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the sound of a whistle that I met by the way in the hands of another boy, I voluntarily offered him all my money for one. I then came home, and went whistling all over the house, much pleased with my whistle, but disturbing all the family. My brotlıers and sisters and cousins, understanding the bargain I had made, told me I had given four times as much for it as it was worth. This put me in mind what good things I might have bought with the rest of my money: and they laughed at me so much for my folly, that I cried with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the whistle gave me pleasure.
This, however, was afterwards of use to me, the impression continuing on my mind : so that often, when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary thing, I said to myself, Don't give too much for the whistle ; and so I saved my money.
As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I thought I met with many, very many, who gave too much for the whistle.
When I saw any one too ambitious of court-favor, sacrificing his time in attendance at levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps his friends, to attain it, I have said to myself, This man gives too much for his whistle.
When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that neglect, He pays, indeed, says I, too much for his whistle.
If I knew a miser who gave up every kind of comfortable living, all the pleasure of doing good to others, all the esteem of his fellow-citizens, and the joys of benevolent friendship, for the sake of accumulating wealth, Poor man, says I, you do, indeed, pay too much for your whistle.
When I meet a man of pleasure sacrificing every laudable improvement of the mind or of his fortune to mere corporeal sensations, Mistaken man, says I, you are providing pain for yourself instead of pleasure: you give too much for your whistle.
If I see one fond of fine clothes, fine furniture, fine equipages (all above his fortune), for which he contracts debts, and ends his career in prison, Alas! says I, he has paid dear, very dear, for his whistle.
When I see a beautiful, sweet-tempered girl married to an illnatured brute of a husband, What a pity it is, says I, that she has paid so much for a whistle !
In short, I conceived that a great part of the miseries of mankind were brought upon them by the false estimates they had made of the value of things, and by their giving too much for their whistles.
TURNING THE GRINDSTONE.
When I was a little boy, I remember one cold winter's morning I was accosted by a smiling man with an ax on his shoulder. "My pretty boy,” said he,“ has your father a grindstone ?”. “ Yes, sir," said I. “You are a fine little fellow,” said he: “ will you let me grind my ax on it?" Pleased with the compliment of * Fine little fellow!” “Oh, yes, sir!” I answered: “it is down in the shop.” — " And will you, my man,” said he, patting me on the head, “ get me a little hot water ?” How could I refuse? I ran, and soon brought a kettleful. “How old are you ? and what's your name ? ” continued he, without waiting for a reply. “I am sure you are one of the finest lads that ever I have seen : will you just turn a few minutes for me?”
Tickled with the flattery, like a little fool, I went to work; and bitterly did I rue the day. It was a new ax; and I toiled and tugged till I was almost tired to death. The school-bell rang, and I could not get away: my hands were blistered; and the ax was not half ground. At length, however, it was sharpened ; and the man turned to me with,“ Now, you little rascal, you've played truant: scud to the school, or you'll buy it!”—“ Alas !” thought I, “it is hard enough to turn a grindstone this cold day; but now to be called a little rascal is too much."
It sank deep in my mind; and often have I thought of it since. When I see a merchant over-polite to his customers, begging them to take a little brandy, and throwing his goods on the counter, thinks I, “ That man has an ax to grind.” When I see a man flattering the people, making great professions of attachment to liberty, who is in private life a tyrant, methinks, “ Look out, good people! that fellow would set you turning grindstones."
When I see a man hoisted into office by party-spirit, without a single qualification to render him either respectable or useful,
Alas," methinks, " deluded people! you are doomed for a season to turn the grindstone for a booby.”
The kind-hearted, genial author of “The Vicar of Wakefield," " The Deserted Village,"
." " The Triveler," and the two comedies, " The Good-natured Man" and She Stoops to Conquer," " Histories of England, Greece, and Rome," and "The Earth and Animated Nature.” Everybody loves Goldsmith and Irving.
THE DESERTED VILLAGE.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn!
Ill fares the land, tc hastening ills a prey,
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,
But times are altered: Traile's unfeeling train
Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour !
In all my wanderings round this world of care,
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,
For hiin no wretches, born to work and weep,
Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden-flower grows wild, There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change, bis place: Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power, By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour; Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More bent to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train : He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain. The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard, descending, swept his aged breast; The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed ;