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Day of pleasure, come at last!
All my irksome lessons past!
Now I shall have time to play,
And enjoy my holiday.
Not a book shall meet my view,
Nor one stitch of work I'll do ;
I may stroll about at ease,
Play, or do just as I please.
But is this what I desire ?
Will not so much leisure tire ?
Shall I, when the day is o’er,
Feel more happy than before ?
No; 'tis said that days employed
Always are the most enjoyed;
And the truth I must confess-
Pleasure is not idleness.


In the month of December, 1821, a Mr. Blake, with his wife and an infant, were passing over the Green Mountain, near the town of Arlington, Vermont, in a sleigh with one horse. The drifting snow rendered it impossible for the horse to proceed. Mr. Blake set off on foot in search of assistance, and perished in the storm, before he could reach a human dwelling. The mother, alarmed (as is supposed) at his long absence, went in quest of him with the infant in her arms. She was found, in the morning, dead, a short distance from the sleigh. The child was wrapped in her cloak, and survived the perils of the cold and the storm.

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The cold winds swept the mountain's height,

And pathless was the dreary wild,
And, 'mid the cheerless hours of night,

A mother wandered with her child.
As through the drifted snows she pressed, -
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

And colder still the winds did blow,

And darker hours of night came on,
And deeper grew the drifts of snow-'

Her limbs were chilled, her strength was gone-:-,
“ O God,” she cried, in accents wild,
“ If I must perish, save my child !"

She stripped her mantle from her breast,

And bared her bosom to the storm,
And round the child she wrapped the vest,

And smiled, to think her babe was warm.
With one cold kiss, one tear she shed,
And sunk upon a snowy bed. -
At dawn, a traveller passed by :

She lay beneath a snowy veil ;
The frost of death was in her eye;

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale:-
He moved the robe from off the child;
The babe looked up, and sweetly smiled.

The snail, how he creeps slowly over the wall,
He seems not to make any progress at all,

Almost where you leave him you find him ;

His long shining body he stretches out well,
And drags along with him his round hollow shell,

And leaves a bright path-way behind him.
Do look, said young Tom, at that lazy old snail,
He's almost an hour crawling over a pale,

Enough all one's patience to worry;
Now, if I were he, I would gallop away,
Half over the world—twenty miles in a day,

And turn business off in a hurry.
Well Tom, said his father, but as I'm afraid
That into a snail you can never be made,

But still must remain a young master;
As such sort of wishes can nothing avail,
Take a hint for yourself from your jokes on the snail *

And do your own work rather faster.

DIALOGUE. Edward. Papa, will you decide which of us two is right? Charles says that we are Americans, and I think that we are English.

Father. What makes you think so, child ?

Edward. Because we speak English, and I know, . that we are not Americans, because I saw in my new picture-book that Americans look like Indians, and that they wear nothing but skins and blankets, and live in wigwams.

Charles. And I know we are not Englishmen, because we do not live in England. I know by the map that England is a great way off, and that we live in America.

Father. You are both partly right and partly wrong.

We are Americans because we were born in America. We speak English because our great-grandfathers, two hundred years ago, were English people. They came across the sea to this country, when it was covered with woods, and built houses, and made it their home. They taught their children and their children's children to speak English as well as they, and it is for this reason that we speak the English language, although we live in America.

But there were other Americans, a long time before our forefathers came here, who lived in the woods, and got their living by hunting and fishing. These Americans we call Indians. There are but few of them now left among us, but in some parts of America, they are the only inhabitants.

Edward. Did the Indians ever live in the towns where we live?

Father. Before the English people came here to live, there were no towns, but the whole country was covered with woods, and the only people were Indians.

Charles. Have all the houses been built, and the fields cleared, and the roads made, since that time?

Father. Certainly; the Indians were too indolent to build any houses, except miserable huts, and to plant fields and gardens.— They only planted a little corn in the meadows, and in the midst of the trees that had been killed by fire.

Charles. But that was a great while ago, was it · not, father?

Father. Yes, it would seem a great while to such a boy as you. But when you learn a great deal more than you know at present, and read the history of other parts of the world, and become acquainted with what was done two thousand years ago, it will

seem to you but a short time since the white people first came to America. It was twice as long ago as the oldest people can remember, but not so long ago as a great many things which you can learn from books.

Edward. How long ago was it that the Indians first came to America? · Father. That is what nobody knows, because they were too ignorant to write any books, and there is nobody old enough to remember when it was.

Charles. I should not think they could find ships enough to bring so many white people to America.

Father. You are right. When they first came, they were but a few thousand people, and they came at . different times. They have been industrious and frugal, and this has made them generally healthy and longlived, and many more have been born every year than died in the same time, so that they have increased in number very fast. You are too young to know much about these things at present, but, as you grow older, if you are good boys, and read and study a great deal, you will know all about them when you grow up. You will soon be old enough to study geography, and when you have learned that thoroughly, you will be able to read and understand history.


6 With England no land can compare,
For every thing, fine, sweet and rare,
So grand, and so rich, and so fair,
Old England, O nothing like thee !

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