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* deeply the harshness ‘of his father’s words.
» mother.
'., THE FIRST WRONG. 5
My story opens in a New England sitting. room.
‘There were thee persoeg present, , Let me intro~
duce them in érder. ») First, there was Deacon Hol-
brook, an old man, not far from seventy, now, with
white hair, a tall, spare form, and decided features.
Next, his wife, a motherly old lady, with an expres-
sion of such calm benevolence in her face as to|
charm all that knew her. Yet at this moment,
ansiety, grief and entreaty struggled for the mas-
tery. The third figure in the tableau was a young
. man, with a frank, handsome face, years not ex-
ceeding twenty, who’ stood in the middle of the
floor, with downcast look, shrinking from the an-
2» gry words which his father uttered.-
’ “Henry,” said the ‘deacon, sternly, “you have |.
disgraced yourself and me, a deacon of the church, | |
You have embittered the declining years of your
parents.”
’*Don’t be too hard with him, Deacon Holbrook; ”
interposed his wife. “Remember it is his first
fault.”
_. “If it were anything else,” said his father, still
unappeased ; “but to think that my son should be-
come a ‘gambler! My. son, who has been ‘so care-
fully trained-in the way that he should go!” ~
“It is only once,” urged the wife, with all a
mother’s instincts.
“There are some crimes which cannot be-com-
mitted once without sinking the soul deep in sin,”
returned the. father, with unabated sternness. 5
All this while the young man had remained si-
lent, though his varying color showed that he felt
“At
length he spoke:
“Father,” said he, firmly, “you will one day re-
pent your severity. No sooner had I sinned than
I repented, and made confession to you and my
Instead of encouraging me in my repent
ance, you load me with reproaches which my own
conscience had» anticipated, and which Heaven
knows I did not need.” :
* Deacon Ifolbrook was about to speak, but Henry
rapidly continued :
“You tell me I have disgraced you. . I will re-
move myself and my disgrace from your presence.”
_ As he was about to leave the room, his mother
asked,’anxiously :
“Where would you go ‘to, Henry?”
“Stay him not, Hannah,” said the deacon, sternly. |.
“Jt is well that he should leave a place where he
‘can no longer look an honest man in the face.”
“Deacon Holbrook, he is our son,” said the wife,
reproachfully.
«J would that I could forget it,” was the unre-
lenting reply.
. The last ‘words reached the ears sof the young
man as he stood upon the threshold, and an ex-
pression half of pain, half of indignation, swept
over his face. He knew that he had done wrong,
but he felt that he had not forfeited forgiveness.
‘With one farewell glance at his mother, full of un-
spoken gratitude and love, he le the house which
had been so long to him a home. '
This was the fault of which Henry Holbrook had
been guilty. Having been sent to New York by
his father to collect a sum of money due him, he
* had been allured to a gaming-house by a compan-
ion, and there induced to play, though not until
after much persuasion. Having lost a part of the
money in his charge, he kept on playing, in. the
hope of recovering his losses. But, as might have
been expected, instead of this, he lost ail that re-
mained. Then, thoroughly ashamed, and bitterly
upbraiding himself for his breach of trust, he went.
home and confessed all... This confession was re-
ceived, as we have seen, in such a way as to chill
his confidence and excite his indignation. And
now he had gone forth from home a wanderer, he
knew not whither, with not one effort on his father’s
- part to stay him.
Let me do Deacon Iolbrook the justice to say
that it was not his own personal Joss that excited
his rigor. The sum, though not large—a hundred
dollars—was yet of importance to him, Still, he
could ov erlook that, but not his son's weakness and
crime, as he termed it, by which it was lost.
BOSTON, ‘THURSDAY,
cial’ tendencies.
tedious were the evenings which they spent to-|
gether. On one side of the fireplace sat the dea-
con, gravely reading through his. spectacles the
agricultural papers which came weekly. Opposite
him sat his wife, her fingers actively engaged in
knitting, her mind intent upon her absent boy. All
was staid, quiet, subdued. There was not even a
kitten to enliven the scene. Mrs. Holbrook had
once ventured to introduce one into the house, but
the deacon speedily intimated his dislike of cats,
and puss had been banished.
One night Deacon Holbrook brought a letter for
his wife. It was such an unusual circumstance for
the good woman to receive a letter, that she took
it eagerly, and tore it open with unwonted haste.
What was it that made her eyes sparkle with
joy? The familiar handwriting had not deceived
her. She knew at once, by the peculiar flourish
on the top of the II, that it was from Ilenry. She
read it through with grateful joy.. It was from one
of the mining districts of California. . It appears
that Henry had worked his passage, having no
money ; and’ Jeaving the vessel at San Francisco,
had proceeded at once to the mines, where he was
now working. He had not been there long enough
to form an idea of what were his chances of suc-
cess. -He wished his mother to write, and promised
to keep her advised of his movements. There was
only one reference to his father. It was this; “I
am afraid father still retains his’ bitterness toward
me, If this is the case, do not trouble him with
any messages; but if otherwise, you may give my
dutiful regards, and say that I do not yet despair
of making myself a good and true man.” ©
Deacon Iolbrook did not look at his wife while
she was reading this letter, though the handwriting
must haye told him also who it was from.
“Joshua,” said his wife, timidly, using the rarely
mentioned Christian name of her husband, “this
letter is from Henry.
“So I suppose,” said he, coldly.
As he spoke he took from his pocket the weekly
Farmer, and adjusting his spectacles, began to
read, :
: This was a hint, and so Mrs. Holbrook under-
stood it, that he did not care to pursue the subject
further. But she could not help asking, “Would
you not like to read Henry’s letter, Joshua ?”
“You will oblige me by not mentioning his name
again,” said the deacon, stiffly. “He has forfeited
all claims to be considered a son.”
So days, months, and even years passed. It
lacked but a month of five years since Henry Iol-
After Henry’s departure, the old house became
quieter than before. All the life had gone out of
jt. Deacon Iolbrook himself was a man of few
. words, and his taciturnity bs had abated bis wife’s so-
brook left his home. There was little change in
the air of the grave, sqgber-looking mansion of Dea-
con Holbrook. The deacon himself bad failed
more in those five years than in any five preceding,
’
JUNE 11; 1863.
‘A STREET SCENE, {0p 8) oul * le
doin!
Very ‘ong, very quiet, and very | His form iad lost i its ancient erectness, ‘and was
bowed. lis face had grown more wrinkled, and
he spent more time in the house. - Mrs. Ifolbrook
received tidings of Henry at short intervals. He
was well, and doing well, he wrote; but did not
enter into particulars, Some time he should re-
turn to see his mother... Of his father he did not
speak. These letters were all brought home from
the village post office by Deacon Holbrook, but he
never signified any curiosity or interest to learn the
contents, Henry’s name had not been mentioned
etween the two for years; yet—and let not this
surprise the reader—it would be hard to tell which
thought of him most constantly. Behind the dea-
con's taciturnity there beat a heart, and that heart
was ‘more tender to his lost son than he would have
been willing to confess.
All at once his quiet, life was broken in upon,
and that in a most cruel manner.
One day he entered the house, his face as pallid
as a sheet, his limbs tottering beneath him, his
whole expression that of great and intolerable
anguish,
“What's the matter, Deacon Holbrock P What's
the matter, Joshua?” inquired. his alarmed wife.
“Uannah, we are paupers—paupers in our old
age!” said her husband, bitterly. :
“Good gracious! what has happened, J Joshua?”
asked the wife, turning pale from sympathy.
Little by little it came out that Deacon Iolbrook
had become bondsman fora bank officer with whom.
he was well acquainted,-and in whose integrity he
had the utmost confidence. But to-day the as-
tounding intelligence had arrived that the officer,
after a series of defalcations, had fled the country,
and left the bondsmen to suffer, The amount for
whieh the deacon had become bound was sufficient
to swallow up the house and farm—all, in fact, that
he possessed, ;
The farm was not a valuable one. It comprised
sixty acres of rough soil, which by hard labor had
been made to suffice for the moderate wants of a
small and economical family. In the market it
would not bring over three thousand dollars, and
for that amount the deacon was bound. Yesterday
he had reckoned himself rich. . Now he regarded
himself as a pauper.*
“This is, indeed, worse than death,” thought the
deacon, with stern sorrow. “The Lord has indeed
smitten me in my old age.”
Little time was given for : anticipation before the
blow fell. The Holbrook farm was advertised for
sale at auction, to take place in three weeks, Bills
were printed and posted on fences and stores,
Meanwhile Deacon Holbrook sank into a state of
Xstless apathy. All day long he would sit in the
rocking chair with his eyes fixed on the opposite
wall, saying nothing, and | apparently paying little
,| givings, she became an unw illing witness of the
loud, clear voice.
22 SCILOOL STREET, _ BOSTON.
attention to what was going on about him. His
wife, scarcely less sorrowful than’ himself, feared+
that his reason was undermined,
‘Three weeks passed by and brought the self
Mrs. Holbrook would gladly have absented herself, +
but her husband, exhibiting more life than of late, d
insisted on her being present. So, with many mis-
trying scene.
The bidding commenced at two thousand dollars. 5
‘| Gradually it went up to twenty-nine hundred, and}
was about to be knocked off at that price to Squire
Clayton, when the trampling of hoofs was heard ;
-|ayoung.man with a handsome face, browned by ”
exposure, leaped from his horse, and inquired,
eagerly the amount last bid.. On being t told, he at =
once exclaimed :
“J bid three thousand dollars.” vA
At that price it was knocked down to him, :
“What name, sir?” inquired the auctioneer.
“Deacon Joshua Holbrook,” was the reply, in aj
There was a buzz of surprise, and the question,
“Who is he?” passed from one to another.”
Among the rest, Deacon Holbrook looked up
eagerly, and a question was on his lips.”
. “Father, mother, don’t you know your boy ®”
asked the young man, with emotion.
Deacon Holbrook’s eyes lighted up with joy..
Silently he opened his arms, The reconciliation ti
was complete.
lenry subsequently explained it; having been
successful at the mines, he, bad wished to retura,
he had learned his father’s misfortune. . He had in-
stantly made what haste he could to his native vil’
lage, and fortunately, arrived in time to Prevent
the sacrifice of the farm.
“The Lord hath rebuked my vain pride, and the
hardness of my heart that led me to turn away
only son,” said the deacon, solemnly. “Henc
forth, may our hearts be filled with the love that
faileth not.” :
_ And his wife and son 1 reverently said, “Amen.”
—
A STREET SCENE. | #
A ‘girl was passing along the street ofa an Eng
lish town with a basket of potatoes on her arm.
She had been sent by her mother to the grocer’s,
and was returning home, thoughtlessly looking at
the passers-by, her mind occupied with her own
little cares and. pleasures, As she passed a group
of boys upon the sidewalk, she unintentionally al-
lowed her basket to strike the elbow of one of
-|them, He turned, angrily, and exclaimed: ,
“Mind what you’re about.”
The girl, however, went on without apparently
noticing the rude remark, and the boys, who seemed
=
unexpectedly, when, upon his arrival in New York, \
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to be going the same way, followed her. They * \
had walked but a short distance, when one of them,
fall of mischitf, as boys often are, pushed the lad
in front of him violently against the girl, knocking
her basket from her hand, and scattering the pota-
toes in all directions, A loud laugh burst from
the lips of every boy of the group. Mean as the
act was, it seemed to afford them intense delight.
The girl, grieved and mortified, sat down upon a
door step, and gave way to her feelings in a flood
of tears, This seemed to give the young rascals
additional pleasure...
“Why don’t you pick up your dinner ?” ssid one.
“She's bashful,” said another.
“What yer crying for, I'd like ter know? Want
to see yer mother, hey 2”, eaid a third,
“Handsome gal, aint she! » Sweet,’ pretty crea-'
ture. Lives on ‘taters.’ Guess they agree with
her. Why don’t you cry? = T would.”
Just thena fine-looking lad approached the bose,
and sceing what was going on, stopped a second:
and looked at the contemptible group. As he
stood there he seemed the embodiment of all that
was noble, and manly, and good.
passed his lips. Ilis attitude, the stiffening of the;
arm, the resolute, indignant fuce, and steady took,
of the eye, were each an expression cf manly cour~
age and generous indignation, that might find such,
an utterance as would not be pleasant to encounter.
The boys took this in ata glance. Their jeers were *
silenced, and as the lad :quietly stepped forward,
and placing the basket in an upright position, com-
sonra Ot ag te Py yo
TE yap
Not a word ~
i
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