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GEORGE MILLS; 
 
 OR, 
 
 LEARN YOUR LESSONS BEFORE YOL 
 
 PLAY. 
 
 EJ4BBLLISHBD WITH M B AT ENCRA VI N'tS. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 DEAN AND M UN DAY, THREADNEEDLE-S 1 K KL T. 
 
r 
 
 L 
 
GEORGE MILLS. 
 
 " There is no use in learning — there is 
 no use in looking at this tiresome book/' 
 said naughty George, as, with discon- 
 tented, uneasy looks, he placed his book 
 on the book-table, his lesson hardly 
 looked at; " I do not see any use in 
 learning. 
 
 " I am very sorry for that," said his 
 mother, who had silently remarked the 
 indolence of George during the last half 
 hour, — fi I am sorry you do not like 
 your books, and I think you will be 
 
8 
 
 sorry too, when yon are grown to be a 
 man, if you do not repent even before 
 that time." 
 
 " I can learn when I am a man, and 
 better and faster than I can now," said 
 George; " I want to play, now, and so 
 I will go to the play-room;" and he 
 went towards the parlour-door. 
 
 " Stop a minute, my son," said Mrs. 
 Mills, " do you think, when you are a 
 man grown, should your life be spared, 
 that you shall find time to learn reading, 
 and writing, and spelling? Do you not 
 think that other employments will claim 
 your time and attention? And what 
 society do you expect to enjoy mean- 
 while? The company of the ignorant is 
 
9 
 
 not sought by those whose good opinion 
 and friendship are at all valuable. 
 
 George heard his mother, but he was 
 not in a good humour, and instead of 
 thanking her for the good advice she 
 gave him, he stood awkwardly twisting 
 
10 
 
 a corner of his handkerchief, and not 
 in the least more disposed to take his 
 book, and study for half an hour the 
 lesson which Mr. Price had appointed 
 him to learn. 
 
 Mrs. Mills sat down to needle-work, 
 and, after some time, George walked to 
 his brother Henry, who was industriously 
 applying his mind to his lesson, and asked 
 him to go and help him to make his kite ; 
 but Henry told him he could not play 
 till his lessons were learned, and advised 
 him to give up the idea of making his 
 kite then, and sit by him, and he would 
 help him to get his lesson, if he could do 
 it better with his assistance. 
 
 You will think now, my little friends, 
 
11 
 
 that George could not resist this kind- 
 ness of his brother, but I grieve to say 
 that it made no impression on him ; for, 
 finding that Henry would not be enticed 
 from his duty, he left him, and went to 
 search for, and collect the twine, paper, 
 and cross sticks which were to compose 
 his kite: these found, he wanted paste 
 to fasten the paper together, and fix it 
 to the frame which he had, with some 
 labour, shaped to his mind. 
 
 To the kitchen went George, to beg 
 the cook would boil him some paste; 
 but she was too much engaged about her 
 own work to find leisure to satisfy his 
 wants ; so George got the flour himself, 
 and mixed it with water in a tin cup. 
 
12 
 
 and put the cup on the fire, that the 
 mixture might boil, and become what is 
 called adhesive, or sticky. He was not 
 used to this employment, and while he 
 was clumsily stirring it, he burnt his 
 hand; then he cried a long time, and 
 when he next thought of his paste, it 
 was all dried to the cup, and good for 
 nothing. 
 
 George was now cross with the cook, 
 because she had not left her work to 
 make his paste; he was cross with his 
 brother, because he had not left his les- 
 sons to help to make his kite ; and lastly, 
 he was cross with himself, in consequence 
 of his own wayward folly, though he 
 would not mend his fault, by acknow- 
 
13 
 
 ledging, and, though late, attempting 
 to repair it. In fact, he, as you will 
 believe, felt altogether uncomfortable 
 and unhappy. 
 
 He thought, after standing some time 
 before the fire, that he would make some 
 more paste; so he scraped from the cup 
 that which was burnt, and made the 
 vessel fit for use, but now r the cook was 
 out of the kitchen, and he could not ask 
 her to get him more flour; and, instead 
 of w r aiting till she came in, he attempted 
 to get it for himself, but his foot slipped 
 while he was reaching for the box, the 
 cover came off, and he fell on the floor, 
 covered with its whole contents ; he got 
 up, and tried as well as he could to 
 
14 
 
 repair the mischief; meanwhile the cook 
 returned, and finding what was done, 
 took from him the cup and flour, and 
 insisted on his leaving the kitchen 
 directly, at the same time telling him 
 that he knew his mother would not 
 choose him to be there, giving so much 
 trouble. 
 
 George saw it would avail little to 
 stay longer there, so he sought the play- 
 room, with his partly finished kite, and 
 sat down alone, and without pleasure. 
 Nothing could be done without Henry, 
 he found: and he returned to the par- 
 lour, in the hope of persuading him, this 
 time, to come with him and play. 
 
 Henry was still studying his lesson in 
 
15 
 
 the parlour with his mother, who was 
 about to reward him for his diligence, 
 with a slice of plum-cake. His mother 
 did not speak and smile kindly on George 
 when he entered, as she always did when 
 he had been deserving and attentive; 
 
16 
 
 being afraid to disturb his brother, he 
 went again to the solitary play-room, 
 and there sat, listless and idle. 
 
 After some time, he heard the voice of 
 his mother, as she passed down the stairs, 
 and looking from the window he saw her 
 go abroad with his father and brother; 
 George hoped he should be invited to 
 join them, but he was not noticed, and 
 was obliged to sit down again alone and 
 weary; and most of all, miserable from 
 having neglected the good counsel of his 
 mother. 
 
 Henry, who had learned his lessons 
 perfectly, was happy and in good hu- 
 mour: he was a kind-hearted boy, and 
 though his brother George had not been 
 
17 
 
 good> he was sorry that he was left at 
 home. 
 
 Henry's father bought him a pretty 
 book full of historical engravings, and 
 an elastic ball, also a fine rocking-horse. 
 As they were returning home, Henry 
 
18 
 
 ran gaily before his father and mother, 
 throwing up his ball, then bounding with 
 all the activity of happy boyhood to seek 
 it, enjoying himself till they reached 
 home, where they found idle George, 
 neither happy at play, nor the wiser for 
 his books. 
 
 Henry would gladly have shared his 
 presents, but his father forbade him, 
 saying, that those who would not work, 
 must not share the reward of those who 
 did; adding further, that when George 
 could learn his lessons without giving so 
 much trouble to his friends, or would 
 remember to follow the counsel of his 
 mother, he too might look for encou- 
 ragement and favour, but that now^ his 
 
19 
 
 punishment was just, and might not be 
 mitigated. 
 
 ■ Henry had a little cousin who lived 
 very near; he was a good child, and the 
 two boys often played together. If one 
 had a plaything which the other liked, it 
 
20 
 
 was readily lent; thus mutually contri- 
 buting each to the other's diversions. 
 
 To see his cousin Frank, Henry now 
 hastened. They played at ball together 
 till dinner-time, and then parted; for 
 they knew they were required to be 
 punctual, or they would lose their meal. 
 
 Dinner being ended, the boys set off 
 for school, but with very different feel- 
 ings: Henry went prepared to recite his 
 lessons; but George's were yet to be 
 learned. 
 
 Before school was over, Henry ranked 
 high in his class; but George's indolence 
 caused him to stand last. This made 
 him so ashamed, that when they returned 
 home, he took his book when Henry did 
 
21 
 
 \m, and thought he would study, like 
 him, at proper times. 
 
 He felt his folly the more when his 
 little brother Lewis, who was not quite 
 three years old, showed his knot of pink 
 ribbon, as a testimony that he had learnt 
 his lessons well; and in proof of which 
 he picked out the letters which spelt 
 " good boy," from his spelling-box. 
 
 George began to relax from his book, 
 when his mother said, " Had you not 
 better study now r , my son? Persevere 
 a little, you will soon know that short 
 lesson, if you try to fix your attention 
 upon it. Consider how much you have 
 lost to-day of rational enjoyment, by 
 neglecting your book, and how much you 
 
must continue to lose if this indolence 
 be not overcome. Ah! George, the pro- 
 verb says, 1 The present time is the only 
 time/ and you will find it no easy matter 
 to repair the faults of early years. It 
 will be vain to commence at the age of 
 manhood, that which should have been 
 finished in youth. Come, imitate your 
 brother; conquer, at once this unwil- 
 lingness to study, and begin the work 
 of reformation this evening." 
 
 George listened to his mother, and 
 for a time looked on his book, but he 
 soon grew weary of that. His thoughts 
 wandered: he recollected that his bow 
 wanted a new string, and, despite of his 
 mothers grave looks, he went in search 
 
23 
 
 of it, saying, it would take but a few 
 minutes to string it, and after that, he 
 would return to his book. 
 
 Henry said if George would wait till 
 the morning, he would help him to fix 
 his bow, and give him his own new ar- 
 rows. All would not do, and the bow 
 took the place of his lessons in the mind 
 of George. 
 
 The children were never allowed to 
 carry open lamps about the house in the 
 evening, and each was always provided 
 with a small glass lantern. George had 
 lighted his, but when he got to the play- 
 room were he expected to find his bow, 
 the lamp did not give as much light 
 within the lantern as he wanted, and he 
 
opened it and took out the lamp; he 
 knew this was "wrong, but he hoped to 
 find his bow-string quickly, and then he 
 meant to replace it. He had made a 
 heap of shavings in the morning, while 
 planing a piece of board; and as he 
 stooped down to see if the string had 
 fallen among them, a spark fell from the 
 lamp, and the dry shavings immediately 
 caught fire and blazed; threatening to 
 burn every thing in the room, for many 
 combustible articles were scattered there. 
 
 George screamed loudly, and the whole 
 family, alarmed, hastened to the spot, 
 just in time to prevent greater mischief. 
 George was led from the room where he 
 had been thus improperly employed, and 
 
though his clothes were scorched, and 
 his hands burnt in attempting to extin- 
 guish the fire, he found little sympathy 
 from any individual; even Henry, who 
 was so good to his brother, could not 
 feel sorry for him now, and his parents 
 w r ere seriously displeased with him, for 
 he had not endangered the house only, 
 but the lives of all the family. 
 
 There was no excuse for him, for he 
 had often been cautioned against care- 
 lessness in the use of a lamp, and his 
 father told him that since he could not 
 be safely trusted with one, he must suffer 
 the inconvenience of going about the 
 house and also to bed, in the dark; and 
 if he could not undress himself readily, 
 
26 
 
 and find his night clothes at once, he 
 must remember that he merited the pu- 
 nishment of this inconvenience. 
 
 George was desired to go directly to 
 bed, and his parents did not bid him 
 good night, nor look as affectionately 
 upon him as they did on Henry, and he 
 departed without the usual motherly 
 kiss. 
 
 His hands, though the burns had been 
 dressed with cotton and olive oil, smarted 
 very much, and he could not sleep for a 
 long time; he began to think of the 
 events of the day, and perceived how 
 entirely all his disappointments and suf- 
 ferings had arisen from his own heedless- 
 ness and indolence. He thought with 
 
27 
 
 terror of the fatal effects he had been 
 near producing, in setting fire to the 
 house, and he now distinctly, too, re- 
 membered all his mother's good advice, 
 and how little heed he had given to her 
 warnings. 
 
 He thought likewise of Henry, and 
 felt how much more worthy he w T as of 
 love and respect than himself, and he 
 once again thought he would try to be 
 more like him, — to merit, like him, the 
 approbation of his friends, and his own 
 self- approval. 
 
 After this period there was a sensible 
 change in the character of George; he 
 began to try to subdue his habits of in- 
 dolence, and advance in his studies. It 
 
28 
 
 is true this was no very easy task, and 
 it required more resolution than he pos- 
 sessed to enable him, in any degree, to 
 approach that excellence which charac- 
 terised Henry. He made his excellent 
 parents happy by his industry, and en- 
 deavours to repay their tender care. 
 
 Henry grew up to be an eminent and 
 useful man; a blessing to his parents, 
 and an honour to society; active and 
 benevolent, his generous character was 
 acknowledged by all, and his reputation 
 rested on a sure foundation. 
 
 George, too, grew to manhood; but 
 his days passed almost unnoticed, and 
 the good he did was small indeed, in 
 comparison to what it might have been, 
 
29 
 
 had he early loved his books, and applied 
 to learning. 
 
 I trust that those children who read 
 this story, will not hesitate which of 
 these two boys they will take for their 
 pattern; and while they avoid the faults 
 
30 
 
 which marked the character of George, 
 be equally careful that they make the 
 virtues of Henry their own: early seek- 
 ing to lead lives of usefulness and piety ; 
 never suffering a day to pass without 
 witnessing some advance in virtue, and 
 some good done to their fellow beings ; 
 keeping in mind the commandment with 
 promise, " Honour thy father and thy 
 mother:" and also, "By slothfulness the 
 building decayeth, and through idleness 
 of the hands the building droppeth 
 through:" " but the soul of the diligent 
 shall be made rich." 
 
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