A MAN, living in the State of Arkansas, was in the habit of spending his evenings at a tavern, where he often became so drunk that he could scarcely reach home.

One night he stayed later than usual, so that when he left the tavern, honest people had long been in bed. The liquor he had taken so bewildered his senses that he knew not where he was going. At last, he staggered into an empty wagon-shed and fell on the ground.

For a long time he lay unconscious of everything about him, and would, no doubt, have frozen, as the night was very cold, had not he been cared for by others less insensible than himself.

This shed was a favorite resort for the hogs, which were out when the new-comer arrived, but soon returned to their nest. In the utmost kindness, they gave the man the warmest place in the middle of the bed; some lying close by his side, and others acting the part of the quilt. Their company made him so warm that he was kept from exposure.

Toward morning he began to rouse from his drunken sleep, but felt so comfortable that he supposed himself still in the tavern with his companions.

He reached out his hand, and catching hold of the stiff bristles of a hog, exclaimed,—

“Why, Mister, when did you shave last?”

“How did Daniel Jones look while Miss Darling was telling the story?” asked Hatty, much interested.

“He looked very red. I don’t believe teacher knows what a drunkard his father is.”

“Well,” said Hatty; “you and I ought to be very thankful that our father is a temperance man. How should you feel to have him lying with the hogs?”

“I never thought how many things we have to be grateful for,” said Fred, gravely. “If I had a father like Dan Jones, I never could look anybody in the face.”

Mrs. Carleton, finding that her son’s mind was still dwelling on gratitude, promised to relate a story on the subject, as soon as tea was cleared away.

While Hatty was doing this, Fred took his book to learn the lesson for the next Sabbath. He was nearly through when he noticed that his sister was trying to lift the table alone, and set it in its place next the wall.

“Let me help you, Hatty,” he cried, jumping to her assistance.

“Thank you, Fred,” and she kissed him.

“I like to do things for people who thank me,” he replied, eagerly.

“Why, my dear?”

“Because, ma, I know then—I know they’re pleased. I can’t explain the reason, only it makes me feel better.”

“You feel that they appreciate your kindness. Isn’t that the reason?”

“Yes, ma; and then I want to do something more.”

“I remember,” said the lady, “when I was a young girl, about Hatty’s age, I went with my aunt to make a visit to a distant relative. There were quite a number of children in the family. When we sat down to the table, soon after our arrival, the boys and girls began scrambling for food,—snatching everything that was within reach. I looked on in astonishment. My aunt passed me some bread. ‘I thank you,’ I said; and I repeated the words ‘thank you’ every time anything was passed to me.

“At last these rude children began to laugh.

“‘Who are you thanking so much?’ asked one. ‘We never say “thank you.” We get all we can without any such fuss.’ “‘At home,’ I answered, ‘I was always taught to say “thank you” for every civility. I think it is much pleasanter to do so. Wont you try it?’

“They began at once, in mockery, to pass each other cake and cheese, laughing rudely as they repeated the words, ‘thank you.’ I was never so much disgusted, and must confess, that before we left the supper-table, I felt somewhat as Frederick did when Mrs. Perry treated his kindness so coolly.” “How long did you have to stay there, ma?”

“Two days. I was never so homesick. The mother was a hardworking woman, toiling from morning to night for her family. One evening she sat up till midnight finishing a pair of mittens for her oldest son. She told him of this the next morning; but he did not express one word of gratitude. He only said,—

“‘You might have finished them earlier if you’d been a mind to!’” “I would have snatched them right away,” exclaimed Hatty.

“His mother had never taught him to be grateful. She did not seem to expect any thanks; but when he had left the room she sighed heavily as she said,—

“‘It’s hard to please children, do what you will.’”

“Is that the story you promised us, ma?” inquired Frederick.

“No, dear; I happened to think of that visit, when you said you loved to do anything for your sister because she thanks you so heartily.”

“Do you suppose it was that visit, ma, that made you so particular always to say ‘thank you’ when I bring in wood, or find eggs, or any such things?”

“I was so disgusted, Fred, with the want of gratitude to their hardworking mother, and, indeed, with the absence of common civility, I may have thought more on the subject; but I trust you will find, wherever you go, that those who are most grateful to God for his mercies are most inclined to thank each other.”