AUNT DEBORAH'S LESSON.
By G. H. Baskette.
he good lands! What's that!" excitedly cried frightened Aunt Deborah.
Aunt Deborah might well exclaim in surprise. For as she sat knitting quietly and humming a quaint old tune of long ago, one she had learned as a child——C-r-rash! bang! came a stone into the room, shivering the window-pane, just missing the swinging lamp in the hallway, making an ugly scar on the cabinet, and breaking into fragments a handsome vase. Then, as if satisfied with the mischief it had done, it rolled lazily across the floor, and finally stopped under the table, an inert, jagged bit of granite.
Aunt Deborah, as the stone pursued its reckless course, placed her hands over her head, and shrank back into her chair, a frightened and unwilling witness to the destruction of her property. It was quite distressing.
Besides the nervous shock, there was the broken window; there was the cabinet showing a great white dent that could not easily be removed; and there, too, was the vase she had kept so many long years, lying shattered and ruined before her eyes.
Aunt Deborah was one of the best and most kind-hearted of women; but—she was human, and the sudden havoc wrought by the missile exasperated as well as frightened her. She rushed to the window and opened it in time to see three or four boys scampering down the street as fast as their legs could carry them.
"Oh, you young scapegraces!" she cried. "If I could once lay hold on you, wouldn't I teach you a lesson!"
But the boys never stopped until they had disappeared around a friendly corner. Aunt Deborah was so overcome by the accident, and so intent upon watching the retreating boys to whom she desired to teach a lesson, that she did not at first notice a barefooted lad standing under the window on the pavement below, holding a battered old hat in his hand, and looking up at her with a scared face and tearful eyes.
"Please, Miss," said the boy tremulously.
"Oh! Who are you? Who threw that stone at my window?" called out Aunt Deborah, as she spied him.
"Please, Miss," pleaded the boy, fumbling nervously his torn hat, "I threw it, but I didn't mean to do it."
"Didn't mean to do it, eh?" replied Aunt Deborah, fiercely. "I suppose the stone picked itself up and pitched itself through my glass!"
"I was going to throw it down the street, but Bill Philper touched my arm, and it turned and hit your window," he explained.
There was an air of frankness and truth about the boy, and the fact that he had not run away like the others (whom, somehow, Aunt Deborah held chiefly responsible for the outrage), caused her to relent a little toward him.
"Come in here," she said, after eying him closely for a moment.
The lad hesitated; but summoning all his courage, he went up the steps, and soon stood in her presence.
"Do you see that" she said, pointing at the window—"and that"—(at the cabinet)—"and that?"—(at the broken vase)—"and that?"—(at the stone.) "Now, isn't that a fine performance?"
"I am very sorry," said the boy, the tears welling into his eyes again.
He looked ruefully about at the damaged articles, and glanced at the stone, wishing heartily that he had never seen it.
"Now, what's to be done about it?" asked she.
"I don't know, ma'am," said he, very ill at ease. "I will try to pay you for it."
"What can you pay, I should like to know?" she said, glancing at his patched coat and trousers and his torn hat.
"I sell papers," said he; "and I can pay you a little on it every week."
"What's your name?" she asked.
"Sam Wadley," answered the boy.
"Have you a father?"
"No, ma'am," replied Sam; "he's dead."
"Have you a mother?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"What does she do?" continued Aunt Deborah.
"She sews, and I help her all I can, selling papers."
"How can you pay me anything then?"
"THERE SAT AUNT DEBORAH EARNESTLY KNITTING." [[SEE NEXT PAGE.]]
"Please, ma'am, I'll tell Mother all about it, and she'll be willing for me to pay you all I make."
"Well, now, we'll see if you are a boy to keep his word," said Aunt Deborah.
"How much must I pay?" Sam inquired anxiously.
"Let me see." Aunt Deborah put on her spectacles and made a critical survey of the room. "Window—fifty cents; vase—one dollar—I wouldn't have had it broken for five!—That'll do—one dollar and a half. I shan't charge you for the dent in the furniture."
"I'll try to pay you something on it every week," said Sam. "There are some days when I don't make anything; but when I do, I'll save it for you."
"Very well," said Aunt Deborah; "you may go now."
He thanked her, and went slowly out, while Aunt Deborah began to pick up the fragments strewn over the floor.
"Oh, wait a moment!" she cried.
Sam came back.
"Take this stone out with you, and be careful what you do with it, next time," she said. "By the way, if you wish to keep out of trouble, you'd better not keep company with that Flipper boy—" Aunt Deborah had a rather poor memory for names—"if I had him, wouldn't I give him a lesson!"
She uttered the last sentence with such a relish, that Sam was glad enough to get away. He was afraid she might conclude to bestow upon him the salutary lesson which she had proposed to give "Flipper," as she called him.
Sam hurried home as fast as he could. His mother, a pale, delicate woman whose wan features and sunken eyes showed the effects of too hard work, heard his simple tale, wiped away his tears and encouraged him in his resolve to pay for the damage he had done.
From that day, Sam began to be very diligent, and to earn pennies in every honest way possible to him. And every week he carried some small amount to Aunt Deborah.
"That boy has some good in him," she said when he had brought his first installment. And though she grew more kind toward him every time he came, occasionally giving him a glass of milk, a sandwich or a cake, she rarely failed to warn him against the influence of that "Flipper" boy.
His young companions laughed at him for paying his money to Aunt Deborah, and called him a coward for not running away when they ran; but all they said did not turn him from his purpose.
One evening he went with a cheerful heart to pay his last installment.
As he passed the window of the sitting-room he glanced in. There sat Aunt Deborah, earnestly knitting. The lamplight fell upon her sober face and Sam wondered if she ever looked really smiling and pleasant. "It doesn't seem as though she would be so stiff with a fellow," he said to himself. Then, in response to her "Come in," he entered the room and handed her his money.
"I believe that is all, ma'am," said he.
"Yes, that pays the whole sum," said Aunt Deborah; "you have done well."
"I am still very sorry I have troubled you, and I hope you forgive me," he said.
"I do, with all my heart," said she earnestly.
"Thank you," said Sam, as he started out, picking his old hat from the floor, where he had placed it; on entering.
"Come back," said Aunt Deborah, "I've something more to say to you."
With a startled look he turned into the room.
Aunt Deborah went to the cabinet and unlocked it. She first took out a pair of new shoes, then half a dozen pairs of socks, some underclothing, two nice shirts, a neat woolen suit, and lastly a good felt hat.
"Sam," said she to the astonished lad, "I have taken your money, not because I wanted it, but because I wished to test you. I wished to see whether you really meant to pay me. That Flipper boy would never have done it, I am sure. You have done so well in bringing me your little savings that I have learned to like you very much. Now I wish to make you a present of these articles. In the pocket of this jacket you will find the money you have paid me. I wouldn't take a cent of it. It is yours. You must keep working and adding to it, so that you can soon help your mother more. Go to work now with a light heart, and grow up a true and an honest man. Tell your mother that I say she has a fine son."
In making this speech, Aunt Deborah's features relaxed into a pleasant smile; and Sam smiled too, and was so pleased that he could hardly utter his thanks.
"And mind you," continued she, suddenly changing the current of his thoughts, "don't associate with that Flipper boy!"
"Please, ma'am," said Sam, feeling a twinge of conscience that his former companion should bear so much of the blame, "you have been very kind to me, but Bill Philper didn't know the stone would turn as it did, and break your window."
"Then why did he run away?" inquired Aunt Deborah somewhat fiercely. "It's quite proper that you should try to excuse him, Sam; but I should like to teach him a good lesson?"
"You—you—have taught me a good lesson," said Sam, with a blushing face, "and I—I—thank you very much for it."
Aunt Deborah smiled benignly again, and warmly bidding Sam to come often to see her, she let him out at the door.
She felt very happy as Sam disappeared down the street, and he was very happy, as he hurried home with his great bundle, and told his mother all about it, which made that good woman very happy, too. So they were very happy all around.
And it all came about because Sam had stood up like a brave boy to confess his wrong, which is always manly; and had offered reparation for it, which is always right; and had gone forward, in spite of the taunts of his companions, denying himself pleasures and comforts in order to do that which he knew to be right, which is always heroic.