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STRIVE AND THRIVE.
[Illustration]
STRIVE AND THRIVE;
OR,
STORIES FOR THE EXAMPLE AND ENCOURAGEMENT
OF THE YOUNG.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
T. NELSON AND SONS, PATERNOSTER ROW;
EDINBURGH; AND NEW YORK.
1875.
Contents.
COURAGE AND PRESENCE OF MIND, 7
THE BOY WHO TOLD THE TRUTH, 24
TRY AGAIN, 43
LEARN TO SAY "NO," 62
LITTLE CHARLIE'S WILL, 80
THE STUDENT AND APPRENTICE, 97
[Illustration: HE THAT WALKETH UPRIGHTLY WALKETH SURELY.]
Courage and Presence of Mind.
George Williams and Edward Jones, two boys living near together,
obtained their parents' consent one Saturday to go to the mill-pond and
skate. There had been some pretty cold weather, and as the ice had
formed rapidly, Mr. Jones and Mr. Williams supposed that the surface of
the mill-pond was as hard as the floor, and that therefore their boys
would be entirely free from danger.
Away ran the two boys, with their skates hung round their necks, and
their thoughts intent upon the pleasure they were to have on the
mill-pond. On reaching the top of a hill which overlooked the pond,
they saw Henry Lee, a school companion, gliding along over the smooth
surface of the ice as swiftly as a bird on the wing. Eager to join him,
they ran shouting down the hill, and were soon occupied in strapping on
their skates. But ere this was completed, the two lads were alarmed by a
cry of terror from Henry; and on looking up, they saw that he had broken
through the ice, and was struggling in the water.
At this, Edward Jones became so frightened, that he threw off his skates
and started back, screaming, toward home; but George Williams, with more
presence of mind and courage, seized a long pole that lay upon the
shore, and went as quickly as possible to the assistance of the drowning
boy. Henry had broken into what is called an "air hole," where the ice
is very thin; and as at every attempt he made to extricate himself the
ice broke with the weight of his body, he was in great danger of losing
his life unless speedy assistance came. If he remained still and held
on to the edges of the ice, he could keep himself up; but then the water
was so cold, that in a little while he would get benumbed, and lose all
power to sustain himself. Before, therefore, the frightened Edward Jones
could alarm his friends and bring assistance, he would, in all
probability, have been lost under the ice.
As we have said, George Williams, who was much more courageous than
Edward, caught up a pole, and ran as speedily as possible to the place
where Henry was struggling in the water.
"Do not be frightened, Henry," he called; "do not be frightened--I am
coming, and will get you out."
At this Henry ceased his violent efforts to extricate himself, and
remained quiet until George came up as near as it was prudent to come,
and laid his pole across the broken place, so that each end of it rested
upon solid ice.
"Now hold on to that," said he, coolly.
You may be certain the poor lad in the water did not wait to be asked
twice to do as he was told. With both hands he grasped the stick. Then
George lay down at full length, and keeping one hand for support on the
pole, crept up so close to the broken place in the ice, that he could
grasp one of Henry's hands.
"Easy--easy," said he, in a calm encouraging voice, as the boy in the
water caught his arm eagerly, and was in danger of dragging him in also.
This gave Henry more confidence, and restored, in some measure, his
presence of mind. After this, it took but a moment for George Williams
to pull Henry out, and get him beyond all danger.
The two boys were more than half-way home, when they met a number of
men, whom Edward Jones had alarmed by his cries for help, running at
full speed to rescue the drowning lad. The praise they bestowed upon
George for his courageous conduct was very pleasant to him, but not half
so pleasant as the reflection that he had saved the life of his young
playmate.
On the evening after this occurrence, Mr. Jones, the father of Edward,
took his son into his room, and when they were alone, said to him,--
"How comes it, my boy, that you did not, like George Williams, go
immediately to the aid of Henry Lee when you saw him break through the
ice?"
"I was so frightened," replied the boy, "that I did not know what I was
doing."
"And this fright would have cost Henry his life, if there had not been
another boy near to save him."
Edward looked very serious, and his eyes were cast upon the floor.
"I am very sorry," he said; "but I could not help it."
"Do not say that, my son," replied Mr. Jones. "This timidity--or, I
might say, cowardice--is a weakness that all may, in a great measure,
overcome; and it is the duty of every one to overcome it, for all
should be brave, and ready to risk even life itself to save others. It
is not often that persons who so risk their lives receive any injury,
for God protects those who seek to protect others. Let me tell you
something that happened when I was a boy. Two children were playing near
a spring. One of them was only four years old, and the other was seven.
The larger boy's name was Frank. While Frank was building a house with
sticks that he had gathered under the trees, he heard a splash, and
turning round, saw that his little brother had plunged head foremost
into the spring, and was struggling in the water. The spring being deep
and narrow--it was walled up at the sides--there was no chance for the
child to extricate himself.
[Illustration: EDWARD AND HIS FATHER.]
"When Frank saw this, he was terribly alarmed, and his heart beat so
loud that it seemed to him that any one standing near might have heard
it. What did he do? Run away for help? No; he was a very little boy,
but he was thoughtful and brave, little as he was. Instead of darting
off for home as fast as his feet would carry him, to get some one to
come and save his brother from drowning, he seized hold of him, and
applying all his strength, succeeded in dragging the already
half-drowned child from the spring. Thus, by his presence of mind and
bravery, he saved the life of his brother.
"These two children lived near a mill, and were permitted by their
parents to play in the mill or about the water, just as they pleased.
They did not think any more of danger than we do when we send you to
school over the long bridge that crosses the river. Well, one day they
were playing by the side of the deep wooden trough or sluice that
receives the water from the mill-race, before it is poured upon the
great wheels. This is furnished with heavy gates at both ends, by which
the water is let on and shut off at pleasure. In this trough the water
glides along more rapidly than in the mill-race, and it is drawn under
the gate at the lower end with a very strong, whirling motion, and
thence passes to the water-wheels.
"By the side of this deep trough, the two children of whom I spoke were
playing, when the little one, who had before fallen into the spring,
slipped off, and went plunging down into the water. Frank saw him fall.
In an instant the child, who was buoyed up by his clothes, went sweeping
down toward the open gate through which the water was rushing. The delay
of half a minute would be fatal. Had Frank become so much frightened as
to be unable to act promptly, had he hesitated a moment what to do, his
brother would have been lost. But the brave boy sprang at once to his
rescue, and leaning down, he caught the child by the clothes, and held
on to him eagerly. The water was so far down, and Frank had to stoop so
low, that he had not strength to pull his brother out; but he held on to
him, and screamed loudly for help. But the noise of the mill was so
great, that the millers could not hear his voice. Still he held on, and
cried out for aid. Nearly five minutes passed before any one came to his
assistance; and then a man who was going by saw him, and ran down along
the mill-race, and rescued the drowning child. Thus it was that the
courage and presence of mind of Frank saved the life of his brother a
second time. Now, suppose he had been too frightened to think or act in
a proper manner, as you were to-day, his brother would, in all
probability, have been drawn in under the gate, and been killed on the
wheel."
Edward shuddered at the thought.
"That brave lad," continued Mr. Jones, "was your uncle Frank; and the
brother whose life he saved is now your father."
"You, father! you!" exclaimed Edward in surprise.
"Yes, my son: I fell into the spring, and your uncle saved me from
drowning by his promptness to act; and I fell into the mill-race, and
was rescued through his courage and presence of mind."
Edward's thoughts went back to the mill-pond, and he saw, in
imagination, Henry Lee struggling in the hole in the ice, and saw how
easy it would have been for him to have gone to his assistance, and
rescued him from his perilous situation, instead of running away,
frightened out of his wits, screaming for others afar off to do what was
needed to be done at the moment. He felt, painfully too, that his
playfellow would have been drowned, had not George Williams, with true
bravery, gone instantly to his aid. It was a moment of self-reproach and
mortification.
"Many years ago," continued Edward's father, "I remember reading a story
of a boy's presence of mind and courage that I shall never forget. The
lad of whom I speak was walking along the road with his mother and a
little sister, when all at once was heard the startling cry of 'Mad
dog!' On looking in the direction from which this alarming cry came, a
dog was seen running toward them, pursued by a crowd of men and boys. A
high fence on each side of the road made escape impossible. So
frightened did the mother become, that she was fixed to the spot; and
her daughter clung to her, screaming in terror. But the boy stepped
boldly before his mother and sister, and, as the dog approached, began
hurriedly wrapping around his hand and arm a silk handkerchief which he
had drawn from his pocket. In a shorter period of time than it has taken
me to relate to you the fact, the dog was down upon them. The brave boy,
however, did not shrink back an inch. As he stood in front of his mother
and sister, the mad animal, on coming up, made a spring at him, when the
boy, with wonderful coolness, thrust the hand around which he had wound
his handkerchief boldly into his mouth, and grasped his tongue. While
he kept hold of the dog's tongue, the animal could not bite him; and
the handkerchief had protected his hand from being scratched by his
teeth, as he thrust it into his open mouth. Ere the dog could recover
himself and struggle loose from the boy, the men in pursuit were upon
him with clubs and stones, and in a few minutes he was lying dead almost
at the feet of the heroic boy, who, while he had saved the lives,
perhaps, of his mother and sister, remained himself unharmed.
"Few boys, not one perhaps in a hundred," continued Mr. Jones, "would
have had his presence of mind and courage, under similar circumstances;
and I doubt very much if one man in ten could be found to show so brave
a spirit. Yet how much better and safer was it for the boy to act as he
did--safer for himself, and safer for those he loved. The fact is, my
son, but little of danger presents itself, as we pass through life,
which may not be escaped if we look it boldly in the face, and see what
it is like. Unless we understand exactly what the danger is, and in what
manner it is approaching, how shall we escape it?"
The stories of bravery and self-possession which Mr. Jones related, made
a very marked impression upon the mind of Edward. He saw, by contrast,
his own conduct in a most unfavourable light, and he shuddered when he
thought of what the consequence to Henry Lee would have been, had not
his companion possessed a cooler and more courageous spirit than
himself.
It was not more than a week after the occurrence at the mill-pond, that
Edward started out with a little brother, not above four years of age,
whom he was drawing on a little sledge, for the purpose of riding down a
hill on the smooth snow, a short distance from the house. On the way to
this hill, Edward had to pass through a field belonging to a neighbour.
When nearly across, he heard the noise of some animal, and looking
around, saw a mad bull approaching from the other side of the field.
With the first impulse of fear, he dropped the rope with which he was
pulling the sledge on which sat his little brother, and sprang away, in
order to reach the fence before the infuriated animal came up. He had
only gone a few steps, however, before he thought of the innocent child
on the sledge, who would surely be gored to death by the bull if left
where he was. This thought made him stop and turn round. The bull was
now running toward them, muttering and bellowing dreadfully. If he went
back for his brother, escape was almost impossible. But how could he
leave the dear child to a terrible death without making an effort to
save him? These were the hurried thoughts that rushed through his mind.
Then he remembered the mill-pond, the boy and the mad dog, the child in
the spring and his brave brother, and what his father had said about
being courageous. It took scarcely an instant of time for all this to
be presented to the frightened boy. By a strong effort he composed
himself, and then ran back to where his brother was still upon the
sledge. The bull was now very near; but Edward, though he had taken the
child in his arms, was able to run so fast as to reach the fence and
climb over it before the mad creature could reach them. In less than a
quarter of a minute after he was beyond the reach of danger, the bull
came dashing up to the fence, foaming and bellowing with rage.
"Well and bravely done, my noble boy!" exclaimed Edward's father, who,
seeing his children's danger, had been running toward them unperceived.
Just as Edward landed, with his brother still clasped in his arms,
safely on the right side of the fence, he came up.
Edward turned quickly toward his father, who saw that his face was very
pale, and that his lips were quivering.
"It was a narrow escape, my son," said Mr. Jones, "a very narrow
escape. But Heaven is always on the side of those who seek to save
others that are in danger. If you had hesitated a moment about acting
courageously, our dear little Willie would now have been bleeding, it
may be, upon the horns of that mad animal. How thankful I feel that you
had the bravery to do as you have done."
"And I am thankful too, father," said the boy, in a trembling voice. "O!
if in my cowardice I had permitted Willie to be killed, I should never
have been happy again in all my life."
After such a trial and triumph, Edward was able in the future to act
with becoming presence of mind in all cases of danger and peril that
happened to occur.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BUY THE TRUTH AND SELL IT NOT.]
The Boy who Told the Truth.
One cold, bleak day in winter, during study hours, the pupils of Mr.
Wise's school heard the sound of a carriage coming toward the
school-house. A moment after, and it was before the door; and the loud
voice of a man called for Mr. Wise. He went to the door, heard what the
man had to tell him, came back into the room with a much sadder face
than he had left it, and said,--
"Boys, I have just now been told that a very dear friend of mine is very
ill, and wishes to see me. Mr. Bird, the man who is at the door, has
asked me to ride back with him; and as my friend lives five miles from
here, and I know of no other way of going there, I would like to accept
his offer. I can dismiss you all in a short time; but I do not like to
oblige Mr. Bird to wait for me until I put away my books and papers, and
lock up the school. Now, I wish to leave three boys here to do it in my
place; and those who think they can do this in a proper manner, and
would like to do a favour for me, may hold up their hands."
[Illustration: THE SCHOOL-ROOM.]
Nearly every boy in the room, large and small, raised one hand. Mr. Wise
smiled, and said,--
"I am glad to see so many of you ready to oblige me, but _three_ will be
quite enough for the work; and I shall select from among you those whom
I regard as the most trusty."
He then named Thomas Jones, George Evans, and James Black.
"James Black is not so old as many others here," he said, "but I think I
can rely upon him to do what is right; and if any harm should happen, I
know he will tell me the exact truth about it."
Mr. Wise then sent all the boys home, but the three whom he had chosen
to remain; and after having given these last a few orders as to where
they should put the keys, &c., he left them, jumped into the carriage,
and was soon riding along at a swift rate to visit his sick friend.
The boys had begun to put away the things in nice order, when they heard
a loud halloo. They turned to find out from whom it came, and saw four
of their school-mates at the door.
"Go away, Edward West, and the rest of you boys," said Thomas Jones.
"No, indeed!" said they; "we are not going quite yet."
"Now, I dare say you want to know how we came here, and what we want,"
said Edward West, who seemed to be the leader of the party; "and to save
you the asking, I'll just tell you. We hid behind the school-house until
the master was out of sight, and then we came out to pay you a visit;
and you ought to be very glad to see us. Our reason for doing so was to
have some fun, of course; and now you have the whole story."
"Well, we'll just tell Mr. Wise, and see what he will have to say about
it," said George Evans.
"Oh, we don't mean to do any harm," said Edward. "We only want to have
a little play; and you would not tell unless we do wrong. Would you,
George?"
"What shall we do about these boys?" asked George aside, speaking in an
undertone to Thomas and James.
"I am sure I cannot tell," said James; "for I am afraid they will not go
away for us."
"That is what I think," said Thomas; "and we may only get into a quarrel
with them, and do no good by it. How would it do for us to tell them
they may stay, if they will give us their word of honour not to behave
badly?"
"Yes, that is all we can do," said George.
"Well, boys," said Thomas aloud, "I think it would be much better for
you to go home; but if you promise to behave, we will not object to your
staying here with us, though I am not quite sure that Mr. Wise will like
it."
"Well, on the whole, I call that a polite speech," said Edward, "and I
give my hand to the bargain."
"Yes; we all agree to behave well," cried the others; and they began to
mount the desks, and perform sundry little antics. At first the three
boys who had stayed in to work went on doing their duty, as if their
wild school-mates were not there at all, except now and then, when they
would pause to smile at some of their odd tricks, or speak a few words
to them. When they became too rude and noisy, George or Thomas called
them to order, by giving them a hint of the bargain which had been made.
Very soon they began to argue upon some point that seemed hard to
settle, from the loud tones with which they spoke.
"What is the matter?" asked James Black, for he heard his own name used
in the debate.
"Why, Hiram says you cannot jump over that stool, and I know you can,"
said Edward.
James looked at the stool. It was a high one, and stood on a clear
space, not far from the desk of Mr. Wise.
"Yes, I can jump over it, and at the first trial too, as I will soon
show you," he said; and as he spoke he joined them, with a view to
proving the truth of his words.
The boys stood off to leave him room. He gave one high leap quite over
the stool; but before his feet gained the floor on the other side, they
struck an end of the master's desk, and upset an inkstand over some
letters and papers which were highly valued by Mr. Wise. For a moment
the boys all stood aghast and silent, gazing on the ruin before them.
Edward West spoke first.
"Never mind, James," he said, with a look of pity at poor James, who
stood near to him, quite pale with grief and dismay at what he had done.
"Never mind; you did not mean to do any harm, and it cannot be helped
now."
"No," said Thomas; "the master need not know how it was done, for none
of us will ever tell about it."
"No, indeed, we will never tell," cried all the boys.
James stood as before, and made no reply: from a deadly paleness his
face had grown quite red while they spoke; but this was all the change
which their words seemed to make in him.
"It will be quite easy to hide the truth from the master, James," said
Hiram; "and I'll tell you how. Shut up the desk now and lock it, and
then, when he asks about it, we will say that we saw you put all the
books and papers and other things safely away in the desk, and lock it
up. That is all true, you know. Then he will think that in some way the
desk has got a jolt, which upset the inkstand after it was closed."
"Why, Hiram!" said James in an amazed tone, "do you think I would tell a
lie?"
"That would not be telling a lie, I am sure," said Hiram; "for you _did_
put all the things safely by in the desk; and that was all I told you
to say. You need not tell him _how_ the ink was spilt. Let him guess
that."
"Yes," said Edward; "for he will not be likely to say, 'James Black, was
it _you_ who upset my inkstand?' and if he does not, I do not see that
there need be any lie told in the case."
"I do not see how I can help telling a lie, unless I tell the whole
story in full, just as it came about," said James.
"Well, I do not see where you can find one false word in all _I_ told
you to say," said Hiram.
"It is certainly a lie to pretend to tell the whole story, and yet keep
back the chief part of it, and that, too, which is most to the point,"
said James.
"Then, what do you mean to do?" asked Hiram.
"Tell the whole story in full, to be sure, and not keep back a single
part of it which the master ought to know; then say to him that I am
very sorry that I did not go on doing my duty, as I should have done,
and that I hope he will pardon me for it," said James in a firm, clear
tone.
"What! Do you mean to tell that _we_ came back to school after we had
been sent home?" asked one of the boys, with an angry shake of the head.
"Not if I can help it, and yet tell the whole truth about what I did
myself," said James.
"That is right," said Edward West. "James Black is not as old as we are,
but he has more real honour about him, and is more of a man, than any of
us; and I think we ought to copy him, and come out boldly too, and tell
the truth of our part of the affair."
"I think so too," said one or two others; and those who did not speak,
in their hearts agreed with what Edward said.
"I never heard James Black tell a lie since I have known him," said
Thomas Jones; "and I would sooner trust his plain YES or NO than all
the oaths in the world from many other boys; for he always tells the
truth."
"I never trust the word of a boy who swears," said George Evans; "for
any one who swears will be quite ready to tell a lie when it suits him."
"Yes," said Edward West; "and I always doubt a boy who uses any words to
make what he says seem more strong. We can't make 'YES' mean more than
'YES,' or 'NO' more than 'NO,' by adding other words to them; and they
are quite enough for me, when they come from a boy whom I can trust."
"That is just what I think," said James. "I should be afraid that God
would strike me dead, as he did the wicked man and his wife whom we read
of in the Bible, who told a lie to Peter about the price he got for the
land he had sold."
"I have often heard that story," said Hiram; "but God does not strike
people dead _now_ when they tell lies."
"He has the power to do it," said James; "and he is just as angry at
liars now as he was then. When I told a lie, my mother talked to me a
great deal about the sin of lying. She said that Satan was called the
father of lies; and that, though God does not punish them at the time
they sin, he has said, 'All liars shall have their part in the lake
which burneth with fire and brimstone;' and he will surely keep his
word."
"Yes, that is an awful fate, which we all ought to try to avoid," said
Thomas. "But see," he added, "I have wiped off all the ink I can with
this piece of sponge; and as that is all we can do to repair the harm, I
think we had better shut up the school-room and go home."
"I am sure you are very kind," said James, as he looked into the desk;
"for you have done it much more nicely than I could."
Thomas locked the desk, and put away the key where Mr. Wise had told
him. Then, when all was ready, the boys put on their caps and overcoats,
and started for home.
James was very sorry indeed for having injured Mr. Wise's papers and
letters, for he knew how much he valued some of them; and he felt real
regret at having been so remiss in doing his duty. The words of Mr.
Wise, "I think I can rely upon James to do what is right," were all the
time in his mind; and his heart blamed him for not having proved worthy
of the trust. "I ought not to have minded when they called me to try if
I could jump over that stool. I have paid very dear for doing so, and
much more than the game was worth, I am sure. It was not the proper way
to behave in school, either: for I would not have done so if the master
had been there; and when he is absent I should not act in a way that I
know he would not like if he could see me."
Every kind word that the master had ever spoken to him seemed to rise up
before him, to chide his breach of trust. He sighed deeply, as he said,
"Mr. Wise has indeed been very kind to me; and all I can do now to
repair the wrong I have done him, is fully and freely to tell him the
whole story, and ask him to pardon me. But my Father in heaven has been
more kind to me than any friend I have on earth could be; and, first of
all, I will humbly ask his pardon of my sin."
Then he knelt down, and prayed that God would pardon the wrong he had
done, and help him to be more on his guard in the future, and to tell
the whole truth to Mr. Wise.
The next day James went to school with a heavy heart. Mr. Wise was at
his desk when he went in, and was about calling the boys to order to
begin the school duties. Then, as was his custom, he read some verses
from the Bible, and offered a short prayer. When this was done, James
waited a while for him to ask about his desk; but he said nothing,
though he looked grave and sad. Then James left his seat, and went up to
the desk with a firm tread. The eyes of all the boys in the room were
fixed upon him; but he did not seem to notice it, for his own were bent
toward the ground. He hardly raised them, to look at Mr. Wise, as he
said, in a low tone,--
"It was I, sir, who upset the inkstand over your papers; and I am very
sorry for it."
"Well, never mind," said Mr. Wise, kindly, for he saw how sad James was;
"I dare say you did it while putting away my things, and could not help
it."
"No, sir," said James; "I did it in trying to jump over that high stool.
I know it was wrong; and I hope you will pardon me."
Mr. Wise looked grave.
"It was a rude way to behave when I trusted you so far as to leave you
here alone," he said. "But as your sorrow seems so real, I will pardon
you. I know, too, that you do not ask this of me from a dread that I
will punish you for what has been done, but from a sense of duty, and a
feeling of regret at having done wrong."
"You are very kind," said James, "and I thank you for it; but oh, sir,
will you ever _trust_ me again as you once did? For, indeed, I will try
hard to deserve it always."
Mr. Wise paused, and looked in his face for a moment, and then said,--
"Yes; I feel that I can trust you still; for I think that you will be
more on your guard for the future. And, at any rate," he said, taking
the hand of James in his own, "I can rely firmly upon your word; for you
have always told me the truth--the whole truth; and when you do wrong,
you never try to excuse it, or make it seem right."
James tried to thank Mr. Wise for the kind words he had spoken, but he
could not; his heart was too full for words, and he could only press the
hand which held his own, in token of what he felt. As he did this, he
turned away from the desk.
He had hardly taken his seat, when Edward West rose and went up to Mr.
Wise, and after him, one by one, came each of the four boys who had gone
back into the school-house on the day before without leave. Not one
stayed behind--not even the one who had been so angry lest James Black
should tell of them. As head of the party, Edward spoke for them,
telling Mr. Wise that they were to blame for the ruin of his papers, as
James would not have been likely to leave his work if they had not come
back to school to tempt him. He said that they knew that they had done
wrong in not going home as they were told, and that if the master chose
to punish them, they felt that it was but right, but that they hoped to
behave better in time to come.
Mr. Wise was pleased with the frank manner of the boys, in so freely
telling him of their bad conduct; yet their doing so was a matter of
some wonder to him. Perhaps Edward saw this, for he said,--
"At first we urged James to hide his fault from you, sir; but when he
told us, in such a firm way, that he would not tell a lie, we were
shamed out of our own desire to conceal the truth."
"You did right, in part," said Mr. Wise; "but I hope you will learn to
tell the truth from a pure love of truth, and to shun a lie from a deep
hatred of all that is false. Study your Bibles, and you will find how
God hates lying; and you will also learn there the awful fate of liars."
Then, after a few words of reproof and caution, he sent them to their
seats.
Mr. Wise felt very sorry at the loss of his letters and papers, for they
were of great value to him; but he nearly forgot his sorrow in the joy
which it gave him to find his pupils ready to confess their faults so
freely to him.
How plain it is that the path of duty is the only path of peace and
safety!
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE FEAR OF THE LORD IS THE BEGINNING OF WISDOM.]
Try Again.
"Have you finished your lesson, George?" said Mr. Prentice to a lad in
his fourteenth year, who had laid aside his book, and was busily engaged
in making a large paper kite.
"No, father," replied George, hanging down his head.
"Why not, my son?"
"Because it is so difficult, father. I am sure that I shall never learn
to read Latin."
"And what is the reason that you cannot learn Latin?"
"Because--because I can't."
"Can't learn, George!"
"Indeed, I have tried my best," replied the boy earnestly, the tears
starting to his eyes; "but it is no use, father. Other boys can get
their lessons without any trouble; but I try, and try, but still I
cannot learn them."
"I 'cannot,' is a word no boy should ever utter in reference to
learning. You _can_ learn anything you please, George, if you only
persevere."
"But not Latin, father."
"Yes, Latin."
"But have I not tried, and tried, father?"
"Yes; but you must try once more."
"And so I have, father."
"Well, try again, and again; never say you cannot learn a lesson."
"But then I cannot remember it after I have learned it, my memory is so
bad," urged the lad.
"If I were to promise you a holiday on the thirtieth of the month after
the next, do you think that you would forget it?"
"No, I am pretty sure that I should not."
"And why, George?"
"I can't exactly tell the reason; but I know I should remember it."
[Illustration: GEORGE AND HIS FATHER.]
"Well, I can tell you. The pleasure you would take in the idea of having
a holiday, would keep the date of it fresh in your memory. Now, if you
were to take the same delight in learning that you do in playing, you
would find no difficulty. You play at marbles well, I believe?"
"Oh yes, father; I beat every boy at school!"
"And your brother tells me that your kite flies highest; and that you
are first in skating?"
"Yes, my kite always flies the best; and I can cut every figure, from
one to nine, and form every letter in the alphabet, on the ice."
"You are very fond of skating, and flying your kite, and playing at ball
and marbles?"
"Yes, father; too fond, I believe, for a boy of my age."
"And yet you cannot learn your Latin lesson. My dear boy, you are
deceiving yourself; you can learn as well as any one, if you will only
try."
"But have I not tried, father?" again urged George.
"Well, try again. Come, lay aside that kite you are making for this
afternoon, and give another effort to get your lesson ready. Be in
earnest, and you will soon learn it. To show you that it only requires
perseverance, I will tell you a story. One of the dullest boys at a
village school, more than thirty years ago, came up to repeat his lesson
one morning, and, as usual, did not know it. 'Go to your seat, you
blockhead!' said the teacher, pettishly. 'You will never be fit for
anything but a scavenger. I wonder what they send such a stupid dunce
here for!'
"The poor dispirited boy stole off to his seat, and bent his eyes again
upon his lesson.
"'It is no use. I cannot learn,' he said in a whisper to a companion who
sat near him.
"'You must try hard,' replied the sympathizing and kind-hearted boy.
"'I have tried, and it is no use. I may just as well give it up at
once.'
"'Try again, Henry!' whispered his companion in an earnest and
encouraging tone.
[Illustration: TRY AGAIN.]
"These two little words gave him a fresh impulse, and he bent his mind
with renewed effort to his task. It was only the simple memorizing of a
grammar lesson--not difficult by any means. The concentration of his
mind upon the task was more earnest and fixed than usual; gradually he
began to find the sentences lingering in his memory, and soon, to his
surprise and pleasure, the whole lesson was mastered. With a livelier
motion and a more confident manner than he had ever before exhibited in
going up to say a lesson, he rose from his seat and proceeded to the
teacher's desk.
"'What do you want now?' asked that person, harshly.
"'To say my lesson, sir.'
"'Go off to your seat!--Did you not try half-an-hour ago?'
"'Yes; but I _can_ say it now, sir,' timidly urged the boy.
"'Go on, then; and if you miss a sentence, you shall have six bad
marks.'
"Henry commenced, and said off the whole lesson rapidly, without missing
a word. The master cast on him a look of pleasure, as he handed him back
his book, but said nothing. As the boy returned to his seat, his step
was lighter, for his heart beat with a new impulse.
"'Did you say it?' whispered his kind-hearted school-mate.
"'Every word,' replied the boy proudly.
"'Then you see you can learn.'
"'Yes; but it is hard work.'
"'But there is nothing like trying.'
"'No; and from this hour,' replied Henry firmly, 'I will never say I
cannot.'
"From that day," continued Mr. Prentice, "there was no boy in the school
who learned more rapidly than Henry. It required much thought and
application; but these he gave cheerfully, and success crowned his
efforts."
"And did he always continue thus to learn?" asked George, looking up
into his father's face.
"From that day, to the present hour, he has been a student; and now
urges his son George to 'try again,' as he tried."
"And was it indeed _you_, father?" asked his son, eagerly looking up
into the face of his kind parent.
"Yes, my child; that dull boy was your own father in his early years."
"Then _I will_ try again," said George, in a decided tone; and flinging
aside his half-made kite, he turned and re-entered the house, and was
soon bending in earnest attention over his Latin grammar.
* * * * *
"Well, what success, George?" asked Mr. Prentice, as the family gathered
around the well-furnished tea-table.
"I've got the lesson, father!" replied the boy. "I can say every word of
it."
"You found it pretty hard work?"
"Not so very hard after I had once made up my mind that I _would_ learn
it. Indeed, I never stopped to think, as I usually do, about it being
difficult or tiresome; but went right on until I had mastered every
sentence."
"May you never forget this lesson, my son!" said Mr. Prentice feelingly.
"You possess now the secret of success. It lies in your never stopping
to think about a task being difficult or tiresome; but in going on
steadily in the performance of it, with a fixed determination to
succeed. Within a short time you have mastered a task that you despaired
of ever learning at all. And now, George, remember, never again utter
the words, _I can't_."
The success that had rewarded his own determined efforts, united with
the impulse that the simple reference of his father to his own early
difficulties gave to his mind, was sufficient to make George a rapid
learner from that day. He became interested in his studies, and
therefore he succeeded in them. When he left college, at the age of
eighteen, he bore with him the highest honours of the institution, and
the respect of his teachers. He now entered the house of a merchant, to
prepare for a business life. At first, his new occupation was by no
means pleasant. The change from books and studies to busy life, and the
dull details of trade, as he called them, was for a time exceedingly
irksome.
"I shall never make a merchant, I fear," he said to his father one
evening, when he felt unusually wearied with his occupation.
"And why not, George?" asked Mr. Prentice kindly.
"I have no taste for it," replied the young man.
"That is a poor reason. Is it not an honest and honourable calling?"
"Yes."
"And are you not convinced that it is necessary for you to follow some
occupation? I gave you a choice of professions; but you preferred, you
said, a mercantile life."
"Yes. And still, when I reflect on the subject, my preference is for a
mercantile life."
"Then, George, you must compel yourself to be interested in your new
pursuit."
"I have tried, father."
"Then, _try again_!" replied Mr. Prentice, with peculiar emphasis, at
the same time casting a significant glance at his son.
These simple words thrilled through the mind of George Prentice. The
past rose up before him, with its doubts, its difficulties, and its
triumphs. Springing suddenly to his feet, he said with emphasis,----
"I _will_ try again."
"And you will succeed."
"Yes; I feel that I shall."
And he did succeed in obtaining a thorough practical knowledge of
business; for he applied himself with patient and fixed determination,
and soon became interested in his new pursuits.
At the age of twenty-five, he entered into business for himself, with a
small capital furnished him by his father. The house in which he had
been employed was engaged in the West India trade, and as his
familiarity with this line of business was more intimate than with any
other, he determined to turn his little capital in that direction.
Accordingly, after renting a small warehouse on one of the principal
wharves, he proceeded to freight a vessel with all the prudence that an
intimate knowledge of the West India markets afforded him. But, alas!
misfortune sometimes comes to us when least expected and least deserved.
Two days before his vessel arrived, the market had been overstocked by
shipments from other countries, and a large loss, instead of the
anticipated profits, was the result.
For some days after this disheartening news reached him, he gave way to
desponding thoughts. But soon he bent his mind to a new adventure. In
this he was more successful; but as the investment had been small, the
profit was inconsiderable. His next shipment was large, involving at
least two-thirds of his capital. The policy of insurance safe in his
fire-closet, the young merchant deemed himself secure against total
loss. For wise purposes, God often sees fit to frustrate our hopes, and
make the best-laid schemes of success or security fail. Two months from
the day on which the vessel sailed, news arrived that she had been
wrecked, and the whole cargo lost. Nor was this all. Some informality or
neglect of the captain vitiated the insurance, and the underwriters
refused to pay. A suit was commenced against them, which occupied from
six to eight months before a decision could be obtained.
Nearly a twelvemonth from the day the unfortunate adventure was made,
George Prentice sat musing in his counting-room, his mind busy with
unpleasant and desponding thoughts. He had done little or no business
since the news of his loss had reached him, for he had but a remnant of
his capital to work upon, and no heart to risk that. He was "holding
off," as they say, until some decision was made in the suit pending with
the underwriters. While he thus sat in deep thought, a letter from his
agent in London, where the insurance had been effected, was handed to
him. He tore it open eagerly. The first brief sentence--"We have lost
our suit"--almost unmanned him.
[Illustration: THE LOST SHIP.]
"Ruined!--ruined!" he mentally ejaculated, throwing the letter upon his
desk as he finished reading it. "What shall I do?"
"_Try again!_" a voice seemed to whisper in his ear.
He started and looked around.
"_Try again_," it repeated; and this time he perceived that the voice
was within him. For a moment he paused, many thoughts passing rapidly
through his mind.
"I _will_ try again!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet.
And he did try. This time he examined the condition of the markets with
the most careful scrutiny--ascertained the amount of shipments within
the preceding four months from all the principal continental cities; and
then, by the aid of his correspondents, learned the expeditions that
were getting up, and the articles, and quantities of each, composing the
cargoes. Knowing the monthly consumption of the various foreign products
at the port to which he purposed making a shipment, he was satisfied
that a cargo of flour, if run in immediately, would pay a handsome
profit. He at once hired a vessel, the captain of which he knew could be
depended on for strict obedience to instructions, and freighted her with
flour. The vessel sailed, and the young merchant awaited with almost
trembling expectation the news of her arrival out. He had adventured his
all; and the result must be success, or the utter prostration of his
hopes.
In anxious expectation he waited week after week, until every day seemed
to him prolonged to double its number of hours. At last a letter came
from his consignee. He almost trembled as he broke the seal.
"Your flour has arrived at the very best time," it commenced. For a few
moments he could read no further. He was compelled to pause, lest the
emotion he felt should be betrayed to those around him. Then he read the
whole letter calmly through. It stated that the supply of flour was
nearly exhausted when his cargo arrived, which had been promptly sold at
fourteen shillings a barrel above the last quotations.
"I shall clear nearly five hundred pounds by my last shipment," he said
to his father, who entered the counting-room at the moment.
"Indeed! well I am very glad to hear you say so, George. I hope, after
this, you will be more successful."
"I hope that I shall: but I had nearly given up in despair," the son
remarked.
"But you thought you would _try again_!" observed the old gentleman,
smiling.
"Exactly so, father."
"That was right, George. Never despair. Let 'Try again' be your motto at
all times, and success will in the end attend your efforts."
His father was right. George Prentice is now a wealthy merchant. He is
somewhat advanced in years, and is accounted by some a little
eccentric. One evidence of this eccentricity is the fact, that over the
range of desks in his counting-room is painted, in large letters, the
words,--"TRY AGAIN."
PERSEVERE.
Drive the nail aright, boys,
Hit it on the head;
Strike with all your might, boys,
While the iron's red.
When you've work to do, boys,
Do it with a will;
They who reach the top, boys,
First must climb the hill.
Standing at the foot, boys,
Gazing at the sky,
How can you get up, boys,
If you never try?
Though you stumble oft, boys,
Never be down-cast;
Try, and try again, boys,--
You'll succeed at last.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: BLESSINGS ARE UPON THE HEAD OF THE JUST.]
Learn to Say "No."
"There is a word, my son, a very little word, in the English language,
the right use of which it is all-important that you should learn," said
Mr. Howland to his son Thomas, who was about leaving the paternal roof
for a residence in a distant city; never again, perchance, to make one
of the little circle that had so long gathered in the family homestead.
"What word is that, father?" asked Thomas.
"It is the little word _No_, my son."
"And why does so much importance attach to that word, father?"
"Perhaps I can make you understand the reason much better if I relate an
incident that occurred when I was a boy. I remember it as distinctly as
if it had taken place but yesterday, although thirty years have since
passed. There was a neighbour of my father's, who was very fond of
gunning and fishing. On several occasions I had accompanied him, and
liked it very much. One day my father said,--
"'William, I do not wish you to go into the woods or on the water again
with Mr. Jones.'
"'Why not, father?' I asked, for I had become so fond of going with him,
that to be denied the pleasure was a real privation.
"'I have good reasons for not wishing you to go, William,' my father
replied, 'but do not want to give them now. I hope it is all-sufficient
for you that your father desires you not to accompany Mr. Jones again.'
"I could not understand why my father laid upon me this prohibition;
and, as I desired much to go, I did not feel satisfied in my obedience.
On the next day, as I was walking in the fields, I met Mr. Jones with
his fishing-rod on his shoulder and his basket in hand.
"'Ah, William! you are the very one that I wish to see,' said Mr. Jones,
smiling. 'I am going out this morning, and want company. We shall have a
beautiful day.'
"'But my father told me yesterday,' I replied, 'that he did not wish me
to go out with you.'
"'And why not, pray?' asked Mr. Jones.
"'I am sure that I do not know,' I said; 'but, indeed, I should like to
go very much.'
"'Oh, never mind; come along,' he said. 'Your father will never know
it.'
"'Yes, but I am afraid that he will,' I replied, thinking more of my
father's displeasure than of the evil of disobedience.
"'There is no danger at all of that. We will be home again long before
dinner-time.'
"I hesitated, and he urged; and finally, I moved the way that he was
going, and had proceeded a few hundred yards, when I stopped, and
said,--
"'I don't like to go, Mr. Jones.'
"'Nonsense, William! There is no harm in fishing, I am sure. I have
often been out with your father myself.'
"Much as I felt inclined to go, still I hesitated; for I could not fully
make up my mind to disobey my father. At length he said,--
"'I can't wait here for you, William. Come along, or go back. Say Yes,
or No.'
"This was the decisive moment. I was to make up my mind, and fix my
determination in one way or the other. I was to say _Yes_ or No.
"'Come, I can't stay here all day,' Mr. Jones remarked rather harshly,
seeing that I hesitated. At the same moment, the image of my father rose
distinctly before my mind, and I saw his eye fixed steadily and
reprovingly upon me. With one desperate resolution, I uttered the word
'No!' and then turning, I ran away as fast as my feet would carry me. I
cannot tell you how much relieved I felt when I was far beyond the reach
of temptation.
"On the next morning, when I came down to breakfast, I was startled and
surprised to learn that Mr. Jones had been drowned on the day before.
Instead of returning in a few hours, as he had stated to me that he
would, he remained out all the day. A sudden storm arose; his boat was
capsized, and he drowned. I shuddered when I heard this sad and fatal
accident related. That little word NO had, in all probability, saved my
life.
"'I will now tell you, William,' my father said, turning to me, 'why I
did not wish you to go with Mr. Jones. Of late, he had taken to
drinking; and I had learned, within a few days, that whenever he went
out on a fishing or gunning excursion, he took his bottle of spirits
with him, and usually returned a good deal intoxicated. I could not
trust you with such a man. I did not think it necessary to state this to
you, for I was sure that I had only to express my wish that you would
not accompany him, to insure your implicit obedience.'
"I felt keenly rebuked at this; and resolved never again to permit even
the thought of disobedience to find a place in my mind. From that time,
I have felt the value of the word NO; and have generally, ever since,
been able to use it on all right occasions. It has saved me from many
troubles. Often and often in life have I been urged to do things that my
judgment told me were wrong: on such occasions, I always remembered my
first temptation, and resolutely said--'No!'
"And now, my son," continued Mr. Howland, "do you understand the
importance of the word _No_?"
"I think I do, father," replied Thomas. "But is there not danger of my
using it too often, and thus becoming selfish in all my feelings, and
consequently unwilling to render benefits to others?"
"Certainly there is, Thomas. The legitimate use of this word is to
resist evil. To refuse to do a good action is wrong."