where for the last ten minutes he had been silently watching the heavy
drops of rain as they pattered against the glass. "It's too bad,"
repeated he, "we can have no out-of-door play this afternoon;" and as he
spoke his face wore a most rueful expression. I was one among a number
of Harry's school-mates who had gone to spend the day at the farm of Mr.
Knights, Harry's father. The eldest of our number was not more than
fourteen; and for a long time we had looked forward to this day with
many bright anticipations of fun and enjoyment. The important day at
length arrived, and so early did we set out upon our excursion that we
reached Harry's home before eight o'clock in the morning. We spent the
forenoon in rambling over the farm, searching out every nook and corner
which possessed any interest to our boyish minds. Accompanied by Harry
we visited all his favourite haunts--which included a fine stream of
water, where there was an abundance of fish; also a ledge of rocks
which contained a curious sort of cave, formed by a wide aperture in the
rocks; and, last, though "not least," a pond of water which, owing to
its extreme beauty of appearance, Harry had named the "Enchanted Pond."
He had said so much to us regarding the uncommon beauty of this spot
that some of the boys, myself among the number, had often been inclined
to ridicule him; but when we came within view of it, I for one ceased to
wonder at his admiration; for, before nor since, I never looked upon so
lovely a scene. The pond was situated upon the back portion of the farm,
in a clearing which had been made by a settler who had occupied the land
for some years before it was purchased by Mr. Knights. The form of the
pond was entirely circular, and it was surrounded by a green field, in
which had been left standing, here and there, some fine old trees to add
to the effect. I remember when I first gained a view of the spot, it
reminded me of a surface of polished silver, bordered with emeralds. As
we drew nigh we could see that its smooth waters were thickly dotted
with the pure blossoms of the pond-lily. I have never since visited the
spot, but the view I obtained of it that day, now so long ago, is still
vividly present to my mind. By the time we again reached the farm-house
the dinner-hour had arrived; and our long continued exercise in the open
air had so much improved our appetites that we did ample justice to the
good things set before us. Dinner being over we observed, what had
before escaped our notice, that the sky was becoming overcast with dark
clouds, and soon a heavy rain began to fall, which put an end to all our
plans of out-of-door enjoyment for the afternoon. As I mentioned at the
beginning, Harry was very much disappointed, for outside sports were his
especial delight; and for a time his face looked almost as dark and
forbidding as the sky itself. We tried to cheer him up, saying we would
have some quiet games in the large dining-room, and we did succeed in
getting him to join us; but somehow or other our games afforded us no
enjoyment, and the question, "what shall we do with ourselves?" began to
pass from one to the other among the group of eager, restless boys.
"Would you like me to tell you a story, boys?" enquired Harry's mother,
after observing for a time our vain attempts at enjoyment. Mrs. Knights
was a lady of high culture, and possessed the happy faculty of rendering
herself an agreeable companion to either the young or old; and more than
one pair of eyes grew bright with pleased anticipation, when she
proposed telling us a story; and, of course, we as eagerly assented to
her proposal. Seating herself our midst, she took up a piece of
needlework, saying, "I can always talk best, when my hands an employed,"
and began as follows:
"I suppose none of you, perhaps not even my own Harry is aware that my
home has not always been in Canada; but I will now inform you that the
days of my childhood and youth were passed in a pretty town near the
base of the Alleghany Mountains in the State of Virginia. I will not
pause at present to give you any further particulars regarding my own
early years, as the story I am about to relate is concerning one of my
schoolmates who was a few years older than myself. The Pastor of the
Church in the small village where my parents resided had but one son;
and, when quite a little girl, I remember him as one of the elder pupils
in the school I attended. I was too young at that time to pay much
attention to passing events, but I afterward learned that, even then,
his conduct was a source of much anxiety and sorrow to his parents, his
ready talent, great vivacity, and love of amusement continually led him
into mischief and caused him to be disliked by many of their neighbors.
It was in vain that the villages complained, in vain that his father
admonished and his mother wept; still the orchards were robbed, the
turkeys chased into the woods, and the logs of wood in the fireplaces
often burst into fragments by concealed powder. Time passed on, till he
reached the age of sixteen years, when, spurning the restraints of home,
the erring boy left his father's house and became a wanderer, no one
knew whither; but it was rumored that reaching a sea-port town he had
entered a merchant vessel bound upon a whaling voyage for three years.
During the last year of his stay at home his conduct had been very
rebellious, and his father almost looked upon him as given over to a
reprobate mind. After his departure, his father was seldom heard to
mention his name, but his friends observed that his hair fast grew
white, and upon his brow rested an expression of constant grief and
anxiety. He was a man that seldom spoke of his own troubles to any one,
but it was plain to be seen that his erring boy was never absent from
his thoughts, and there was a feeling and pathos in his voice when he
addressed his congregation, especially the younger portion of it, which
had never been noticed before. It was his custom upon the first sabbath
evening in each month to deliver an address to the youth of his flock
and it was noticed that his appeals had never been so earnest before, as
after the departure of his son; but he seldom, if ever, mentioned his
name, not even to his grief-stricken wife. Our pastor was not what could
be properly styled an old man, but it was thought that his grief, like a
canker-worm, sapped the fountains of life, his bodily health became
impaired, his vigor of mind departed, and, ere he had seen sixty years,
death removed him from earth, to a home of happiness in Heaven. The
widow was now bereft of both husband and child. She was comforted
concerning her departed husband, knowing that it was well with him; but
she sorrowed continually for her absent boy; and often, during the
lonely hours of night, as the moaning of the winds fell upon her ear,
she would start from her sleepless pillow and utter a prayer for her
poor boy who might even then be tossing on the restless ocean, or
perhaps wrecked upon a dangerous coast. She was a woman of good
education, and much power of thought, and she at length found a partial
relief from her sorrow by writing small works for publication. But how
is it all this time with the wandering "Prodigal?" Nine years have
passed away since he left his home, when an agent for the sale of books
for a large publishing house was spending a few days in one of the large
cities of the west. During his stay in the place, his business as agent
often led him into public places, and on several occasions he noticed a
young man that attracted his attention. There was nothing prepossessing
in his appearance; on the contrary he bore the marks of dissipation in
his countenance; his clothing was old and soiled, and once or twice he
saw him when partially intoxicated. The agent was a middle-aged man, and
was a close observer of those with whom he came in contact, and somehow
or other he felt a strange interest in this young man for which he could
not account; and meeting him so frequently, he determined to speak to
him. As a pretext for accosting him he offered to sell him some books,
although he had no hopes of success. The young man regarded him with
visible surprise, when he enquired if he would not like to purchase a
book. "I have no money to spend for books," replied the man, yet as if
unable to resist the impulse, he leaned over the table, on which the
agent had placed several books, and began looking them over; and finally
selecting one, enquired the price, and paid for it. They soon after
parted, and the agent thought they should probably meet no more, as he
expected soon to leave the city. He returned to the hotel where he
boarded, and after tea seated himself on the piazza, to enjoy the cool
evening air; when the same young man suddenly approached him, and
grasping his hand said in a voice choked with emotion: "Tell me, Sir,
where, O where did you get that book?" This young man was the erring but
still loved son of the Virginian widow, who for these long dreary years
had roamed over the earth, unfriended and unaided, vainly imagining his
own arm sufficient towards the ills of life. He had wandered here from
the coasts of the Pacific, where he had been wrecked; his money was
nearly gone, and his health had become impaired by hardship and exposure
as well as his dissipated course of life. As he afterwards said, he had
no intention of reading the book when he purchased it, merely out of
civility to the stranger who accosted him so kindly, but after the agent
left him he opened the book, and a cold dew broke out upon his forehead,
for on the title-page he read the name of his _mother_ as the author.
Her thoughts were continually upon her lost son, and in her mind's eye
she often traced his downward career. She imagined him worn and weary,
his days spent in unsatisfying folly; and his moments of reflection
embittered by remorse; unconsciously, in writing this little book she
had drawn from her own feelings and addressed one in this situation. She
pointed to him the falseness of the world, and bade him judge of the
fidelity of the picture by his own experience; and she taught him the
way of return to the paths of peace. And thus it was that the little
book which the wretched young man had selected--one would say so
accidentally, others, so Providentially,-proved the means of his return
from the paths of sin and folly to those of sobriety and usefulness. He
soon told his story to his attentive listener, and informed him of the
relationship he bore to the author of the book he had purchased. As he
concluded, he said, "Oh, my mother, why did I leave you to become the
hopeless being I am?" "Not hopeless," replied his companion in gentle
tones, "you have youth on your side and may yet be a useful and happy
man. I now understand the unaccountable interest which I felt in you
when meeting you on several occasions before I spoke to you, and I feel
that Providence directed me in the matter." The agent stayed two days
longer in the city, and then departed; the young man with him, for with
the promptitude of his nature, to resolve was to act. He directed his
course toward Virginia, the star of hope leading him on, and finally
approached his native village. No words are adequate to describe the
meeting between the lonely widow and her long lost, but now returning
and penitent son. When informed that his father had been for some years
dead, the shock to him was great, overpowering, but he uttered no
repining word. "I could not," said he, "expect the happiness of meeting
both my parents again after causing them so much sorrow, and let me be
humbly thankful that it is allowed me to cheer the declining years of my
aged mother." "I well remember," said Mrs. Knights, "the return of the
young man to his home, it was but a short time before I left Virginia,
but I have been informed by friends, still residing there, that he was
for several years the staff and support of his mother, of whom it might
be said, "her last days were her best days." After the death of his
mother, as he had no living tie to bind him to the spot, he removed to
another section of country, where he married and is now a useful and
respected member of society. "And now boys," said Mrs. Knights, "allow
me in conclusion to say to you all as one, as you value your own
well-being in time and eternity, be sure that you honour and obey your
parents, think of what the end of this young man might have been, and
shun his example. But I see that the hour for tea is near at hand; and
for a time I will leave you to amuse yourselves, while I assist in
preparing your tea; and if you have been interested in my story, I may
tell you another when you next pass a rainy afternoon at our house." We
all thanked the kind lady for the interesting story, and I for one very
much hoped that the next day we chanced to pass at Mrs. Knights' farm,
would prove to be rainy in the afternoon.
THE STUDENTS DREAM.
Arthur Wilton had been for several years a student; but he was one of
the plodding sort, who make but slow progress. The principal barrier to
his improvement arose from one defect in his character; and that was the
habit in which he constantly indulged, of deploring the past, without
making any very strong efforts toward amendment in the future. He was
one evening seated in his room; a ponderous volume lay open, on his
study-table; and for a time he vainly tried to fix his attention
thereon, till finally he closed the book; and leaning back in his chair,
his brows contracted, and the lines about his mouth grew tense, as if
his thoughts were anything but pleasing. As usual he was bemoaning his
misspent hours.
"Ah," said he, speaking in soliloquy, "they are gone never more to
return. The careless happy days of childhood, the sunny period of youth,
and the aspiring dreams of mature manhood. I once indulged in many
ambitious dreams of fame, and these dreams have never been realised.
Many with whom I set out on equal ground have outstripped me in the
race of life, and here am I alone. Many who were once my inferiors have
nearly overtaken me, and doubtless they too will soon pass me by. What I
very much prize is a true friend, and yet no friend approaches with a
word of sympathy or encouragement; would that some would counsel me, as
to how I may better my condition." Thus far had Arthur Wilton proceeded
in his soliloquy, when his eyelids were weighed down by drowsiness, and
he soon sank into a deep slumber. In his dream an aged man, with a most
mild and venerable countenance stood before him, who, addressing him by
name, said; "Thy heart is full of sorrow; but if you will listen to, and
profit by my words, your sorrow shall be turned into joy. You have been
grieving over the hours which have been run to waste, without pausing to
reflect, that while you have been occupied with these unavailing
regrets, another hour has glided away past your recall forever; and will
be added to your already lengthened list of opportunities misimproved.
You grieve that your name is not placed on the lists of fame. Cease from
thy fruitless longings. Discharge faithfully your present duties, and if
you merit fame it will certainly be awarded you. You also complain that
no friend is near you. Have you ever truly sought a friend, by the
unwearied exercise of those affections, and in the performance of those
numberless offices of kindness by which alone friendship is secured and
perpetuated?
'All like the _purchase, few_ the _price_ will pay';
"And this makes friends such miracles below.
"Hast thou hoped for the society of the wise and good? Then with
diligence and untiring zeal you should seek to fit yourself for such
companionship. Have your early companions got before you in the race of
life; and yet you remain at ease, dreaming over the past. Awake, young
man, ere yet your day is done; and address yourself to your work with
renewed energy, look forward to your future instead of brooding over the
past, and be assured you will acquire wisdom, friends and every other
needful blessing." With these words the aged man disappeared and the
student awoke. His fire had gone out and his lamp burned but dimly. He
rose, replenished his fire, trimmed his lamp, and resumed his studies
with ardour. This dream was not lost upon Arthur Wilton. Instead of now
wasting his time in regrets for the past, he looked forward with a stead
purpose of improvement, and from that period no harder student was to be
found in the college; and he finally graduated with high honours. In
after years he often related this dream to those of his acquaintances
whom he thought in danger of falling into the same habit to which he
himself had been so prone in his youthful days.
UNCLE EPHRAIM.
For years, when a child, I used daily to pass the dwelling of Uncle
Ephraim, on my way to and from school. He was not my uncle; indeed he
bore no relationship whatever to me, but Uncle Ephraim was the familiar
appellation by which he was known by all the school-boys in the
vicinity. He was among the oldest residents in that section, and
although a very eccentric person, was much respected by all his
neighbours. How plainly do I yet remember him, after the lapse of so
many years. His tall figure, shoulders that slightly stooped, his florid
complexion, clear blue eyes, and hair bleached by the frosts of time to
snowy whiteness. The farm on which he resided had improved under the
hand of industry, till since my earliest recollection, it was in a state
of high cultivation. His dwelling was an old-fashioned structure, placed
a little back from the main road, and almost hidden from view by thick
trees. In an open space, a little to one side, was the draw-well with
its long pole and sweep; and I have often thought that I have never
since tasted such water as we used to draw from that well, at we used
often to linger for a few moments in Uncle Ephraim's yard on our return
from school during the hot summer afternoons. He must have been fond of
children; for he was a great favourite among the boys, and he often gave
us permission to gather fruit from the trees in the garden, provided we
broke none of his prescribed rules. But the unlucky urchin who
transgressed against a command, forfeited his good opinion from
henceforth; and durst no more be seen upon his premises. I happened to
be among the fortunate number who retained his approbation and good-will
during all our acquaintance.
It was from Uncle Ephraim I received the first money I could call my
own. In those days school-boys were not supplied very liberally with
pocket money, and when on one occasion I rendered him some slight
service, for which he bestowed upon me a piece of money, I felt myself
rich indeed, and the possession of as many hundreds now would fail to
afford me the same pleasure as did the few cents which made up the value
of the coin.
Like all others, he had his failings and weak points; but he had also
many very estimable traits of character. Among his failings very strong
prejudices were most noticeable, and if for any reason he became
prejudiced against one, he could never after see any good whatever in
them. He also possessed rather an unforgiving temper when injured by any
one. But on the other hand he was a friend to the poor; and seldom sent
the beggar empty-handed from his door. He also gave largely to the
support of the gospel, as well as to benevolent institutions. One very
noticeable and oftentimes laughable peculiarity was his proneness to
charge every thing that went wrong to the state of the weather. I think
it was more from a habit of speech than from any wish to be
unreasonable. I remember one day passing a field when he was trying to
catch a horse that, to all appearance had no idea of being captured. He
tried various methods of coaxing him into the halter, and several times
nearly succeeded, but just when he thought himself sure of him, the
animal would gallop off in another direction. Out of all patience, he at
length exclaimed. "What does possess that critter to act so to-day?"
then glancing at the sky, which at the time happened to be overcast by
dull murky clouds, he said; "It must be the weather." I chanced one day
to be present when Uncle Ephraim was busily occupied in making some
arithmetical calculations regarding his farm-products. The result not
proving satisfactory he handed his slate to a friend for inspection, and
it was soon discovered that he had made a very considerable error in his
calculation. When the error was pointed out to him, he looked up with a
perplexed countenance, saying; "It is the weather: nothing else would
have caused me to make such a blunder." His son happened to marry
against his wishes, so much so, that he had the ceremony performed
without his father's knowledge, who afterwards, making a virtue of
necessity, wisely made the best of the matter. On learning that his son
was actually married without his knowledge the only remark he made was
this: "What could have induced Ben to cut up such a caper as to go and
get married without my leave; it must have been the weather, nothing
else," and as if he had settled the question to his own satisfaction he
was never heard to allude to the matter again. Years passed away, till
one day the tidings reached us that Uncle Ephraim was dangerously ill.
He grew rapidly worse, and it was soon evident that his days on earth
would soon be numbered. I have a very distinct recollection of stealing
quietly in, to look upon him as he lay on his dying bed; of the tears I
shed when I gazed upon his fearfully changed features. He was even then
past speaking or recognizing one from another; and before another sun
rose he had passed from among the living. I obtained permission to go in
once more and look upon him as he lay shrouded for the grave. I was then
a child of ten years, but even at that early age I had not that morbid
terror of looking upon death, so common among children. With my own
hands, I folded back the napkin which covered his face, and gazed upon
his aged, but now serene countenance. There was nothing in his
appearance to inspire terror, and for a moment I placed my hand on his
cold brow. He had ever been very kind to me, and I regarded him with
much affection, and the tears coursed freely down my cheeks when I
looked my last upon his familiar countenance now lifeless and sealed in
death. I have forgotten his exact age, but I know it exceeded seventy
years. It so happened that I did not attend his funeral; but he was
followed to the grave by a large number of friends and neighbours, many
of whom still live to cherish his memory.
[1]STORY OF A LOG CABIN.
It was a dreary day in autumn. Like the fate which attends us all, the
foliage had assumed the paleness of death; and the winds, cold and damp,
were sighing among the branches of the trees, and causing every other
feeling rather than that of comfort. Four others and myself had been out
hunting during the day, and we returned at nightfall tired and hungry to
our camp. The shades of night were fast gathering around us; but being
protected by our camp with a blazing fire in front, we soon succeeded in
cooking some of the game we had shot during the day; and as we ate, the
old hunters who were my companions grew garrulous, and in turn related
their numerous adventures. "You have lived in Dayton for some time,"
said an old hunter, addressing one of his companions. "Have you ever
seen during your rambles the remains of a log cabin about two miles down
the Miami Canal? I recollect it well, but there is a mystery attached to
those ruins which no one living can solve. The oldest settlers found
that cabin there; and it _then_ appeared in such a dilapidated state as
to justify the belief that it had been built many years previous." "Do
you know anything about it?" I eagerly asked. "I know all about it,"
replied the old hunter; "for I assisted in building it, and occupied it
for several years, during the trapping season. That cabin," he
continued, as a shade passed over his features, "has been the scene of
carnage and bloodshed. But why wake up old feelings--let them sleep, let
them sleep;" and the veteran drew his brawny hand over his eyes. All the
curiosity of my nature was roused; and the old men seated by his side
gazed upon him enquiringly, and put themselves in a listening attitude.
The speaker observing this, sat silent for a few moments, as if
collecting his thoughts; and then related the following tale: