letters from boys inquiring how those diamonds came there. Well, my
father said that a vessel came to Portland from Brazil, on board of
which were several kinds of precious stones. The mate of the vessel
was paying attention to Polly, and he stole them out of the cargo and
put them in the bean. He dared not give them to Polly nor tell her
about it because he stole them; but as they had only about a dozen
bean vines, he knew she or her mother would find them after the vessel
was gone, so he put them in the pod just as he was about to sail. The
vessel was never heard from, and thus he never came back to claim
Polly nor to tell her where the diamonds, which were not of any great
value, came from, and Polly always thought they grew in the pod.
This was my father’s solution of the mystery which made considerable
of a stir at the time. As he knew all the parties and circumstances
thoroughly, it seems the most probable explanation; for nobody ever
doubted that Ma’am Price took them from the bean pod, and there were
not many that believed they grew there, though some did and looked at
it in the light of a special providence and provision for a worthy
woman; the objections to which are that, though diamonds, they were
rough diamonds, not much more valuable than quartz, and that Providence
provided abundantly for the good woman in the affections of her
scholars, who never suffered her to lack any comfort in her old age.
If Ma’am Price was severe in her management of scholars, she was not
more so than the parents themselves, as the following anecdote will
show. Captain Joseph McLellan had a thermometer, rather a rare thing in
those days. His wife went to meeting one Sunday, leaving the boys, Joe
and Stephen, at home. Stephen held the bulb of the thermometer to the
fire to see the mercury rise, and by so doing broke it. They were well
aware of the consequences. Joe told Stephen if he would give him fifty
cents, he would tell his mother that he broke it and take the whipping,
which he did. The next day the mother found out the true state of the
case and whipped them both, Stephen for breaking the instrument, and
Joe for telling a lie. These were the kind of women to handle unruly
boys when the father was at sea.
THE DISCONTENTED BROOK
A DIALOGUE
In a province of Old Spain respecting which the inhabitants were wont
to say that God had given them a fertile soil, a salubrious climate,
brave men, and beautiful women, but He had not given them a good
government lest they should not be willing to die and go to heaven,
there were two lakes separated by an intervening mountain. Each had an
outlet in a brook; and the two brooks, as they wound among the hills,
ran near each other, so that they were enabled to converse together
quite socially. They lay in the shadow of the hills among whose
roots rose the river Guadalquiver. The chain sloped by degrees to a
fertile plain covered with vineyards and olive trees. Fields of wheat
surrounded the scattered dwellings of the peasants and the tents of
shepherds whose flocks fed upon the mountains. The names of the brooks
were Bono and Malo.
One pleasant night at the close of a very sultry day they met to pass
the evening together; so, getting into a little eddy beneath the
shade of some large chestnut trees, where the moonbeams which glanced
tremulously through the foliage enabled them to see each other’s faces
indistinctly, they thus spake in murmurs.
_Bono._ “What a beautiful evening, neighbor Malo, after such a sultry
day! Yet I don’t know as I ought to speak ill of the weather, for it
has enabled me to do much good, to water many beautiful flowers and
fields of grain that otherwise would have perished.”
_Malo._ “I don’t know about that. Who thanked you for it? I have been
this whole day,--yes, for the matter of that, my whole life,--running
first here, then there, squeezed in flumes, tangled in water-wheels,
pounded in fulling mills, flung over precipices till my neck was
well-nigh broken. Again, I am kept broiling in the sun, and if I steal
for a moment into the shade, I cannot stay there. I have almost boiled
to-day journeying among hot rocks and over burning sands. And what
thanks have I got for it? Do you know, neighbor Bono, the old peasant
Alva?”
_Bono._ “Has he a daughter Lenore? Is his cottage shaded by two large
cork trees? And is there a field of saffron between his house and the
mill?”
_Malo._ “Just so.”
_Bono._ “I have known him these many years. His daughter keeps a few
sheep and goats on the mountain and often drives them to my waters.”
_Malo._ “Well, only think! the old churl has been hoeing this morning
among his saffron; so at noon he comes to me and goes down on his hands
and knees to drink. Then he says, ‘I’ll bathe.’ So he bathes and,
without saying as much as ’By your leave’ or ’God is good’ or anything
of the sort, just puts on his clothes and walks off. Yet I have watered
his fields and those of his ancestors for a thousand years, have often
kept them from starving, and not one of them ever gave me even a look
of gratitude. But I am resolved to do so no more. I won’t wear out my
life for those who give me no thanks. I mean in the future to keep my
waters to myself and to water no one but myself.”
_Bono._ “Well, neighbor Malo,” replies Bono, with a murmur so sweet
that the nightingale who was saying her evening prayers in the almond
tree stopped to listen, “I cannot feel as you do, neither do I wish to.
I have, indeed, had some weary times, especially, as you say, to-day,
and sometimes have been almost dried up. But I know what my duty is;
God made me to water the earth and the plants. It would be pleasant to
receive gratitude, but if we cannot have that, there is one thing we
can always have,--the happiness of feeling that we have done our duty.”
_Malo._ “Duty! This is fine talking, but I heed it no more than the
song of that nightingale. What duty do I owe to that old peasant or any
of his kin? To the earth or the plants? What good have they ever done
me?”
_Bono._ “But, neighbor Malo, the duty I speak of is not to them but to
God. I have, as you very well know, turned the mills of Henrique these
forty years, and also the fulling mills of Gonzalez, his nephew. As I
said before, this old Alva’s daughter, who used you so scurvily, both
waters and washes her sheep in my stream. Not one of these people ever
thanked me; yet I love very much to see their sheep fat, their lambs
frisking on the hills, and their families thriving. I indeed enjoy
their happiness as though it were my own.”
_Malo._ “By this crouching spirit you invite insult and aggression.”
_Bono._ “But are we not as well off in this respect as our neighbors?
The earth bringeth not forth fruit for itself; the ocean shares not in
the profits of the voyage. Who thanks the patient ox for dragging the
plough all his life? The sheep gives her fleece to clothe them and then
has her throat cut and her skin pulled over her ears, and not so much
as ’Thank you’ or ’By your leave’ to it all. You and I have not thanked
God for this pleasant moonlight, this sweet shade, and these flowers
that perfume our banks. He, without any thanks, causes ’his sun to rise
on the evil and on the good and sendeth rain on the just and on the
unjust.’ Surely then we, His instruments, ought not to complain who are
so forgetful ourselves.”
_Malo._ “You are a very noisy brook as everybody knows, but I am
determined to take care of myself. I shall go home and stay at home.
And you, who are as full of Scripture as a brook is of pebbles, ought
to know that charity begins at home.”
_Bono._ “True, but it does not stay there. I shall be sorry to lose
your company; we have run together so long, but if you are resolved to
benefit only yourself, I am just as firmly resolved to benefit others;
yes, the last drop--I will share even that with the faint and the
thirsty.”
Thus Bono went on overflowing with kindness the whole world. The good
brook ran among the vineyards, and the grapes hung in rich clusters; it
ran through the fields, and the grass turned to deeper green; the trees
said, “He waters us; let us shadow him.” The great oaks and sycamores
bent kindly over the brook, and their branches screened it from the
heat of the sun. The shepherds often wanted wood, but they said: “Let
us not cut down the trees that shade the brook, for it is a good brook.
It turns our mills and waters our fields and flocks. God be thanked
for the running water!” Thus the brook that worked for everybody was
loved and protected. It grew larger and ran in the Guadalquiver, and
there helped to water larger fields and turn larger machinery; it
ran to the ocean and foamed beneath the keel of mighty ships and was
diffused over the whole universe of God. It sent up so many vapors to
heaven that they returned in plentiful showers bringing back more than
they carried. Thus the brook that watered, not expecting any thanks or
profit, but because it was duty, was loved and blessed.
But how fared it with Malo who had retired into himself to take care
of himself and left his channel dry and dusty? For a while he had more
water than he knew what to do with. He was obliged to work night and
day raising his banks to keep it in. He labored a great deal harder to
keep the waters from breaking out and doing good to some one, watering
some poor man’s perishing crops, than he ever did before in watering
and fertilizing a whole province. Meanwhile, in the plains below,
the grass withered, the mill stopped, the flocks died, the shepherds
cursed the brook, and some of them cursed God. But Malo said: “Let them
curse. I’m for myself. I’ve water enough.” But by and by a fire at
which some shepherds were cooking their dinner got away from them, and
the wind being high ran up the dry bed of the brook in the withered
grass and dry leaves, and burnt up the forest on the sides of the hill
that fed the pond and all the trees that shaded it. The sun, then
pouring in with meridian heat, began to shrink the waters. There being
little motion in them since they had ceased to run, they putrefied
and the fish perished. Snakes, lizards, and all vile creatures came
to live there. Instead of flowers and foliage, bullrushes, reeds,
and the deadly aconite grew there. As the waters grew less and less
fewer vapors went up from it and less rain came down. After a while
it mantled over with a green scum, and malaria began to rise from it.
People began to die in the neighborhood; malaria got among the soldiers
in a garrison near by, and the doctors said, “It is the pond; it must
be drained.” Then all the country round about and the soldiers came
together and drained it dry, and brought down earth and rocks from the
mountain, and filled up the bed of the lake that there might be no more
stagnant water.
Thus it fell out to the brook that was determined to benefit only
itself. It lost all. It had both God and man to fight against. For
if men are not always grateful, they are not often slack in repaying
injuries. Let us follow the example of the industrious brook, and by it
learn in blessing to be blessed.
A COMPLETE LIST OF ELIJAH KELLOGG’S BOOKS
[With the exception of “Norman Cline,” all these books are published
by Lee and Shepard, Boston. “Norman Cline” is published by the
Congregational Sunday-school and Publishing Society, Boston.]
Good Old Times; or Grandfather’s Struggle for a Homestead. First
published as a serial story in _Our Young Folks_ in 1867; published in
book form in 1878.
Norman Cline. 1869.
ELM ISLAND STORIES
Lion Ben of Elm Island. 1869.
Charlie Bell, the Waif of Elm Island. 1869.
The Ark of Elm Island. 1869.
The Boy Farmers of Elm Island. 1869.
The Young Ship-Builders of Elm Island. 1870.
The Hard-Scrabble of Elm Island. 1870.
THE PLEASANT COVE SERIES
Arthur Brown the Young Captain. 1870.
The Young Deliverers of Pleasant Cove. 1871.
The Cruise of the Casco. 1871.
The Child of the Island Glen. 1872.
John Godsoe’s Legacy. 1873.
The Fisher-Boys of Pleasant Cove. 1874.
THE WHISPERING PINE SERIES
The Spark of Genius; or the College Life of James Trafton. 1871.
The Sophomores of Radcliffe; or James Trafton and his Bosom Friends.
1872.
The Whispering Pine; or the Graduates of Radcliffe Hall. 1872.
Winning his Spurs; or Henry Morton’s First Trial. 1872.
The Turning of the Tide; or Radcliffe Rich and his Friends. 1873.
A Stout Heart; or The Student from over the Sea. 1873.
FOREST GLEN SERIES
Sowed by the Wind; or The Poor Boy’s Fortune. 1874.
Wolf Run; or The Boys of the Wilderness. 1875.
Brought to the Front; or The Young Defenders. 1876.
The Mission of Black Rifle; or On the Trail. 1876.
Forest Glen; or The Mohawk’s Friendship. 1877.
Burying the Hatchet; or the Young Brave of the Delawares. 1878.
THE GOOD OLD TIMES SERIES
(Including “Good Old Times,” first mentioned above.)
A Strong Arm and a Mother’s Blessing. 1881.
The Unseen Hand; or James Renfew and his Helpers. 1882.
The Live Oak Boys; or The Adventures of Richard Constable Afloat and
Ashore. 1883.
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation, spelling and punctuation remain unchanged.
The duplication of the title immediately before the frontispiece has
been removed.
Repetition of the sidenote “Journal” on each page of the section
devoted to the Journal has been removed.
Italics are represented thus _italic_.