What a blessing it is to be possessed of a happy and cheerful disposition!

And who so likely to have such blessing as those who not only say 'Our Father which art in Heaven,' but believing what they say, 'try to walk with Him in love, as dear children.' Such persons diffuse cheerfulness all around them; while on the contrary, those who are selfish and passionate, sow the seeds of trouble and discontent broadcast around them. And pride—oh, that hateful sin—what have children to do with pride? Helpless and dependent as they are on parents or friends, what have they to be proud of? Nothing!

Look at that curly-headed little boy, Freddy Ellis, who would be beautiful were it not for the disdainful curl on his upper lip, and the indignant expression in his eye when he has received some supposed affront. Listen to the passionate vehemence of his words when he is refused some indulgence which he has been teasing his mamma to grant him, though it would surely try your patience, as it has done mine, to hear the stamping and screaming that is going on just outside the parlour-door; and yet, for all this, Freddy receives no punishment. Oh no! 'It would break his spirit.' What absurd reasoning!

Do we inquire from whom is this spirit, which has more of the serpent than the dove? The answer will be, 'It is not from the meek and lowly Saviour!'

Oh parents, whoever you be, take care lest you foster the serpent that will diffuse its subtle poison over the cherished blossoms which you are, or ought to be, training for heaven, and leave a sting which may pierce your own hearts. One thing we may be sure of, that the faults which we, through negligence or weak indulgence, leave unchecked in our children in early life, a wiser though severer hand than ours will use the rod of correction to eradicate. And can this really be love, that puts off the proper time of chastisement, knowing that it is likely to be doubled on that account? Alas, no!

But I must crave pardon for sermonising, and return to the sick chamber, for Mabel's papa and mamma have come to pay their promised visit. Poor girl, she is so thin and pale that papa, who has only seen her twice during her illness, is quite shocked, and sitting down beside the arm-chair, declares that he can scarcely believe she is his once plump, rosy girl. Mamma has seen her often, and has shed many a tear over her suffering child; but still it was a comfort to her to know that Mabel was in such good hands. Sister Julia is also here, looking very sorrowful; but Aunt Mary says:

'Now I am not going to permit anybody who draws a long face to remain in my nursery; so those who look as if they were preparing to cry, instead of to smile, must please take a walk in the garden, till they have recovered themselves. What say you, Freddy, to this?' inquired Aunt Mary of her little nephew, who stood looking on, not knowing seemingly whether he was expected to smile or to cry, though on hearing his aunt's cheery address, he came to the conclusion that it was not necessary for him to commence the disagreeable alternative, although it must be confessed he was a ready practitioner in yelling bouts.

'I should like to go into the garden, aunt,' responded Freddy. 'I want to see Clara's hens and chickens; may I go now?'

'No, not just now, dear,' replied his aunt; 'your cousin will go with you presently; she is engaged just at present, so you will have to wait.'

This waiting, however, did not at all suit the impatient spirit of Master Fred, and on Aunt Mary's going out of the room he gave expression to his vexation.

'Why can't I go into the garden by myself, I wonder?' he exclaimed passionately to his mamma, by whose chair he was standing. 'Aunt needn't think that I should hurt the fowls; it is very unkind of her.'

All this was said in a subdued tone, that papa, who was talking with Mabel, might not hear.

'Hush, hush, Freddy!' said his mother; 'your Aunt Mary is never unkind: you should not say such things of her.'

'But I think she is very unkind,' repeated the boy emphatically, as if what he said must settle the point; but it only drew the attention of his papa, who inquired what the vehement talking was about, and threatened severe punishment if any of Fred's tempers were exhibited at Oak Villa.

'Don't check the poor child so harshly,' said unwise mamma; 'he only wants his aunt to let him go and see the fowls. And really I think she might let him go, for he could do no harm.'

Mr. Ellis had a strong inclination to reply to this ill-advised speech, but he looked at the pale face beside him, and prudently forbore any further remark.

A nicely spread tea-table, on which there were plenty of cakes, smoothed down the ruffled temper of the spoilt boy; yet he did not forget what had all along been uppermost in his mind, namely, that he was to go and see the chickens as soon as tea was over. Had Mr. Ellis not been afraid of creating a disturbance at Oak Villa, he would certainly have prevented Fred's going into the garden, after his display of temper in his sister's room. He, however, made no opposition when the impatient boy, having despatched his tea and cake, made the announcement to his cousin Clara, that he was ready to go with her to see the fowls; and she good-naturedly rose from the table to attend him—not, however, without asking her aunt's leave.

Freddy of course was delighted with all he saw, though he said he thought the chickens were very large ones, and inquired after those he had seen a month ago, being very difficult to be persuaded that those he was now looking at were really the very identical chickens.

Like his sister Mabel, Freddy wanted to nurse one of the chickens; nor did he ask if he might do so, but while Clara went for the corn he opened the wire door and boldly thrust his hand in: only, however, to receive, as she had done, a severe peck from the hen, which sent him stamping and screaming up and down, no doubt to the great astonishment of the cock and hens, and the immediate disarrangement of the family party, who all rushed out to know what was the matter. It certainly was a severe peck that the old hen had given, and a very great fright that the household had been put into by the screams and the roaring of the cowardly boy, which continued as he clung to his mamma's dress, until he accidentally caught sight of his papa, and then the storm ceased as if by magic; and so much of sham had there been in the affair, that the tempest calmed down without leaving trace of sob or tear.

Mr. Ellis saw that his presence had been effectual, so he only said a few words to the young rebel, but he cast a half-sorrowful, half-angry glance at his wife; and Aunt Mary could not help whispering, 'Ada, what troubles you are making for yourself!'