DICK HARRIS; OR, THE BOY-MAN
Dick Harris was called a clever boy, and no one believed this more firmly than he. He was only fourteen years of age, and yet he dearly loved to be thought a man.
As he was about to leave school, his friends often asked him what he intended to be. Dick could not tell; only, that it must be something great. Now while Dick had learned some good thing in school, he had also learned many evil habits—among them the practice of smoking.
Dick's father smoked. He saw men smoking in the streets, and so he thought it would be manly to smoke. Along with some of his schoolmates, he used to hide himself and take his turn of the one pipe or cigar which they had among them. As they were afraid of being found out, they hid the pipe when any one came near.
His father, who although he smoked himself, forbade Dick doing so, asked him one day why his clothes smelled so of tobacco smoke.
"Some of my schoolmates smoke, father."
"But do you smoke?"
"No."
"Take care you don't then; it's all very well for men, but I won't have any of my children smoking."
Dick went away, as the Bible says, "with a lie in his right hand."
And yet he wanted to be a man. Now look at that, my lads. What is it that makes a man—I mean a true man? There are many things. The Bible says that the glory of young men is their strength—strength of body, and strength of mind.
Would Dick get this kind of glory by smoking? He certainly would not strengthen his body, for it has been proved again and again that boys who smoke weaken their bodies.
Tobacco is a poison—slower perhaps than strong drink, but quite as sure; and although it may not kill you outright, because the quantity taken is not large enough, yet it pollutes the blood, injures the brain and stomach, and paralyzes many of the healthy functions of the body.
The result is stunted growth and general weakness. A boy who smokes much never can have the glory of bodily strength.
Dick found this out for himself, to his bitter regret. And besides this, do you think that his conduct showed strength of mind? He began the practice of smoking, not because he believed it to be right, but because men smoked. He was only a boy, yet he wished to appear a man—that is, to appear what he was not.
What could be more weak than for a boy to have no reason for doing a thing than that men do it? But it led to something worse. He was smoking on the sly, and to conceal it he became a liar. He lied in the school by his conduct, he lied at home by his words.
We could have respected him, although we pitied him, had he smoked openly and taken the consequences; but who can respect a coward? He is not worthy of the name of man. Dick continued to smoke after he left school, and was apprenticed in a large warehouse.
Here again the old desire to be like men influenced him. They had cigars, he must have one; they smoked, he must do so. This conduct had its invariable effects. He became the associate of "fast" young men—got into debt—learned to drink—stayed out late at night—and before his apprenticeship had ended, was ruined in health; and but for the indulgence of his employers would have been discharged in disgrace. Was that acting the part of a man?
This happened many years ago. Last week amidst a crowd who surrounded a polling booth, there stood a man about forty years of age—he looked twenty years older. On his head was a battered hat; he wore a seedy, black coat; both his hands were in his pockets, and in his mouth the stump of a cigar which had been half-smoked by another man; his face was bloated, his eyes bleared and languid. Even the vulgar crowd looked at him with contempt.
I looked into his face thinking there was in it a resemblance to one I had known. Slowly and painfully came the sad truth, that the drunken creature was Dick Harris; he had become a man but he was a lost man.
It has often been said, "How great a matter a little fire kindleth." The spark which kindled a blaze among Dick's evil passions, was the spark which lit the tobacco pipe at school. Bad habits are easily acquired, but they are hard to get rid of. See what smoking had done for Dick. It led him to drink, and the two habits have left him a wreck.
But you say to me, "There are many thousands who smoke, and yet are strong men." It is so. But in almost all cases these strong smokers did not begin the habit while they were boys; if they had done so, the likelihood is, they never would have become strong men. Besides, how much stronger they might have been if they had never smoked!
Many who smoke and still appear strong, have nevertheless undermined their constitution, and when an unusual strain comes upon it there is a collapse.
"But again," you say, "all who smoke do not learn to drink, and so lose true manhood." That may be; and yet there is a significant fact that a confirmed drunkard who does not smoke can scarcely be found. It has recently been shown that the great majority of those who break their temperance pledge are smokers.
Smoking and drinking are branches of the same deadly tree whose leaves curse the nation.
And now, my lads, "Quit you like men, be strong." The next time any one says to you, "Have a cigar," say "No!"
If he says it is manly to smoke, say "No; it is manly to exercise self-control; to act from principle; to have cleanly habits; to be unselfish; to pay one's debts; to be sober; and to have the approval of one's conscience. Now, I might lose all these elements of manhood if I learned to smoke."
THE WAY OF SAFETY.
Dear grandma is one of those who "being dead yet speaketh."
She was not a preacher, or a lecturer—much less a censurer or reprover; but she was that most agreeable of teachers to childhood and youth, a story-teller. Yet, let no one suppose that she told us tales of fairy lore or ingenious romance, as pernicious as they are false. Not so; the stories to which we listened with so much delight, were all true, and all from the capacious store-house of her own memory.
We had returned from the church one Sabbath afternoon, and as usual, hastened to grandma to repeat as much as we could remember of the sermon. The text was that solemn command of the wise man: "My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not;" and our pastor had made it the ground-work of a powerful exhortation to the young especially, to beware of the many temptations, snares, and allurements which they should meet; and warned them of the consequences of yielding to the seductive influences by which they might be surrounded.
"That reminds me of a young man whom I knew before any of you were born," grandma remarked, when we had reported as much as we could remember of the sermon. "You have heard me speak of Jacob Wise?" she said, addressing my father.
"Yes, mother," he replied, "please tell the children about him. I am sure your account of his experience will be a very suitable addition to our afternoon sermon."
"O yes, grandma, please do!" we exclaimed; and, drawing our seats around her, we prepared for what we knew would be a treat. The good old lady did not need to be urged, but, after pausing a moment to collect her thoughts, began as follows:—
"Jacob Wise was the son of a near neighbor when I was a happy wife in my Western home. His father was a plain, practical man, respected for his uprightness, good sense, and piety; and he brought up his son in his own sound principles, at the same time giving him all the education that was within his reach.
"When Jacob was about fourteen years of age, he was sent to Louisville for the benefit of a year's instruction in a large school there.
"There were, also, other sons and daughters around his father's hearth. It therefore appeared expedient that Jacob should be allowed to develop his taste for commercial pursuits.
"The first circumstances of any note, that I remember, which particularly marked his character, occurred at the time of his first practical acquaintance with business.
"While in Louisville, he received much attention from the family of a wealthy man who kept a large store in the city; and when, at the close of his school term, he was offered a place behind the counter of his friend, he found no difficulty in obtaining his father's permission to accept of it.
"The merchant, Mr. Rankin, was a smooth, bland, good-tempered man, and in his intercourse with the world maintained outwardly a fair and honest character.
"But Jacob had not been many weeks in intimate connection with him before he discovered that his dealings were not all conducted with scrupulous adherence to divine law; neither was a conscientious regard to his neighbor's interests a very deep-seated principle. This caused the lad much uneasiness; and a feeling of nervous disquiet took possession of the hitherto happy boy.
"He hesitated as to which was the more honorable course: to obey his employer without question, or to sacrifice his own ideas of strict integrity.
"But he was not long left in doubt. One day a carriage drove to the door, and a richly dressed lady entered the store, and asked to be shown some children's necklaces. Jacob, who attended in that department, was proceeding to wait on her, when Mr. Rankin came forward smiling, and with the ease and courtesy for which he was noted, took the lad's place, and spread before the lady an assortment of glittering trinkets which, judging from her gay appearance, he knew would please her eye.
"An animated dialogue ensued between the merchant and his customer, respecting the style and value of the various articles under view. The lady was made to believe that this elegant display had been imported with great cost and difficulty from the manufacturing cities of Europe, and, in consequence of the immense and rapid demand for them, the obliging trader had been satisfied with moderate profit, and was now willing to dispose of the remainder of the stock at fabulously low prices.
"To all this, which he knew to be utterly and shamelessly false, Jacob listened with equal grief and astonishment, and it was with difficulty that he restrained his honest indignation as he saw one after another of the tinsel gewgaws transferred to the shopping bag of the deceived customer at prices which were five times their value, while she was duped with the flattering persuasion that she was receiving unequaled bargains.
"All doubts as to the unlawfulness of his remaining another hour under the roof where this swindling transaction had taken place, were immediately removed from the mind of the noble and upright youth.
"When Mr. Rankin returned after having very politely attended the lady to her carriage, and placed the parcel containing her purchases by her side, he was met by Jacob, who, with an air of grave rebuke rarely assumed by lads of his years, informed him that from what he had seen of his method of conducting business he thought it quite impossible that they could agree.
"He was, therefore, resolved to return without delay to his father's house, and he was glad that the terms upon which he had entered the establishment left him free to do so.
"The firm and fearless bearing of the boy awed the man of unjust practices, and he neither attempted to vindicate his own meanness nor to oppose the departure of his right-minded assistant. At once Jacob returned to the old homestead, his character more permanently formed by the ordeal through which he had passed."
"But do you think, grandma," inquired Henry, "that Jacob would have acted so independently if he had had no home to return to?"
"Yes, dear, I think he would," was the prompt reply. "He had learned to obey the commands of God and to believe His promises. He knew that the injunction, 'Come out from among them,' was followed by the assurance, 'I will receive you,' and such was his trust in his heavenly Father's word that no thought for his future provision would have interfered with the performance of what he deemed to be his duty."
"Well, grandma," said Henry, "I like the stand taken by the honest boy. Please go on with the story."
"Jacob remained at home for the next three years, making himself useful in teaching his younger brothers and sisters, besides assisting his father in the management of his affairs. In the meantime his own education was advancing. Nor was he without receiving many offers of clerkship in the neighboring cities, whither the good report of his honesty and integrity had come.
"But a cousin of his father, who was a merchant of some eminence in New Orleans, had proposed to take him into his counting house in a confidential capacity when he should reach a more mature age, and for this important post he was qualifying himself.
"Accordingly, when he was eighteen years of age, at the request of his relative, he again left home. This time his departure was a more serious affair than it had been when, a few years before, he left for school in Louisville.
"Now he was going to a large and populous city, where fashion and vice walked hand in hand, and where snares and pitfalls were spread for the simple and unwary, with scarcely a finger-mark cautioning them to beware.
"All the neighborhood was moved with anxiety and friendly interest for the youth, and the last Sabbath of his attendance at our rural church, the good pastor made an earnest and affectionate address from the same text which the minister presented to-day.
"Our friend's journey to the great maritime city of the South was not without incident. Mr. Wise accompanied his son to Louisville, and, after the necessary preliminary arrangements, went with him on board the boat that was to bear him down the broad waters of the Mississippi.
"The parting advice and benediction of his father were then given. He reminded him of the subject of his pastor's last sermon, and closed by giving him, as the motto of his life, the imperative charge, 'Come out from among them.'
"Then, as he desired to return home by daylight, and the boat was not to start for a couple of hours, he once more committed his son to the care and guidance of heaven, and left him, with a calm trust that he would be kept in the way of safety.
"After a pleasant trip on board the 'Southern Belle,' our young friend arrived in New Orleans.
"Jacob was much pleased with his new situation. He found his relative a man of the most honorable character. Accommodations were procured for him in a first-class boarding-house, where none but persons of the best standing were admitted. And, whether owing to his attractions of mind or person, the sterling worth of his character, or the independent position of his family, or perhaps all these combined, he soon found himself an object of marked interest and attention to all with whom he came in contact.
"Naturally of a social disposition, and disposed to look at everything in the most favorable light, Jacob saw none of those vicious traits and habits which he had been cautioned to shun.
"He did not partake of the mirthful spirit by which the unwary are enticed into scenes of folly, neither did he deny himself innocent recreations.
"And now to the unsophisticated youth, life presented the fairest aspect. His religious duties were carefully attended to, and in the faithful discharge of his business engagements no one could be more careful and punctual. His evenings were devoted to the society of those who were congenial to him. But it was not long before the hidden thorns of the flowers that strewed his path began to make themselves felt, nor was it without pain that conscience awoke him from the repose in which he had been lulling himself.
"Among the many charming sojourners at the establishment in which he had taken up his abode, was the family of a wealthy planter, who had come to the city for the winter. Mr. and Mrs. De Veaux were a lively and fashionable couple, and their children partook of the gay and careless temperament of their parents.
"Isabel, the eldest, was now in her sixteenth year, and the faultless beauty of her face and figure was only equaled by the child-like sweetness of her disposition. She had been brought up without much restriction or control, and now that she was entering society for the first time, being gay, spirited, and witty, she flung herself into the enjoyments of fashionable pleasure with all the zest of her nature.
"The winter glided along with its witching gayeties, and, though the young Christian was never tempted to join the giddy multitude in their unlawful pastimes, yet his views were more lax than they had been.
"With the hope of his presence having a restraining effect upon the fair being who had touched the tenderest chords of his nature, he suffered himself to be led into scenes such as sober conscience could not approve.
"At length, however, the alarm came that was to disturb his security. A sermon was to be preached by a celebrated minister before the members of the 'Young Men's Christian Association.' Jacob attended, and heard with startled interest the minister deliver, as his text, the very same verse which the pious pastor of his country home had made the subject of the last discourse he had heard from him: 'My son, when sinners entice thee consent thou not.'
"The young man of irreproachable life had no idea that this exhortation could be applied to his case; he had been careful that 'sinners' were granted no opportunity of enticing him.
"But to many of the young men present, who were not so cautious, he hoped the sermon would prove of benefit. So he settled himself comfortably to listen to the brilliant orator.
"But his self-complacency did not last long. It was that very class to which he belonged, that the preacher addressed. He exposed the cunning temptations of Satan, and told how he labored to lead even those who hated vice, to join in the pleasures of the world, without requiring them to commit one apparent sin.
"Thus the enemy sought to lead even the Christian, and to turn his heart from God, from holiness, and from heaven.
"Painfully solemn were the feelings with which Jacob left the house of God at the close of the service. The film had passed from his eyes, and he saw that while his outward walk had been strictly correct, his heart had wandered from its true allegiance.
"When he reached home he found a gay party of young people, dancing and making merry in the brilliantly lighted parlors. But the sickening sensations that ran through his frame, at the thought of time thus wasted, and creatures fashioned in their Maker's image perverting their fine intelligences, showed the change that had been made in his views within the last hour.
"He went at once to his chamber, and with earnest prayer, he gave himself anew to his Master.
"He decided at once that Isabel must be given up, with all her attractions. How lone and cheerless the future appeared. Casting himself upon his knees, he prayed for help to bear the blow which had descended upon his hopes.
"With Jacob Wise, to know his duty was to do it. Having felt the evil influence of intimate association with light and giddy worldlings, he determined to change his boarding place to some more retired spot where no similar temptation should waylay him. And so, the next morning, he called on his pastor, stated the circumstances in which he was placed, and asked his help in obtaining board in some private family connected with the church.
"The minister sympathized with his young friend, and after a few minutes' thought, mentioned a pious couple of his charge, whose only son had lately gone from home, and into whose vacant room he thought it likely Jacob might be admitted.
"It was as he had hoped. When Mrs. Bennet heard the case, she was glad to be able to give a home to the young man. No other difficulty now remained but his parting with Isabel.
"He found her seated at the piano, and a long conversation ensued, in which opinions and sentiments entirely opposite were maintained by each. On subjects of vital importance they were disagreed. So that finally they, whose hearts had received their first tender impressions from each other, with an apparent calmness inconsistent with their true feelings, separated, to meet no more."
Grandma paused, and for several minutes no one seemed disposed to speak. Each of us was looking into his own heart to see if there were grace enough there to bear us conquerors through such trials as might be in store for us. The silence was broken by Henry, inquiring the sequel of the young Christian's career.
"Well," said grandma, "Jacob continued to live a consistent, Christian life. He visited his parents every summer, gladdening their hearts by the purity and simplicity of his life.
"When he had been six or seven years in New Orleans, he was taken into partnership by his kinsman and employer; and shortly after he married the daughter of his pastor, whose sweet companionship was a great help to him in his Christian life.
"It is a long time since I have had an opportunity of hearing of Jacob Wise; but I dare say, if still living, he is an example of moral dignity, truth, and uprightness, and an honor to the church of which he has been, from childhood, a steady and consistent member."
ROGER'S LESSON
"Hurrah! hurrah! Such a splendid morning for skating; clear as jelly and as cold as ice cream. Come ahead, boys; there's no telling how long this weather will last."
So said Roger to his two friends, whom he met on his way to the park. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks were almost as bright as the scarlet muffler he wore around his neck, and the dangling skates told for themselves the expedition upon which he was bound. The other boys readily agreed to join him, and after running home for their skates, the party started off in such high spirits that the conductor of the car which they entered, begged them to be a little more quiet.
"Not quite so noisy, please, young gentlemen," he said, as they paid their fare.
"Pshaw!" said Roger, while Bob made a face when his back was turned to them, giving Frank an opportunity of noticing the large patch on his overcoat. He made some funny speech about it, at which the others laughed heartily. It usually does boys good to laugh, unless the laugh be at the expense of some one else. A good-natured laugh is good for the heart.
After a while the car stopped for another passenger; the conductor assisted the person in getting on, and Roger, thinking more time was taken than usual, called out:—
"Hurry up, hurry up—no time to lose!"
The new-comer was a boy about his own age, but sadly deformed; he was a hunchback, and had a pale, delicate face, which spoke of sorrow and painful suffering.
"Now do move up," said the conductor, as the boys sat still, not offering to make room; but when he spoke, they all crowded together, giving much more room than was necessary,—the three together trying to occupy the space that one would comfortably fill. They continued talking and joking noisily, until the car stopped at the entrance of the park.
Bob and Frank pushed out ahead of all the other passengers. Roger was pushing out after them when the conductor laid his hand on his shoulder.
"Don't crowd, don't crowd; plenty of time, young man."
This expostulation came too late, for Roger in his impatience to get out, unheeding of what he was doing, caught one of his skates in the scarf of the crippled boy, who had been sitting next to him. He gave his skate strap a rude pull, knocking the boy rather roughly, and stepping on a lady's toes.
"Bother take it!" he exclaimed impatiently, and giving the scarf another jerk, ruder than before, he succeeded in disentangling it; then he rushed out, hurried over to the boys who awaited him on the pavement, where they stood stamping their feet and whistling. Roger made no reply to the crippled boy, who said to him gently:—
"It wasn't my fault, was it?"
"That hunchback caught his scarf in my skate. I thought it never would come out," he exclaimed. "It's kept me all this time!"
"Hush, Roger," interrupted Frank in a low tone of voice.
The boy was just behind them; he had evidently heard what had been said, for his pale face turned scarlet, and lingering behind to see which path the boys intended taking, he walked off in the opposite direction, and they soon lost sight of him.
Roger was hasty and impulsive, but his nature was kindly, after all; and when his skates were fairly on, the ice tried, and the first excitement of the pleasure over, he thought of his unfeeling speech, and the pale, sad face of the boy rose before him.
"Was it my fault?" The question rang in his ears. Was it the boy's fault that his legs were crooked, and his back misshapen and awkward? Was it his fault that he must go through life, receiving pity or contempt from his more fortunate fellow-creatures, whose limbs were better formed than his own?
The more Roger thought, the ruder his treatment of the poor lad now seemed, and putting himself in the boy's place, he felt that such words would have cut him to the quick.
"I say," said Bob, who had been cutting his initials on a smooth, glassy spot of ice: "I say, Roger, what makes you so glum? Why, I declare, there's the little hunchback sitting over there on the bank, looking at the skaters."
Roger looked in that direction, and saw him sitting alone, his only enjoyment consisting in seeing without at all engaging in the pleasure of others.
"What can a poor fellow like that do with himself I wonder?" added Bob. "I don't suppose he can skate or do anything else without making a show of himself."
"That's so," said Roger thoughtfully, wondering how he could make up for his rudeness, or take back his own words. He concluded to let it all pass for this time. In future he would be more careful, and less hasty in speaking; for Roger did not have sufficient manliness to go over to where the boy was sitting, and say frankly; "I beg your pardon for my rudeness."
The boys proposed a game of tag. Roger was a splendid skater; he engaged in the game with great zest: his spirits rose, and the crippled boy and the reproaches of his conscience passed entirely out of his mind as he skated on, knowing that he could keep his balance as well and strike out, perhaps, better than any fellow on the pond.
The swiftest and strongest, however, are not always the most successful, and as he swooped around, curving in very near the shore, a strap gave way, and before Roger could help himself, it tripped him, and he sprawled at full length on the ice.
The boys shouted; some laughed, but a fall is such a common occurrence that no one was very much concerned until Roger attempted to spring up again, to show them all that he didn't mind it in the least,—he would be all right again in a minute. Then he tried to stand; but when an awful pain shot up from his ankle, then he realized that it was quite impossible to stand.
They ran to his assistance, but before they reached him, a soft hand was held out to him, and a gentle voice asked:
"Have you hurt yourself badly?" Roger saw the deformed boy standing by his side, and then remembered that he had seen him sitting near by on the bank.
"I think I must have sprained my ankle," he replied.
The deformed boy knelt on the ice, and while the others clustered around, asking questions and offering suggestions, he quietly unbuckled his skates for him.
"I'll have to get home, I suppose," said Roger faintly; "but, boys, don't let this spoil your fun—don't come with me."
"May I go with you?" said the deformed boy. "I am not going to stay here any longer."
Roger thanked him, and a policeman coming up at that moment to inquire about the accident, a carriage was procured, Roger was put in, the deformed boy followed, and Roger was driven home.
"My fun is spoiled for this winter," he said, with a moan. "I know a fellow who sprained his ankle last year, and the doctor says perhaps he will never be able to skate again. What an unlucky thing for me!—it wasn't my fault either."
"No," added the deformed boy gently. "It was not your fault; and it was not my fault that my nurse let me fall when I was a baby and injured my back. I sometimes think it would have been better if she had killed me outright, though strong and well-formed people think it wicked for me to wish that."
The color which had left Roger's pale cheeks from his pain, rushed back for a moment, as he held out his hand and said:—
"I was a brute to you in the car this morning, but I didn't think what I was doing. Will you excuse me?"
"I know you didn't. Please don't say anything more about it. It is hard to pity the suffering of others unless we have felt pain ourselves."
Roger's sprain prevented him from skating again that season, and taught him also a lesson which let us hope he will remember all his lifetime.
BERT'S MONITORS
Bert was determined to go. He wouldn't ask his father, for he was very sure his father would say, No. He didn't quite like to disobey a positive command, so he would say nothing at all about the matter.
Bert was thirteen years old, and it was high time that he began to exercise his own judgment, at least when his own affairs were concerned,—so Bert thought.
He would like to know what harm his going down to the river for a quiet moonlight swim could possibly do to anybody. He would try it, at all events. Ned Sellars would be there, and Frank Peters. They didn't seem to care whether their parents liked it or not. Bert couldn't feel so, exactly; but, still, where was the sense in a boy's going to his father every time he turned round?
He was going. He had fully made up his mind to that. He went up to bed at the usual time, however, but his mother coming into his little bedroom about half an hour afterward, was surprised to find him almost hidden by blanket and quilt, though it was a warm night in August.
"Why, Bert, you'll smother. Do let me pull off some of these clothes."
But Bert held them tightly down. "I ain't cold, mother. I mean I ain't warm."
"Are you sick?"
"No'm."
"Two blankets and a quilt," laughed his mother, as she turned away. "I don't know what you're made of, Bert."
"And jacket and pants and stockings and shoes," thought Bert, as he snapped his fingers very softly under the weight of bedclothes.
The beautiful moon looked in at the little window. There had been times when Bert, gazing at her pure, pale face, had marveled that any boy could have the heart to do wrong when her soft light was shining on him; but to-night she seemed to say, "Come on, come on. I tell no tales. The night indoors is warm and stifling. The river is cool and clear. My beams are there before you. Come on, come on!"
It seemed as if the hours had never lagged so heavily. Eleven o'clock was the time agreed upon.
Twice Bert found himself napping. Suppose he should go to sleep. The idea was not to be entertained for a moment. He sat up in the bed and listened, listened, listened, until at length the welcome strokes greeted his ear. He was tired and sleepy and stupid and very warm. He opened his door softly, and went down stairs. He did not dare unlock the front door, for grandpa's room was just across the hall, and grandpa always slept with one eye open. He crept through the kitchen, and found himself in the shed. Was ever anything more fortunate? The outer door was open.
He took his hat from the nail, and just then a plaintive "mew" greeted his ear.
"Hush! Be still, Cuff," said he, in a whisper.
But Cuff wouldn't be still. She was very glad to see him, and was determined to tell him so.
"Mew, me-aw," called Billy, the mocking-bird, from his cage above.
"Dear me," thought Bert, "they'll wake father up as sure as the world."
But it was not unusual for Billy to sing in the night. Indeed, his midnight music was sometimes overpowering. Bert stood very still for a moment, but could hear no one stirring. He walked on a few steps, Cuff purring loudly, and rubbing her soft gray sides against him.
"Bow, wow, wow, wow," barked the faithful watch-dog.
"Be quiet, Prince. Stop your noise!"
Prince knew his young master's voice, and, like Cuff, was delighted to be near him, and so gave expression to his feelings in a succession of loud quick barks.
"Hadn't you better go down, John?" asked Bert's mother, anxiously. "I'm afraid some one is trying to get in."
"They can't get farther than the shed," was the careless reply. "I left that open."
In a few moments all was quiet again. Prince lay down at Bert's feet, and Cuff stretched herself out beside him. Time was passing. The boys would surely be there before him. Very carefully he crept toward the door, hardly daring to breathe, in his anxiety.
But Prince had not been asleep. No, indeed! Restarted up at the first sound of his master's footsteps. It was very evident that something unusual was going on, and he was determined to be "in it."
"I must run as fast as I can," said Bert to himself. "Hit or miss, there's nothing else for me to do."
He was preparing to suit the action to the word, when Snow, the old family horse, who for a few days past had been allowed to wander about among the clover fields, put her white nose just inside the door and gave a loud and fiercely prolonged neigh.
"What next!" muttered Bert, between his teeth. "I shall expect to see some of the cows soon. I don't care if all the animals on the place come,—I'm going."
He was walking defiantly from the door, when he heard his mother's voice at her window. "I never can sleep, John, with a horse crying around. I wish you'd go down to see what the trouble is. And do lock the shed door. I haven't slept five minutes to-night."
What was Bert to do now? To go forward in the moonlight, with his mother watching from above, would be foolish, indeed. To remain in the shed, to be discovered by his father, seemed equally unwise.
He had very little time to think about the matter, for at that moment he heard the well-known footsteps on the stairs. He darted over to the shed closet, shut the door, and tremblingly awaited the result.
And the result was that, after standing painfully still for about ten minutes, during which Prince's significant sniffs and growls had thrice driven him to the very verge of disclosure, he was left unmolested in the dark old closet. He opened the door; but the shed seemed darker yet. No loving cat or friendly dog was there to cheer or to betray. Nothing but thick, black darkness. Was it possible that the moon was still shining outside?
He wondered if the boys were having a good time. He would open the door and go to them as soon as he dared. But while he was thinking and wondering, waiting until he was sure his father and mother were asleep again, the old clock rang out the hour of twelve. Midnight! It was of no use to go then; the boys would be gone.
And so Bert crept up stairs to his room, cross and dissatisfied, feeling that the fates were against him.
He was late to breakfast the next morning. His mother laughingly inquired if the weight of his bedclothes had affected his hearing.
"Yes'm—no'm. I mean—I guess not," he replied absently.
It was a rainy morning, and the weather was disagreeably warm. After breakfast Bert came into the shed, and watched his father as he mended an old harness.
"What sort of boy is that Ned Sellars?" inquired his father at length.
Bert started.
"I don't know. I think he's a pretty good boy. Why?"
"I passed the house this morning. Some one was getting a terrible flogging, and I think it must have been Ned."
"What for? Do you know?"
"Yes. They spoke very loud, and I couldn't help hearing. It was for running off last night. Going swimming, I believe."
Bert's eyes flashed.
"That's just like his father," said he, indignantly. "He never wants Ned to have any fun."
There was no reply. Some hidden feeling, he could hardly tell what, prompted Bert's next question.
"Would you flog me, father, if I went swimming without leave?"
"That depends upon circumstances," replied his father, looking searchingly into his face. "If my boy was mean enough to skulk out of the house at night, when I supposed him to be abed and asleep, it is just possible that I might not consider him worth flogging."
How Bert's cheeks burned. He had never looked at the matter in just that light before. "Never be a sneak, my son. It is cowardly and disgraceful."
Bert made no answer, but his thoughts were busy. Was he not every whit as mean and cowardly as if he had really gone with his unfortunate friend? Yes, verily.
And then he thought of his father. How good he was—never denying him any reasonable pleasure; nay, often denying himself for his sake. Bert seemed to realize his father's goodness now as never before.
As he thought of this two large tears rolled down his sunburnt cheeks.
"What is it, my boy?"
He brushed them away hastily.
"Father," said he, "I've been a sneak; but I won't be a coward. I was going with the boys last night."
"Ah!"
"Yes. I should have gone if it hadn't been for the dog, and the cat, and—all the rest of them. 'Twasn't any goodness of mine that kept me at home."
His father was silent.
"I wish you'd say something, father," cried poor Bert, impatiently. "I s'pose you don't think I'm worth flogging; but"—
"My dear boy," said his father, "I knew your footsteps in the shed last night. I knew perfectly well who was hidden in the old closet."
"Why didn't you say so?" inquired astonished Bert, tremblingly.
"Because I preferred to let you go. I thought, if my boy wanted to deceive me, he should, at least, imagine that he had that pleasure."
"O father!"
"Yes, you should have gone, Bert. Very likely I might have gone with you; but you would not have known it."
Bert hadn't a word to say.
"I pitied you, too. I knew that, after the fun was over, there must come the settling with your conscience. I was sure you had a conscience, Bert."
The boy tried to speak, but no words came.
"I was disappointed in you, Bert. I was very much disappointed in you."
Down went Bert's head into his hands.
"But now," continued his father, placing one hand upon his shoulder, "now I have my honest boy again, and I am proud of him. I do consider you worth a dozen floggings, Bert; but I have no disposition to give them to you."
Bert wrung his father's hand and rushed out into the rain. Cuff came running to meet him, and Prince barked with pleasure at his approach. Billy whistled and sung in his cage above, and old Snow's voice was heard in the field close by.
Bert loved them and they knew it. It was some minutes, however, before he noticed them now; and when he did, it was not in his accustomed merry way.
"Just like the monitors at school," said he, seriously. "Making such a fuss that a fellow can't go wrong, if he wants to." And he took Cuff up in his lap, and patted Prince's shaggy coat.
Bert's monitors still watch him with affectionate interest; but never again, I am happy to say, has he felt the least inclination to disturb their midnight slumbers.
A MORNING THOUGHT
With every rising of the sun
Think of your life as just begun.
The past has shrivelled and buried deep,
All yesterdays. There let them sleep,
Nor seek to summon back one ghost
Of that innumerable host.
Concern yourself with but to-day,
Woo it, and teach it to obey
Your will and wish. Since time began
To-day has been the friend of man;
But in his blindness and his sorrow
He looks to yesterday and to-morrow.
THE TWO CLERKS
Boys are apt to think that their parents and teachers are too strict; that they ought not to be obliged to get such perfect lessons, or to go to Sabbath school, to be so punctual and so particular. They wonder why they are not allowed a great many amusements and indulgences which they would like so much.
"What's the use?" they often discontentedly ask.
Well, boys, there is a great deal of use in being brought up right; and the discipline which sometimes seems to you so hard, is precisely what your parents see that you need in order to make you worth anything. I will tell you an incident, to illustrate it, which has just come to my knowledge.
William was the oldest child of a widowed mother, and she looked upon him, under God, as her future staff and support. He was trained to industrious habits, and in the fear of God. The day-school and Sabbath school seldom saw his seat vacant. Idleness, that rust which eats into character, had no opportunity to fasten upon him.
By and by he got through school and succeeded in securing a situation in a store in the city.
William soon found himself in quite altered circumstances; the stir and bustle of the streets was very unlike the quiet of his village home; then the tall stores, loft upon loft, piled with goods—boxes and bales now, instead of books and bat; the strange faces of the clerks, and the easy manners and handsome appearance of the rich boy, Ashton, just above him in the store,—all these contributed not a little to his sense of the newness and strangeness of his position.
William looked at Ashton almost with admiration, and thought how new and awkward everything was to himself, and how tired he got standing so many hours on duty, and crowding his way through the busy thoroughfares. But his good habits soon made him many friends. The older clerks liked his obliging and active spirit, and all had a good word for his punctuality.
But William had his trials. One morning he was sent to the bank for money; and returning, laid the pile on the counting room desk. His master was gone, and there was no one in the room but Ashton. Mr. Thomas soon came back.
"Two dollars are missing," said he, counting the money.
The blood mounted to poor William's face, but he answered firmly:—
"I laid it all on your desk, sir."
Mr. Thomas looked steadily into the boy's face, and seeing nothing but an honest purpose there, said, "Another time put the money into my hands, my boy."
When the busy season came on, one of the head clerks was taken sick, and William rendered himself useful to the bookkeeper by helping him add some of his tall columns. Oh, how glad he was now for his drilling in arithmetic, as the bookkeeper thanked him for his valuable help.
Ashton often asked William to go and ride, or to visit the oyster saloons, or the bowling alley, or the theatre. To all invitations of this kind, William had but one answer. He always said he had no time, or money to spare for such things. After the day's work was done, he loved to get back to his chamber to read. He did not crave perpetual excitement, or any more eating and drinking than was supplied at his usual meals.
Not so with Ashton. This young man had indulgent parents, and a plenty of money, or it seemed so to William; and yet he ate it, or drank it, or spent it in other things, as fast and so soon that he was often borrowing from the other clerks.
Ashton joked William upon his "stiff notions," but the truth was that William was far the happier of the two.
At last a half bale of goods was missing; searching inquiries were made, and the theft was traced to Ashton. O the shame and disgrace of the discovery! but alas, it was not his first theft. Ashton had been in the habit of stealing little sums in order to get the means to gratify his taste for pleasure; and now that his guilt had come to light, he ran off, and before his parents were aware of it, fled to a far country, an outcast from his beautiful home, from his afflicted friends, and from all the comforts and blessings of a virtuous life.
William is rapidly rising in the confidence and respect of his employers, fearing God, and faithful in duty.
