G A VISIT FROM THE GARDENER. THE COTTAGE AT THE FIRS. CHAPTER VIII.-HOW THE GODWINS GOT OY. ODWIN was not in the habit of driving his boys to work in the garden when they were not inclined to. He took care that there should generally be something to do in which they might be of service; but if after their lessons at school, or their work in the fields, they preferred a game at play, or a ramble by the brook-side, or a swim in its clear pools, he liked to let them have their own way. He knew that it is easier to draw than it is to drive a lad to anything; and he knew, too, that if you want a child to like any kind of employment, you must create a liking for it by making it a pleasure and not a task. So, though he worked himself in his garden every evening almost as long as it was light and the weather permitted him, he usually left the boys to join him or not as they thought proper. Had he been a morose, hard-tempered man, given to the use of rough, unkind speech, it is likely that the boys would have used their liberty and kept away from him; but with his boys John was almost a boy himself, and he laid his thoughts so freely and fully open to them, that they never thought of keeping anything secret from him. Thus they grew to like gardening because he liked it, and they liked it all the better because it was while they were thus working that they enjoyed the most of their father's pleasant talk and cheerful ways. In setting his lads the example of regular labour, Godwin thought only of making them helpful to the household and to themselves, and of giving them habits of industry which would keep them from temptation; but it often happens that a man who does the right thing, and teaches his children to do it, derives advantages from such conduct of a kind that never entered into his calculations. It was so in the matter of John's gardening. That piece That piece of ground behind his cottage had thriven so well and produced so much, that it was talked of far and near, not only in Newton, but in Bolton and in the market town, where some of John's productions had a ready sale. Other cottagers began to think of taking a leaf out of Godwin's book, and now and then they came to see what he was doing, and to ask his advice and help with respect to their own bits of ground. Among others who paid a visit to the Cottage at the Firs from time to time was Mr. Andrews, a Scotchman of about Godwin's own age, who was the gardener at the Squire's. He came frequently at odd times, and would drop in of an evening after he had finished his own work; and sometimes he would bring a cutting of a rare plant and put it in the earth himself, and would give advice as to what should be done with this patch of ground, or how to make the most of such or such a crop. Hints of this kind were treasured up by Godwin, who was sure to act upon them, for he knew that the Squire's head gardener was master of his business. "What are you going to make of that eldest boy of yours, Godwin ?" said Andrews one evening. "He has grown a strapping fellow." "He'll have to follow my own calling, I reckon," said John. "Poor men like me have seldom the power of a choice in that matter." "But if a better chance were open to him, you would not stand in his way, I suppose ?" said the other. Godwin rested his foot on the spade and looked up into the gardener's face, feeling assured that the words were not spoken in jest or in thoughtlessness. "To be plain with you," Andrews continued, Iwe want another hand at the house, and my business here to-night was just to ask you the question whether you would like your lad to come for a week or two, and see whether we may suit each other." "But Sam knows nothing of the business," replied John. "But he likes the business above everything," said Andrews. "If you have not found out that I have; and I am willing to pass over the inexperience for the sake of the liking, if you choose to say the word." "I shall certainly not say no," said Godwin with a smile. So the thing was settled with very few words, and on the following Monday morning Sam Godwin set off early to the Great House, wondering what sort of a place the garden could be which wanted five or six people to look after it, and not without considerable fears as to whether he was fit to be one of them. He came home in the evening full of the wonders he had seen, and of the pleasures which the sight had given him. Mr. Andrews had received him kindly, and had taken him over the grounds, and then warning him to obey orders and be careful in everything he did, had turned him over to Mills, one of the under-gardeners, who had set him to work at once in the kitchengarden, which had been rather neglected of late, so that it had grown weedy. Sam was to get the kitchen-garden into a neat and tidy state for his first job. "By the time you have done that," said Mills, "and I reckon it will take you a good week, we shall know what you are made of." The boy set to work with right good will, and feeling glad that he was beginning at least with something that he understood. By degrees the weedy beds and overgrown walks grew clean and neat under his unwearied hands. Mills looked in upon him in the afternoon to see what was done, but went away without saying a word, so that Sam went home the first day not knowing whether he had given satisfaction or not. But he laboured on steadily day after day till the job was finished, and when Saturday afternoon came, received a shilling a day for his work, and, what gave him more pleasure, a word or two of praise from Mr. Andrews for doing his work well. From this time up to three or four years later, nothing very remarkable occurred to the Godwins which needs to be recorded here. Sam continued in his post as gardener's assistant, acquiring all the knowledge he could, and by the time he was eighteen had risen to be under-gardener at a yearly salary, and lived at the lodge along with Mr. and Mrs. Andrews. Nancy still lived at Cray's Cliff, where she had won the respect and good-will of her employers and the affection of the children under her charge. There was, however, an alteration in Godwin's household, for since his two eldest children had left his roof, he had taken a lodger, a young fellow of the name of Bryant, a joiner, who had been sent down by a house in London to superintend some rather extensive alterations which were making in a wing of the house at Cray's Cliff. THE CORN-FIELD. WHAT joy in dreamy ease to be And see all round on sun-lit slopes I feel the day, I see the field, The quivering of the leaves, And good old Jacob and his house Binding the yellow sheaves, I see the fields of Bethlehem, Again I see a little child, His mother's sole delight, God's living gift of love unto The kind, good Shunamite. To mortal pangs I see him yield, And the lad bear him from the field. The sun-bathed quiet of the hills, Oh, golden fields of bending corn, THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY, 56, PATERNOSTER ROW, AND 164, PICCADILLY. PRINTED BY R. K. BURT, HOLBORN HILL. THE STATUTE FAIR. IN many parts of the country there are held what are called "mops," "statutes," statutes," or "hirings." It is the custom for farmservants, both male and female, to hire themselves, sometimes for twelve and sometimes for six months. They go to the principal town near where they are living, and stand in the open market. There the masters and mistresses go and engage them. The most general time for these gatherings is in September, though May hirings are also common. The custom is a very old but leads to serious evils, so that many persons wish to do away with it. It is proposed that, instead, register-offices shall be opened, where, on payment of a small fee, masters and servants can enter their names. This has been already done in several parts of the country, and we are glad to learn that many influential farmers have resolved to adopt the new system. one, Mr. Grey, a Yorkshire squire, much interested in the welfare of the people, called one day on a neighbouring farmer to discuss this question. "Mr. Parker," he began, after the usual salutations, "I've called to see you about the hirings. You know we're trying to get them done away with." "You've set yourself a job," replied the farmer. "I don't think you'll manage it. It's an old custom, and you know we all like good old customs." "I like old customs, too," said Mr. Grey, provided they be good as well as old; but I don't think this is a good one." "What have you against it, Mr. Grey ?" asked Mr. Parker. "Well, for one thing," replied the squire, they take up a great deal of time. For two or three market-days before the term, or on the fair days, the servants must leave their work for the hirings, and of course the masters must go too." "That's quite true," said the farmer. "It's often very inconvenient." "Then again," added Mr. Grey, "hiring your servants in the market, you have to take them without characters. Now and then you may meet with a former master or mistress; but I should think, in nine cases out of ten, masters have to take their new servants knowing very little about them." "If you'd come to me, Mr. Grey, two or three years since, I should very likely have told you that I knew a good servant when I saw one, and that I was sure not to be deceived. But that conceit's taken out the servants that I should like the change. Do you think it a modest thing for a young woman to stand for hours in an open market, exposed to the gaze of every body? If your daughters had to go to service, would you like them to have to stand in that way?" "No," said Mr. Parker, "I don't think I should." "Then it has often happened," continued Mr. Grey, "that a servant, ignorant of the character of the master who hired her, has found it out, to her bitter cost, when it was too late. It is quite as important for servants to know the characters of their employers as for the masters to know about. the servants. There's another thing you know very well that all kinds of wickedness go on too frequently at the hirings. They get into public-houses, dances, and such-like; and I have reason to know that many have been led sadly astray." "There's a great deal of truth in all that, I can't deny; but what's to be done?" Mr. Grey then told him that a registeroffice had been opened, and that many farmers and land-owners in the neighbourhood had resolved to act on the new plan. After some thought, Mr. Parker said he would fall in with it if he could. He was afraid, however, the servants would not like it. "But," said Mr. Grey, "I've talked to a good many of them about it, and I find that a great number-I think all the best of them are quite willing. I should like to talk to yours, if you have no objection." Mr. Parker readily consented. Mr. Grey then told the servants in substance what he then told the servants in substance what he had told Mr. Parker. One or two liked the jollity of the hirings, and didn't care for the new plan; but most of them thought it would be a great deal better than the old one, and were quite ready to try it. We hope both masters and servants throughout the country will do their best to introduce and carry out the new system.* "If I were a servant," said the Rev. Dr. Guthrie on the occasion of a recent fair at Biggar, "I should not like the present system. If I were a bad servant -if I were a drunken servant-if I sometimes pocketed an article belonging to my master-if I were a liar, or a thief, or a drunkard, I should like the hiring system. What do they know about me as I stand in that market? I get no benefit of my character. I am a moral man, a sober man: nobody ever saw me drunk; no man ever heard me lie; no man ever heard me swear, or ever got a rough word from me; and no man ever knew me to lay a hand on any article that was not my own. There is a man standing beside me in the market who has done all that. We stand together. He is six feet so am I. But he is far thicker than I; and accordingly this man, with not a rag of good character about him, is hired, and I am refused. Was there ever of me. You know I caught one thieving anything in the world like that? Did you ever hear "But now," said the good squire, "that's your side of the question. I must confess, however, that it is even more for the sake of of ministers being chosen in that way? Did you ever hear of any banker's clerk being chosen in that way? Did you ever hear of a man choosing a wife in that way? I grant you that in hiring you must look at the body. If a man is to plough, and do other farm work, he must have a good body. At the same time, people may be mistaken on that point also. I may be a mighty strong fellow, and yet not have the bulk of another man. is no evidence that a man is really strong that he merely looks strong." It THE STONE WELL. IN the pleasant village of Bentley there was a handsome stone well, built by a wealthy gentleman, that the people might always have clear spring water. You would have thought so kind an act could have done nothing but good; and to see the well, how the trees hung over it, and the green meadows lay around it, and the pretty cottages peeped out here and there in sight of it, you would have said, "Can any harm go on there?" Well, you shall hear. At the comfortable farm-house, not a stone's throw from the well, lived a worthy couple named Rogers, and their brightlooking maid-servant Phoebe looked as happy as she really was. It was a good place: not very high wages, plenty of work, and very little time for company or going out. She had to be up carly, but then she went early to bed; she had homely fare, but there was plenty of it, and she never wanted an appetite; she could not afford to buy fine clothes, and if she could her wise mistress would have persuaded her against it—and, indeed, what was the use of wearing fine clothes where there was no one to see her but a few villagers no better dressed than herself? She had been three months in her place, and liked it better every day; and Mrs. Rogers cared for her like a mother, and the farmer had always a kind word to say to her. It was a peaceful house; the Bible was read there daily, and whatever work was going on, the worship of God was never missed. "You must go to the well for water, Phoebe," said Mrs. Rogers, one day: "ours always gets thick at this time of year, and that's as clear as crystal." So Phoebe went. You'll be quick back," said her mistress: "it's a bad place for gossiping." Phoebe found nobody there, and was back in a few minutes. So it went on for nearly a week; but one day a neighbour stood with her pail, which she had just filled. "Well, to be sure!" she exclaimed; "you're the girl from Rogers'. I shouldn't have known you a bit, you're so changed." "Changed!" said Phoebe. "Dear yes! Why what have you done with your colour? and where's your flesh gone? I'll warrant you've plenty of work, whatever you have to eat." Why, how did you know me?" said Phoebe: "I never saw you before." "Oh, I saw you the first day you went to church with your people, and I was sorry for you: I thought it was a pity that a nice smart girl like you should be in that place." It's a very good place," said Phoebe. "Is it ?" said the other, laughing: "you're the first that ever thought so; but of course, if you like to work hard and get low wages, it's all right." "It's not such very low wages," said Phoebe, colouring, for she was a little in 1 clined to be offended with the woman's manner. "Don't tell me," said the other: "they always was skinflints. You might be getting twice as much in a town place. There's a niece of mine, not nigh so good-looking as you, and, oh to be sure, what a place she's got! You should see her of a Sunday! She wouldn't wear your best bonnet even on week-days; and the missus is always making her presents." Much more was said, and altogether a deep impression was made on Phoebe, who walked home slowly, looking at her face now and then in the water, to see if she was so very much altered, as she had been told. After this it seldom failed that the old gossip was at the well when she went with the can; and always the same story was told over again, till Phoebe began to think she must be ill, though she had never felt better, and that her work was very hard, and her wages very low. "I can't think what's come to Phoebe," said Mrs. Rogers to her husband: "the girl's quite changed in the last month. She mopes, and doesn't eat. Surely she must be ill." "Ask her," said the farmer. Mrs. Rogers did. Phoebe thought she wasn't quite well; thought that the work was too hard, and said perhaps the place might not agree with her: all of which very much surprised her mistress. "Why, child, it agreed with you very well till lately, and you never complained of the work before," she said. But Mrs. Rogers did not know that the meddling old gossip, not from any particular malice to her or Phoebe, but from a pure love of interfering, had advised the girl to say this, and promised that her niece should look out for a place for her in town. When she told her husband what had passed, he said, after a moment's thought, "Does she fetch water from the well?" "Yes: ours has got thick now," answered his wife. "Never mind that," said he. "I'd rather drink it thick than send her to the well: I know what goes on there." "Well, I've noticed," said Mrs. Rogers, "that Phoebe stays a long time, and I've checked her for it once or twice." "No use to do that," said the farmer: "keep her at home. There isn't one young girl in a hundred that old Nancy Withers and two or three more wouldn't ruin." Phoebe was surprised when she found she was not to go to the well, and made an excuse to go out and look for eggs in the evening, that she might have a chat with Nancy at the cottage, which was close by. The door was half open, and she heard voices inside. She would have gone back, but she heard her own name mentioned, and could not help stopping to listen. "What the girl at Rogers'!" she heard her friend Nancy Withers say; "oh, she's a back?" poor thing she'll never keep a place she was forced to lay it all out upon her long." Phoebe thought that the poor girl's fine clothes wouldn't be as useful to her now as "I hear she's discontented with the farm," said the other voice. Very like," answered Nancy: "she's got a few pounds in the savings' bank. "What's it in her face to be discontented." Phoebe did not stop to hear much more. She could hardly believe her ears. She knew from the voice that Nancy's companion was the housekeeper at the Hall, and, if Nancy had recommended her, she might have got a place there; for no doubt she was inquiring about servants. Next day she looked with her old smile, and said to her mistress, "You'll please let me fetch water to-day. I won't stop on the road." There was something in her manner that made Mrs. Rogers consent; and away she went, heartily hoping she might meet with Nancy Withers; and so she did, and two or three others with her. "Eh! I'm glad to see you back," said Nancy. "Poor crittur! I thought they'd gone and locked you up." "She can't see that in my tace, can she?" said Phoebe, laughing, and looking at the others. They returned the laugh without understanding what she meant, but Nancy seemed a little ashamed. "You needn't trouble yourself, Mrs. Withers," said Phoebe, as soon as she had filled her can, "to look out for a place, as you promised to do, for I mightn't keep it, you know, and then I should be getting you into trouble as well as myself." And away she went, not a little pleased at having so completely puzzled the old woman. Nancy in vain waylaid her continually, to try and make her explain. All she could get out of her was, "I don't like friends with two tongues, Mrs. Withers." The next day Mrs. Rogers told her husband that Phoebe was cured and well as ever. "That's the stopping from the well," said he. "No," said his wife; "she begs to go there, but comes home in a few minutes, and looks as fresh as a lark." Time wore on the small-pox raged in town and country. "Don't go near Withers' cottage," said Mr. Rogers: "she's got her niece home in small-pox." "I can send her some broth," said his wife. "Leave it outside the door, then," said the husband. The next day, at the well, Phoebe couldn't forbear pitying Nancy, who was crying bitterly, saying she couldn't tell what she should do: those cruel people had turned out her niece at the risk of her life, and she doubted if she would ever get over it. "And think of the expense it'll be to a poor crittur like me," said Nancy. "She never was a girl to save her wages; and how could she, when the matter, Phoebe ?" said her mistress, when she got in. Phoebe didn't know, but she felt uncomfortable. Soon she fell ill of small-pox, and was very bad indeed; but the good farmer and his wife wouldn't send her home. They nursed her through it, paying others to do her work. Many and many a time did she thank God upon her knees for having opened her eyes to her folly before it was too late; and heartily did she endeavour, after her recovery, to show her gratitude to Him, and to her kind master and mistress, by faithful service. And if she saw young girls stopping at the well to talk to Nancy Withers or the like, she would give them a friendly hint, and tell them her own experience. THE YOUNG WAGONER'S SCAR. HARRY CRUNDELL was wagoner's mate at Mr. Smith's farm; and he was so persecuted by his fellow-workmen on the farm, because he read the Bible and prayed to God, that his life would have been made quite miserable, and he would have been driven away from his place of service altogether, if he had not had strength of mind and patience given to him to bear his troubles. Before Harry Crundell was converted he was a wild and thoughtless youth, always ready for " a spree," and reckoned "a good sort of fellow." But when the gospel of the grace of God brought salvation home to his soul, he was taught by it to deny ungodliness and worldly lusts, and to live soberly, righteously, and godly in the world. His companions did not like the change, but thought him a fool; and it is no great wonder, therefore, that he was reproached for his religion. The bitterest enemy and most violent persecutor Harry had was the wagoner to whom he was mate. This man (Tom Phipps by name) was married, and lived in a cottage close by the farm. by the farm. He was a sad, drunken fellow, oftener to be found in the tap-room of the "Eight Bells" than at his own home. One day, having to take a load of corn to a distant town, Phipps and Crundell started off together in charge of the wagon and horses. On their return it was plain that the wagoner had been drinking deeply, for he was unable to stand upright. It was equally plain that his companion was in some kind of distress, although he made no complaints, but, after he had littered down and fed his horses, went to bed. He had been very shamefully treated that day by Tom Phipps, who, having vainly tried to force him to join in drinking at a road-side public-house, lost his temper, and when he was for going straight back with the empty wagon, first abused and then savagely struck him over the head with the whip. Harry remonstrated, but this only brought more blows, and he was aching from the bruises when he laid down to rest. That night there was a cry of "Fire!" which woke up all in the farm-house from their first sound slumbers. Harry was one of the first to be roused; for, poor fellow! his sleep was broken and troubled with desponding thoughts. So, on the first alarm of fire, he was wide awake, and sprang from his bed to the casement window. It was a dark night; but he could the more plainly see great flames shooting up close by the farm-yard. It was Tom Phipps's cottage that was on fire. In a few minutes all the farm men had hastily thrown on their clothes and were running to the spot. It was soon seen that there was no hope of saving the cottage, for there was very little water to be got. As to Phipps himself, half stupefied with drink, he could do nothing but run about in a distracted manner, calling upon his neighbours to help. Meantime the sparks that had fallen upon the thatched roof of the stables had set them on fire, and the flames leaped along the beams, threatening to carry ruin even to the houses beyond. Harry's first thought was to set free the frightened horses; and in a minute he was in their midst and leading them out. Then, while labourers under the farmer's direction were trying to save the farm, he turned towards the wagoner's cottage. It stood alone, close to the stable, and was an old wooden building; and by the time Harry reached the place the fire had mounted to the roof, where it was fiercely blazing away, while the villagers were so scared that they did little more than look on. Huddled by themselves, at some distance from the flaming cot tage, were Tom Phipps's wife and a terrified It was Mr. Smith, Harry's master, who had followed him, that said this, as he saw him dipping a blanket which a neighbour had brought out, into a pail of water, and throwing it over his arm. And as Mr. Smith spoke, he laid his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Let me go, master," said the young man. "We must try to save the poor little thing if we can." And before Mr. Smith could say more Harry had rushed into the crowd. There was no way of getting into the chamber above; for if there had been a ladder at hand the window was so small and narrow that no one could have entered that way. And it was plain to be seen that the narrow wooden staircase was in flames. Harry did not hesitate. Wrapping the wet blanket around him, he sprang in at the open door, and in another moment was lost to sight. HARRY RESCUES THE HORSE-. The stairs were on fire, as we have said, but group of children. Suddenly a cry rose from they bore his weight; though as to how he the poor mother's lips, a dreadful, wailing, despairing shriek. Again it was repeated; and none too soon was understood what that cry meant. Not all the children were there! In the confusion little Mary, the father's pet child, had been left behind. I shall not try to describe the scene when this discovery was made; how the poor mother would have rushed into the flames, if she had not been kept back by force; how Tom Phipps, half sobered by this new calamity, wildly stared about him, but still refused to believe that he had not brought his little Mary down; and how the neighbours busied themselves franticly in vainly searching everywhere around, while they cast glances at the burning cottage, and whispered, under breath, that if she were there, there was no hope of saving her now. Harry, Harry! what are you thinking about? What are you going to do?" reached the chamber he never could distinctly remember. But there he was; and there in a small, low cot in the corner lay the little girl. The fire had not reached that part of the room; but the smoke was so thick that Harry was almost blinded and choked. In less time than it takes to tell, the poor child was in Harry's arms, wrapped in the blanket, and he was once more at the head of the stairs. They were burnt through now; but Harry was active and strong. With one spring he leaped from the top of the stairs. through fire and smoke; and the next moment the rescued child was in her mother's arms. Strange to say, little Mary Phipps was not much injured by the fire. But Harry was fearfully burnt. For many days he was in great agony; and when he recovered, his face and breast were so scarred with burns that he was disfigured for life. This is how Harry Crun dell, the young wagoner, obtained his honourable scar. Harry Crundell was never afterwards reproached and sneered at for his religion. People could not very well sneer at a hero; and if his religion had taught him to overcome evil with good, and to risk his life at the call of duty and when others were afraid to risk theirs, that could not very well be sneered at either. What Tom Phipps felt when he knew that the deliverer of his pet child was the youth whom he had so often and so badly misused, I cannot tell. SMILES AND FROWNS.* THE village school looks dull; the youngest weeps; hands: trembling There's woe and fear beneath the master's frown. But childish tears are quickly dried again, And the long hours a whispered chat beguiles, The dunce begins to hope, and all is bright As summer sunshine, when the master smiles. What wealth of happiness is in a smile! How glad it makes the lowliest cottage homes! The faces that beamed love on early days The child remembers still, where'er he roams. Oh, oftentimes when trouble presseth sore, When the worn spirit sinks beneath its pain, A loving smile will cheer the breaking heart, And strengthen it to struggle on again! Then grudge not smiles! the Securely resting on its Saviour's love, Turn from the dying pleasures of the world! F. The pictures on the next page are taken, with kind permission, from the engravings by the Art Union of Webster's celebrated paintings, "The Smile," and "The Frown." They are founded on the well-known lines in Goldsmith's Poem of the "Deserted Village:""There in his noisy mansion, skill'd to rule, The village master taught his little school: |