CHAPTER XXVI.

_The plain of Lombardy--Inundations of the Po--Padua--First prospect of Venice--Arrival at the city--Description of Venice--Character of the Venetians--Contrast of the Italians with the Americans--Journey to Milan and Turin--The plain of Marengo--Genoa--Leghorn--Return to Boston--General observations on travelling in Italy--Conclusion._

The remainder of our journey to Venice was through a region which exhibited a remarkable contrast to that which we had recently traversed. No mountains nor even hills diversified the face of the country. The whole extent was an immense uniform horizon. We were now in the great plain of Lombardy through which the Po rolls his waters into the Adriatic. For many miles beyond Ferrara the soil was marshy, and instead of fences, there were broad ditches covered with water lilies, which served to keep the cows and pigs from straying into the wrong meadows. These were the first swine that I had seen north of the Pontine marshes; and they were poor specimens of the piggish race, lean, scraggy and weak. Wooden barns and stables--another rarity--also struck my sight here. As we proceeded, the aspect of the country became more and more dreary and monotonous. No villages nor even farm-houses were to be seen. Sheds and fences for cattle were all the structures that relieved the universal flatness of the plain. The road became soft and spongy, so that the sound of the wheels and the horses’ feet could no longer be heard. The dikes which extended as far as the eye could reach, like a long green rampart, showed that the country was subject to inundations. In fact, the Po often overflows its banks, and floods whole miles of the neighboring country. In many parts of this alluvial tract are fields of rice, but the cultivation of this article is allowed only to a limited extent, on account of the unwholesome air which the rice plantations are supposed to generate. There were no trees except poplars and willows in long lines on the borders of the ditches: and the most abundant of all living animals seemed to be the frog, which kept up an incessant croaking as we passed.

The sight of the masts of vessels gliding along at a distance beyond an immense line of green wall, apprized us that we were approaching the Po, though we could nowhere discern the current of the river. When we came to that celebrated stream, we found a channel, three quarters of a mile broad, confined on both sides by artificial banks which rise high over the neighboring plains. The waters of the Po are muddy and turbid like the Mississippi, and every three years a great inundation happens in spite of the dikes. On this account, every house is provided with boats, and at the first fall of the heavy rains, which precede the rising of the river, the inhabitants embark with all their goods, so that commonly little damage is caused except to their dwellings, which are of no great value. The river brings down immense quantities of mud, which are deposited at the bottom here, so that the bed of the stream is continually rising.

Crossing the Po by a bridge, we entered the Austrian territory, and submitted to the usual examination from the custom-house officers, after which we were permitted to proceed. The appearance of the country somewhat improved, but still continued equally flat and unvaried in surface. We passed through Rovigo, a decaying and unhealthy town, and travelled over a sandy district to the Adige, which we crossed by a ferry. Here were a number of floating mills moored in the stream.

Beyond the Adige, the country becomes hilly, and is diversified with pine and cypress trees. A more cheering prospect appeared in the sight of several neat little villages, full of people, which we were glad to behold, after the journey across the dreary and desolate plain behind us. Still more welcome was the sight of the city of Padua, where we arrived at sunset, and put up for the night.

The streets of Padua are lined with long arcades; it has some pleasant green gardens; the walls of the city are grass-grown, and in taking a walk on the top, I could espy the Alps with their snowy summits away in the north. The general appearance of the city is old fashioned and rusty, and an air of quiet repose reigns in every part. There is a queer-looking old building, which the inhabitants show to travellers, as Livy’s house. I should have wondered if they had not done this, even though the whole city had been levelled to the foundation a dozen times since the day of the great historian. We made only a short stay in Padua, and hurried onward to Venice. A few hours’ travel brought us within sight of the Adriatic, and I beheld the towers of that wonderful city rising out of the waves “as by the stroke of the enchanter’s wand.” It is hardly possible to imagine a more singular spectacle: a great city appears to be floating on the water, and you remain in doubt whether the whole is not an optical illusion.

Embarking in a steamboat, we crossed the lagoon or wide expanse of water which separates the city from the main land. No one has heard of Venice, without forming in his imagination a very distinct and vivid picture of that singular place. Many celebrated cities disappoint expectations, but the preconceptions of Venice are never contradicted or dispelled by the actual view. In a few particulars, the previous notions of the place are not realized, but the general idea is fully verified; and there is besides so much that is strange, unexpected, and magnificent, that the grand impression of the scene is stronger than anticipation. We expect to find it a strange place, and so it proves. The sensation of strangeness, too, remains a long while on the traveller: I have known persons who have lived there for more than a year without getting rid of the feeling of novelty which impressed them on their first arrival. Venice may be characterised as a dreamy place, where a man feels habitually in a sort of transition state between the world he formerly knew, and another one.

On approaching other cities, you hear sounds of life and population, the rattling of wheels, the tramp of footsteps, the cries of the streets. No such sounds here greet the ear. Venice has neither horses, carriages, nor streets. We shot into a canal between two rows of lofty houses; and though I was prepared by previous descriptions for these long lanes of water, yet the reality of sailing through a city, turning corners and passing under bridges, gave me sensations which I find it impossible to describe. After threading what appeared to me an inextricable maze of these narrow passages, we issued at length into the Grand Canal, which, to compare water with land, may be called the Broadway of Venice. It passes in a curved line through the whole city, and is fronted by splendid marble palaces for almost its whole extent. Across this canal is thrown, in a single arch, the lofty bridge of the Rialto. Black gondolas in great number were gliding up and down the canal, and some small feluccas and river craft lay moored at the quays and landing places.

Palaces, churches and other magnificent structures, the common ornaments of Italian cities, also abound in Venice: but there is no end of describing them. Some of the architecture has a sort of barbarian grandeur, strikingly distinct from that of other parts of this country. There are no monuments of classical times in Venice, for the city grew up after the decline of the Roman Empire. Yet the place is full of objects associated in our memories with historical and poetic recollections. The Place of St. Mark, the Palace of the Doge, suggest stirring remembrances of the celebrated Council of Ten and their mysterious doings. No one can cross the Rialto without thinking of Shylock. The great square of St. Mark is the only place in the city where a man feels as if he were upon _terra firma_. It is spacious, paved with stone, surrounded with stately buildings, and overhung with lofty towers and domes. Here the crowd of Venice assemble in the evening, sauntering about in the open space, or sipping coffee and sherbet in the shops. The whole place is in a blaze of light from the multitude of coffee houses which line the arcades. The busy hum of chattering crowds, and the lively strains of music which fill the air, render it almost a scene of enchantment, the effect of which is much heightened by its contrast with the stillness and solitude of the remainder of the city. The commerce of Venice brings hither a great crowd of strangers from all parts of the Mediterranean,--Greeks, Turks, Austrians, Dalmatians, Moors, and all the trading population of Europe.

The gondolas of Venice are familiar to every reader. They are long, narrow boats, with a prow like the neck of a giraffe, and a house in the middle. In this, you may be rowed all over the city, as you would ride elsewhere shut up in a hackney coach. They are cheap conveyances. You may hire one for a dollar a day, and see all the rarities of the city. For lazy people, I do not know a greater luxury. There is no jolting, nor danger of an overturn, or of horses running away. The gondoliers are civil and obliging, and very useful as guides about the city. They used to sing verses of Tasso by moonlight, but this practice is now discontinued;--the world seems to be growing unpoetical everywhere. It was strange to my eyes, as I rowed down the Grand Canal, under the Rialto, thinking of old times and the golden days and glories of Venice, to come suddenly upon an American brig with “_Duan, Boston_,” on her stern. Such an apparition amidst the marble palaces of this city of enchantment was the last thing for which I was prepared. She had brought out a cargo of cotton, and was loading with corn for the Boston market.

Gondolas are used not only as hackney coaches, but they also serve the same purpose as handcarts, wheelbarrows, and jackasses in other cities. Country people bring their grain to market, pedlers and hucksters hawk about their commodities, in them. If you want an apple, you hail a gondola. Many of them are rowed by women, and they cry their goods in a demi-musical strain. Most of the traffic of Venice is done in a small way, for though it has some maritime commerce, it is inconsiderable for a city of one hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants. The wealth and population of the place are evidently decaying, and the Austrian government, which prevails in this quarter, is detested by the inhabitants. Many of the palaces are falling to ruin, and the traveller who makes any considerable stay here cannot help seeing proofs that Venice is “dying daily.” Yet, in spite of their misfortunes, the Venetians are cheerful and amiable, and form, what is thought by many, the pleasantest society in Europe. Strange contrast with our own country!--where the people, with every material of enjoyment and prosperity within their reach, in the possession of the most unrestrained political liberty, and amidst the benefits arising from popular education and the general diffusion of knowledge--with a free government, a free press, free commerce, and unbridled freedom of speech--are so far from being happy or contented, that we pass the greater part of our time in comfortless disquiet, engaged in the barbarous contests of political faction, in unsocial bickering and rivalries, and in the unprofitable indulgence of those sordid and malignant passions which arise from the abuse of the bounties of Providence!

There is one thing which a traveller may learn by visiting foreign lands; namely, that this western world does not enjoy a monopoly of all the wisdom of the universe;--and that, wise and intelligent and enlightened as we are accustomed to call ourselves, it would do no harm to “see ourselves as others see us,” before we attempt to take the first rank among civilized nations. We have yet much to learn and much to do, before we outstrip all other communities in the acquisitions and qualities that render human beings estimable. It is perfectly true, that, as a nation, we possess great advantages, but it is no less true that we have a strong propensity to pervert and abuse them. The good and evil of this world are much more equally balanced than we are apt to suppose. Under tyranny and oppression, the Italians exhibit a cheerfulness and good humor which might put the dissatisfied grumblers of our own land of liberty, to the blush.

Being now compelled to bring my narrative to a close, I shall pass hastily over the remaining portion of my tour. Having satisfied my curiosity with the wonders of Venice, I left that city and proceeded west, along the great plain of Lombardy, to Milan. All the country is cultivated like a garden, and produces the most abundant crops. Everywhere the lofty ridge of the Alps may be seen on the right, like a gigantic wall guarding this rich and beautiful region from the hungry invaders of the North. Yet in all ages this formidable barrier has proved insufficient to preserve Italy from their hostile irruptions. From the times of Brennus and Hannibal, to the present day, army after army of enemies, and swarm after swarm of barbarians have swept over Italy; yet in spite of their ravages, such is the fertility of the soil, such the natural beauties of the territory and the genius of the inhabitants, that it still remains the fairest country upon earth.

Milan is a splendid city, where every house looks like a palace. As the whole city was levelled to the ground about six hundred years ago, there are no marks of antiquity in its buildings. Its enormous cathedral is a gorgeous structure of white marble. The marble statues that cover it on the outside may be counted by thousands. It was begun between four and five hundred years ago, and finished by Napoleon when king of Italy. Milan, however, though full of splendid buildings, does not interest the traveller like most of the other Italian cities. Its level situation takes away everything picturesque from the prospect, and it compares with Florence as Philadelphia does with Boston.

From Milan I proceeded to Turin. This city stands on the Po, and, like very few other places in Italy, appears to be growing fast. The population has rapidly advanced within a few years; and every year adds to the fine structures with which it is embellished. The greater part of the city is regularly built, with straight streets and uniform architecture. There is a very spacious square fronting on the river, with arcades on the three sides. The breadth and open situation of this fine esplanade, with the beautiful prospect of the fresh green hills across the river, render it one of the noblest squares I ever saw. I remarked a handsome bridge just erected across the Dora, a branch of the Po. It is of a stone very similar to Quincy granite, and springs in one wide arch across the stream. The hills around Turin are lofty and picturesque, covered with vineyards, orchards and every kind of fresh verdure. On the top of the highest and steepest of them all, stands the most magnificent church in the whole country. Why it was built upon a spot hardly accessible by human feet, one is puzzled to guess, till he learns that it owes its origin to a vow of the Duke of Savoy, previous to a victory obtained over the French in 1706. The church was erected on the spot where the Duke and Prince Eugene stood while they laid the plan of the battle. It is a pity the Duke had not the sense to reflect, that a vow of something useful would have been equally acceptable.

Leaving Turin, I journeyed southeast towards Genoa, crossing, in my course, the plain of Marengo, where the battle was fought which decided the fate of Italy and established the government of Napoleon over the French. The Alps are in sight at a great distance, and a soldier would say that this wide plain seemed designed for the theatre of a great battle. A steep and rugged road then led me across the Apennines, and the next day I reached Genoa.

I have no space to devote to a description of this noble city, with its hundreds of palaces. I found it necessary to hurry my departure homeward, and took passage in a Genoese felucca for Leghorn, which place I reached in twenty-four hours. Here I was fortunate enough to find a Boston brig on the point of sailing. I embarked in her, and after a long and boisterous passage, landed on Long Wharf, nine months from the day of my departure.

I will add one thing more which may give the reader a notion of the expense of travelling in this quarter of the world. I spent four hundred and fifty dollars on the whole tour, passage out and home included. I visited every considerable Italian city, and resided a reasonable length of time at all the capitals. I lived as well as I could wish, and paid as liberally for everything as any traveller is expected to do. As far as the common objects of travelling are considered, I think there is no other country in which a man can get so much for his money as in Italy.

The Two Friends.

There were once two little boys, who lived near each other in a very pleasant village, near the new forest in Hampshire, England. The name of one was John, and that of the other Paul.

Paul’s father lived in a large house, and kept horses, and servants, and a coach; had a nice lawn and garden, and was, what is called, a gentleman. Paul had a pony to ride on; he had also a great many playthings--tops, hoops, balls, a kite, a ship, and everything he could wish for. He had also fine clothes to wear, and nothing to do but to go to school.

John’s father was a poor man, for he had only a little farm to keep him; and John was forced to get up in the morning and look after the cows, feed the pigs, and do a great deal of work before he went to school.

Although John’s father was a poor man, he was determined to send his son to the best school in the parish: “for,” said he, “if my boy turns out a good lad he will be a comfort to me in my old age.”

When John first came to the school to which Paul went, the boys, who were dressed better than he was, all shunned him. They did not like his rough cord jacket, nor his thick hands and coarse shirt. One said, “he shall not sit by me;” and another said, “he shall not sit by me:” so when he went to a form to sit down, the boy who was on it slid himself to the other end.

Poor John did not know what this meant. At last, when he looked at his coarse clothes, and rough hands, and thick shoes, and compared them with those of his school-fellows, he said to himself, “It is because I am a poor boy:” and the tears came into his eyes.

Paul saw what was going on, and he felt for him, and could have cried too; so he went to the form on which the new scholar sat, and said, “Do not cry, little boy; I will come and sit by you: here, take this nice rosy apple: do take it; I do not want it! do, there is a dear little boy.”

This made John cry the more; but these were tears of joy, at having found some one to feel for him. He looked at Paul, and sobbed out, “No, no, I thank you.” Then Paul put his arm round his neck, and said, “I cannot bear to see you cry;” and kissed him on the cheek.

One of the boys called out, “Paul Jones is playing with apples;” and, in a minute, the usher came up, and, without making any inquiry, took the apple away, and gave Paul a cut with his cane. The apple he gave to the boy who told, for that was the rule of the school. Paul did not mind the cut, because he knew he was doing right.

Then the other boys laughed, and seemed quite pleased; some peeped from behind their slates, which they held before their faces, as if they were doing their sums; and one called out, in a whisper, “Who likes _stick_ liquorice?”

John felt as if he could have torn the usher to pieces. “Oh!” said he to himself, “if I was a man, see if I would not give it you!” for he felt it cruel that Paul should be struck for being so kind to him.--(It was, however, wrong for him to wish to take revenge.)

From that time, John felt as if he would have died to serve Paul, and he never seemed so happy as when he could play with him, or sit by him at school.

Some time after this happened, Paul, who had about half a mile to walk to his home, through the green lanes, met some gipsies. There were three of them. One said to the other, “Bob, do you see that youngster? He has some good things about him.”

So they whispered a little together. At last, one came close to the little boy, and in a moment seized him round the waist, and put his hand over his mouth and nose, to prevent his calling out. They had made up their minds to steal him for his clothes.

So they put him in a sack, and tied a handkerchief over his mouth, and told him, if he made the least noise they would kill him.

After going for some miles, they went aside into a thick wood; and, when they reached the middle of it, they stripped poor little Paul quite naked, left him under a tree, and went off with all his clothes.

It was now very dark, and Paul was very much frightened. When the gipsies were gone, he cried out for help till he was hoarse, and could cry no longer. Being naked, he was very cold, and he crept under a bush, to screen himself from the wind.

When Paul’s father found he did not come home, he was very unhappy, and went to look for him; he sent servants, first one way, and then another, but no one could find him. His poor mother too was in great grief. Indeed both father and mother were nearly mad through losing him.

They dragged all the ponds in the neighborhood, went up and down the river, inquired of every one they met, but no one had seen him. John was called up, and said, the last time that he saw him was when he bade him good bye, at the corner of the lane.

The night began to close in, and it grew dark; Paul was not found, and poor John was as unhappy as any little boy could be; he went crying to bed, and when he knelt down to say his prayers, he prayed that Paul might come safe home again. He then went to bed, but he could not sleep for thinking of his kind school-fellow.

At last he leaped out of bed, and said, “I must go and see if he is found--I must go and seek him too.” So he slipped on his clothes, let himself out, and fastened the door after him.

At first he did not know what road to take, and he wandered up one lane, and down another. It was very dark at first, so that he could scarcely see where he went. At last the moon rose up, and seemed to cheer him in his search.

So on he walked, looking into every ditch and every pond, going through every little clump of bushes, but to no purpose--he could neither see nor hear anything of poor Paul.

It was about twelve o’clock at night, and he reached the church-yard. Some boys would have been afraid of going into the church-yard, for fear of ghosts. John said to himself, “If the living do not hurt me, I am sure the dead will not; besides, why should I be afraid, when I am doing what is right.”

John thought he would have one look in the church porch, so he drew towards it. The old arch seemed to frown on him; and it looked so dark within, it made him shudder, although he would not be afraid. He stepped boldly in, and cried, “Paul, are you there?”

Something started with a loud noise, and bounded by him, calling out, “Halloo! halloo!” and leaped to one of the tombstones. When John looked, he found it was a poor silly boy, whom they used to call Silly Mike; and whose part John had often taken, when other boys used to tease him.

“Ah! Mike,” said John, “don’t you know me?” The poor idiot knew him directly, and said, “He is in the sack! he is in the sack!--buried in the wood! Dong, dong--no bell go dong, dong.”

After some trouble, John made Mike understand that he was in search of Paul; who kept saying, he was in a sack in the wood: “Gipsy men,--sack in wood;--Mike frightened.”

At last John prevailed upon the poor fellow to show him to the wood; for the boy thought it might be that Paul had been taken away by somebody.

So they went on till they came to the wood. Mike led the way. At last they thought they heard a moan. John listened:--he heard it again; he then pushed through the brambles, tearing his face and hands at every step.

He called out, “Paul, Paul?” “Here, here,” was faintly said in reply. John rushed to the spot, and there lay the poor little boy, half dead.

John ran and helped him up; he then pulled off some of his own clothes, and put them upon him. Mike then lifted him on his back, and they soon got out of the wood.

Paul’s father had been out all night after him. His poor mother had also been searching every place she could think of, and had given him up for lost. They thought he had fallen into the river, and had been drowned.

When the poor lady saw her child borne towards her she could scarcely speak; and, when he leaped into her arms, she fell down in a fainting fit.

Paul’s father soon came home, and was rejoiced to see his son. He took John up also in his arms, and pressed him to his heart, for saving his son.

“I offered a hundred pounds reward to any one who would find him, dead or alive,” said his father. “You shall have the hundred pounds, my little fellow; nay, more, I will give you the best pony in my stable.”

“What for, sir?” said John.

“Why, for being such a brave little fellow.”

“No,” said John, “one good turn deserves another: you remember the nice rosy apple you gave me the first day I went to school, Paul.”

Nothing could prevail upon John, or his father, to take the reward: “To pay my son for doing his duty,” said the poor man, “would spoil all.”

From this time Paul and John were firm friends, and grew up together like brothers. At last Paul became a very rich man, and John was his _steward_.--_English Periodical._

The Selfish Boy.

The selfish boy is one who loves himself solely, and nobody else; who does not care who he deprives of enjoyment, so that he can obtain it. Should he have anything given him, he will keep it all to himself. Should it be a cake, he will keep it in his box, and eat it alone: sometimes creeping up stairs in the day-time, to munch when nobody sees him; at others, getting out of bed at night, to cram himself in the dark.

The selfish boy likes playthings, but he does not like anybody to touch them: “You shall not bowl _my hoop_; you shall not touch _my bat_,” is constantly on his tongue. He is ever on the watch, to find out if any one has been even near anything of his. He is _restless_, _anxious_, _fearful_; he knows it lies at the bottom of his heart to _rob_ others, because all selfish boys are _covetous_, and he thinks that everybody will take from _him_.

When he sits down to his writing, if he happen to make a good letter he holds his hand over it, so that no one may copy it. When he has worked his sum, he hugs it up to his breast, for fear any one should be benefitted by knowing how it was done; not that it is right to show your sums to others, but this is not his motive.

He obtains knowledge, perhaps works hard for it, but he has no desire for _communicating_ it to others. If he should see a fine sight at the window, he calls for no one to share his delight, but feels a pleasure in being able to say, “_I saw it, and you did not_.”

The selfish boy cannot see the good of anything, without he is to be the gainer in some way or other. When _his_ interests are concerned, you will see him quite alive, although he was ever so sluggish just before. He sees in a moment what will make to his own advantage, and is, therefore, an adept at chopping and changing, and at making bargains. He knows well enough how to _disparage_ (to speak against) his school-fellow’s plaything. If it be a knife, he will pretend the spring is bad, and find out a hundred faults; then, when he has made a good bargain, oh! how he chuckles over it, and rubs his hands.

The selfish boy is a great cheat: when he plays marbles he takes care, when an opportunity offers, of kicking his alley nearer to the ring; when he makes a false shot, he will pretend that he was not in earnest, on purpose to get another; when the game is going against him, he will pretend he has hurt his knee or his knuckle, and can’t play any more.

The selfish boy is a great braggart; he often says, “I have got this, and I have got that. Aye, you do not know how much money I have got in my saving-box.” Sometimes he hints that his father is rich, and he shall have a fortune left him when the old gentleman is dead; and he does not seem to care how soon he dies.

His whole life is a sort of _scramble_; if anything is to be given away, he is the first to cry out, for fear he should lose his share, and the first to grumble when he obtains it. If another boy happens to receive a larger slice at mealtimes than himself, he pines over it, and can scarcely contain himself for vexation. He always looks out for the best of everything, and thinks he has a right to it.

Poor boy! he thinks the world was made for him. He never thinks of others. It is no pleasure for him to see others happy; nay, he would sooner make his dearest friends miserable, than deprive himself of anything. He will make no self-sacrifice, I can assure you.

Nay, more than this, if he does not want a thing, he cannot bear that anybody else should enjoy it. This is the last stage of his disease; and thus he is like the dog in the manger, and snaps at every one who comes near him.--What a pretty _man_ he will make!--_Martin’s Treasury of Knowledge._

Story of Little Dick and the Giant.

Poor little Dick; what a gay, blithe fellow he was! He used to go singing and whistling about nearly all day: he was always merry, and scarcely anything could make him sad.

One day, little Dick thought he would have a ramble in a large forest, at some distance from his home. He had often been to the sides of it before, but it looked so dark he was afraid to enter.

But Dick was more merry than usual on this day, for the sun shone so brightly, and the flowers looked so lovely, that he sang and whistled till he made the woods ring again. He delighted himself for some time among the trees and flowers; and, at last, seemed quite glad to have found out such a sweet spot.

There was a clear brook ran through the wood; and the waters looked so clean, that Dicky, being very thirsty, stooped down to drink; but, just at that moment, he was suddenly seized from behind, and found himself in the hands of a great, tall, fierce, ugly-looking giant, a hundred times as big as himself; for Dick was not much bigger than the giant’s thumb. The giant looked at him with savage delight; his mouth opened wide, and he made a noise which seemed to Dick quite terrible.

Dick thought the giant would have eaten him up alive, at one mouthful: he did not, however, do this, but took and put him into a large bag, and carried him off.

The poor little captive tried all he could to get out of the bag, but to no purpose,--the giant held him fast. He screamed, he struggled, he tried to tear a passage--the giant laughed, and carried him quite away.

At last the giant came to his house--a gloomy looking place, with a high wall all round it, and no trees or flowers. When he got in he shut the door, and took Dick out of the bag.

Dick now thought his time was come. When he looked round he saw a large fire, and before it hung four victims like himself, roasting for the giant’s supper.

The giant, however, did not kill Dick; he took him by the body, and gave him such a squeeze as put him to great pain; he then threw him into a prison which he had prepared for him. It was quite dark, and iron bars were all round it, to prevent his getting out.

Dick beat his head against the iron bars; he dashed backwards and forwards in his dungeon, for he was almost driven mad. The giant gave him a piece of dry bread, and a drop of water, and left him.

The next day the giant came and looked, and found that Dick had eaten none of his bread; so he took him by the head, and crammed some of it down his throat, and seemed quite vexed to think he would not eat. Poor Dick was too much frightened to eat or drink.

He was left all alone in the dark another day, and a sad day it was; the poor creature thought of his own home, his companions, the sun-light, the trees, and the many nice things he used to get to eat; and then he screamed, and tried to get between the iron bars, and beat his poor head and limbs sore, in trying to get out.

The giant came again, and wanted Dick to sing, the same as he sung when he was at home, and to be happy and merry. “Sing, sing, sing!” said he: but poor Dick was much too sad to sing--a prison is no place to sing songs in.

The giant now seemed quite in a rage, and took Dick out to make him sing, as he said. Dick gave a loud scream, a plunge, a struggle, and sank dead in the giant’s hand.--Ah! my young reader, poor _Dick_ was a _little bird_, and that _giant_ was a _cruel little boy_.--_Holiday Book._

The Flowers.

When we walk in the _fields_, how many _flowers_ we see; some spring from the _grass_, where they look like little stars; some twine in the _hedge_; some grow on each _bank_; and some hang from _trees_ and _plants_.

How we love to look at them--_red_ and _blue_, and _yellow_ and _white_. Some are round, like cups; some stand up, with sun-like rays; some hang down their heads; but all their forms seem to please the eye.

And then, while they look so bright and fair, how sweet they smell. The air is full of their sweets; and bees sing songs round them, and sip honey from their rosy lips.

They come in the first soft winds of spring, and shed their pure bloom on the white bosom of the snow; they seem to look at the sun with joy, and watch him through the day. At night, when the sun is gone to rest, they seem sad, hang their heads, and droop.

But at morn, they open their leaves, and the clear dew seems, like a tear of joy in their eyes, to hail the sun that lights them.

Why did God make the flowers so fair and pure, and bright, and paint them with so many hues? Because it was his wish that they should make glad our eyes.

He might have made them dull, dark, ugly things, so that when we looked upon them they would have given us pain, and not joy; but God wished to make us happy.

As the sun shines upon flowers, so God smiles on us when we do what is right: when we, like him, try to shed light, and joy, and peace, about us.

As flowers turn toward the sun all day, and seem to follow him in his course, so should we let our hearts turn to the God who made us; for he is _our_ bright _Sun_, and without him we should fade and die.

[Illustration]

Christmas.

This famous Christian festival is held on the 25th of December, in commemoration of the birth of Christ. In all countries where the Catholic religion prevails, it is noticed with a great variety of ceremonies. In England, it is a day of cheerfulness and festivity. The festival of Christmas is continued for twelve days, and in the Catholic and English churches, they have frequent religious services during the period. The churches are dressed with evergreens, and it is a common custom to decorate the rooms of houses with branches of evergreen trees.

Story of Philip Brusque.