her to weep! But you see that he
looks like a noble-hearted boy. His countenance seems to say, "Dear
mother, do not cry; if ever I grow up to be a man, you shall never
want, if I can help it." Oh, who can help loving the boy who loves his
mother!

There was a little boy about thirteen years old, whose name was
Casablanca. His father was the commander of a ship of war called the
Orient. The little boy accompanied his father to the seas. His ship
was once engaged in a terrible battle upon the river Nile. In the
midst of the thunders of the battle, while the shot were flying
thickly around, and strewing the decks with blood, this brave boy
stood by the side of his father, faithfully discharging the duties
which were assigned to him. At last his father placed him in a
particular part of the ship to be performing some service, and told
him to remain in his post till he should call him away. As the father
went to some distant part of the ship to notice the progress of the
battle, a ball from the enemy's vessel laid him dead upon the deck.
But the son, unconscious of his father's death, and faithful to the
trust he posed in him, remained in his post, waiting for his father's
orders. The battle raged dreadfully around him. The blood of the
slain flowed at his feet. The ship took fire, and the threatening
flames drew nearer and nearer. Still this noble-hearted boy would not
disobey his father. In the face of blood, and balls, and fire, he
stood firm and obedient. The sailors began to desert the burning and
sinking ship, and the boy cried out "Father, may I go?" But no voice
of permission could come from the mangled body of his lifeless
father. And the boy, not knowing that he was dead, would rather die
than disobey. And there that boy stood, at his post, till every man
had deserted the ship; and he stood and perished in the flames. O,
what a boy was that! Every body who ever heard of him thinks that he
was one of the noblest boys that ever was born. Rather than disobey
his father, he would die in the flames. This account has been written
in poetry, and, as the children who read this book, may like to see
it, I will present it to them here:

CASABIANCA.

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him, o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though childlike form.

Th