As the master, with an undisturbed and serene countenance, gave this version of the ride, it was very manifest from the expression of the boys' faces, and the glances they exchanged, that they recognized the history of their doings of the previous day; and it is not easy to describe nor to imagine the effect produced by this new translation of their own narrative. Some buried their heads behind their desks; some cried; some looked askance at one another; and many hastened down to the desk of the teacher, with apologies, regrets, and acknowledgments without end.
"We did not know it was your father," they said.
"Ah, my lads," replied the teacher, "what odds does it make whose father it was? It was probably somebody's father,—an inoffensive traveler, an aged and venerable man, entitled to kind treatment from you and everybody else. But never mind; he forgives it all, and so do I."
Freely pardoned, they were cautioned that they should be more civil for the future to inoffensive travelers, and more respectful to the aged and infirm.
Years have passed by. The lads are men, though some have found an early grave. The boy who related the incident to his master is "in the deep bosom of the ocean buried." They who survive, should this story meet their eye, will easily recall its scenes and throw their memories back to the schoolhouse in Federal Street, Salem, and to their friend and teacher.
—Henry K. Oliver.
* * * * *
The Tongue Can No Man Tame
Lord, tame my tongue, and make it pure,
And teach it only to repeat
Thy promises, all safe, all sure;
To tell thy love, so strong and sweet.
Lord, tame my tongue, and make it kind
The faults of others to conceal
And all their virtues call to mind;
Teach it to soothe, to bless, to heal.