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“19
Most of her time, never went to sleep early.’ She
was awake, as usual, wheo her father returned.
With scarcely less eagerness than she had caren. the
orange in the morning did ahe now drink
ishing milk and eat the sweet buns, while her father
sat looking at her, his heart throbbing with i
pressible delight.
From that day’ the pipe and the mug were thrown
aside, It cost a protonged struggle. But the man
conquered the mereanimal, And Claire found him-
no worse off in health. could work as
many hours, and with as little fatigue; in fact, he
found himself brighter in the morning, and ready to
go to his work earlier, by which he was able to in
crease, atleast a shilling or two, his weekly income.
Added to the comfort of his family, eight.or tea
pounds a year produced a great change. But the
greatest change was in little Lizzy: For a
weeks every penny saved from the beer and tobacco
the father regularly expended for his sick chil
and it soon became apparent t t was nourishing
* food, more than medicine, that needed. She
revived wonderfully ; and no fone time passed he-
fore she vould sit up for hours. Her little tongue;
e free once, more, and many an hour of
i And the bless-,
ing of better food came also in Gime to the other
children, and t
* © So ranch to ° ans from the right spending of a
single penny,” Claire enid to hinveelf. as he sat and
reflected one day. “Iho could have believed it?”
And as it was with the poor cobbler so it will be
with all of us.
> There are little matters of self denial, which, if
at
oe eS | he LEI
ie
lution to practice, would be the beginning of more
important acts of a Jike nature, that, w! n per-
formed, would bless ‘notonly our families, bet other:
and be returned upon us in a reward of delight i in.
comparably beyond anything that selfish aud sen-
ual indulgences have it in their power to ring.
———+9»
TE ARTIST AND THE NEWSBOY.
‘If en ny of our readers have never heard of Ifenry
Inman, ‘the artist, I am very sure that their parents
tell them something of him.’ As a man, he
was ‘revered and loved by many of the present
generation ; 3 a painter, his name ran!
amorg the greatest in our land.
from our world into a better and brighter one
but his works are treasured i in many a “household
“both in Europe and Am
Among his more celebrated pictures, and one of
which many of my readers have no doubt seen an
engraving, is one called “The Newsboy.” It rep.
resents a ruddy, ragged, but honest- looking little
fellow leaning against the side of the Astur House
steps, with a bundle of newspapers Me dee his arm.
face, with its glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes,
lit with energy and sturdy purpose, without feeling
that the picture is no fancy sketch, but a veritable
portrait of some rare prince among the newsboys.
Anda portrait it really is,
When Mr. Inman first conceived the idea of
inting this picture, he sauntered-slowly along
Broadway i in the hope of seeing some fine speci-
he newsbof race that would do for a “sub-
Many passed him, or, meeting his artentive
eye, ” prewel eagerly toward him through th
crowd, with “Sun, Herald-and-New-Ery ! mnt
New Era, sir ?”. —but the right face was not am
them.. Some had a squint; some looked visio ;
* some had straight red hair sticking out like
tles; some were badly formed, and some tees a
deformed spirit within. One and all either offend-
ed his artistic eye or fell short of his idea of a gen-
uine cut-and-o
Almost in Seeparr of finding what he sought, our
ertiat was about turning into the Astor House, on
Broadway, when suddenly one of the motley group
of boys collected near its steps arrested bis atten-
tion. Here, at last, was his ideal in living, breath-
ing form! ‘In the stalwart, rush noble-looking
youngster before him—and now, indeed, rushing
toward him with an eager Mornin’ paper, sir?” he
felt sure that he beheld the original of his future
‘The little fellow was r: i
ness fairly gleamed through the dirt, and the long,
black, tangled hair, shining where it curled in spite
of every thing, , ttreegling from beneath the tattered
straw hat, made the ruddy face look all the hand-
somer. Then the man’s coat that he wore, with
ita tails cut off, and its - sleeves shortened b;
great roll at the wrist, was a picture in itself;
while the trowsers full of patches—to say nothing
_ of the Places where Fatches vught to be—filled
” the artist's heart with deligh:
Yes! he would paint Si rags, dirt and all.
The grand boy-nature would be there still. | “How
fortunate!” thought the happy artist: “begrimed
though he be, the fellow looks as if a king’s heart
were beating i in his bos:
So Mr. Inman bought ap
asked him whether he would be willing to be bis
model; in other words, to stand fur a picture.
The boy Tooked astonished, but gave a ready as-
sent. After a few moments’ talk it was agreed
that early on the following morning Joe (for that
was the young gentleman’s name) should appear in
the artist’s studio to have his portrait taken. :
“You will certainly be there,” said Mr. Inman,
looking searchingly into the boy’s face.
Sir,” exclaime: d Joe, growing very | red, and
straightening himself up to his full heigh
». “You won't disappoint me?” reiteretel the ar-
tist, at the same time handing the boy a silver
quarter by way of a 4 retaining fee.’ ”
“ook ‘here, mister,” rejoined Jue, Sereels, at the
same time laying his popers on a hydrant s0 as to
Le ready for a fight if it should prove nee necessary
“none uy yer foolin’—didn’t I say
I don’t want none of yer money, nuther, ‘it I've
earned it,
So saying, 3 Master Joseph turned haughtily upon
his heel, and catching up his papers, commenced
shouting, “un-'erald-and- New-Er-y!” in sublime
rd of artists in general, and Mr. Inman i in
aper of the boy, and
* particular.
Early. on the following morning, while ‘the artist
was in his studio preparing for the day’s work, he
w | the shining, matted curls were cropped off. close to
we had but the true benevolence, justice and reso-) fy
3 you
+ | looked esterday, and now you have spoiled your-
No one can look. upon that bright, intelligent ma
and started on the way, commending himself to the
care ol
black robe, with long beard and hair,
Meer beside him, on reaching an opening in the
And | man saw that he was at the mercy of a band of
peck, took the gold lace from his cap,
rom
of prayer, which was clasped with silver. Not’ till
he had yielded all he possessed and seen his horse
led away, did Kant intercede for his life..
TIE. YOUTIUS
was startled by a “double-quick” on the bare stair-
way.
in another i instant, strangely in contrast with ‘the
daring, ascent, a modest knock was heard at the
doe
“Come in!” shouted the artist, well-pleased at
the punctuality of his sitter. Th r creaked,
and, looking up, what a sight’ presented itself to his
astonished gaze! There stoot his sitter,” indeed ;
ut, alas, it was no longer the newsboy, no longer
the Joe upon whom the artist's soul had been feast-
ing in dreams the long night through. The boy
had actu: ually been was hed; his pentaloons heal
been neatly brushed and mended, c
changed for.a neat-fitting Sunday. ‘acket, his tat-
tered straw hat abandoned for a trim gray exp, and
bis head, leaving only a dingy stubble in. their
lace.
tou oung rascal, you,” gasped the disap-
pointed artist, ““yhat in mischieP’s name have you
been doing to yourself?”
“Doin’, “sir?” was the meek replys “J haint: bin
doin’ nothin’. '—yer didn’t tell me come afore
nine o' ’clock—and Thad to sell all me mornin’ pa.
pers, sir, afure I went home to slick up and dress.”
fo dress!" echoed Mr. Inman, savagely 3 “and
who told you, soe little scoundrel, to rig yourself
up in that style
“Couldn vo help it, sir,” apologized Joe; “me
shoes an’ jacket is new, sir, or was a month ago—
everythin’ on me’s decint ‘but me breeches—and
ur that matter, sir, Leould have a new pair by
next, week, if you'd wait.”
‘This was too much for the poor artist. ‘He
sprang from his chair—and would have flown into
a violent passion had he not burst into.a hearty fit
of laughter.
The doy: oko’ puzzled for an n instant, and then,
after an almost tearful Jook upon the
breeches, wich he believed to be the sole cause of
the artist’s emotion, turned ihtivaartly toward the
oStay !” said his companion suddenly cheeking
his mirth, “oomne back, m: under-
stand each other. T wanted to paint
self for my picture by putting on your best clothes
and cutting your hair. Do you understand?
‘lie! he! !” grinned Joe, “that’s the go, is it, sir?
We oh I'm blowed if Tever’d a thought of gittin’
my picture took in them air old clothes 5 but Vl
step around an’ pt ’em on agin in a jiffy, sir, if
you say the word.
“No, no, Joe; not to-day.
wanted particularly. How lon think i
wil be before you can raise asthe head wy
The | hair § was what 1
mt
Not long, sir,” ” replied Joe, cheeringly e got
a regular mop, sir, generally. It tod ‘have bin
down to me heels afore this if mammy hadn’t
chopped it off last Sunday school exhibition, She
chopped it ex close his mornin’, Yer see, on ac-
jeount uy hay ur’ took, she he ! Bye it it
Whether the artist concluded to wait for the
hair or not I do not remember, as it is many years
since he told me the incident. Certain it is, how-
ever, that Joe, though a man grown now, (and let
us believe, an honest and good man,) is living in
8 eternal youth in Inman’s Pleture of the e Newsboy.
Independent. ,e
SCRAPS FOR YOUTH.:
ma vite
ASSAILED BY ROBBERS.
‘We remember to have read of a boy sent to the
city to commence life, whose mother sewed care-
fully in his doublet a number of gold pieces, which
made up all his capital, Being assailed by rob-
bers, his little bundle of clothing was taken from
him and he was asked if he had any money. : “It
ig all sewed in my doublet,” was his reply, and after
repeating this answer several times he was sent to
the captain of the band, who ripped open the seam
and found the gold. He restored gold and bundle
to. the trutbful boy. The following incident § isin
the same vein: -
© John Kant (not the German philosopher of that
name) was professor. and Doctor of Divinity at
Cracow. .' He was a pious, holy man, with a spirit
eculiarly gentle and guileless, and he at all times
whuld have preferred to suffer injustice rather than
to exercise it. For many years he had | consciously
followed his duties as spiritual teacher in the place
to which he had been appointed by God. — His
head was covered with the snows of age, when he
of God. He" rode slowly along, attired ia his
the fashion of the time. Thus he pursued his way
through the gloomy woods of Poland, which scarce-
a sunbeam could pierce; but there was a light
in bis soul, for God’s Holy Spirit irradiated it, «
, One evening as he thus journeyed along, hold-
communion with God and taking no heed of
pling noise was suddenly heard,
and he was in y surrounded by figures, some
on horseback and 8 on foot. Knives and
swords glittered in the moonlight, and the pious
thick forest, a a tram
stant
robbers. Scarcely conscious of what passed, he |
alighted from his horse and offered his prope ty
to the gang. He gave them a purse filled with
silver coins, unclasped ‘the gold chain from his
drew a ring
his finger, and took from his pocket his book
oe
COMPANION. .
- “TIave you given us all?” cried the robber chief,
threateningly- “Have you no more money
his alarm and terror, the trembling doctor
anvneted that he had given them every coin in his
oxsession ; and on receiving this assurance he was
allowed to proceed on his journey. .
Quickly he hastened onward, rejoicing at his
escape, , when sutdenty his hand felt something
chard in the hem of his robe, It was his gold,
which having been stit tehed. within the lining of his
dress, had thus escaped discovery. The good man,
in his alarm, had forgotten this secret store. . His
heart, therefore, again beat with joy, for the mone:
ear him home to his friends and kindred,
and he saw rest and shelter in prospect, instead of.
a long and painful wandering, with the necessity of
egaing his way. But his conscience was a pecu-
liarly tender one, and he suddenly stopped to listen
It cried, in disturbing tones, “Tell
Tell not a lie!” “These words burned
in his heart. . Joy, kindred, home, all were furgot-
ten. Some writers on moral philosophy have hel
that promises made under such circamstances are
not binding, and few men, certainly, would have
been troubled with scruples on the occasion. But
Kant did not stup to reason. He hastily retraced
his steps, and entering into the midst of the rob-
bers, who were stillin the same place, said, meekly :
“Ihave told you what is not true, but it was not
intentionally ; fear and anxiety confused me; there-
fore pardon me.”
With these words he held forth the glittering
gold; but, to his surprise, not one of the robbers
wrould take it, ge feeling was at work j in
their hearts. whey could not lnugh at the holy
man. ‘Thou shalt not steal,” said a voice within
them. All were deeply moved. Then, as if seized
yy a sudden impulse, one went and brought him
ek his pur: another restored the book o}
praygr, while ‘tll another led his horse towards
helped him to remount it. They then
unitediy entreated his blessing ; and solemnly giv-
ing it, the holy man continued is way, lifting up
his heart in gratitude to God, who ought, him in
safety to the end of his j journey.
- °
SOMETHING FOR THEE.
Something, my ¢ Goa, for Thee—
Something for
That each day’s ccte ree sun may bring
fore penitential offerin 1g 5.
some Kindness done—
1 Thy dear Tove « some wanderer won—
Some trial meekly borne for’ Thee,
. Dear Lord, for thee,
Something, my God, for Thee—
a eomerhing for Thee:
o Thy gracious throne may rise .
Sweet incense from sone sacrifice;
Uplifted eyes, undimmed by tras
Uplifted faith, unstained by :
Hailing each joy as sight from Thee,
Dear Lords from TI ebete
Something, my, God, for Thee—
bing for Thee!
eat lo
79°
ve that Thou hast kiven—
hope of Thee and heaven,
My soul her first allegiance brings, 7
And upward plumes her heavenly wings,”
Nearer to Thee
+0
FRIGHTENED... . »
Some years ago, near the town of Reading,
‘Berks Co., Peun., there lived a cosy old farmer,
named. Sweighoff fer, of German descent, as his
»speech will indicate... He had once served
member in the Legislature, and was, therefore, “no,
fool 7 an had long commanded a volunteer
crops of rustic militia, he should hardly be supposed
to incline to cowardice. His son Peter was ‘his
only son, a strapping youth of seventeen; and P-
on old Peter and young Peter devolved the princi-
pal cares and toils of the old gentleman’s farm, now
and then assisted by the old lady, and her two
bouncing daughters (for it is very common in that
State to see the women and girls at work in the
fields) and upon: extra occasions by some hired
hands.’ Well, one warm day, in haying time, ol
Peter and young Peter were hard at work in the
meadow, when the old man n dropped his sey the and th
Screamey out:
“O, Pete ter
“What's de matter, ‘fader?” answers the son, |,
‘straightening up and looking at his sire.
‘ ot ‘ eter, echoes Y again Pete the old fellow. |
“Donder,” echoes young Peter, hur g
the old man, ; 8 tring “pte
#0, der shnake bite mine leg.”
_ At the word snake young Peter fal back,
asa wire drawer, and cried out, int
coer i ish der shnake?”
e trowsis, Peter—Oh y vat 8 ”
ony him, fader, kill him. ' at tor
“No-a, no-a, he kill me, Peter; . come—come
quiek, get off my trowsis !”
But the younger’s cowardice overcame his filial
affection, and he started to call a burly Dutchman,
. Who was in a distant Part of the field, to give his
nimbly
father a lift with the sn:
Id Jake, the fae ‘assistant, hastily left his |”
work as soon as he heard the news, end passing
the fence whereon Peter and his ‘son had hung
their “insey woolsey” rents he took one of the
arments and hurried to old man who still
managed to on 4 Re although he was
quaking and trembling like an aspen lea!
“Come—come quick, Maced. pile bite me all to
. Pieces—here—here up mine
Gathering the stiff, dry stalks ite stalwart weed,
“Take told the old man to stand steady, and he
uld at least “stun” the snake by a rap or two
it he did not kill him stone dead Peter desig-
nated the spot to strike. . ‘The first blow broke the
weed, knocked the old man off his fet and pitched
him jeadlong i into a hay-cocl
“O!” roared’ old Peter,’ “You broke mine leg,
and xe shnake’s gone !”
yere—vere?” cried Jake, moving briskly about,
ad scanning narrowly the ground.
how “Neve ver mind him, Yacob; help me up. I'll go
| and in his troubled sleep murmurs for her who gave
lo.
d “None can fill her place.”
j “Pot t on your vest, den; here it ish,” said Jake,
| athering up the old man and tryin to get the
“garment upon his hump: ~t The moment
‘Peter made this effort, he grew w livid j in the face—
jhis teeth chattered-—and his knees knocked a stac-
| eato accompaninien
“Q, Yacob, carry ‘ine home! I’m dead ash nits !”
“Vat! Ish nodder shnake in your troushers ??
*“No-a—look, I’m all swelt up! Mine vest
won't go on my back ! or
“Dunder and blixen!” eried Jake, as he came to
the same conclusion, and, scared into a most won-
derful feat of physical activity and strength, he car-
ried old Peter some quarter of a mile to the house.
Young Peter had started for home at the earliest
stage of the dire. pr ocedings, and so alarmed , the
girls that they were in igh state of excitement
when they saw the approach of the old man and his
assistant. Peter was carried in and began to die
quite natural, when, in came his wife in a great
bustle, and wanted to fmow what was going on.
Peter, in the last agony and weakness, a
opened his eyes and ‘eekly pointed to his leg. ¥ The se
old woman ripped up the pantaloons, and out fell
a small thistletop, and at the pe time considera-
ble of a scratch was made visib:
Gal It dis a shnake? Bah! i cried the old wo-
ma
“ ‘0, but I'm pizened * to death.’ Molly, see
I'm all pizen—mine yest—O dear,” mine vest
not come over mine body !”
“Bah!” roared the old woman, “vat « a fool!
You got Peter's yest on—haw, haw haw
ey. a roars old Peter, shaking of ‘death's icy
fetters at one effort, and jumping up. “Vat you
say! Yacob, you ish von pig foul; you say I vash
shnakebite? » Go ‘bout your bishness, gals. vat
you laugh at? ‘Peter, bring me some beer.”
+ ___
SCENES AFTER THE BATTLE. .
.A correspondent of the Boston Transcript thus
describes some of the heart-rending scenes wit-
nessed at Washington, after the recent Nietory of
our troops on the Rappahannock :
Let us approach and look into the cars, standing
so patiently with their living and dyi freight.
As we pass by halfopen n doors where no light is
seen, yoices are heard calling to the guard, “Do
take me from here to where it is warm!” “Please
to give me a drink of water!” «Must we lie here
long!” “Pray give me something to’ revive me!”
“I'm so faint?” “0 Iam in such terrible pain!”
These are not words of complaint, but w rds wrung
from the very beart of heroes, [fear the grim=
looking, Brizaly bearded and rough soldier's reply:
“Be patient, boys; the ambulance will be hi
soon, and then you ‘will be taken to where you can
e made comfortable.” “My dear fellow, i wish I
had something to relieve you; but I ven’t: Try
and wait a whi le.” “Here, take my ‘coats it will
keep you warm till they come,”—and other words
of cheer and comfort which fall upon a brother sol-
ies heart, strangers though they be, like soothing .
Now we come to a car where the pale light ‘ofa
lantern falls upon the pale faces of b eeding heroes
lying on the hay-covered bottom of the car. e
is a man with the green sash-of the surgeon bend-
ing over a. poor fellow: who, unconscious, of: all
araund him, dreams, perchance, of home, and wife,
and children, . There a fair-haired, sweet-faced boy
lies with his arm, what is left of it, bandaged up,
nog
him birth. stout, hearty-!
his restless slumber, and whis) ners
wife, who, a
Y asps the
friendly hand, but’ pale again as he murmurs,
|; But why linger over such scenes as this... There
are some “cheering points in the picture. Watch
e may be more © comfortable, and Mo has a kind
word. for all. . Listen to this gallant officer, who &
says: “Never mind me, doctor, there are scme of
my men in the next. car who need your services
more than I,” : :
+0 —__
“ENOS AND HIs TEMPTATION,
“A stony FoR noys. ,
6° Roff waa employ ed by a. grocei
neighborhood to hel, Thin in ° sto. et vo i ‘a a
lad of the chance to do something for himself, for
e was fourteen years old, and his father was ut-
able to keep him any longer at school. So he en-
gaged with Mr. Thor jorpe, the grocer, at two dollars
a week for the first six months, when, if he suited,
je was to get three...
Enos was a boy of good principles.
were pious and had taken
to be upright, and his Sunday school teacher also
took a deep interest in’ him. When he commenced
his work in the store he found a good opportunity
of Practicing wh what he had been taught at home and
He was often left alone, yet he never thought of
taking a single thing that did not belong to him.
‘
Ilis parents
great pains to teach him
|
¥
t
t
¥
once and indignantly, Ne
tation came in another
One night, after Enos a shut up the store, ‘and
while he y was on his way home, he thought of the °
small sum’ he received for his week’s work.! ‘Was
there not some way by which he might honestly in-
crease it? As he drew near his houge a plan oc-
curred to his mind which seemed - chonest, and
Iwon't.” But temp-
by a)
