JOTHAM'S DEATH.
"I HAD seated Mrs. Frost on the sofa, and Jotham was near her with his
arm around her waist. I waited in wonder the explanation of all this,
for now I saw that the widow's face bore the marks of excessive grief."
"While we delayed for the children, Mr. Dobbs walked to the window,
and again was that hollow cough which struck like a death-knell on my
heart."
"'Wife,' he began, when they entered, 'last night you heard me ask God
for help. He has heard my prayer. I had enlisted in the service of my
country, but had become already aware that I never could endure camp
life; then came the dreadful announcement that unless I could give
personal and untiring attention to my business, all the savings of my
life would be lost. I went to the commanding officer and tried to be
released, for a time if no more; but this was impossible. Cavalry were
needed, and we must proceed to Washington at once. I came home with a
heavy heart. I went to bed and tried to bear up under the burden like
a man. Then I remembered that as a Christian I was not obliged to bear
it alone. I fell on my knees and besought my Saviour to help me. While
I was speaking he heard me. He put it into the heart of this dear boy
to offer himself as my substitute. While I was sleeping quietly, he was
pleading with his widowed mother to consent that he should leave her.
He is her all; and is it strange that for a long time she refused?'"
"Mrs. Frost had been weeping silently all the time my husband spoke;
now she cried aloud."
"Jotham tried to soothe her. 'Keep up good courage, mother,' he said.
'You'll live to see me a colonel yet. The war wont last forever, and I
shall be a great man when I come home. Mr. Dobbs has promised to take
care of you while I'm gone.'"
"And then my husband called us all to witness that he would provide
for the widowed mother, as long as God gave him the ability. I gladly
joined in the promise. I need not stop to tell you more of that scene.
Mr. Dobbs gave Jotham the black mare, and all his outfit. He joined the
regiment of cavalry at once. His only charge being as he rode away,
'Take good care of mother till I come home!'"
"Mr. Dobbs and I rode to L—, to see them off, and I thought there was
no one in the company who looked so handsome in his uniform, or rode
his horse so proudly as Jotham."
"Mrs. Frost, who could not be persuaded to accompany us, lest she
should always dream of him in battle, tried, for our sakes, to appear
cheerful. She insisted that she was happier at home where everything
reminded her of him, than she should be to come here."
"Every night, either Jane or I used to go down to her cottage and read
the papers. If there was anything concerning the regiment of cavalry
to which Jotham belonged, she would cut it out and lay it between the
leaves of her large family Bible."
Mrs. Dobbs paused as if reluctant to proceed, while Helen who had been
stealthily wiping the tears from her eyes, exclaimed,—
"Oh, I'm afraid Jotham is dead!"
"Every week," continued the lady with a sigh, "the widow received a
letter from her son. He was well, and enjoying himself exceedingly. He
said that he had never for one moment regretted offering himself as a
substitute; that his heart was set on going to the war, and if he had
not done it then, he should later."
"Mr. Dobbs wrote the commanding officer, with whom he was well
acquainted, and received an answer that Jotham's conduct was
unexceptionable; that on the Sabbath when many of the soldiers were
strolling about, he was in his tent reading his Bible, or with a few
congenial companions singing hymns."
"At last there came the news of a terrible battle. My husband opened
the paper in the city, read that the — regiment of cavalry were
engaged, and turned, with almost suspended breath, to the list of
killed and wounded. Alas, he saw it too soon! There it was, '—Cavalry,
Jotham Frost.' The thought of the poor mother overcame him. Oh, what a
comfort it was in that hour of sorrow, that for the early lost there
was no occasion to mourn! He was safe at home, resting forever in the
bosom of his God. He had fought his fight, and gone to receive his
reward."
"Mr. Dobbs came home at once, and went alone to communicate the sad
tale. The widow clasped her hands, and gave one shriek of agony,
exclaiming, 'I knew it, I felt it. I was sure I should never see him
again!' From that time to this she has never known a well day. The
sorrow pierced to her very heart. Do you wonder, Helen, that we are
anxious to do everything for her comfort? Do you wonder that we try to
bear with her little failings, and to make her path to the grave as
easy and comfortable as is in our power? She has sacrificed her all to
us, for my husband would never have let Jotham go without his mother's
consent. Is it too much for us to share our home with her, to soothe
her grief, to bear patiently with her feeble wailings—the wailings of a
broken heart?"
How could Helen find words to reply? Her conscience had condemned her
loudly in the morning; and now her heart bitterly reproached her for
adding to the burden of one who had already suffered so much. Her head
drooped upon her breast as she thought, "What would Mrs. Dobbs, what
would her husband, say of me if they knew how I had treated the old
woman?"
"Only think!" cried Jennie, "but for her I might now be without a
father."
Helen burst into tears, and ran quickly, from the room.
The next morning when Mrs. Dobbs went to inquire how the invalid passed
the night, she found the young visitor lingering near the door of the
sick room.
"I should like to see Mrs. Frost," she began, in a confused manner, her
cheeks glowing like fire. "Can I go in a minute?"
"Oh, yes!" answered the lady, with a smile.
Helen walked straight to the bed, and hiding her face in her hands,
said quickly, "I am sorry I said that to you the other day; I didn't
know then—I hadn't heard—about—Jotham." With a convulsive movement of
the throat to keep, back the sobs, she went on: "If Mrs. Dobbs will let
me, I should like to stay by you and take care of you, and love you for
Jotham's sake."
The old woman grew very pale, but answered calmly, "I am glad for your
own sake that you are sorry; but you have done me good. My grief was
making me selfish. You told me plainly how disagreeable my conduct
made me appear, and I determined, God helping me, I would show out the
gratitude that is in my heart toward this dear family. Now, my child,
you may read me a few verses from the good Book, and then I must rest."
From this time Helen and Jane vied with each other who could do most
for the comfort of grandma. Helen was wholly unused to sickness, and
was often awkward in her services; but all saw that her heart was
touched, and her kind friend hoped the lesson would be of great benefit
to her through life.
Certainly, during her visit, she, for the first time, learned the
secret of true happiness. The sacrifice of our own wishes to the
comfort of others brings a rich reward to our own hearts.
"O Jennie!" exclaimed the impulsive girl, clasping her arms around her
friend's neck; "how quickly the summer has passed; and how pleasantly,
since that dreadful time when grandma was so ill. How differently I
feel toward her from what I did when I first came. I love her now
almost more than anybody else."
"Yes, my dear," remarked Mrs. Dobbs, "because with her is connected the
consciousness of having done right."
The Hospital.
CHAPTER I.
ALICK'S DYING SONG.
MY young reader, were you ever in a hospital? Did you ever walk through
the long rooms, called wards, among the rows of neat beds, with the
white curtains before each couch, that the sufferer within may be
entirely hidden from the view of even her nearest neighbors? Did you
ever see the hospital surgeons, on what the patients call "student's
day," when they go from one ward to another; a train of young surgeons
following behind, visiting each couch in succession, and enquiring into
the symptoms of each poor sufferer?
In one of the large hospitals belonging to the city of B —, there one
morning lay a young girl, apparently about twenty years of age. Her
name was Ruth Martin. She had been very sick, and had had a severe
operation performed; but she was now better, though not the slightest
trace of color had yet visited her cheeks or lips. Lying constantly in
bed, as she had been obliged to do for several weeks, she had become
exceedingly restless, and the night seemed very long. It was now near
five o'clock, and would soon be day. She lay for some time amusing
herself by watching those of her neighbors who came within her line of
vision. Most of them were asleep, while the night watchers or nurses,
who sit up regularly every night and sleep through the day, were
leaning drowsily back in their rocking chairs.
The curtains were all drawn back from the beds, and presently Ruth saw
Miss Alden, the head nurse of her ward, step softly from a side room
and open the door into the next apartment, for the better circulation
of the air.
There seemed some unusual movement in the adjoining room, but she could
not see what it was. "Could Alick be dying?" she asked herself, her
pulse beating wildly.
"Miss Stiles," she called softly, "I'm so thirsty I can't sleep."
Nurse arose mechanically, and brought her a glass of water. "I wish I
knew," she said, "how Alick is this morning?"
"Hush, child! he's just gone. His mother, poor thing, was with him till
three, when she went home to wash for an hour or two. I'm afraid he'll
be off before she gets back, and that'll just about break her heart."
At this minute, there arose from the next room, a sound, low, but
inexpressibly sweet and touching. It was the voice of the dying boy,
singing with clear, distinct articulation, the words of the beautiful
hymn,—
"I want to be an angel,
And with the angels stand,—
A crown upon my forehead,
A harp within my hand.
"There, right before my Saviour,
So glorious and so bright,
I'd wake the sweetest music
And praise him day and night."
With the last lines the voice faltered; then there came a quick, short
gasp for breath; a bright smile broke out all over the pale face, and
before the echo of the words had died out of the room, the soul of
the patient sufferer had fled away from his tenement of clay, to the
presence and embrace of the Saviour he loved.
The nurse who had so tenderly watched by his side, gently closed his
eyes; breathing a sigh of heartfelt sympathy for the absent mother,
when, with a quick step, that mother entered the room. She gave one
keen, penetrating glance around; then her eye fell on the good nurse
who only pointed to the calm, almost smiling countenance, lying so
peacefully in the early morning light.
Still her heart refused to comprehend the truth. "He is but sleeping!"
she said, softly approaching and placing her hand on his cheek.
"Oh, Alick!" she cried, as the cold marble touch chilled the blood in
her veins; "gone without a word of farewell to your poor, desolate
mother!" and throwing herself on her knees she hid her face in her
hands, while great sobs shook her whole frame.
Two men now approached with long boards and handles attached, which
they call stretchers, to bear away the dead body to another apartment.
They stood a moment, out of respect to the absorbing grief of the bowed
form, and then the nurse gently touched her.
She understood at once that she must bid farewell, her long farewell,
to the dear object of her affections. Stooping forward she lifted the
lifeless body in her arms, and pressed her lips on the cheeks, the
brow, eyes, and lips of the departed.
"Farewell, darling!" she whispered, tears raining down her cheeks;
"farewell till I come to you. You're safe now with Jesus, and I'll be
with you before long." Then without another word, she turned, and,
hiding her face in her shawl, left the room.
The patients were now all wide awake. Ruth could see the men bearing
slowly along the body so lately full of life, and two or three patients
devoutly crossing themselves, as it passed close to their bed. For a
few moments there was a solemn stillness throughout the two wards.
One of their number had passed from time to eternity; had exchanged
the trials and pains of earth for the triumphs and glories of heaven.
Some, and among them Ruth, asked herself, "am I prepared, as Alick
was, for the glorious transformation,—a sinner one moment, a saint the
next?" She breathed a short prayer that she, too, might be ready when
her summons came; when looking up, she saw the kind face of Miss Alden
bending over her.
"How do you feel, this morning, Ruth?"
"Oh, Miss Alden! Alick is dead. I have not thought of myself," was the
quick reply.
"Little dear, so he is! He wanted to be an angel, and Jesus answered
his prayer right away. If we were all as ready as he was, 'twould be a
happy thing for us. I hope you love your Saviour, Ruth!"
Her eyes fell, as she answered softly, "I'm afraid not!"
"Well, don't delay a minute then, to seek him for your friend. I've
been in the wards long enough to know, if I never knew it before, that
religion is the only thing that can carry us safely through the dark
valley; and it makes the poor things so happy, too. Death is no king of
terrors to those who love Jesus. He is their dearest friend, come to
call them home to their mansion above the skies."
Ruth lay pondering these words; though her eyes followed the good nurse
as she went from one couch to another, smoothing the clothes over one
restless sufferer, or giving medicine to another.
Then the dumb waiters, or dummies, as they were called, came up loaded
with the breakfast; when the nurse set the table, to which all who
were able to walk soon seated themselves. To those who were strictly
confined to their beds the nurses carried food nicely arranged on
little waiters.
The meal was scarcely concluded, when a porter appeared at the door,
bearing in his arms a child about five years of age, which he conveyed
to a large chair turning back like a couch, and then left her in the
care of Miss Alden.
"Bad case!" Ruth heard him whisper, "leg burnt to a crisp!"
Here, then, was a new appeal to the sympathy of the patients; and no
one can tell what a relief it is to these poor suffering ones to have
a child, a loving, helpless child, before their eyes to divert their
attention from themselves.
Even the poor Englishwoman whose face was swollen to the size of two,
with erysipelas, and whose constant cry was, "Oh, this hitch in my
face!" held her breath to gaze at the pale new comer.
The child, whose name was Mary Larkin, was dressed with exquisite
neatness and even taste. Her hair, which was chestnut brown, was
smoothly parted from her forehead; a narrow frill was basted into the
neck of her dress, which was of soft blue merino; one tiny foot, which
had escaped from the shawl which covered her, was cased in a dainty
little slipper, the elastic evenly crossed above the open-work sock,
while the embroidered pantalet was just visible.
Mary took kindly to Miss Alden, at once, as indeed every body did. She
clung tightly to her hand casting shy glances around. It was a novel
scene to her, and for a few moments so occupied her attention that she
forgot her pain.
In a kind, motherly voice Miss Alden asked, "Wouldn't you like to lie
in a nice little house, as the other people do, and have your dolly,
and some pretty playthings in there to play with?"
"Yes ma'am, I should."
"Well, let go my hand a minute, and I'll have it all ready for you.
You're a good little girl, I am sure."
"I guess you're going to be my mother, now," said Mary, with an arch
glance which altered her whole countenance.
CHAPTER II.
THE PATIENT CHILD.
MARY LARKIN was the daughter of a tailor. He had two other children,
one son of seven years, and a daughter scarcely as many months. Hers
was a sad case. One day she and her brother Thomas were playing in
the kitchen where their mother was washing; the baby was lying in
his cradle, amusing himself with his toes, when suddenly there was a
dreadful shriek of distress, and Mrs. Larkin turned to see Mary in a
large kettle of boiling water. Thomas had become angry with his little
sister and pushed her there.
On reaching the child, the mother found one foot and ankle completely
submerged, so that when the stocking was removed, not only the skin,
but some of the flesh came with it.
As soon as it was possible, a physician was summoned, who prescribed
for a few days, and then advised her to be sent to the hospital, where
she could have constant care. He did not tell the almost distracted
mother that her child would, doubtless, have to suffer the loss of a
limb, though he anticipated it from the first, and was sure it would be
better, both for the mother and child, that she should be removed.
As soon as these particulars about the young stranger were known, they
excited universal sympathy. Mary appeared to be a lively, affectionate
child. Just now there were marks of suffering on her face; her eyes had
a dark circle around them, and her brow was often contracted; but there
was an occasional sparkle in her bright orbs, a slight elevation of the
eyebrows, which made her almost beautiful.
She was Irish, and had a rich brogue quite peculiar even among the
children brought up in America. It was not many days before she had
given her own names to the different persons about her. One of the
nurses whose name was Cowles, she designated as "Miss Knowles," and
never varied from this title. The kind lady who every few days brought
her flowers, fruit and playthings, she called "the lady in black." The
woman with the dreadful hitch in her face, was "Patty McNiles's bye,"
because she was always talking about her "bye," boy.
Though Mary was a constant sufferer, she scarcely ever complained. At
first she sympathized too keenly with those about her, and often asked
Miss Alden, whom she called "Darling," whether it was not time to give
such a patient her medicine, whether it would not do Ruth's hands good
to spat them. She had seen this done once when the circulation seemed
suspended.
Sitting in her lounging chair, her poor burnt limb laid on a pillow
before her, her dolly over her shoulder, she seemed to notice
everything which passed around her.
One day Ruth told her about Alick, and how sweetly he sung just before
he went to heaven. She was silent for some time after this, and the
next time she saw the nurse, asked softly,—
"Darling, do you think I shall die as Alick did? If I do, will you let
me sing?"
The house-doctor used to come every day, and apply fresh starch
bandages to Mary's limb. This caused her the keenest agony, and all
her fortitude could not keep her from uttering sharp cries. But she
soon regained her cheerfulness, and seemed to comfort herself with the
thought that it was over for that day.
One morning, Ruth, whose couch was near Mary's, and who had just been
separating a bunch of hot-house flowers to share with her little
friend, saw that the surgeon stopped longer than usual, by her lounging
chair; that he made some explanations in technical terms to the
students around him, then gave a few directions to Miss Alden before he
passed on.
Poor Mary tried hard to be patient, but could not repress some screams.
As soon as the surgeon had bound up the limb, the smiles broke out
again over her face, though her lashes wore yet heavy with tears. "I
guess you've got a cent, doctor," she said archly.
This was said in consequence of a promise he made her one day, if she
would be a good girl while he dressed her leg, he would give her a cent.
The doctor laughed, and threw a penny into her lap, when many of the
students followed his example.
In the afternoon the porter who brought Mary up, came for her again.
Miss Alden expected him, and had her patient ready; but there was no
smile on her face as she saw the child borne carefully away.
"Where is Mary going?" cried Ruth.
"She has gone to the operating-room, to have her foot and ankle taken
off," answered the nurse in a faltering voice.
"Oh, dear, I'm sorry!" came from one and another of the patients.
"She'll never know it, little dear," added the nurse. "She'll take
ether, and a blessed thing ether is too."
In less than an hour Mary returned, and was laid tenderly on her bed.
She seemed exhausted, and had scarcely recovered her consciousness. She
smiled, though, when "Darling" bent over and kissed her, and then fell
quietly asleep.
It was not until the next morning, that she seemed aware of what had
taken place. She gazed at her limb as if she could not understand how
her foot had disappeared; then, as if suddenly realizing her loss, her
voice quivered, and there was scarcely a dry eye about her, as she
repeatedly inquired,—
"How will I walk about, now?"
Toward her brother, who in a fit of passion had maimed her for life,
she seemed to cherish not the slightest resentment; but talked often of
him and her baby brother, in the most affectionate terms. Visitors were
extremely kind to her, and seemed to vie with each other who could do
most for her comfort. On such occasions she would always portion off
her toys or cake, saying in her own rich brogue, "This shall be for
Tommy; and this, for baby; and this, for me."
It was astonishing how soon she reconciled herself to the idea of the
loss she had sustained. No one knew where she picked up the word, but
when she accidentally hit her wounded limb, instead of crying, she
would say,—
"Oh, Mary! I'm sorry for your poor stump!"
For a few days she suffered much less than before the amputation, and
entered into whatever was ludicrous or mirthful, with all her heart.
When the patients were able to be out of bed, there were a few rocking
chairs which they could use. One woman who was dropsical claimed one of
these for her own exclusive use. Even when she was too tired to remain
out of bed, she would remonstrate loudly against its removal.
Ruth, who was now convalescent, had often watched her proceedings with
much merriment, and one time when all was quiet, and the night-nurse
absent from the room for a moment, she slipped from her bed and removed
the chair to quite the other end of the apartment.
The woman awoke with the first ray of light, and soon discovered the
loss of her chair. With a shout that roused every one from their
slumbers, she called Miss Stiles, who was innocently reposing in it, to
bring it back at once.
"I'll know who did this," she exclaimed looking defiantly about. "I'll
know it before night!"
When the doctor made his morning call, instead of answering his
question as to how she had slept, she gave him a description of the
kind of treatment to which she was exposed.
"But I'll know who did it; I'll know," she kept repeating.
"You're worse off than the woman with a hitch in her face," he said
with a quiet smile; "you have a hitching chair. But I dare say Miss
Alden will make it all right."
There was some inquiry made as to who was the author of the mischief;
but without any discovery. The woman grumbled all day, that she
was "dacent,—as dacent as any one in the hospital. She had had two
husbands, and was as dacent as any one, and would not submit to such
tratement."
When night came, she was evidently worse; but nothing would induce her
to retire until the rest had done so; and then she made sure of her
prize by tying her garters together, fastening one end to the chair,
and the other round her neck.
When the doctor came the next day, he found her so, and with a much
quickened pulse.
"Did you move the chair?" he asked softly, approaching Ruth's bed.
He had seen her eyes sparkle with merriment, and concluded her the
rogue.
"Yes, sir, I did it."
"Well, you had better keep your bed at night, in future."
Little Mary, as well as the others, amused herself talking about the
woman with a chair tied round her neck. They all saw how selfish she
was, and how disagreeable her selfishness made her. Poor woman, she
lived but a short time after this, and died lamenting that since she
came to the hospital she had "lost her muff,—a fine dacent one, too."
But soon, Mary's limb below the knee began to show signs of
mortification; and after a few days of severe suffering, it was found
necessary to have another operation, and take it off higher.
She understood now what was to be done; but when Miss Alden told her
the surgeons would do it while she was asleep so that it wouldn't hurt
her, she submitted without a word.
The most remarkable trait in this patient child was her truthfulness.
She had evidently been well taught at home, for nothing would induce
her to tell a lie.
She used often to call one and another of the patients to her chair to
button her dolly's dress, or tie a string in her apron.
"Come here, Maggy Jones," she called one day. "Please come here!"
"No, I can't; my foot is cut off," answered the girl, laughing.
"O Maggy, that's a wicked lie! I see your two feet; oh, where will you
go now?"
This she said in a voice of great distress, and never afterwards
believed anything the girl told her.
One day, after the doctor had been playfully teasing her, pinching her
cheeks, etc., she said, "I don't like Dr. P—, he's a maninger."
Nurse made her repeat it, and they all laughed, though they couldn't
discover what "maninger" meant.
The next day the doctor said gravely, as though he felt hurt, "Don't
you like me, Mary?"
Her face was dyed with blushes in an instant; but she replied softly,
"Yes, I do."
"But did you say yesterday you didn't, and call me a dreadful name?"
"Yes, I did; but I like you now."
"What did you call me?"
"A maninger."
"And what is a maninger, pray?"
"Why, it's a—a real bad man; I'm sorry now, though."
"Well, I forgive you," he said patting her head, playfully. "Now,
remember, we are good friends again."
"Did you say so, Mary?" or, "didn't you say this?" were questions often
put to her by the patients, thinking she would deny something she had
said. But no, she would not do it; often ending with the emphatic
words, "I say it's real wicked to tell a lie!"
By and by, Mary was so well that Dr. P— said she must be carried home,
as her bed was needed for another patient. When the ladies who visited
the hospital so often heard that, they loaded her with books and toys,
and some gave her money.
The day she left, the kind doctor put five dollars which had been given
her in small sums, into the bank in her name; and promised if no one
else bought her a cork leg, he would do so; that she could go to school.
Ruth was dismissed about the same time, and others were brought in to
take their places; but Miss Alden did not soon forget her cheerful
little charge, nor the endearing title, "Darling," which Mary had so
lovingly given her. She parted from her with many tears, after making
her promise to come and see "Darling," as soon as she was able.
I have written you this true story, my young readers, that you may
learn in the history of Alick, how peaceful and happy is the death of
those who put their trust in God; and by the contrast between little
Mary and the dropsical old woman; how much more amiable and beloved
are those who endure suffering with meekness and patience, than those
who fret and murmur at every trifling annoyance, or repine at the
allotments of Providence.
Johnny's Fretting.
CHAPTER I.
JOHNNY'S HOME.
"OH, dear!" exclaimed little Johnny, his full, round face drawn up into
a sad scowl, "Oh dear!"
Now I suppose that all the children who read this true story, will
imagine that Johnny was sick, or had cut his finger badly, or perhaps
had fallen down and bumped his head. But no; he was perfectly well, his
fingers were all whole, and he had met with no injury at all.
Perhaps some little Mary or Susy or John, will say, "Johnny must have
lived in an old house, with no bed except some straw thrown upon the
floor, and no food but a mouldy crust, that was why he kept saying,
'Oh, dear!'"
No, God had given him parents who owned a large, pleasant house,
situated on a hill, with winding avenues leading to the front door.
Then there was a beautiful lawn in front. You could not guess in a
whole day what was on the lawn, so I must tell you. It was a brown and
white goat, whose name was Bessie, and her two little kids. The pretty
creatures jumped, and frisked, and danced all over the green grass,
and sometimes ran away behind the house, to the great trouble of their
mother, who was tied, and couldn't follow them. Then Bessie would
begin to cry, like Johnny, "Oh, dear! oh, dear!" She did not say this
in words, but it sounded as if she were complaining of their naughty
behavior.
But I must leave telling you about Bessie, for the present, and finish
describing Johnny's home. The green lawns extended on each side of the
house, but behind the great barn was a kitchen garden, where peas and
beans, and sweet corn and tomatoes grew in abundance for the table.
Then there were long rows of currant-bushes, and raspberry-bushes, and
high blackberries, and beyond these a thriving orchard of apple, pear
and peach trees.
Johnny was very fond of all these things, and as he was well, his
mother allowed him to eat what he wished of them.
In the barn behind the house, there was a horse, named Billy, and two
cows, Sally and Hatty; Sally was mother to Hatty, and nice cows they
were, coming home every night with their great bags of rich milk.
Billy was a very kind horse, and though he would sometimes be a little
frisky (he was five years old, too, just as Johnny was), yet whenever
he felt his young master's light form on his back he would not paw his
feet, nor dance at all. He would stand still till all was ready, and
then trot gently round the walks.
Johnny's father and mother often went to ride, and almost always the
little boy went, too; and then he and his mother had a school as they
rode along. She gave him words to spell, and he would laugh when he
said them right, and give her words. Sometimes she would spell cat
c-p-t, cat. Oh, how the little fellow laughed to think he could spell
better than his mother!
Now when God had been so good to Johnny, and given him such kind
parents, and such a pleasant home, when he was well, and had not hurt
himself at all, what could be the reason that when he woke up in the
morning, and a great many times every day he said, "Oh, dear! oh,
dear!" in that complaining tone.
I am sorry to tell you he had a naughty, wicked habit of fretting.
"Oh, dear! I can't untie the reins to my horse." "Oh, dear! my marbles
keep rolling away under the bed." "Oh, dear! I'm too tired to work, I
want to play." "Oh, dear! need I study, mother? I'm so warm."
This was what Johnny kept saying over and over again every day, and
it troubled his father and mother more and more that their boy, whom
God had surrounded with so many blessings, should be so unthankful and
complaining.
When Johnny was good-natured his face was very pleasant to look upon.
His skin was clear and smooth, his eyes looked out from behind their
brown lashes with a merry glance, his mouth was small and well-shaped.
But no child can fret a great deal without spoiling the face God has
given him, and Johnny's mother was really afraid that his little
features would be so drawn up by his saying "Oh, dear," that they never
would come straight again.
Beside his parents there were others who were greatly troubled at this
habit of Johnny's. He was the youngest of six sons, and the pet of them
all. But now one of his older brothers, who was in size almost a man,
said, one day,—
"What makes Johnny fret so much? I'm tired of hearing him talk in that
whining voice."
A few days after this his brother was going to ride, and Johnny ran out
to the carriage, crying, in an eager voice, "Charlie, may I go with
you?"
"I'm going to make a call, and I'm afraid you'll fret," his brother
answered.
Johnny hung his head, looking very much ashamed, but presently he said,
softly, "I'm going to be a good boy now, and not fret any more."
Charlie smiled. "Well, then, you may go," he said.
They had scarcely gone half a mile before the little boy forgot his
promise, and in a complaining tone, began,—
"I can't take the whip."
"How do you know you can't?" asked his brother.
"Because I know you won't let me."
"You may be sure I sha'n't, when you whine so. But if you had asked
pleasantly, May I take the whip, Charlie? I would have let you. You
must remember you never will gain anything from me by whining."
CHAPTER II.
JOHNNY'S RESOLUTIONS.
JOHNNY looked very sober a few moments; but then his face brightened
up, and a pretty smile danced around his mouth. "I'm sure, now," he
said, "I sha'n't fret any more."
"I'm afraid you will," answered his brother, "because you don't ask God
to help you break off this bad habit. No one can cure himself of doing
wrong by his own strength. When you say your prayers you must ask God
to help you."
"I want to ask Him now," said Johnny.
"Well, shut your eyes, and you may."
"I want to be a good boy," began the child, clasping his little hands.
"Will you please, God, to help me, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen."
"Now," said Charlie, "when you feel like fretting, just stop a minute
and think. God will put cheerful thoughts in your mind, so you'll
forget what you were complaining about."
"He didn't say He would," murmured Johnny. "I didn't hear anything."
"No; but in the Bible He has promised that if we ask for anything we
shall receive it; that is, if it is best for us to have it. Now we know
it would please Him better to have you the pleasant, good-tempered
little fellow you used to be, rather than the whining boy you are now.
So if you really ask Him from your heart, I'm sure He will help you to
break it off."
When they had made the call, and were returning home, Charlie handed
the long whip to his brother.
"Would you like to hold it?" he asked. "I like to please good boys."
Oh, what a happy feeling swelled up in Johnny's heart. Smiles broke
out all over his face, and his voice was as cheerful as a canary's. He
chattered away about a donkey he expected to have, and a barn he meant
to make for it, and a buggy for the donkey to draw him to school.
Charlie laughed heartily at his wonderful plans, and remembered, with a
little flush, that once he had done just so.
"I like to be good best," said Johnny, with a smile; "and I'm never
going to be naughty again."
The next day his mother was sitting at her work, when she heard Johnny
cry out, "Oh, dear! oh, dear! the stones keep rolling out of my
wheelbarrow. Oh, dear, I don't want to work any more!"
She sat still, but for some time she could hear his voice fretting and
complaining. Then she opened the window and called him in.
"I can't have any dinner, then," he whined out.
"Why, Johnny?"
"Father said I must pick up all these stones, and it makes my head
ache. I don't like to work so hard," he cried, looking in his mother's
face.
"Where are the stones?" she asked, walking into the yard.
"There,—all those."
"One, two, three, four, five, six," counted his mother, laughing. "Oh,
what a great job! Six little stones. There, run and pick them up quick,
and then come into my room. I want to tell you something."
"Will you wait, mother?"
"Yes, if you wont be long."
"Oh, I can do it in a minute!" he said, forgetting all his trouble.
His mother took off his hat and wiped his head, which was quite wet
with perspiration. Then she washed his hands and face with cool water,
and told him to draw his little chair to her side. "We'll have some
talk together," she said.
"Do you remember about that kitty you found?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, mother! It was Mrs. Muzzey's. I carried it home in my arms,
and I didn't cry when it scratched me a little; but she didn't thank me
at all. She just said, 'Well, put her down.'"
The lady smiled at Johnny's indignant tone. "I remember," she went on,
"how long it took you to catch the kitty, and how bravely you held her
when she tried to jump from your arms and run away. Now suppose Mrs.
Muzzey had said, 'I wish you wouldn't trouble me to come to the door—I
can't be running round to wait on children all the time,' do you think
that would have been a good way to show her gratitude to you?"
"Oh, no indeed!"
"But," added the lady, more seriously, "I know a little boy having a
pleasant home, and kind parents, who wish to do all things for his
good. Every morning his heavenly Father supplies him with a nice
breakfast; every noon, with a good dinner; and every night, with a
plentiful supper. He has warm clothes, and a great many other favors.
He ought to be very grateful and happy. He ought to keep lifting up his
heart to God, and saying, 'thank you, God, for all this.' If he has any
little troubles, he ought to remember how many children there are who
have no home nor kind parents nor any pretty toys. He ought to say, I
wont complain, for I have a great many blessings left. But I am sorry
to tell you he does not always do this; he does a great deal worse than
Mrs. Muzzey, who did not thank you for carrying her kitty home, for he
often forgets his mercies, and—"
Johnny's lip began to quiver. "I didn't want to hear about that," he
began. "I wanted to hear a story about the rag pickers."
"Wait awhile; I'll tell you a story some other time. Now I'm afraid
that if that little boy does not break himself of this dreadful habit
of fretting, that God will take away some of his good things, and give
them to another child who will be more thankful. You know you said you
wouldn't carry the kitty home again, because she didn't thank you; so
God may say, This little Johnny don't remember how many good things I
give him. I hear his voice fretting and complaining that he cannot have
everything just as he wishes. I will take away his blessings until he
can be more thankful for them."
Johnny's face grew very red, while his mother was talking, and
presently great tears filled his eyes. "I will be good, mother," he
faltered, for his lip was quivering so he could scarcely speak. "I
don't want God to take you to heaven. I want us to go together. I will
be thankful to Him."
The lady drew her boy to her side, and then they kneeled down together,
and asked their Father in heaven to help Johnny to become good and holy
and obedient like the dear Jesus. They prayed that he might be thankful
that he was not born a heathen child, and taught to bow down to the
idols of wood and stone; but that, as he had early been told about the
true God and the Saviour of sinners, he might begin at once to love and
serve Him.
Johnny listened eagerly to every word of his mother's prayer. When she
had concluded he sprung to his feet, and gazing in her face, asked,
quickly, "Will He do it? Will He help me to be a good boy?"