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Te
wee canrempnne ein
“ Sor Fn,
526
<t-e2GOLDEN DAYS:o==>
July 22, 1882.
The neighbor who owned the field
would come driving her home about
seven o'clock, and then we would be
sentto hunt the place where she got
through the fence, and make it secure. *
But she would find another hole, or
make one, and the next morning the
farmer would drive her home as usual,
Finally, father fastened her up in the
perl.
wt If she gets into your cornfield again,
don’t take the trouble to drive her
home,’’ he told the neighbor.
I won't,” he answered ; and kept his
word,
After the corn was cut up, ‘father
thought it might be safe to Jet her out,
and did so.
That very night, she dug a hole under
the fence, just large enough to allow
herself to craw! through.
The next morning, the farmer’s dog
discovered her making bad work among
the sheaves of corn, and took matters of
vengeance into his own hands, tigura-
tively speaking.
She ran for the hole under the fence,
but she had eaten so much that she
couldn't get through. The dog bit her
so, while, like the “greedy fox”? in the
reading-book, she “stuck in the hole,”
that she died that day.
We found her wedged under the fence,
and buried her there, in the grave she
had dug for herself. We rolled a big
stone over the spot, and Joo wrote on it,
with chalk:
“ITear Hes SuSan, agd 6 months,
“We Shal hear hur gentile Squeel no moar.”
- HARRY'S TEMPTATION.
BY ELIZABETH HH. DAVIS.
In a little manufacturing village in
Massachusetts, where the busy sound of
lathe and hammer and plane kept timo
to every running stream, Harry Lindsay
lived with his widowed mother and a
little sister, Jonnic. The business of the
place was principally chair-making, and
the cane-seats were woven by persons at
their own homes—tho work being taken
to them from the factories and called for
when it was done. This last was what
Marry did, and very proud he felt when
he rode through the town on his *rack,’*
ashe called the big wagon that rattled
back and forth, and over the hills, stop-
ping here and there to leave or gather
the finished work of this most usetul in-
dustry.
Ile had secured the place soon after
his father’s death, through the influence
of an old friend, who told him it was “a
mighty good chance, and he ought to bo
plagquey thankful, for there was plenty
of boys would jest jump out of their
hides to get it.” . .
Marry said he was, and tried to look
so—anyway, in fact, that would convey
to his benetactor's mind his entire will-
ingness to dispense with his skin, if that
would show the proper gratitude.
Truth to say, he was thankful, and
rose every morning with fresh plans to
cheer his dear mother’s lot, and make as
pleasant as possible her changed condi-
tion,
They had been obliged to give up
their old comfortable home, and live in
the half of a small cottage where the
rent would come within their reduced
means. .
But in the crisp May mornings, with
the birds singing, and the sun shining
down on old Wachusett, just as it had
shone through all the Mays in her life,
she felt at times alinost as if there had
been no change, and_ realized how much
ef joy or sorrow springs from the inner
ife. :
There is something very friendly and
protective in a mountain. ‘This on
seemed to her like a grave but steadfast
comrade—an ‘everlasting hill,” i
whose shadow she could live again the
days that were never to come back.
- There were two other families in the
house, kindly people, profuse in their
offers of assistance, and all delighted
with Jennie, who was the prettiest little
wild-rose that ever blossoined within
sight of the blue mists of Wachusett.
‘hey rose early, and the day’s work
began at seven o’clock for Harry. With
a loving kiss to Jennie, whom he called
Chub ”’—because she was such a rolly-
polly little thing—he-was off. But he
always managed to drive by the house,
and he would wave his palm-leaf hat
&o joyously to her, from his high seat on
°
the rack, that the anxious mother forgot
half her cares, and thought the people
who called her boy ‘smart’? were alto-
gether right. ‘
They beautified their side of the cot-
tage—which came so close to being the
back side—that only for the pretty blos-
soms springing from every nook, anda
view of the dear Wachusett (that Mrs,
Lindsay said was worth half the town),
it would have been barren indeed.
At night, when Ilarry got home, they
ulled up the weeds, and had those de-
Tieherat interchanges of thought and
lan, that come to. those where the
smallest pleasure is earned in the loving
light of home. .
“Mother,” he would say, ‘‘don’t these
morning-glories seem just like the old
place ?””
And the sun-flowers by the wood-shed
door were another bright link. Lark-
spurs and magnolias and pinks and pan-
sies and other familiar blooms kept
heathful company, nor seemed to miss
the dear old sunny garden left behind.
So the days went on. ‘To Chub the
joyous hour of all the twenty-four was
er brother's return at night. She would
station herself at a window with the best
lookout, and patiently watch till the
oved form came in sight, when he
would nod and sinile, and perhaps point
back significantly to something that lay
behind him in the rack. erhaps it
meant a deserted bird’s nest, with acorns
in it, or perhapsa bunch of green leaves,
woven iIntoarustie basket to hold ber-
ries, or an early apple, or a few purple
plums. It was wonderful how man:
things he “came across,” and he never
forgot the little creature. waiting. so
eagerly to welcome him home.
Somehow the boy had learned the
secret, or inherited it, or something, of
making friends. Everybody liked him
on his route, and he was always being
invited to have a glass of milk or a
doughnut, as he cheerfully unloaded the
piles of seats whereby the thrifty house-
wife or the aspiring daughter earned
the warm winter cloak, or paid for the
Imagazines and papers,
The men began to speak respectfully
to him, and hp was occasionally trusted
with other bisiness besides taking out
bringing in the work. He had a
book in whivh he kept account of the
number left fit each place, and the num-
er taken} away, with the various
amounts paid.
Sometimes he handled a good deal of
money in this way, and felt quite like
the man of business. But they had so
little for themselves. His wages ‘were
small, and what with the rent and fuel,
and even their simple table, there was
searecely anything left. His mother had
a few dollars laid by for the winter's
coal, but where all the needful clothin
was to come from they Knew not. Chu
could hardly keep. her little
from showing through the holes in her
shoes, and they were almost too shabby
9 go to church. Harry knew bis’ mo-
ther’s bonnet was not “in the fashion,”
and he had a boyish pride in wanting
things ‘as other folks had them.”
One day, about this time, Mr. Marlon,
the ‘head man of the concern,’’ told
Harry he wanted to send a note over to
a certain farmer—an old neighbor of
theirs—who owned a small wood-lot the
firm wanted to buy.
Ilarry was delighted. His eyes were
hungry for a sight of “the old place,”
which was only a few miles away, and
when Mr. Harlon said he could take the
buggy a drive over his mother and
little sister, he felt that after all there
were pleasures which money could not
s
5
o
uy.
Mr, Harlon was thought to be a ver:
eccentric man, but he had latterly taken
a great deal of notice of Harry, and this
fending with the note meant a great
deal. Ile said he must have the answer
and the farmer’s terms before seven
o’clock that afternoon.
The time was short, and they could
not stop at the old place, but they could
rive by, and see if the honeysuckles
were out.
Mr, Harlon’s own man brought the
buggy to their door, and ina few min-
utes they were rolling along out into the
fresh and ever-varied beauty of woods
and meadows and fragrant valleys.
The influences of nature are some-
thing to all, but they were life itself to
those children of the hills, Chub’s
apple-blossom face showed that she knew
something highly satisfactory was going
on in her little world, of which her mo-
ther and brother were the chief person-
ages.
The note was delivered and a price
fixed upon for the wood-lot. Then Mrs.
Lindsay glanced anxiously at the tall
clock that stood in the corner. .
“Time enough, time enough!” said
the farmer.
And while his good wife hung her tea-
kettle low down on the crane, he was
busy nailing up a mysterious box in the
yard, and finally lifted it, with a good-
natured chuckle, into the back of their
ugey.
Hie said he had been owing a little
debt for a long tine to the Lindsay fami-
ly—pushing a bag of corn under the seat
as he spoke, and crowding in at the side
another bag of something else.
Such a cackling as ensued brought
Chub to the door, and she clapped her
dimpled hands with delight when the
farmer lifted her up and showed her,
through the slats across the top, six
splendid hens and a lordly rooster, all
for their own, “to take homeand keep.”
The “debt,” the generous farmer em-
hasized, was_a couple of little downy
chicks that Tlarry’s grandmother had
given to him when the farmer was a poor
boy, and did “chores” for her.
He said he believed it was the founda-
tion of all his after prosperity.
And so, if the ‘sins of the fathers are
visited upon the children,” their little
gracious acts, too, return, often fourfold.
Then they must have a ‘bite of bread
and cheese,” as he called the feathery
biscuit and the Juscious custard-pie, atter
which they rode away.
The hens cackled, the rooster crowed,
Chub laughed aloud, Harry raised his
alm-leaf hat in grateful adieu, while
Irs. Lindsay lifted up her heart in silent
thankfulness to the Giver of all good.
What a charming ride it was home!
The air was heavy with scents of pine
and dewy flowers, each adding its own
sweet perfume to the general whole.
As they came in sight of the town-
clock, the minute-hand just pointed to
half-past. six. Mr, IIarlon seemed very
much pleased with Marry’s promptness,
and evidently was still better pleased
with the terms for the wood-lot. He ask-
ed a few questions—how near it was to
their old home, ete., and ended off with:
‘Woll, my: boy, the world is all before
you; you come o stock enough to
do something for yourself.””. Then he
looked over his: glasses, and smiled a
‘queer smile at Harry’s blusbin: face, at
he same time picking out of his vest-
pocket a gold dollar, which he slipped
‘into the embarrassed boy’s hand, and
went on saying: _ “When I was a young-
ster like you, I had this gold dollar
‘iven to me, with instructions to keep it
until I needed it to buy bread with. It’s
a little worn,” he continued, ‘and
don’t believe I shall ever want it for
that’? (here he looked very self-satis-
ed), ‘so I'll give it to you on the same
terms. I see you know the moments
are also golden, of which this is to be a
reminder.”
Marry tried to thank him, but he was
a shy boy, and something stuck in his
throat. It had been almost too happy a
jay, and now this unexpected kindness,
with all thatthe farmer had done—the
little gold dollar and all—nearly. made a
baby of him. Mr. Harlon rather blinked
through his glasses, too, and so evident-
ly wanted Harry to be off with himself
that the thanking didn’t amount to
much, :
The evening that followed this pleas-
ant day was spent in planning about the
hens, Where could they keep them?
And how would it do to add a few more,
and so sell some eggs? They must have
a hen-house—that was certain—but how ?
Questions never seem toanswer them-
selves, neither did this one.
The next morning he went to his work
as usual, and loaded up the rack, prepa-
ratory to going the rounds, and then
stepped into the counting-room for his
book and the money that he always took
with him to pay for the seating. ~ Some-
times, if the bills were large, he drove
around to the bank and got them
changed for smaller ones. He did so
this morning,
“A hundred dollars,” Mr. Harlon had
said, as he handed him the money, and
had charged it so in the book.
Harry took it, and he noticed as he
did so that they were all twenty-dolar
notes. :
At the bank, several persons were in,
and he had to wait quite a little time,
during which be held the bright new
bills, and turned them over without
thinking about them particularly, only
that he was in a hurry to get them
changed and be off.
Suddenly he started, and his heart
beat quickly, for he counted not five
bills, but six. They were new, and in
their crisp freshness two had stuck to-
gether, only separating in time for him
to see the mistake before the cashier was
at liberty to attend to him.
Passing in five to be changed, he quiet-
ly folded the sixth, and slipped it in his
pocket.
What was he thinking of? He did
not return at once to the office and recti-
fy the mistake. Perhaps he was think-
ing of the hen-house. He knew it wasa
mistake. They were a rich firm. He
was not responsible for other people’s
carelessness, ete. .
This and much more passed through
his mind as he mounted the rack and
drove off, forgetting to glance at their
side of the house as he came to a turn in
the road where he could always see the
morning-glories, and never before had
forgotten to nod, whether anybody saw
him or not, His thoughts were else-
where.
So swift is temptation to take advan-
tage of every circumstance, that by noon
Harry had persuaded himself it would
be simply ridiculous for him to give up
what had so accidentally (and he thought
opportunely) fallen into his hands. ‘Tle
tried to reason again that he had earned
it twenty times over. .
IJarry was a bright boy. He knew
right from wrong, and in the midst of
his most justifying arguments the
thought would obtrude, What! cheat
the man who has at least been just to
me, and who is already beginning to be
more?” Then, as he drove through a
bit of still and lonely woods, a voice
would seem to whisper in his inmost
soul, “Thou God seest ine.”’
The day passed, the last seats had been
delivered, and the last job paid for. He
had forgotten to ‘‘come across” any-
thing for Chub, and now it was too late
—not even a berry, nor astray blossom.
She was already watching for him, and,
in a few minutes, he came in sight of
her, and she stretched out her little
sunny head, smiling her sweet welcome
to him.
Oh, how could he go home with that
awful load in his pocket, and, worse still,
the weight upon his heart? He could
not. -Ife would stop at the counting-
room, and tell Mr. Harlon about’ it, and
tl hen-house .might go. The hens
would do well enough in a corner of the
wood-shed.
ut then he hesitated, fearing he
should be asked why he had not stopped
inthe morning. What could he say to
s
o
“Nothing,” he thought, in an agon
of doubt an ear; for he knew in his
secret heart he had meant to keep it,
and: the remembrance of his guilty
weakness almost crushed him.
What should he do? A terrible de-
spair paralyzed his judgment. He was
afraid his voice would tremble and his
manner betray him. Still, he consider-
ed that, when he handed in his account-
book, it would be quite easy to get over
it, somehow; and so, summoning all his
courage, he opened the door and walked
in, only to find the clerk, and learn that
Mr. Harlon had gone to supper.
8 he was, with his burden the
same as before; and, putting up his
horse, he walked slowly home, with a
feeling it would be impossible to de-
ge
e
ee
Chub seemed to feel that all was not
right, and his mother appeared con-
strained and unnatural, seen through
the distorted vision of his sick mind; so
that, altogether, the supper was not half
as cheery as usual.
Harry could not. endure it. - Ie stole
out just at dusk, and almost ran over.to
Mr. Iarlon’s houso. . That gentleman
was sitting quietly in bis library, when
Harry appeared, flushed and breathless,
and looked up in some surprise to see
him there at sueh a time. . .
“You made a mistake this morning,
sir,’ gasped Harry, his voice thick with
excitement. ‘Ilere it is—twenty dol-
ars too much.” ‘
“When did you
inquired Mr. Harlo
“At the bank,” replied Harry, almost
sinking with shame and confusion.
He could say no more, for a burst of
ears prevented further speech.
“Come here, my boy,” said his ques-
tioner; and he drew him down beside
him. “Now tell me all about it,”’ gently
urged the kindly man. “You are on
the right track, and I’m sure it has been
a hard one this time.”
Harry could not speak for his sobs.
discover it?” kindly
ne
,
~ \—-
“$~