John Steady and Peter Sly.

A DIALOGUE.

Peter. Ho, John, don't stumble over that log! I don't think it a good plan to study my lessons as I go to school. John. Nor I; but I am in such a scrape!

Peter. What's the matter?

John. Why, I believe I have got the wrong lesson.

Peter. I guess not. Let me see; where did you begin?

John. Here, at the top of the page; and I learned over three leaves, down to the end of the chapter.

Peter. Well, that's all right. John. Are you sure? Peter. Certain, as can be. John. Well, now! I am half glad and half sorry. Only think; there is poor George Gracie has been getting the wrong lesson. I came by his window, and there he was, fagging away; and, when we came to talk about it, we found we had been studying in different places. But he was so sure he was right that I thought I must be wrong.

Peter. I know it; I know all about it. John. Why did you tell him wrong? Peter. No, no; I never tell a lie, you know. But yesterday, when the master gave out the lesson, George was helping little Timothy Dummy to do a sum; so he only listened with one ear, and the consequence was, he misunderstood what the master said; and then he began groaning about such a hard lesson, as we were going home; I laughing to myself all the time!

John. What did you find out his blunder and not set him right?

Peter. But I never told him so; I only let him think so.

John. Ah, Peter, do you think that is right?

Peter. To be sure it is. Don't you know he is at the head of the class, and I am next, and if I get him down to-day, I am sure of the medal? A poor chance I should have had, if he had not made such a blunder.

John. Lucky for you, but very unlucky for him; and I must say, I don't call it fair behavior in you, Peter Sly!

Peter. I don't care what you call it, John. It is none of your affair, as I see; let every fellow look out for himself, and the sharpest one will be the best off.

John. Not in the end, Peter. You are in at the great end of the horn, now; for, by one trick or another, you are almost always above the rest of us. But if you don't come out at the little end, and come out pretty small too, I am mistaken, that is all. Here comes poor George, and I shall spoil your trick, Mr. Peter.

Peter. That you may, now, as soon as you please. If he can get the right lesson decently in half an hour, he is the eighth wonder of the world. I shall have him down, I am sure of that. (Enter George Gracie.) John. Here, George, stop a minute; here's bad news for you.

George. What's the matter?-no school to-day?

John. School enough for you, I fancy. You have been getting the wrong lesson, after all.

so!

George. O, John, John! don't tell me

John. It's true; and that sneaking fellow that sits whittling a stick, so mighty easy, he knew it yesterday, and would not tell you.

George. Oh, Peter! how could you do so?

Peter. Easily enough. I don't see that I was under any obligation to help

George. But you know you deceived me, Peter. I think it would have been but kind and fair to tell me my mistake, as soon as you found it out; but, instead of that, you said things that made me quite sure I was right about the lesson. Peter. But I did not tell you so; you can't say I told you so. Nobody ever caught me in a lie.

John. But you will lie ;-you will come to that yet, if you go on so.

Peter. Take care what you say, sir! George. Come, come, John; don't quarrel with him. He will get the medal now; and it is a cruel thing too; for I sat up till eleven o'clock, last night, studying; and he knew that my father was coming home from Washington to-night, and how anxious I was to have the medal. But it can't be helped now.

Peter. Poor fellow! don't cry! I declare there are great tears in his eyes. Now it is a pity, really.

John. For shame, Peter Sly, to laugh at him! You are a selfish, mean fellow, and every boy in school thinks so.

I

George. Čome, John; I must go and study my lesson as well as I can. would rather be at the foot of the class, than take such an advantage of anybody. (Exit George.) Peter. The more fool you! Now, he will be in such a fluster, that he will be sure to miss in the very first sentence. John. There is the master, coming over the hill; now if I should just step up to him, and tell him the whole story! Peter. You know better than to do that. You know he never encourages tale-bearers.

John. I know that, very well; and I would almost as soon be a cheat as a tell-tale; but the master will find you out, yet, without anybody's help; and that will be a day of rejoicing to the

John. Don't be quite so sure about the master, either; he never says much till he is ready. But I have seen him looking pretty sharply at you, over his spectacles, in the midst of some of your clever tricks. He will fetch you up one of these days, when you little think of it. I wish you much joy of your medal, Mr. Peter Šly. You got to the head of the class, last week, unfairly; and if your medal weighed as much as your conscience, I guess it would break your neck. (Peter sits whittling, and humming a tune.)

Peter. Let me see. I am quite sure of the medal in this class; but there's the writing! John Steady is the only boy I am afraid of. If I could hire Timothy Dummy to pester him, and joggle his desk till he gets mad, I should be pretty sure of that, too.

(Enter master, taking out his watch.) Master. It wants twenty minutes of nine. Peter Sly, come to me. I want to have some conversation with you, before we go into school.

Peter. Yes, sir.-What now? he looks rather black. (Aside.) Master. For what purpose do you imagine I bestow medals, once a week, on the best of my scholars?

Peter. To make the boys study, I believe, sir.

Master. And why do I wish them to study?

Peter. Why, to please their pa rents, I suppose, sir.

Master. I wish them to study for the very same reason that their parents do;

that they may get knowledge. I have suspected, for some time, that you labor under a considerable mistake about these matters. You take great pleasure, I presume, in wearing home that piece of

silver, hanging round your neck; and your mother takes pleasure in seeing it. Peter. Yes, sir; she does. Master. And why? What does the medal say to her? Of what is it a sign? Peter. Why, that I am the best scholar in my class.

Master. Is that what it says? I think it only shows, that you have been at the head of the class oftener, during the week, than any other boy.

Peter. Well, sir; then, of course, she must think me the best scholar.

Master. She would naturally think so, for so it ought to be. But you know, Peter Sly, and I know, that a boy who has no sense of honor, no generous feelings, no strictness of principle, may get to the head of his class, and get medals for a time, without being the best scholar. You know how such a thing can be accomplished, do you not? and how the medal may be made to tell a falsehood at home? (Peter hangs his head in silence.) Shall I tell you how I have seen it done? By base tricks; by purposely leading others into mistakes; by taking advantage of every slip of the tongue; by trying to confuse a boy, who knows his lesson sufficiently well, but is timid; by equivocations that are little short of lies, and are the forerunners of unblushing lies. Now, sir, a boy who does these things, is so weak-minded that he cannot see the proper use of medals, and thinks he is sent here to get medals, instead of being sent to gain knowledge to prepare him for active life; and, under this mistake, he goes to work for the empty sign, instead of the thing itself. That shows folly. Then he becomes so intent on his object, as to care not by what unjustifiable means he obtains it. That shows wickedness,want of principle. Have I any boy, in my school, of this description?

Peter. Yes, sir; but, forgive me. I did not think you ever observed it.

Master. The artful are very apt to believe themselves more successful than they really are. So you concluded you had deceived me, as well as wronged your companions! Your tears are unavailing, if, by them, you think I shall be persuaded to drop the subject here. You must be publicly disgraced.

Peter. What, sir! when I have not told a lie!

Master. You have not spent a day in perfect truth for weeks. I have watched you in silence and closely for the last month, and I am satisfied, that you have not merely yielded occasionally to a sudden temptation, but that deception is an habitual thing with you; that, through life, you will endeavor to make your way by low knavery, if I do not root the mean vice out of you, and so save you from the contempt of men, and the anger of God. Rest assured, your Maker looks on your heart as that of a liar. Go into school; and as I am convinced, from reflecting on several circumstances which took place, that you had no just claim to the very medal you now wear, take your place at the foot of your class. The reasons of your degradation shall be explained in presence of all the scholars. I use the principle of emulation in my school, to rouse up talent and encourage industry; but I watch against its abuse. I endeavor to unite with this principle a noble and unwavering love of truth, and generous, honorable feelings; and am happy to say, that, except yourself, I have no cause of doubt of having succeeded. I know not one of your companions, who would not spurn from his heart the base manœuvres which you adopt; and, before this day is over, they shall have fresh motives to value fair dealing. You must be made an example of; I will no longer permit you to treat your schoolmates with injustice, or so as to injure your own soul. Go in!

Two sisters, named Amy and Anna, were once sitting together upon a grassy bank, when a large dog came between them, and thrusting his nose familiarly into their hands, snugged down, as if desirous of making one of the party. The two girls caressed him fondly, and called him "good Dash" and "pretty Dash"-and many other titles of affection they bestowed upon him. At length the younger of the girls said, " Amy, I have heard that Dash once saved my life: will you tell me how it happened?" "With pleasure," said Amy; and accordingly she proceeded as follows:

"About five years ago, Anna, when you were not more than two years old, we were living in Vermont, near one of the streams that empties into Connecticut river. The snow was very deep that winter, and when it came to go away in the spring, it made a great freshet. The melted snow came down the hills and mountains, and filled the rivers, which overflowed their banks, and overspread the valleys and swept everything before them.

"The little river near our house sud

denly rose above its borders, and came thundering along, tearing away trees. and bridges and mills and houses. At last it seemed to threaten our dwelling, and father and mother began to prepare to leave it and fly to the neighboring hills for security. In the preparation for flight, you was put into a large basket with some clothes stuffed round you, and set down upon a little bridge of planks near the house, while our parents and myself were gathering together a few things to take with us. As father put you on the bridge, he noticed that Dash seemed to look on with interest and anxiety, for the waters made a terrible roaring all around us; and he observed also, on looking back, that Dash had taken his seat on the bridge by your side.

"You had not been left more than ten minutes, when we heard a frightful noise, and going to the door, we saw, with terror and amazement, that the water had suddenly risen and surrounded the house. Nothing could save us but instant flight. Father took me in his arms, and with mother clinging to him, he started for the bridge where you had

been placed; but he soon perceived that the bridge had been carried away by the rush of the waters, and neither you nor Dash was to be seen. It was no time for delay or search, for the waves were rising rapidly, and it was with the utmost difficulty that father was able to take mother and me to the hill. There at length we arrived, and leaving us to take care of ourselves, father went in search of you. He was absent nearly four hours-and I never shall forget the anxiety with which we waited his return. We were without shelter; the earth was damp and the air chill; but we were so absorbed in fear for you that we thought not of our own sufferings. At last we saw father coming, at a considerable distance. He had you in his arms, and Dash was leaping and frolicking at his side. I was never so happy; I shall never, never be so happy again, as I was when I saw father coming, and saw that you was safe!

At length father reached us; though it was a matter of some difficulty, on account of the water, which had choked up the valley. I need not tell how heartily mother and myself kissed you when we got hold of you. We shed a great many tears, but you only laughed, and seemed to think it all a pleasant frolic. When we could compose our feelings, father told us the story of your escape. It seems that the waters rose suddenly while we were in the house, and lifting the planks of the bridge, carried you and Dash and the basket upon them, down the stream. The current was very swift, and you must have sailed along at a terrible rate; but faithful Dash kept his place at your side. You had gone about two miles, when the dog and basket were seen by some people standing on the shore. Dash saw them at the same moment, and he set up a very piteous howl, but they did not understand him. When he saw that there was no

relief to be had from them, he leaped into the water, and seizing one end of one of the planks in his mouth, began to swim with all his might, and push the planks toward the land. He was so powerful and so skilful, that he very soon gave them a direction toward a little island, which was not distant, and in a few moments they struck against the shore, and were held fast by running between some small trees. The dog again

set up a howl, and the people before mentioned, now thinking something was the matter, entered a boat and went to the island, where they found you fast asleep in the basket, and dry as a biscuit!"

When Amy had reached this point of her story, Anna put her arms around the dog's neck, and with her eyes swimming in tears, kissed him over and over again. She said nothing, however, for her heart was too full. Her sister then went on to tell the rest of the story-but as the reader will easily guess it all, I need not repeat it here. If any of my young readers are curious to know all about it, I shall be at their service, whenever they will give me a call.

ATTACHMENT TO OUR COUNTRY.— When Gulliver was in Lilliput, he lay down to sleep. In the morning he found himself fastened down to the earth by a thousand little cords which the Lilliputians had thrown over him. Every man is thus attached to some spot on earth by the thousand small threads which habit and association are continually throwing around him. Of these, perhaps, one of the strongest is that which makes us love the place where our fathers are entombed. When the Canadian Indians were once solicited to emigrate, "What!" they replied, "shall we say to the bones of our fathers, 'Arise, and go with us into a foreign land?""