Perhaps my little readers may like to hear something of poor Fidelle. Soon after her visits to the abbey, she had two little pups. One of them died, but the other Henry reared with the greatest tenderness; while its good old mother, beloved and even respected (which is not generally the case with dogs) by all the family, lived to an advanced age: and when she died, they buried her in the garden, under the spreading branches of an old sycamore tree.
Little Henry, trained in the love and fear of God, grew up one of the best of children. Every where he went, the blessing of God was with him, for Christ was his friend: and when little Henry had committed a fault, he would apply to his kind Saviour, who was then always ready to procure God’s pardon for him. In the course of time, his mamma taught him the following little poem.
Thou Friend of my childhood, and
Guide of my youth,
Thou Father of mercies, and Fountain of truth;—
Protect and direct me wherever I stray,
And bless little Henry each hour in the day.
When up in the morning I rise from
O, let thy kind angels be plac’d o’er my head;
And when at my tasks, at my school, or my play,
Still bless little Henry each hour in the day.
When night spreads its shade o’er
the waves of the deep,
And Henry is sunk in the stillness of sleep,
O, still let thy poor child be dear in thy sight,
And bless little Henry each hour in the night.
By the same author,
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