HANS, THE CRIPPLE. A STORY OF THE TYROL. A soldier's widow lived in a little hut near a mountain village. Her only child was a poor cripple. Hans was a kind-hearted boy. He loved his mother and would gladly have helped her bear the burdens of poverty, but that feebleness forbade it. He could not even join in the rude sports of the young mountaineers. At the age of fifteen years, he felt keenly the fact that he was useless to his mother and to the world. It was at this period that Napoleon Bonaparte was making his power felt throughout Europe. He had decreed that Tyrol should belong to Bavaria, and not to Austria, and sent a French and Bavarian army to accomplish his purpose. The Austrians retreated. The Tyrolese resisted valiantly. Men, women and children of the mountain land were filled with zeal in defence of their homes. On one occasion, ten thousand French and Bavarian troops were destroyed in a single mountain pass, by an immense avalanche of rocks and trees prepared and hurled upon them by an unseen foe. A secret arrangement existed among the Tyrolese, by which the approach of the enemy was to be communicated from village to village by signal fires, from one mountain height to another, and materials were laid ready to give instant alarm. The village where Hans and his mother lived was in the direct line of the route the French army would take, and the people were full of anxiety and fear. All were preparing for the expected struggle. The widow and her crippled son alone seemed to have no part but to sit still and wait. "Ah, Hans," she said, one evening, "it is well for us now that you can be of little use; they would else make a soldier of you." This struck a tender chord. The tears rolled down his cheek. "Mother, I am useless," cried Hans in bitter grief. "Look round our villageall are busy, all ready to strive for home and fatherland-I am useless." "My boy, my kind, dear son, you are not useless to me." "Yes, to you; I cannot work for you, cannot support you in old age. Why was I made mother?" "these re "Hush, Hans," said his mother; pining thoughts are wrong. You will live to find the truth of our old proverb: "God has his plan For every man." was approaching. Little did Hans think that ere a few weeks had passed, this truth was to be verified in a remarkable manner. Easter holidays, the festive time of Switzerland, came. The people lost their fears of invasion in the sports of the season. All were busy in the merry-making-all but "God has his plan For every man." You see he had it for me, though we did not know what it was." Hans did not recover from his wound, but he lived long enough to know that he had been of use to his village and the country; he lived to see grateful mothers embrace his mother, to hear that she should be considered a sacred and hon ored bequest to the community which her son Hans. He stood alone on He awoke in the night, as some comrades in the distance. Hans saw instantly the plot and the danger. The secret of the signal pile had been revealed to the enemy; a party had been sent forward to destroy it; the army was marching to attack the village. With no thought of his own peril, and perhaps recalling the proverb his mother had quoted, he seized the tinder, struck the light, and flung the blazing turpentine brand into the pile. The two soldiers, whose backs were then saw there were no foes in ambush-none but a and a hasty escape followed. Hans, faint and bleeding, made his way to the village. The people, with their arms, were mustering thick and fast. All was consternation. The inquiry was everywhere heard, "Who lighted the pile ?" "It was I," said at last a faint, almost expiring voice. Poor crippled Hans tottered among them, saying, "The enemy-the French were there." He faltered, and sank upon the ground. "Take me to my mother," said he; "at last I have not been useless." They stooped to lift him. "What is this?" they cried; "he has been shot. It is true; Hans, the cripple, has saved us." They carried Hans to his mother, and laid him before her. As she bowed in anguish over his pale face, Hans opened his eyes and said, "It is not now, dear mother, you should weep for me; I am happy now. Yes, mother, it is true, for every one to do, if he will but look out for it. So long as there is ignorance to instruct, want to relieve, sorrow to soothe, let there be no drones in the hive, no idlers in the great vineyard of the world. 1. In the above narrative, which was the more useful to his country, the poor, crippled boy who lighted the fire on the mountain top, or a common, able-bodied soldier? 2. If any one feels very anxious to be useful in some way, and labors very diligently for this object, may any one be successful? 3. Should persons choose a useful occupation because they love to be useful, or will it answer just as well, to choose a very useful employment because we can make more money in such an employment? WILLIAM HOWITT. We are very happy in being able to present our young readers this month with an original article by this distinguished English author, received somewhat more than a month ago. This welcome Christmas Gift to our Little Pil grim was accompanied by a kind letter from Mrs. Howitt, from which we have been tempted to quote a passage referring to the sketch-begging the writer's pardon for taking such a liberty with a private letter. Mrs. Howitt says "I send you a little story from the Swedish-and a little story also, if story you can call it, which my husband improvised to some children in the country, standing before a lovely furze clump, out of which rose a tall young pine-tree. We all said, 'How good! Now you must write that down for The Little Pilgrim.' 'Do, dear William,' I said, 'write it down at once, and let me send it to Grace Greenwood.' But weeks went on, and it was never written down till two days ago, and now here it is." Mr. We must confess to some pride, as well as a great deal of pleasure, in this unsolicited and unexpected proof of kindly interest in our Little Pilgrim. Yet we are hardly surprised. Howitt is surely the man to sympathize with any sincere wish and earnest effort to do good and give pleasure to the young-not being by any means one of those little great men, who think that their large reputations and important labors lift them far above children, and free them from all responsibility for the interests and happiness of childhood. We rejoice for our own sakes, as well as for yours, dear children, that in the rush of busy London life, and in the absorbing pursuits of literature, he has kept his heart so kind and sympathetic-so full of gentle home-affections. It is this tender and hearty sympathy with the young-with all the joys and sorrows of the people that has rendered his name and that of his noble wife beloved "household words" in thousands of homes, where they are ever mentioned with affectionate familiarity-almost as personal On a great English common grew a noble young pine-tree. It stood in the midst of a grand bush of blooming furze, whose flowers were one magnificent mass of gold. The tree waved its dark, vigorous branches in the summer air over the golden bush below, and seemed to fan it lovingly, making its fragrance public property by diffusing it far and wide. Far and wide stretched that dark heath, here and there rose black expanses of pine upon it—and all between stretched the sombre but beautiful heather. It was a lonely but a lovely scene. The pheasant built its nest there in the shrouding heather, and crowed heartsomely in the branches of the pine-trees. The squirrels ran up and down the trees, feasted on the kernels of the fir-cones, and stamped and chattered in pretended anger as any one approached their solitary haunts. Many a lovely flower grew amongst the heather, or on the margin of a lake that lay amongst the woods; many a small bird lived and twittered and sung there. The woodpecker shouted laughingly, and the jay scolded roughly in the forest; and often there came the old woodman with his axe, looking as if he must cut down timber, and yet were loth to disturb the quietness and entirety of the scene. women and children came wandering under the trees, collecting bundles of fallen branches; and ever and anon, a gay party of young people on horseback galloped over the heath, giving and taking beauty, and breaking for a moment as they swept along, the fragrant tranquillity which they enjoyed. In fact, it was a charming heath, and happy were the trees, the plants and the creatures that lived there. Often But no mortal spot is without its mortal dangers. Into every paradise on earth looks some enemy, and it is the constant labor of sweet, beneficent nature, to repair the ravages of the waster and destroyer. On this same common lived a baker, who committed continual devastations on the furze for the heating of his oven. He had been more than once of late looking about and had stopped and contemplated this ample mass of golden furze with an evident satisfaction. Its very beauty it was which tempted him to destroy it. Green furze burns more hotly and not so rapidly as dry. The baker knew that from long experience; and as he looked on this lordly bush, he said to his boy, "That is the primest fuel on the heath; tomorrow we will cut it and carry it home." The noble bush heard its sentence, and slunk in terror at the sound. When the baker had withdrawn, it said to the pine-tree which stood in its midst, and which seemed to utter sighs of compassion and grief:-"When thou wert little I protected thee. To me thou owest thy life. Without my environing arms and prickly defence the ass would have cropped thee down; the cattle would have trodden thee into the earth; the sportsman would have spurned thee as he passed with his iron-shod shoes. Hadst thou escaped to become a yard high the school-boy would have made a switch of thee, or this very baker would have cut thee down, and cast thee, bound in the middle of a faggot, into his oven. Now then, I pray thee, remember all these benefits, and show thy gratitude. The baker has cast his evil eye upon me: he has doomed me to fall in the very flower of my age, and without the help of friend and neighbor I must perish. Now then, stretch out thy arms and protect me, for thou owest me all that thou art." The brave young pine-tree listened and sighed more deeply. "Old friend and neighbor, old guardian as I truly acknowledge thee, I would help thee, if that help were in me, to the last drop of my sap, to the last splinter of my body. But seest thou not, I am not made to defend, but to serve God and man, even as God wills. I have no power but to grow. To raise my head and my arms in the pleasant air, and while I rejoice in the life given me, to breathe my fragrance on all around me. On thee have I shed the dews that were first poured on me; on thee have I shed, in the fainting noontide hour, the delicious aroma drawn from me by the sun; I have fanned thee in the heat, and sheltered thee in the cold. That, thinkest thou not, is benefit for benefit, neighborly kindness in the truest spirit of nature. What can I more?" "What canst thou more? Oh ungrateful wretch! Oh miserable stick! Oh wooden recompense! And for that I have guarded thee, and fostered thee, taking thee into my very heart of hearts, and holding thee there as my own adopted givest me up as I were an enemy and not a one, as my crown and glory. And now thou benefactor." "Nay, then," said the pine-tree, "an thou forcest me to speak, let me speak plainly. Benefit for benefit I have rendered thee, but thou askest impossibilities, and assertest unfounded and impossible claims. Didst thou make the seed from which I sprung? Didst thou plant me? Hast thou moved a foot or a hand for me? Didst thou guard me by any power or will of thine own? True, thou By the act hast guarded me, but by whose act? of God! He who planted thee planted me. He mad us neighbors, and capable of a certain degree of mutual ornament and mutual defence. We must look then not on one another, but up to the sky, when we talk of gratitude. Thence comes the benefit; there we owe the gratitude. If we fulfill the laws of our nature faithfully, we do all the good to each other that is given us to do. Beyond that all lies in the hand of God. He who does not that, is an unprofitable servant: he who demands more of him, is unreasonable. To me as to thee, there is a time and an end set. As I can only mourn over thee, but cannot help thee, so the mightiest of my brethren in the forest here, when my day arrives, cannot step I must fall, and I from his place and aid me. will endeavor to fall asking of no one a miracle, expecting nothing but from God, who will renew my substance in some other and perhaps more beautiful shape." "May it never be in that of an unreasonable furze-bush," said the baker, who had listened to this instructive dialogue, and with his bill he cut into the prickly accuser of his brethren, and cleared it from the ground. But behold! in the following spring, the bush shot up afresh, young, and tender and green. It had received a sharp lesson, and the winter had searched its unprotected roots severely: but the pitying pine-tree scattered down its withered leaves upon it, and clothed its lacerated stumps from the cold. It sprung up again, humbled and grateful, and the forest saw the harmony of nature restored between the old companions. They had learned what to expect and what not to expect from each other, and they flourish still together in beauty and peace. The great lesson which we have learned from them, we would now teach also, for it is as full of wisdom in human life as it is in the wild forest. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. FROST PICTURES. BY LOUISE E. VICKROY. This morning, when I wakened first, Of leaves and lace-work, fair to see. My first half fearful glances stole All clearly rose its castle wall, And next his flock a shepherd kept, Each streamer gay and tiny hull, And next there was a spacious hall, Peace hovered in its quiet air, From Sweden's Elfin-peopled land, Of all far India's Genii band, Of Germany's fair Undine brood, Or Erin's Fairy people good, Not one of all the fabled host May be compared to brave Jack Frost; He works so many a wondrous spell, And all so viewlessly and well, Let witch or wizard try their skill, He will be King Magician still. JOHNSTOWN, PA., 1855. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE SUGAR CAMP. BY MRS. MARY C. VAUGHAN. (Continued.) The next day Willie did not go to the sugar bush. It was cloudy and chilly, and a fierce wind was blowing. Mr. Graham said the sap would not run much that day, and there would be nothing to do but keep the fire and tend the kettle. Towards night the wind lulled, and the evening was bitterly cold, but still. Mr. Graham said there would be a hard frost, but he thought to-morrow would be fine, and a good day for the sap to run. Willie, from his little bed, heard his father say this, and he thought he would ask to go to the woods again in the morning. He kept awake much longer than usual that night, thinking about his rides to the woods, about the sugar camp, the great trees, the rabbits, and various other things, so that he did not wake as early as usual, on the following morning. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a brilliant sunbeam, that came in at his window, and danced merrily upon the wall. It was not a bit brighter, though, than Willie's face, when he came out into the dining room. Oh, how that glistened after the washing with fresh, cold water, and how bright his pretty curls lay around his broad forehead! His mother thought that he was the dearest and sweetest child in all the world. And Willie was a good boy, for he sat down and ate his breakfast smilingly, when his mother bade him do so, although he wanted very much to run out into the yard to see if John was yoking the oxen and getting ready to go to the woods. Before Willie had finished, Mr. Graham came in. He kissed his little boy, and told him that he had been afraid he would sleep until after they had gone, for he wanted to take him to the woods that day to see them "sugar-off." Now Willie did not know what was meant by this, but as he saw that his father and mother were both busy, he did not ask any questions, as no child who has good manners, will ever do at such a time. Just before they started, Mrs. Graham asked her husband what time the "sugaring off" would take place. He told her "in the afternoon," and then she said that she thought she would saddle old Brownie and ride up to the woods, to see the sport. Mr. Graham seemed very much pleased, and said, Come, by all means, my dear." Willie was pleased too, for he loved both his parents very much, and liked to be with them. Though the sun was shining so brightly this morning, Willie had a cold ride, as they were obliged to go very slowly over the uneven, frozen ground, where there was scarcely any snow; and he was very glad, therefore, when they came into the shelter of the woods. Here, though the tall tops of the trees were bending to the wind that rattled their dry branches, and played a mournful sort of tune through the sharp, long leaves of the pines, yet they stood so closely that Willie and his father and John scarcely felt the keen blast at all while among them. To-day there were two fires kindled, and Willie saw that the smaller kettle was about to be used. From a large covered tub John poured into this kettle what he called "syrup"-something that looked very much 'ike the "Stuart's Syrup" that you sometimes eat upon your breakfast cakes, but tasted more deliciously than that. This had been made by boiling the sap till the watery particles had evaporated in steam, leaving it much reduced in quantity and altogether different in appearance. As it boiled, John told Willie that he had put into it the whites of a number of eggs, which caused all the impurities contained in it to rise to the surface, whence they could easily be removed. It had also been strained through nice white cloths, so that it was now clear and bright. In the large kettle they were still boiling the sap, and Mr. Graham said they should have another "sugaring off" the next day. A very slow fire was kept around the kettle containing the syrup, lest it should be burned and thus spoiled, for as the water evaporated there was, of course, more and more danger of its being burned. Mr. Graham had a skimmer with a very long handle, with which he often removed the scum that rose to the surface, Willie said, just as his mother did when she was making sweetmeats. After it grew thicker, Willie had some taken out for him to taste upon a little saucer, and he liked it very much. After they had eaten their dinner, Willie went a little way up the hill, with John, to look at a squirrel's nest, in a hollow tree which John had felled. There was a great store of beech-nuts and hickory-nuts in this nest; quite enough, as Willie thought, to feed the family that lived there till warm weather came. This family, however, seemed very much distressed at the downfall of their domicil; almost as much as you would if your father's house should be suddenly unroofed by a high wind. John said they would carry all their nuts away and find another nest, but Willie begged him to leave the tree alone and not disturb them any more until summer. John said he would ask Mr. Graham if he might do so. And then, having admired the little animals with their soft grey coats, and bushy tails, and quick, bright eyes, quite enough for once, and being anxious not to lose the sight of anything which might be done at the camp, Willie thought he would go back. As they approached, Willie heard voices in the camp; and presently he saw his mother standing by the kettle and stirring the sugar, while his father was tying Brownie's bridle to a tree near by. Close beside his mother, and watching the kettle very intently, were two children, whom he recognized as his cousins, Emily and Charles Mason. They had come to the "sugaring off" and Willie was very glad to see them. I do not suppose I can describe to you half the WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. PETER. BY KATE HARRINGTON. Peter is a gentleman, and no mistake! I wish you could see him, children, with his soft, downy coat, and long, snowy feathers waving gracefully behind! Just while I think of it I will tell you of an accident that befell him some months ago. He is, you must know, as great a pet as the two Todies of whom you have heard. Well, one day, whilst strutting about the kitchen, evidently very proud of his appearance-looking just like some dandies I have seen, who imagine "fine feathers make fine birds"-one of our kittens, a mischievous little fellow named Jim, fell to admiring the snowy plume sweeping the floor. "What a pretty plaything it would make!" thought the kit, and, without further consideration, he made a sudden spring, catching the largest feathers in his mouth and paws! As poor Peter, aroused from his dream of vanity, turned quickly round, he beheld the beautiful narrative, on which he had so prided himself, in the close embrace of kitty's paws. I thought Pete snapped his eyes, and shook his head in a threatening manner, as he sneaked out of the door, crest-fallen and humbled-but would probably have forgotten the circumstance had not my sister, on the following morning, called me to the cistern, and as she pointed down ex claimed, "Poor Jim, he's drowned!" Whether self-reproach, occasioned by the thought that he had thus unintentionally forfeited the regard of the "banty" rooster, who previous to the accident had been his warmest friend, drove Jim to desperation and caused him to commit suicide— or whether Peter had any hand in the matter, I am unable to say. I only know, when the lifeless body was drawn up and laid before the group of wondering chickens standing by, Peter crowed! However, he crows on all occasions, and probably meant nothing by it after all. sport that they had that afternoon. Such tasting of sugar from plates-such gathering of balls of snow to pour it upon to make "wax,"-such But, as I said before, he is a gentleman; and smearing of clothes and faces with the "sticky, sweet stuff," as John called it—well, I can't tell you would agree with me, children, could you see you half, as I said before. I think you will all him stepping around with his four wives. The have to go to a real "sugaring-off" in the woods, little Mormon almost kills them with politeness; not a morsel passes his lips until all are fully before you will know much about it. The children, you may believe, enjoyed themselves finely crumb to each one respectively before he swalsatisfied; and even then he frequently offers the lows it. The poor fellow has had some trouble of late. Tody senior, his eldest, and I have every reason But Emily and Charles, who were older than Willie, and not taught to be quiet, obedient children at home, were very troublesome; so that Mrs. Graham told them she should not ask them to come again. To which Charles answered saucily, "I don't care, I can come, if you don't ask me." At this sally, Emily laughed, but Willie's large blue eyes dilated with astonish-she was imprudent enough to walk the whole ment, and he wondered what his mother would length of the yard by the side of this giant, looksay to the naughty boy. But she did not speaking for all the world like a Lilliputian beside an to him at all. he dipped the twig-hoop in the boiling sugar, took it out, and a good deal of the sugar adhered to it. Then he blew with his lips through the hoop, and when the sugar formed a thick clear bubble that would not break, he said it was boiled enough. Willie had expected some magical transformation would take place to make the pure, white, limpid sap into sugar-therefore he was quite disappointed when he saw that nothing was done except to boil it a long time. But children, and those of larger growth, are often disappointed in this way. We find, all through life, that the most wonderful changes are often wrought by the simplest processes, accompanied only by patient perseverance. (Conclusion next month.) to believe his favorite wife, has taken it into her head to annoy her devoted spouse by smiling pleasantly whenever Dan, the great Shanghai rooster, happens to look towards her; and once LOVE BETWEEN BROTHERS AND SISTERS. Birds in their little nests agree; When children of one family Fall out, and chide, and fight. Watts' Divine Songs. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. TOMMY KING'S CHRISTMAS GIFTS. "It is time to go bed, children," said Grandma Avon to Tommy, and his sister Maggie, as the clock struck eight; "time for little folks to go to bed, and shut up their peepers." "Oh no! grandma, not yet,-why it isn't fairly dark," answered Tommy King. "Oh do let us sit up till papa and mamma come," cried Maggie, in the same breath. Tommy wants to see his new sled, and I want to see what mamma gets for me." "Oh! dear me children, that will never do-it would be no Christmas at all, if you were to see all your nice gifts to-night. They would not be a bit new in the morning. Come, come, old Dandy will be crowing for nine directly, and what will pa and ma think if they come and find you up?" "Well, grandma, if you will hang up our stockings, and promise us not to see what pa and ma put in them to-night, any more than us, then we will go right up; cause you know we want to see them first, for we want to see how surprised you will be when you see my sled coming out." "Oh! ha, ha! Tommy King-a sled coming out of a stocking;" and Maggie clapped her hands with mirth at the comical picture of a sled in a stocking. Grandmother promised not to see, and at last the two little ones went to bed, Maggie to dream of a new book or cushion, or something useful; THE NOSE OUT OF JOINT. and Tommy caring and thinking of nothing more INSCRIBED TO "EMILY." BY CORNELIA J. M. JORDAN. I was a spoiled and petted thing, I used to have a cradle-bed And gentle nurse would walk with me Bloomed in their fragrant bowers When neighbors called and asked to see I had my little "party" scenes, Though times are not the same; 1 had no mate to play with me, Till little brother came. Although he has the cradle-bed For well I know one little heart He knows the language of my lips, And many a time his finger points, To some bright flower I had not seen I would not be without him now, I had no brother dear to love CLIFF COTTAGE, 1856, desirable than a new sled, large enough to slide down the door-yard walk, which inclined a little. A new sled, painted red, with iron upon the runners. These dear children did not even think of candy and sweetmeats, for Christmas morn. Their good parents had taught them always, that the best things were not good things to eat. And they thought much more of good things to keep and love, than of such things as were to be eaten, and thus lost almost as soon as won. Grandma slipped up in a few minutes, and they were both fast asleep. She hung up the stockings, put a nice doughnut and a few hickory nuts into each, and sat down with her knitting to think of old times, long, long ago, when she used to hang up her stocking, by the old stone chimney at her childhood's home. While she sat pondering the dim past in her own mind, she heard the voices of the children, and creeping to the door she listened with a pleased ear to the prattle. "Why don't they come," said Maggie; "I am sure I heard old Dandy. Did'nt you Tommy?" Oh! I wish I was a bird or lamb, or squirrel, or some such thing; I would fly or run or jump right down into the street and meet them, and see what they have got." Just then the door bell rang, and out of bed bounced the children, and flew to the head of the stairs. The sled was upon father's shoulder, and Tommy caught sight of it, and cried aloud for joy. It was some time ere they could be persuaded back to bed. All night long Tommy was wakeful and restless. His beautiful sled, with its splendid name "Champion," haunted his dreams. He thought he tried to slide down the walk, but it would not stir. Then he thought it was going nicely, and all at once he found himself out with his playmates on the street, in his night-gown, and bare feet in the deep snow. Then he dreamed a big boy ran away with it, and in his frenzy he cried aloud and sprang out of bed again to follow, and would have tumbled headlong down stairs had not his father caught him. At last worried out and feverish, he went to sleep. When they awoke in the morning, the first thing was to fly to their stockings. There was, besides grandma's doughnuts and hickory-nuts, Aunt Susan's new mittens for each, and uncle Dan's penknife for Tommy, and a silver thimble for Maggie, and in each a silver fork-one marked "Maggie," and the other "Tommy," accompanied by a nice letter enclosing a little poem. This was wonderful. Who had written them? Where did they come from? Tommy jumped up and down with glee. When they read his for him it was as follows-and he began to think old Santa Claus surely had done it, for nobody else had heard his wish to be a bird, or lamb, or squirrel, but Maggie, and she could not write. But after awhile they told him all about it, and Tommy was all the more pleased when he knew where it came from. I think it is very wrong to tell children wrong things even in jest-don't you? But here is the poem. LINES TO TOMMY KING. Would you like it, Tommy King- Dancing by some rolling brook, Shaking, waving in the breeze, Doing good through all the day; THE LITTLE PILGRIM, AN ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY JOURNAL FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. EDITED BY GRACE GREENWOOD & LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT. "THE LITTLE PILGRIM' is published at the beginning of every month, and is beautifully illustrated by some of the most distinguished artists in the country. The CREED of THE LITTLE PILGRIM, will be found in the following quotation from our original Prospectus:"It is not our intention to discuss profound religious doctrines or political problems with our young readers. But while we urge upon them no peculiar sectarian views, our aim shall always be to inculcate a high religious morality honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely.' we shall heartily advocate; and ever strive to present, in fair attractive forms, the divine truths contained in that blessed epitome of Faith, Freedom, Love, Temperance and Peace Christ's Sermon on the Mount. "It will be our object not only to adapt our paper to the tastes and comprehension of children, but to render it pleasant reading for parents and teachers." TERMS.-Fifty Cents a year for single copies; 5 copies for $2; 14 copies, and one to getter up of club, fer $5; 24 copies, and one to getter up of club, for $8; and 50 copies for $15. Always payable in advance. Articles for THE LITTLE PILGRIM to be adressed (post paid,) to GRACE GREENWOOD, Philadelphia. Subscriptions and all business communications to be addressed, post-paid, to LEANDER K. LIPPINCOTT, 66 South Third street, Philadelphia. City subscriptions can be left at the Office of the SATURDAY EVENING POST, No. 66 South Third Street, or sent through the Post Office. Edited by Trace Greenwood VOL. III.] WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A TALK ABOUT LIONS. BY BAYARD TAYLOR. PHILADELPHIA, MARCH, 1856. All children are interested in lions. For my part, I cannot remember the time when I did not know about them, and yet I remember very well my first pair of trowsers. I could not have been more than three years old when a menagerie, consisting of a lion, three monkeys, and some dark creature which must have been a seal, for it lay upon the bottom of the cage and was kept wet with buckets of water, came to the country village where I was born. I was held up by my father, above the heads of the people, that I might see the lion stalking backwards and forwards in his cage; and great was my childish fear and astonishment and admiration. I am quite unable to decide whether I actually saw the lion put out his paw and take hold of the shoulder of a man who walked too near the cage, or whether I only heard the people talking about it; but I think I saw it with my own eyes, and as nobody else in the village remembers the menagerie for none of them were so young as I was, and they had all seen lions before-I insist. that I am right. I used to think about that lion in the dark nights, before I fell asleep, and when I was old enough to have a slate, I would try to draw pictures of him, though, after they were finished, nobody but myself knew what they were. I remember, too, that there was a young coachmaker in the village, who used to paint the buggies and carriages, and was very fond of bright colors, and that one day he painted a lion on a piece of board, which I thought was the finest picture in the world. The lion was represented as standing up and lashing his tail with fury; his mouth was open, showing his white tusks; his eyes were turned to one side, so as to show the whites; and his immense mane was bristling on his neck. He was painted of a chocolate color, standing on a strip of bright green grass, with a sky behind him as red as a strawberry. The people said it was a wonderful picture, and they all predicted that the young coachmaker would be a great painter, some day. But as I have not heard of him for a great many years, and have never seen any more pictures [No. 3. painted in the same style, I begin to think they were mistaken. I used to try to paint lions myself, but did not succeed very well, and after I got into algebra and botany, I left off lions, and began to paint flowers. But I still went to see the menageries of wild beasts, whenever they came to our village, and used to watch the real African lions and lionesses, as they walked backwards and forwards, quite tired of their cages, and ready to spring out and suap up some of the people who were looking at them. Some of the old fellows would yawn and show their teeth in a terrible manner, and they licked their jaws whenever they saw a man who was particularly fat and plump. I was glad that I was a lean, slender boy, for I thought if the bars should break and let them out, they would not take me first, and I I should have time to get away while they were eating the others. Once there was a man who went into the cage with a whip in his hand, and made the old lion stand up on his hind legs and roar. He then put his bare arm into the lion's mouth, and it made me shudder to see the sharp white tusks pressing against the veined flesh; for I had heard that if the lion once got a taste of the man's blood, he would eat him up. There was a showman once, so I was told, who was in the habit of going into the cage of a wicked old lion and putting his head into his mouth. One day, when he had done so, as usual, and wished to take his head out again, the lion would not open his jaws. The man called out to the spectators, and asked whether the lion was wagging his tail. "Yes, he is," they answered. "Then," said he, "I am a dead man," and in a moment afterwards the lion bit his head off. Now, I hardly think this story is true, for I don't believe a lion's mouth is big enough to hold a man's head, but all of us boys believed it then, and we all said that the man we saw would get his arm bitten off, some day or other. Well, after I had grown some years more, and had gotten into Latin and astronomy and composition, I did not care so much about lions, and it pleased me much better to put on false whiskers made of buffalo hair, and act Roderick Dhu and William Tell, than to go to the wild beast show. Bless you, I was too big a boy for that; but I sometimes drew pictures for my younger brothers, |