PASSING FOR MORE THAN ONE IS WORTH.

he other day I had occasion to pay a man half a dollar, and gave him a dollar bank note, for which he gave me in exchange two silver pieces that I supposed to be worth twenty-five cents each. One of the pieces, however, I found afterward would only go for sixteen or seventeen cents. It was not a quarter of a dollar, though it looked very much like one. It had passed for some eight or nine cents more than it was worth. Well, that was an affair of very little consequence, you say. True enough, but I am going to take hold of something else with this handle, that may be of more consequence.

There are a great many folks in the world who, like this pistareen, pass themselves off, or try to pass themselves off, for more than their real value. It is bad business, though; and they always feel cheap when they get found out, as they are sure to be in the end.

Did you ever see a dandy under a full press of canvas, as the sailors say, showing himself off on one of the principal streets of a city—on Broadway, for instance, in New York? He was trying to pass himself off for more than his worth. And no doubt he succeeded, too, in some instances. By the way, do you know what definition Webster gives of a dandy in his large dictionary? It is worth remembering. Suppose we turn to it. "A dandy," says he, "is one who dresses himself like a doll, and carries his character on his back." It is a most capital definition; but the silly fellow will pass for something else where he is not known. He will make a great swell, and some people will believe he is a gentleman. Indeed, it would not be strange if he should pass himself off, one of these days, upon some young lady who is quite ignorant of this kind of currency, as an Italian count, or, perhaps, the marquis of this or the duke of that. There is no telling. But if she takes him for a cent more than Webster rates him at, she gets cheated, depend upon it. He is not worth the clothes on his back. He has to cross the street sometimes, to get rid of being dunned by his tailor; and he has been two or three hours trying to find a barber who will trust him. He's nothing but a pistareen, and hardly that.

Some people pass themselves off for being very learned, when they are as ignorant as a horse-block. But, oh! such mistakes as they make sometimes; it is enough to set one into a fit of laughter, only to think of some of them. I know a miss, who tries to pass herself off for a great reader, when the truth is, she has only dipped up a spoon-full, here and there, from a score or two of authors, and has not the slightest idea about the merits of any of them. Some one came up with her nicely the other night, at a party. He had suspicions, I suppose, that she was trying to pass for too much; at all events, he asked her a great many roundabout questions, which she was obliged to answer, and in doing so she let out the secret. Every body saw what sort of a coin she was, at once.

What fools some folks make of themselves, by attempting to pass for more than they are worth, in the matter of dollars and cents. It is said, that in the city of New York there are a good many poor fellows that can scarcely get enough money to appear in a respectable suit of clothes, who will buy a dinner in some cheap eating-house for sixpence, and then pick their teeth on the door-steps of the Astor House, to make people think they have dined there. And that is not any worse than some would-be genteel people manage when the warm season comes on, every year. They close their front window blinds, and steal into and out of their houses like thieves, or dogs that have just had a flogging, so that their neighbors will think they have gone to Saratoga, or Rockaway, or some other fashionable summer retreat. They take a good deal of pains to pass for so much more than they are worth—do they not, little friend? They only go for pistareens, though, where they are known.

One sometimes comes across a public speaker—a lawyer—possibly a preacher—who displays his eloquence by using all sorts of long and out-of-the-way words. A man may be listening ever so quietly and innocently, and the first thing he knows, down comes a word about his ears half as long as his arm almost, and half as heavy as a mallet. That is what the orator calls a knock-down argument; and when he wishes to be particularly convincing and eloquent, he throws at you such brick-bats and bars of iron as incomprehensibility—epexegetically—anthropopathically—so fast that you have scarcely a chance to dodge one before another comes whizzing along. Of course, you are confounded with the man's assault and battery, and if you are a thinking person, perhaps fall to musing how such monstrous words can come out of a man's throat whole, without choking him, or themselves splitting to pieces. When I hear a public speaker going on in that way, I generally think that the poor fellow is making up in big words what he lacks in brains, and if I could whisper a small word or two in his ear, I should be apt to say, "That will never do, sir. You can't pass yourself off for a great scholar with this clap-trap. You are nothing but a pistareen, and rather smooth at that. You are, indeed. Those big words that we have to bend up and twist around to get into our coat-pockets, will not go for sense. So pray be quiet, and not attempt to pass for any more than you are honestly worth, which is little enough, to be sure."

I have known boys and girls at school attempt to pass for more than their real value. Whenever I hear a boy asking somebody to write a composition for him, or to help him write one, which he intends to palm off as his own, or see him jog the boy that sits next him in the school-room, to get some help in reciting a bad lesson, I think of the pistareen, and want very much to caution the little fellow not to pass for more than he is worth. And it makes very little difference that I know of, whether it is a boy or a girl. It seems just as bad in one case as it does in the other.

It happens once in a while that a young lady puts on a great many charms that are not natural to her, and uses every kind of deception, just for the sake of being admired, or, perhaps, to get a good husband. It is bad business, though. Sensible men are not often caught with such a trap; and if they are, when they find out how the matter stands—and they will find it out sooner or later—they despise the trick as one of the meanest that was ever invented. I have a notion, too, that this kind of deception is pretty common among young gentlemen, as well as young ladies. But it is a miserable business, whoever may work at it. It never turns out well in the end, if it does after a fashion at first. It is a great deal better to be natural, and to act like one's self. This passing for more than one is worth, to buy a husband or a wife, as the case may be, don't pay, as the merchant says.

Some people work like a horse in a bark-mill, to make every body believe they are most excellent Christians, very nearly as pious as the angel Gabriel, when the truth is, their religion is all sham, and they will lie and cheat as bad as any body, if they think they will not be found out. Whenever I see one of this class, trying with all his might to pass for a saint, with his face as long as a yard-stick, or, perhaps, all lighted up with kindly smiles, I can't help thinking of the pistareen. It will come into my mind in spite of all I can do. Why, all the time the man is putting on these airs, he is plotting some scheme for selfish gain, or some mischief, just as likely as not. "He does not rise toward heaven like the lark, to make music, but like the hawk, to dart down upon his prey. If he goes up the Mount of Olives to kneel in prayer, he is about to build an oil-mill up there. If he weeps by the brook Kedron, he is making ready to fish for eels, or else to drown somebody in the stream." Poor man! he has a hard time of it, trying to keep up appearances. But it will be harder still, by and by, if he does not look out. He cannot carry his mask with him into the other world. There no one will pass for any more than he is worth.

THE USE OF FLOWERS[1].

[Footnote 1: See the frontispiece.]

ust one moment longer, cousin Mary, I want to put this flower in your hair. Now doesn't it look sweet, sister Aggy?"

"Oh, yes! very sweet. And here is the dearest little bud I ever saw. I took it from the sweet-briar bush in the lane. Put that, too, in cousin Mary's hair."

Little Florence, seeing what was going on, was soon, also, at work upon Mary's hair, that, in a little while, was covered with buds and blossoms.

"Now she is our May Queen," said the children, as they hung fondly around their cousin, who had come out into the country to enjoy a few weeks of rural quiet, in the season of fruits and flowers. "And our May Queen must sing us a song," said Agnes, who was sitting at the feet of her cousin. "Sing us something about flowers."

"Oh, yes!" spoke up Grace, "sing us that beautiful piece by Mrs Howitt, about the use of flowers. You sang it for us, you remember, the last time you were here."

Cousin Mary sang as desired. After she had concluded, she said—

"Flowers, according to these beautiful verses, are only useful as objects to delight our senses. They are only beautiful forms in nature—their highest use, their beauty and fragrance."

"I think that is what Mrs Howitt means," replied Grace. "So I have always understood her. And I cannot see any other use that flowers have. Do you know of any other use, cousin?"

"Oh, yes. Flowers have a more important use than merely giving delight to the senses. Without them, plants could not produce fruit and seed. You notice that the flower always comes before the fruit?"

"Oh, yes. But why is a flower needed? Why does not the fruit push itself directly out from the stem of a plant?" asked Agnes.

"Flowers are the most exquisitely delicate in their texture of all forms in the vegetable kingdom. Look at the petals of this one. Could any thing be softer or finer? The leaf, the bark, and the wood of the plant are all coarse, in comparison to the flower. Now, as nothing is made in vain, there must be some reason for this. The leaves and bark, as well as wood, of plants, all have vessels through which sap flows, and this sap nourishes, sustains, and builds up the plant, as our blood does our bodies. But the whole effort of the plant is to reproduce itself; and to this end it forms seed, which, when cast into the ground, takes root, springs up, and makes a new plant. To form this seed, requires the purest juices of the plant, and these are obtained by means of the flowers, through the exquisitely fine vessels of which these juices are filtered, or strained, and thus separated from all that is gross and impure."

"I never thought of that before," said Agnes. "Flowers, then, are useful, as well as beautiful."

"Nothing is made for mere beauty. All things in nature regard use as an end. To flowers are assigned a high and important use, and exquisite beauty of form and color is at the same time given to them; and with these our senses are delighted. They are, in more respects than one, good gifts from our heavenly Father."

"Oh! how I do love the flowers," said Agnes; "and now, when I look upon them, and think of their use as well as their beauty, I will love them still more. Are they so very beautiful because their use is such an important one, cousin Mary?"

"Yes, dear; I believe this is so. In the seeds of plants there is an image of the infinity of our great Creator; for in seeds resides a power, or an effort, to reproduce the plants, that lie concealed as gems within them, to infinity. We might naturally enough suppose that flowers, whose use it is to refine and prepare the juices of plants, so as to free them from all grosser matters, and make them fit for the important office of developing and maturing seeds, would be exceedingly delicate in their structure, and, as a natural consequence, beautiful to look upon. And we will believe, therefore, that their peculiar beauty depends upon their peculiar use."

ay what you will—talk about cold hands, feet, and noses, as much as you please—there are about as fine sports in winter as we get in the whole year. There is something very exciting in snow. A snow storm acts like electricity upon the spirits of the boys—and girls too, for that matter. How busy we used to be, on Saturday afternoon, when there was no school, as soon as the first flakes of snow had whitened the ground, making new sleds, and mending up old ones.

Our southern readers know very little about these sports of winter. I have a good mind to enlighten them a little. Imagine, my young friends—you who live so near the tropics that snow and ice are objects of curiosity—imagine, if you can, the earth covered to the depth of two feet or more with snow. In some places, the drifts are as high as your head, and higher too. When it first falls, the particles are loosely thrown together; but a warm sun or a little shower of rain melts them down a little, and then comes a night cold enough to freeze up your mouth, if you don't look out, and the surface of the snow becomes hard and slippery. Then such a time as the boys have sliding down hill—why, it is worth coming up as far north as New York, and running the risk of having your fingers frozen a little, to see them at it, and take a few trips down the hill.

SLIDING DOWN HILL.

A sled constructed for this purpose is a very simple thing. I will sketch one for you. Here it is, and a boy carrying it up the hill.

When the boy gets to the top of the hill, he sometimes lies and sometimes sits up on his sled, and lets it go. It finds its way down, without any of the boy's help, you may depend upon it. He has to guide it a little with his feet, though. If he did not, he might come in contact with another boy's sled, or a rock, perhaps; and that would be rather a serious joke, when the sled was going like the cars on a railroad.

Sometimes there are a dozen boys, all or nearly all with a sled of their own, sliding down the same hill at once. In fact, we used to have the whole school at it, now and then, when I was a little boy. It was a merry time then, you may be sure. Occasionally we would have a large sled, which it took three or four boys to draw up the hill. Then half a dozen of us would get on, and slide down in advance of the wind, it seemed to me—for it was so swift that I scarcely could breathe—until we came up all standing in a huge snow bank.

Sometimes, when we were half way down, and our locomotive was under a full pressure of steam, a boy would fall off, and, not being able to check the force he received from the sled, would go down to the bottom of the hill in a manner calculated to raise a very stormy concert of laughter from the rest of the boys. And the poor John Gilpin enjoyed the fun, too, or tried to enjoy it, as much as any of them, though he did not laugh quite so heartily; and he could well be pardoned for not doing that, certainly, until he had got to the end of his ludicrous race.

I can recollect a great many funny adventures connected with sliding down hill. I don't know that I ever laughed more in my life at any one time, than I did once at a feat of Jack Mason's. Jack was a courageous fellow—one of the most daring boys in the whole school. Some thirty or forty of us were one bright Saturday afternoon sliding down a fine hill, with a good level valley at its foot, when Jack challenged the boys to go down the other side, which was a great deal steeper, and which had an immense drift of snow at the bottom. No one dared to do it. We all thought it would be rather too serious business. Jack surveyed the ground for a few minutes, and screwed his courage up to the highest point. "I am going down," said he. We tried to dissuade him, but it was of no use. When Jack had made up his mind, you might as well attempt to turn the course of the north wind as to turn him. The words were no sooner out of his mouth, than down he went, like an arrow. We trembled for him, and held our breath almost, as we watched his sled; for it used to be a proverb with us, that Jack would break his neck one of these days, and we were not without our fears that the day had come.

Down went Jack on his sled, and in a few moments he was plunged in the snow bank out of sight. We all ran down to dig him out, scarcely daring to hope we should find him alive. We worked like beavers for a considerable time, and found nothing of the poor adventurer. At last, more than a rod from where he entered the bank, up popped Jack, as white with snow as if he had been into a flour barrel, tugging his sled after him, and grinning like a right merry fellow, as he was. Take it all in all, it was one of the most laughable sights I ever saw; and now as I write, and a sort of a daguerreotype likeness of Jack, just emerging, like a ghost, from that snow bank, comes up to my mind, I have to stop and laugh almost as heartily as I did at the scene itself, when it occurred.

" ather, I don't like to go to school," said Harry Williams, one morning. "I wish you would let me always stay at home. Charles Parker's father don't make him go to school."

Mr Williams took his little boy by the hand, and said kindly to him, "Come, my son, I want to show you something in the garden."

Harry walked into the garden with his father, who led him along until they came to a bed in which peas were growing, the vines supported by thin branches that had been placed in the ground. Not a weed was to be seen about their roots, nor even disfiguring the walk around the bed in which they had been planted.

"See how beautifully these peas are growing, my son," said Mr Williams. "How clean and healthy the vines look. We shall have an abundant crop. Now let me show you the vines in Mr Parker's garden. We can look at them through a great hole in his fence."

Mr Williams then led Harry through the garden gate and across the road, to look at Mr Parker's pea vines through the hole in the fence. The bed in which they were growing was near to the road; so they had no difficulty in seeing it. After looking into the garden for a few moments, Mr Williams said—

"Well, my son, what do you think of Mr Parker's pea vines?"

"Oh, father!" replied the little boy; "I never saw such poor looking peas in my life! There are no sticks for them to run upon, and the weeds are nearly as high as the peas themselves. There won't be half a crop!"

"Why are they so much worse than ours, Harry?"

"Because they have been left to grow as they pleased. I suppose Mr Parker just planted them, and never took any care of them afterward. He has neither taken out the weeds, nor helped them to grow right."

"Yes, that is just the truth, my son. A garden will soon be overrun with weeds and briars, if it is not cultivated with the greatest care. And just so it is with the human garden. This precious garden must be trained and watered, and kept free from weeds, or it will run to waste. Children's minds are like garden beds; and they must be as carefully tended, and even more carefully, than the choicest plants. If you, my son, were never to go to school, nor have good seeds of knowledge planted in your mind, it would, when you become a man, resemble the weed-covered, neglected bed we have just been looking at, instead of the beautiful one in my garden. Would you think me right to neglect my garden as Mr Parker neglects his?"

"Oh, no, father; your garden is a good garden, but Mr Parker's is all overrun with weeds and briars. It won't yield half as much as yours will."

"Or, my son, do you think I would be right if I neglected my son as Mr Parker neglects his son, allowing him to run wild, and his mind, uncultivated, to become overgrown with weeds?"

Little Harry made no reply; but he understood pretty clearly what his father meant.

"I send you to school," Mr Williams continued, "in order that the garden of your mind may have good seeds sown in it, and that these seeds may spring up and grow, and produce plentifully. Now which would you prefer, to stay at home from school, and so let the garden of your mind be overrun with weeds, or go to school, and have this garden cultivated?"

"I would rather go to school," said Harry. "But, father, is Charles Parker's mind overrun with weeds?"

"I am afraid that it is. If not, it certainly will be, if his father does not send him to school. For a little boy not to be sent to school, is a great misfortune, and I hope you will think the privilege of going to school a very great one indeed."

Harry Williams listened to all his father said, and, what was better, thought about it, too. He never again asked to stay home from school.

n a pleasant New England village, several years ago, there was a good deal of excitement produced among the little folks, by the appearance, on the sign-post, and in the tavern and store, of some large placards, with very curious and funny pictures upon them. These placards made known the important fact, that, for the sum of ninepence, (a shilling, according to the currency of New York,) any boy and girl in the vicinity might have the pleasure of seeing some of the most astonishing feats of trained animals ever heard of. On a certain day there was to be a sort of juggler, who would play on some kind of instruments. The music made by this man would have the power of charming the animals—so the advertisement read—and the instant they heard it, they would commence playing their antics. There was a great black bear who would stand on his head; a dog who knew almost as much as his master; a cock that could walk on a pair of high stilts. Then there were learned monkeys, learned pigs, and I know not what besides.

THE "SHOW."

The pictures of these different animals, performing their several exploits, caused a great deal of wonder and admiration among the village boys and girls. In cities, where such exhibitions occur very frequently, such things would not be much thought of. But it is very different in the country, where public exhibitions of every sort are "like angels' visits, few and far between." For nearly a week before the day appointed for this juggling exhibition, there was nothing talked of in this quiet village so much as the "show." Ninepences that had been a twelvemonth in accumulating, were now in great demand; and more than one boy sighed as he reflected that he had spent his pennies in candies and other nice things, so that he had none left for the "show," and secretly resolved that he would be wiser next time, and not allow his money to slip through his fingers so easily.

Among those who had the permission of their parents to visit the exhibition, and who were anxiously longing for the day to come, were Julian Parmelee and his sister. Julian, especially—a boy of about nine years of age—was almost crazy with delight, when his mother told him he might go. He jumped, danced, clapped his hands, shouted, and went through so many strange manoeuvres, that his elder brother George, who was rather more sober on the occasion, said he guessed he should not go to the court-house and pay ninepence to see the show, for he was in a fair way to get the exhibition at home, for nothing.

"Oh, mother!" said Julian, "do you really believe the bear will stand on his head? What a funny sight it must be! I wonder if they keep the bear chained. I shall take care I do not get within reach of his paws, I guess. Charley Staples said he didn't believe it was half so big as the one he saw when he was up in Vermont. How big is it, mother? as big as our Carlo? Oh, I wish it was time to go now! I should think monkeys were very funny creatures. They say there is one in the show that rides a horse, just like a man. Ha! ha! ha!" And he laughed so loudly that he waked up the baby in the cradle.

I do not wonder at all that little Julian was so much delighted with the idea of going to this exhibition. It was something entirely new to him; and to children, especially, such singular feats as these animals were to perform, are always entertaining. It may, however, admit of a question, whether it is right, just for our amusement, to inflict so much pain upon these poor creatures as is necessary to teach them their several parts. It seems rather cruel. You know what the frogs once said to the boys, according to the fable, in the matter of stoning: "Young gentlemen, you do not consider, that while this is sport to you, it is death to us." These poor bears, and monkeys, and other animals, while they are going through their education, might use some such language to their teachers, perhaps, if they had the same faculty that the fable ascribes to the frogs. But, however that may be, it was very natural that Julian should be half frantic at the thought of seeing the show, and quite as natural that Julian's father and mother should consent to let him go.

Well, some two days before the exhibition was to take place, Julian was taken sick. There is a class of diseases—such as the measles and the whooping-cough—which, you know, almost every boy and girl must have some time or another; and it is not always left with the children to decide precisely when they shall take their turn. One of these diseases had made Julian a call, and insisted on staying with him a week or two. It was the whooping-cough. Julian wanted to be excused for a few days; but the old fellow told him, in his wheezing way, that he could not think of letting him off so long. Julian was disappointed, and cried a good deal. It did seem rather hard that he must be caged up in his chamber just at this time. He was not so sick as to make it necessary to stay at home; but his mother thought it would be wrong to allow him to go where there were to be so many other children, because they would be in danger of taking the disease from him. So it was decided that he could not see the "show;" and he fretted and stormed, and made himself very unhappy. He was usually a good-natured boy, but it must be confessed, that he was now quite out of humor.

"I don't see what I'm sick for, just when I wanted to go to the 'show.' I declare, it is too bad. And the whooping-cough, too! If it was any thing else, I could go. What under the sun—"

"There, Julian, that will do, I think," said his mother, kindly.

Julian checked himself, but he could hardly help muttering something about its being "very provoking."

Mrs Parmelee was silent for a while, until the peevishness of her child had a little time to subside, and then she said—

"My dear child, I am sorry that you should feel so; for you not only make yourself unhappy, but you are finding fault with God, and you know that is very wrong. God had something to do with your sickness. He could very easily have prevented it, if he had chosen to do so. But he did not choose to prevent it, and—"

"Well, why didn't he prevent it, mother?"

"Hear me through, my child. If he allowed you to be sick, when he could have kept you well, then it is certain that, on the whole, he would rather you would be sick. You see this, don't you, Julian?" "Yes, ma'am. God made me sick, didn't he?"

"There's no doubt that all diseases are under his control."

"Then, mama, I am sure that God—"

"Not quite so fast. I want you to see what you was doing, when you was so peevish a little while ago. You was very much out of humor. Indeed, I think you showed some anger."

"Oh, no, mother, I was not angry."

"Perhaps not, my child; but what would you call that spirit, if it was not anger?"

"I was—I was—provoked—I mean vexed, mama."

"Well, who vexed you?"

"Nobody; it was the whooping-cough."

"I'm very sorry that my child should get into such a passion—or vexation, whichever it may be—with the whooping-cough; for you say that you suppose the disease was under the control of God, so that it must have been rather an innocent sort of thing, after all. If you should fall into the mill-pond, and a man standing on the shore should let you struggle a while before he helped you out, you would get vexed, wouldn't you?"

"I guess I should."

"You would certainly have as much reason for vexation as you have had this morning. But would you be likely to get vexed with the water?"

"Why, no, mama. I should be provoked with the man, because he didn't help me out."

"I thought so. Well, then, don't you think you found fault with God, in this matter of the whooping-cough?"

"It may be so."

"It must be so."

Little Julian was a thoughtful child. He saw that this spirit of peevishness was very wrong, and that he had murmured against God. He told his mother that he hoped he should not do so any more. He was silent for some minutes, and then said—

"There is one thing I would like to know about, mother; but it may be I ought not to ask."

"What is it, Julian?" asked his mother.

"If God is kind, and if he loves us, why does he let us get sick? I am sure you would keep me well all the time, if you could, because you love me, and because you are good and kind."

"I am glad you asked that question, Julian. There are a great many things which we cannot understand about the government of God. But I think I can explain this to you. God, it is true, often disappoints us, and gives us pain, and makes us weep. This would all seem very strange, and almost unkind, if we did not know that God has some other end in view besides making us happy in this life. He is training us for another world; and if you live to be a man, you will see that such disappointments as this of yours, for a part of God's plan of fitting his children for heaven."

"But I think we should be just as good, if he did not make us feel bad and cry."

"That is your mistake. Do you think you would be just as good a child, if your parents always humored you, and gave you every plaything you asked for? Are you quite sure that you would now mind your father and mother as well, if you had always been allowed to have your own way?"

"But you don't make me sick, mother."

"True. We correct you in another way. But we sometimes give you pain, and make you cry. Did you ever think, when your father reproved you and punished you, that it was because he did not love you?"

"Oh, no, mother."

"You can see how your father can be kind and affectionate, and still give you pain?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Then cannot you see how God may disappoint his children, and even make them unhappy for a time, and love them tenderly, too?"

"Oh, mother, I see it all now! I wonder I never thought of this before! Well, the whooping-cough is not so bad, after all. I've learned something by it, at any rate."

"Yes, and it may be worth a great deal more to you than the 'show' would have been."

y friend, Theodore Thinker, who is an odd sort of a genius, and frequently takes up things after a singular fashion, has put into my hands a paper with this caption: "Story of a Stolen Pen, written by itself." It seems, from a somewhat lengthy introduction—too lengthy to be here quoted—that the pen once belonged to some editor or another; and as Theodore has something to do with editorial matters himself, I should not wonder if he is the one. Some curious readers may be disposed to inquire how the pen was made to talk so fluently, and perhaps some others would like to know how it was found in the first place. I can't answer these reasonable inquiries. The manuscript is entirely silent on both points. I have my conjectures in relation to the thing—pretty strong conjectures, too. I guess the whole story is a fable, to tell the truth. But never mind. There is a great deal of sense in fables sometimes; and who knows but there may be some in this? At all events, we must have

THE STORY.

THE THIEF STEALING THE PEN.

I wish you could have seen the thief in the act of stealing me. What a sorry face he had on! I send you a rough sketch of him—for I have a little talent at drawing—taken from memory. I was lying on the desk, close by a manuscript which I had commenced. He snatched me as soon as the editor's back was turned, and ran out of the office. I wonder the people did not notice that he was a rogue as he passed along the street. Why, he stared at every body he met, as if he was afraid they were going to give him an invitation to walk to the police office. The first thing he did was to call at several pawnbroker's offices, where he tried to sell me. No one would give him what he asked. He wanted ten or twelve dollars, I believe. Well, he gave up that project before night, and I heard him mutter to himself, "If I only had the money for it!" After supper he took me into his room, and when he had locked the door fast, he began to examine me carefully. "It is a beautiful pen," said he, and then he tried to see how I would write. I should think he was a pretty good penman. He made a great many flourishes with me, and wrote his name several times. His name was John Smith, by the way, or at any rate, that was the signature he made. "What a fine pen this is," said he; "I never wrote with a better pen in my life. But it won't do for me to keep it. I shall be found out, if I do. Oh, dear! I wish I had got it without stealing it. I wonder where I can sell the troublesome thing."

Just then somebody knocked at the door. It was a long time before he let the person in. He had to think what he would do with me first, and it took him a good while to put away the paper he had been scribbling on. "Why, John!" said the man, when he came in, "what makes you look so frightened? I should think you took me for a tiger, or some such animal." "I've got the toothache," said the thief, "and I have sent for the doctor to pull it out. I thought he had come when you knocked. Dear me! how I dread it! Did you ever have a tooth drawn?"

So you see the fellow told a lie. Those who break one of God's commandments, are pretty likely to break more before they get through. My new owner seemed to find it difficult to get to sleep that night, and after he did get to sleep, he muttered a good deal in his dreams. Once I heard him say, "No; I bought it of Mr Bagley, in Broadway." I could not help thinking that he ought to be content with telling lies when he was awake.

One day he left me on the table when he went out. It was unfortunate for him. That night I overheard the chambermaid talking with him about it, and I saw him turn very red in the face. It was evident she did not believe his story about buying the pen of Mr Bagley, though he told it over and over again, and made use of a terrible oath, which I dare not repeat. Poor man! I pitied him. He was certainly very unhappy. He wanted to sell me very much indeed; but some how or other, no one would give the price he asked. Perhaps they remembered the saying, "The buyer is as bad as the thief." He offered me to one man in Pearl street, who seemed a little disposed to buy. "Wait a minute," said he; and he went into a back room to speak to somebody. But John Smith thought it would be safer for him not to wait. I guess he had his mind on the subject of police officers at that time.

He never went to church with me but once; and then, strange enough, the minister preached from this text: "The way of transgressors is hard." I could feel the poor man's heart throb, as the clergyman slowly read the words. When he went home, he was in great distress—for the sermon was a very solemn one—and he took down from a shelf a small Bible, all covered with dust, and looked at some words which were written on the first leaf. I don't wonder he wept, as he read them—"A mother's gift." He remembered where the text was, and he turned to it, and read it again and again. "Yes," said he, "it is true—too true. But what shall I do? I have been to the theatre so much now, that I can't be happy unless I go; and where am I to get the money? I wish I had never begun to steal. Oh! that was a sad day for me, when I listened to wicked boys, and robbed that old man's pear tree." I saw then how he first became a thief; and I thought I should like to have every body know that when boys are stealing apples, and pears, and peaches, they are serving an apprenticeship to the business of stealing on a larger scale. I myself have heard of many a highway robber, who began his career in the orchard of his neighbor.

Mr Smith did not reform. About three months ago, he stole a horse from a stable in the upper part of the city, and immediately left for some place in New Jersey. It was a beautiful horse, but he could not sell him. People were suspicious. At last he was arrested, and had to go to Sing Sing prison. I hope he will make up his mind to be an honest man now; for he has certainly learned, by pretty dear experience, that "honesty is the best policy." I can't think he would steal any more if they should let him out. Still, I am not sure. The habit was very strong.