“Mr. Day looks as if he’d a mighty heavy burden to bear, and I’m afraid I’ve often helped to make it heavier. I’ll try and be quiet and steady to-day, and set a good example to the boys about me,” thought David.
He kept his resolution; and glad indeed would he have been that he had done so, had he known with what an aching heart and aching head the poor master had begun his day’s work. Mr. Day had private griefs, about which his pupils knew nothing, which sorely imbittered his life. He was also subject to racking headaches, which the noise of a school-room increased to such a painful degree, that he would long before have given up his office, had he not had a wife and children to support.
“I fear that I cannot stand this work much longer,” poor Mr. Day had said to himself that morning. He was like a weary pack-horse dragging a weight beyond its strength up a steep hill; and, from mere thoughtlessness, his pupils had often acted like boys dragging on behind. But things went on better on this Monday; and Mr. Day told his wife as they sat down to dinner that he had had much less worry than usual with the boys. He did not guess the cause of the relief—that one of his best scholars had been on that day helping to bear his burden.
David Jones, as I have said, had brought with him his dinner of bread and cheese, as his home was at some distance from the school. He sat down under a hedge with a good appetite to enjoy his simple meal. Scarcely had David begun it, when, chancing to raise his eyes, he saw a ragged half-starved-looking child, wistfully watching him as he ate.
“I dare say that poor little creature has had no breakfast to-day,” thought David, “and maybe no supper last night. Should I not be doing a little thing to please my Lord if I shared my dinner with her?”
He broke off a piece of bread, and, smiling, held it out to the girl, who eagerly ran forward to get it, and ate it as if she were famished.
“And there’s a bit of the cheese too,” said David kindly, watching the hungry girl’s enjoyment with a pleasure which made his own scanty meal appear like a feast. David knew well that our best works deserve no reward from God, yet he could not but recall with joy the gracious promise to those who feed the poor: They cannot recompense thee; for thou shalt be recompensed at the resurrection of the just.
When afternoon lessons were over, David, whistling as he went, set out on his homeward way. “It is a strange thing,” thought he, “but whenever we try to bear other people’s burdens, it seems as if our own hearts grew lighter and lighter!”
As David passed by an orchard, divided from the road by a rough stone wall, he heard a voice calling to him, and came up to Owen Pell—a boy of about his own age—who was looking up at the fine ripe fruit hanging almost over the wall.
“I say, Davy; lend me a hand. I think I can climb over here.” He was already mounting the wall. “Let’s fill our pockets with apples. Don’t they look tempting and nice?”