NEW LIGHTS
ON
OLD PATHS
[Illustration]
BY CHARLES FOSTER,
AUTHOR OF THE “STORY OF THE BIBLE,” Etc.
350 ILLUSTRATIONS.
PUBLISHED AT THE OFFICE OF
_CHARLES FOSTER’S PUBLICATIONS_,
No. 118 SOUTH SEVENTH STREET,
PHILADELPHIA, PA.
Copyright, 1885,
By CHARLES FOSTER.
ELECTROTYPED BY WESTCOTT & THOMSON, PHILADELPHIA.
[Illustration]
PREFACE
THE author is expected to say something by way of introducing, or
apologizing for, his book. What is its object? Why did he write it,
when there are already so many more than are wanted? In reply to these
questions he would say (what is evident, indeed, without saying) that
nobody adds another to the long list who does not believe that—on _his_
subject, at least—there is room for one book more. And he proves the
sincerity of his belief by making the venture.
The writer of this volume does not claim to present in it a single
new truth. In the sphere of morals, of which it treats, he believes
there is no such thing. It is not new truths that we need, but the
application of old ones to our daily life and practice. Any device that
may assist in securing so desirable a result is of value; in the hope
that these Fables may not be wholly useless to this end he hazards
their publication. As their title indicates, they will be found to vary
widely in subject and mode of treatment.
One word about the illustrations: these all, without exception,
were drawn for the book. Much time, labor, and expense have been
bestowed upon the effort to make them appropriate and entertaining.
The illustrations of a story may be compared to the music of a song.
We can bear with some defect in the verse if the music awakens the
sentiment the verse was intended to express. So the author hopes that
the excellence and originality of many of these designs will in some
measure make amends for whatever deficiencies the reader may discover
in the text.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: CONTENTS]
Page
The·Innkeeper. 13
The·Brook·and·the·Waterwheel. 37
The·Court-House·Steeple. 41
Crooked·Horn·and·Old·Brindle. 46
The·Millers·Tenth. 51
The·Lark·and·the·Whippoorwill. 69
The·Gate·and·Gate·Post. 73
The·Weedy·Farm. 78
The·King·Seeking·Content. 84
The·Learned·Owl. 94
The·Horse·and·the·Grasshoppers. 98
The·Bark·and·the·Lightship. 101
The·Unhonored·Servant. 104
Wings. 107
Standpoints. 111
The·Man·with·a·Menagerie. 117
Two·Outlooks. 121
Job·Nickel. 125
The·Unused·Loom. 133
Crowing. 137
Peter·Crisp’s·Spectacles. 140
The·Two·Apple·Trees. 182
The·Spring·in·the·Woods. 186
The·Distant·View. 189
The·Two·Vines. 195
The·Old·Chestnut·and·the·Young·Oak. 199
Corn-cribs. 202
The·Old·Clock·in·the·New·Home. 209
The·Great·Secret. 213
The·House-Builder. 216
Pigeons. 223
The·Clock·on·the·Desk. 225
The·Watch-Dog. 228
The·Opened·Eyes. 231
The·Lantern·People. 235
Grand·Relations. 253
Fair·and·Foul·Weather. 255
Wreckage. 258
The·Robin. 261
Riddles. 265
The·Emigrants·Wagon. 268
Big·and·Little·Lanterns. 273
The·Cat·and·the·Tiger. 278
Charity. 281
The·Day-Laborers. 286
The·Artist’s·Answer. 291
The·Hemlock·and·the·Sugar-Maple. 294
Bread·and·the·Beautiful. 297
The·Harper. 301
The·Unappreciated·Gift. 305
The·Worn-Out·Team. 310
The·Wise·Farmer. 314
Wayfarers. 319
Other·Birds·Feathers. 323
The·Night-Watchman. 326
Single·and·Double. 332
The·Boastful·Fly. 335
The·Mended·Boots. 339
The·Cripple·and·his·Staff. 344
The·Search. 360
The·Swallows·and·the·Windmill. 365
The·Medicine-Man. 370
The·Eagle·and·the·Wren. 374
The·Two·Saplings. 378
The·Cog-Wheel. 382
The·Plough·and·the·Mowing-Machine. 386
Fat·and·Lean. 389
Half·Empty·and·Quite·Full. 392
The·Snake. 395
Rich·&·Poor. 398
The·Hawk·and·the·Chicken. 402
The·Servants·Money. 405
Future·Greatness. 411
The·Old·Mans·Watch. 415
The·Teacher. 418
Cloud·Shadows. 426
The·Penitent·Transgressor. 428
The·Dry·Well. 432
The·Fruit·Tree. 435
The·Deer. 438
Homely·and·Handsome. 442
The·Colt·and·Old·Gray. 446
The·King’s·Almoner. 453
Pansies. 457
The·Birds·and·the·Bells. 459
Jack·and·Jenny. 465
The·Meeting·of·the·Winds. 476
[Illustration]
THE INNKEEPER.
THERE was once a man who kept an inn on a country road. Just back of
his house stretched a dark forest in which a number of bad men lived.
Some of these men were great fighters, some were robbers, some had even
murdered people. And they were all in the habit of coming to the inn.
They were very glad to have some place where they could meet together
and talk over the wicked things they had done, and lay plans for more
that they wanted to do.
[Illustration]
In that same country, but farther off, there was a rich plain which was
covered with beautiful farms. The people who lived on these farms were
very different from those who lived in the forest. They were honest and
industrious; they had ministers and schoolmasters living among them;
on every weekday they might be seen working in their fields, and on
every Sunday going to their churches. And they too used to stop at the
inn as they went to the city to sell the butter, and eggs, and poultry,
they had raised, and to buy the tea, and coffee, and clothing, and
other things, that they needed.
It happened, one day when these good men stopped at the inn, that the
bad men out of the forest were there. Then the good men went to the
landlord, and said:
[Illustration]
“Give us a room away from these men where we cannot hear their evil
talk.”
So the landlord put them in his parlor on the opposite side of the
house; but though the doors were shut tight, the noise came through,
and was so loud that the men in the parlor could hardly hear themselves
speak. Then they said to one another:
“What shall we do to get beyond the reach of these horrid sounds?
Truly, we can do nothing else but leave the place.”
So they went out and harnessed up their horses and drove off.
The next time they stopped at the inn the bad men were there again.
Then the farm-people called the landlord, and said to him:
[Illustration]
“We want to stay and take dinner here. Bring us therefore to a room
much farther away from these men than the parlor where you put us
before.”
So the landlord took them up stairs into the best room on his second
floor, and gave them the key of the door, that they might lock
themselves in and stay as long as they wanted. But the bad men had seen
them going up, and presently they seized the great clubs that they
always carried, and hurried up after them.
“Let us in!” they cried.
[Illustration]
But without waiting for any answer they broke down the door and rushed
at the men who were sitting around the table, until they had to run for
their lives.
That night, after everybody had gone to bed and the landlord had locked
up the inn, as he sat alone by the fire, he said to himself:
“I must do one thing or the other. I must turn away either the good
men or the bad men, for it is plain they cannot both come to my house.
Which shall it be?”
After thinking a while longer he said:
“I admit that the people from the forest buy a good deal more out of my
bar-room—wine, brandy, and whiskey—but then they get drunk and break my
furniture, and often refuse to pay for what they have had; so that, in
truth, I do not make any great profit out of them, after all—not near
enough to make up for the bad example they set my children and the bad
name they give my house. But the people from the farms, though they do
not buy any brandy, or whiskey, buy a good deal more of bread and meat,
and they always pay for what they get. By the end of the year I am sure
that I make more out of them than I do out of the others. Then they
are kind to my family, and they make my house respectable and give it
a good name. I am resolved what to do, and which to turn away. These
shall stay, and the others shall go; and to-morrow I will tell them.”
So, after making up his mind, he went to bed and slept all night.
[Illustration: INN
OUT OF THE HEART ARE THE ISSUES OF LIFE]
Early the next morning he opened his house. As soon as the door was
unlocked in came the men from the forest, and they kept on coming till
the bar-room was full. Then, while they were making a great noise,
talking very loud, and calling for drink, the landlord rapped on the
top of the bar and cried:
“Silence, and listen to me! You men have been coming here and doing as
you pleased, until you seem to think the house belongs to you, and that
you can turn people out of it whenever you like. But I am the one who
has to pay the rent, and I think it is for me to say who shall come and
who shall go. And now I say that I want you to go and never come back.”
[Illustration]
As soon as the landlord had spoken in this firm way the men out of the
forest—who, in spite of their boasting, were great cowards—began to
steal off one by one, until they were all gone; at which the landlord
was glad, for he thought he had gotten rid of them altogether. But in
this he was mistaken, for in a few days they were back again, standing
about the doors and watching for a chance to get in.
To keep them out the landlord shut up all but the front door, and
tried to keep his eye on that. But so impudent had the men grown that
they began to climb into the windows when no one was looking. Then the
landlord sent for the blacksmith and had iron bars put across every
window. But after he had done this the men even got up on the roof in
some way, and came down the chimney like so many sweeps; at which the
landlord told his hired man to build a hot fire, and to keep it blazing
no matter how much wood it burned.
[Illustration]
But it was not possible to close every door, and window, and chimney,
and keep them always shut. There was the side door, that opened into
the flower-garden, where sometimes persons wanted to walk; and there
was the back door, out of which the cook must go to the woodpile many
times every day. Some of the windows opened on beautiful prospects,
where the boarders liked to sit and look out. So that, do what he
would, the landlord often found places left open.
[Illustration]
And, beside this, the men out of the forest had lately changed their
plan. They came now dressed up like the farm-people, and sometimes the
landlord could hardly tell one from the other. In short, they were
too clever for him; and so, in spite of all he could do, they got in,
and every day he would meet some of them sneaking about the house, or
hidden in some closet or corner, or under a bed.
[Illustration]
While things were in this sad state he was sitting one night before
the fire by himself, just as he sat on the night that he made up
his mind to order the bad men out of his house. But how differently
he felt now from what he felt then! Then he thought he could have
everything his own way, but now he had done his utmost, and, instead of
getting better, things were getting worse and worse. He was very much
discouraged and low-spirited.
Then he began to think of some of the wrong things that he had done
himself. He had been too friendly with these bad men, and not as kind
as he should have been to some good men that he knew. Especially he
remembered how unkindly he had treated one good man. It happened in
this way.
When he first came to the inn, after renting it, he found a watchman
there. The owner of the inn had sent him to watch it, and keep it safe.
When the landlord came, this watchman did not go away, but stayed on.
The owner had told him to stay and watch the house; for, although the
owner had rented it, the house still belonged to him.
So the watchman stayed and tried to make himself useful to the
landlord. But the landlord paid no attention to him; in truth, he often
treated him rudely, until one day, when the watchman was warning him
against these very men out of the forest, the landlord told him he
could take care of his house himself, and that he did not want his help
any further.
Since that time the poor man had been staying about the inn wherever he
could find a place. Sometimes he slept down in the cellar, sometimes
out in the wood-house; and when he got anything to eat, it was always
after the servants were done, and only such food as was left from their
table. And now the landlord remembered all this. While he sat thinking
about it before the fire, there was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said the landlord; and the door opened, and in walked this
same watchman. He did not say a word, but stood still, looking right at
the landlord.
“Watchman,” said the landlord, “I have treated you very unkindly, and I
am sorry for it. Are you willing to forgive me and be watchman again?”
“I am,” said the watchman, “if you will promise to pay attention when I
warn you of danger.”
“I promise,” said the landlord; “I will do anything to get out of the
trouble I am in.”
“Very well, then,” replied the watchman; “it is a bargain between us.
But now go to bed and get some rest, for you need it.”
So the landlord went to bed, and because his worry of mind had worn him
down a good deal he soon fell asleep.
Early the next morning, before any one else was awake, the watchman was
up and at work. The first thing he did was to build up the little room,
or watch-box, that used to stand in front of the house. It was placed
there on purpose for him when the house was first built, but because it
had not been taken care of it had long since tumbled down. But now the
watchman built it up again, setting in windows all around it, so that
as he stood there, he could look out on every side. As soon as he had
built up his watch-box he fixed the cord, or bell-rope, that reached
from there into the landlord’s chamber.
[Illustration]
And no sooner was this done than, seeing one of the forest-people
coming toward the house, he pulled the cord and rang the bell. At this
the landlord awoke. He knew what it meant. He did not need any one to
tell him, for he used to hear that bell long ago, although he then paid
no attention to it. But now he jumped up and dressed quickly, and ran
to the door just in time to shut out one of the very worst of the men
from the forest.
After that the bell went on ringing every day, and the landlord was
kept busy shutting doors and windows. It must be confessed that he got
tired of hearing it sometimes; but he was so much happier, he ate so
much better and slept so much sounder than he did before, that, even
when it put him to a good deal of trouble, he was always careful to
obey the bell.
[Illustration]
All this time the good farm-people were made welcome at the inn. The
door was always wide open to them, and the best of food was put on
their table. As they never went into the bar-room to buy anything to
drink, and as they disliked very much to see drunkards about, the
landlord concluded to take away his bar and make the inn a temperance
house. Being pleased at this, the farm-people came oftener and stayed
longer than ever before, until the landlord found himself growing rich
on the money they paid him. Then he painted his house inside and out,
and added some new rooms to it, and made it more comfortable every
year.
When the forest-people found that the watchman was always looking out
for them, and that the landlord always paid attention to his bell—and
when they saw, too, that the company in the house was such as would
make them feel ashamed, even if they should get in there—they did not
try to get in as often as they used, and so the bell did not ring
nearly so often. Then the landlord had time to walk in his garden and
to sit down in the shade of his favorite tree, which he had not been
able to do for long years before.
And so things went on from year to year. The landlord never ceased
to mind the bell, and gradually, as he grew older, it rang more and
more seldom, until, during his last sickness, while he was shut up in
his chamber, growing weaker and weaker every day, it stopped ringing
altogether. And this was not because the watchman (whose name was
Conscience) was unwilling to disturb him, but because the forest-people
(that is, wicked thoughts and bad desires) did not trouble him any
further.
[Illustration]
So the old man lay in peace and quietness until he died. Then his son
took the inn and carried it on. It is true that the men out of the
forest knew as soon as the old man was dead, and thinking that now,
as there was a new master, they might perhaps be able to get in,
they came and tried again and again. And the son had to fight his own
battles with them like his father. But he kept the watchman in his
house, and minded the bell; and in the end he gained the victory, as
his father had done before him.
[Illustration: LET NOTHING EVIL ENTER
TRUST
WATCH]
[Illustration]
THE BROOK AND THE WATER-WHEEL.
THE water-wheel in a grist-mill went round and round, by day and by
night, without stopping. Said the brook one day, as it passed over the
wheel:
“Are you not tired of being always at work, and of doing the same thing
to-day that you did yesterday? When I have done my work in making you
turn, I glide on and take my pleasure in flowing through the fields and
the woods.”
“But my pleasure,” replied the wheel, “is in continuing to work, and go
round and round, grinding up the corn.”
“Yesterday,” continued the brook, “as I flowed through the meadow, I
heard some people who were wandering there say how beautiful I was, and
what sweet music I made as I rippled over the stones.”
“And no doubt they said what was true,” replied the wheel, “but it
could never be said of me. How would I look rolling through the meadow?
I would not be admired by others, nor would I enjoy it myself.”
“You are to be admired for your humility,” said the brook, “in being
contented with so dismal a place.”
“Not at all,” replied the wheel, “for when this place was given me, I
was given also a liking for it.”
“But do you not long for the sunlight and the breeze and a sight of the
birds and the flowers?”
[Illustration]
“No more than you do for this dim chamber under the mill. Here I was
made to dwell, and here I am satisfied to be. I greet you tumbling
in from the mountain-side over my head, and I bid you adieu as you
flow out joyously under my feet; but I do not long to follow you. The
summer’s heat does not parch me here, nor the winter’s frost stop me
from turning. Ever in this dim twilight I revolve and listen to the
sound of the grinding. I delight to hear the farmer drive his team to
the mill door loaded with grain, and afterward haul it away when I have
made it into flour for his wife and children to eat. I am content
to stay here and labor—not by constraint nor for duty’s sake alone,
but because the place accords with my nature, and therefore it is my
choice.”
* * * * *
We often err in judging the lot of others by our own feelings and
preferences, forgetting that, from differences in taste or training,
what would be pain to us may be pleasure to them.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE COURT-HOUSE STEEPLE.
THE steeple on a country court-house was built to hold a clock. But
when a year or more had passed after it was finished, and no clock
appeared, it began to complain that the promise made to it had not been
kept.
“I expected to be of some consequence in the village,” it said, “but
with these ugly round holes in my side left boarded up, I am of no
more account than if I did not exist.”
The town council, having heard of what it said, met together to talk
over the matter, when they had to admit that the complaint was just;
so an extra effort was made to raise the money needed, and, this being
successful, the clock was ordered, and in due time put in its place.
And now the steeple’s ambition was fully gratified. The clock kept good
time and was the standard for the whole village. The farmers went to
their work by it, and the children to school; the people also who drove
in from the country might be seen, as they passed the court-house,
leaning forward, with upturned faces, to get the correct hour.
Week after week passed, and month after month, and still the steeple
was gazed at by old and young a hundred times a day. But after a good
many months had rolled round, notwithstanding all this attention, it
began to be conscious of a change within itself.
[Illustration]
“It is true I have got what I asked for,” it said, “and my proudest
wishes have been fulfilled; but, after all, what have I gained by it or
how am I any better off? I am just as much exposed to the winter’s cold
and the summer’s heat, to the risk of storm and lightning and fire, as
ever. And, as for being looked at—which I once thought so much of—I’m
tired of it, and could wish myself back to what I was before, instead
of being forced to listen to the click of these wheels and the banging
of that great iron hammer by night and by day. I believe I’d rather be
the empty steeple on the church, across the street.”
At length its complainings reached the ears of one of the council, who,
though an old man, climbed up the steeple’s winding stair and listened
patiently to what it had to say. When it had finished, he answered:
“My friend, I think I can put my finger on the cause of your
discontent. You were very anxious to have the clock, you remember, but
perhaps you never recognized the reason, which was only a desire to
increase your own importance. You thought that all the watches and all
the little clocks in town would be regulated and ruled over by you.
Your motive was wholly selfish, and, as a consequence, when you got
what you wanted, it failed to satisfy.
“Now, as for taking the clock down again, that is out of the
question. It was put here for the benefit of all, and here it must
stay. Nevertheless, if you will take an old man’s advice, I think
your troubles will soon come to an end. Instead of thinking only of
yourself, your own comfort, and your own consequence, think of other
people. Remember the good you have the power to do them, and for their
sakes be willing to do it. Then you will find that the possessions
which yield no satisfaction while hoarded up only for self, impart a
real joy when shared with others in the uses of charity.”
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CROOKED HORN AND OLD BRINDLE.
A COW that had a crooked horn learned to open gates and let down bars
with it, and, as her master took no pains to keep her at home, she
roamed the roads unrestrained. One day, in passing a neighbor’s meadow,
she saw an old brindled cow inside hobbled by a rope and clog of wood
fastened to one leg.
“Who put that on you?” asked Crooked Horn.
“My master,” replied Brindle.
[Illustration]
“What for?”
“To keep me from jumping fences.”
“I’m glad he’s not my master. Why don’t you leave him and take to the
woods?”
“Well, he’s kind to me in other ways. He gives me a warm bed, and
plenty to eat, in the winter, and beside, I have a notion that I’ve got
myself to blame.”
“Nonsense! I’m allowed to jump all the fences I like. Whenever I see a
good dinner through the bars, over I go, no matter whom it belongs to.”
“I wish I could do so,” said Brindle.
“But you can’t,” cried Crooked Horn. “I’m on my way now into yonder
clover-field, over across the railroad.”
Saying which, she kicked up her heels and galloped away. But just as
she reached the track an express train dashed past, and old Brindle saw
the engine toss her boastful acquaintance into the air as a mad bull
tosses a dog. Another moment, and poor Crooked Horn lay in the ditch
mangled and dead.
“Oh,” cried Brindle, shuddering and looking down affectionately at the
rope and block of wood, “how glad I am now that my master hobbled me!”
* * * * *
[Illustration]
If we only knew how much worse ills our troubles save us from, we would
often welcome them, instead of trying to free ourselves from them.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE MILLER’S TENTH.
A YOUNG miller who had succeeded to his father’s business, made flour
for the people of his native village, and also for the farmers of
the country around, receiving for his pay, or toll, one-tenth of the
grain that he ground. He measured this out in a round box—called a
“toll-dish”—which contained just one-tenth of a bushel.
Among his customers was an old farmer who, having his farm all paid
for and well stocked, with some money out at interest beside, was
looked upon by his neighbors as a rich man. He used to come about once
a fortnight to the mill, bringing four or five bags of wheat to be
ground.
One day, after the old man had left, as the miller began pouring his
wheat into the hopper, the thought occurred to him that if he should
take a little more than a tenth the farmer would never miss it.
“Other millers do it,” said he, “and so might I as well. Beside, I will
make it up to him by extra care in grinding his flour.”
So, after he had taken out the tenth that he was entitled to, he filled
the toll-dish twice again and emptied the contents into a barrel of his
own wheat that stood near.
But the miller did not feel altogether satisfied with what he had done.
The thought of it disquieted him more than once. Yet he could not quite
persuade himself to put the wheat back.
“I think I’m fairly entitled to something more,” he said, “from such a
rich man.”
Then a bright thought struck him. There was in the mill some corn
that belonged to a widow. She had wheeled it there in a barrow—poor
woman!—with her own hands, and left it to be ground into meal.
“I’ll take something less than my full toll from her,” he said, “and so
will make matters square by remembering the poor.”
This seemed for a time to overcome his scruples, and, having made a
beginning, he gradually increased the extra toll that he took from
the rich farmer, but soon discontinued making any allowance on his poor
customer’s grist.
[Illustration]
But, though the miller had made a correct calculation concerning the
farmer—viz., that he would not miss what was unjustly taken from
him—he had made a wrong estimate of his own conscience. He found by
thus testing it that it was not of the sort to heal while he kept on
wounding it afresh, or to accept as true what he knew to be false. It
was rather of the kind that we find it so inconvenient to have when we
want to do wrong and still be as comfortable as if we were doing right.
The miller was in the habit of going to the village church on a Sunday,
where he sat in the pew with his wife and little children, taking
part in the service and listening to the minister’s sermon. But now,
whenever the eighth commandment was repeated, or so much as alluded to,
he grew restless and uneasy and anxious for the service to be over.
On week-days the stage-driver, as he passed the mill door, threw out
a newspaper that the miller subscribed for, and it had long been
his favorite pastime, as the great water-wheel was revolving and
the millstones were grinding, to sit among the bags of grain in his
flour-besprinkled clothes and read his paper through and through. But
of late he found himself avoiding all paragraphs headed: “DEFALCATION,”
“EMBEZZLEMENT,” “BREACH OF TRUST,” “CONSCIENCE FUND.”
[Illustration]
Now and then he stumbled on an account that was published there of some
honest debtor who as soon as he was able paid up his back debts, or of
some repentant thief who made restitution of the things he had stolen.
This was unpleasant reading to the miller.
In the village there lived a man who had done just the reverse of these
things, and in consequence bore a bad name. The miller disliked to meet
this man. Occasionally he had to go on business to the county-town, and
on his way passed the jail. Peering through the bars he often saw the
evil countenances of the prisoners.
“What are they in there for, I wonder?” he said to himself. “The truth
is I deserve to be there with them.”
And this finding of a rebuke in whatever he came across went on until
everything about him seemed to join in a dreadful chorus, accusing him
of his crime.
But at last the load on his conscience became too heavy, and he could
bear it no longer. But what should he do to get rid of it? To confess
his guilt would crush him to the earth. There was but one thing more
dreadful, and that was to go on hiding it. But was there no way of
escaping an open confession? Ah! happy thought! This would not be
necessary. The farmer was still confidingly bringing his grain every
two weeks to the mill.
[Illustration]
“I will go over my accounts,” said the miller, “and add up to the last
pound all I have ever taken from him, and this I will return gradually,
from time to time, with his flour, in quantities that will not be
noticed; so I shall pay my debt and clear my conscience without being
even suspected of wrong.”
Having made this resolve, he longed to put it in practice, and could
hardly wait for the next appearance of the farmer’s wagon. In a few
days, however, it drove up to the mill door as usual. The miller with
a glad heart (which he was careful to conceal) carried the bags it was
loaded with into the mill, and bade the farmer a cheerful “Good-bye” as
he drove away.
“Now,” he said, “I will take out of this grinding a part of my toll,
lest, if I should take none, the difference may be noticed and some
inquiry made.”
So he filled the toll-dish three times instead of six, as he was
entitled to, and ground up the rest of the wheat.
But while he was thus carrying out, in secret, his plan at the mill,
he little suspected how matters stood at the farmhouse. The farmer’s
wife, who was a more shrewd observer than himself in such things as
came directly under her charge, had noticed for some time past that
the returns from the mill seemed short in weight, and at length she
confided her suspicions to her husband.
[Illustration]
“Nonsense!” said he. “I’ve known the miller all his life, and his
father before him: his father had a conscience, and so has he.”
“Well,” replied his wife, “there’s one way of testing it that neither
you nor anybody else can object to. I weighed what we last sent him;
now we’ll weigh what he sends back to us.”
As the farmer could find no fault with this proposal, he called it a
bargain, and the next day went to the mill for the grinding. The miller
received him gladly and hastened to carry out his grist to the wagon.
As he drove homeward the farmer said to himself:
“How strange that wife should speak so about the flour! But women do
sometimes take up such queer notions. I’ll be bound, now, that she will
be waiting, when I get home, to have the bags put on the scales as soon
as they are unloaded.”
He was not wrong. As he drove through the gate around to the side porch
his wife appeared in her great white apron, hardly able to keep quiet
until the wagon was backed up, and as the bags were taken out of it
they were laid, one by one, on the scales that stood near.
[Illustration]
“How does it come out, wife?” cried the farmer as she set down the
pounds contained in the last bag.
But she kept on going over the figures again and again without
answering, at which the old man put on his spectacles and hastily
footed them up.
“Didn’t I tell you so?” he exclaimed, with a reproachful look for her
and a triumphant one for himself. “Why, instead of cheating us, he has
cheated himself! What a pity it is for a woman to be suspicious!”
“Don’t brag too soon,” said his wife, piqued at his words; “you’d
better put that off till we’ve weighed another grinding.”
The hungry mouths on the farm soon demanded a fresh supply of flour,
and before many weeks had passed another load of wheat, after being
weighed with extra care, was hauled to the mill. The miller, in the
mean time having found some relief to his conscience by the little he
had already done, was more eager than ever to carry out his plan and
remove his burden altogether.
“It is certain,” he said, “they have not noticed anything unusual in
the last grist. I might just as well hurry matters up a little. This
time I’ll take out no toll at all, and after this will begin adding
some of my own flour.”
Putting off other farmers who had brought their grain before him, the
miller ground the old man’s wheat first, out of its turn, and sent
him word it was ready. His wife, still smarting under the charge of
being unjustly suspicious, hurried him away after it, and waited his
return even more anxiously than she had for the former load. It came in
due time, and was promptly laid on the scales as the other had been.
But if she was surprised before, she was dumb with wonder now, and
her husband—who, in truth, thought there was no better woman—seeing
her embarrassment, was considerate enough to do no more than join in
expressing his astonishment at the unlooked-for result. The flour
was quietly put away in the store-room, and other matters requiring
attention about the farmhouse were looked after.
That evening, just before bedtime, as they sat together in their
old-fashioned comfortable kitchen, the farmer said to his wife:
“I’ve been thinking about that last grist. There must be something the
matter with our young miller’s scales, and you know that we don’t want
to take without paying for it what belongs to him. I mean to go over to
the mill to-morrow on purpose to look into it.”
“That’s exactly what I want you to do,” replied his wife, seriously.
“Short of weight more than once I know the grinding was, and
over-weight twice we both know it was; the thing keeps worrying my
mind, and troubling me.”
The next morning, as soon as breakfast was over, the farmer harnessed
up his horses and drove to the mill. The miller, who was standing in
the door, looked surprised to see him when there was neither wheat to
bring nor flour to haul away. And not only surprised: there came a look
of apprehension over his face, for there is always a lurking fear of
evil in the heart that is conscious of hiding some wrong.
“I don’t believe you can guess what I’ve come over about,” cried the
farmer as he got down from the wagon.
The miller said nothing.
“Did you weigh the last grinding?” asked the old man.
“Yes.”
“And the one before that?”
“Yes.”
“And don’t you know they weighed too much? But perhaps you wanted to
make us a present,” he continued, good-humoredly, “or maybe, as winter
is coming on, you thought we stood in need.”
The miller’s face grew scarlet. He attempted to speak, but his voice
stuck in his throat and he could not utter a word. Perceiving at a
glance that he was in trouble, the farmer’s manner changed.
[Illustration]
“Tell me all about it,” he said. “I was your father’s friend, and am
yours.”
Then the miller took the old man into the mill, and, shutting the door,
told him, in a trembling voice, the whole sad story.
“I’ve found out,” he said, “that the wrong way is a hard way, and I’m
in that way yet, but I long to get out of it. I’d give this mill—yes,
and all that is in it—were that needful to make me feel myself once
more an honest man. I have set it all aside. Those bags over there
contain every pound I have ever taken. But I shall never know a happy
moment till I see them hauled away from here and put into your barn.”
“My dear young friend,” said the farmer, drawing his sleeve across his
eyes, “I care nothing for the flour, yet it is mine, and it is right
I should take it. Carry it out yourself and load it on the wagon, and
I’ll soon put it where you want it to be. I believe you have been
taught, by the best of teachers, such a lesson as you’ll never forget.
And be assured that after it I will never fear to trust you. Take my
word for it, too, that no one but wife—and she can keep a secret—shall
ever hear of this.”
[Illustration]
The next Sunday the miller went to church, and, whatever else he
might dread to hear about, it was not the eighth commandment. And the
following week, and for many a week afterward, he read his newspaper as
he did in former times—all through, skipping nothing, from beginning to
end.
* * * * *
The way out of the path of uprightness is smooth and easy; the way back
to it, rough and difficult. The one is ever open to the erring, but the
other is never closed against the penitent.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE LARK AND THE WHIPPOORWILL.
A LARK had nearly fallen asleep in the dusk of the evening, when a
whippoorwill began calling loudly to its mate, that was lodged in
another part of the wood:
“Whippoorwill! Whippoorwill!”
“Why do you disturb me,” asked the lark, “here at the close of the day,
when I am so tired and just ready to take my rest?”
“I will try to be quiet, then,” replied the whippoorwill.
So, with a great effort, the bird kept still. Occasionally, when its
mate called from a distance, its bill _would_ open and a faint note,
“Whip! Whip!” escape. But a look at the lark, with its head under its
wing, was enough to quiet it again. And so all night long it hopped
about in silence hunting its food.
At last the rosy dawn appeared, and it flew down to its humble perch
near the ground and made ready to go to sleep for the day. But just
then the lark suddenly burst forth with a loud song, and started up in
its flight toward the sky.
“Stop! stop!” cried the whippoorwill. “How is this? You made me keep
silence when you wanted to sleep, and now, when it is my turn, you make
more noise than I did.”
“It is my nature,” cried the lark, “in the early morning to shout out
my glad song.”
“And it is mine,” replied the whippoorwill, “in the quiet twilight to
call to my loving mate.”
“I suppose what you say is true,” said the lark, “but I am sure that I
can’t help singing. Why do you not sing in the daytime, as I do? That
is the proper time.”
[Illustration]
“Nay,” replied the whippoorwill; “as you are made to wake and sing in
the daytime, I am made to wake and sing in the night. Now, as we can
neither of us have the woods alone, let us try and put up with one
another’s songs, and so each of us enjoy its lot.”
* * * * *
As long as we live we shall find something to put up with in other
people. It will be easier to do this if we remember that they in like
manner have to put up with something in us.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE GATE AND GATE-POST.
A GATE and the post that it latched to could not get along peacefully
together. The gate swagged somewhat, and the post, instead of leaning
back a little to accommodate it, seemed purposely to lean forward. As a
consequence, there was difficulty whenever they met. The gate accused
the post of getting in the way, and the post charged the gate with
striking against it. Things remained in this unhappy condition for a
long while, and very often the gate might be seen swinging back and
forth in the wind, unable to latch itself, while the post showed ugly
scars on either side, which were growing uglier and deeper every day.
Neither seemed willing to yield, or even to make the first movement
toward a reconciliation.
At length, on a gusty morning, after a squall had banged the gate
against the post with unusual violence, the latter said:
“You needn’t think I’m going to give in. That last blow did you as much
damage as it did me.”
“I don’t want you to give in,” replied the gate; “all I ask is that you
lean back a little, so that I can swing free and fasten my latch as I
used to do.”
“It’s your own fault that you cannot do so still,” said the post; “you
began to swag and bear down on me, and then, of course, I began to butt
against you.”
“Well, now,” replied the gate, “though I don’t agree to all you say, I
am willing to admit this much—that there may be faults on both sides.
But here we are together, and here we’ve got to stay. I can’t go off to
look for another post, and you can’t go and hunt up another gate. Why
can’t we try and get along as we did at first? I’m sure we were a great
deal more comfortable then.”
[Illustration]
“Agreed,” said the post; “I’m as tired of it as you are. Let us from
this time do all we can to keep out of each other’s way.”
As this conversation took place in the early spring, when the ground
was freezing and thawing almost every day, the two had the best
possible chance of carrying out their good resolutions; and by the
help of wind and rain, with an honest purpose on both sides, their
efforts at last were crowned with success. Then all was pleasant and
serene again. The gate swung free, the latch caught on the post without
fail, and they upheld and supported each other, without either one
trespassing on the other’s rights.
But after this tranquil state of things had lasted for some time, one
day the latch, in passing, left a slight scratch on the post’s fresh
paint. At once there was scolding and faultfinding on both sides. It
was only a scratch, to be sure, and neither seemed disposed to make it
any more; but, on the other hand, neither would recede enough to make
it any less. And so, after they had overcome far greater difficulties,
and proved that peace and harmony were attainable, they sacrificed
them both because they could not overlook a very small offence. The
consequence was that discord reappeared between them. When I last saw
them, they were still giving each other (not at all times, but every
now and then, when the wind was from a certain quarter) this irritating
little scratch. I suppose it is thus with them still, and probably will
be so to the end.
* * * * *
After surmounting great and serious difficulties in the way of our
happiness, we often allow insignificant ones to keep us back from its
possession.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE WEEDY FARM.
A POOR but industrious man who rented a farm that was badly overgrown
with weeds set his heart on getting rid of them. To do this he worked
early and late. By the dawn of day he might be seen ploughing his
fields, and because his own team (two rather sorry-looking horses) were
not strong enough to turn up the deep soil he hired a pair of oxen and
ploughed with them.
Afterward he went over the ground with his harrow, from one side of the
field to the other, and again across it from end to end. He did this to
break up the hard clods and throw out the roots of the weeds, that the
sun might scorch and kill them. Then he sowed the ground thickly with
good seed, so that if any of the roots were left they might be crowded
out by the grain. He kept on patiently working in this way until he had
gone over every part of his farm.
And his labor was not in vain, for in the fields where the corn and
the oats and the rye were growing the weeds almost disappeared.
Nevertheless, as soon as it came in turn for a field to rest and lie
fallow for a season, they were sure to show themselves again. And in
the pasture-land, that was never ploughed, they sprang up plentifully
among the grass and the clover.
In vain the farmer took out his scythe, searching for the places where
they grew, and cutting them down with his own hands. There were some
places that he did not reach, and some where the roots were hidden from
sight; so that every summer they continued to mar the prospect around
him. And, as time went on, instead of getting used to them, it seemed
as if he worried over them more and more.
At length, after he had been worrying thus from year to year, he went
out one gloomy autumn afternoon to walk alone, and, seeing patches
of the hated weeds here and there all over his farm, he grew very
despondent. He turned, and came back with a heavy step to his cottage.
His wife, having gotten through the rest of her work, was sitting by
the window mending his well-worn coat.
“You know,” said he as soon as he came in the door, “how I’ve tried to
get rid of these weeds. I’ve worked early and late, in season and out
of season, and yet there’s not a field that has not got some of them in
it. And down in the low-lying land back of the meeting-house—I’ve just
been there—it seems to me they’re thicker than ever. I’m discouraged.
I feel like throwing up my lease and giving up the farm, and fighting
against them no longer.”
“Well, now,” said his wife as she threaded her needle and sewed away
at his patched coat, “I think you’re looking only on one side. You
haven’t worked all these years for nothing. You’ve had pretty good
crops, I think, and it seems to _me_, the way I look at it, that this
is a very good farm, after all, the way farms go. As for getting rid of
the weeds, they were here when you came. It’s a weedy country. I don’t
believe you’ll ever be able to get them clean out of the land. But then
you’ve succeeded in keeping them under. I reckon that if we work hard,
with the help of a kind Providence this farm will do till we get a
better. For you know we hope to move to a better country some of these
days, and to get new land that hasn’t any weeds in it.”
[Illustration]
“I declare, wife,” said the farmer, brightening up, “I do believe
there’s something in what you tell me. I never looked at it so before.
I’ve been looking at the weeds, and nothing else. We ought to look
at the crops too, no doubt since they’ve been given us in spite of
the weeds. We must put up with something, I reckon, wherever we go;
so I think we’ll just do as you say, and stay where we are, trying
nevertheless, to get the weeds out, harder and harder. I’m glad I came
straight to you. You always were a good, sensible wife, and now I
admire you more, and set greater store by you than ever.”
* * * * *
We must not despair because evil is still present with us, but rather
take courage from whatever growth in good our past lives may show.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE KING SEEKING CONTENT.
A CERTAIN king who was weary of the cares of his high office determined
to seek among his subjects for a perfectly contented man, and, when he
found him, to exchange his throne for that man’s place, whatever it
might be. “For,” he said, “peace of mind is worth more than even royal
honors and dignities.”
So he disguised himself in a way that no one would know him, and went
forth on his search through the streets of the city. And first he came
into the house of a man who by long years of labor had heaped up
great riches, and now, having withdrawn from all business affairs, was
living in ease and luxury. But in a little while the king saw that this
life, so different from that he was accustomed to, had become irksome
and tedious, and that in his heart he wished himself back at buying and
selling again. He looked out of his front window and said:
[Illustration]
“Oh that I were only in the place of my opposite neighbor, whom I see
going out early to business every morning!”
Leaving this man’s house, the king found an entrance into that of the
neighbor whom he envied, who was still engrossed in trade as the other
had formerly been. Already rich, he was adding to his wealth year by
year; but in doing this he had to labor so hard, and to carry so heavy
a load of care, that no time or space for enjoyment was left him.
“I am living but a slave’s life,” he said. “Would that I were well out
of it, like my neighbor across the way, whom I see driving out in his
carriage every afternoon!”
Passing out of this street, where many rich merchants lived, the king
went into another, near by, and entered the house of a man whom he
himself had appointed to a responsible post under his own government.
[Illustration]
“Without the weight of anxiety which oppresses me,” said the king, “yet
with honors sufficient, and an ample provision for all his wants, shall
I not here find a happy man?”
But it was not long before the king heard him, one day when he thought
he was alone, muttering to himself:
“Why did I ever accept this post, or choose this service for my
calling, only to bear the envy of those below me, and the scorn of
those above? How much better off and more independent would I have been
engaged in some business of my own, like my well-to-do friends around
the corner!”
“I will seek for my object in a lower sphere of life and occupation,”
said the king; and, passing into an obscure back street, he went into
the shop of a mechanic who was working at his bench with saw and plane
as a carpenter.
“Below the level of ambition and above that of want,” continued the
king, “surely here I shall find the object of my search.”
So he entered into conversation with the man, talked with him about his
trade, admired his handiwork, and said:
“Whatever else you lack, my friend, I am sure that here in perfect
independence you enjoy content.”
“Content at this trade!” exclaimed the man. “I would rather have been
brought up to any other. What with low wages and high lumber, there is
nothing left when your work is done. I don’t know who you may be; but
if you’re thinking of going into this business, let me warn you against
it. For my part, I don’t see why some people have it so hard and others
so easy. There’s a couple of rich men that I work for over in the main
street, that have both of them made big fortunes since I came into this
miserable little shop. And around the corner from them is another man
I do odd jobs for—one of the king’s officers; he has I don’t know how
many servants to wait on him, and plenty of money. Yes, and even the
king himself, if a poor man may look so high—there he is with nothing
to do but enjoy himself and rule over the rest of us. What justice is
there in all this? Everybody has all he wants, and is happy, but me.”