The Little Girl Who Was Taught by Experience

District Clerk's Office.

Be it remembered, that on the nineteenth day of June, A.D. 1827, in the fifty-first year of the Independence of the UNITED STATES OF AMERICA, Bowles and Dearborn of the said district, have deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof they claim as proprietors, in the words following, to wit: "THE LITTLE GIRL, WHO WAS TAUGHT BY EXPERIENCE."

In conformity to the act of the Congress of the United States, entitled, "An act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books, to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned," and also to an act entitled "An act supplementary to an act, entitled, an act for the encouragement of learning, by securing the copies of maps, charts and books to the authors and proprietors of such copies, during the times therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the arts of designing, engraving and etching historical and other prints."

JNO. W. DAVIS, Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.

THE LITTLE GIRL WHO WAS TAUGHT BY EXPERIENCE.

Little Lucy's mother had died when she was a very small child;--this was a great misfortune to Lucy, for her mother loved her very tenderly, and she would have taken the trouble to tell her what she did wrong, and when she felt wrong, and would have taught her to correct all her faults; she would have taught her that happiness could not dwell in her heart, while she permitted wicked passions to rise up and grow strong there, any more than the beautiful flowers which she planted in her little garden-bed, could thrive and bloom when she allowed all the rank weeds which sprang up with them, to become strong and remain there to choke them: wicked passions like troublesome weeds, grow very fast, and they soon root out all the mild, gentle virtues which are just budding into beauty, if we do not take great pains to check them, and pluck them out of our hearts.

Lucy's mother would have taught her all this, for she saw these evils were already springing up to destroy the lovely blossom of virtue in her young bosom; but she died, and Lucy was left to the care of a most indulgent father; he did not like to correct his little girl, for he only saw her when his busy day was over, and then he wished to gratify all her desires, to fondle over her and play with her and bless her while he thought of her dear mother whom he had lost; he did not see her faults the little time he was with her, the servants did not like to tell him of them, and poor Lucy was growing up a vain, selfish, self-willed, prying little girl, with an obstinate temper which could bear no contradiction.

Lucy had a pretty face and her father and the servants talked to her so much about it, that at last she really thought it was something good in her to be pretty, that she was in some way better because she was handsomer than other little girls; no kind friend ever said to Lucy, "that as she had not made her own face, she could not be more good for its being a pretty one; and that as she could not by any care keep it a moment, if it should please her heavenly Father to take it away, that it was very silly in her to be vain of it, and value it so much; but that she could do a great deal, to make herself good, and amiable, and obliging, and affectionate; and therefore she would be more dear to her friends and more happy in herself every time she even tried to correct a wrong feeling."

It was a sad thing that Lucy had no one to teach her all these things, for she might have learnt them easily then, and she was growing more selfish, and vain, and obstinate, and disobedient as she grew older, she thought a great deal about her dress, fine things to wear, and nice food to eat, and she liked to pry into things which did not concern her to know.

Lucy had an aunt living in Boston, who was a sensible and a very kind-hearted woman. She heard that Lucy would become a disagreeable if not a wicked child, if some friend did not have compassion and try to save her from her growing faults. She kindly sent to Lucy's Father who lived in New York, and persuaded him to let his daughter come and pass one year with her; she had a little girl of her own about the same age as Lucy, who had been watched, and guarded, and taught by this kind mother, and she was now a lovely child, so good--obedient--and amiable, that every one who knew her, saw that she would grow up a blessing to her family and friends; her mother had early taught her, and made her feel from experience, that she was always happier when she governed her temper, corrected a fault, and thought more about making others happy than she did of pleasing herself; she told her that her heavenly Father always looked down with peculiar love upon her, when she resisted a wicked feeling or a selfish action, and sent his best and sweetest reward of peace and joy into her heart, a reward he bestows only on goodness, but which is more delightful than any pleasure which the wicked can purchase. Now the little Emily had already learned to feel this delightful peace, and she would give up any thing to obtain it.

It was on her birthday morning, about a month after Lucy's arrival at her aunt's, that she received a very kind letter from her father enclosing two beautiful crown pieces which he said "he thought would be an acceptable present for herself and cousin, and he hoped this would make his little darlings happy." Lucy did feel happy for one moment, and she looked at the pretty shining pieces again and again, then she began to feel dissatisfied, and went slowly and with a sullen countenance, into the parlour where Emily was finishing her work.

"My father has sent me these two crown pieces," said she, "but he says I must give one of them to you, Emily, I'm sure I don't know what for;" and Lucy looked unhappy, and selfish, and sour, because she could not keep both the pieces which her father had sent, and no one who had seen Lucy then would have thought she could ever have a pretty face; the naughty temper in her heart, looked out at her eyes, her scowling brows, and her pouting lips, and made her quite disagreeable, as she threw down the piece of silver upon the table with a loud noise.

"Oh how good your dear father is," said Emily, "what a beautiful bright piece it is--but do not give it to me, dear Lucy, if you don't wish to," continued she, as she looked up at Lucy's unhappy face, "I should like to have it to be sure, because I am saving all my money for a particular purpose, 'tis to get poor nurse Hooper a new gown, mother says she has not been to meeting all this summer because she has had nothing decent and whole to wear, and she told me that if I would save all my money till I had enough I should have the pleasure of getting her one my own self; and I should be so delighted to see how happy she would look, for mother says all the pleasure nurse has is going to meeting; we you know go to dancing,--and learn music--and read entertaining books--and have a great many pleasures, but poor old nurse never leaves off hard work from morning to night, laboring with all her strength--only when as she calls it 'the blessed day of rest comes;'--how I should like to get her a nice new pretty gown, and see her walking along to meeting with it on, and her psalm book and fan wrapped up neatly in her clean checked handkerchief as she used to last year. But," added she, as she looked a second time at Lucy's sour face, "not if you don't wish to give me the money Lucy."

"But I must give it to you, I suppose, if I do not like to," said Lucy, "for papa will ask you when he comes next week what you did with it and all about it, and I know you will tell him, 'tis just like you."

"If he asks me I must tell him, you know Lucy, I can't help it, can I; but if he does not ask me, I will not tell him any thing about it, if you don't wish me to."

"Oh but I know he will ask you, so you may as well have it, and spend it too as foolishly as you choose; I know what I shall do with mine though, I will buy that pretty pair of silk slippers which I saw at Miss Rust's yesterday, and wished for so much, and I will wear them with my new silk frock with Barage trimmings, when we go next week to Brookline, for there I shall see that proud Miss Prince again, with all her fine clothes;--she thought nobody could dress as smart as she did, but I will show her that I can,"--and Lucy began to smile with pleasure at the thought of mortifying Miss Prince.

"But I would not dress so much just to go out to Mrs. Russel's," said Emily, "we shall wish to walk out in the grounds, and you will be obliged to take so much care not to hurt your dress, you will not have half the pleasure; how can you jump about the grass, and gather flowers?"

"I don't care for that," said Lucy, "I will wear the gown and the slippers too. Papa always lets me dress as I like. I shall take care enough."

Emily did not say any thing more, but she ran away to show her mother her present, and to ask her if she would be so kind as to tell her what sort of a gown she should get for Nurse Hooper, and to count over all the silver pieces she hoarded in her purse. Her mother told her she was much pleased to find she remembered the poor friendless old woman, and that she should have the pleasure of getting the gown the next day,--and she said she would advise her all about it. Then her mother counted her money and found she would have some left after the gown was bought, which she could spend for herself. Emily said she would not determine what she should do with it then, but put it away till she wanted something very much. Her mother told her that was a very prudent and wise determination.

The day at last came for their visit to Brookline, the carriage was ordered, and Emily came down with her plain Cambric slip and thick shoes, which looked very proper, and comfortable, and neat. But Lucy put on her trimmed silk dress, and the lilac satin slippers she had bought to wear with it.

"Why my little girl," said her aunt, as she came into the room, "what could induce you to put on that rich silk to-day? you can have no enjoyment of play in such a dress, and those delicate slippers too,--you cannot walk in them; remember we are going into the country, and shall wish to taste the sweet air of the fields, you had better run and change your dress now my love, there is quite time enough, and Emily will go and assist you."

"O no, aunt," said Lucy, "I had rather not go at all, than do that, I shall take care, I am big enough to take care I hope;" and she again looked sullen and sour.

"I shall not compel you my dear, most certainly, because that would not convince you that you are wrong, but I advise you once more to go and change your dress for a more proper one; I warn you that you will not have half the comfort, but a vast deal more trouble in going as you are; I wish indeed that you could believe, that I must know better than yourself about such things, because it might save you from much suffering, but if you prefer to learn by your own experience, you certainly shall;--experience is an excellent instructer, but we often pay very dearly for her lessons: well what do you say?"