"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking from
the window. "Just see that Clarence! he'll have Henry in the gutter.
I never saw just such another boy; why can't he come quietly along
like other children? There! now he must stop to throw stones at the
pigs. That boy'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna."
Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and left
the room to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes the
street-door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in full
of life, and noisy as they could be.
"Where is your coat, Clarence?" she asked, in a pleasant tone,
looking her oldest boy in the face.
"Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully; and turning quickly, he ran
down stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in his thoughtlessness,
he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in its proper place, and
then sprang up the stairs.
"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, his
whole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry."
"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence."
"I want it now. I'm hungry."
"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice that
showed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hour
before its time?"
"No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you?"
All impatience had vanished from the boy's face.
"There was a man who had to go upon a journey; the stage-coach was
to call for him at sun-rise. More than an hour before it was time
for the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the whole
of that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sun
because he did not rise. 'I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' he
said. 'It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was a
very foolish man?"
Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolish
indeed.
"Do you think he was more foolish than you were just now for
grumbling because dinner wasn't ready?"
Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then Hannah,
the cook, brought in the waiter with the children's dinner upon it.
Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to the
table.
"Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, my dear," his mother
said, in a quiet voice, looking at him, as she spoke, with a steady
eye.
The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it gently.
"That is much better, my son."
And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatient
temper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance.
This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found it
necessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, and
precept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permitted
herself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grieved
she was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy.
On the next day she was not very well; her head ached badly all the
morning. Hearing the children in the passage when they came in from
school at noon, she was, rising from the bed where she had lain
down, to attend to them and give them their dinners, when Aunt Mary
said--"Don't get up, Anna, I will see to the children."
It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what she
could do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper of
Clarence; but so violent was the pain in her head, that she let Aunt
Mary go, and sank back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. A
good deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, from
the moment the children came in. At length a loud cry and passionate
words from Clarence caused her to rise up quickly and go over to the
dining-room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humour
and scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table,
looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with his
strong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenance
changed, and a look of confusion took the place of anger.
"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; there
was sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had given
vent so freely to his ill-temper.
"What was the matter, my son?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as they
were alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him.
"Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked her."
"Why not?"
"She would help Henry first."
"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?"
"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spoke
in a very disagreeable tone.
"Don't you think that was a very good reason?"
"I've as good a right to be helped first as he has."
"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in from
school, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien is
oldest--she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest,
would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to see
their wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, and
should feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary's
reason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?"
"No, ma'am."
"Did Marien complain?"
"No, ma'am."
"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why you
complained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it is
because you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, make
themselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help you
first, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing to
see him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure.
If you had said--'Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henry
would have said instantly--' No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarence
first.' How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of us
have felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferring
one another!"
There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voice
of his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with his
feelings. When, however, she resumed, and said--"I have felt quite
sick all the morning; my head has ached badly--so badly that I have
had to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home,
and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it,
because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sick
as I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappy
outbreak of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my head
ache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also"--
Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother's
neck, wept bitterly.
"I will try and be good, dear mother," he said. "I do try sometimes,
but it seems that I can't."
"You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go out
and get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, I
will do so."
"No, dear mother," replied the boy, affectionately, "you are sick;
you must not go. I will be good."
Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to the
dining-room.
"Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly at
him.
A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but he
checked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at the
table. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafed
him by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was only
the image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that she
was sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper.
When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, and
laid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting.
"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately, "you are good. But I
hate Aunt Mary."
"Oh, no, Clarence; you must not say that you hate Aunt Mary, for
Aunt Mary is very kind to you. You mustn't hate anybody."
"She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a bad boy, and says
every thing to make me angry when I want to be good."
"Think, my son, if there is not some reason for Aunt Mary calling
you a bad boy. You know yourself, that you act very naughtily
sometimes, and provoke Aunt Mary--a great deal."
"But she said I was a naughty boy when I went out just now, and I
was sorry for what I had done, and wanted to be good."
"Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, I am sure. When she
called you 'naughty boy,' what did you say?"
"I was going to say 'You're a fool!' but I didn't. I tried hard not
to let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to."
"Why did you try not to say them?"
"Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feel
sorry; and I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyes
were full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother.
While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartley
said--"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feel
encouraged. The boy has warm and tender feelings, but I fear that
his passionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds,
completely check their growth."
"The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I hope, as you fear.
These good affections are never active in vain. They impress the
mind with an indelible impression. In after years the remembrance of
them will revive the states they produced, and give strength to good
desires and intentions. Amid all his irregularities and wanderings
from good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will restore
the feelings he had to-day, and draw him back from evil with cords
of love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain,
and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where men
abandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found that
the impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind; that
the mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself,
I am sure that a different mother would have made me a different
man. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tenderness
with which my mother always treated me, and the unimpassioned but
earnest manner in which she reproved and corrected my faults,
subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, she
always had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had some
device to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh nor
indulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love;
but I have different feelings when I think of my mother. I often
feel, even now, as if she were near me--as if her cheek were laid to
mine. My father would place his hand upon my head caressingly, but
my mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect my
father to do more--I do not know that I would have loved him had he
done more; for him it was a natural expression of affection; but no
act is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warm
embrace, are all felt now; and the older I grow, the more holy seem
the influences that surrounded me in childhood."