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 HELP YOURSELVES.

M
ANY boys and girls make a failure in life because they do not
learn to help themselves. They depend on father and mother
even to hang up their hats and to find their playthings. When
they become men and women, they will depend on husbands and
wives to do the same thing. “A nail to hang a hat on,” said an old man
of eighty years, “is worth everything to a boy.” He had been “through
the mill,” as people say, so that he knew. His mother had a nail for him
when he was a boy—“a nail to hang his hat on,” and nothing else. It
was “Henry’s nail” from January to January, year in and out, and no
other member of the family was allowed to appropriate it for any
purpose whatever. If the broom by chance was hung thereon, or an
apron or coat, it was soon removed, because that nail was “to hang
Henry’s hat on.” And that nail did much for Henry; it helped make him
what he was in manhood—a careful, systematic, orderly man, at home
and abroad, on his farm and in his house. He never wanted another to
do what he could do for himself.
Young folks are apt to think that certain things, good in themselves,
are not honorable. To be a blacksmith or a bootmaker, to work on a
farm or drive a team, is beneath their dignity, as compared with being
a merchant, or practising medicine or law. This is PRIDE, an enemy to
success and happiness. No necessary labor is discreditable. It is never
dishonorable to be useful. It is beneath no one’s dignity to earn bread
by the sweat of the brow. When boys who have such false notions of
dignity become men, they are ashamed to help themselves as they
ought, and for want of this quality they live and die unhonored. Trying
to save their dignity, they lose it.
Here is a fact we have from a very successful merchant. When he
began business for himself, he carried his wares from shop to shop. At
length his business increased to such an extent, that he hired a room
at the Marlboro’ Hotel, in Boston, during the business season, and
thither the merchants, having been duly notified, would repair to make
purchases. Among all his customers, there was only one man who
would carry to his store the goods which he had purchased. The
buyers asked to have their goods carried, and often this manufacturer
would carry them himself. But there was one merchant, and the largest
buyer of the whole number, who was not ashamed to be seen carrying
a case of goods through the streets. Sometimes he would purchase
four cases, and he would say, “Now, I will take two, and you take two,
and we will carry them right over to the store.” So the manufacturer
and the merchant often went through the streets of Boston quite
heavily loaded. This merchant, of all the number who went to the
Marlboro’ Hotel for their purchases, succeeded in business. He became
a wealthy man when all the others failed. The manufacturer, who was
not ashamed to help himself, is now living—one of the wealthy men of
Massachusetts, ready to aid, by his generous gifts, every good object
that comes along, and honored by all who know him.
You have often heard and read the maxim, “God helps those who help
themselves.” Is it not true?
William M. Thayer.
 THE STORY OF JOHNNY DAWDLE.

H
ERE, little folks, listen; I’ll tell you a tale,
Though to shock and surprise you I fear it won’t fail;
Of Master John Dawdle my story must be,
Who, I’m sorry to say, is related to me.

And yet, after all, he’s a nice little fellow:

His eyes are dark brown and his hair is pale yellow;
And though not very clever or tall, it is true
He is better than many, if worse than a few.

But he dawdles at breakfast, he dawdles at tea—

He’s the greatest small dawdle that ever could be;
And when in his bedroom, it is his delight
To dawdle in dressing at morning and night.

And oh! if you saw him sit over a sum,

You’d much wish to pinch him with finger and thumb;
And then, if you scold him, he looks up so meek;
Dear me! one would think that he hardly could speak.

Each morning the same he comes tumbling down,

And often enough is received with a frown,
And a terrible warning of something severe
Unless on the morrow he sooner appear.

But where does he live? That I’d rather not say,

Though, if truth must be told, I have met him to-day;
I meant just to pass him with merely a bow,
But he stopped and conversed for a minute or so.

“Well, where are you going?” politely said I;

To which he replied, with a groan and a sigh,
“I’ve been doing my Latin from breakfast till dinner,
And pretty hard work that is for a beginner.”

“But now I suppose you are going to play

And have pleasure and fun for the rest of the day?”
“Indeed, but I’m not—there’s that bothering sum;
And then there’s a tiresome old copy to come.”

JOHNNY DAWDLE.
“Dear me!” I replied, and I thought it quite sad
There should be such hard work for one poor little lad;
But just at that moment a lady passed by,
And her words soon made clear that mistaken was I:

“Now, then, Mr. Dawdle, get out of my way!

I suppose you intended to stop here all day;
The bell has done ringing, and yet, I declare,
Your hands are not washed, nor yet brushed is your hair.”

“Ho, ho!” I exclaimed; “Mr. Dawdle, indeed!”

And I took myself off with all possible speed,
Quite distressed that I should for a moment be seen
With one who so lazy and careless had been.

So now, if you please, we will wish him good-bye;

And if you should meet him by chance, as did I,
Just bid him good-morning, and say that a friend
(Only don’t mention names) hopes he soon may amend.
 THE MOTHERLESS BOY.

O
NE day, about a year ago, the door of my sitting-room was
thrown suddenly open, and the confident voice of Harvey thus
introduced a stranger:
“Here’s Jim Peters, mother.”
I looked up, not a little surprised at the sight of a ragged, barefoot
child.
Before I had time to say anything, Harvey went on:
“He lives round in Blake’s Court and hasn’t any mother. I found him on
a doorstep feeding birds.”
My eyes rested on the child’s face while my boy said this. It was a very
sad little face, thin and colorless, not bold and vicious, but timid and
having a look of patient suffering. Harvey held him firmly by the hand
with the air of one who bravely protects the weak.
“No mother!” said I, in tones of pity.
“No, ma’am; he hasn’t any mother. Have you, Jim?”
“No,” answered the child.
“She’s been dead ever so long; hasn’t she, Jim?”
“Yes, ever since last winter,” he said as he fixed his eyes, into which I
saw the tears coming, upon my face. My heart moved toward him,
repulsive as he was because of his rags and dirt.
“One of God’s little lambs straying on the cold and barren hills of life,”
said a voice in my heart. And then I felt a tender compassion for the
strange, unlovely child.
“Where do you live?” I asked.
“Round in Blake’s Court,” he replied.
“Who with?”
“Old Mrs. Flint; but she doesn’t want me.”
“Why not?”
“Oh, because I’m nothing to her, she says, and she doesn’t want the
trouble of me.” He tried to say this in a brave, don’t-care sort of way,
but his voice faltered and he dropped his eyes to the floor. How pitiful
he looked!
“Poor child!” I could not help saying aloud.
Light flashed over his pale face. It was something new to him, this
interest and compassion.
“One of God’s little lambs.” I heard the voice in my heart saying this
again. Nobody to love him—nobody to care for him. Poor little boy! The
hand of my own child, my son who is so very dear to me, had led him
in through our door and claimed for him the love and care so long a
stranger to his heart. Could I send him out and shut the door upon
him, when I knew that he had no mother and no home? If I heeded
not the cry of this little one precious in God’s sight, might I not be
thought unworthy to be the guardian of another lamb of his fold whom
I loved as my own life?
“I’ve got heaps of clothes, mother—a great many more than I want.
And my bed is wide. There’s room enough in the house, and we’ve
plenty to eat,” said Harvey, pleading for the child. I could not withstand
all these appeals. Rising, I told the little stranger to follow me. When
we came back to the sitting-room half an hour afterward, Jim Peters
would hardly have been known by his old acquaintances, if any of
them had been there. A bath and clean clothes had made a wonderful
change in him.
I watched the poor little boy, as he and Harvey played during the
afternoon, with no little concern of mind. What was I to do with him?
Clean and neatly dressed, there was a look of refinement about the
child which had nearly all been hidden by rags and dirt. He played
gently, and his voice had in it a sweetness of tone, as it fell every now
and then upon my ears, that was really winning. Send him back to Mrs.
Flint’s in Blake’s Court? The change I had wrought upon him made this
impossible. No, he could not be sent back to Mrs. Flint’s, who didn’t
want the trouble of him. What then?
 THE MOTHERLESS BOY.

Do the kind hearts of my little readers repeat the question, “What

then?” Do they want very much to know what has become of little
Jim Peters?
It is just a year since my boy led him in from the street, and Jim is
still in our house. No one came for him. No one inquired about him.
No one cared for him. I must take that last sentence back. God
cared for him, and by the hand of my tender-hearted son brought
him into my comfortable home and said to me, “Here is one of my
lambs, astray, hungry and cold. He was born into the world that he
might become an angel in heaven, but is in danger of being lost. I
give him into your care. Let me find him when I call my sheep by
their names.”
As I finished writing the last sentence a voice close to my ear said
“Mother!” I turned and received a loving kiss from the lips of Jim. He
often does this. I think, in the midst of his happy plays, memory
takes him back to the suffering past, and then his grateful heart runs
over and he tries to reward me with a loving kiss. I did not tell him
to call me “Mother.” At first he said it in a timid, hesitating way, and
with such a pleading, half-scared look that I was touched and
softened.
“She isn’t your real mother,” said Harvey, who happened to be near,
“but then she’s good and loves you ever so much.”
“And I love her,” answered Jim, with a great throb in his throat,
hiding his face in my lap and clasping and kissing my hand. Since
then he always calls me “Mother;” and the God and Father of us all
has sent into my heart a mother’s love for him, and I pray that he
may be mine when I come to make up my jewels in heaven.
 THE GOOD SHEPHERD.

J
ESUS says that we must love him.
Helpless as the lambs are we;
But He very kindly tells us
That our Shepherd He will be.

Heavenly Shepherd, please to watch us,

Guard us both by night and day;
Pity show to little children,
Who like lambs too often stray.

We are always prone to wander:

Please to keep us from each snare;
Teach our infant hearts to praise Thee
For Thy kindness and Thy care.
 THE ST. BERNARD DOG.

B
Y the pass of the Great St. Bernard travellers cross the Pennine
Alps (Penn, a Celtic word, meaning height) along the mountain
road which leads from Martigny, in Switzerland, to Aosta, in
Piedmont. On the crest of the pass, eight thousand two hundred feet
above the sea level, stands the Hospice, tenanted by about a dozen
monks.
This is supposed to be the highest spot in Europe inhabited by
human beings. The climate is necessarily rigorous, the thermometer
in winter being often twenty-nine degrees below zero, whilst sixty-
eight degrees Fahrenheit is about the highest range ever attained in
summer. From the extreme difficulty of respiration, few of the monks
ever survive the period of their vow, which is fifteen years,
commencing at the age of eighteen.
This hospice is said to have been first founded in the year 962, by
Bernard, a Piedmontese nobleman. It will be remembered that it was
over this pass Napoleon, in May, 1800, led an army of thirty
thousand men into Italy, having with them heavy artillery and
cavalry.
For poor travellers and traders the hospice is really a place of refuge.
During winter, crossing this pass is a very dangerous affair. The snow
falls in small particles, and remains as dry as dust. Whirlwinds, called
“tourmentes,” catch up this light snow, and carrying it with blinding
violence against the traveller, burying every landmark, at once put
an end to knowledge of position. Avalanches, too, are of frequent
occurrence.
After violent storms, or the fall of avalanches, or any other unusual
severity of winter weather, the monks set out in search of travellers
who may have been overwhelmed by the snow in their ascent of the
pass. They are generally accompanied in their search by dogs of a
peculiar breed, commonly known as the St. Bernard’s Dog, on
account of the celebrated monastery where these magnificent
animals are taught to exercise their wondrous powers, which have
gained for them and their teachers a world-wide fame. On their neck
is a bell, to attract the attention of any belated wayfarer; and their
deep and powerful bay quickly gives notice to the benevolent monks
to hurry to the relief of any unfortunate traveller they may find.
Some of the dogs carry, attached to their collars, a flask of spirits or
other restorative. Their wonderfully acute sense of smell enables
them to detect the bodies of persons buried deeply beneath the
surface of the snow, and thus direct the searchers where to dig for
them. The animal’s instinct seems to teach it, too, where hidden
chasms or clefts, filled with loose snow, are; for it carefully avoids
them, and thus is an all-important guide to the monks themselves.
We have stories without number as to what these dogs accomplish
on their own account; how they dig out travellers, and bring them,
sometimes unaided by man, to the hospice.
 THE ST. BERNARD DOG.

A few years ago one of these faithful animals might be seen wearing
a medal, and regarded with much affection by all. This noble dog
had well deserved the distinction; for one stormy day he had saved
twenty-two individuals buried in their snowy envelope.
Unfortunately, he met, at a subsequent period, the very fate from
which he had rescued so many persons. At the worst season an
Italian courier was crossing the pass, attended by two monks, each
escorted by a dog (one being the wearer of the medal), when
suddenly a vast avalanche shot down upon them with lightning
speed, and they were all lost.
Another of these dogs, named “Barry,” had served the St. Bernard
Convent during twelve years, and had saved the lives of fifteen
persons during that time. Whenever the pass was obscured by fogs
and wintry snow-storms, he would go forth in search of lost
travellers. It was his practice to run barking till he lost his breath,
and he would venture into the most dangerous places. If, as
sometimes happened, he did not succeed in drawing out from the
snow some traveller stiffened with cold or overcome with
exhaustion, he would run back to the convent and fetch some of the
monks.
One day this brave dog found a little child in a half-frozen state. He
began directly to lick him, and having succeeded first in restoring
animation, and next in the complete resuscitation of the boy, he
induced the child, by his caresses, to tie himself on his back. When
this was effected, he transported the poor child, as if in triumph, to
the hospice. When overtaken by old age, the glorious dog was
pensioned off by way of reward, and after his death his body was
stuffed and placed in the museum at Berne.
It is said that dogs of this variety inherit the faculty of tracking
footsteps in snow. A gentleman once obtained a pup which had been
produced in London by a female of the St. Bernard breed. The
young animal was brought to Scotland, where it was never observed
to give any particular tokens of a power of tracking footsteps until
winter. Then, when the ground was covered with snow, it showed
the utmost inclination to follow footsteps; and such was its power of
doing so, that though its master might attempt to confuse it by
walking in the most irregular fashion, and by inducing other persons
to cross his path in all directions, yet it always followed his course
with great precision.
Sir Thomas Dick Lander, who for many years resided at Grange
House, Edinburgh, had a fine dog of the St. Bernard breed
presented to him. Its bark was so loud that it could be distinguished
at the distance of a mile. Its bark once led to its recovery, when
stolen by some carters. “Bass,” as the dog was named, had been
missing for some time, when it was brought back to Grange House
by a letter-carrier, who said that in going along a certain street, he
heard a barking inside a yard, and at once recognized the voice of
Bass. “He knocked at the gate,” writes Sir Thomas, “and immediately
said to the owner of the premises,—
“‘You have got Sir Thomas Lander’s big dog.’
“The man denied it.
“‘But I know you have,’ continued the letter-carrier. ‘I am certain that
I heard the bark of Sir Thomas’s big dog; for there is no other dog in
or about all Edinburgh that has such a bark.’
“The man then admitted that he had a large dog, which he had
bought for a trifle from a couple of coal carters; and at last, with
great reluctance, he gave up the dog to the letter-carrier, who
brought him home here.”
Sir Thomas, after describing many of Bass’s characteristics, then
proceeds:—
“He took a particular fancy for one of the postmen who delivers
letters here, though he was not the man whom I have already had
occasion to mention. It was the duty of this postman I now allude
to, besides delivering letters, to carry a letter-bag from one receiving
house to another, and this big bag he used to give Bass to carry.
Bass always followed that man through all the villas in the
neighborhood where he had deliveries to make, and he invariably
parted with him opposite to the gate of the Convent of St.
Margaret’s, and returned home.
“When our gate was shut, to prevent his following the postman, the
dog always leaped a high wall to get after him. One day, when the
postman was ill, or detained by some accidental circumstance, he
sent a man in his place. Bass went up to the man, curiously
scanning his face, whilst the man retired from the dog, by no means
liking his appearance, and very anxious to decline all acquaintance
with him. But as the man left the place, Bass followed him, showing
strong symptoms that he was determined to have the post-bag. The
man did all he could to keep the possession of it. But at length Bass,
seeing that he had no chance of getting possession of the bag by
civil entreaty, raised himself on his hind legs, and putting a great
fore paw on each of the man’s shoulders, he laid him flat on his back
in the road, and quietly picking up the bag, he proceeded peaceably
on his wonted way. The man, much dismayed, arose and followed
the dog, making, every now and then, an ineffectual attempt to coax
him to give it up.
“At the first house he came to he told his fears and the dilemma he
was in; but the people comforted him by telling him that the dog
always carried the bag. Bass walked with the man to all the houses
at which he delivered letters, and along the road till he came to the
gate of St. Margaret’s, where he dropped the bag; and making his
bow to the man, he returned home.”
 THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRDS.

O
WISE little birds! how do you know
The way to go
Southward and northward, to and fro?

Far up in the ether piped they:

“We but obey
One who calleth us far away.

“He calleth and calleth year by year

Now there, now here;
Ever He maketh the way appear.”

Dear little birds, He calleth me

Who calleth ye:
Would that I might as trusting be!
FEEDING THE BIRDS.
 FOR THE CHILDREN.

C
OME stand by my knee, little children,
Too weary for laughter or song;
The sports of the daylight are over,
And evening is creeping along;
The snow-fields are white in the moonlight,
The winds of the winter are chill,
But under the sheltering roof-tree
The fire shineth ruddy and still.

You sit by the fire, little children,

Your cheeks are ruddy and warm;
But out in the cold of the winter
Is many a shivering form.
There are mothers that wander for shelter,
And babes that are pining for bread;
Oh, thank the dear Lord, little children,
From whose tender hand you are fed.

Come look in my eyes, little children,

And tell me, through all the long day,
Have you thought of the Father above us,
Who guarded from evil our way?
He heareth the cry of the sparrow,
And careth for great and for small;
In life and in death, little children,
His love is the truest of all.

Now come to your rest, little children,

And over your innocent sleep,
Unseen by your vision, the angels
Their watch through the darkness shall keep;