Peter Parley’s Winter Evening Tales, by Samuel Griswold Goodrich (Boston: S. G. Goodrich & Co., 1830)
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[frontispiece]
PETER PARLEY TELLING STORIES.
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[engraved title page]
PETER PARLEY’S TALES.
[image of a woman with three children playing with toys]
S. G. GOODRICH & CO. BOSTON.
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[printed title page]
WINTER EVENING TALES.
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1830.
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[copyright page]
District Clerk’s Office.
Be it remembered, that on the twentyfourth day of October, A. D. 1829, and in the fiftyfourth year of the Independence of the United States of America, Samuel G. Goodrich, of the said district, has deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof he claims as proprietor, in the words following, to wit:
In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled ‘An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;’ and also to an act, entitled ‘An act supplementary to an act, entitled, “An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts, and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned;” and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving, and etching historical and other prints.’
JNO. W. DAVIS,
Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.
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[p. 3]
WINTER EVENING TALES.
Let the reader suppose it to be a winter evening. Peter Parley sits by a blazing fire, and about a dozen children, some boys and some girls, are around him. The frontispiece is a picture of the scene. Parley speaks as follows.
Well, my little friends, I am happy to see you! Here we are by a bright fire. Out of
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doors the snow is deep; and though the moon and stars are bright as summer, yet the air is bitter cold. Dont it seem very pleasant and comfortable to be here, snug and warm, while Jack Frost is moaning at every crack in the doors and windows, trying to get in?
I think it very pleasant indeed, but pray, Mr Parley, who is Jack Frost?
I will tell you. But let me ask you, first, if you never felt in winter, as you were going along, a tingling in your nose, as if something pinched it, or bit it with teeth as sharp as needles.
Oh, yes, but that is only the cold.
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Certainly it is only the cold. But people fancy it to be a wicked little fellow with wings of frost, and legs and arms made of icicles, who flies on the cold breeze, pursuing travellers, and tormenting their noses, cheeks, and ears, by pinching them with his icy fingers. This, to be sure, is only an imaginary being, but when you see a person facing the keen wind, his nose red and his ears tingling, you can easily picture Jack Frost at work, and almost fancy that you see him with a figure like a great grasshopper, performing his tricks upon travellers.
Mr Parley, you say that Jack Frost is only the cold wind. Now, I dont see much in
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cold wind to be afraid of. I have been out for a whole evening in winter, and I never was happier. Did you ever skate on the ice, or slide down hill, Mr Parley
Yes, my boy, and I delighted in such sports when I was of your age. But I am old now, and I should make a sad figure, either on a sled or on skates, with my crutch and lame foot.
I am glad that you liked such things once, for you w’ont blame them now. I love skating and sliding; I love to see the snow falling, it comes down at first so gently, as if it were afraid, and then by and by it comes as fierce and fearless as hail. I love to see it
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rolled up by the wind into deep drifts; and then when the storm is over I love to hear the sleigh bells, and I delight to look far over the sleigh bells, and I delight to look far over the meadow, and the round hills, and see them all so white and still in the beautiful bright moonlight.
Well done, master James! You are quite a lover of nature; I dare say you will be a poet yet, and write about winter.
He has written about it, Mr Parley!
How do you know that, Miss Ellen?
Because you showed it to me! It is poetry, Mr Parley, and I think it very good too.
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Indeed! Well, Master James, there is no shame in writing poetry. Nay, dont blush, everybody has written poetry, good or bad. I will venture to say that many people have had worse success than you. So pray let me see your poem upon winter. Come, come, dont be shy! let me have it
I came to hear stories, not to show my composition.
If he dont show it, Mr Parley, I can repeat it, for I remember every word of it.
Nay, Miss Ellen, you must not do it without James’ consent. He showed you the lines, supposing you would keep them to yourself,
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and you must not prove that you are unworthy of being trusted, by betraying his confidence.
Well, Mr Parley, here are the lines, and you may read them. I know Ellen did not mean to do wrong, and I am sorry to see her so much hurt. I suppose you, Mr Parley, who have told so many stories, can make better verses than I can; for I have heard that poetry was only fiction, and story tellers have generally a plenty of that
Bravo, James! but that is a severe lash upon the back of your old friend; perhaps I deserve it, however. I did not mean to wound Ellen’s feelings; and I forgive your rudeness, boy, for the generous sympathy for
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your sister from which it springs. So here are the verses.
The moon shines bright, the snow is white,
Over level and over steep,
The breeze is still, the night is chill,
And the tired traveller ’s asleep.
Around the hearth the circle draws,—
Cheerly shines the blaze on them,
And while the men discuss the laws,
The busy women knit and hem.
Now the young tell tales and riddles,
Now crack nuts and now crack jokes,
Now they dance while Sambo fiddles,
And look on the god old folks.
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Out of doors the air is stinging—
But the merry sleighs do glide;
Merrily their bells are ringing,
O’er the village, far and wide.
Merrily the boys are riding,
Down the hills, o’er hail and snow,
Merrily the skaters gliding
Swiftly o’er the smooth ice go.
Hark! the bell strikes nine o’clock!
The dance is done, the skaters cease—
The young and old now homeward flock,
And all abroad is hushed in peace.
Yet ere they seek the welcome bed,
The gathered household meekly kneel,
And then the solemn prayer is said,
And then sweet dreams upon them steal.
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Thank you, James—thank you. So you thought poetry was fiction; but these lines seem to me to be full of truth.
And, therefore, I suppose they are not poetry. But, Mr Parley, I beg you to forgive me now, and tell us the story you promised us.
With all my heart. So here is the story.
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HENRY AND ELLEN.
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[p. 13]
OR HENRY AND ELLEN.
There were once two children, named Henry and Ellen. They did not live in Boston or New York, but in a country village in Connecticut. Ellen was about seven years old and Henry about six.
One day as they were going to school in the afternoon, Henry proposed to Ellen, that instead of going to school they should go to the woods and pick whortleberries. To this Ellen objected, that it would be wrong, because their parents had given them no permission to do so.
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But, said Henry, we did not ask them. I dare say they would have no objection. A good many boys and girls are going this afternoon, and why may we not as well go as they? It is very pleasant to pick whortleberries. I love to ramble in the bushes, and hear the birds, and fill my basket with the delicious fruit.
Ellen still made many objections, but Henry persisted, and, contrary to her knowledge of what was right, Ellen at length consented.
The little pair now turned into a narrow path that branched off from the road to school, and quickening their pace, they proceeded on their way. At length they came to a long hill, up the sides of which the narrow path led. It then entered some woods, and beyond them were the whortleberry grounds.
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Henry imagined that he knew the way well, but he was mistaken. Taking a wrong path in the woods, he went gaily along with his little sister, expecting soon to come to the place where they should meet their school mates, who as Henry had stated, were to be there.
But after walking a long way, the two children began to feel some anxiety. The woods, instead of opening into the bushy plain, as they expected, grew darker and thicker, and the path, which at first was plain enough, was now winding and indistinct. The ground too was broken, the rocks around them were high, and the trees wore a wild and strange aspect.
The two children at length stopped and looked in each other’s faces. It was clear
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that both were occupied by the same fears. They now became conscious that they had lost their way, and determined instantly to follow back the path, and thus extricate themselves from the forest.
Accordingly they turned about, and rapidly passed along over the stones and roots and sticks that obstructed their way. Alas! the poor children, instead of getting out of the wood, only went deeper and deeper into it. They fancied they were going in the right direction, and they ran on over bush and rock, in great agitation; but in truth they were going farther and farther from the road.
At length, the path was entirely lost. All around was a thick tangled maze of trees and bushes. There was no trace or track to
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guide them. The day was cloudy, the sun was fast sinking behind the hills, and the shadows of evening were gathering among the branches of the forest.
The two children stopped and cried bitterly. It was in vain to attempt to go farther. Poor Ellen’s arms were torn and bloody with scratches from the trees; and Henry was nearly exhausted with agitation and fatigue. They sat down upon a large stone in despair. They put their arms about each other’s necks, and wept bitterly.
Here they sat; the night fast coming on, with every prospect of a thunder storm. The rain, indeed, began already to fall here and there in large drops; the lightning flashed
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faintly in the west and the thunder muttered, solemnly, over the far hills.
Their situation was, indeed, pitiable; alone in the wide forest, without shelter or protection; separated from their parents, exposed to the coming tempest; and all this, alas! the consequence of their own fault. It was the recollection of this that added new bitterness to their grief. Oh! said they in one voice, oh, that we had gone to school, as we ought, and then we should not have been in this fearful wood!
The little wanderers still sat side by side upon the rock, shivering with the chill of the evening and wet to the skin by the rain, when at length they heard a light step as if something was approaching them. They were
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exceedingly startled, for they fancied that nothing but some wild animal could be in this lone place, beside themselves.
The step, however, approached nearer and nearer. It came slowly and cautiously forward, as if to start upon them by surprise. Breathless with fear, the children stood up, gazing into the thicket with intense anxiety and apprehension. At length they could easily distinguish the head, and part of the body of a large animal, black and shaggy, who was coming toward them. It was now very near to them; they could easily distinguish its features and hear its low growl. Suddenly it sprung upon them. The children shrieked—but it was a shriek of joy!
‘It is our good old dog Tartar!’ said Henry, in ecstacy. It was indeed the family dog; he
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had discovered the absence of the children, and setting off on their track, he followed them through all their wanderings, till he found them as I have told you.
The old dog now led the way, the children followed, and in a short time they were safe at home. They confessed their misconduct to their parents, and having been forgiven, they went to bed, worn out with fatigue, and resolved never again to be guilty of similar errors.
The lesson I would have you draw from this story, my little friends, is this; disobedience to parents, is very apt to bring children into difficulty and danger; and when in danger, how hard is it to bear up against, not anxiety and fear only, but against the consciousness
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that guilt is added to misfortune. It is easy to support trials which come upon us while we are in the way of duty, but it is very hard to endure evils, and with them the added weight of conscious error.
After this tale, the little party returned to their homes. It was agreed at parting that they should soon come again, and accordingly, a few evenings after, they were assembled around Mr Parley’s blazing fire.
SECOND EVENING.
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MR PARLEY SPEAKS.
So, my friends, here we are once more! It gives me great pleasure to see your round,
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rosy faces; I hope you may be glad also to meet your poor old friend with his crutch. You are just entering life, and all around seems a happy morning to you; I am old and about taking leave of life, and often it seems as if the shadows of night had already fallen upon the world and all its scenes.
But it is quite proper that you should be cheerful and gay; so God ordains it. It is right, too, that one who has lived so long, and who is so near his end, as I am, should sometimes be solemn, if not sad. I hope you may all live so innocently and so well, that when you are old and weary like me, you may not be afraid to take leave of this world, and enter upon the fearful journey into another.
But what shall I tell you to-night? a fable or a fairy tale? a story of lions and foxes, who
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talk very wisely to each other, or of little beings that flit and dance unseen around us, like musquitoes in the dark? or shall I tell you of ‘war and Washington,’ or of the Indians, or wild animals?
Pray tell us a fable!
Oh, tell us of the Indians!
No, no, tell us about the war!
Can’t you tell us, Mr Parley, about Asia and Africa? In one of your books you promised to tell about them some time, and I have heard many people wonder you do n’t keep your word.
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I should like to hear a fairy tale or a ghost story, Mr Parley.
Mr Parley, Mr Parley; I say, Mr Parley! Ellen wants to hear a fable. I can tell you why; she has been reading some fables. Now I think as she called out my poetry, I may call out one of her fables.
That ’s quite fair, Ellen; come, come, we will hear Miss Ellen’s fable. Whist!
May, I ask first, Mr Parley, what a fable is?
We will request Miss Ellen to tell us. What is a fable, Ellen?
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A fable, I believe, is a story of birds or animals, who are supposed to act and talk like men and women; the purpose of a fable is, under the dress or disguise of fiction, to teach some precept, or lesson, founded in truth and experience.
I thought, Mr Parley, that a fable was a thing not true; I have heard some of your stories called fables, and I supposed it was because people did n’t believe them!
Nay, nay, Master James, you know well enough the nature of a fable; and you are only exercising your wit, to punish me for calling forth your verses. Take care, sir, or I will
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make you tell a story as well as exhibit your poetry! Now, Ellen, let us have the fable.
I will repeat a fable in verse. It was written by Mrs Howitt, an English lady. It is about a spider and a fly. The spider invites the fly to come into its net. The fly refuses to do so, at first, but the spider flatters the fly, and by and by he goes in, and is then seized and killed by the spider. I suppose Mrs Howitt meant to teach by the fable, that people who flatter, have generally a selfish purpose in view; that they really do not mean what they say, and that people should therefore be afraid of flatterers. Instead of esteeming them friends, they should be esteemed enemies; instead of doing what they request, we should carefully avoid them.
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THE SPIDER AND THE FLY.
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‘Will you walk into my parlour?’
Said a Spider to a Fly;
’T is the prettiest little parlour
That ever you did spy.
The way into my parlour
Is up a winding stair,
And I have many pretty things
To show when you are there.’
‘Oh no, no!’ said the little Fly,
‘To ask me is in vain,
For who goes up your winding stair
Can ne’er come down again.’
‘I ’m sure you must be weary
With soaring up so high,
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Will you rest upon my little bed?’
Said the Spider to the Fly.
‘There are pretty curtains drawn around,
The sheets are fine and thin;
And if you like to rest awhile
I ’ll snugly tuck you in.’
‘Oh no, no!’ said the little Fly,
‘For I ’ve often heard it said,
They never, never wake again
Who sleep upon your bed?’
Said the cunning Spider to the Fly,
‘Dear friend, what shall I do,
To prove the warm affection
I ’ve always felt for you?
I have within my pantry
Good store of all that ’s nice;
I ’m sure you ’re very welcome—
Will you please to take a slice?’
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‘Oh no, no!’ said the little Fly,
‘Kind sir, that cannot be,
I ’ve heard what ’s in your pantry,
And I do not wish to see.’
‘Sweet creature!’ said the Spider,
‘You ’re witty and you ’re wise.
How handsome are your gauzy wings,
How brilliant are your eyes!
I have a little lookingglass
Upon my parlour shelf;
If you ’ll step in one moment, dear,
You shall behold yourself.’
‘I thank you, gentle sir,’ she said,
‘For what you ’re pleased to say,
And bidding you good morning now,
I ’ll call another day.’
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The Spider turned him round about,
And went into his den,
For well he knew the silly Fly
Would soon come back again;
So he wove a subtle web
In a little corner, sly,
And set his table ready
To dine upon the Fly,
Then he went out to his door again,
And merrily did sing,
‘Come hither, hither, pretty Fly
With the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple—
There ’s a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright,
But mine are dull as lead.’
Alas, alas! how very soon
This silly little Fly,
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Hearing his wily, flattering words,
Came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft,
Then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes
And green and purple hue;
Thinking only of her crested head;
Poor foolish thing! At last
Up jumped the cunning Spider,
And fiercely held her fast.
He dragged her up his winding stair,
Into hsi dismal den,
Within his little parlour,
But she ne’er came out again!
And now, dear little children
Who may this story read,
To idle, silly flattering words
I pray you ne’er give heed;
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Unto an evil counsellor
Close heart and ear and eye,
And take a lesson from this tale
Of the Spider and the Fly.
It is a beautiful fable indeed; and we all thank you, Ellen. I hope none of you will ever hear flattery without thinking of the deceitful spider, and the poor fly that was so silly as to listen to his wicked deceit.
I shall now tell you a story of little Marion.
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LITTLE MARION.
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[p. 33]
You have heard, I suppose, of Ohio. It is one of the American States, and lies far to the west. To go from Boston to Ohio requires six or seven days’ travelling. It is now a well settled country, there being many towns and villages and many people there.
But the time of my story is more than twenty years ago, and then there were few inhabitants there, and the country generally was covered with vast forests. Mr Leslie, a farmer, but yet an intelligent man, had removed, with his family, from New England,
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to the banks of that great river which gives name to the State of Ohio.
His house was made of logs, and though low and brown and destitute of beauty, it was very comfortable. It was surrounded by thick woods, but the hills swelled so gently around them, and at a short distance the river flowed on so smoothly, that Mr Leslie and his family esteemed it a charming spot. In summer it was, indeed, as beautiful as a scene of wild nature can be. The vast forest trees spreading their thick shade over the land; the luxuriant wild flowers putting forth their gay blossoms, the clear ringing music of the birds that were happy and at home in the broad forest, made it seem quite a paradise, particularly in the eyes of Marion Leslie. ‘Oh!’
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said she to her father, ‘how much more beautiful is this, than the cold shorn hills of New Hampshire, where we used to live!’
Mr Leslie had two children, Alexander and Marion; the first about thirteen years old, the latter about eight, at the time I speak of. They were both interesting children, and were dearly beloved by their parents. They were, indeed, so dutiful, amiable, and intelligent, that they well deserved the affection bestowed upon them.
On one beautiful morning, about the beginning of September, Alexander took his gun, and went into the woods in search of game. His intention being only to ramble in the woods for a short time, he left behind his favorite dog. It was not unusual for Alexander to go alone
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into the woods, for though the catamount and cougar and other beasts of prey were occasionally met with in the woods, yet they had never been seen near Mr Leslie’s house; and besides, they would seldom attack a man, and were therefore little feared or thought of.
But after Alexander had been absent several hours, Marion became uneasy at the long stay of her brother; and partly from anxiety and partly for amusement, she set out in the direction in which she saw him go away in the morning, intending to go only a little way, and expecting every step to meet him on his return.
The day was very fine; it was warm, and now that it was almost noon, all around was as tranquil as sleep. Scarce a bird or insect was seen or heard—the calm blue smoke hung over
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the landscape, and the broad bosom of the Ohio that flowed at no great distance was smooth as a mirror,—the leaves that were now changed from green, to a thousand shades of yellow, brown, and red, scarcely stirred on their stems, and no sound met the ear, save the step of a partridge, or the drumming of a woodpecker.
All around was so beautiful and so pleasing, that Marion was insensible led on and on, sometimes holding her breath to listen for her brother, and expecting to hear his gun, or his step crushing the bushes. With no ideas of danger, and full of pleasing thoughts and feelings, the little girl passed along through the forest, stopping occasionally to pick some attractive blossom, or to examine some new or
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curious leaf, and occasionally gazing up and around, with a feeling of awe, at the mighty trees, which lifted their heads and stretched their shelter and shade above her.
Marion had in this way amused herself for nearly two hours, and unconsciously had gone a considerable distance from home. At length being a little weary, she sat down by a brook, at the foot of a large oak. Her dog Hart, a beautiful spaniel, having observed her absence, and followed on her track, now came to her, and lay down at her side.
The innocent and thoughtless Marion, fearing no harm and dreaming of no danger, sat by the brook a considerable time, playing in its waters, and dipping leaves and flowers beneath its surface to see the silvery light that
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sparkled upon them. Then she gazed in wonder at the reflection in the brook, of the trees and the shrubs and the clouds and the sky, which seemed as true and real, beneath the water as above it. And then she scooped the waves in her hand and drank the water; and then she slapped the ears of the spaniel for presuming to lap some of the water from the very spot where she was taking it out to drink; and then she lay down on the bank and fell asleep, her dog also reposing at her side.
The little girl had slept about an hour, when a catamount who was lurking in the forest perceived her. The catamount, I suppose you know, is a fierce and cruel animal, shaped like a cat and as large as a dog. It is a beautiful animal, of a fawn color, with black spots or
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stripes upon it. Here is a picture of a catamount.
This animal is cowardly and will fly from a man; but it kills hares, rabbits and other small animals, an if it meets a child, it does not fear to attack it. How dangerous then was the situation of Marion, sleeping and defenceless, while the sly catamount was stealing towards her. He came as silently as a cat, his eye fixed on his victim, and flashing with excitement. Marion was dreaming happily
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and sweetly of home and her mother and her sports.
How often, my dear children, is danger nearest, when we think least of it! How much need have we of the constant care of that good Being above, who watches over us. Oh, let us take care to secure his friendship, by doing our duty; for if God is not our friend, who shall we have to protect us when alone and in danger?
Will you look at the picture of Marion and her dog asleep, and the treacherous catamount creeping toward the little dreamer. Oh! who shall save her? Why does her dog sleep so soundly? Where is her brother? her father? Will no one come to her rescue? A moment, and all is too late!
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The catamount is within a few feet of poor Marion. His eye has measured the distance, and at a bound he can fasten her in his claws. He utters a low growl of triumph and satisfaction. But that growl reaches the ear of the faithful spaniel. The catamount springs forward with a furious leap. His is met by the courageous dog. Marion is awakened and springs up in astonishment. The two animals wrestle for life and death. They roll upon the ground. The blood stains the bank of the river. They fall into the water, and disappear beneath its surface, they rise again, struggling and staining the water with blood—the poor spaniel is overcome—he quits his hold—and floats on the water! The catamount reaches the shore in safety. He climbs up the bank,
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he fixes his eye on Marion, who stands still in amazement and alarm. Now sure of his preay, he approaches her and crouches down, to spring with fatal certainty upon her.
Hark! a gun is heard! a bullet whistles through the air. The catamount falls bleeding and dead at the very feet of Marion! Her brother is at her side—she is safe! she is safe!
Need I tell the rest; the poor spaniel is taken in the arms of Alexander and carried home. The brother and sister return, and the strange story is told to their parents. They all kneel down and thank Heaven for her escape.
Such is the story of Marion Leslie; her spaniel got well, and she ever treated him with great kindness on account of his courage and fidelity. He was willing to risk his life to save
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hers, and had his strength been equal to his bravery, he would have mastered the catamount. As it was, had not a kind Heaven watched over poor Marion, and sent her brother to her rescue, she had never returned to her parents.
Let us all be thankful, my dear children, that we live in a land where there are no wild beasts; let us also, like Marion Leslie, deserve, by our good conduct, and thus secure, the best of all protection, that of Heaven.
That is a good story, Mr Parley, but some parts of it I do n’t understand. Pray, what was the reason that Alexander was gone so long? and how did he happen to come along to save Marion just at the nick of time?
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I should have told you that; he set out in the morning, and went alone through the woods, and for a considerable time he met with no game. At length he saw a flock of wild turkeys. They fled before him and he pursued them. On they went, running very swiftly and keeping carefully out of the way of his shot. He followed them for several hours, until at length they started from a hill and flew away beyond his reach.
Alexander had thus been led to a great distance from home, and it was not till near night that he reached the spot, where he chanced to discover the danger of his sister. He saw the catamount as it crept up the bank from the water. As the fierce animal crouched down
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to spring upon her, he levelled his gun, and shot him to the heart.
Mr Parley, is this story all true?
Whether it is true or not, there is nothing improbable in it; such things as I have told you, have frequently happened, and I have heard a true story, very much like the one just related.
Will you please to tell us another story, Mr Parley?
All the children exclaim—Do! do! do! do! do!
Well, well, I will tell you another story, but do n’t make such a noise; I must tell you a
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short story for it is almost nine o’clock. But see here! I have some nuts and perhaps you can do without the story, till you have eaten some of them. Here are butternuts, walnuts, and chestnuts.
Oh, they are very fine; how large they are! Pray where did they come from?
They were sent to me by my grandson, Peter, who lives in the western part of the State. He gathered them all himself.
How I should delight to be with him, when he gathers them. Oh! I was once in the country and I went with a cousin of mine into the woods after nuts. I was never so happy.
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How I love to hear the walnuts rattle down like hail, when the tree is shaken. And how the chestnuts grow, three and sometimes four in one burr! They never look so beautifully as they do when they lie under the tree, amid the grass and leaves. And then the little chip squirrels, with a chestnut in each cheek, how much they look as if they had the mumps!
Certainly it is very pleasant to go after nuts in the woods; but, James, while you are talking the little ones here are eating.
Well, they may eat, I had rather talk and think of gathering nuts than to eat them. I should rather hunt after game than to devour it. I would leave the best meal I ever sat down to,
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for the pleasure of seeing a gray squirrel jumping about among the topmost branches of the trees, or to hear a partridge burst away through the bushes, or to observe a flock of quails running swiftly and slily along through the bushes, or to see a rabbit come leaping and bounding by me!
I can well believe you, my boy, for I have seen the day when I felt as you do. BUt I think you will turn out as great a talker as myself.
Perhaps I may. If I have the chance of going about the world as much as you have been, Mr Parley, I will try to pick up some good stories. But see, they have finished
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their nuts; and now I wish you would tell that story of the Soldier and the Dog, which I heard you relate once. I love dearly to hear about dogs.
Very well,—here is the story.
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THE SOLDIER AND HIS DOG.
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[p. 51]
OF THE
SOLDIER AND HIS DOG.
There was once a French soldier whose name was Pierre, that had a dog which he called Fidele. The dog was of that species called poodle; he was short legged, long backed, and was covered with thick, curled woolly hair; so long and abundant was the hair about his head, that Fidele’s face was almost covered up, and it was with difficulty you could see his keen black eyes peeping out from the bushy covering.
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Yet this shaggy dog ws very cunning; and being very fond of his master, he chose to follow him wherever he went. Pierre loved the dog too, and so fond was he of his company that they were seldom separated.
But at length the country where Pierre lived was visited by war; I will endeavour to make you understand what war is.
War is a quarrel between two nations. When two nations get into a quarrel, they send their soldiers out to fight. Soldiers, you know, are men who are dressed in blue and red, and carry guns, and march in rows, with drums and fifes and other music.
Well, a great many soldiers are called an army. Each of the two nations at war sent out an army to fight. These two armies meet
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generally in some great plain. Some of the soldiers are on foot and some on horseback. Some have guns and some have swords and some have cannon. They are drawn out in two great lines; they spread far over the plain, and present a grand but fearful spectacle.
At length the two armies are in motion. They approach each other. The music bursts on the air,—the ground shakes with the tread of horses,—the loud cannon is heard,—the rattling of muskets startles the ear.
The plain now presents one vast scene of confusion. A heavy cloud of smoke hangs over it,—and the red flashes of musketry and cannon are visible amid its folds. Men on horseback are riding swiftly to and fro; some
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of the horses whose riders are killed, are flying at random over the plain— the ground is marked with the traces of blood, and here and there the wounded and the dying and the dead, are scattered over the field.
Such is the picture of a great battle, between two armies. Many men are killed on both sides; but one of the armies generally overcomes the other and compels it to retreat. The army that retreats is said to be beaten, and the other army is said to obtain the victory.
Thus, as I before said, when two nations go to war, they send their armies against each other, and they meet and fight as I have described. One of the armies being beaten, and the two nations, having suffered a
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great deal of distress, and having had many of their people killed in battle, think it is best to make peace, and put an end to the war; and so they make peace, and then the war is over.
It m[a]y appear very strange, and very silly, and very wicked for two nations to go to war. Just so it is when two children quarrel; it is very silly and very wicked. They neither of them get any good by it, and I sincerely wish that neither nations nor little children would quarrel any more. It would be much better for all the world to be at peace; no person is happy when he is angry and quarrelling with another. The only way to be happy is to love, not to hate; to do good, not injury; to feel kindly, not cruelly; to wish good to others, not evil.
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However, I must go on with my story. Pierre lived in France, and France became involved in war. Pierre was called upon to become a soldier, and so he took his gun, put on a grenadier’s cap, and set out to join the army.
His dog Fidele wished to go with him; he followed Pierre, fawned, whined, and seemed by all his arts of persuasion to endeavour to induce his master to let him be his companion to the wars. He jumped up, licked his face, then scampered off in the direction of his journey, then scampered back and then looked wistfully in his face, and seemed by his piteous expression to say, ‘Pray, master Pierre, do not leave your poor dog alone!’
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But Pierre was immoveable. He knew that his dog would have but ill fare with the army, and so with a heavy heart he sternly drove him back, and bade him stay at home. The disappointed brute hung down his head, walked slowly and mournfully back, and sitting down upon a small hill, he gazed after his master till he was out of sight.
After two days’ travel, Pierre joined the army. It was commanded by the celebrated Bonaparte, one of the most remarkable men that ever lived. He was a great warrior, and the army he commanded was almost always victorious. But he was fond of war, and for that reason, every good and benevolent heart will condemn him. A man like our Washington, who goes to war to save his country from
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foreign soldiers, deserves our praise; but a man who makes war because he loves it, is worthy only of condemnation.
The army commanded by Bonaparte, and to which Pierre was attached, consisted of French people, and was called the French army. The other army, which lay at no great distance, consisted of Germans, and was called the German army.
When Pierre arrived, he found that it was expected every day that the two armies would meet and fight a great battle. He had never seen a battle, and as was natural, he felt some fear at the idea of a scene so dreadful. He determined however to met the danger bravely, and if it was to be his lot to fall, he prayed a kind Heaven to be merciful to his soul.
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At length the time of trial arrived. One morning while it was yet dark, Pierre perceived a general movement in the army. It was soon ascertained that an engagement was about to take pace, and he expected every moment to hear the loud cannon announce that the awful work was begun.
At length a heavy sound, like distant thunder rolled on the air. There was then a moment of silence, and then came another and another sound—and then one tremendous roar filled the whole heavens.
All uncertainty was now at an end. The look of paleness and fear, which sat on the faces of the men before, now passed away, and they wore an aspect of calm, but stern determination. The commanders rode their
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horses proudly, and the horses champed the bit, and pawed the earth.
The order was given to advance—the music swelled on the breeze—the long line of men moved slowly forward—
The sun was now risen—Pierre saw the vast army of the Germans stretching along over the irregular line of low hills, at no great distance; their guns flashing in the beams of the morning, as they seemed with a slow and creeping step to advance down the slope toward the French army.
The two armies now met—it was a brief, but bloody struggle. The German army was at length beaten; they retreated before the French. The Germans fled, the French pursued.
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But where is Pierre? He is not with his victorious companions!—Alas, he lies faint and wounded in the valley where the armies met. A bullet entered his side, early in the battle, and he fell among the wounded and the dead. His senses left him, and his companions thought him dead. They went away, and there was no one near to help him.
All was now quiet in the valley where poor Pierre lay. The army had passed on, the wounded had been taken away, and Pierre, left for dead, was alone with no other companions than the bodies of the slain around him. His senses had returned but only to assure him of his desolate situation. He had just strength enough to raise his head, and look around, and see that the
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vultures were hovering in the air, ready to seize their prey.—The evening was approaching, and he could also hear the hoarse howl of the wolves in the edge of a neighbouring forest. But he could discern no one that was likely to render him any assistance.
‘I must die,’ thought he, and laying himself back upon the ground, he closed his eyes, and fervently commended himself to Heaven.
Night gradually came on,—and faint and exhausted, Pierre fell asleep. He had slept several hours when he heard a sharp growling by his side. His senses were at first bewildered, and for a short time he could not imagine where he was. But soon he recol-
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lected his melancholy situation. He then gazed around, and could dimly perceive a wolf at a very small distance, apparently ready to spring upon him, but restrained by some object of fear, that opposed his purpose.
Still thinking that perhaps it was all an illusion of the brain, Pierre rubbed his eyes, and gazed more intently upon the scene. He was only the more convinced that a large gray wolf was before him, ready for attack, and only withheld from the fatal leap, by some obstacle, the nature of which he could not comprehend.
Sensible of his danger, Pierre attempted to rise, but i vain. He fell back upon the ground. The wolf howled fiercely and
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sprang toward him. He was met by some animal that stood in his way, and a violent struggle ensued between the two. At length the wolf drew off, and took his former station. He now set up a wild howl, and in a short time several other wolves came to his aid.
Pierre was just able to raise himself upon his elbow, and could thus see what was going on. He could easily count the wlves as they came up at the call of the other; but who or what it was that stood by his side, facing and defying the fierce band of blood thirsty prowlers, he could not imagine. At length it came into his mind that it could be no other than his dog Fidele. It was too dark to see him distinctly; he could only perceive the dim outline of a figure appa-
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rently that of a dog, with his face towards the wolves, intently watching their motions.
At length Pierre whispered the name of his dog. ‘Fidele!’ said he. The animal wagged his tail slightly, and uttered a low whine. Pierre knew this to be the voice of his dog; but the faithful animal was too vigilant to turn his eye an instant from his watch.
It is impossible to describe Pierre’s feelings. A moment before he had given himself over as a lost thing, soon to be devoured by wolves. What was his delight to find in this lone spot, and at this desolate hour, a faithful friend at his side, watching over his life, and ready to spill his blood for his safety! A thrill of joy ran through his breast,
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and animated and roused by the excitement, he raised himself partly up, laid hold on his musket and snapped it in the faces of the wolves.
The gun was not loaded, but the bright sparks thrown out by the flint, startled the whole pack, and they retreated several paces. But they soon returned, and howled more loudly than ever; they barked and snapped and rushed at Fidele and his master; but the firm and threatening air of the dog, together wth his hearty bite, which several of them had felt, with the snapping of the gun lock, kept them at bay.
After several hours’ watching, the morning came, and the baffled wolves retreated to the woods. The dog, now relieved from his
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guard, came to his master, wailed and whined over him, licked off the blood from his hands and face, with the most affecting air of tenderness and pity; and manifested such a mixed flow of joy and sorrow, as brought tears to the eyes of his master.
At length, Fidele placed himself before his master, looked wishfully in his face, and then suddenly leaving him, started at a swift pace, and ran away. Pierre called, but in vain. The dog neither turned about nor looked back, and was soon out of sight.
Astonished and grieved, Pierre now shed tears of bitterness and disappointment. But he was not allowed long to indulge these feelings. He soon perceived a small black speck in the sky. He could not imagine
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what this should be. He gazed at it again and again. Gradually it grew larger and larger, and soon he could perceive it to be a large bird. It came nearer and nearer, and at last Pierre discovered it to be a vulture. It was not alone, for by and by others came to view, and soon they began to settle down upon the field.
Several of them came flying over him, and with their hooked beaks, and strong talons, seemed to be on the point of assailing Pierre. Weak and incapable of resistance, or defence, he now shuddered at this new danger, and such was his disgust and horror at these foul birds, that he almost regretted that the wolves had not finished his sufferings the night before. His strength, too, was
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gradually giving way, and he was very soon incapable of any other motion, than the turning of his head.
Faint, weary, and distressed, the young soldier now felt his situation to be extremely deplorable. Once more he endeavoured to close his eyes, and resign himself to Heaven. But the thoughts of the vultures around him disturbed him so much that he could not, for some time, compose his mind to rest. At length he succeeded, and after a short time he fell into a deep sleep. This lasted for several hours. When he awoke, he perceived one of the vultures standing on a stone near by, and looking intently upon him. Pierre gazed in dread upon the bird, and a sickening sensation came over him. His eyes grew dim, and he
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could no longer discern objects around him. But he heard faint sounds and felt something touch his body; and imagining that he felt the talons of the vultures in his flesh, his reason left him, and he became insensible.
After a long time Pierre opened his eyes and looked around him. The objects were all strange. He was in a small but comfortable room, and on a good bed; a woman, dressed in black, was sitting by him, and his dog Fidele, sat watching the face of his master. As soon as the dog saw his eyes open, and caught the glance of Pierre, he sprang up and leaped upon the bed, and placing his face to him, manifested the utmost joy.
I need not say that Pierre, after a few months, recovered of his wounds. He then
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learned that he owed his life to the fidelity of his dog. Fiedele, when he left Pierre on the field, went to a monastery at some distance, whence by his intelligence and persuasive signs, he induced the people to follow him. He led them to his master, and what Pierre imagined to be the talons of vultures, were the hands of those who came to save him. He was carried to the monastery, and one of the nuns attended him with the utmost care and kindness.
Pierre remained for many years a soldier but would never be separated from his dog. In battle he carried him at his back in his knapsack, and in the camp they slept in the same bed.
Thus they lived, till the battle of Waterloo, when Pierre was killed, and the same bullet
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that penetrated the breast of the soldier, passed through the body of Fidele and the soldier and the dog were buried in the same grave.
After this story, the party again separated, but Mr Parley invited them to come the next week, on New Year’s eve, and he would then tell them some more tales. They promised to come and at the appointed time, they all arrived, eager to hear the old man’s stories. Several of the children had brought their cousins who chanced to be spending the New Year holiday with them, so that on this occasion Mr Parley’s fire, had at least twenty sparkling young faces around it. When they were all seated, Mr Parley spoke as follows.
My little friends, it is now the evening of
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New Year’s day. The first day of a new year is generally a day of mirth. On such an occasion, we endeavour to forget what is past that may be painful, and we look forward with bright and cheerful hopes to the coming future. When our friends meet us, they all wish us a happy new year, and we fondly believe that wishes to agreeable will be fulfilled. My dear children, I hope this may be so; I pray Heaven that no evil may fall on any of you.
But we must never forget that all our prospects are very uncertain. Did you never know it clear and bright and beautiful in the morning, yet cloudy and stormy before night? Now, although to your young eyes the future year may seem fair and promising as an un-
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clouded morning, yet it may prove otherwise. Before another new year’s day, some unexpected misfortune may fall upon us. We may lose our friends, or we may be sick, or we may die. Who can tell, when we assemble around this fire, on the evening of the next new year’s day; who can tell if we shall all be here? Who can say that some one of our number may not be sleeping his last sleep, beneath the cold snow? And who can say which of us it shall be?—It may be you, or you. Or, perchance, your old friend, who has told you so many stories, may himself be gone, and there may be no one to gather you around this cheerful fire.
Now, my little friends, I do not say to you be said, be gloomy! on the contrary, I say be
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cheerful, as becomes your age. But, do not think so much of your pleasures as to forget how uncertain they are; and do not think so much of your pleasures as to forget to pray Heaven, every evening and morning, to spare your lives, and guard you from error. Do not think so much of your pleasures as to forget that you may be suddenly taken from them, and be required to appear before a Being who is the sincere friend of those children who speak truth, and practice obedience to their parents, and kindness to others; but at the same time, a Being who detests falsehood, and punishes the wicked.
But it is now time to fulfil my promise; I suppose you are weary of my talking in this way.
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I was just thinking, Mr Parley, that you was preaching a sermon, instead of telling us stories.
Dear brother, don’t speak so to Mr Parley. I like Mr Parley’s sermon, if you choose to call it so. It is the same kind advice that Mama gives us, and I love to hear it, and I shall try to practice it.
So do I like to hear it, Ellen; I know it is good, and I will try to practice it too. But dont it seem very odd to hear a man talk in that kind of way, without a black coat on?
Oh! James! James!
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James, my boy! you are too thoughtless—and too fond of making smart speeches. I know you are kind and generous at heart, but this levity and wit are dangerous. Come, my brave fellow, say that you will do better.
Well, well, I can say and do anything, that is asked of me so kindly. Pray forgive me, Mr Parley, and I will do better; and, Ellen, if you wont look so sad, I will get Mr Parley’s sermon by heart, and I will practice every word of it. There! Mr Parley, Ellen is as bright as the sun after a shower.
Well, I am glad of it. But before I proceed with my story please look at this picture,
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of my grandson Peter, whom I mentioned to you the other evening.
Was it this little fellow who sent you the nuts?
Yes. He is now a stout boy, but some years ago, he was small as you see him in the picture. I think he was between three and four years old. He once came with his mother to pay me a visit. I used to take him on my knee and tell him little stories. He was very much delighted with them, and often teased me to tell him more.
When I was gone he seemed to think of nothing but the stories I had told him, and he would often attempt to repeat them to
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others, and when he did so, he would endeavour to look and act as much like me as possible. He would make the same motion with his hands that I had done, and imitate my tone of voice and looks; and one morning he got my cane, and put on my wig, and begged his brother to give him my hat; and thus equipped, he went to the door and said he was grandpapa, and going to get some stories!
Bravo, little Peter! You begin your travels early. I think your’s is likely to be a travelling family, Mr Parley.
Mr Parley, what is a wig? I never saw one.
It is a thing made of hair, and is generally
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worn by old people, who are bald, to keep their heads warm.
Pray what became of your wig, Mr Parley? you have got a good place for one now.
I ’ll tell you the fate of that wig, if you wish: it will make a pretty good story.
Oh tell us of the wig! the wig! the wig!
Well, here is the story of the wig.
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GRANDFATHER’S WIG.
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[p. 81]
I was one evening setting by my fire, alone. I had been reading, but feeling a little sleepy I laid down my book and leaned my head back in my chair. My wig was on my head, for I wore it then; so I sat in the chair some time, and at length I fell asleep. I thought I was awake however. By and by, my wig seemed to stir. I put up my hand and pressed it down, but pretty soon it stirred again, and then I distinctly heard it whisper to me.
I held my head still, for I was very curious to know what my wig had to say to me. Mr.
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Parley, said the wig, in a low voice like a whisper, you treat me very ill. It is true I am but a wig, but I do not like to be stuck up here on your head all day, and then hung on a nail all night. I like a little recreation as well as other people, and since the ride I took on the wind last winter, as you was coming through Boston Common, I have had a horrid dull time of it.
Pshaw! said I to the wig, you are very unreasonable. Whoever heard of a wig’s having such whims before.
I tell you, Mr Parley, said the wig, I am not singular. I have very often seen wigs jump off from the heads they belonged to, and take a little bit of an excursion on the wind. And in that very book you have been reading to
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night, there is a story of this sort. I peeped over your nose, while you were looking in the book, and saw it myself. Its about Mr. John Gilpin who was riding along in London one day, when his wig jumped off, and glided away on the breeze. Now, Mr. Parley, if John Gilpin’s wig might have its liberty for a little while, why pray, may not Peter Parley’s?
Very well, said I to the wig, you may go if you like; that is if you will promise me you will come back again.
Certainly, said the wig, I will be back before morning.
But where are you going? said I—
I’m going just to take a trip round the world.
Round the world! I exclaimed: you go round the world?
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Why not? replied the wig. Is it any thing remarkable that the wig of such a celebrated traveller as you are, should circumnavigate the globe.
Certainly not, said I, but come, friend wig, we generally go together, and I should like to keep you company in your expedition.
I should like nothing better, said the obedient wig—so let us go instantly. You must go up garret, and through the scuttle window, and stand on the roof of the house; I will stay on your head, mount the first breeze that comes along, and we will be off together.
I did as the wig directed, and mounted to the roof. The night was exceedingly dark and tempestuous. The wind blew a hurricane—the lightning flashed broad and bright—and
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the loud thunder rolled along the sky. I was alarmed, and endeavoured to find the scuttle, and get back into the house. But pretty soon a tremendous gust of wind took me up, and whirling and spinning me round and round like a leaf, carried me away high into the air.
I felt myself sailing along, and to my great alarm, I found I was in the very middle of the thunder cloud. However, on looking about I perceived that the cloud was only made of mist, like a thick fog; so I made myself easy. Besides, my wig whispered in my ear, that all was safe; that the lightning was nothing but sparks of electricity, like what we see on a cat’s back in a winter night; and that the thunder was only the noise made by them in rushing swiftly through the air.
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Away we went, higher and higher, and soon the thunder cloud was far below our feet. The world, which at first appeared immensely large, with hills and rivers and mountains and seas upon it, seemed to grow smaller and smaller, and soon it only looked like a great ball, as large as a meeting house. It was as round as the moon, and seemed to be sailing in the air like a balloon.
As the earth grew smaller, the moon seemed to grow larger. I asked my wig about it, and he informed me that he was going to stop a minute at the moon and that we should soon be there. In truth we were now very near it, and instead of being a round bright ball, as it appears to be when we look at it, I found it was in fact a great world with mountains and rivers and seas on it.
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We soon arrived at the moon. It appeared there, very much as it does here. The people seemed to act much in the same way, but they could ’nt understand a word we said to them. So we left the moon, and set out on our return. I proposed to my wig to go and see the Sun, before we came back, but he replied that the sun was made of fire, and he should get singed if he went there.
When we were on the moon, the world looked just as the moon does to us, only it appeared larger; the sun was shining upon the earth, and that made the earth bright, and the earth shone upon the moon, as the moon does upon the world.
As we came nearer and nearer to the earth it looked larger and larger, and what appeared
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very singular was this; that, when it was night on one side of it, it was day on the other side of it. When the sun goes down at night, you know, it seems as if it was put out, like a candle; but it is in truth shining as brightly as ever, far over the hills on the other side of the world.
Well, at length we came pretty close to the earth and could easily see the objects upon it. We were about twice as high up as the clouds, and down beneath us we could mark the hills and mountains and the rivers and seas and islands.
I now reminded my wig of his intention to go round the world, and expressed my desire to have him fulfil his scheme. The wig replied that he had not changed his plan. Below
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us, said he, you now see Boston. We will in the first place take a trip to the north pole then to the south pole; then to some other places.
So we set out; we soon passed over New Hampshire and Canada, and Baffin’s Bay, and at length we could see below us only a dismal region of ice. All around, was one vast solitude, where nothing was heard but the fall of avalanches, or the howl of white bears.
I begun to shiver with cold and begged my companion to return. But at this he jumped off my head, and seating himself erect upon a tall icicle, addressed me thus. Mr Parley, before I again put myself into your power, you must promise me one thing, and that is, that you will hereafter treat me well. You
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must every day feed me with powder and pomatum; have me well combed and well dressed. Promise me this, or I will leave you on the spot, and you may get back as you can.
As my ears were stinging with cold, I promised all the wig asked. So it hopped on my head again and away we went. We whirled over North and South America, and was at the south pole in a twinkling. Here it was as cold as at the north pole, and being afraid of another trick, from my wig, I urged him not to stop. So we soon came back, and set out for China.
China is on the opposite side of the globe. You can go to it, either by going west or going east. If you go west, you cross the Pacific Ocean. If you go east, you cross the
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Atlantic. As I was curious to see the Pacific Ocean, I proposed to go west, and so we set out.
We crossed America very soon. We saw the great Rocky Mountains, and observed many of the wigwams of the savages that live in the woods of the western wilderness. Then we saw the Pacific Ocean—and a mighty sea it is. It is many thousands of miles across. On one part of it we could see a storm—on another we could see a calm—here we could see a lone vessel sailing on the wide and almost shoreless sea—there we could observe a vast solitary expanse of water, on which it seemed as if the moon and stars alone looked down.
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We shortly arrived at China. The Chinese are a very curious people. They have great cities, and build high walls around them to keep strangers out. It was about midnight at Boston when we left there; we had been away but a few minutes, and it was just noon when we arrived at Pekin, the capital of China.
Pekin is an immense city—and I was rejoiced at an opportunity of seeing it. I came down plump into the middle of the town. There were a multitude of people in the streets. At first they were frightened, and scampered off in every direction. But pretty soon they came back with long pikes, and I was in danger of being run through the body; but just in time my wig pulled me up into the air, and we st off on our return.
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We now concluded to cross Asia and take a glimpse at Africa and Europe, and then go home to Boston. So we stretched away over Asia, going in an easterly direction. We passed over many celebrated places in Asia, and at length we came to Africa. But Africa is not a very interesting place. The people are generally black, and they have very few beautiful cities.
We now turned north and went to Europe. We passed over Turkey, and Italy, and France, and England. We saw many cities, and many mountains and rivers. We then went to the north, and sailed over Holland and Sweden and Norway, and then set out to return. We were crossing the Atlantic Ocean, when I saw a large island in the sea. I asked Wig about it, and he said it was Iceland.
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I had a great anxiety to see Hecla, the famous volcano of Iceland. I mentioned it to Wig, and he directed his course thither.
Hecla, you know, is a burning mountain which sends forth smoke and fire at its top. It was now smoking and blazing tremendously. It had a frightful appearance. It sounded like heavy thunder. Its smoke mingled with the clouds, the lava poured from its top like a river of fire, and the flame ascended and streamed far [on the] wind.
We approached the fearful spot. Unfortunately we went a little too near. The fire caught my wig, and instantly it was in a blaze. At this critical moment it jumped off my head. We were immediately over the crater, and I could see the stones boiling in it like a vast pot.
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Down went my wig, and I followed, straight toward the horrid mouth of the volcano. It was a dreadful moment. I shouted with all my might. I shouted in good earnest. I awoke from my dream. I was still sitting in my chair; but my wig was on fire. It had caught from the candle on the table by me. I jumped up, snatched my wig off my head and threw it on the floor. I stamped on it, and put out the fire, but the poor wig was ruined, and I have never worn one since.
Oh dear! then it was all a dream!
Yes—except that my poor wig was really burnt and destroyed. I have told you this dream, partly to amuse, and partly to instruct,
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you. It is, of course, impossible for a wig to carry a man to the moon, or around the globe; but yet the moon is actually a great world, and this earth on which we live is a vast ball. These mighty words are suspended in the heavens, and if we could fly from one to the other, they would appear to us, as they did to me in my dream. It is also extremely cold at the north and south pole; and China is on the opposite side of the world; and it is noon in China when it is midnight here; and all these things which I saw in my dream really exist in the manner in which I fancied I saw them.
Mr. Parley, wont you tell us some true stories, now. I love true stories.
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Yes, my boy—I will tell you some true stories—for although stories of fancy, may be pleasant and amusing, yet they are less instructive than those which describe facts, and events, which have really happened. I am very glad to find that you love true stories better than fictitious ones.
I will tell you some tales of animals, which I hope may please you.
Here is a picture of a Racoon.
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A Racoon is a gray animal, larger than a cat, and lives in the woods. He is sometimes tamed, and is found to be very cunning. He takes up nuts and other things in his fore paws, as handily as you could with your fingers. He looks them over and over, and seems to be very curious and inquisitive.
The racoon has a singular method of catching fish. He will go and set on a stone by the water, and let his tail hang down into it. The fishes see his tail, and think it is something to eat; so one of them opens his mouth and gives it a bite. As soon as the racoon feels the bite, he twitches his tail, and throws the fish out on the shore, and then eats him up.
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I heard a captain of a vessel who had been to China, tell a curious story of a kind of fish he had seen at one of the islands in the Pacific Ocean. This fish was quite small, but very cunning. He would swim along close to the top of the water, watching for flies. When he saw a fly crawling along on a stone or stick, that projected over the water, he would squirt a little water at him. Being it seems a good marksman, he was sure to hit the fly, who would come tumbling down, and the fish, who was waiting for his prey, would devour him at a single mouthful.
In the West Indies there is a very singular fish called a Walking Fish. When the pool or brook where he is, becomes dry, he will
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set off for another. As he has no legs, he throws himself along by means of his tail, which he first bends, and then straightens it with a jerk. In this way he is said to travel at the rate of three miles an hour.
Here is a picture of a Frog.
I suppose you have seen frogs often. You would hardly suppose that there could be any-
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[pages 101-102 missing in this copy; the text and illustrations for these
pages come from the original chapbook.]
thing interesting about them, but there is no animal, which, if we carefully observe it and study its habits, does not afford something to excite our curiosity or surprise.
Many years ago, during a very dry season in Connecticut, a large pond was dried up. So, one night, all the frogs set out to go to another pond. There are many hundreds of the frogs, and as they went jumping along, they made a great noise. The people of a village near by, heard them, and were astonished and alarmed. They had never heard such sounds before—and were utterly at a loss to guess what it could all mean. There were curious conjectures about it—some said it was one thing and some another, and it was a long time before they found out that it was only the music of frogs.
Here is a picture of a White Bear.
[Transcriber’s note: The illustration is missing in my copy; the illustration here is from Peter Parley’s Tales of the Elephant.]
This animal is found far to the north, in the cold frozen regions of Greenland. He is very large, and is sometimes seen floating in the sea, seated on a cake of ice, for his boat. There was one of these animals in Boston, a short time since, [and] when his keeper told him to show the people how to break ice, he would rise up and strike on the floor very hard with his fore feet.
[Transcriber’s note: The illustration is missing in my copy; the illustration here is from Peter Parley’s Tales of the Elephant.]
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Here is a picture of an Elephant, trying to pull a man off a tree. The Elephant, you know, is the largest of fourfooted beasts. He is found in a wild state in Asia and Africa. He is pursued by the people in those countries, and being taken, he is subdued by harsh treaemtne, and made to be quite tame and gentle.
The adventures of the Elephant hunters are often very singular and hazardous. I have heard of a man who was thrown from his horse when pursued by an elephant; he ascended a tree to escape. The elephant came up and tore off the branches and shook the tree, and would have shaken the man off, if his companions had not come up and driven the elephant away.
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But when the Elephant is tamed, he becomes very useful. In India the people ride on his back as we do on a horse.
Now the elephant is the most intelligent of the brute creation, and there are many curious stories about him. There was once an elephant in London, and as he was going by a tailor’s shop he just popped his trunk, or proboscis, into the window, expecting that the men who were there would give him something to eat. Instead of this, one of the tailors stuck his needle into it, which gave the elephant great pain.
Well, the elephant did n’t knock the fellow down, as he might have done, with a stroke of his probiscis, but he went to a dirty puddle, filled his trunk with the water, and went back
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and squirted it all over the ill mannered tailor.
Here is a picture of the Jaguar.
The jaguar is found in South America. He is as large as the largest dog; he kills deer, sheep, and other animals, for food. But he has a very curious method of catching fish. He goes to a river and drops his spittle upon
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the surface of the water. The silly fish come up to see what it is; as soon as they come near enough, the jaguar knocks them out of the water, upon the land, with his paw. He then eats them at his leisure.
Here is a picture of a man on the back of an alligator!
Captain Waterton, a very singular Englishman, went to South America a few years
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[pages 107 and 108 missing in this copy; the text and illustration for these
pages come from the original chapbook, slightly revised to reflect the
probable wording of the book.]
ago, and travelled in the woods and wilds of that country. He met with many strange adventures, which he has related in a book.
One of his most curious stories is that of catching an alligator or cayman. This animal was in a river; they put a piece of meat on a hook and put it into the water where the cayman was. The animal seized it, and was caught by the hook. The men then drew him out of the water, but no one dared to approach him at first.
By and by Captain Waterton jumped upon his back, twisted his legs round, and then they beat him to death.
[Here is] a picture of a Condor, the largest bird of flight that is known. It is as large as a child one or two years old. It is so strong that it can carry off a sheep. It lives in South America, amid the high mountains. It has been known to carry
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off children. I once heard of a condor that took a little boy into the air, and carried him to his nest, in the mountain, without hurting him. There were some young condors in the nest, and the boy snugged down between them, and pretty soon his father came and rescued him.
Here is a picture of a dog with a boy on his back.
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There are many dogs, you know, that are very wise and sagacious. In Switzerland there is a species of dogs, who have saved the lives of many persons by their sagacity and perseverence.
Switzerland is, you know, a very mountainous country; and amid the high and wild mountains called the Alps, people are often covered up with masses of snow which fall from the rocks and bury them beneath it. Now these dogs will go out in search of poor travellers who may be thus lost, and will dig them out of the snow, and save them.
One of these dogs once found a woman in the mountains with a beautiful boy; she was herself already insensible from cold, but she had wrapped up her child so carefully that he
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was quite warm. The dog got the boy on his back, and carried him to the monastery which was the dog’s home. The people took good care of the child, and then they followed the dog in search of his mother. The sagacious animal led them to the spot, but she was frozen to death.
So, I have told you some true stories and I could tell you many more, if we had time. The history of animals is one of the most instructive and amusing of all studies. Their various forms and colors; their various degrees of strength and sagacity; their various aptitudes and habits, afford an inexhaustible source of entertainment and knowledge. After reading of the multitudes of animals that inhabit the earth, and having contemplated their
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wonderful variety, and the astonishing power and skill of their Great Contriver, we cannot but exclaim in the words of scripture, ‘O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In goodness and wisdom hast thou made them all.’
And now, my little friends, it is time for us to part. I hope we may yet meet again. Farewll, and God bless you!
[Transcriber’s note: This charming illustration begs to be described in detail. Against clouds in a starry night sky, four tiny figures fly through the air. Left, a tiny figure in a shallow basin is pulled by a flock of birds. Below, someone stands in a basket under a balloon. Above, a man clambers onto the bottom horn of a crescent moon. Beneath him, a kicking man holds tight to the handle of a flying umbrella. All are sailing toward the right-hand side of the picture.]