“Who finds mischief still
For idle minds to brew,”
Papa administered a check in the shape of a poem to be learned before the young gentleman should dine, and poor Master Artie feasted on a few of his own salt tear-drops, whilst searching ruefully for the ne’er-to-be-found handkerchief, and muttering—
“I wish I was out of this mean, old, rainy, gloomy town. Mamma would have understood how I just went in for a little fun. I’ll have it out of Charlotte yet, for this mess. She shall pay well for serving me this shabby trick. Pshaw! I do despise tell-tales. She shall hear from me. See if she don’t.”
I am afraid the rounds of Aunt Emma’s nice chairs were not improved in their appearance by the Keeper’s state of mind, so strong is the sympathy between little boys’ hearts and their feet; whilst the latter help to flee from coming danger or evil, they also seem to help them to bear present discomfort. Now, we don’t, for a moment, mean to recommend little boys in trouble to relieve themselves by disfiguring furniture—far from that—but we believe many a boy’s battle has been fought successfully, with angry, bitter feelings, many a troubled mood dispelled during a good, stirring game of foot-ball in the fresh, clear air. Try it, boys, the next time everything “bothers” and life seems “just one tangle,”—everybody saying, “Don’t do this,” or, “Why do you do that?” Sometimes it must seem to you as if there was no place for boys, so apt are we, old folk, with our nerves and nice surroundings, to forget our own “long ago.” If the foot-ball plan be not possible, then make your own place for boys, by doing some helpful deed for others, stifling your love of mischief, which, if you will stop to think, you will soon find has its root in thoughtlessness and love of self. All about and around you, may be found, if you earnestly seek, plenty of material to make for yourselves places in good people’s hearts, memories, and sympathies.
Try it, boys, only test the scheme, the very effort will discover the means.
Let us go back to the Keeper caged. Is he dashing still, in fury, against the bars?
No. There he sits, quietly studying his task, with a sunlit face which bears tokens of showers lately passed.
It may be that, in fancy, he had caught a glimpse of Mamma’s sad, disappointed face; very true it is that Mamma’s teaching has come to his mind, and then the morning prayer, so hurriedly said, “Deliver us from evil.” Then Artie looks upward, the promised Spirit descends as a Dove, stilling the troubled waters of the passionate boy nature, breathing in repentant feelings and helps to right doing.