Chapter IV: Part 4

“And shall you let her come, mother?” exclaimed Clara. “Oh, do say yes! I shall be so delighted to have a little sister like Ellen to play with. I will help you take care of her all the time.”

“Her nurse will come with her,” replied Mrs. Gray, smiling at Clara’s eagerness. “Your father has now gone to visit your uncle and aunt, and it is quite probable that little Ellen and her nurse will return with him.”

“How glad I am,” said Clara; “I hope aunt will remain in Italy a long time. I do not mean that I hope uncle Henry’s health will oblige them to stay, but I should love to have him get better, and conclude to travel for two or three years, and leave Ellen with us.”

“There is no probability of their doing this, Clara. If your uncle should recover, they will return next summer; and though we may have become much attached to your little cousin, and grieve to part with her, I trust we shall not be so selfish as to wish to prolong her separation from her parents.”

“I can teach her a great deal before they come home,” said Clara. “She is nearly two years old now. I might teach her to read before she is three.”

“We will first teach her to talk,” replied her mother; “but we will not teach her to say, ‘I forgot!’”

“No, mother, I will not teach her to say that. I will teach her all that I can that is good, but nothing that is evil.”

“A very good resolution, Clara. And now we will return home, for the air is rather too cool.”

Before I tell my young readers about Mr. Gray’s return with little Ellen, I must introduce them more particularly to Clara; although, from what I have already said concerning her, they may have formed a good idea of her character, and have justly concluded that she is very much like themselves, sometimes trying to do what is right, and suffering herself to be led by the good spirits around her, and at other times somewhat selfish and thoughtless, allowing evil spirits to lead her in the wrong path.

Clara was nearly eleven years old. She was generally obedient to her parents and teachers, kind to her playmates, diligent in her studies, and orderly and industrious in her habits. Still she had some faults. Although obliging in her disposition, and desirous to be useful to those around her, she frequently entirely disregarded their wishes through mere thoughtlessness and inattention. Like most children, she was fond of play, and sometimes allowed her amusements to make her forget to perform her duties.

She was unwilling to believe that this forgetfulness was one form of selfishness; for Clara, like many other persons, believed herself free from this evil, because she was glad to share whatever she had with those who needed it, and was even willing to give up her own pleasure for the sake of being useful to others. I have known her to decline an invitation to a pleasant little party, because her mother was not quite well, and needed her attention; and yet, perhaps, in the course of that same afternoon, she would become so much interested in some book, or favorite amusement, that she would quite forget the object for which she remained at home, and entirely neglect to attend to her mother.

I will relate an instance of Clara’s thoughtlessness, and you will then see that she sometimes gave great trouble to herself and to others, although she very seldom intended to do wrong;—she only _forgot to do right_.

Very near to Mr. Gray’s there lived a good old woman, whom the children in the neighborhood called aunt Molly. She lived in a small cottage, with a neat little garden in front, containing a few flowers and vegetables, and one large apple-tree. Aunt Molly was quite lame, and always used a crutch in walking. She had one son, about eighteen years of age, who lived with her, and took care of her. During the day he was obliged to be from home to attend to his work, but he took good care to bring wood, and water, and every thing that he thought his mother could want, before he left her; and with the help of her crutch she was able to move about quite briskly, and her little cottage was always in the neatest order. Every child in the neighborhood loved to visit aunt Molly, for she had a kind word for each of them, and often a pleasant story to tell, or a gift of a rosy-cheeked apple or a pretty flower.

One bright afternoon in October, Clara asked her mother’s leave to pass an hour or two at the cottage. Mrs. Gray readily consented, and requested her to take a glass of grape jelly, which she had just been making, to the old lady.

“I love to carry aunt Molly a little present, because she is always so much pleased,” said Clara; and, tying on her bonnet, she bade her mother good afternoon, and taking the glass in her hand, soon reached the cottage, where she found aunt Molly comfortably seated in her large arm-chair, with her knitting-work in her hands, and her crutch lying by her side. She was, as Clara expected, much pleased with the jelly, and said it was the best she had tasted for many years. Clara sat by her side for half an hour, chatting away very happily, and then aunt Molly requested her to read aloud to her for a little while, as her eyes were failing, and she often found it difficult to see to read herself. Clara readily complied, for she was glad to be of use, and another half hour passed away very pleasantly.

“Now,” said aunt Molly, “you must go to the garden, and find a nice apple for yourself. In a few days my son will gather them all, but I have none in the house to-day. You will probably find some good ones on the ground, or perhaps you can reach the lower branches of the tree.”

So Clara ran to the apple-tree, and looked around upon the grass beneath it for a nice apple. There were some pretty good ones, but they did not suit her exactly, for high up above her head she saw those that were much larger and fairer.

“There is a beauty!” she exclaimed; “I can almost reach it. I wish I had a stick. I will run and borrow aunt Molly’s crutch, and knock it down.”

Aunt Molly was quite willing to lend her crutch, but she charged Clara to bring it back directly, as it was nearly time for her to put by her knitting and prepare tea.

“Oh, yes, I will come right back!” said Clara, “and I will set the table, and hang on the tea-kettle, and help you get tea.”

While Clara was endeavoring to knock the apple from the tree, she saw two of her schoolmates running along a lane not far from the cottage; they were talking very merrily, and seemed to be much pleased about something. Clara threw down the crutch and ran after them. They stopped when they heard her call to them, and told her that they were going to the grove to see a new swing which their brother had just put up.

“Can every one swing in it who wishes to?” asked Clara.

“Certainly,” replied Susan Allen, one of the little girls. “My brother said it was for the accommodation of all the children in the neighborhood. Come with us, and we will have a fine swing.”

In her eagerness to try the new swing, Clara quite forgot aunt Molly’s crutch, which she had left under the apple-tree, and ran hastily along with the other girls until they reached a small grove of willow-trees at the end of the lane. Here they found a fine large swing, and enjoyed their play so much that the time passed very quickly. It was nearly an hour since Clara had left the apple-tree, when she suddenly sprung from the swing, exclaiming,—

“Oh, dear, I forgot aunt Molly’s crutch! I am so sorry,” and she run as fast as she could toward the cottage.

Poor aunt Molly, after waiting fifteen or twenty minutes for Clara to return with the crutch, began to fear that some accident had befallen her, and thought she would try to get to the door and look out into the garden. She succeeded in doing this, by taking hold of the chairs and other furniture. She saw her crutch lying under the tree, but nothing was to be seen of Clara. She called as loudly as she could, but no one answered. Becoming still more alarmed, aunt Molly endeavored to get down the steps which led into the garden, hoping to be able to reach her crutch.

“If I can only get my crutch,” she said to herself, “I will go to the next house, and ask them to look for the poor child, for I know not what has become of her.”

But, unfortunately, the old lady, having nothing to take hold of, lost her balance and fell to the ground. The steps were high, and she was a good deal bruised by the fall, and her lameness entirely prevented her from rising, or helping herself in any way.

Providentially, however, her son returned at an earlier hour than usual. He was much shocked at finding his mother in such a condition, and carefully raising her from the ground, he helped her into the cottage, and laid her upon the bed. He was then preparing to attend to the bruises upon her face and arm, which were beginning to look very badly, but his mother begged him to leave her and look for Clara, for she felt exceedingly anxious concerning her. Just at this moment Clara ran hastily into the room, with the crutch in her hand, which she had found under the tree where she left it. She felt very sad at finding aunt Molly so much injured through her forgetfulness and neglect. The kind old lady did not reproach her, but she begged her to try to grow more thoughtful and considerate.

Clara went immediately to her mother, and told her of what she had done, and Mrs. Gray hastened to the cottage with some liniment and other things which were useful for bruises and sprains.

It was several weeks before aunt Molly was able to sit in her chair and knit again, for her arm was so badly sprained by the fall that it was a long time before she could use it. Clara went every day to the cottage to assist her, and gladly gave up many of her hours for play that she might have leisure to attend to aunt Molly’s wants, without neglecting her studies and other duties. This lesson appeared to make so deep an impression upon her mind, that her mother hoped it would quite cure her fault; but after a short time had passed away, Clara was nearly as heedless as she was before. When bad habits are once acquired it is difficult to overcome them, and many sad lessons are often necessary before we sincerely endeavor to remove the evil.

* * * * *

A few days after Mr. Gray had left home, his wife received a letter from him naming the day that he should probably return, and requesting to have a room prepared for Ellen and her nurse, as they would accompany him.

Clara was quite overjoyed, and begged her mother to allow her a holiday, that she might collect every thing that could please her little cousin from her old stores of playthings, some of which had long been laid aside. Mrs. Gray consented, and gave her leave to use the lower shelves of a closet in the room which Ellen was to occupy, for a baby-house. To this closet, therefore, Clara brought all her treasures, and spent several hours very happily in making new dresses for the dolls, and in arranging the different apartments of a house upon the shelves. At length the parlor, kitchen, and sleeping-rooms were all in proper order; the dolls were suitably dressed, and placed in their respective places; one or two were quietly seated in the parlor, another was standing by a washtub in the kitchen, and another might be seen in the neatly made bed in the upper room. Mrs. Gray was then summoned to look at the baby-house. She admired the neatness with which every thing was arranged, but warned Clara not to be disappointed if she found Ellen too young to understand and appreciate it.

“Why, mother,” exclaimed Clara, “even very little babies like playthings.”

“Certainly,” replied her mother, “but they like to play with them in their own way. Ellen will, I doubt not, be much pleased with the baby-house, but she will not know how to arrange things in an orderly manner, as you do. For instance, you have placed the clothes for your dolls very neatly in the drawers of the little bureau. Now, it is quite probable that Ellen will be delighted with the bureau, but she will not be willing to allow the clothes to remain in the drawers. Every drawer will be taken out, and the clothes unfolded; the bureau will be turned upside down, and perhaps a block-house built with the drawers.”

“Oh, mother,” said Clara, “that will not do at all! I will show Ellen how to play properly.”

“You can let her see how you use the playthings, and she will soon begin to imitate you; but do not interfere with her plays too much. It is better to let little children play in their own way, as much as we can, without allowing them to injure themselves or others. The Lord keeps good spirits constantly near to them, and in every innocent amusement they are endeavoring to impart those remains of goodness and truth which will enable them to be useful and happy as they grow older.”

“I will remember this, mother, and I will try to be patient, even if little Ellen pulls my pretty bed to pieces, and puts the ladies into the kitchen, and Susy, the girl who does my work, into the parlor.”

“She will probably do these and many other strange things,” replied Mrs. Gray; “but you must always try, when playing with little children, to play entirely for their amusement. Do not attempt to have things in your own way, but devote yourself to making them happy.”

“And now all is ready,” said Clara, “and how I wish to-morrow evening was here.”

“Never wish away time, my dear Clara, but endeavor to improve every moment as it flies. When we are busily engaged in our duties and pleasures, time always passes quickly.”

Clara followed her mother’s advice, and attended diligently to her studies during the forenoon of the following day. The afternoon was devoted to reading, sewing, and walking. The hours soon passed away, and the coach containing the travellers drove to the door before Clara had begun to watch for its appearance.

For two or three days little Ellen was too much grieved, by the separation from her father and mother, to show much affection for the new friends around her; but she soon forgot her troubles, and appeared perfectly contented and happy. She was a sweet-looking, happy child, and no one could look in her innocent face without loving her dearly.

Clara devoted every leisure moment to her. The baby-house was at first in constant disorder, but very soon Ellen would try to arrange the playthings as she saw Clara do, and if she did not succeed in putting them in their proper places, she would run to her cousin, and pull her by the frock, saying, “Come, Tara, come.” When all the things were in order, she would clap her little hands, and say, “Pretty, pretty! Ellen happy now.” This pleased Clara very much, and she sometimes told her mother that she loved Ellen more and more every day.

“I can teach her many things,” she said, “but there are some things which she teaches me. I never thought so much about the Lord, and heaven, and the angels, as I have done since Ellen has lived with us. I love to think how the angels watch over her, and try to teach her what is good and true. Sometimes when my lessons trouble me, and I feel idle and cross, if little Ellen comes into the room all these evil feelings go away, and I resolve to be good and happy. I think she brings the angels with her, and this makes me feel better.”

“You must remember that the Lord keeps angels near to you as well as to Ellen, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “The evil spirits are suffered to have more power over you than over her, because you are older, and have learned to distinguish between good and evil. You can easily tell whether the thoughts which come into your mind are right or wrong, and you know that the Lord will always enable you to remove the evil spirits, and suffer the angels to draw near to you, if you sincerely desire it.”

“Yes, mother, I know this; but sometimes I think I should love to be a little child like Ellen, and then I should not so often feel tempted to do wrong. How sweet she looks when she is asleep. When I look at her then, mother, I always feel like praying to the Lord. My heart seems to be raised to Him.”

“It is a good feeling, my dear, child,” said Mrs. Gray, kissing Clara affectionately. “The angels are indeed near to you when your heart is thus raised to your Heavenly Father, and He will always hear your prayer, and strengthen you to walk in the path of goodness and truth.”

Several months had passed since the commencement of our story, and in many respects Clara had considerably improved. “I forgot” was an expression less frequently used than formerly; but still her old habits of heedless forgetfulness were often troublesome, and she was frequently mortified to find that her friends feared to trust her in any important matter, lest she should neglect to perform her duty.

“Why will you never allow Ellen to walk alone with me, Margaret?” inquired Clara of the faithful woman who had charge of her little cousin; “I am sure I am old enough to take good care of her, and she loves me almost as well as she does you.”

“You are very kind to her, and she loves you very much, Miss Clara,” replied Margaret; “but I should fear to trust her in the street with you, because you are sometimes a little thoughtless, and some accident might happen to her. When your aunt parted from the dear child, she begged me, with tears in her eyes, to watch over her night and day, and I shall faithfully try to keep the promise I then made.”

“But, Margaret,” urged Clara, “what accident could happen to Ellen if I took her to walk up and down the street, and kept hold of her hand all the way. I would not leave her an instant.”

“You might forget her,” said Margaret, hesitatingly, for she did not wish to grieve Clara. “Some of your schoolmates might call to you, or something else might take your attention.”

“You ought not to say so,” replied Clara, looking a little offended. “I know I forget things sometimes, but they are almost always trifling matters, such as errands, or some other little thing. I could not forget Ellen. Could I, mother?” she continued, appealing to her mother, who was sitting in the next room, and had heard the conversation..

“I think Margaret is right, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “While we see you so forgetful of little duties, it would not be proper to intrust you with any thing important. I think you have improved in this respect lately, but you are still very thoughtless, and do not make so much effort to correct the fault as I could wish.”

Clara did not look very pleasant while her mother was speaking.

“I do not think I am any more forgetful than other people,” she said. “Every one forgets sometimes.”

“You speak improperly, Clara,” said her mother. “You are not in a good, humble state,—willing to acknowledge your faults and try to remove them.”

Clara made no reply, and soon left the room. She felt grieved and displeased that her little cousin could not be intrusted to her care, and she felt disposed to charge her mother and Margaret with unkindness, rather than to blame herself for deserving the mortification.

Not many days after the above conversation, Clara and Ellen were playing in the sitting-room, while Mrs. Gray and Margaret were busily engaged in one of the upper rooms, quilting a bed-spread. There was no fire in the room where the children were, and it appeared perfectly safe to leave them together for an hour or two.

Clara was keeping house, and she frequently sent Ellen to different parts of the room to purchase such articles as she supposed herself to need. Sometimes she was ordered to go to the grocer’s for tea and sugar, sometimes to the market for meat and vegetables. Ellen would run cheerfully to the place pointed out, pick up a bit of paper or any thing else that she could find, and return with it to Clara. I suppose you have all seen children playing in this manner.

“You must have a market-basket, Ellen,” said Clara. “I know where there is one that will do nicely. It belongs to me, but I never used it, so mother put it up on the upper shelf in this closet. I will take it down.”

Thus saying, Clara opened the door of the closet, and stepped upon a chair that she might reach the basket. There were several other things upon the shelf, and amongst others a box of small papers, neatly folded up and carefully labelled. When Clara took her basket down she upset this box, and some of the papers fell to the floor. She picked them up and put them in their place; but after she had shut the door, she saw that one little parcel had fallen upon the table near to the closet. “Never mind,” thought Clara, “I will put it back directly, as soon as I have fixed the basket for Ellen.”

They continued their play, and an hour passed very happily. Clara had forgotten all about the paper, which still lay upon the table. She was showing Ellen the pictures in a large and valuable book of her father’s, when Margaret looked in at the door, and inquired if they wanted any thing.

“Nothing at all, I thank you, Margaret,” replied Clara; “you may quilt another hour, if you like. We are having a fine time.”

Margaret gave them each a cake, and returned to her work.

While they were eating their cake, Clara saw a little girl, of whom Ellen was very fond, driving her hoop back and forth in front of the house.

“Oh, there is Mary!” she exclaimed; “look, Ellen, how fast she drives her hoop! I wish I could take you out there.”

Ellen knocked upon the window, and called “Mamy, Mamy!” but Mary did not hear.

“I will run to the door and call her,” said Clara, “and then she will come and see Ellen. Will you sit still while I am gone?”

Ellen sat down very quietly, and folded her hands, as she always did when asked to wait for any one, and Clara ran to the door to call Mary.

Mary was an obedient, thoughtful child, and she told Clara that she could not come without her mother’s leave, but if she would wait a moment, she would ask her.

The house where Mary lived was next door to Mr. Gray’s, so Clara promised to wait while she asked her mother.

“Be as quick as you can, Mary,” she said, “for I left Ellen alone.”

Mary ran into the house, but returned directly, saying, “I cannot come now, Clara, because mother wants me to take care of the baby. But just look at this beautiful present that my aunt sent me last evening,” and she showed Clara a pretty little work-box, and, touching a spring, it commenced playing a lively tune. “How pretty!” exclaimed Clara, “I never saw a musical work-box before;” and she stood still listening to the music until the sounds died away, and the box was as silent as any other work-box.

“Oh, make it play once more, Mary!” said Clara; and Mary again touched the spring, and it played another tune even prettier than the first.

Clara would still have begged for another, for the music and the pretty box had banished every thing else from her mind; but her more thoughtful companion reminded her that Ellen was alone, and that she must go to her mother.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Clara, “I forgot all about Ellen; I hope she has not cried for me. Perhaps she opened the door and went up stairs. She goes up alone sometimes. Good-bye, Mary,” and she ran back to the sitting-room.

Ellen had left the seat where Clara had placed her, and was standing by the table, with the little parcel which had been left there in her hand.

As her cousin entered the room, she looked up and said,—

“Ellen cry when Tara gone,—then Ellen find sugar.”

“Sugar,” said Clara, snatching the paper from her hand. “Have you been eating it, Ellen? I wonder what it is.”

As she spoke she looked at the writing upon the back of the paper, and saw “Sugar of Lead” written upon it in large letters, and the word “poison” beneath.

Clara saw that the paper was now empty, and she knew that Ellen must have eaten its contents. She turned deadly pale, and for a few moments stood motionless, as if at a loss what to do. Then rushing to the staircase, she screamed to her mother and Margaret in such a frantic manner that they both ran to her in great alarm.

“Oh, mother, mother!” she sobbed, “I have killed Ellen. I left her alone for a few minutes, while I listened to Mary’s music-box, and she has eaten some sugar of lead.”

“Eaten sugar of lead!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray. “It is impossible, for it was upon the upper shelf in the closet; she could not have reached it.”

“No, no, mother, she did not reach it; but I left it on the table, and forgot to put it back, and then I forgot to return to Ellen, and stood listening to the music a long time. She has eaten it all, and she will die, mother. Oh, what shall I do?”

Poor Margaret had caught Ellen in her arms, and was now sobbing as if her heart would break; but Mrs. Gray, with more presence of mind, begged her to be calm, and not alarm the child, as any agitation might hasten the effect of the poison.

“Do you, Margaret, go immediately for Dr. Gregory,” she said, “and Clara must go to her father’s office and ask him to come directly home. There was but a small quantity in the paper. We may do much for her if we are calm.”

Then, taking the child in her own arms, she spoke to her in a quiet and soothing manner, and taking her up stairs, gave her an antidote for poison, and then amused her until the physician and Mr. Gray arrived.

Prompt and judicious remedies in a measure counteracted the fatal effects of the poison, but a serious illness could not be avoided. For many days little Ellen seemed to hover between life and death, and even after the physician had pronounced her out of danger, she was for a long time so feeble that no one would have supposed her to be the same child who had seemed so full of life and health but a few weeks before.

I shall not attempt to describe the agony which poor Clara suffered during the sickness of her little cousin. Her parents treated her with great kindness, for they thought the lesson she had received was sufficiently severe, without adding to it by their reproaches.

For a long time she could not bear to say a word upon the subject, but it was evident that a great change was taking place in her character. She was now not only industrious and obliging, but so thoughtful and considerate that her friends soon felt willing to trust her, even where the greatest care was necessary.

The cold winter months had passed away, and spring had again returned to gladden the earth. Favorable accounts had been received from Ellen’s parents. Her father’s health had improved rapidly, and they were now about to return home.

“Do you think they will be here in another month, mother?” asked Clara, as her mother finished reading a letter which she had just received from their distant friends.

“I think they will, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “Are you prepared to part with our dear Ellen?”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears as she replied, “I shall try to be prepared, mother, but it will be a great trial. I always loved Ellen dearly, and since I came so near being the cause of her death, I have loved her more than ever. Every day I thank the Lord for His mercy in restoring her to health. It was a sad lesson, mother, but it helped me to see how really selfish I was. I could never quite understand why you and father should call forgetfulness a kind of selfishness; but when I sincerely endeavored to become more thoughtful, I found that the true reason why I used to forget so often was because I thought so much more of myself than I did of others. I now try to be very watchful of this fault, and I pray to the Lord to help me put it away.”

“And you will never look to Him in vain, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Gray. “You have already improved very much. Persevere steadily in the endeavor to remove selfishness in all its forms. It is the fountain from which many evils flow.”

THE SILVER MORNING
AND
THE GOLDEN DAY.

“O Father! please to come to the door, and see how pretty everything looks,” exclaimed William Mason, running eagerly into the room where his father was sitting.

Mr. Mason was always glad to give his son pleasure, and he laid aside the newspaper which he was reading, and followed him to the door.

There had been quite a heavy snow-storm a few days before, which was succeeded by rain, and then by severe cold. Everything was now entirely cased in ice.

“Is it not beautiful, father?” said William. “I have been all around the yard and garden, and everything has put on its winter coat. Every little branch and twig, every blade of grass, and even the little stones are covered with ice.”

“This is what we used to call a silver morning, when I was a boy,” said Mr. Mason.

“That is a good name for it, father,” replied William; “for everything shines like silver. Look at the road; it is almost as smooth as the pond. I think I can skate to school this morning.”

“You would probably find some rough places, which would injure your skates,” replied Mr. Mason; “but look towards the east, my son, and you will see something more beautiful than anything you have yet observed.”

There was a thick wood of pines toward the east, and, as William looked, he saw that the trees glittered like diamonds, and he could see colors like those of a rainbow in every direction.

He clapped his hands with delight.

“O father,” he exclaimed, “this is the most beautiful sight of all. The sun is rising, and soon it will shine on all the trees and plants, and then everything will look as beautiful as the pine trees do now. It was a silver morning, father, but it will be a golden day.”

“It will, indeed,” replied Mr. Mason. “Everything looked cold and dead before the rays of the sun shone upon them, but now all are sparkling with beauty. The trees will soon lose their icy casing, but the water will sink into the ground, and perform many important uses. The frosts and snows of winter prepare the way for the warmth and beauty of spring and summer. The earth rests from its labors, and is in various ways enriched and strengthened.”

“I like all the seasons, father,” said William. “In winter, I am so happy when skating and sliding in the fine cool air, that I wish the weather might always be cold; but when spring and summer and autumn come, with their long sunny days, and their beautiful birds and flowers and delicious fruits, I quite forget winter and its pleasures.”

“Yes, every season has its delights,” replied his father; “but look, William, there is one of your school-fellows. Is he already on his way to school?”

“Oh, that is only Louis Cunningham,” returned William, glancing rather contemptuously at a plainly dressed, but intelligent and manly looking boy, who was passing by.

“_Only Louis Cunningham_,” repeated Mr. Mason! “Well, is he not one of your school-fellows?”

“Why, yes, father, he goes to the same school. The master gives him his schooling for making the fire and keeping the room in good order. We call him the charity scholar.”

“I am grieved to hear you speak in this manner,” said Mr. Mason, gravely. “Mr. Cunningham died when Louis was very young, and his mother has been obliged to deny him many advantages of education, which she would gladly have given him if it had been in her power. Your teacher heard of their situation, and finding, from conversation with Louis, that he was an intelligent boy, and very desirous to learn, he kindly offered to take him into his school. But Louis and his mother, although they were very grateful for the offer, felt unwilling to accept it, unless they could make some return for the kindness; and it was finally arranged, that Louis should take care of the school-room and make the fire, and I have been told that he performs these duties very faithfully.”

“He does, indeed,” replied William. “The room is always warm and comfortable, and so nicely swept and dusted, that we never have any cause of complaint.”

“One would suppose, then, my son, that you would feel grateful to the person who performs these kind offices, instead of regarding him with contempt and dislike.”

“Oh, we do not dislike Louis, Father. He is always kind and obliging; but we do not like to see him placed on an equality with the rest of the boys, and often pronounced the best scholar in his class.”

“These are evil feelings, William, and I hope to have the pleasure of helping you put them away. Sit down by me in the parlor for a few minutes, and we will talk about Louis. Can you tell me why the boys think he should not be placed upon an equality with them? Is he inferior to the others as a scholar, or is he a wicked, profane boy?”

“Oh no, father. Louis is a very good boy, and a better scholar than many who have had greater advantages; but, as he does not pay for his schooling, we do not think that he is entitled to the same privileges that we are.”

“Even if this were the case, he would be entitled to every privilege, William, if Mr. Grant chose to instruct him without remuneration; but Louis does pay for his schooling; not indeed with his father’s money,—because the Lord has seen fit to remove his father to the spiritual world,—but with his own labor. Mr. Grant considers his services as an equivalent to his instruction, and, according to your own account, the duties are well performed. Louis, then, pays for his schooling as much, or more, than any boy in school; for the others depend upon their father’s labor, while he depends upon his own. Your school bills, as well as other expenses, are paid from the proceeds of my daily labor in my profession, and the case is the same with the other boys who attend your school.”

“This is very true, father,” replied William, “and I know it is wrong to despise those who are poorer than ourselves. We often laugh at Louis, when he comes to school with coarse, patched clothes; but I suppose his mother cannot afford to buy him any better.”

“She cannot, indeed, William; and of how little consequence is external clothing, compared to many other things in which Louis probably surpasses your other school-mates. It is right to be neat and clean, and as well dressed as our circumstances will admit; but the clothing of our soul is of more importance than the clothing of our bodies. If Louis is industrious, obedient, faithful in the performance of his duties, and in the endeavor to shun evil words and deeds, he appears to the Lord and the angels as if clothed in the most beautiful raiment.”

William made no reply, but appeared much interested in what his father was saying, and Mr. Mason continued,—

“You must ever remember the Golden Rule, my son. Think how you would wish to be treated, if you were situated like Louis; and then you will be more careful not to wound his feelings, by contempt or idle jests.”

“I will try to remember, father. I know I have done wrong, and I will begin to-day, and treat Louis just the same as I do the other scholars. Perhaps I may be able to help in some way.”

“These are good resolutions, my son; and, if they are carried into practice, they will do you and others much good. The light has dawned in your mind. It is a _silver morning_, and the rays of the spiritual sun will render it a _golden day_.”

Within an hour after this conversation, William was on his way to school, with his satchel of books and his skates slung over his shoulder, and his dinner pail in his hand. He was soon joined by several companions, and each boy tried to display his skill in keeping his balance on the glare ice, which to many would have rendered the road almost impassable. But boys have little fear of ice and snow, and, half running and half sliding, they soon reached the school-house, where they found, as usual, a comfortable and neatly arranged room.

Louis Cunningham was busily engaged at his desk, and, being little accustomed to any morning salutations from his school-fellows, he did not look up when they entered. He was somewhat surprised to hear William exclaim: “Good morning, Louis. What a grand fire you have got for us. I am sure we are much obliged to you, this cold morning.”

“You are very welcome,” he replied with a pleasant smile. “I came earlier than usual, on account of the severe cold. I am glad you find the room comfortable.”

“I should not have liked to have been the one to make the fire this morning,” remarked one of the boys. “In many schools the scholars take turns in cleaning the room and making the fire.”

“It is not fair that they should do so,” observed another. “Their parents pay for their schooling, and it is not right that they should be obliged to spend their time and injure their clothes in sweeping rooms and making fires. It does well enough for those who cannot pay.”

“For shame! John Gray,” exclaimed William. “You should not speak so thoughtlessly. You trouble Louis,” he added in a whisper.

John was a kind-hearted boy, but rude and thoughtless in his manners.

“I do not wish to trouble Louis,” he said aloud. “I only spoke the truth.”

The color, which had deepened on Louis’s cheek, faded away, and he said, kindly,—

“You do not trouble me, John. I agree with you in thinking that those whose parents can pay for their schooling should not be expected to take care of the room. But as I am situated, I regard it as a very great favor that I am in this way enabled to earn my own schooling.”

“It is a great favor to us,” exclaimed several boys. “We never before had so neat and comfortable a room.”

The entrance of Mr. Grant, the teacher, prevented any farther conversation, and each boy quietly took his seat, and performed his accustomed duties.

At noon, there was fine sport with coasting and skating, but, in the midst of his play, William remembered his promise to his father; and, finding that Louis was not among his companions, he sought him in the school-house. He found him seated at his desk, busily engaged with a pencil and piece of paper.

“Come, Louis,” he exclaimed, “Come and play with us. There is fine skating on the pond.”

“Thank you,” replied Louis, “but I have no skates this winter. I had a pair once, but they are worn out.”

“Then I will lend you mine, and I will slide for a little while. I shall like that quite as well. Do come,” urged William; and, as he spoke, he approached the desk, and looked at the picture which Louis was drawing.

“Why, Louis!” he said, with an expression of surprise, “I had no idea that you could draw so beautifully. You almost equal our drawing-master. Who taught you?”

“No one,” replied Louis. “I love to draw. If it were not wrong to neglect other duties, I would spend every day in doing nothing else.”

“Why do you not take lessons with the rest of us, Louis? I am sure our drawing-master would be proud of such a pupil. How you would laugh at our strange-looking pictures!”

“Mr. Grant is very kind, to give me so many other advantages,” answered Louis; “I should not like to ask the privilege of a seat at the drawing-tables, and then the pencils and paper are quite an expense. And if I learned to paint, it would be still more expensive; but, oh! I should love to learn so much,” and his face grew bright with pleasure at the very thought.

“You must learn, Louis; I am resolved that you shall,” said William; “but come now, and have one good play before school.”

Thus urged, Louis joined his companions, and, encouraged by William’s example, all received him kindly, and were careful to allow him equal rights with themselves, and not to wound his feelings by foolish jokes and sarcastic observations.

About fifteen minutes before the hour for school to commence, William saw Mr. Grant enter the school-house, and, quietly leaving his play-fellows, he hastened to follow him.

Taking from Louis’s desk the picture upon which he had been so busily engaged at noon, he presented it to the teacher, saying,—

“Is not this pretty well done, sir?”

“Remarkably well,” replied Mr. Grant. “You have improved wonderfully, William.”

“It is not mine, sir. Louis did it. He has never had any instruction in drawing, but I am sure if you will allow him a seat at the drawing-tables, he will soon equal our drawing-master himself.”

“He shall have every advantage, certainly,” replied Mr. Grant. “I am pleased with your request, William; for I have observed with pain that some of the scholars regard Louis with feelings of contempt and dislike, which are certainly quite undeserved.”

“I have been in fault in this respect,” replied William, blushing deeply, “but my father has convinced me that such feelings are very wrong, and I am resolved to do better.”

“I am glad that you have made so good a resolution, William. Your example will help the other scholars to do right also. You may have the pleasure of telling Louis that he can receive regular instruction in drawing, on the afternoons when the drawing-master attends the school.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied William, and he joyfully returned to his play-fellows.

A few whispered words told Louis of what had passed, and the glow of pleasure which suffused his countenance, and the warm pressure of the hand, amply rewarded William for his kindness.

“I have pencils and paper enough for both, Louis,” he continued, “and I know my father will be glad to have me share them with you.”

The sound of the bell now summoned the whole party to the school-room, and as this was the afternoon for the drawing-master, William had the pleasure of seeing his new friend seated by his side, and of hearing the warm commendations which were bestowed upon the contents of his little portfolio, which, at the request of the teacher, Louis modestly exhibited.

Much of the ice in the streets had melted away, but the trees were still glittering in the bright sunlight, when William left the school-house and took the road toward home. To him everything seemed even more beautiful than it had done in the morning, for his heart was filled with that happiness which always results from doing good. His father met him at the door.

“Well, my son,” he said, “has it been a golden day with you?”

“It has, indeed, father,” replied William. “I have remembered what you told me, and I have already found an opportunity to do Louis some good.”

Mr. Mason listened with much interest to William’s little story, and gladly gave him leave to assist Louis, by lending him his own drawing implements.

It was pleasing to observe the effect which William’s example of friendliness to Louis had upon the rest of the scholars. He was no longer regarded with contempt or indifference, but became as great a favorite with the boys as a play-fellow, as he was with the master as a scholar. The younger boys looked to him for assistance in all their pleasures and troubles, for they found that he was always willing to give up his own pleasure for the sake of making them happy; and the older ones frequently assisted him in his duties in the school-room, in order to gain so valuable a companion in their plays.

His improvement in drawing and painting was so rapid, that, before many months had elapsed, the drawing-master declared he could teach him nothing more, and advised him to procure a situation in some of the large schools in the neighborhood, as teacher of these branches. But about this time circumstances occurred, which induced Mrs. Cunningham to remove to a distant part of the country, and Louis was obliged to bid farewell to his teachers and companions.

All parted from him with regret, but none felt the loss so keenly as William Mason. He had been the first among the boys to love Louis and endeavor to assist him; and, although the latter was some years older, a warm attachment had sprung up between them.

Many years passed before they again met. Both had grown to manhood, but the remembrance of their early days was still fresh in their minds. William was travelling through the principal States of the Union, and stopped for the night in one of our most flourishing cities. In the course of the evening he visited, with some of his friends, a gallery of paintings which had been particularly recommended to his notice. The collection was a fine one, and an hour soon passed pleasantly away. At length William suddenly stopped before a small picture, and uttered an exclamation of surprise, which brought his friends to his side. The scene represented was not a remarkable one,—a bright winter’s morning, and a lad with a satchel of books and a pair of skates slung upon his shoulder, and a dinner-pail in his hand, quietly pursuing his way to school.

“What do you find surprising in this?” asked one of William’s companions. “It is a spirited little sketch, to be sure. That lad bears a strong resemblance to you, William.”

“It is myself,” exclaimed William; “and there is the old school-house in the distance, and the pond where we used to skate. Every object in the picture is familiar to me, even that old tree which seems so completely cased in ice. I must find the name of the artist.”

“That is easily ascertained,” replied his companion, turning to the catalogue which he held in his hand; “Cunningham, Louis Cunningham. There are several other fine pictures in the gallery by the same person. Do you know him, William?”

“He is an old school-mate and particular friend,” replied William; “I must inquire if he resides in this city.”

Louis Cunningham’s address was easily obtained, and William had the pleasure of hearing him spoken of as a young artist of uncommon talents. At an early hour the following morning he sought his early friend, and received a warm welcome. Louis’s story was soon told. His mother’s situation in life had been improved, by a legacy left by a distant relative, and she was thus enabled to give her son many advantages. He had travelled in Europe, and received the best instruction in his favorite pursuit, and his name was now becoming widely known as one of our best American artists.

“But I have not forgotten the old school-house, and our boyish days, dear William,” he continued; “and I do not forget that my first instructions in drawing were received through your kindness. It was a bright day to me when I was first seated at the drawing-table, and allowed free access to your pencils and paper.”

“I remember it, as if it were but yesterday,” replied William. “We had indulged a strange prejudice against you up to that day, Louis. My father had labored hard that bright and beautiful morning, to show me the sin of which I was guilty, in indulging such feelings, and his words sunk deep in my heart. When I parted from him, at school time, he remarked on the beautiful appearance of the earth, clad in its robe of silver, but pointed out the new beauty it would receive when the rays of the sun should fall upon it; and he prayed that the rays of the spiritual sun might thus vivify and add new beauty to the good resolutions springing up in my mind, that the silver morning might become the golden day.”

“It was indeed a golden day to me,” said Louis, with emotion. “A fountain of kind feelings, which had been checked by the coldness of my companions, gushed forth at the kindness with which you treated me; and it seemed as if from that time all coldness toward me disappeared, and I was treated by all with kindness which I have ever remembered with gratitude. The little picture which you saw in the gallery is a proof of my remembrance of that day. You must take it to your father, as a token of my respect and love.”

“I will gladly do so,” replied William. “My father will receive it with pleasure, and it shall hang in our room as a memento of our early friendship, and of a day which I shall always remember with pleasing reflections.”

TWO SIDES TO A STORY.

“I should not think you would let him off so easily, father,” exclaimed Herbert Archer, as he listened to a conversation between his father and a poor tenant who begged for a little delay in the usual demand for the rent.

“And why not, my son?” replied Mr. Archer, as they continued the walk which had been thus interrupted. “He is poor and has been unfortunate. The wealthy should not be indifferent to the sufferings of those less prosperous than themselves.”

“I know they should not, father; but did I not hear you say last winter that you would not assist Simon Brown again, for it was only encouraging him in idleness? Do you not remember what we were told about his allowing his poor wife, with her feeble health, to go out to wash, while he remained sitting quietly at home smoking his pipe and attending to the children?”

“I do recollect it well, Herbert; but my conclusions were too hasty. Upon inquiry I found that there was another side to the story. Poor Simon had the rheumatism so badly that for several weeks he could not walk one step. In this situation he could do nothing better than to make himself useful in the house, while his wife procured what work she could to aid in the support of their family. The truth is, my son, there is almost always two sides to a story, and if we suspend our judgment until we are sure that we know all the particulars, we shall avoid the injustice which too often results from hasty decisions.”

Herbert listened with respect and attention to his father’s words, and acknowledged their truth; but it was not until after several useful lessons that he learned to put this simple rule in practice.

Among the most valued of his playthings was a fine kite, remarkable for its beauty and the swiftness of its flight.