was thinning out the early vegetables.
“I never look at the weeds without thinking of my own heart,” she
answered. “Goodness, patience, humility, and faith are here to be
cultivated with constant care; while selfishness and passion spring up
almost imperceptibly, and their seeds are, like the thistle-down, borne
on the lightest breeze.”
“There is one comfort with the weeds,” I answered; “we can cut them
up by the roots; but the evil in our hearts, the foolish and wicked
desires that so often strive for the mastery, are not so easily
managed.”
“Not by ourselves, Marston; but there is One that can help us in this.
Like the careful gardener, that lops off and prunes the vine till it
seems, as it did to you the other day, that it would die cut down so
closely, so God deals with us according to the condition in which we
are placed, lopping off a branch here and there, taking away a support,
replanting according to our needs and necessities, and all to improve
the growth and life, that the fruit may be more abundant. You remember
in January, when the shade-trees were trimmed, you thought they were
ruined, and exclaimed against it.”
“Yes, I thought they were cut too closely, the last year’s growth
almost entirely cut away, leaving little but the bare trunk.”
“And you see now how they are putting forth new and vigorous branches.
They had branches and leaves last year, but no beauty; and there was
too much top for the roots; hence the necessity of cutting them
closely: watch them, and you will see how much more beautiful and
fruitful they will be for such severe pruning.”
“If we could always keep this in mind,” I answered; “but it is so easy
to grow despondent when we cannot understand the why and wherefore of
our trials.”
“The plants do not ask why and wherefore, but put forth all their
energy in the direction to which they are guided,” was the reply.
“It is their nature; but with us it is not so easy and natural,” I said.
“How so? it is our privilege to be guided and supported. The Saviour is
often represented under the figure of a gardener, his garden the world,
and the plants in it the human beings for whom he died. If we are his
servants, the afflictions and privations we are called upon to endure
are only prunings from his hand. Neither should we ask why; but turning
our gaze in the direction specified, seek to fulfil his purpose.”
“And if we try, does he see and notice our effort?”
“Yes, Marston, the fall of a sparrow is noted by him; and there is
nothing connected with our well-being but interests him. He is moved
with a feeling of compassion when he looks upon our suffering; and so
great is his love, that if he could spare us the least pang he would do
so.”
By this time I had finished the asparagus-bed, while the rows of
lettuce stood neatly defined, and the delicate tendrils of the
pea-vines began twisting themselves about for the support I had placed
within their reach. Mr. Harlan suggested that one walk needed to be
widened, and another to be gravelled. It was Saturday, and I took the
wheelbarrow and crossed the pasture to the brook.
While shovelling gravel, with my coat off and sleeves rolled up,
I heard shouts and voices. A light wagon, drawn by two spirited
horses, and filled by half a dozen boys, was coming down the road
from Terryville. Richard Farden was driving, and when opposite me, he
stopped.
“We are going down to see Frank Clavers, and then on a fishing
excursion up the river. There is room enough for one more; put down
your sleeves and jump in; we’ve plenty of hooks and lines.”
“A grand treat it will be,” cried several from the back seat; “you had
better come.”
“We shall have a splendid supper,” added Richard, “and then home by
moonlight. Such a chance you don’t get every day. Come on.”
I longed to avail myself of the privilege. I had not had a ride, save
on horseback, for a long time. And then it was to see Frank; and
perhaps I could stop for a moment at Miss Grimshaw’s, and see Jennie.
Still I had no time. Mrs. Harlan was expecting me back, and there stood
the wheelbarrow half-full of gravel. “No,” I answered, “I cannot go. I
have not the time; drive on;” and I took my shovel, not daring to look
up till the handsome turnout was out of sight.
The next half hour was one of mingled feelings. Why was my lot so hard,
and that of others so easy? “He deals with us according to our needs,”
Mrs. Harlan had said; and I tried hard to work cheerfully, though
saying to myself now and then, “It is Saturday, and no more than fair
had I gone home. How much good it would have done me;” and plunging my
shovel into the yielding bank, I started my wheelbarrow.
“Do not work so hard, Marston; you look heated;” and Mrs. Harlan looked
up approvingly.
“What a difference it makes,” said she as I scattered the gravel in
heaps, and then spread it evenly.
“It will require two or three loads more,” I answered; and on I went,
feeling that any thing was better than to stand still.
Again had I reached the gravelled shore, and was shovelling away
smartly, when Harry Gilmore leaped down the bank with his merry laugh
and cheerful voice.
“If I was to envy anybody at Rockdale, it would be you,” he said, after
a few words about the fishing party.
“Me!” and I pointed to my bare arms and my face dripping with
perspiration.
“Yes, I believe you have more real comfort than any one of us who have
rich fathers. You prize every hour in school, because it costs you
self-denial; while we have never learned to value privileges that cost
us nothing. Now let me help you,” he said, taking off his coat, “for I
am to have a drive in the evening, and I want you should get through in
time to join me.”
“A drive! where?”
“Anywhere you please; to Claverton, if you will.”
“Oh, that will be so good. Are you really to go?”
“Certainly I am to go, and you are to go with me. Now give me that
shovel.”
“There’s nothing more to do with it just now.”
“What a pity there are not two wheelbarrows. I will go back with you
and get another.”
“You forget your clothes,” I said, looking at his neat suit of
broadcloth.
“Gravel is clean; it will all brush off;” and we started, each grasping
a handle of the wheelbarrow and keeping step over the green sward.
With an amused look, Mrs. Harlan eyed us as we came up.
“Two boys work faster than one,” she said, as Harry scattered the
gravel and I smoothed it.
“Two more loads will be enough, wont they, Mrs. Harlan?” asked Harry;
and being answered in the affirmative, away he went to the wood-shed,
and returned with a heavier wheelbarrow for himself.
“Not that, Harry; you are not accustomed to it. If you insist on
going, you must take this.” With a few playful words we exchanged
wheelbarrows, while Mrs. Harlan looked after us as we trundled down the
path at a brisk pace.
“How stupid. I forgot that we had but one shovel,” said Harry with a
light laugh.
“I will fill both,” I answered.
“No, I came to help you. I will sit still while you fill yours; then
you shall rest till mine is ready, and we can start even.”
There seemed to be no other way, and I assented.
“There, old fellow,” said he as the gravel lay piled in my barrow, “now
it’s my turn.”
“Oh, Harry, it will tire you out; let me,” I persisted.
“My back is no better than yours; go and sit down.”
Overcome by his kindness, I went and sat on the bank, hardly conscious
of my own identity. I had felt so bitterly in the morning, thinking
my lot so hard; and now to find that Harry had stayed at home to take
me out for the evening, and then, fearing I should not finish in time,
helping me himself--the boy that never had waited on himself doing this
heavy work, and all for me.
“There, I am done,” leaving the shovel standing upright in the middle
of his load.
“You will find it heavy; you had better tip out some,” I suggested.
“My arms are strong; have no fear,” he answered, and struck into the
path ahead of me.
“Pretty warm,” said Harry, after a few moments. “I reckon I’ll tip off
my vest instead of the gravel;” and I saw that his collar was limp and
the linen on his shoulders wet through and through.
“This will be sufficient,” said Mrs. Harlan as we finished smoothing
the walk. “You have worked so well, Marston, the rest of the day may
be your own.”
“Mrs. Harlan,” and Harry stood with his cap in his hand, “I am to go to
Claverton this evening, for the ride merely, and I would like to take
Marston with me, if you have no objection.”
“To Claverton this evening! You will see Miss Grimshaw and Jennie,”
turning to me.
“If I go, I shall hope to see them.”
“I will see;” and she crossed the veranda into her husband’s study.
“Yes, Mr. Harlan is willing you should go,” she said. “I hope the ride
will be pleasant. Let me see you before you go, Marston.”
“All ready,” shouted Harry as he drove up in a pretty open buggy drawn
by a high-spirited black horse, that pawed the ground just a little, to
show his impatience.
“In a minute, Harry.” I had not yet seen Mrs. Harlan, and I flew down
stairs and across the hall to the parlor.
“Not there, Marston,” and Mrs. Harlan called me to her own room. “Here
are a few things that I intended for you before examination. It will be
a good time to wear them this evening, however, and you may try them on
at once; I am impatient to see if they fit.”
My hand trembled as I took them, and my voice still more.
“Do not be afraid to wear them, you have fairly earned them. Mr. Harlan
told me that he owed them to you.”
They were a nice spring suit of light grey cloth. I could not stop to
half thank her, but hastened into my own room, and slipping into them,
gave one look into the little mirror, and then down stairs, under Mrs.
Harlan’s kindly review, and then out to Harry.
“Why, Marston, what’s the matter? You are actually crying.”
“It was all so unexpected,” I murmured, dropping into my seat.
“They are not a bit too good for you; I was with her when she ordered
them. The tailor measured me instead of you; that’s the reason they
fit so nicely. I told Mrs. Harlan you could wear my clothes. But come,
cheer up; don’t let a nice suit of clothes spoil your eyes. We shall
have lots to see.”
Impatient as I was to see Jennie, the ride seemed short; and when we
drove up to Miss Grimshaw’s little white gate, I thought I had never
seen a picture half so beautiful. It was a soft spring day, the parlor
windows open, and the white muslin curtains fluttering in the breeze.
The breath of the lilacs perfumed the air, and the tulips were budding
into beauty. Miss Grimshaw had moved her shop to a larger building,
and we walked up the yard and were looking through the half-open door,
when grandma spied us, and came forward, leaning on her staff.
“Why, Marston, is that you? I am so glad to see you. How you have
grown, child.”
“And this is Harry Gilmore,” I answered, till then forgetting to
introduce my companion.
“Sit down; Jennie will be in presently.”
“Where is she, grandma?”
“In the strawberry bed at the back of the house. I will call her.”
“No, grandma, let us go for her: and may we pick some strawberries?”
“As many as you wish.”
By this time Jennie had seen the buggy, and surmising who had come,
started to meet us. One glad cry of surprise, and her arms were round
my neck.
“Oh, brother, I am so glad to see you. I began to fear you would never
come again;” then turning to Harry, as I named him, she held out her
little dimpled hand. “I am glad you came to-day, the strawberries are
so fine. This is the first day we have had them in abundance. Will you
take some of mine?” holding up a bowl she had picked quite full, the
red stain still on her fingers.
“Grandma said we might help ourselves.”
An hour passed deliciously, and then Jennie ran in, smoothed out her
sunny curls, and put on a fresh pretty gingham, looking handsomer than
I had ever seen her before. Miss Grimshaw came in for tea, and the
nice white rolls were enjoyed by us with a peculiar zest, while the
strawberries and cream were, as Harry said, beyond all praise. After
tea we strolled out to the river, gathered violets, and talked of our
studies.
“It looks natural, and still every thing wears a brighter hue,” I said
to Jennie as we stood on the door-step. “I have never seen the spring
half so beautiful.”
“Perhaps it is in ourselves,” Jennie said. “You have not forgotten what
Mr. Kirby said: ‘If we think good and happy thoughts, we shall look
through such a medium that every thing about us will wear the same
hue.’”
“I like to hear you repeat what Mr. Kirby said,” I continued.
“Sometimes I am afraid that I am forgetting him.”
“We both owe Mr. Kirby more than anybody else in the world. We must
never forget him.”
[Illustration]
Harry had been walking round the flower beds with grandma. They stopped
near us, and she said, “You have grown tall, Marston, and I hear
people say that you are getting to be a fine scholar. I do not know
much of books, but I have picked up a verse that I want you to think
of: ‘The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.’”
“And you too,” she continued, addressing Harry. “You will both make
better men for heeding it.”
“So my mother says,” was Harry’s reply.
We did not see Frank Clavers, neither hear any thing of the
excursionists. At parting Jennie gave us a basket of strawberries for
Mrs. Harlan, and stood with cheeks flushed and eyes misty with tears,
the gold brown curls waving over her white shoulders.
“The prettiest picture that I have ever seen,” said Harry as we drove
away. “You may well be proud of your sister, Marston.”
“And so I am,” I replied. “The best of all, she is as good as she is
beautiful.”
For some reason we talked quite soberly during our ride back to
Rockdale, going over the incidents of the past, and the changes that
our short lives had witnessed. Then we talked of the future, which we
robed in bright hues like the blossoms of that lovely spring time.
True, Harry was the principal talker. My heart was full. Still I knew
that I must scale steep heights, tread rugged paths, press on when
footsore and weary, perchance to meet little earthly success. Ah, how
mysterious a thing human life would be, could we not discern in it the
threshold of a higher, purer existence.
XI.
By rigid economy, by laboring in vacation, and performing various
little offices in term time, I managed to continue at Rockdale two
years. Latin was no longer a trouble to me, and Greek was becoming
easy; but my purse was nearly empty. I was in need of several new
books. And I began to turn in my mind what I could do towards defraying
new expenses.
At this juncture the president of the board of trustees visited the
school, where he remained the entire day, examining the classes, and
inspecting the monthly reports. I had no suspicion of his purpose,
and consequently gave my whole attention to my recitations. Although
not as quick as many, I had been thorough, understood the principles
of almost every thing that I had been over, and thus obtained correct
answers. Greek and Latin were read easily, and the president was
evidently satisfied with our progress.
That evening Mr. Harlan sent for me to his study. The time and the
occasion were new to me, and I went with some trepidation. Mr. Harlan
was not there, but in his place the visitor, Mr. Stovill.
“Mr. Harlan tells me that you intend to go through college, if your
hands and your brains can take you there,” was his somewhat abrupt
greeting.
“I am hoping to go. Others have done the same without more means.”
“What will you do to obtain the money? it will require a good deal for
that.”
“I shall work for it.”
“Would you haul wood, build a stone Wall, or break stones on the
street?”
“Any thing, sir, that offered me an equivalent.”
“Then you do not think that work will degrade you?”
“On the contrary, I think that labor will ennoble me. But as I wish to
study, I should like to do that which would bring me the most for the
least number of hours.”
He was silent, while I sat in suspense as to his purpose. What did he
mean by all these questions?
“I believe you will do,” he said at length. “Young men are apt to think
that work will degrade them. They forget that oaks spring from acorns,
and little efforts lead to great results. The boy that will work to
improve himself, will pretty surely merge into the man that will work
for the good of others.”
In a few words he made known his plan. Robert Lovell was going to
college; some one else must supply his place as under-tutor.
Mr. Harlan had suggested the names of two, Silas June and myself. Silas
was very quick, and priding himself on this, he did not study. To be
brilliant was his desire, and yet he might have been a thorough scholar
had he studied. His quickness ruined him.
This situation, in consideration of my standing in class, was offered
me, with sufficient remuneration to defray all my expenses.
I could hardly keep back the tears. This ray of light stealing
through the darkness, was a reproof for all my faint-heartedness and
despondency. “No right effort is ever lost.” There was a sun behind the
clouds, though I had doubted it.
“I might have had that chance,” said June. “It was all my own
foolishness. If I had only known the day Mr. Stovill was coming, I
would have had my lessons; there would have been no trouble. My reports
were against me.”
I could say nothing to comfort him, and the hour passed without words.
“If I could only begin again, I would not lean so much on my quickness.
It is the same old story--the hare and the tortoise. You will get there
quicker than I shall.”
“It is not too late for you,” said I; “try it.”
“I cannot do three years’ work in one. Besides, it is easier to fall
into bad habits than to get rid of them. After all, I may get along
just as well; but mother expected me to fill Lovell’s place. She wrote
me in her last letter, that if I could not help myself a little, she
should have to take my sister from school; she could not afford the
expense of both. Poor mother.”
“Poor mother,” I echoed, and thought of what I should do, had I only a
mother to write me letters full of loving words, and a sister that must
be taken from school unless I could help myself in a measure. I was
roused by his voice.
“We can never be young but once. I want my share of pleasure.”
“Do you find it?”
“Not yet; but I am hoping every day for something better.”
“Which you will never find, I am afraid. Judging from your own words,
you are making your mother unhappy, and yourself miserable.”
“It is so; but what can I do?”
“Break off your idle habits; say good-by to your fun-loving companions,
and begin to work right earnestly. This is the way others have done.”
“I ought to do it; but it is too late.”
“And you will oblige your mother to take that little sister from
school?”
“Oh, I hope not; she is not so poor as she thinks. True, I have been
spending a good deal this winter. Gilmore has a rich father, and I
could not bear to be shabby in the suppers.”
This was my last year at Rockdale; and if the service was pleasanter,
it was not less arduous. I had very little time for myself, a
half hour’s stroll at twilight being my only recreation. Still I
believed that I was improving, both intellectually and morally;
and this sufficed me. Jennie was also climbing the hill of science
rapidly. Frank Clavers’ sister had returned the year previous from
boarding-school; and being pleased with Jennie, and learning that she
could sing, she had offered to give her lessons in music. Seeing
her fondness for books, Miss Clavers soon kindly offered to help her
here also. This called for additional gratitude on my part; I had
felt so troubled about this little sister, whom my mother left in my
charge. Doing for myself, I hardly felt it to be right not to aid her
personally more than my duties would allow. Now she had the benefit of
example, and also the instruction of a young lady who was said to be a
finished scholar.
Thus easily I slipped into Robert Lovell’s place as tutor, and also
into his class in Sabbath-school. Teaching others is one of the best
means of self-culture; and I was in this way sent to my Bible, if not
more frequently, at least with a more intense desire to understand its
teachings. Thinking, studying, meditating, I drew nearer the cross each
day; each day began to realize more perfectly the beauty of His words
who spake as never man spake, the glory of his countenance beaming
with untold love; the terrible agony he suffered on the cross; his
willingness to forgive sin; and above all, the encouragement in coming
to him freely, as to a friend loved and confided in. Oh, why had I not
seen this before? I had hopes that I did love him--that I did trust
him--that I did follow him; but Oh, it was so far off. Had I been near,
I should never have doubted as I had done; I should never have gone
through all these months with my heart heavy, the waters going over
my soul, striving to do only because I knew it to be right, and only
half trusting the divine promise, “I will never leave thee, nor forsake
thee.” Oh, blind and foolish heart, thus to grope in darkness when He
was waiting with outstretched arms to receive thee.
How bright and beautiful my pathway now opened before me. Not that
barriers were all removed, obstacles all cleared away; but I no longer
felt troubled with a weak, half trust. I knew His promises were sure;
that he would not leave me; that he would be in reality not a personal
friend merely, but one closer than a brother. A long time had I been
learning the lesson of his love, a long time discovering the depth
of his tenderness; now, satisfied to rest on him, I found it joy
unutterable.
[Illustration]
XII.
My first vacation after leaving Rockdale was spent with Mr. Wyman.
Four years since I had left him, poor and ignorant. Now, I certainly
was not any richer. Still I had advanced in knowledge of books and in
mental discipline; and although my longing after an education was not
in the least abated, I had learned there is nothing really desirable
in comparison with the fear of God and true holiness. I did not care
now to choose in what part of his vineyard I should work. I only wished
to labor for him; and to do this effectually, I must not falter in my
purpose of an education.
With this intent I went into the hay-field with as much ardor as before
into the school-room. Money, Mr. Stovill said, was desirable to go
through college with, and I knew the worth of it.
“I see that you have not forgotten how to work,” said Mr. Wyman, coming
into the meadow one sunny afternoon.
“Not forgetting, but still more accustomed to it, Mr. Wyman. I have
been hard at it ever since I was here.”
“There is a difference between head work and hand work,” said the
farmer with a quiet smile.
“I have been doing both,” I replied; “turning book leaves has not
bleached my hands.”
“While I have to confess to the doing of only one. The young folks of
this day have much better advantages than were common when I was a boy.
We had no such schools then as Rockdale.”
“I think you do yourself injustice, Mr. Wyman, when you say that you
have only been working with your hands. Had it not been for you, I
could not have gone to Rockdale when I did, if ever. In word and deed,
your labor has budded, blossomed, and brought forth fruit. We sometimes
study quite as effectually out of books as in them.”
“True; but if I could live my life over again, I should think more of
a book education. Those that know the most have the means of doing the
most good.”
“There is one comforting truth,” said I, turning the hay vigorously:
“God directs all our steps. He appoints our place; he gives us our
work. I used to think there was in labor a great choice, and although
I was willing to do any thing because I felt it to be right, still
there was also a consciousness that, could I choose, such would not
be my employment. I remember the morning I came here for the first
time; I rebelled not a little against it. Still it was a means, a
stepping-stone to the desired good.”
“And is it not the same now?”
“No; I am willing to be directed. I like to be led by Him, and feel
safe in following. Then I feared continually lest I should make a
mistake, and through weakness or ignorance fail to use the means to the
greatest advantage. Now I try to exercise human wisdom and a prudent
forethought, and still rest contented, whatever the result. The Lord
knows all, and he knows whether this or that shall prosper. To do
right, and to do my best, is all that he requires of me; events are
with him, and success is given wheresoever he pleases.”