Not twenty yards from my dwelling, I overtook a little creature, a boy of about eight or nine years old, dressed in--of all the cold things in the world--a _hard_ corduroy habiliment, intended to have fitted closely to him; but his wretched, frozen-up form, seemed to have retreated from the dress, and sunk within itself. I believe he had not another stitch upon him. His little hands were buried into his pockets, almost up to the elbows, seeking some warmth from his body; and he crept on before me, one of the most miserable pictures of wretchedness my eye ever rested on. As I contemplated him, I could not but contrast my own blessings with his misery. I had doubted whether I should leave the comforts of my home, although invigorated by wholesome, perhaps luxurious food, and I was clothed to _excess_; while the being before me, likely had not tasted food that day, and was _barely covered_. Such were my thoughts; and I had just said to myself, we know not, or at least, appreciate not, a tithe of the blessings we possess, when that little creature read me a lesson I shall recollect for my life. He shewed me that _he_ could bear up against his ills, and make light of them too. At the moment I speak of, I saw one hand slowly drawn from his pocket, and in effort to relieve it from its torpor, he twisted and turned it until it seemed to have life again. Next came forth the other hand, and it underwent the same operation, until both appeared to possess some power. Then he shrugged up one shoulder and the other, seeking to bring life there also; and at length flinging his arms two or three times round, he gave a jump off the ground, and exclaimed in an accent half pain, half joy, "_Hurrah! for the could mornins!_"--and away he went scampering up the street before me, keeping up the life within him by that innate natural power of endurance I have described, evidently with a determination to make the best of his suffering, and not sink under misfortune. What a noble trait of character--but how little appreciated!