In a pretty, quiet village in New England lived Mary Chilton. Shewas a widow. She had two sons; and it was the occupation and thehappiness of her life to do all she could to make her boys good andhappy. I should say to help and teach them to be good and happy; forboys and girls must make themselves good; and then, of course, theywill be happy; and no one can be made good or happy against hiswill.
I hear some boy or girl who reads this say, "How old were they, andwhat were their names?" No boy can get along with another boy tillhe knows his name and age, and so, that you may be sure that theywere real, live boys, I will tell you these important facts. Theeldest was called Frank, and was nine years old. His brother wascalled Harry, and was seven. They were very much like other boys,somewhat disposed to have their own way in every thing, and a littlevexed when they could not do as they pleased; sometimes reallywishing to do right, and be obedient, and make their mother happy.
The little fellows were fond of saying to their mother that whenthey grew bigger they should take care of her; and the idea that shedepended upon them for her happiness often made them stop and thinkwhen they were disposed to do a wrong thing.
When Harry said to Frank, "Mother will be so sorry if we do it,"Frank would stop and think, and that was enough.
Stop and think. Grand words, and worth attending to. I believe that,if boys and girls would only keep these words well in mind, therewould be only a small number of really naughty children.
It was a custom with this good and faithful mother to have a littletalk with her boys, every night before their bed time, of what hadpassed during the day. Sometimes she told them stories, sometimesthey repeated poetry.
The hours they passed in this way were the happiest in the wholeday. Some of their twilight talks and stories Mrs. Chilton wrotedown, thinking they might amuse some little cousins, who lived at adistance. Perhaps some other little boys and girls may like to hearthem too.
One evening, early in November, when tea was over, and the teathings were removed; when the nice hearth was swept clean, and thegreat wood fire was blazing brightly, and sending forth its cheeringlight and heat through the whole room, Frank and Harry had takentheir accustomed places, one on each side of their mother who wassitting on the old-fashioned sofa. Each one appropriated a hand tohimself, when they both, almost in the same breath, said to her,"You promised us, Mother, if we were good boys, to tell us a storythis evening. Now, have we not been good boys all day?"
"Yes, you have," she replied; "you have not quarrelled, and you havegot your lessons well; and I will gladly perform my promise. But Ihardly know whether I can remember or make up any story to tell you.However, I will do my best. What sort of a story will you have?"
"I," said Frank, "should like a real good true story about a dog, orany other animal."
"And I like a made-up story best," said Harry.
"I have an anecdote of a dog for you, Frank, which a friend relatedto me the other day, and which I determined to remember to tell you,as I recollected your love for dogs. The lady who