unmolested; even their young women, unattended by protectors, passed without insult.— Mrs. Child.

KINDNESS TO ANIMALS.

BY CHARLOTTE ELIZABETH.

The great mistake that people seem to me to make about animals is this: they fancy that they must be frightened into obedience, and kept from disobeying their masters by being made afraid of punishmeut. I dare say that animals, like human beings, often need correction; but two things are necessary to make it of use. One is, not to punish them too severely, which only hardens them in rebellion; the other is, never to hurt them at all except for a real fault -something that they know to be a fault, and know that they will be punished for doing. Otherwise, the poor beast, not knowing when or where it may be beaten, gets confused and foolish, and does wrong, as any boy might do, from being in a great fright. The truth is, that the animals are very sensible, and very willing to do their best. They are fond of being praised and rewarded; they become very much attached to those who treat them kindly; and when they are so attached, they are very happy, and show off all the fine qualities that make

them both valuable and entertaining. I am going to tell you some stories about my own favorites; and, to prevent your thinking that they were different from others of the same kind, I shall begin by letting you into the secret of making them so clever.

Once I had a mare, such a beautiful creature she was! She had lived in a sort of farm, in North America, where they had not put her to work, and where the children had been used to

play with her. She was hardly full grown. I lived then in a house with very low windows. and the pretty mare was grazing on the outside. One warm day, the windows were all open, and I was sitting at work, when she popped her beautiful head and neck in at the one nearest tc me. I gave her a bit of bread that was lying by me, and told her to go away; but she would not. I said to myself, "Why should I drive her away? God made the animals to be loving and confiding towards man; and if this lonely creature wants me to be a friend to her, why should I not? The Bible says, 'A merciful man requiteth the life of his beast;' and what is life to a poor animal that has no hereafter to look to, if its life be without comforts?" So I put down my work, and went and rubbed her forehead, stroked her long white face, patted her shining neck, and talked to her. After this, when I was alone at my morning work, she was sure to put her head in at one of the windows, to ask, in her

dumb way, to be petted; and many an apple, many a handful of oats, did she get by coming there. She would soon listen for my footsteps about the house, and I seldom could look out from any window without seeing her under it, or before it. She would also follow me like a dog when I walked in the grounds where she grazed.

The Arab treats his horse like a child; gives it to eat of his own victuals, to drink of his own bowl of milk, and lets it sleep in the midst of his family. Of course, the animal becomes so fond of him, that it serves him for love, carries him through all dangers, and has often been known to defend him with its life. We cannot bring up our horses in this way, nor treat them as the wild Arab does; but knowing what sense, and feeling, and gratitude, and love, this noble creature can and does show, we ought to be always watching to avoid giving it unnecessary pain, and to persuade others to be equally kind.

I am writing this book in a room with a carpet, and good furniture, but I have my two dogs with me. There is little Fiddy, the small spaniel, at my feet, where he has lain every day for eight years; and there is Bronti, the fine big Newfoundlander, lying, where do you think? Why the rogue has got upon the sofa, and when I shake my head at him, he wags his long tail, and turns up his large bright eyes to my face, as much as to say, "Pray let me stop here; it is

so comfortable." But no, Bront, you must walk down, my fine fellow, or some lady coming to see me, may have her gown soiled, which would not be fair. We have no right to make our pets a plague to other people, and, perhaps, a means of injuring them too.

That was enough for Bronti; no need of a loud, cross, or threatening voice. He saw that I wished him to leave the sofa, and he wags his tail as contentedly on the carpet. I can manage him with a word, almost with a look, because he was born in the house, and has never been away from me; but master Fiddy was a year or two older when I had him, and some things he will do in spite of me. He will hunt a cat, kill a bird, and growl most furiously over a bone. Bronti has the same nature, but his love for us overcomes it all. He would live peaceably with a cat, if we had one; he will let the chickens and pigeons perch upon him, or walk between his feet; and last year I had half a dozen tame mice, which I used to let out upon him, when they would nestle in his warm coat, run races over and under him, and he would not move a limb, for fear of hurting one. As to a bone, he will allow me to take it out of his mouth at any time; and, what is more, he will readily give it up to Fiddy, whose little teeth can only nibble off the meat; and when he has done that, Bronti takes it, and munches the bone. Once, out of a great many fowls, belonging to

a dear friend in whose house I lived, there was only one that would not be friends with me. She was a fine old speckled black and white hen, very wild; and her running away from me vexed me; for I cannot bear that any of God's creatures should think I would be so cruel as to hurt it. Well, I set myself to whaddle this hen into being on better terms; taking crumbs to her, and persuading her by degrees to feed from my hand, like the rest. This was very good: but it did not stop here. Whether Mrs. Hen was flattered by so much attention, or whether she was desirous of making up for former rudeness, or how it was, I don't know; but she became so unreasonably fond of me, that if a door or window were opened, she would pop in to look for her friend, running up and down stairs, into the parlor, the drawing-room, the bed-rooms, and making no little work for the servants. At first, every body was amused at it; but, after a time, the poor hen became so troublesome that we were obliged to give her away. Jack, the dumb boy, would put his hands to his sides, and laugh till he lost his breath, to see "Mam's fat hen," as he called her, waddling after me, without minding either dogs or strangers, and he was in great trouble when she was sent away.

I can tell you one thing, which is, that it is impossible for a cruel man to be happy it is quite and entirely impossible. He may laugh, and shout, and sing, and dance, and tell you that