The Little Dog Trusty Part 2

In the mean time, the orange-man took Charles's hat off his head, and filled it with fine China oranges. "There, my little friend," said he, "take them, and G.o.d bless you with them! If I could but afford it, you should have all that is in my basket."

Then the people, and especially the children, shouted for joy; but as soon as there was silence, Charles said to the orange-man, "Thank'e, master, with all my heart; but I can't take your oranges, only that one I earned; take the rest back again: as for a black eye, that's nothing!

but I won't be paid for it; no more than for doing what's honest. So I can't take your oranges, master; but I thank you as much as if I had them." Saying these words, Charles offered to pour the oranges back into the basket; but the man would not let him.

"Then," said Charles, "if they are honestly mine, I may give them away;"

so he emptied the hat amongst the children, his companions. "Divide them amongst you," said he; and without waiting for their thanks, he pressed through the crowd, and ran towards home. The children all followed him, clapping their hands, and thanking him.

The little thief came limping after. n.o.body praised him, n.o.body thanked him; he had no oranges to eat, nor had he any to give away. _People must be honest, before they can be generous._ Ned sighed as he went towards home; "And all this," said he to himself, "was for one orange; it was not worth while."

No: it is never worth while to do wrong.

Little boys who read this story, consider which would you rather have been, _the honest boy_, or _the thief_.

THE CHERRY ORCHARD.

Marianne was a little girl of about eight years old; she was remarkably good-tempered; she could bear to be disappointed, or to be contradicted, or to be blamed, without looking or feeling peevish, or sullen, or angry.--Her parents, and her school-mistress and companions, all loved her, because she was obedient and obliging.

Marianne had a cousin, a year younger than herself, named Owen, who was an ill-tempered boy; almost every day he was crying, or pouting, or in a pa.s.sion, about some trifle or other; he was neither obedient nor obliging.--His playfellows could not love him; for he was continually quarrelling with them; he would never, either when he was at play or at work, do what they wished; but he always tried to force them to yield to his will and his humour.

One fine summer's evening, Marianne and Owen were setting out, with several of their little companions, to school. It was a walk of about a mile from the town in which their fathers and mothers lived to the school-house, if they went by the high-road; but there was another way, through a lane, which was a quarter of a mile shorter.

Marianne, and most of the children, liked to go by the lane, because they could gather the pretty flowers which grew on the banks, and in the hedges; but Owen preferred going by the high-road, because he liked to see the carts and carriages, and hors.e.m.e.n, which usually were seen upon this road.

Just when they were setting out, Owen called to Marianne, who was turning into the lane.

"Marianne," said he, "you _must_ not go by the lane to-day; you must go by the road."

"Why must not I go by the lane to-day?" said Marianne; "you know, yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that, we all went by the high-road, only to please you; and now let us go by the lane, because we want to gather some honey-suckles and dog-roses, to fill our dame's flower-pots."

"I don't care for that; I don't want to fill our dame's flower-pots; I don't want to gather honey-suckles and dog-roses; I want to see the coaches and chaises on the road; and you _must_ go my way, Marianne."

"_Must!_ Oh, you should not say _must_," replied Marianne, in a gentle tone.

"No, indeed!" cried one of her companions, "you should not; nor should you look so cross: that is not the way to make us do what you like."

"And, besides," said another, "what right has he always to make us do as he pleases?--He never will do any thing that we wish."

Owen grew quite angry when he heard this; and he was just going to make some sharp answer, when Marianne, who was good-natured, and always endeavoured to prevent quarrels, said, "Let us do what he asks, this once; and I dare say he will do what we please the next time--We will go by the high-road to school, and we can come back by the lane, in the cool of the evening."

To please Marianne, whom they all loved, they agreed to this proposal.

They went by the high-road; but Owen was not satisfied, because he saw that his companions did not comply for his sake; and as he walked on, he began to kick up the dust with his feet, saying, "I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane; I wish we were to come back this way--I'm sure it is much pleasanter here than in the lane: is not it, Marianne?"

Marianne could not say that she thought so.

Owen kicked up the dust more and more.

"Do not make such a dust, dear Owen," said she; "look how you have covered my shoes and my clean stockings with dust."

"Then, say, it is pleasanter here than in the lane. I shall go on, making this dust, till you say that."

"I cannot say that, because I do not think so, Owen."

"I'll make you think so, and say so too."

"You are not taking the right way to make me think so: you know that I cannot think this dust agreeable."

Owen persisted; and he raised continually a fresh cloud of dust, in spite of all that Marianne or his companions could say to him.--They left him, and went to the opposite side of the road; but wherever they went, he pursued--At length they came to a turnpike-gate, on one side of which there was a turn-stile; Marianne and the rest of the children pa.s.sed, one by one, through the turn-stile, whilst Owen was emptying his shoes of dust. When this was done, he looked up, and saw all his companions on the other side of the gate, holding the turn-stile, to prevent him from coming through.

"Let me through, let me through," cried he, "I must and will come through."

"No, no, Owen," said they, "_must_ will not do now; we have you safe; here are ten of us; and we will not let you come through till you have promised that you will not make any more dust."

Owen, without making any answer, began to kick, and push, and pull, and struggle, with all his might; but in vain he struggled, pulled, pushed and kicked; he found that ten people are stronger than one.--When he felt that he could not conquer them by force, he began to cry; and he roared as loud as he possibly could.

No one but the turnpike-man was within hearing; and he stood laughing at Owen.

Owen tried to climb the gate; but he could not get over it, because there were iron spikes at the top.

"Only promise that you will not kick up the dust, and they will let you through," said Marianne.

Owen made no answer, but continued to struggle till his whole face was scarlet, and till both his wrists ached: he could not move the turn-stile an inch.

"Well," said he, stopping short, "now you are all of you joined together; you are stronger than I; but I am as cunning as you."

He left the stile, and began to walk homewards.

"Where are you going? You will be too late at school, if you turn back and go by the lane," said Marianne.

"I know that, very well; but that will be your fault, and not mine--I shall tell our dame, that you all of you held the turn-stile against me, and would not let me through."

"And we shall tell our dame why we held the turn-stile against you,"

replied one of the children; "and then it will be plain that it was your fault."

Perhaps Owen did not hear this; for he was now at some distance from the gate. Presently he heard some one running after him--It was Marianne.

"Oh, I am so much out of breath with running after you!--I can hardly speak!--But I am come back," said this good-natured girl, "to tell you that you will be sorry if you do not come with us; for there is something that you like very much, just at the turn of the road, a little beyond the turnpike-gate."

"Something that I like very much!--What can that be?"

"Come with _me_, and you shall _see_," said Marianne; "that is both rhyme and reason--Come with _me_, and you shall _see_."

She looked so good-humoured, as she smiled and nodded at him, that he could not be sullen any longer.

"I don't know how it is, cousin Marianne," said he; "but when I am cross, you are never cross; and you can always bring me back to good-humour again, you are so good-humoured yourself--I wish I was like you--But we need not talk any more of that now--What is it that I shall see on the other side of the turnpike-gate?--What is it that I like very much?"