New Lights on Old Paths

New Lights on Old Paths

BY CHARLES FOSTER,
AUTHOR OF THE “STORY OF THE BIBLE,” Etc.
350 ILLUSTRATIONS.
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE OF
CHARLES FOSTER’S PUBLICATIONS,
No. 118 SOUTH SEVENTH STREET,
PHILADELPHIA, PA.

Copyright, 1885,
By CHARLES FOSTER.

——————
Electrotyped by Westcott & Thomson, Philadelphia.

PREFACE

THE author is expected to say something by way of introducing, or apologizing for, his book. What is its object? Why did he write it, when there are already so many more than are wanted? In reply to these questions he would say (what is evident, indeed, without saying) that nobody adds another to the long list who does not believe that—on his subject, at least—there is room for one book more. And he proves the sincerity of his belief by making the venture.

The writer of this volume does not claim to present in it a single new truth. In the sphere of morals, of which it treats, he believes there is no such thing. It is not new truths that we need, but the application of old ones to our daily life and practice. Any device that may assist in securing so desirable a result is of value; in the hope that these Fables may not be wholly useless to this end he hazards their publication. As their title indicates, they will be found to vary widely in subject and mode of treatment.

One word about the illustrations: these all, without exception, were drawn for the book. Much time, labor, and expense have been bestowed upon the effort to make them appropriate and entertaining. The illustrations of a story may be compared to the music of a song. We can bear with some defect in the verse if the music awakens the sentiment the verse was intended to express. So the author hopes that the excellence and originality of many of these designs will in some measure make amends for whatever deficiencies the reader may discover in the text.

THE INNKEEPER.

There was once a man who kept an inn on a country road. Just back of his house stretched a dark forest in which a number of bad men lived. Some of these men were great fighters, some were robbers, some had even murdered people. And they were all in the habit of coming to the inn. They were very glad to have some place where they could meet together and talk over the wicked things they had done, and lay plans for more that they wanted to do.

In that same country, but farther off, there was a rich plain which was covered with beautiful farms. The people who lived on these farms were very different from those who lived in the forest. They were honest and industrious; they had ministers and schoolmasters living among them; on every weekday they might be seen working in their fields, and on every Sunday going to their churches. And they too used to stop at the inn as they went to the city to sell the butter, and eggs, and poultry, they had raised, and to buy the tea, and coffee, and clothing, and other things, that they needed.

It happened, one day when these good men stopped at the inn, that the bad men out of the forest were there. Then the good men went to the landlord, and said:

“Give us a room away from these men where we cannot hear their evil talk.”

So the landlord put them in his parlor on the opposite side of the house; but though the doors were shut tight, the noise came through, and was so loud that the men in the parlor could hardly hear themselves speak. Then they said to one another:

“What shall we do to get beyond the reach of these horrid sounds? Truly, we can do nothing else but leave the place.”

So they went out and harnessed up their horses and drove off.

The next time they stopped at the inn the bad men were there again. Then the farm-people called the landlord, and said to him:

“We want to stay and take dinner here. Bring us therefore to a room much farther away from these men than the parlor where you put us before.”

So the landlord took them up stairs into the best room on his second floor, and gave them the key of the door, that they might lock themselves in and stay as long as they wanted. But the bad men had seen them going up, and presently they seized the great clubs that they always carried, and hurried up after them.

“Let us in!” they cried.

But without waiting for any answer they broke down the door and rushed at the men who were sitting around the table, until they had to run for their lives.

That night, after everybody had gone to bed and the landlord had locked up the inn, as he sat alone by the fire, he said to himself:

“I must do one thing or the other. I must turn away either the good men or the bad men, for it is plain they cannot both come to my house. Which shall it be?”

After thinking a while longer he said:

“I admit that the people from the forest buy a good deal more out of my bar-room—wine, brandy, and whiskey—but then they get drunk and break my furniture, and often refuse to pay for what they have had; so that, in truth, I do not make any great profit out of them, after all—not near enough to make up for the bad example they set my children and the bad name they give my house. But the people from the farms, though they do not buy any brandy, or whiskey, buy a good deal more of bread and meat, and they always pay for what they get. By the end of the year I am sure that I make more out of them than I do out of the others. Then they are kind to my family, and they make my house respectable and give it a good name. I am resolved what to do, and which to turn away. These shall stay, and the others shall go; and to-morrow I will tell them.”

So, after making up his mind, he went to bed and slept all night.

Early the next morning he opened his house. As soon as the door was unlocked in came the men from the forest, and they kept on coming till the bar-room was full. Then, while they were making a great noise, talking very loud, and calling for drink, the landlord rapped on the top of the bar and cried:

“Silence, and listen to me! You men have been coming here and doing as you pleased, until you seem to think the house belongs to you, and that you can turn people out of it whenever you like. But I am the one who has to pay the rent, and I think it is for me to say who shall come and who shall go. And now I say that I want you to go and never come back.”

As soon as the landlord had spoken in this firm way the men out of the forest—who, in spite of their boasting, were great cowards—began to steal off one by one, until they were all gone; at which the landlord was glad, for he thought he had gotten rid of them altogether. But in this he was mistaken, for in a few days they were back again, standing about the doors and watching for a chance to get in.

To keep them out the landlord shut up all but the front door, and tried to keep his eye on that. But so impudent had the men grown that they began to climb into the windows when no one was looking. Then the landlord sent for the blacksmith and had iron bars put across every window. But after he had done this the men even got up on the roof in some way, and came down the chimney like so many sweeps; at which the landlord told his hired man to build a hot fire, and to keep it blazing no matter how much wood it burned.

But it was not possible to close every door, and window, and chimney, and keep them always shut. There was the side door, that opened into the flower-garden, where sometimes persons wanted to walk; and there was the back door, out of which the cook must go to the woodpile many times every day. Some of the windows opened on beautiful prospects, where the boarders liked to sit and look out. So that, do what he would, the landlord often found places left open.

And, beside this, the men out of the forest had lately changed their plan. They came now dressed up like the farm-people, and sometimes the landlord could hardly tell one from the other. In short, they were too clever for him; and so, in spite of all he could do, they got in, and every day he would meet some of them sneaking about the house, or hidden in some closet or corner, or under a bed.

While things were in this sad state he was sitting one night before the fire by himself, just as he sat on the night that he made up his mind to order the bad men out of his house. But how differently he felt now from what he felt then! Then he thought he could have everything his own way, but now he had done his utmost, and, instead of getting better, things were getting worse and worse. He was very much discouraged and low-spirited.

Then he began to think of some of the wrong things that he had done himself. He had been too friendly with these bad men, and not as kind as he should have been to some good men that he knew. Especially he remembered how unkindly he had treated one good man. It happened in this way.

When he first came to the inn, after renting it, he found a watchman there. The owner of the inn had sent him to watch it, and keep it safe. When the landlord came, this watchman did not go away, but stayed on. The owner had told him to stay and watch the house; for, although the owner had rented it, the house still belonged to him.

So the watchman stayed and tried to make himself useful to the landlord. But the landlord paid no attention to him; in truth, he often treated him rudely, until one day, when the watchman was warning him against these very men out of the forest, the landlord told him he could take care of his house himself, and that he did not want his help any further.

Since that time the poor man had been staying about the inn wherever he could find a place. Sometimes he slept down in the cellar, sometimes out in the wood-house; and when he got anything to eat, it was always after the servants were done, and only such food as was left from their table. And now the landlord remembered all this. While he sat thinking about it before the fire, there was a knock at the door.

“Come in,” said the landlord; and the door opened, and in walked this same watchman. He did not say a word, but stood still, looking right at the landlord.

“Watchman,” said the landlord, “I have treated you very unkindly, and I am sorry for it. Are you willing to forgive me and be watchman again?”

“I am,” said the watchman, “if you will promise to pay attention when I warn you of danger.”

“I promise,” said the landlord; “I will do anything to get out of the trouble I am in.”

“Very well, then,” replied the watchman; “it is a bargain between us. But now go to bed and get some rest, for you need it.”

So the landlord went to bed, and because his worry of mind had worn him down a good deal he soon fell asleep.

Early the next morning, before any one else was awake, the watchman was up and at work. The first thing he did was to build up the little room, or watch-box, that used to stand in front of the house. It was placed there on purpose for him when the house was first built, but because it had not been taken care of it had long since tumbled down. But now the watchman built it up again, setting in windows all around it, so that as he stood there, he could look out on every side. As soon as he had built up his watch-box he fixed the cord, or bell-rope, that reached from there into the landlord’s chamber.

And no sooner was this done than, seeing one of the forest-people coming toward the house, he pulled the cord and rang the bell. At this the landlord awoke. He knew what it meant. He did not need any one to tell him, for he used to hear that bell long ago, although he then paid no attention to it. But now he jumped up and dressed quickly, and ran to the door just in time to shut out one of the very worst of the men from the forest.

After that the bell went on ringing every day, and the landlord was kept busy shutting doors and windows. It must be confessed that he got tired of hearing it sometimes; but he was so much happier, he ate so much better and slept so much sounder than he did before, that, even when it put him to a good deal of trouble, he was always careful to obey the bell.

All this time the good farm-people were made welcome at the inn. The door was always wide open to them, and the best of food was put on their table. As they never went into the bar-room to buy anything to drink, and as they disliked very much to see drunkards about, the landlord concluded to take away his bar and make the inn a temperance house. Being pleased at this, the farm-people came oftener and stayed longer than ever before, until the landlord found himself growing rich on the money they paid him. Then he painted his house inside and out, and added some new rooms to it, and made it more comfortable every year.

When the forest-people found that the watchman was always looking out for them, and that the landlord always paid attention to his bell—and when they saw, too, that the company in the house was such as would make them feel ashamed, even if they should get in there—they did not try to get in as often as they used, and so the bell did not ring nearly so often. Then the landlord had time to walk in his garden and to sit down in the shade of his favorite tree, which he had not been able to do for long years before.

And so things went on from year to year. The landlord never ceased to mind the bell, and gradually, as he grew older, it rang more and more seldom, until, during his last sickness, while he was shut up in his chamber, growing weaker and weaker every day, it stopped ringing altogether. And this was not because the watchman (whose name was Conscience) was unwilling to disturb him, but because the forest-people (that is, wicked thoughts and bad desires) did not trouble him any further.

So the old man lay in peace and quietness until he died. Then his son took the inn and carried it on. It is true that the men out of the forest knew as soon as the old man was dead, and thinking that now, as there was a new master, they might perhaps be able to get in, they came and tried again and again. And the son had to fight his own battles with them like his father. But he kept the watchman in his house, and minded the bell; and in the end he gained the victory, as his father had done before him.

THE BROOK AND THE WATER-WHEEL.

THE water-wheel in a grist-mill went round and round, by day and by night, without stopping. Said the brook one day, as it passed over the wheel:

“Are you not tired of being always at work, and of doing the same thing to-day that you did yesterday? When I have done my work in making you turn, I glide on and take my pleasure in flowing through the fields and the woods.”

“But my pleasure,” replied the wheel, “is in continuing to work, and go round and round, grinding up the corn.”

“Yesterday,” continued the brook, “as I flowed through the meadow, I heard some people who were wandering there say how beautiful I was, and what sweet music I made as I rippled over the stones.”

“And no doubt they said what was true,” replied the wheel, “but it could never be said of me. How would I look rolling through the meadow? I would not be admired by others, nor would I enjoy it myself.”

“You are to be admired for your humility,” said the brook, “in being contented with so dismal a place.”

“Not at all,” replied the wheel, “for when this place was given me, I was given also a liking for it.”

“But do you not long for the sunlight and the breeze and a sight of the birds and the flowers?”

“No more than you do for this dim chamber under the mill. Here I was made to dwell, and here I am satisfied to be. I greet you tumbling in from the mountain-side over my head, and I bid you adieu as you flow out joyously under my feet; but I do not long to follow you. The summer’s heat does not parch me here, nor the winter’s frost stop me from turning. Ever in this dim twilight I revolve and listen to the sound of the grinding. I delight to hear the farmer drive his team to the mill door loaded with grain, and afterward haul it away when I have made it into flour for his wife and children to eat. I am content to stay here and labor—not by constraint nor for duty’s sake alone, but because the place accords with my nature, and therefore it is my choice.”

We often err in judging the lot of others by our own feelings and preferences, forgetting that, from differences in taste or training, what would be pain to us may be pleasure to them.

THE COURT-HOUSE STEEPLE.

THE steeple on a country court-house was built to hold a clock. But when a year or more had passed after it was finished, and no clock appeared, it began to complain that the promise made to it had not been kept.

“I expected to be of some consequence in the village,” it said, “but with these ugly round holes in my side left boarded up, I am of no more account than if I did not exist.”

The town council, having heard of what it said, met together to talk over the matter, when they had to admit that the complaint was just; so an extra effort was made to raise the money needed, and, this being successful, the clock was ordered, and in due time put in its place.

And now the steeple’s ambition was fully gratified. The clock kept good time and was the standard for the whole village. The farmers went to their work by it, and the children to school; the people also who drove in from the country might be seen, as they passed the court-house, leaning forward, with upturned faces, to get the correct hour.

Week after week passed, and month after month, and still the steeple was gazed at by old and young a hundred times a day. But after a good many months had rolled round, notwithstanding all this attention, it began to be conscious of a change within itself.

“It is true I have got what I asked for,” it said, “and my proudest wishes have been fulfilled; but, after all, what have I gained by it or how am I any better off? I am just as much exposed to the winter’s cold and the summer’s heat, to the risk of storm and lightning and fire, as ever. And, as for being looked at—which I once thought so much of—I’m tired of it, and could wish myself back to what I was before, instead of being forced to listen to the click of these wheels and the banging of that great iron hammer by night and by day. I believe I’d rather be the empty steeple on the church, across the street.”

At length its complainings reached the ears of one of the council, who, though an old man, climbed up the steeple’s winding stair and listened patiently to what it had to say. When it had finished, he answered:

“My friend, I think I can put my finger on the cause of your discontent. You were very anxious to have the clock, you remember, but perhaps you never recognized the reason, which was only a desire to increase your own importance. You thought that all the watches and all the little clocks in town would be regulated and ruled over by you. Your motive was wholly selfish, and, as a consequence, when you got what you wanted, it failed to satisfy.

“Now, as for taking the clock down again, that is out of the question. It was put here for the benefit of all, and here it must stay. Nevertheless, if you will take an old man’s advice, I think your troubles will soon come to an end. Instead of thinking only of yourself, your own comfort, and your own consequence, think of other people. Remember the good you have the power to do them, and for their sakes be willing to do it. Then you will find that the possessions which yield no satisfaction while hoarded up only for self, impart a real joy when shared with others in the uses of charity.”

CROOKED HORN AND OLD BRINDLE.

A COW that had a crooked horn learned to open gates and let down bars with it, and, as her master took no pains to keep her at home, she roamed the roads unrestrained. One day, in passing a neighbor’s meadow, she saw an old brindled cow inside hobbled by a rope and clog of wood fastened to one leg.

“Who put that on you?” asked Crooked Horn.

“My master,” replied Brindle.

“What for?”

“To keep me from jumping fences.”

“I’m glad he’s not my master. Why don’t you leave him and take to the woods?”

“Well, he’s kind to me in other ways. He gives me a warm bed, and plenty to eat, in the winter, and beside, I have a notion that I’ve got myself to blame.”

“Nonsense! I’m allowed to jump all the fences I like. Whenever I see a good dinner through the bars, over I go, no matter whom it belongs to.”

“I wish I could do so,” said Brindle.

“But you can’t,” cried Crooked Horn. “I’m on my way now into yonder clover-field, over across the railroad.”

Saying which, she kicked up her heels and galloped away. But just as she reached the track an express train dashed past, and old Brindle saw the engine toss her boastful acquaintance into the air as a mad bull tosses a dog. Another moment, and poor Crooked Horn lay in the ditch mangled and dead.

“Oh,” cried Brindle, shuddering and looking down affectionately at the rope and block of wood, “how glad I am now that my master hobbled me!”

If we only knew how much worse ills our troubles save us from, we would often welcome them, instead of trying to free ourselves from them.

THE MILLER’S TENTH.

A YOUNG miller who had succeeded to his father’s business, made flour for the people of his native village, and also for the farmers of the country around, receiving for his pay, or toll, one-tenth of the grain that he ground. He measured this out in a round box—called a “toll-dish”—which contained just one-tenth of a bushel.

Among his customers was an old farmer who, having his farm all paid for and well stocked, with some money out at interest beside, was looked upon by his neighbors as a rich man. He used to come about once a fortnight to the mill, bringing four or five bags of wheat to be ground.

One day, after the old man had left, as the miller began pouring his wheat into the hopper, the thought occurred to him that if he should take a little more than a tenth the farmer would never miss it.

“Other millers do it,” said he, “and so might I as well. Beside, I will make it up to him by extra care in grinding his flour.”

So, after he had taken out the tenth that he was entitled to, he filled the toll-dish twice again and emptied the contents into a barrel of his own wheat that stood near.

But the miller did not feel altogether satisfied with what he had done. The thought of it disquieted him more than once. Yet he could not quite persuade himself to put the wheat back.

“I think I’m fairly entitled to something more,” he said, “from such a rich man.”

Then a bright thought struck him. There was in the mill some corn that belonged to a widow. She had wheeled it there in a barrow—poor woman!—with her own hands, and left it to be ground into meal.

“I’ll take something less than my full toll from her,” he said, “and so will make matters square by remembering the poor.”

This seemed for a time to overcome his scruples, and, having made a beginning, he gradually increased the extra toll that he took from the rich farmer, but soon discontinued making any allowance on his poor customer’s grist.

But, though the miller had made a correct calculation concerning the farmer—viz., that he would not miss what was unjustly taken from him—he had made a wrong estimate of his own conscience. He found by thus testing it that it was not of the sort to heal while he kept on wounding it afresh, or to accept as true what he knew to be false. It was rather of the kind that we find it so inconvenient to have when we want to do wrong and still be as comfortable as if we were doing right.

The miller was in the habit of going to the village church on a Sunday, where he sat in the pew with his wife and little children, taking part in the service and listening to the minister’s sermon. But now, whenever the eighth commandment was repeated, or so much as alluded to, he grew restless and uneasy and anxious for the service to be over.

On week-days the stage-driver, as he passed the mill door, threw out a newspaper that the miller subscribed for, and it had long been his favorite pastime, as the great water-wheel was revolving and the millstones were grinding, to sit among the bags of grain in his flour-besprinkled clothes and read his paper through and through. But of late he found himself avoiding all paragraphs headed: “Defalcation,” “Embezzlement,” “Breach of Trust,” “Conscience Fund.”

Now and then he stumbled on an account that was published there of some honest debtor who as soon as he was able paid up his back debts, or of some repentant thief who made restitution of the things he had stolen. This was unpleasant reading to the miller.

In the village there lived a man who had done just the reverse of these things, and in consequence bore a bad name. The miller disliked to meet this man. Occasionally he had to go on business to the county-town, and on his way passed the jail. Peering through the bars he often saw the evil countenances of the prisoners.

“What are they in there for, I wonder?” he said to himself. “The truth is I deserve to be there with them.”

And this finding of a rebuke in whatever he came across went on until everything about him seemed to join in a dreadful chorus, accusing him of his crime.

But at last the load on his conscience became too heavy, and he could bear it no longer. But what should he do to get rid of it? To confess his guilt would crush him to the earth. There was but one thing more dreadful, and that was to go on hiding it. But was there no way of escaping an open confession? Ah! happy thought! This would not be necessary. The farmer was still confidingly bringing his grain every two weeks to the mill.

“I will go over my accounts,” said the miller, “and add up to the last pound all I have ever taken from him, and this I will return gradually, from time to time, with his flour, in quantities that will not be noticed; so I shall pay my debt and clear my conscience without being even suspected of wrong.”

Having made this resolve, he longed to put it in practice, and could hardly wait for the next appearance of the farmer’s wagon. In a few days, however, it drove up to the mill door as usual. The miller with a glad heart (which he was careful to conceal) carried the bags it was loaded with into the mill, and bade the farmer a cheerful “Good-bye” as he drove away.

“Now,” he said, “I will take out of this grinding a part of my toll, lest, if I should take none, the difference may be noticed and some inquiry made.”

So he filled the toll-dish three times instead of six, as he was entitled to, and ground up the rest of the wheat.

But while he was thus carrying out, in secret, his plan at the mill, he little suspected how matters stood at the farmhouse. The farmer’s wife, who was a more shrewd observer than himself in such things as came directly under her charge, had noticed for some time past that the returns from the mill seemed short in weight, and at length she confided her suspicions to her husband.

“Nonsense!” said he. “I’ve known the miller all his life, and his father before him: his father had a conscience, and so has he.”

“Well,” replied his wife, “there’s one way of testing it that neither you nor anybody else can object to. I weighed what we last sent him; now we’ll weigh what he sends back to us.”

As the farmer could find no fault with this proposal, he called it a bargain, and the next day went to the mill for the grinding. The miller received him gladly and hastened to carry out his grist to the wagon. As he drove homeward the farmer said to himself:

“How strange that wife should speak so about the flour! But women do sometimes take up such queer notions. I’ll be bound, now, that she will be waiting, when I get home, to have the bags put on the scales as soon as they are unloaded.”

He was not wrong. As he drove through the gate around to the side porch his wife appeared in her great white apron, hardly able to keep quiet until the wagon was backed up, and as the bags were taken out of it they were laid, one by one, on the scales that stood near.

“How does it come out, wife?” cried the farmer as she set down the pounds contained in the last bag.

But she kept on going over the figures again and again without answering, at which the old man put on his spectacles and hastily footed them up.

“Didn’t I tell you so?” he exclaimed, with a reproachful look for her and a triumphant one for himself. “Why, instead of cheating us, he has cheated himself! What a pity it is for a woman to be suspicious!”

“Don’t brag too soon,” said his wife, piqued at his words; “you’d better put that off till we’ve weighed another grinding.”

The hungry mouths on the farm soon demanded a fresh supply of flour, and before many weeks had passed another load of wheat, after being weighed with extra care, was hauled to the mill. The miller, in the mean time having found some relief to his conscience by the little he had already done, was more eager than ever to carry out his plan and remove his burden altogether.

“It is certain,” he said, “they have not noticed anything unusual in the last grist. I might just as well hurry matters up a little. This time I’ll take out no toll at all, and after this will begin adding some of my own flour.”

Putting off other farmers who had brought their grain before him, the miller ground the old man’s wheat first, out of its turn, and sent him word it was ready. His wife, still smarting under the charge of being unjustly suspicious, hurried him away after it, and waited his return even more anxiously than she had for the former load. It came in due time, and was promptly laid on the scales as the other had been. But if she was surprised before, she was dumb with wonder now, and her husband—who, in truth, thought there was no better woman—seeing her embarrassment, was considerate enough to do no more than join in expressing his astonishment at the unlooked-for result. The flour was quietly put away in the store-room, and other matters requiring attention about the farmhouse were looked after.

That evening, just before bedtime, as they sat together in their old-fashioned comfortable kitchen, the farmer said to his wife:

“I’ve been thinking about that last grist. There must be something the matter with our young miller’s scales, and you know that we don’t want to take without paying for it what belongs to him. I mean to go over to the mill to-morrow on purpose to look into it.”

“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” replied his wife, seriously. “Short of weight more than once I know the grinding was, and over-weight twice we both know it was; the thing keeps worrying my mind, and troubling me.”

The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, the farmer harnessed up his horses and drove to the mill. The miller, who was standing in the door, looked surprised to see him when there was neither wheat to bring nor flour to haul away. And not only surprised: there came a look of apprehension over his face, for there is always a lurking fear of evil in the heart that is conscious of hiding some wrong.

“I don’t believe you can guess what I’ve come over about,” cried the farmer as he got down from the wagon.

The miller said nothing.

“Did you weigh the last grinding?” asked the old man.

“Yes.”

“And the one before that?”

“Yes.”

“And don’t you know they weighed too much? But perhaps you wanted to make us a present,” he continued, good-humoredly, “or maybe, as winter is coming on, you thought we stood in need.”

The miller’s face grew scarlet. He attempted to speak, but his voice stuck in his throat and he could not utter a word. Perceiving at a glance that he was in trouble, the farmer’s manner changed.

“Tell me all about it,” he said. “I was your father’s friend, and am yours.”

Then the miller took the old man into the mill, and, shutting the door, told him, in a trembling voice, the whole sad story.

“I’ve found out,” he said, “that the wrong way is a hard way, and I’m in that way yet, but I long to get out of it. I’d give this mill—yes, and all that is in it—were that needful to make me feel myself once more an honest man. I have set it all aside. Those bags over there contain every pound I have ever taken. But I shall never know a happy moment till I see them hauled away from here and put into your barn.”

“My dear young friend,” said the farmer, drawing his sleeve across his eyes, “I care nothing for the flour, yet it is mine, and it is right I should take it. Carry it out yourself and load it on the wagon, and I’ll soon put it where you want it to be. I believe you have been taught, by the best of teachers, such a lesson as you’ll never forget. And be assured that after it I will never fear to trust you. Take my word for it, too, that no one but wife—and she can keep a secret—shall ever hear of this.”

The next Sunday the miller went to church, and, whatever else he might dread to hear about, it was not the eighth commandment. And the following week, and for many a week afterward, he read his newspaper as he did in former times—all through, skipping nothing, from beginning to end.

The way out of the path of uprightness is smooth and easy; the way back to it, rough and difficult. The one is ever open to the erring, but the other is never closed against the penitent.

THE LARK AND THE WHIPPOORWILL.

A LARK had nearly fallen asleep in the dusk of the evening, when a whippoorwill began calling loudly to its mate, that was lodged in another part of the wood:

“Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!”

“Why do you disturb me,” asked the lark, “here at the close of the day, when I am so tired and just ready to take my rest?”

“I will try to be quiet, then,” replied the whippoorwill.

So, with a great effort, the bird kept still. Occasionally, when its mate called from a distance, its bill would open and a faint note, “Whip! Whip!” escape. But a look at the lark, with its head under its wing, was enough to quiet it again. And so all night long it hopped about in silence hunting its food.

At last the rosy dawn appeared, and it flew down to its humble perch near the ground and made ready to go to sleep for the day. But just then the lark suddenly burst forth with a loud song, and started up in its flight toward the sky.

“Stop! stop!” cried the whippoorwill. “How is this? You made me keep silence when you wanted to sleep, and now, when it is my turn, you make more noise than I did.”

“It is my nature,” cried the lark, “in the early morning to shout out my glad song.”

“And it is mine,” replied the whippoorwill, “in the quiet twilight to call to my loving mate.”

“I suppose what you say is true,” said the lark, “but I am sure that I can’t help singing. Why do you not sing in the daytime, as I do? That is the proper time.”

“Nay,” replied the whippoorwill; “as you are made to wake and sing in the daytime, I am made to wake and sing in the night. Now, as we can neither of us have the woods alone, let us try and put up with one another’s songs, and so each of us enjoy its lot.”

As long as we live we shall find something to put up with in other people. It will be easier to do this if we remember that they in like manner have to put up with something in us.

THE GATE AND GATE-POST.

A GATE and the post that it latched to could not get along peacefully together. The gate swagged somewhat, and the post, instead of leaning back a little to accommodate it, seemed purposely to lean forward. As a consequence, there was difficulty whenever they met. The gate accused the post of getting in the way, and the post charged the gate with striking against it. Things remained in this unhappy condition for a long while, and very often the gate might be seen swinging back and forth in the wind, unable to latch itself, while the post showed ugly scars on either side, which were growing uglier and deeper every day. Neither seemed willing to yield, or even to make the first movement toward a reconciliation.

At length, on a gusty morning, after a squall had banged the gate against the post with unusual violence, the latter said:

“You needn’t think I’m going to give in. That last blow did you as much damage as it did me.”

“I don’t want you to give in,” replied the gate; “all I ask is that you lean back a little, so that I can swing free and fasten my latch as I used to do.”

“It’s your own fault that you cannot do so still,” said the post; “you began to swag and bear down on me, and then, of course, I began to butt against you.”

“Well, now,” replied the gate, “though I don’t agree to all you say, I am willing to admit this much—that there may be faults on both sides. But here we are together, and here we’ve got to stay. I can’t go off to look for another post, and you can’t go and hunt up another gate. Why can’t we try and get along as we did at first? I’m sure we were a great deal more comfortable then.”

“Agreed,” said the post; “I’m as tired of it as you are. Let us from this time do all we can to keep out of each other’s way.”

As this conversation took place in the early spring, when the ground was freezing and thawing almost every day, the two had the best possible chance of carrying out their good resolutions; and by the help of wind and rain, with an honest purpose on both sides, their efforts at last were crowned with success. Then all was pleasant and serene again. The gate swung free, the latch caught on the post without fail, and they upheld and supported each other, without either one trespassing on the other’s rights.

But after this tranquil state of things had lasted for some time, one day the latch, in passing, left a slight scratch on the post’s fresh paint. At once there was scolding and faultfinding on both sides. It was only a scratch, to be sure, and neither seemed disposed to make it any more; but, on the other hand, neither would recede enough to make it any less. And so, after they had overcome far greater difficulties, and proved that peace and harmony were attainable, they sacrificed them both because they could not overlook a very small offence. The consequence was that discord reappeared between them. When I last saw them, they were still giving each other (not at all times, but every now and then, when the wind was from a certain quarter) this irritating little scratch. I suppose it is thus with them still, and probably will be so to the end.

After surmounting great and serious difficulties in the way of our happiness, we often allow insignificant ones to keep us back from its possession.

THE WEEDY FARM.

A POOR but industrious man who rented a farm that was badly overgrown with weeds set his heart on getting rid of them. To do this he worked early and late. By the dawn of day he might be seen ploughing his fields, and because his own team (two rather sorry-looking horses) were not strong enough to turn up the deep soil he hired a pair of oxen and ploughed with them.

Afterward he went over the ground with his harrow, from one side of the field to the other, and again across it from end to end. He did this to break up the hard clods and throw out the roots of the weeds, that the sun might scorch and kill them. Then he sowed the ground thickly with good seed, so that if any of the roots were left they might be crowded out by the grain. He kept on patiently working in this way until he had gone over every part of his farm.

And his labor was not in vain, for in the fields where the corn and the oats and the rye were growing the weeds almost disappeared. Nevertheless, as soon as it came in turn for a field to rest and lie fallow for a season, they were sure to show themselves again. And in the pasture-land, that was never ploughed, they sprang up plentifully among the grass and the clover.

In vain the farmer took out his scythe, searching for the places where they grew, and cutting them down with his own hands. There were some places that he did not reach, and some where the roots were hidden from sight; so that every summer they continued to mar the prospect around him. And, as time went on, instead of getting used to them, it seemed as if he worried over them more and more.

At length, after he had been worrying thus from year to year, he went out one gloomy autumn afternoon to walk alone, and, seeing patches of the hated weeds here and there all over his farm, he grew very despondent. He turned, and came back with a heavy step to his cottage. His wife, having gotten through the rest of her work, was sitting by the window mending his well-worn coat.

“You know,” said he as soon as he came in the door, “how I’ve tried to get rid of these weeds. I’ve worked early and late, in season and out of season, and yet there’s not a field that has not got some of them in it. And down in the low-lying land back of the meeting-house—I’ve just been there—it seems to me they’re thicker than ever. I’m discouraged. I feel like throwing up my lease and giving up the farm, and fighting against them no longer.”

“Well, now,” said his wife as she threaded her needle and sewed away at his patched coat, “I think you’re looking only on one side. You haven’t worked all these years for nothing. You’ve had pretty good crops, I think, and it seems to me, the way I look at it, that this is a very good farm, after all, the way farms go. As for getting rid of the weeds, they were here when you came. It’s a weedy country. I don’t believe you’ll ever be able to get them clean out of the land. But then you’ve succeeded in keeping them under. I reckon that if we work hard, with the help of a kind Providence this farm will do till we get a better. For you know we hope to move to a better country some of these days, and to get new land that hasn’t any weeds in it.”

“I declare, wife,” said the farmer, brightening up, “I do believe there’s something in what you tell me. I never looked at it so before. I’ve been looking at the weeds, and nothing else. We ought to look at the crops too, no doubt since they’ve been given us in spite of the weeds. We must put up with something, I reckon, wherever we go; so I think we’ll just do as you say, and stay where we are, trying nevertheless, to get the weeds out, harder and harder. I’m glad I came straight to you. You always were a good, sensible wife, and now I admire you more, and set greater store by you than ever.”

We must not despair because evil is still present with us, but rather take courage from whatever growth in good our past lives may show.

THE KING SEEKING CONTENT.

A CERTAIN king who was weary of the cares of his high office determined to seek among his subjects for a perfectly contented man, and, when he found him, to exchange his throne for that man’s place, whatever it might be. “For,” he said, “peace of mind is worth more than even royal honors and dignities.”

So he disguised himself in a way that no one would know him, and went forth on his search through the streets of the city. And first he came into the house of a man who by long years of labor had heaped up great riches, and now, having withdrawn from all business affairs, was living in ease and luxury. But in a little while the king saw that this life, so different from that he was accustomed to, had become irksome and tedious, and that in his heart he wished himself back at buying and selling again. He looked out of his front window and said:

“Oh that I were only in the place of my opposite neighbor, whom I see going out early to business every morning!”

Leaving this man’s house, the king found an entrance into that of the neighbor whom he envied, who was still engrossed in trade as the other had formerly been. Already rich, he was adding to his wealth year by year; but in doing this he had to labor so hard, and to carry so heavy a load of care, that no time or space for enjoyment was left him.

“I am living but a slave’s life,” he said. “Would that I were well out of it, like my neighbor across the way, whom I see driving out in his carriage every afternoon!”

Passing out of this street, where many rich merchants lived, the king went into another, near by, and entered the house of a man whom he himself had appointed to a responsible post under his own government.