Perseverance-its Value. BOUT ten years ago, there was a little news-boy-very little for his age, which was fourteen years who sold papers at the corner now occupied by the "Tribune" building and its adjuncts. This boy, owing to his cheerful countenance, his proverbial integrity, his industry-in brief, his good qualities generally, made friends for himself everywhere, and particularly among publishers. He did a very good business, but his position did not suit him. We advised him to go into a store. "I can neither read nor write," responded he, mournfully. "Apprentice yourself to some trade, then," was our advice. "I think I will," he exclaimed, with a brightening eye, and flushed cheek; "I think I will;" and off he bounded. We lost sight of him after this, and finally forgot that such a being existed. About a week ago, an athletic, well dressed young man, with a ferocious pair of whiskers, and a brace of merry, twinkling optics, that betokened a good heart, and the best of health, stopped us in the street, and, extending his hand, called us by name. "Really, sir, you have the advantage of me." "Not know the little news boy!" he cries, as if astonished. Truly it was our little news-boy. He had taken our early advice, and had apprenticed himself to a machinist. "Where are you working?" "Oh, I don't work now," was his proud answer; "I own a saw mill on Long Island, and am doing business for myself. I have been my own boss a year. I bought out my concern with the savings of eight years; I have a wife and two children, and my own cottage, and garden for them to live and delve in, and am as happy as the day is long. I can read and write, too," he continued, smiling, with an air of triumph. M Honesty is the best Policy. ELL, what do you want?" gruffly asked a surly look ing shopkeeper of a pale faced boy who stood before his counter. The little fellow looked weak He was an and sickly, and being frightened at the rough manner of his questioner, stood before him, unable to speak. "What do ye want, I say?" again thundered the rough man. ugly looking person, and went by the uncouth name of Minks, and if common report was to be believed, a more miserly, mean, and penurious person never existed. But yet not one in that whole quiet village ever dreamed that that same ugly looking storekeeper was in heart as generous a man as the whole village contained; none knew his many secret acts of kindness; none knew that it was he who sent to care-worn widows, fat little purses of money wherewith to buy food for themselves and their famishing little ones, and to crown all, none knew that he had taken a fancy to the very boy who now stood before his counter. But surely, the reader will say, he has taken a very queer way to show his partiality for the ragged boy. Yes, he has but the sequel will show. But now a word or two about the boy himself, and then for the story. Benjamin Fletcher, or, as he was more commonly called, Ben Fletcher, was the only child of a poor hard-working widow, who lived in the same village with Mr. Minks, and who, having lost her husband about a year previous to the opening of our little tale, was in consequence left destitute, and thrown entirely on her own resources to provide food for herself and Ben. For a time it was thought that Mr. Fletcher had left some property, but after paying all demands against the estate, there was but a trifle left, so that Mrs. Fletcher had to exert herself to the utmost, and her toiling day and night soon brought on a dangerous fit of sickness. Benjamin helped her some, but he was small, and could not do much, yet he ran on errands, and did all in his power. Yet, under all these privations, Mrs. Fletcher was strictly honest and upright in all her doings, and endeavored, with all the influence she could exert, to train up Ben in the same path. But to go back to the original conversation in the store. For a moment after Mr. Minks's rough salutation, Ben spoke not a word, but regaining his wonted self-possession, he quietly made known. his errand, which was to purchase several little necessaries, of which his mother stood in need. His purchases were soon made, and putting them in his old market basket, he gave Mr. Minks a. half dollar piece. What he had bought | down on a smooth stone, and after amounted to thirty-six cents, so that he should have had fourteen cents back, but Mr. Minks seemed to have made a mistake, for he handed Ben back a quarter of a dollar and a five cent piece, sixteen cents more than he was entitled to. Ben counted it over in his hand before leaving the store, and finding it not right, he counted it again. The thought that the stingy Mr. Minks had made a mistake, and given too much change, hardly entered his head. It would perhaps have been natural for him to have made a mistake, and not given enough change, but to give too much the idea was preposterous. As he passed the shop window where some nice plump oranges were lying, he stopped and wished much to purchase one for his sick mother, but his scanty purse forbade it, and he passed on. No sooner was he out of the store than Mr. Minks thus soliloquised—“ He won't do for me, I guess-'spose he'd bring em back-precious young scamp-thief" and having thus delivered himself of what seemed uppermost in his mind, he turned around to the more congenial occupation of making out bills for delinquent customers. Ben, however, did not go more than three or four steps, before he again stopped, and taking out his little wallet, again counted over his change, and again there was a surplus; but he distrusted his counting, so he shouldered his basket and marched on, again to stop and repeat his counting. At last when almost home, Ben spied a schoolmate, and calling him, the two sat counting and recounting the money over and over again, came at last to the conclusion, that Mr. Minks had, unaccountably, given a customer too much change. Now Ben's companion, who was no great stickler for honesty, advised Ben to keep the money, "for," said he," you need the money more than old Minks-'sides, if he is so careless as that, let him lose it." But though Ben knew that he did need the money more than Mr. Minks, yet he also knew that that would not justify his appropriating it to his own use, so that, notwithstanding the sneers and ridicule of his companion, he prepared to carry the money back. His mother had early taught him the glorious motto, "Honesty is the best Policy," and he now determined to live it out. As he entered the store he perceived that Mr. Minks was still in it, alone, and advancing quietly to the counter he handed him the over change, saying, as he did so, "You must have made a mistake Mr. Minks, for you have given me too much change." Mr. Minks looked at the money, and then at Ben, and at last said, "How far had you got before you found out your mistake?" Ben looked embarrassed, but at length said, "I thought it was wrong when I left the store, but was not sure until I got to farmer Alger's corner." For a moment Mr. Minks's countenance wore a queer expression; he then spoke. “Ben," said he, "what was the reason that you brought this money back to me, when by"-" Mother always taught me that 'Honesty's the best Policy,"" interrupted medicine, and both living in a neat little Ben. That's it, that's it," cried the | her sickness under good treatment and delighted shopkeeper, his whole face beaming with pleasure; "you're the boy for me. I thought you were honest, the first time I set my peepers on you. I say, Ben, how would you like to work for me in the store, and run of errands, and sell goods to customers, and get well paid for it ?" "Oh," almost yelled the delighted boy, "I'd be so glad to do anything for poor mother." "Well, well my little fellow," said Mr. Minks, 66 say no more about it, and I'll fix it. I'll tell you what it is, Ben," he added in a lower tone, "they all say I'm a miser, and a mean fellow, but I'll tell you what it is," he put his mouth close to Ben's ear, "I ain't so well it's no use bragging about it; here, give this to your mother," and he tossed him a well filled purse; "and here". and here he filled the old basket full of every delicacy the store contained; "and here you Jerry," he yelled, as a towheaded boy stuck his head out of a sidedoor, "take this basket and carry it up to Widow Fletcher's." "Oh, I can carry it," said Ben. "Let him alone," said Mr. Minks, "he's nothing else to do." Jerry took the basket, and was soon off. Ben then seized his benefactor's hand, but his emotions would not allow him to speak; he could only gasp, "God bless you Mr. Minks-poor mother." Need we say that in a short time, Benjamin was in good health, and busy in the employ of his benefactor. Mrs. Fletcher was rapidly recovering from C. A. C. Our Baby. T would puzzle a wiser man than Hiram to say where this letter has been hid away, for nearly three years, and Hiram won't undertake it. He is only pleased to give it as he finds it, and let those who can explain the mystery. PROVIDENCE, March, 1858. DEAR MR. MERRY:-I am one of the many little girls, who read your Museum. We have taken it, as many years, as I am old, and before I could read it myself, I used to be delighted to have some one read to me, the simple stories that I could understand. And now, when I do not know exactly what to do with myself, I go to the library, and take down one of the ten nicely bound volumes, and always find something useful and entertaining. There are six of us (big and little,) and all but the tiny baby boy, are very much interested in your Magazine. Mother often tells father, that the dollar paid for the Museum, every year, is money well invested. We live on a pleasant hill, overlooking the busy city of Providence, and I know of no one who would receive a warmer welcome, in our family circle, than our friend Mr. Merry. But as we cannot enjoy this pleasure, we were happy to accept instead, of the beautiful likeness of yourself, which you sent us in the January number. I one day asked my aunt Anna, to write some verses about "our baby." In a few days she presented me with the following, which it would please me to have you insert in the Museum. Oh! how we love the baby, The little fair-haired boy, Is the sunshine to our joy. How graceful every motion Of his tiny hand at play, With the flowers upon the carpet, Or the toys we throw away. How we love to build the castles Were he the heir apparent, We see it very plain, Whatever be the mischief His little hands may do, Tell mother it was baby, And she smiles at mischief too. Whatever be the service His little voice commands, 'Tis done with fairy fleetness, By willing feet and hands. Are we ever rudely playing When he wills to go to sleep, We hush the gentlest whisper, And breathless silence keep. 'Tis not by wand of fairy, Or beauty's magic spell: Pray what can be the sceptre With which he rules so well? Oh! 'tis one which those far wiser, The heart of sternest mould. In the eye so brightly beaming, Is the love he cannot speak, In the smile so sweetly playing Upon his dimpled cheek. Yours truly, MINNA COLUMBINE |