110

FRIGHTENING AWAY THE BIRDS.

J

T seems a pity the birds should ever have to be frightened away. All my life I have tried to bring them about me. Many a robin has got to know my winter dinner time, and perhaps gives thanks for past crumbs, or hopes for coming ones in its clear autumn song I love so much; and I would like to think the thrushes and blackbirds, who leave the sharp prints of their feet in the crisp snow round my door, know the pure delight I have in the rich outpour of their spring notes, as I sit at my morning reading.

But the birds are not so welcome every place. The farmer is far from liking the sight of them near his newly sown fields; and in some gardens you'll see rows of thin shaking papers, tied in fine cords, and stretched over the place where the lines of peas are to come up. Many plans are tried in the fields to keep the birds from the seeds; and I daresay some of you have seen men's old coats, with sticks run through them, and a battered hat on the top, in the middle of a brown fieli, and wondered how any one could think that was man. Some of us old people, whose sight is not so clear as that of you children, can better understand how they serve their purpose to some extent, and scare away many a daring little thief. Another plan is to station some one, whose time is not very precious, near the field to keep turning round a rattle in his hand, that makes noise enough to frighten anybody. Sometimes it is merely two pieces of hard wood that a boy can use for the same purpose, and with which he can make a clear sharp sound that does its work.

This very day, I passed a boy on the stile with these in his hand; but I thought, 'Ah! Harry, it doesn't matter much what sort of noise your sticks make, they hang quietly enough in your hand this morning,' for there he was in a deep sleep. I didn't waken him. It was the full, still hour of noon, and I always think all nature takes a est just then, and why not Harry?

(even the birds are not so much on the wing.) I knew he was not an idle boy, and that, when the short sleep he was likely to have on a stile was over, he was sure to be hard at work again.

The sight of Harry reminded me of another and far different boy who lived in our village when I was young. This was Tom Holiday. It was queer his name should be that; for sure enough he liked all holiday, and was as idle a boy as ever was set loose from school. It wasn't much of that he had, for his mother was very poor, and in those days people were not obliged to keep their children at school, or indeed send them at all. Well, you would think when Tom was done with his lessons he would have liked to have helped his mother all he could. But no-play was all he thought of, or idleness rather; for he was never one of those bold spirited boys who are so eager on their sport, that one really grudges taking them from it for the sober work of life, of which they are sure to have enough. No-he loafed about everywhere. If there was one thing he was in earnest about, it was bird-nesting. So when his mother said she must get some good out of him, however little, he thought bird frightening would be best, it would be a little like play. And so he hired himself to farmer Brown to rattle away the birds. At first it was fun enough to him, and Tom's rattle was heard far and But very soon he got used to it, and oftener than not Tom was in a lazy sleep, or sitting in the shade tormenting some field mouse, or any tiny creature he could get hold of. In more than one of his sleepy fits farmer Brown caught him, and soon told his mother Tom was 'no good for him.' It was the same with every thing he tried, or rather, he never tried anything. That was the worst of him. He was put to many things, but stuck to nothing; and the same story was always brought to poor Mrs Holiday, as Tom was once more thrown on her hands -'he was no good.'

near.

At last he went to sea. He thought that was an idle life. But after some

years, during which his mother (though she heard nothing from him) kept hoping she might have a bright sailor boy back with stories of the sea, to remind her of her own youth (for her father was a sailor), home comes Tom with no sailor dress but in rags, long since run off from his ship, and once more no good.' My father, because I asked him, did all he could for him; for he had once been in my Sunday school, and I could not quite give him up, though no other person had any faith in him. I wish I could tell you I was right and everybody else wrong. But alas! no. His bad, idle habits were too deeply rooted, and master after master cast him off. The end was bad enough. The last time he was sent about his business, or rather from it, he came home in a dreadful temper to his mother, and when she began to reason with him, he said he was for no more of this,' but would have 'a go' at his old friends the birds. So saying, he reached down from the wall a gun, a remembrance of his dead father (always kept bright by his mother because it had been his), and was off never to come back again. The birds had no more reason to dread his gun than his rattle; for in passing through a hedge it caught, and went off, shooting poor Tom himself dead on the spot. We buried him in the old churchyard, and not long after laid his mother by his side.

Now I think though Tom was 'no good' in his life, in his grave he may be, if he warns you children of the bad habit of idleness. There scarcely is a worse, and it leads to many others. His careless, lazy ways began when he was quite a small child. When used to teach him on the Sundays I noticed it. Sometimes I would think, 'now I see Tom means to try this time, he is listening'; and in a talk after he would seem to heed very much, and mean to be a good boy. But good resolutions were of no use, when he let the first thing tempt him the wrong way, and was too lazy to stick to the right. Ah! there were little birds even then he might have frightened away. The Bible tells us

111

H.

HAT a curious looking beast,' said Fred

Wilson to his cousin Tom

Hunter; 'why! it's as ugly as sin, and walks backwards.'

'It's a comical looking creature,' was the answer, as they both stood in Rothesay Aquarium, gazing through the plated glass at the object they were criticising.

'Although it is a comical creature, 1 think, my lads, you ought to take a lesson from it,' said Fred's father, who stood behind the boys.

'A lesson from a lobster! Dear me do you think I am a baby?'

'You ought to know by this time not to despise any of the things that God has made,' said his father, speaking in a quiet tone of voice, while he led them to a seat near at hand, in a quiet corner. 'If the lobster walks backwards, as you say, how many false steps in a day do you make?'

112

False steps, why-what do you mean, papa?'

Just this. When you are told to do a thing you don't like, such as to run for water, or a loaf to the bakers, or to hold baby, why do you sometimes frown? And on Sabbath, if I want you to read your Bible, why do you want to stroll out of doors? I think, my boy, you are like the lobster.'

'In what respect, papa?' said Fred, looking up in his father's face.

Well, it seems that a few fish, long ago, were so discontented with the way in which the lobsters conducted themselves in the sea, that they bound themselves together to try to lead them to do as they did. Argument, persuasion, and example were, however, quite thrown away on the old lobsters, who were most of them fathers and mothers. They were quite contented with their method and manner of living, and said it was of no use bringing innovations or new ideas into the sea, for it was against all the traditions or laws of the lobsters that had ever lived. Seeing it was a useless work of argument and time, the fish turned to the young brood of lobsters that were quietly and sedately imitating their parents by walking backwards, and by dint of judicious and kindly persuasions, managed to get a few of them to come to their Sabbath School.'

tried to teach them to swim forwards, and a few of the more sanguine of the teachers thought they had succeeded in breaking them off their bad habits, when, alas! they resumed their old ways.'

'How was that?' asked Tom Hunter.

Because they did not carry out the teaching they got on the Sabbath day through the week,' said Mr Wilson, looking at Fred, whose face turned suddenly crimson. They were going all right so long as they were in the Sabbath School, but whenever they mingled among their companions who had stuck to their old habits, why, they just did the same. And so the fish got so disheartened that they had to abandon their school, and from that day to this the lobsters have continued to go backwards.'

Fred Wilson had not very much to say to his father after they left the Aquarium, but ere he retired to rest he had a long, quiet chat with his father; and although he had been very unruly on many occasions on ordinary days, he promised in the future to make an effort to walk aright every day as well as on the Sabbath.

'I am glad to hear you say so,' said his father. If we follow the teaching of the Bible we cannot go wrong; but it is because we take our own way and not God's, that we bring grief to more than ourselves. You know, Fred, if you want to be a follower of Christ-a Christian,-you must walk forwards and not backwards.

'I will try,' said Fred.

And Fred did try, and although he never managed to do what was perfectly right on all occasions, he asked God for strength to walk aright; and when he saw boys doing wrong, the story of the lobster came to his mind, and he felt grieved that they were walking backwards.

He is a Sabbath School teacher himself now, and does his best to teach his class of boys to walk forwards in the path of life which leads to heaven.

Are you walking backwards? If so, do so no longer, but trust to Christ Jesus; look to Him, and walk in the right road, and remember the lobsters.

D. C.