It is a very sad thing for little brothers and sisters to quarrel with each other.

  “Birds in their little nests agree,
    And ’tis a shameful sight,
  When children of one family,
    Fall out, and chide, and fight.”

We hope, among all our little readers, there is not a brother and sister who have quarreled—­who have ever called each other hard names—­or, worse, who have ever lifted their tiny hands to hurt each other.

THE FAVORITE CHILD.

[Illustration:  THE FAVORITE CHILD.]

In a very pretty little village not many miles from N——­, in Connecticut, lived Susan Meredith.  She was the youngest of three sisters, the eldest of whom could not be more than twelve or thirteen years of age.  A year or two before the period when our history of this little group commences, the mother had gone to her rest.

Weighed down with a sorrow too heavy to be borne, and of a nature too delicate to be confided to others, she sank under it while in the noon of life, and died commending her children to God.  Susan—­little Sue, as she was frequently called—­young as she was, remembered a thousand incidents connected with the departed one, and seemed, so late as the time at which our story begins, to be never happier than when her mother was the theme of conversation.

There was something remarkable in this.  One reason for it might have been, that the surviving parent of these sisters, though once a kind and affectionate father, was now so altered by habits of intemperance, that they found very little enjoyment in his society.  But there was another reason.  Little Sue was an unusually thoughtful, serious child, for one of her years.  Was there not another reason, still?  I do not know.  I cannot tell what words God may whisper to the child that loves him; but this I know, that little Sue talked much of heaven, and seemed to have learned more of the language of heaven than men can teach.

One bright Saturday, in the early spring time, when there was no school, these sisters might have been seen winding their way through the woods, not far from the house where they lived, searching for the first wild flowers.  Little Sue, the youngest, was very happy, but, as usual, more grave than the other sisters.  By and by, wearied with their walk, they sat down under the shadow, of a tree, and talked a great while.  At first, the conversation was about birds and flowers; but Sue soon gave a serious turn to it.

“I wonder,” said she, “if dear mother has pretty flowers in heaven.  I hope so—­she loved them so well.  Do you remember the little monthly rose she wanted we should bring into her room, just before she died?  How happy she was, when one of us went and brought it to her bed.  And she went to heaven so soon after that!  Oh, I think there must be flowers up there in the sky, or she would not have thought of them and loved them so, when she was dying.  Don’t you think so?”