When I was a little girl I was very backward in all my studies. I should not like to be obliged to tell how old I was before I was able to read without stopping to spell out the long words.

We had then living near us an aunt, my father's only sister, a kind, good woman, whom God took home to himself only a few months ago. Well, this aunt felt great concern about my backwardness, as her own children, who were all grown men and women then, had been remarkably forward and clever, and her grandchildren were wonderfully learned little creatures. Once, while on a visit to us, when I was about eight years of age, she called me up to her, and put me through a short reading lesson.

I can remember, even now, how shocked she looked when she found that I could not read so well, nor half so fast as her five-year-old-grandson—a conceited little gentleman, who seemed very well pleased to surpass me. As for my aunt, she regarded me curiously through her round-eyed spectacles, as though I had been some wild girl of the woods. I looked down, and began twisting and biting my apron-string, while I tried to excuse myself by laying the blame on my unfortunate lisp, and my poor eye-sight. But my sensible, straight-forward aunt replied that the fault all lay in my idle, romping habits, and my love of pets and play.

I was deeply mortified, as I had a great respect for my aunt W——, for I knew that she was good and clever, though sometimes a little too dignified and stern, I then thought. I grew very red in the face, very hot in the throat, and finally burst into tears. This touched my aunt's kind heart at once, and drawing me toward her, and parting the thick, dark hair from my forehead, she spoke gentle, encouraging words to me, all in her own short, quick way though, which startled, almost as much as it soothed me. She said that if I would apply myself diligently to my books, play less and study more, so as to be able to read to her on her next visit, a chapter in the Testament, without making a single blunder, she would bring me a nice, new story-book, from the city of New York, where she was about to spend a few weeks. I laughed through my tears with joy and gratitude. I gladly promised all she asked, and thanked her heartily; for in those days, and in the country village where we lived, a new story-book, or indeed a new book of any kind, was a very rare treat. If I could only hope that this little volume would be thought half as much of, as I used to think of my books, I should be very proud and happy to-night.

My aunt seemed pleased with my pleasure; her handsome eyes did not look severe or reprovingly any longer, but smiled softly through her spectacles. She patted my head quite tenderly, and inquired kindly after the health of my pet dog, Fido. I brought him to see her, and I wanted much to bring also my pretty kitten, Katurah, for this was in her day—but my aunt, with all her kind-heartedness and piety, had one peculiarity which always grieved me—she never could abide cats.

My dear uncle was different in this important respect. He was very friendly with kittens, or perhaps made believe so, because of my great liking for them, and not wishing to hurt my feelings, in this or any other matter. He was the most beautiful, as well as the most lovable old man I have ever seen. He was tall, erect, broad-chested, with silver-white hair, smiling mouth, and pleasant brown eyes. He was never known to speak, or look harshly at any one; and though he was a minister, and a very learned man, I never was afraid of him in the least.

I remember that one winter, I spent a whole fortnight at the parsonage. It was the longest time I had ever been away from home, and when I went back, I was a little mortified that they did not make a great ado over me, and that my brothers and sisters did not notice how much I had grown.

During this visit, my good uncle used every evening at twilight, to set me up on his shoulder, and walk slowly up and down the drawing-room. I was light and slender, and sat very securely on his broad shoulder, with one arm around his neck and the other clasping my kitten. It was not a frolic—we were quite still and quiet. My uncle repeated Scripture softly, and studied out his sermons, while I thought about my home, and kitty purred. But we all enjoyed ourselves amazingly. On Sundays, when I sat in the minister's pew, listening to my uncle's solemn preaching, I felt a sort of pride in the sermon, as though I had helped to make it,—which was very foolish certainly, as after all, kitty had done quite as much as I toward it.

The parsonage was about five miles from our house, and my uncle and aunt used to drive over to see us in an old-fashioned, two-wheeled chaise, which they had brought with them all the way from Connecticut.

This vehicle, which I suppose was nothing extraordinary, seemed to me then something almost awfully grand. It was varnished very bright, and there was a good deal of brass about it, so whenever I saw it coming up the street, flashing in the sunlight, it appeared to me like a splendid golden chariot, fit for a king. Indeed, when, last summer, I saw the gorgeous state-carriage of the Queen of England, I hardly thought it as magnificent as that same old chaise of my uncle's had once seemed to my childish eyes.

It was a great treat for me to be taken by my uncle and aunt, for a little drive down the street, in this chaise, which rocked back and forth so softly that I always wondered how they kept awake in it till they got home. Perhaps they did not, but left everything to their steady old white pacer,—and safely enough, for "sober Sam," as we called him, always seemed to know that he was a minister's horse, and behaved accordingly. On the day of the visit, when my aunt had made the agreement with me in regard to the book, they let me go with them further than usual, allowed me to hold the reins, and even to touch up with the whip, the fat and lazy old pacer. So unused was he to such treatment, that, I remember, he stopped short, and looked round to see what was the matter.

I returned home through the bright sunset time, singing and skipping—took my Testament at once and read until after eight o'clock; only stopping to feed my kitten and put my dolls to bed.

From that time I daily and diligently studied my reading lessons in the New Testament. I preferred the stories of the miracles, and Christ's beautiful Sermon on the Mount, for practice—as the affecting part of the Gospels made me cry so hard that I could not read correctly.

Many and many were the bright hours during that summer, when I stayed in from play, that I might earn that new book. I denied myself frolics with Fido, I neglected the domestic affairs of my play-house, and let my dolls get shabby, all for the sake of my promised present.

At length, I found myself able to read whole chapters without making a single mistake—and my mother encouraged me to believe that I should certainly win the prize.

Finally, we heard that my aunt had returned from her visit to the east, and early one afternoon, we had the happiness to see the old white horse and chaise bringing my uncle and aunt up the road.

I, with the others, was very much delighted to welcome our visitors, but on my own account, rather nervous and excited to think that my trial was so near. Two or three times that afternoon, I stole out of the room to glance over my Bible lesson. I hardly know whether I most dreaded or longed to be called upon for my reading, and to have it over.

Soon after tea, my aunt sat down in a window seat, and called me to her side. Without many words, I took my little Testament from my pocket, opened at the fifth chapter of Matthew, and began reading very glibly,—"And seeing the multitudes, he went up into a mountain, and"—

"Stop!" said my aunt, "you must not choose your own place to read—it's my business to do that!"

She then took the book from me, and actually opened at the first chapter. Now, my dear children, you remember, don't you, what this first chapter of Matthew's Gospel is? It is made up almost entirely of the hardest kind of Scripture names—many of which I should not like to be called upon to read aloud, even now. I felt my heart sink at once, and already mourned my book as lost. But I went to work quite calmly—I conquered four or five of the first names, then I began to stammer—then paused to spell them out in my mind—then stopped altogether.

My aunt said "a-hem!" and looked at me over her spectacles, with a queer, quizzical, "I've caught you!" sort of a look.

I dropped my head in shame and perplexity. My aunt sat still and stern, and awfully silent. At length, I looked up through the long hair that had fallen forward over my face, and said, as coaxingly as I knew how—

"You know, dear aunt, these are the names of great kings and patriarchs—and it's not just proper to read them over fast—is it?"

"Ah, you naughty girl," she replied—"that is a foolish get-off—it won't do. You cannot always expect to choose where and what you are to read. A good reader will be at home anywhere. It is plain you do not deserve the book."

I was wretchedly disappointed and mortified; but I did not cry this time. I was too indignant for that. I did not plead for the lost book. I said nothing at all, but went out calmly enough to the gate, with the rest, to see our visitors off.

This evening my aunt did not invite me to ride in the chaise, but took my little brother Albert instead. I was sorry for this—not that I would have gone, but I should have liked to have drawn myself up to my full height, and to have said—"No, I thank you, Mrs. W——." She kissed me, as usual, but I did not kiss her back—and I thought she felt it. I fear that I did not kiss my uncle very affectionately, though I knew he was not to blame.

I lounged about the gate for awhile, and made believe I felt very much at my ease—then I went out into the garden and sat down behind some lilac trees, and buried my face in my apron, and went off into a good hearty cry. I also relieved my hot, angry heart, by talking to myself, something in this petulant, passionate way:—"Oh dear, it's too, too bad! such fun as I have given up to get ready for this reading—so much good time wasted! It wasn't fair—it was right down mean in her to set me at those long, hard, crooked names, that never ought to be read—that never ought to have been made at all! She's mighty proud of knowing so much Scripture—just as if a minister's wife could help it! I don't love her—I'm glad she's gone—I don't want to ride in her old chaise!"

In the midst of this fit of passion and ill-humor, my pretty white kitten came to me and rubbed against me coaxingly, purring very softly. But I let her purr away, and took no notice of her. Fido came bounding along, and, crouching down beside me, began rooting under my arm to get at my face, and licked my hand and whined, till, I am ashamed to say, I got out of patience, and gave him a smart slap on the jaws. He sprang up indignantly, and went and laid himself down under a currant bush, to pout. Then I hid my face in my apron again, and went on with my crying.

All at once, I heard my little brother calling me, from the other end of the garden. But I did not move—I did not answer him —but only muttered to myself—"It's too bad; they won't leave me alone a minute—they are all against me—I can't even cry in peace." But soon I heard his voice and his step coming nearer. Then he stood over me, saying joyfully—

"Sister, sister, see here, what auntie sent back to you! She had it in the chaise-box all the while!"

I looked up, and down into my lap was dropped such a beautiful book, with a bright red cover, and gilded leaves, and hosts of fine pictures! I was half beside myself with joy. I jumped up so quick that I overturned my brother, and trod on kitty's tail. I hastily begged pardon of both, and then ran off to Fido, to make friends with him. But a slap on the jaws was the one insult that he never would forgive in a hurry. He put on a doubly injured air and sullenly refused to receive my apology; though it was as handsome a one as I knew how to make. I took him by the paw and told him how sorry I was for what I had done—then I patted his head caressingly—but he turned over toward the currant bush, and his tail never wagged an inch. So I left him to pout it out, while I ran into the house to show my gift to mamma and the rest.

They all thought it exceedingly pretty, and said that my aunt was very good to give me so handsome a present, for so poor a performance. I thought so too, and felt troubled in my conscience for not having kissed her, when she went away. I forgave her for the fright she had given me—but, I grieve to say, I had a sort of spite against those good old kings and patriarchs for a long time after.

As soon as I grew sufficiently calm, I sat down and looked through my book. It was a volume of Natural History, Travels, and Wonderful Adventures. Oh! how plainly I remember to this day, every picture it contained. There was one of an old Turk, sitting cross-legged, on a carpet, smoking a great pipe, with such a long winding stem that I wondered the smoke didn't get lost in it. There was a Chinaman, with his hair braided in a long tail that nearly touched the ground—so that if he should step backward suddenly, he might trip himself up. And a Chinawoman, with such tiny little feet that if it had not been for the name of the thing, she might as well have had no feet at all. Then there was a picture of Noah and his family entering the ark—all crowding in as though in a hurry to get out of the rain; and another of a happy Arab family, sitting in their tent, with their horse in the midst, which quite put me out of conceit with houses. Indeed, I proposed to my brothers, to fasten a blanket upon hop-poles and camp out that very night. They all said that it was a brave plan, the only objection being that we had no warm sand to sleep on, and no kind, gentle pony to keep us company—our old gray mare having a young colt, and being always particularly cross at such times. Then there were portraits of wonderful animals and serpents, the like of which I had never seen; there was a boa-constrictor, winding himself round and round a poor antelope, and squeezing him so tight that I almost listened to hear the bones crack. There was a giraffe, stretching his long neck up and out as though to look over the hills to see the sun rise. There was a family of apes on a tree, enjoying themselves, chattering and eating nuts, and swinging by their tails; and a kangaroo mother running away from a tiger, and carrying her little ones in her apron. There was an angry elephant tugging at the body of a great tree, to get at a hunter who had wounded him. I remember how surprised I was on inquiring for his trunk, to find that this was only the common name of the great proboscis which he held before him, for I had been so foolish as to suppose that he carried it on his back, or strapped on behind him.

I treasured up this volume for years and years. I loved it all the better for the grief I had suffered when I supposed I had lost it by my poor reading, and though I have had hosts of handsomer and more costly books since, I have never had one I prized half so highly as My Aunt's Present.