably, that the hour
of rest always seemed to arrive too early; yet they did not on that
account repine or loiter when the maid came for them, but went off
immediately and cheerfully.

In this manner three weeks elapsed. I grew very fond of these
interesting children, and they were no less so of me: all the family
had been so cheerful since they came, that I anticipated their
departure with great regret. One day, when Henry and his sister had
accompanied their grand-mamma to a menagerie, where they had seen a
fine collection of birds, the former said, on his return: “Well, dear
grand-mamma, of all the birds I have seen to-day, not one pleased me so
well as your little Robin. Some of them, to be sure, were beautiful,
but they had not that docility and tameness which I admire in him.”

“The difference, my dear boy,” replied my mistress, “proceeds from
education. You may observe that children who are well brought up,
are generally docile and intelligent, while those who are neglected
or spoiled, are usually destitute of those amiable qualities. But,”
continued she, “my dear Henry, I think you seem to respect the old
tutor, so I will make you a present of him; and may you, my dear boy,
improve your talents for the benefit of your fellow-creatures, as he
has done.”

I felt much gratified by this encomium, and I could perceive that Henry
was no less delighted with the thought of possessing me, though he
modestly declined the offer, saying, he did not like to deprive his
grand-mamma of her favourite, and observing, that, perhaps, his sister
might like to have me.

“Your sister,” said my mistress, “shall have her choice among my
Canary-birds, but you, Henry, shall have the Robin: you shall keep him
for my sake. Come, Mary, my love,” continued she, “and choose your
bird.”

Mary had been present during the whole of this conversation, her
countenance expressing the greatest pleasure at her brother’s
acquisition, and beaming with tenderness when he offered to resign it
to her. She had not spoken, but all she felt was fully expressed in
her mild and ingenuous features. Now summoned by her grand-mamma, she
said: “Indeed, Ma’am, I should like a Canary-bird very much; so much
that I could not bear any one to feed or attend it but myself, and as
I am mostly at school, I could not do that; so I think I am better
without one. You know I have the little pug you gave me last Midsummer.
Henry feeds him while I am away, yet, whenever I return home, he knows
me again and loves me as well as ever: but birds are not so sagacious.”

“Your reasons are so good, my dear,” said my mistress, “that I feel
as much pleased as if you had accepted my offer; and that is saying a
great deal, for I have real pleasure in bestowing my little pets on
good children.”

The entrance of a servant with letters, here interrupted the
conversation. One of these was from Henry’s papa, requesting that his
little ones might be sent home early in the ensuing week, as Mary’s
vacation had nearly expired, and an elder brother of Henry’s was
expected from college, whose instructions were likely to be useful to
the little boy.

Nothing material occurred before the day of separation. Great regret
was evinced, both on the part of the children and that of their dear
grand-mamma; but her promise to visit them the following summer, and
the prospect of meeting their parents, soon consoled the former, and
they set out for their paternal dwelling, about twenty miles distant,
taking me with them.




CHAP. X.


It was not till I had been some time with my little master that I could
fully appreciate his amiable character: nor do I, indeed, think that I
was ever acquainted with the whole extent of his goodness; but so many
admirable traits fell under my immediate notice, that I became daily
more attached to him. He was extremely kind to me, procuring me every
comfort and indulgence in his power, and giving me liberty whenever he
was at home. I might frequently have taken advantage of his confidence
in me, had I wished to escape; but I loved him too well to think of
leaving him, and had also experienced such vicissitudes, that I had no
desire to go in quest of new adventures. Here I had every thing I could
wish for, and I felt happy under the protection of a master whom I
could at once admire and esteem.

Henry was by no means insensible of my regard. “Dear mamma,” he would
frequently say, “I am sure my bird knows me, and loves me too, for he
is always so much rejoiced when I return home, if I have been absent
ever so short a time.”

His dear mother always seized the occasion, when he made these
observations, to inculcate some amiable impression, or draw some useful
inference. “You see, my dear boy,” she would observe, “what pleasure
there is in pleasing. You are kind to your little bird, he is, in
return, affectionate and grateful; his caresses, though of no real
value, are delightful to you. In them you experience what I have so
often represented to you, that trifling acts of kindness and gratitude,
though in themselves unimportant, are of inestimable value to the
receiver. You in some measure resemble your little bird, when you
display affection and gratitude towards your parents, and I trust that
the pleasure you now feel from his acknowledgement of your kindness, is
but an earnest of that you will enjoy when you are able to be useful
to your fellow-creatures. I have to add, though, that you are not
always to expect gratitude for your kindness; that is not the reward I
would wish you to seek, but rather that recompence of which no one can
deprive you—the approbation of your own heart.”

Perhaps my young readers will not admire this long digression, but
I cannot forbear repeating, occasionally, some of the excellent
advice I so frequently heard; and I hope there are some children
whose hearts will (as Henry’s did on similar occasions) expand with a
noble emulation to approve themselves every thing their parents’ most
sanguine hopes can anticipate. Henry’s father was no less sensible than
his mother, nor was he less indulgent. His time was much occupied in a
professional employment, but he still found leisure to improve, and
frequently to amuse, his little boy. Henry’s favourite amusement was
riding. Hitherto he had ridden only a donkey, but his kind papa had
promised to purchase a poney for him the ensuing spring, provided he
profited by his brother’s instructions.

The little boy was usually diligent and attentive, but on this occasion
he displayed so much assiduity, and so entirely satisfied his papa,
that the promised reward was already earned; and Henry, in idea,
mounted his poney and rode beside his dear papa, though the winter had
yet to elapse before his idea could be realized.

The season was peculiarly severe, and I had great reason to rejoice
that I was not exposed to its inclemency; for I frequently observed
from the windows multitudes of little birds flying in every direction,
in search of that sustenance the snow-covered earth refused them. I
pitied them very much, and would gladly have shared my food with them,
but as I could not express my benevolent wishes, they were, of course,
fruitless, and compassion was all I could bestow. Happily, however,
Henry observed their distress, and soon found means to relieve them. He
obtained his mamma’s permission to have the window-sash taken out from
a small empty room, and there he put abundance of food every evening,
but never went in during the day. The plan succeeded according to his
wish, for the birds meeting with no interruption, came there every day
to feed, and the dear boy had frequently the pleasure of seeing his
numerous little pensioners busily employed about the window of his
aviary.

The snow continued very long on the ground, but as Henry was a robust
boy, that did not prevent his walking out. One morning he came home,
and ran hastily into the room where his mamma was sitting.

“How now, my Henry,” said she, “why you have been up to your knees in
the snow. That is not like your usual obedience.”

“Dear mamma,” said Henry, “I am sure you will excuse me when you know
the cause. Look at this poor little fellow,” added he, producing a
redbreast of the preceding spring; “he flew a few paces before me
on the path where I was walking, and then stopped, as if unable to
proceed: when I advanced he made another effort, and reached the foot
of a tree, where he sat quite still for some time, and I, fearing that
he was dying, ventured across the snow and brought him home. I think we
may, perhaps, recover him, mamma.”

“We will hope so, at least, my dear,” said his mother; “but do not
bring him near the fire, rather place him on the window-frame, the
warmth of the sun through the glass will be sufficient for him at
first.”

Henry, in pursuance of his mother’s advice, placed his little
nurseling on the window-frame, where, finding some comfort from the
warmth, he fell asleep. Henry was delighted at the idea of having saved
the bird’s life, but I, who understood the nature of birds better than
he could, saw only the torpor of approaching death in his apparently
tranquil slumber, and pitied my poor little master, for I knew what his
tender heart would feel when he was undeceived.

My fears were not groundless, for the poor little bird appearing very
uneasy soon after, Henry took him in his hand, and begged his mamma to
get something to feed him. She complied, and was preparing some of my
food to give him, when he expired in that hand which had been vainly
extended to save him. Poor Henry, who seldom wept, now burst into
tears, and his mamma had some difficulty in consoling him.

“My dear boy,” said she, “your grief will not recal the poor little
fellow to life: he is released from pain, and placed beyond the
possibility of future suffering. I am sorry for your disappointment,
but you must be consoled with the reflection of having intended to
do good, though you have not succeeded. One advantage, however,
may be derived from this circumstance, that of learning to bear a
disappointment with fortitude. Remember how much you admired the
conduct of Porus when brought before Alexander, and that of Caractacus
when led in triumph through Rome, and endeavour to imitate the firmness
with which they sustained misfortune.”

I did not understand the whole of this speech, being unacquainted
with the persons alluded to; however, I dare say my young readers are
better informed on the subject. Henry seemed so deeply impressed with
it, that he immediately dried his tears, and endeavoured to resume his
accustomed cheerfulness.




CHAP. XI.


Some time after the event just related in the preceding chapter, the
snow disappeared, the poor birds became more lively, and winter at
length yielded to the mild influence of spring: all nature seemed to
rejoice at the change, which appeared more delightful from the late
severity of the season. With the return of spring Henry’s desire of
riding returned also, my young readers may therefore suppose, that he
was greatly delighted when his papa informed him, one evening, that, if
he would rise an hour earlier than usual on the following morning, he
would take him to a neighbouring town, where there was to be a fair,
and procure a poney for him.

The morning came—it was a delightful one! Henry was ready in time, and
set out with his father to make the long-expected purchase. They had
arrived within a mile of the fair, when a most distressing scene was
presented to their view—a cottage in flames, which the villagers were
vainly endeavouring to extinguish, and the wretched inhabitants of the
heretofore peaceful and comfortable dwelling, deploring, with fruitless
tears, the loss of their little all. The family consisted of a man,
his wife, and six children, the eldest of whom was not more than eight
years old, the youngest scarcely eight months.

I not having been present, cannot be expected to describe the agony
of these unfortunate people, thus suddenly reduced to poverty, and
destitute even of a resting-place for the night; indeed, I imagine that
such misery surpasses description, and cannot even be conceived, except
by those who have witnessed it. Henry for some time surveyed the sad
scene in silent dismay. His father at length roused him by saying,
“Come, my boy, we shall be too late, and I fear we can do no good here.”

“Dear papa,” said the amiable child, “I am in no hurry, and I think, if
you would agree to my proposal, we might do some good here.”

“Indeed!” said his father: “pray what is your plan?”

“Why, you know, papa, that I can ride a donkey as well as a poney, but
these poor people cannot do without a lodging and food; now, papa, if
you would spend the money on them instead of the poney, I should be
very glad.”

“But are you quite sure, Henry,” said his father, “that you will not
regret this surrender? You cannot go to see Mary on your donkey,
and you might frequently go on your poney, besides riding out with
me:—consider well before you decide.”

“I have considered so well, dear papa,” returned the child, “that I am
sure, were I to wait a whole week, I should not change my mind; and I
know Mary would advise me to do so too, even though she did not see me
so often.”

“Well, then, my dear boy, I had intended giving ten pounds for your
poney, you may, therefore, bestow that sum on the poor family.”

Henry was overjoyed at obtaining his father’s permission to relieve
the unhappy sufferers, and begged his assistance and advice as to the
manner of doing so. These the delighted father readily afforded, and
so judicious were his arrangements, that, before night, Henry had
the satisfaction of seeing the whole family settled in a snug little
habitation, not far from his father’s house. His mamma kindly lent her
assistance, sending provisions sufficient for their immediate wants,
with some clothes for the poor woman and her children, all their own
having been consumed in the flames.

It may easily be imagined, that this event was much talked of; indeed,
many ladies and gentlemen called on Henry’s parents, in order to be
more particularly informed on the subject; and by this means it was
that I became acquainted with the facts I have just detailed. Numerous
were the comments and compliments of the visitors, but happily for my
little master, he heard very few of them. One lady in particular, after
she had for some time extolled the child’s generosity, said (addressing
his father,) “but surely, Sir, you still intend to get him a poney: I
wish you would allow me to send him one.”

“Madam,” replied the sensible father, “I am greatly obliged to you,
but I cannot allow Henry to have a poney till he has earned it: if he
has done a good action, that must be his reward at present. Were I to
reward him for it, two bad consequences would ensue; he might hereafter
pretend to be generous from self-interest or vanity, for it would not
be difficult to make a show of resigning what he was sure to obtain
afterwards; and he might be taught to expect a reward for his good
actions here, whereas, experience shows that kindness is frequently not
only unrequited, but is even returned by ingratitude and enmity.”

“Indeed, that is too true,” returned the lady, “but I should have
thought your observations more applicable to a grown person than to a
child.”

“That,” said the father, “is, I know, a very general idea; but it
is precisely because I expect Henry to become a _grown person_, and
because I should wish him then to have such sentiments, that I now
endeavour to inculcate them. The human heart cannot be too early formed
to virtue: good principles cannot be impressed too soon.”

This and many similar arguments used by Henry’s father, convinced me of
the propriety of his conduct with regard to his children: his prudence
was amply rewarded by their improvement, for they daily became such as
he desired they should be. My dear little master’s sister, the amiable
Mary, came home shortly after this time for the Midsummer vacation,
and it was then settled that she should not return to school, but that
her mamma, (whose health had been delicate for some time, but was now
considerably amended,) should, with some assistance, superintend her
education.

This arrangement was highly pleasing to all parties, and I partook of
the general joy; for Mary was a charming girl, and her presence added
to my happiness as well as to that of my young master.

The summer of this year passed delightfully with me, for I had one
great enjoyment, to which I had long been a stranger. Henry one day
conversing with his sister about me, at the open window, before which
was a balcony, regretted keeping me confined to the house. “Do you
know, said he, I have a great mind to let him out; if I lose him by the
experiment, I must console myself by thinking that he will be happier
in the possession of his liberty: but I really think he will not go
away, so let us try.”

Mary concurring in his opinion, he came and opened the door of my cage,
then walking to the balcony, he called me to follow him. I joyfully
complied, and flew to his shoulder, from thence I hopped to the rails
of the balcony, and at last perched on a tree close to it, where I
repaid his indulgence with a song. I saw Henry’s colour change when I
flew towards the tree, therefore, to assure him that I had no intention
of leaving him, I shortly after returned to my cage, and went out no
more that day.

My behaviour on this occasion was so satisfactory to my young master,
that he repeated the indulgence every fine day, and allowed me to
bathe on the balcony, where he placed water for that purpose. However,
towards the end of autumn he thought it prudent to discontinue this
practice, on account of the following circumstance, which has something
interesting in it, more than relates to myself.

From having been brought up more tenderly than other birds, I was not
so hardy as they, and not having had the same necessity for exerting my
limbs, I was not so expert in the use of them; so that one day, when
I was perched on my accustomed tree, a sudden gust of wind blew me
down. Had I been wise, I should have reascended the tree, but finding
some amusement on the ground, I continued hopping about till I got so
far into the shrubbery, that I could not distinguish one tree from
another, nor get a glimpse of the house through the foliage, so that I
was fearful of getting further from home in my endeavours to return.
In the mean time, Henry, who soon missed me, came himself in search of
me, but not finding me near the spot, he returned to the house, to beg
assistance from the domestics, promising a guinea (his whole stock at
that time) to any one who should discover me, well knowing that I would
return to him at his call. The search was continued some time in vain;
for the noise of their approach terrified me so much, that I crept into
the fork of a tree, where I remained in a state of great perplexity.
At last, however, I was descried by a little boy, who helped my young
master in his garden, and attended his donkey.

“Here, Master Henry, here he is!” exclaimed the boy, his countenance
glowing with delight.

Henry, to my great joy, now appeared. I flew to him immediately, before
he had time to call me, and testified my joy as well as I was able.

“Well, Frank,” said Henry, addressing the boy, “the guinea is yours; I
am glad of it, and hope you will make a good use of it.”




CHAP. XII.


I must now beg leave to introduce my young readers to Frank, for his
amiable and grateful conduct deserves to be recorded, as an example to
those who may have the power of imitating it. He was an orphan, about
two years older than Henry. His father, who was a sailor, had been lost
at sea, and his poor mother, overcome with grief at this melancholy
event, survived him only a few months, leaving her little boy to the
care of her sister. The latter was a kind, good-hearted woman, who,
though she had five children of her own, received the boy (then only
two years old) and reared him with the greatest tenderness. She,
however, was unfortunate also, for when Frank was about six years old,
she lost her husband, on whose industrious exertions the family chiefly
depended for support. Her own children were yet too young to go to
service, and it was with the greatest difficulty that she procured them
a scanty supply of the coarsest provisions. Her neighbours, knowing her
distressed condition, advised her to send Frank to the workhouse, and
thus rid herself of one incumbrance. This, however, she strenuously
refused to do, saying, that while they had a morsel of bread, he should
share it with them.

Her kindness was not lost on the grateful heart of Frank: it made so
deep an impression, that he strove, on all occasions, to evince his
affection to her and his cousins, all of whom, except the youngest,
were girls.

For nearly two years the poor widow had to contend with all the
hardships of poverty, when Providence, as if to reward her kindness
to the little boy, made him the instrument of future comfort to her.
Frank’s quiet and obliging conduct had attracted the notice of Henry’s
father, who, finding that his morals corresponded with the idea he
had formed of them, fixed on him, as a proper assistant to his little
boy in the before-mentioned employments. Frank was a diligent and
good-natured boy, and Henry proved an indulgent and generous master
to him; so that the poor little boy was enabled to assist his aunt
a little with his weekly earnings, which Henry paid out of his own
pocket-money. Nor was this all, for Frank’s good behaviour induced
Henry’s mother to enquire into the circumstances of the family, which
she greatly ameliorated, by affording the poor woman employment suited
to her abilities. My little friend Mary, also, contributed to the
comforts of the poor children, by making for them, in the holidays,
such little articles of dress as she could afford to purchase. Yet the
greatest benefit conferred on this poor family, was reserved to my
young master. He contrived, every evening, to devote a small portion
of time in teaching Frank to read, write, and cipher; and the poor
boy took so much pains to learn, that it was rather a pleasure than a
trouble to teach him. But what most of all delighted Henry was, that
Frank never failed teaching his cousins the lesson he had learned
the preceding day; so that six children, instead of one, profited by
Henry’s instructions. My young master did not discover this for some
time, but when he did, he procured the good boy books, and other things
necessary for this laudable undertaking, in which he succeeded so
well, that the three eldest girls were able to read fluently, and to
repeat and understand their catechism. And now Frank’s only ambition
was to see them neatly dressed, and fit to appear at church, whither
they constantly went, though in very mean attire; for their mother was
sensible that the want of good clothes was not a sufficient excuse for
the neglect of any part of their duty.

The poor woman’s circumstances were so much improved since she had been
employed by Henry’s mother, that she had refused to receive Frank’s
wages, desiring him to lay them by, to procure decent apparel for
himself. Frank did not urge her to use his little stock, but he did not
reserve it for himself: he now saw, in idea, the accomplishment of his
favourite project. Think then, my young readers, how delighted he must
have been, when he had, for many weeks, saved his wages, without making
known the purpose to which he intended applying them, to receive,
at once, the means of gratifying a wish so dear to his heart. This,
then, was the use Frank made of his guinea. His cousins appeared the
following Sunday, in neat, plain clothes of his purchasing, while he
accompanied them in habiliments no otherwise distinguished than by the
industry which had been displayed in patching them: a garb, however,
in which, under these circumstances, he certainly appeared to greater
advantage than he could have done in the richest clothing.

Henry’s father, who was informed of Frank’s generous conduct, did not
fail to reward it. Perhaps it may be imagined that he gave him new
clothes: no, he rewarded him in a manner more congenial to his own
sentiments and the boy’s disposition, by taking the widow’s eldest
daughter into his family; where, under the superintendance of his
housekeeper, she was likely to become a good servant, and consequently
a useful member of society.




CONCLUSION.


Autumn was now past, and winter set in with some severity. My prospects
at this time became very gloomy, for Henry’s father was appointed to
a lucrative situation abroad, which he accepted the more willingly,
as he knew that a residence in a warm climate would be beneficial to
the health of his amiable partner. I cannot describe the regret of
my young friends at leaving their comfortable home, nor the grief of
their poor neighbours at losing their kind benefactors. Frank’s aunt,
however, was taken care of, she had the charge of the house during the
absence of the family, and Frank was retained about the farm. Mary was
to accompany her parents; but my poor little master was to be sent to
school, as his father did not approve of a foreign education for him.

Amidst all these arrangements, I dare say my young readers are
anxious to learn how I was to be disposed of; and, indeed, this was
a subject of frequent discussion between Henry and Mary, till the
latter fortunately remembered that the lady with whom she was at school
was very fond of birds. When this circumstance recurred to her, she
immediately communicated it to her brother, who, as he was obliged to
part with me, was happy to procure me a safe and comfortable asylum. It
was therefore decided that I should be sent on the following day, and
Frank was accordingly deputed to take me, with a letter from Mary to
her late instructress, begging her to accept me, and recommending me to
her favour by a recital of my various qualifications.

Ah! with what a heavy heart I went on this journey. My young conductor,
too, seemed no less grieved than I was: but how great was my surprise,
and how much my uneasiness was abated, when I was conveyed into the
presence of a lady whom I instantly recognized to be my first kind
mistress, Miss Sedley, who it seems had quitted the charming family in
which I left her, to watch over the declining years of an affectionate
mother, and had established a school, in order to reside near this
beloved object. She received me very kindly, observing, when she had
read Mary’s letter, that my accomplishments greatly resembled those
of a little bird she once possessed. Oh, how I then wished to speak!
Action, however, is eloquent where language fails: she opened the cage
door, and I immediately flew on to her shoulder.

“This is surprising,” said she: “it must be my bird; but I will make
one more trial.”

She then walked to the piano-forte and began to play. I immediately
understood her motive, and, anxious to convince her of my identity,
perched on her music-book. This was the proof she wanted: therefore
she now rose, and returning to the table, wrote a kind answer to Mary,
thanking her for her present, and relating the curious coincidences
above mentioned.

Now, my dear young readers, I have been some time happily settled
with my kind mistress, and with her I hope to spend the remainder
of my days. I have frequently seen Henry and Mary, who continue as
amiable as they always were, and are the delight and comfort of their
parents. My life is no longer chequered by variety, but flows on in one
uninterrupted stream of happiness. Here then I shall close my memoirs,
though, if any new vicissitudes happen to me, (which I trust will not
be the case,) I may again appear before you as an author.


THE END.


  _Printed by Darton, Harvey, and Co.
  Gracechurch-Street, London._




  Transcriber’s Notes

  pg 11 Changed: depicting sentimens of which
             to: depicting sentiments of which



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