their grand purpose is defeated; they are neither esteemed nor trusted.

Lucy. But still, mamma, to-day, for instance, do you really suppose that Mrs., and Miss Gray had any idea of the opinion I formed of them ?

Mother. Indeed, my dear, I dare say Mrs. and Miss Gray did not take the trouble to think about you or your opinions; but supposing they had chanced to observe you, I think most likely they . would have formed an unfavorable idea.

Lucy. Why so, mamma ?

Mother. Let us suppose that any other young · girl of your own age had been present, and that,

while you were making your ill-natured observations on these ladies, your companion had been listening with sympathy and kindness to the account Mrs. Gray was giving of her troubles and complaints, and wishing she could relieve or assist her. Do you not imagine that in this case the tone of her voice, the expression of her countenance, would have been more gentle and kind and agreeable than yours? And do you not think that these ladies, if they had taken the trouble, could have discerned the difference ?

Lucy. I dare say they would have liked her much better.

Mother. Doubtless. But suppose, instead of this

being a single instance -- as I would hope it is suppose you were in the habit of making such impertinent observations, and of forming these uncharitable opinions of everybody that came in your way?

Lucy. Then I should get a sharp, satirical look, and everybody would dislike me.

Mother. Yes, as certainly as if you thought aloud. Lucy. Then what is one to do, mother?

Mother. Nothing can be plainer: there is but one way for us, if we desire the esteem of others: Let our thoughts be always fit to be seen ; let them be such as to impart to our countenance, our manners, our conduct, that which is generous, candid, just, and amiable.



Like a blind spinner, in the sun,

I tread my days.
I know that all the threads will run

Appointed ways.
I know each day will bring its task,
And, being blind, no more I ask.
I do not know the use or name

Of that I spin.


I only know that some one came

And laid within
My hand the thread, and said, “ Since you
Are blind, but one thing you can do."


3. Sometimes the threads so rough and fast

And tangled fly,
I know wild storms are sweeping past,

And fear that I
Shall fall; but dare not try to find
A safer place, since I am blind.

4. I know not why, but I am sure

That tint and place
In some great fabric, to endure

Past time and race,
My threads will weave; so from the first,
Though blind, I never felt accursed.

5. I think perhaps this trust has sprung

From one short word
Said over me when I was young;

So young, I heard
It, knowing not that God's name signed
My brow, and sealed me His, though blind.

6. But whether this be seal or sign

Within, without,

It matters not. The bond divine

I never doubt.
I know He set me here, and still
And glad and blind, I wait His will.

7. I listen, listen, day by day,

To hear their tread
Who bear the finished web away,

And cut the thread,
And bring God's message in the sun,
“ Thou poor, blind spinner, work is done.”



1. I was born in Boston, Mass., January 17, 1706. My elder brothers were all put apprentices to different trades. I was put to the grammar school at eight years of age. I soon learned to write a good hand; but failed entirely in arithmetic.

2. At ten years old I was taken to help my father in his business, which was that of a tallow chandler and soap boiler. Accordingly, I was employed in cutting wicks for the candles, filling the molds for candles, attending the shop, and going errands. I disliked the trade, and had a strong inclination to go to sea; but my father declared against it.

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3. But, residing near the water, I was much in it and on it. I learned to swim well and to manage boats. When embarked with other boys, I was commonly allowed to govern; and on other occasions I was generally the leader among the boys, and sometimes led them into scrapes. One of these I will mention, as it shows an early public spirit, though not then justly conducted.

4. There was a salt marsh which bounded part of the mill pond, on the edge of which, at high water, we used to stand to fish for minnows. By much tramping we had made it a mere quagmire. My proposal was to build a wharf there for us to stand upon, and I showed my comrades a large heap of stones, which were intended for a new house near the marsh, and which would very well suit our purpose.

5. Accordingly in the evening, when the workmen were gone home, I assembled a number of my playfellows, and we worked diligently like so many emmets, sometimes two or three to a stone, till we brought them all to make our little wharf.

6. The next morning the workmen were surprised at missing the stones which formed our wharf. Inquiry was made after the authors of this transfer; we were discovered, complained of, and corrected by our fathers. Though I demonstrated the utility of

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