"Father, I don't like to go to school," said Harry Williams, one
morning. "I wish you would let me always stay at home. Charles Parker's
father don't make him go to school."
Mr Williams took his little boy by the hand, and said kindly to him, "Come,
my son, I want to show you something in the garden."
Harry walked into the garden with his father, who led him along until they
came to a bed in which peas were growing, the vines supported by thin
branches that had been placed in the ground. Not a weed was to be seen
about their roots, nor even disfiguring the walk around the bed in which
they had been planted.
"See how beautifully these peas are growing, my son," said Mr Williams.
"How clean and healthy the vines look. We shall have an abundant crop. Now
let me show you the vines in Mr Parker's garden. We can look at them
through a great hole in his fence."
Mr Williams then led Harry through the garden gate and across the road, to
look at Mr Parker's pea vines through the hole in the fence. The bed in
which they were growing was near to the road; so they had no difficulty in
seeing it. After looking into the garden for a few moments, Mr Williams
said--
"Well, my son, what do you think of Mr Parker's pea vines?"
"Oh, father!" replied the little boy; "I never saw such poor looking peas
in my life! There are no sticks for them to run upon, and the weeds are
nearly as high as the peas themselves. There won't be half a crop!"
"Why are they so much worse than ours, Harry?"
"Because they have been left to grow as they pleased. I suppose Mr Parker
just planted them, and never took any care of them afterward. He has
neither taken out the weeds, nor helped them to grow right."
"Yes, that is just the truth, my son. A garden will soon be overrun with
weeds and briars, if it is not cultivated with the greatest care. And just
so it is with the human garden. This precious garden must be trained and
watered, and kept free from weeds, or it will run to waste. Children's
minds are like garden beds; and they must be as carefully tended, and even
more carefully, than the choicest plants. If you, my son, were never to go
to school, nor have good seeds of knowledge planted in your mind, it would,
when you become a man, resemble the weed-covered, neglected bed we have
just been looking at, instead of the beautiful one in my garden. Would you
think me right to neglect my garden as Mr Parker neglects his?"
"Oh, no, father; your garden is a good garden, but Mr Parker's is all
overrun with weeds and briars. It won't yield half as much as yours will."
"Or, my son, do you think I would be right if I neglected my son as Mr
Parker neglects his son, allowing him to run wild, and his mind,
uncultivated, to become overgrown with weeds?"
Little Harry made no reply; but he understood pretty clearly what his
father meant.
"I send you to school," Mr Williams continued, "in order that the garden
of your mind may have good seeds sown in it, and that these seeds may
spring up and grow, and produce plentifully. Now which would you prefer, to
stay at home from school, and so let the garden of your mind be overrun
with weeds, or go to school, and have this garden cultivated?"
"I would rather go to school," said Harry. "But, father, is Charles
Parker's mind overrun with weeds?"
"I am afraid that it is. If not, it certainly will be, if his father does
not send him to school. For a little boy not to be sent to school, is a
great misfortune, and I hope you will think the privilege of going to
school a very great one indeed."
Harry Williams listened to all his father said, and, what was better,
thought about it, too. He never again asked to stay home from school.
JULIAN PARMELEE;
OR DISAPPOINTMENT SOMETIMES A BLESSING.
In a pleasant New England village, several years ago, there was a good deal
of excitement produced among the little folks, by the appearance, on the
sign-post, and in the tavern and store, of some large placards, with very
curious and funny pictures upon them. These placards made known the
important fact, that, for the sum of ninepence, (a shilling, according to
the currency of New York,) any boy and girl in the vicinity might have the
pleasure of seeing some of the most astonishing feats of trained animals
ever heard of. On a certain day there was to be a sort of juggler, who
would play on some kind of instruments. The music made by this man would
have the power of charming the animals--so the advertisement read--and the
instant they heard it, they would commence playing their antics. There was
a great black bear who would stand on his head; a dog who knew almost as
much as his master; a cock that could walk on a pair of high stilts. Then
there were learned monkeys, learned pigs, and I know not what besides.
[Illustration: THE "SHOW."]
The pictures of these different animals, performing their several exploits,
caused a great deal of wonder and admiration among the village boys and
girls. In cities, where such exhibitions occur very frequently, such things
would not be much thought of. But it is very different in the country,
where public exhibitions of every sort are "like angels' visits, few and
far between." For nearly a week before the day appointed for this juggling
exhibition, there was nothing talked of in this quiet village so much as
the "show." Ninepences that had been a twelvemonth in accumulating, were
now in great demand; and more than one boy sighed as he reflected that he
had spent his pennies in candies and other nice things, so that he had none
left for the "show," and secretly resolved that he would be wiser next
time, and not allow his money to slip through his fingers so easily.
Among those who had the permission of their parents to visit the
exhibition, and who were anxiously longing for the day to come, were Julian
Parmelee and his sister. Julian, especially--a boy of about nine years of
age--was almost crazy with delight, when his mother told him he might go.
He jumped, danced, clapped his hands, shouted, and went through so many
strange manoeuvres, that his elder brother George, who was rather more
sober on the occasion, said he guessed he should not go to the court-house
and pay ninepence to see the show, for he was in a fair way to get the
exhibition at home, for nothing.
"Oh, mother!" said Julian, "do you really believe the bear will stand on
his head? What a funny sight it must be! I wonder if they keep the bear
chained. I shall take care I do not get within reach of his paws, I guess.
Charley Staples said he didn't believe it was half so big as the one he saw
when he was up in Vermont. How big is it, mother? as big as our Carlo? Oh,
I wish it was time to go now! I should think monkeys were very funny
creatures. They say there is one in the show that rides a horse, just like
a man. Ha! ha! ha!" And he laughed so loudly that he waked up the baby in
the cradle.
I do not wonder at all that little Julian was so much delighted with the
idea of going to this exhibition. It was something entirely new to him; and
to children, especially, such singular feats as these animals were to
perform, are always entertaining. It may, however, admit of a question,
whether it is right, just for our amusement, to inflict so much pain upon
these poor creatures as is necessary to teach them their several parts. It
seems rather cruel. You know what the frogs once said to the boys,
according to the fable, in the matter of stoning: "Young gentlemen, you do
not consider, that while this is sport to you, it is death to us." These
poor bears, and monkeys, and other animals, while they are going through
their education, might use some such language to their teachers, perhaps,
if they had the same faculty that the fable ascribes to the frogs. But,
however that may be, it was very natural that Julian should be half frantic
at the thought of seeing the show, and quite as natural that Julian's
father and mother should consent to let him go.
Well, some two days before the exhibition was to take place, Julian was
taken sick. There is a class of diseases--such as the measles and the
whooping-cough--which, you know, almost every boy and girl must have some
time or another; and it is not always left with the children to decide
precisely when they shall take their turn. One of these diseases had made
Julian a call, and insisted on staying with him a week or two. It was the
whooping-cough. Julian wanted to be excused for a few days; but the old
fellow told him, in his wheezing way, that he could not think of letting
him off so long. Julian was disappointed, and cried a good deal. It did
seem rather hard that he must be caged up in his chamber just at this time.
He was not so sick as to make it necessary to stay at home; but his mother
thought it would be wrong to allow him to go where there were to be so many
other children, because they would be in danger of taking the disease from
him. So it was decided that he could not see the "show;" and he fretted
and stormed, and made himself very unhappy. He was usually a good-natured
boy, but it must be confessed, that he was now quite out of humor.
"I don't see what I'm sick for, just when I wanted to go to the 'show.' I
declare, it is too bad. And the whooping-cough, too! If it was any thing
else, I could go. What under the sun--"
"There, Julian, that will do, I think," said his mother, kindly.
Julian checked himself, but he could hardly help muttering something about
its being "very provoking."
Mrs Parmelee was silent for a while, until the peevishness of her child had
a little time to subside, and then she said--
"My dear child, I am sorry that you should feel so; for you not only make
yourself unhappy, but you are finding fault with God, and you know that is
very wrong. God had something to do with your sickness. He could very
easily have prevented it, if he had chosen to do so. But he did not choose
to prevent it, and--"
"Well, why didn't he prevent it, mother?"
"Hear me through, my child. If he allowed you to be sick, when he could
have kept you well, then it is certain that, on the whole, he would rather
you would be sick. You see this, don't you, Julian?"
"Yes, ma'am. God made me sick, didn't he?"
"There's no doubt that all diseases are under his control."
"Then, mama, I am sure that God--"
"Not quite so fast. I want you to see what you was doing, when you was
so peevish a little while ago. You was very much out of humor. Indeed, I
think you showed some anger."
"Oh, no, mother, I was not angry."
"Perhaps not, my child; but what would you call that spirit, if it was
not anger?"
"I was--I was--provoked--I mean vexed, mama."
"Well, who vexed you?"
"Nobody; it was the whooping-cough."
"I'm very sorry that my child should get into such a passion--or
vexation, whichever it may be--with the whooping-cough; for you say that
you suppose the disease was under the control of God, so that it must
have been rather an innocent sort of thing, after all. If you should
fall into the mill-pond, and a man standing on the shore should let you
struggle a while before he helped you out, you would get vexed, wouldn't
you?"
"I guess I should."
"You would certainly have as much reason for vexation as you have had
this morning. But would you be likely to get vexed with the water?"
"Why, no, mama. I should be provoked with the man, because he didn't
help me out."
"I thought so. Well, then, don't you think you found fault with God, in
this matter of the whooping-cough?"
"It may be so."
"It must be so."
Little Julian was a thoughtful child. He saw that this spirit of
peevishness was very wrong, and that he had murmured against God. He
told his mother that he hoped he should not do so any more. He was
silent for some minutes, and then said--
"There is one thing I would like to know about, mother; but it may be I
ought not to ask."
"What is it, Julian?" asked his mother.
"If God is kind, and if he loves us, why does he let us get sick? I am
sure you would keep me well all the time, if you could, because you love
me, and because you are good and kind."
"I am glad you asked that question, Julian. There are a great many
things which we cannot understand about the government of God. But I
think I can explain this to you. God, it is true, often disappoints us,
and gives us pain, and makes us weep. This would all seem very strange,
and almost unkind, if we did not know that God has some other end in
view besides making us happy in this life. He is training us for another
world; and if you live to be a man, you will see that such
disappointments as this of yours, for a part of God's plan of fitting
his children for heaven."
"But I think we should be just as good, if he did not make us feel bad
and cry."
"That is your mistake. Do you think you would be just as good a child,
if your parents always humored you, and gave you every plaything you
asked for? Are you quite sure that you would now mind your father and
mother as well, if you had always been allowed to have your own way?"
"But you don't make me sick, mother."
"True. We correct you in another way. But we sometimes give you pain,
and make you cry. Did you ever think, when your father reproved you and
punished you, that it was because he did not love you?"
"Oh, no, mother."
"You can see how your father can be kind and affectionate, and still
give you pain?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Then cannot you see how God may disappoint _his_ children, and
even make them unhappy for a time, and love them tenderly, too?"
"Oh, mother, I see it all now! I wonder I never thought of this before!
Well, the whooping-cough is not so bad, after all. I've learned
something by it, at any rate."
"Yes, and it may be worth a great deal more to you than the 'show' would
have been."