solate air, "Well, I've seen the last of my eagle; but thinking he might possibly find his way back to his old haunt, a chicken was tied to a stick in the court yard; and, just before dark, Master Eagle came back, his huge wings rustling in the air. The chicken cowered down to the ground, but in vain; the eagle saw him, and pounced down in a moment to his old abode. While he was busily engaged in devouring the chicken, a plaid was thrown over his head, and he was easily secured. LXXVI.-CONSCIENTIOUSNESS IN LITTLE THINGS. THE word conscientiousness means a great deal; for a conscientious person is one who does right in all the relations of life; that is, acts in such a manner as to obtain the approbation of his own conscience. It includes truth, honesty, fair dealing, respect for the rights and the reputation of those among whom we live. It would take many lessons to enforce all the duties which a truly conscientious person is bound to discharge; our only purpose at present is to speak of conscientiousness in certain little things. There are some persons who are conscientious in great matters, but not in small. They would shrink from doing any thing very wrong, but will be often guilty of slight dishonesties and of trifling offences against the rules of good conduct. Some persons, for instance, have a different feeling towards the property of individuals and the property of the public, or a public body. They will carefully respect the former, but not the latter. In walking through the garden of a friend or neighbor, they will carefully abstain from picking a flower or breaking off a twig; but if they visit a public garden or cemetery, they will not hesitate to do so. Much mischief is done in this way. But this is obviously wrong; for what belongs to a public body is no more our own than what belongs to an individual. Such conduct, too, is a most ungrateful return for the pleasure derived from walking through a public park or garden. Some boys, and some men, have a mischievous habit of hacking benches, tables, desks, and chairs with their knives, and of carving their names upon walls and smooth-barked trees. But this is neither more nor less than injuring or destroying the property of others; and the same law which forbids us to steal, forbids us to do any wanton mischief. What should we say of a boy who should take out his knife, and amuse himself by cutting off the buttons from his companion's jacket? And yet what is the real difference, so far as right and wrong are concerned, between conduct like this and hacking off the corners of a nicely made and painted wooden seat in a common, or park, or public place? The same want of true moral feeling shows itself in the way in which some persons treat books borrowed from public or circulating libraries. They will write upon the margin, or the blank pages at the beginning and end; they will fold or crumple the leaves, or permit them to be soiled or greased. But we should treat a book borrowed in this way as well as one of our own. To do otherwise is to be dishonest in a small way, because property is thus injured, and its value diminished. The book wears out the sooner by ill treatment; and the number of those who would derive pleasure or profit from reading it is made less. In regard to borrowed books there are two rules to be observed first, they are to be treated with the greatest care; and, second, they are to be returned the moment they are read. Many men and women, and many boys and girls, are very careless in this latter point; but such conduct is wrong. Men who collect books always value them; and it is a kindness in them to lend them to their friends; and it is an ungrateful return to that kindness not to restore them promptly. It must be remembered that the loss of a single book will often spoil a set of many volumes; and when books are not carefully returned to their owner in good season, they are in much danger of being forgotten and lost. Want of punctuality in keeping engagements is another form in which a want of conscientiousness shows itself. A man's time is his property, and we have no more right to deprive him of it than we have to pick his pocket, or steal any thing out of his house. But whoever keeps one waiting beyond the time appointed for meeting him, is guilty of this form of dishonesty ; and if more than one are thus detained, the loss is so much the greater. Whoever agrees to meet a man at nine, should keep his word to the very minute; for five minutes after nine and nine are not the same thing. An unpunctual person is a perpetual torment to all those who have any dealings with him; and hardly any body has ever succeeded in life who has had this defect. There are some young persons who find amusement in playing jokes and tricks upon others. Some boys will ring the bell of a house in the evening, and then run away; or they will send a playmate on a pretended errand; or they will impose upon him by some absurd story. These are all wrong. But sometimes worse things than these are done. Some boys, for instance, will get up a plan to give one of their companions a fright in a dark place. But this is very wicked conduct; for boys thus frightened have in some instances lost their reason. May our young readers resolve to keep careful watch over their conduct in little as well as great matters, and cultivate a delicate as well as a strong moral sense! True conscientiousness may be compared to the trunk of an elephant, which can uproot a tree or pick up a needle; so a thoroughly good man shows his goodness in these small points as well as in the most important duties of life. LXXVII. — THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE. MRS. NORTON. [The Arabs are very fond of their horses, and will not part with them unless very poor. It is related that the French consul at Alexandria, in Egypt, once purchased a very fine horse of a poor Arab, with the design of sending him to the King of France. The Arab took the purse of gold which was paid for his horse, and attempted to take leave of him. He patted his neck, caressed his glossy mane, but could not tear himself away. At last he flung the purse upon the ground, sprang upon the horse's back, and was out of sight in a moment. The following verses were written upon this touching incident.] My beautiful, my beautiful! that standest meekly by, With thy proudly-arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye! Fret not to roam the desert now with all thy wingéd speed; I may not mount on thee again!· thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Fret not with that impatient hoof snuff not the breezy wind; The farther that thou fliest now, so far am I behind; The stranger hath thy bridle rein, thy master hath his gold; Fleet-limbed and beautiful, farewell! thou'rt sold, my steed, thou'rt sold! Farewell! Those free, untiréd limbs full many a mile must roam, To reach the chill and wintry clime that clouds the stranger's home; Some other hand, less kind, must now thy corn and bed prepare; That silky mane I braided once must be another's care. The morning sun shall dawn again - but never more with thee Shall I gallop o'er the desert paths where we were wont to be- Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain, Some other steed, with slower pace, shall bear me home again. Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye glancing bright – speed, Then must I startling wake, to feel thou'rt sold, my Arab steed! Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide, Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side, And the rich blood that's in thee swells, in thy indignant pain, Till careless eyes that on thee gaze may count each starting vein ! Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed, so gentle, yet so free; — And yet if haply, when thou'rt gone, this lonely heart should yearn, Can the hand that casts thee from it now, command thee to return? "Return!" alas! my Arab steed! what will thy master do, When thou, that wast his all of joy, hast vanished from his view? When the dim distance greets mine eyes, and through the gathering tears Thy bright form for a moment, like the false mirage, appears? Slow and unmounted will I roam, with wearied foot, alone, Where, with fleet step and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on; |