THE OLD WOODCUTTER.
Old Jarvis was very fond of his youngest grandson Hubert; and the villagers said he was quite, out and out, spoiling the boy.
"By making him love me?" said Jarvis.
"What will his love do for you?" inquired they. "It will do me no harm, at least," answered Jarvis; "and, at eighty, it is something to be loved, even by a grandson."
Neighbours laughed,—Jarvis did not change his course, and truly did he say Hubert loved him. The old man's goodness and cheerfulness and affection worked upon his young heart, and, next to his parents, the grateful child loved his aged grandfather.
The old man, though grey headed and feeble, continued to work at his old avocation as a woodcutter, and Hubert generally accompanied him to the forest, and played about him as he worked. He was but six years old; too young to labour himself.
One fine summer morning, grandfather and grandson went, as usual, to cut faggots; and the time passed charmingly. Hubert collected the sticks to form the faggots, and thought himself mighty useful in doing so.
Suddenly, the clouds gathered, the thunder growled, and the rain fell. The old man knew the danger of being amidst trees during lightning; therefore, calling his grandson to him, he hastened to quit the wood.
They walked as quickly as they could, when they were stopped by a strange sight: a whole noble tree in flames! The lightning had struck it, and, burning rapidly, it cracked and fell. Jarvis saw it was about to fall, and, turning aside, sought to save the child.
The child was saved, but the old man was struck down by one of the flaming branches. Poor Hubert! he knew not what to do; but the blazing brand still lay upon the poor old man.
At the price of burning both hands, the brave boy dragged aside the burning bough. His aged grandfather arose but little hurt by the shock. "My bold little fellow!" said he; "you have burnt your hands very badly, I am afraid."—"Never mind that, grandfather,—never do you mind that: I have—thank God for it—saved your head!"