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THE BLUE AND WHITE FLOWER-POT.

My father was seated on the lawn before the house, his straw-hat over his eyes (it was summer), and his book on his lap. Suddenly a beautiful blue and white flowerpot, which had been set on the window-sill of an upper story, fell to the ground with a crash, and the fragments spluttered up round my father's legs.

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'Dear, dear!' cried my mother, who was at work in the porch; 'my poor flower-pot that I prized so much! Who could have done this? Primmins, Primmins!'

Mrs Primmins popped her head out of the fatal window, nodded to the summons, and came down in a trice, pale and breathless.

'Oh,' said my mother, mournfully, ‘I would rather have lost all the plants in the greenhouse in the great blight last May; I would rather the best tea-set were broken! The poor geranium I reared myself, and the dear, dear flower-pot which Mr Caxton bought for me my last birthday! that naughty child must have done. this!'

Mrs Primmins was dreadfully afraid of my father; why, I know not, except that very talkative social persons are usually afraid of very silent shy ones. She cast a hasty glance at her master, who was beginning to evince signs of attention, and cried promptly: 'No, ma'am, it was not the dear boy, it was I!'

'You; how could you be so careless? and you knew how I prized them both. Oh, Primmins!'

Primmins began to sob.

'Don't tell fibs, nursy,' said a small shrill voice and

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I, coming out of the house as bold as brass, continued rapidly, 'don't scold Primmins, mamma; it was I who pushed out the flower-pot.'

'Hush!' said nurse, more frightened than ever, and looking aghast at my father, who had very deliberately taken off his hat, and was regarding the scene with serious eyes, wide awake.

'Hush!

And if he did break it, ma'am, it was quite an accident; he was standing so, and he never meant it. Did you, Master Sisty? Speak!' this in a whisper, 'or pa will be so angry.'

'Well,' said my mother, 'I suppose it was an accident: take care in future, my child. You are sorry, I

to have grieved me.

'No, mamma, you

see,

There is a kiss; don't fret.'
must not kiss me; I don't deserve

it. I pushed out the flower-pot on purpose.'
'Ha, and why?' said my father, walking up.

Mrs Primmins trembled like a leaf.

For fun!' said I, hanging my head; 'just to see how I'd look, papa; and that's the truth of it. Now, beat me-do beat me!'

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My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped down, and caught me to his breast. 'Boy,' he said, 'you have done wrong; you shall repair it by remembering all your life that your father blessed God for giving him a son who spoke truth in spite of fear.'

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'Ah!' said my father, one day when he found me playing with it in the parlour. 'Ah! you like that better than all your playthings, eh?'

'Ah, yes, papa.'

'You would be very sorry if your mamma were to

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throw that box out of the window and break it for fun.” I looked beseechingly at my father, and made no answer. But, perhaps, you would be very glad,' he resumed, 'if suddenly one of those good fairies you read of would change the domino-box into a beautiful geranium in a beautiful blue and white flower-pot, and that you could have the pleasure of putting it on your mamma's windowsill.'

'Indeed I would,' said I, half crying.

'My dear boy, I believe you; but good wishes don't mend bad actions-good actions mend bad actions.'

So saying, he shut the door and went out; I cannot tell you how puzzled I was to make out what my father

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The next morning my father found me seated by myself under a tree in the garden; he paused, and looked at me with his grave bright eyes very steadily.

'My boy,' said he, 'I am going to walk to L, will you come? And, by-the-by, fetch your domino-box; I should like to shew it to a person there.' I ran in for the box, and, not a little proud of walking with my father on the high-road, we set out.

'Papa,' said I by the way, there are no fairies now.' 'What then, my child?'

'Why, how then can my domino-box be changed into a geranium and a blue and white flower-pot?'

'My dear,' said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, 'everybody who is in earnest to be good, carries two fairies about with him-one here,' and he touched my forehead; one here,' and he touched my heart.

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Ah! how proud, how overjoyed I was when, . after placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown, and made her follow me to the spot.

'It is his doing and his money!' said my father; 'good actions have mended the bad.'

'What!' cried my mother, when she had learned all; and your poor domino-box that you were so fond of. We shall go to-morrow and buy it back if it costs us double.'

'Shall we buy it back, my boy?' asked my father.

"O no-no-no-it would spoil it all!' I cried, burying my face on my father's breast.

'My wife,' said my father, solemnly, 'this is my first lesson to our child-the sanctity and happiness of selfsacrifice-undo not what it should teach him to his dying

hour.'

CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE.

1.

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will;
Whose armour is his honest thought
And simple truth his utmost skill!

2.

Whose passions not his masters are,
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame, or private breath;

3.

Who envies none that chance doth raise
Or vice; who never understood.
How deepest wounds are given by praise;
Nor rules of state, but rules of good :

4.

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
Nor ruin make accusers great;

5.

Who God doth late and early pray
More of His grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.

6.

This man is freed from servile bands
Of hope to rise, or fear to fall;
Lord of himself, though not of lands;
And having nothing, yet hath all.

THE DISCONTENTED FARMER.

Antony Crutcheley, the farmer, was standing in front of his house, looking at the thatched roof with a troubled air.

'There is the moss covering it all again already,' he murmured; it will be green all over, and the granaries will be as damp as so many cellars; but the townsfolk think anything good enough for the country people.'

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