JIM’S TROUBLES.
BY GRANDMERE JULIE.
Spot.
“I KNOW he didn’t do it,” said good Mrs. Martin; “he says he didn’t do it, and I believe him.”
“Then you don’t believe me?” asked Mrs. Turner rather severely. “I wish I had never seen that boy! I’m sure I have done my best by him, and been a mother to him. And now he’s turned out bad, everybody blames me for it. Father says, if he has done it, it is my fault for tempting him; Nelly has nearly cried her eyes out about it; and everybody seems to think it is more wicked to lose a spoon than to steal it—I declare they do.”
“Well, he’s been a good, honest boy ever since he came here—a real nice, obliging, pleasant spoken little fellow; and it stands to reason a good boy don’t turn bad all in a jerk like that,” said Mrs. Martin, shaking her head.
“I don’t know about jerks,” answered Mrs. Turner, “but I do know that, as soon as I had done cleaning that spoon, I put it back in the case, and as I was a-going to put it away, Jim comes in to get a pail, and says he, ‘ain’t it a pretty little box!’ and says I: ‘yes, but what’s in it is prettier.’ Then I smelt my bread a-burning, and I put down the case right here,” said Mrs. Turner striking the corner of her kitchen table, “and I ran to see to my bread, and when I came back Jim was gone, and my spoon was gone too. And I don’t suppose it walked off itself—do you?”
“Of course it didn’t,” said Mrs. Martin; “but some one else might have come in, or it may be somewhere”—
“I’d like to know where that somewhere is, then,” said Mrs. Turner; “I have looked high and low and turned the house upside-down for a week, and I haven’t seen any spoon yet. And nobody could come in without my seeing them because the front door was locked and so was the kitchen door, and anybody who came in or went out had to go through the back kitchen where I was. I saw Jim go out with his pail, but I didn’t suspect anything then—why should I? And it isn’t the spoon I mind so much, it’s the trouble, and the idea of that boy that had been treated like one of the family—but I won’t say anymore about it. I’ll send him back to New York, and”—
“No, don’t do that! I guess I’ll take him,” said Mrs. Martin. “He hasn’t any home to go to, and if you send him back, there’s no telling what will become of him. Where is he?”
“I guess he is sulking about the place somewhere,” said Mrs. Turner. “He said he hadn’t done it, and now he won’t say another word. I’ll call him if you really want him.”
Mrs. Martin said she really wanted him, and Mrs. Turner, stepping out on the kitchen porch, called out, “Jim, Jim!”
There was no answer, but pretty soon a boy walked across the yard toward the house, and stopped near the porch.
He was a boy about twelve years old, tall of his age and rather thin, and with a round, honest face, which looked very pleasant when he was happy, but which was at that moment very much clouded.
“I’ll speak to him by myself, if you don’t mind,” said Mrs. Martin, shutting the door and seating herself on the porch step.
“Come here, my boy,” said she kindly, while her homely face looked almost beautiful with goodness. “I don’t believe you are a bad boy; I think it’s all a mistake, and it will come out all right some day. I am going to take you home with me, if you will come.”
Jim’s brown eyes brightened, but he answered, not very gratefully, “Thank you, but I’d better go away from here—they all believe I took it.”
“No, they don’t; I don’t for one. You had better stay and behave like a good, honest lad, and I’ll be a true friend to you. Besides, we mustn’t run away from our troubles! you know they are sent to make us good and strong, don’t you see, my boy?”
Having finished her little sermon, Mrs. Martin got up and gave Jim a motherly hug and a kiss. And poor Jim “broke down” as he would have called it. But it was a breaking down that did him a world of good, and made a new boy of him.
“There, there,” said Mrs. Martin, “now go and get your things, and we will go home.”
Jim went up-stairs quietly to the little attic room that had been his own for two years. He made a small bundle of his old clothes. He wouldn’t take the new ones. “They was my friends when they got them for me,” he said to himself, “but now they ain’t my friends any more, and them clothes don’t belong to me now.”
Jim’s grammar was not perfect, but he meant well, and in his heart he was very sorry to leave the friends who had been so kind to him during two happy years.
As he turned to go down-stairs, he heard a noise in the hall, not far from him, and he saw Nellie Turner who seemed to be waiting for him. “Oh! Jim,” she said, and could not say more, because she began to cry.
Poor little Nelly had been breaking her heart about Jim’s trouble. She was a nice little girl ten years old, with bright yellow curls, pink cheeks, and blue eyes; but now the pink of her cheeks had run into her eyes, and she did not look as pretty as usual. But Jim thought she was beautiful, and her red eyes were a great comfort to him.
At last he spoke, “Good-by, Nelly; I am going away.”
“I know it,” said Nelly, “but, Jim, I don’t believe you are bad, and you will be good, won’t you?”
“Yes, I will,” said Jim. Then he left Nelly crying on the stairs, and went quickly to the porch where Mrs. Martin was waiting for him.
“Well, good-by, Jim,” said Mrs. Turner. “I hope you’ll be a good boy. Remember I have been kind to you.”
“Yes’m, thank you,” said Jim, rather coldly. He wanted to see “Father,” but Mr. Turner had taken himself out of the way.
While Mrs. Martin was walking home with her little friend, and talking to him to cheer him up, they heard something running after them, and Jim said, “Here is Spot, what shall I do? I am afraid I can’t make him go back.”
“Well, we’ll take him home, too,” said Mrs. Martin. “I like dogs, they are such faithful friends; they don’t care if people are pretty or ugly, rich or poor, good or bad, they just love them, and stick to them. Yes, we will take Spot, and make him happy.”
This remark made two people very happy. Jim brightened up, and laughed; and Spot, who had kept his tail between his legs in a most respectful and entreating manner, now began to wag it joyfully, and showed his love by nearly knocking down Mrs. Martin, to let her know that he understood what she had said, and approved of it.
Spot had been given to Jim by one of his school-mates, and Jim was very proud of his only piece of personal property. Spot was a white dog with a great many black spots all over him, and he was not exactly a beauty, but he was the best, lovingest, naughtiest, and most ridiculous young dog that ever adorned this world. He was always stealing bones, and old boots and shoes, and burying them in secret places as if they had been treasures, and no one had the heart to scold him much, because he looked so repentant and as if he would never, no never, do it again as long as he lived.
Since the silver spoon had disappeared, Spot had been very unhappy; people seemed to give him all the benefit of their disturbed tempers. Mrs. Turner spoke crossly to him, and would not let him stay in the kitchen; Mr. Turner had slyly kicked him several times; Nelly cried over him when he wanted to play, and Jim only patted his head, and said, “poor Spot, poor Spot!” by which he meant, “poor Jim, poor Jim!” But now Spot felt that a good time was coming, and he rejoiced beforehand, like a sensible dog.
And, in truth, a pretty good time did come. Jim was not entirely happy, because he could not prove his innocence, but he found that no one had been told of his supposed guilt.
Mrs. Turner had not said a word about her missing spoon to any one. “I will give him another chance to begin right,” she had said to her husband. And Mr. Turner had replied, “I don’t believe he took it any more than I did; so what’s the good of making a fuss about nothing?”
No fuss had been made; but Mrs. Turner had said to her little daughter, when she started for school the morning after Jim’s departure, “Nelly, you must be careful not to say a single word to anybody about Jim. But I don’t want you to ask him to come here, and it’s just as well for you not to play with him much.”
“It is too bad,” said Nelly. But she was an obedient little girl, and the first time Jim came to school, when she saw that he hardly dared to look at her she thought that it would be better to tell him the truth.
OPINIONS DIFFER RESPECTING JIM.
So at recess she called him, and asked him to go with her on the road, where no one would hear them; then she said:
“Jim, I want to tell you something. Mamma told me I must not ask you to come to the farm any more, and that I must not play with you much, and so I won’t do it. But I like you just the same, and I will give you an apple every day to say we are friends.”
Nelly was as good as her word. Every morning, at recess, she gave Jim a small red and yellow “lady-apple,” which she had rubbed hard to make it shine, and which was one of the two apples her father gave her when she went to school; and the “lady-apples” were all kept for her, because she said they were so good and so pretty—“just like my little girl,” Mr. Turner said.
And what do you suppose Jim did with his apples?
Eat them. No, not he!
Every time Nelly gave him an apple, he put it in his pocket and took it home. Then in the evening before going to bed, he made a hole in it—the apple, not in the bed—and strung it on a piece of twine which hung from a nail in the window-sash in his little room.
The poor apples got brown, and wrinkled, and dry, but they were very precious to Jim, but every one of them said to him, as plain as an apple can speak: “I like you just the same.”
And so the winter passed away quietly. Mrs. Martin became very fond of Jim; she said he was so smart and so handy about the house she didn’t know what she would do without him, and she didn’t think boys were any trouble at all.
But, alas, how little we know what may happen!
Spring had come, and house-cleaning had come with it. Mrs. Martin had a nice “best-room” which she never used except for half an hour on Sunday afternoons during the summer, and which was always as clean as clean can be. But in Spring, it had to be made cleaner, if possible; summer could not come till that was done.
So the carpet was taken up, shaken, and put down again, and as Jim had helped in the shaking, Mrs. Martin kindly invited him to come in, and admire the room.
“What a pretty room it is!” said Jim; “why don’t you live in it?”
“Because it would wear out the carpet, and it is more comfortable in the sitting-room;” answered Mrs. Martin. Then she showed him a few books, boxes, and other works of art which were spread out on the big round table, and Jim admired everything.
Among Mrs. Martin’s treasures, there was a brown morocco “Keepsake,” containing a pair of scissors, a silver thimble, and a needle-case. It had belonged to Mrs. Martin’s little daughter who had died several years before, and when Mrs. Martin went into the best-room on Sunday afternoons she always opened the “Keepsake,” and thought of the little hands that had played with it, long ago. And now as a reward of merit, she showed it to Jim.
“It is the prettiest thing I ever saw!” said Jim; “when I am rich I will give Nellie Turner one just like it.”
“She will have to wait some time, I guess,” said Mrs. Martin, laughing.
Then they looked at the pictures of George Washington shaking hands with nobody, and of his wife, looking very sweet and handsome.
“You are so great at stringing up things, Jimmy,” said Mrs. Martin with a funny look, “I want you to hang up these pictures for me, will you?”
“I will,” said Jim, blushing a little as he thought of his string of apples; “I will do it next Saturday.”
Jim kept his promise. The pictures were hung in the best light and made the room look so much prettier, that even Spot, who had been a silent observer, could keep still no longer, and barked his approbation. Then the blinds and windows were closed, the door locked, and the best-room was left to quiet and darkness.
The next day being Sunday, Mrs. Martin paid her usual afternoon visit to the best-room. She admired the pictures a little while, then she went to the round table to take up the Keepsake; but the Keepsake was not there.
She looked all over the table and under it, behind every chair and in every corner, but she did not find it. “I wonder where it can be? Perhaps I took it to the sitting-room without thinking,” said Mrs. Martin to herself.
She went back to the sitting-room and looked everywhere, but found no Keepsake. Then she sat down in her rocking-chair and tried to think about something else, but could only say to herself: “I wonder where it is!”
Jim came into the room with a new Sunday-school book, which he began to read. Mrs. Martin looked at him while he read, but for some reason she did not say anything to him about the Keepsake.
The next morning she put off her washing, and as soon as Jim had gone to school she began to search the whole house; but no Keepsake did she find.
“It can’t be, it can’t be,” she said with tears in her eyes; “but I must look in his room—perhaps he took it up to look at—he said it was so pretty.”
Mrs. Martin went up to Jim’s room, but found nothing there except his clothes, the apples, and a few little treasures such as boys have.
Then she fell on her knees by Jim’s bed, and cried with all her heart. “No, I won’t believe it till I have to,” she said at last. “Poor boy; it’s hard on him and he has been so good, too! But I must speak to him about it, and if he has done wrong I must try to be patient with him.”
When Jim came home from school in the afternoon, Mrs. Martin called him into the sitting-room. “Come here, Jim,” she said; “I want to speak to you.”
She had said it very kindly, but there was something in her voice that made Jim feel a little queer.
He came in and stood before her, and she said to him: “Jim do you know what has become of that pretty Keepsake I showed you the other day? I can’t find it anywhere, and I have looked and looked.”
“I LIKE YOU JUST THE SAME! I LIKE YOU JUST THE SAME!”
“No,” said Jim boldly, “I havn’t seen it since. I hope it isn’t lost.” Then he stopped, and his face blushed crimson. There was something in Mrs. Martin’s eyes, as well as in her voice, that reminded him of his trouble about the silver-spoon.
“Oh! you don’t think”—he cried out.
But he could say no more—Mrs. Martin had him in her arms the next moment.
“No, I don’t think,” she said, “I don’t, my boy! not for the world I wouldn’t! only I can’t find it, and—and—”
“Let me look for it,” said Jim.
They looked again together, but with no success. That night there were two heavy hearts in the quiet little house, and the next morning there were two pair of red eyes at the breakfast table.
“You must not grieve so, Jim,” said Mrs. Martin. “I hope it will all come out right; we must try to bear it well, and go to work as if nothing had happened.”
But she could not follow her own advice, and the washing remained undone.
Jim did not go to school, and spent his time looking everywhere in the orchard and in the garden, while Spot followed him, wondering what was the matter.
No one had any appetite for dinner, and after trying in vain to eat a potato, Jim went up to his room.
Mrs. Martin tried to sit still, and sew, but she could not bear it long; and when she heard the children coming from school, she went to the gate to look at them; they were so happy that it seemed to do her good.
“Is Jimmy sick?” asked little Nelly, stopping on her way.
“No,” said Mrs. Martin; “but he’s been busy, and couldn’t go to school.”
Nelly wanted to send him a nice russet apple she had kept for him, but she did not quite dare to do it because Mrs. Martin looked so sober.
Jim heard her voice from his room, but he did not dare to show himself. “She won’t like me just the same when she hears of this,” he thought; and he felt as if he had not a friend in the world. “I would give my head to find that thing,” he said; “she don’t believe I took it, but she believes it too; I shall have to go away from here, and I don’t care what becomes of me, anyway.”
Mrs. Martin stood at the gate a little while watching the children, then she went to the garden to look at her hot-beds—two large pine boxes in which lettuce, radishes, and tomatoes were doing their best to grow fast and green.
When she came near the beds, she saw Spot stretched on the ground, enjoying an old bone, as she thought.
“This won’t do, Spot,” she said; “I don’t want you to bring your bones here. Go away!”
Spot did not seem to mind her at all, so she came a little nearer to make a personal impression upon him with the toe of her shoe.
Spot growled, and turned away his head a little, and as he did so, a little silver thimble fell out of the old bone and rolled upon the ground.
“My Keepsake!” exclaimed Mrs. Martin. And, as she said afterward, she was so taken by surprise you could have knocked her down with a feather.
She waited half a minute to get her breath when she picked up the thimble and ran toward the house, calling with all her might: “Jim, Jim, here it is! here, come!”
Jim never remembered how he got down stairs, but there he was staring at the thimble, and so happy that he couldn’t even begin to say a word.
Mrs. Martin was just explaining to him: “you see it was Spot, and the bone, and the hot-bed fell out of it, and I knew it was not you”—when, they heard a big voice calling from the road: “Jim, Jim, come out here quick!”
They looked round, and saw farmer Turner running as fast as such a fat man could run, and waving something shiny over his head.
“Here it is!” he said, “here is that blessed spoon! I was a-plowing in a corner of the orchard, when I turned up a soft stone made of red morocco, with a silver spoon in it. Didn’t I tell you so? I never believed it. Hallo! what’s the matter?”
The matter was a most wonderful scramble. Mrs. Turner and little Nelly had run across lots, and here they were, talking, and laughing, and crying. Everybody hugged everybody else, and everybody was so glad she was so sorry, or so sorry she was so glad—farmer Turner vowed he couldn’t tell which it was most.
At last they made out that they were all very glad, and Mrs. Martin invited them all to stay to tea. They accepted the invitation, and such a tea-party never took place anywhere—not even in Boston—for the company had joy as well as hot biscuits, and happiness as well as cake.
Spot was scolded and forgiven, and wagged his tail so hard that it is a wonder it didn’t come off.
As for Jim, he got kisses enough that evening to last him for a lifetime.
This is the true end to a true story, but not the last end by any means.
For Jim is now a “boy” twenty-one years old, and Nelly “likes him just the same,” only a great deal more.
“They’ll think I’m Papa!”
ON THE WAY TO THE BLOOMING.