FARMER GRAY had a neighbour who was not the best-tempered man in the
world though mainly kind and obliging. He was shoemaker. His name was
Barton. One day, in harvest-time, when every man on the farm was as busy
as a bee, this man came over to Farmer Gray's, and said, in rather a
petulant tone of voice,
“Mr. Gray, I wish you would send over, and drive your geese home.”
“Why so, Mr. Barton; what have my geese been doing?” said the farmer, in
a mild, quiet-tone.
“They pick my pigs' ears when they are eating, and go into my garden,
and I will not have it!” the neighbour replied, in a still more petulant
voice.
“I am really sorry it, Neighbour Barton, but what can I do?”
“Why, yoke them, and thus keep them on your own premises. It's no kind
of a way to let your geese run all over every farm and garden in the
neighborhood.”
“But I cannot see to it, now. It is harvest-time, Friend Barton, and
every man, woman, and child on the farm has as much as he or she can do.
Try and bear it for a week or so, and then I will see if I can possibly
remedy the evil.”
“I can't bear it, and I won't bear it any longer!” said the shoemaker.
“So if you do not take care of them, Friend Gray, I shall have to take
care of them for you.”
“Well, Neighbour Barton, you can do as you please,” Farmer Gray replied,
in his usual quiet tone. “I am sorry that they trouble you, but I cannot
attend to them now.”
“I'll attend to them for you, see if I don't,” said the shoemaker, still
more angrily than when he first called upon Farmer Gray; and then turned
upon his heel, and strode off hastily towards his own house, which was
quite near to the old farmer's.
“What upon earth can be the matter with them geese?” said Mrs. Gray,
about fifteen minutes afterwards.
“I really cannot tell, unless Neighbour Barton is taking care of them.
He threatened to do so, if I didn't yoke them right off.”
“Taking care of them! How taking care of them?”
“As to that, I am quite in the dark. Killing them, perhaps. He said they
picked at his pigs' ears, and drove them away when they were eating, and
that he wouldn't have it. He wanted me to yoke them right off, but that
I could not do, now, as all the hands are busy. So, I suppose, he is
engaged in the neighbourly business of taking care of our geese.”
“John! William! run over and see what Mr. Barton is doing with my
geese,” said Mrs. Gray, in a quick and anxious tone, to two little boys
who were playing near.
The urchins scampered off, well pleased to perform any errand.
“Oh, if he has dared to do anything to my geese, I will never forgive
him!” the good wife said, angrily.
“H-u-s-h, Sally! make no rash speeches. It is more than probable that he
has killed some two or three of them. But never mind, if he has. He will
get over this pet, and be sorry for it.”
“Yes; but what good will his being sorry do me? Will it bring my geese
to life?”
“Ah, well, Sally, never mind. Let us wait until we learn what all this
disturbance is about.”
In about ten minutes the children came home, bearing the bodies of three
geese, each without a head.
“Oh, is not that too much for human endurance?” cried Mrs. Gray. “Where
did you find them?”
“We found them lying out in the road,” said the oldest of the two
children, “and when we picked them up, Mr. Barton said, 'Tell your
father that I have yoked his geese for him, to save him the trouble, as
his hands are all too busy to do it.'”
“I'd sue him for it!” said Mrs. Gray, in an indignant tone.
“And what good would that do, Sally?”
“Why, it would do a great deal of good. It would teach him better
manners. It would punish him; and he deserves punishment.”
“And punish us into the bargain. We have lost three geese, now, but we
still have their good fat bodies to eat. A lawsuit would cost us many
geese, and not leave us even so much as the feathers, besides giving us
a world of trouble and vexation. No, no, Sally; just let it rest, and he
will be sorry for it, I know.”
“Sorry for it, indeed! And what good will his being sorry for it do
us, I should like to know? Next he will kill a cow, and then we must be
satisfied with his being sorry for it! Now, I can tell you, that I don't
believe in that doctrine. Nor do I believe anything about his being
sorry--the crabbed, ill-natured wretch!”
“Don't call hard names, Sally,” said Farmer Gray, in a mild, soothing
tone. “Neighbour Barton was not himself when he killed the geese. Like
every other angry person, he was a little insane, and did what he would
not have done had he been perfectly in his right mind. When you are a
little excited, you know, Sally, that even you do and say unreasonable
things.”
“Me do and say unreasonable things!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray, with a look
and tone of indignant astonishment; “me do and say unreasonable things,
when I am angry! I don't understand you, Mr. Gray.”
“May-be I can help you a little. Don't you remember how angry you were
when Mr. Mellon's old brindle got into our garden, and trampled over
your lettuce-bed, and how you struck her with the oven-pole, and knocked
off one of her horns?”
“But I didn't mean to do that, though.”
“No; but then you were angry, and struck old Brindle with a right good
will. And if Mr. Mellon had felt disposed, he might have prosecuted for
damages.”
“But she had no business there.”
“Of course not. Neither had our geese any business in Neighbour Barton's
yard. But, perhaps, I can help you to another instance, that will be
more conclusive, in regard to your doing and saying unreasonable things,
when you are angry. You remember the patent churn?”
“Yes; but never mind about that.”
“So you have not forgotten how unreasonable you was about the churn. It
wasn't good for anything--you knew it wasn't; and you'd never put a jar
of cream into it as long as you lived--that you wouldn't. And yet, on
trial, you found that churn the best you had ever used, and you wouldn't
part with it on any consideration. So you see, Sally, thai even you can
say and do unreasonable things, when you are angry, just as well as Mr.
Barton can. Let us then consider him a little, and give him time to get
over his angry fit. It will be much better to do so.”
Mrs. Gray saw that her husband was right, but still she felt indignant
at the outrage committed on her geese. She did not, however, say
anything about suing the shoemaker--for old Brindle's head, from which
the horn had been knocked off, was not yet entirely well, and one
prosecution very naturally suggested the idea of another. So she took
her three fat geese, and after stripping off their feathers, had them
prepared for the table.
On the next morning, as Farmer Gray was going along the road, he met the
shoemaker, and as they had to pass very near to each other, the farmer
smiled, and bowed, and spoke kindly. Mr. Barton looked and felt very
uneasy, but Farmer Gray did not seem to remember the unpleasant incident
of the day before.
It was about eleven o'clock of the same day that one of Farmer Gray's
little boys came running to him, and crying,
“Oh, father! father! Mr. Barton's hogs are in our cornfield.”
“Then I must go and drive them out,” said Mr. Gray, in a quiet tone.
“Drive them out!” ejaculated Mrs. Gray; “drive 'em out, indeed! I'd
shoot them, that's what I'd do! I'd serve them as he served my geese
yesterday.”
“But that wouldn't bring the geese to life again, Sally.”
“I don't care if it wouldn't. It would be paying him in his own coin,
and that's all he deserves.”
“You know what the Bible says, Sally, about grievous words, and they
apply with stronger force to grievous actions. No, no, I will return
Neighbour Barton good for evil. That is the best way. He has done wrong,
and I am sure is sorry for it. And as I wish him still to remain sorry
for so unkind and unneighbourly an action, I intend making use of the
best means for keeping him sorry.”
“Then you will be revenged on him, anyhow.”
“No, Sally--not revenged. I hope I have no such feeling. For I am not
angry with Neighbour Barton, who has done himself a much greater wrong
than he has done me. But I wish him to see clearly how wrong he acted,
that he may do so no more. And then we shall not have any cause to
complain of him, nor he any to be grieved, as I am sure he is, at his
own hasty conduct. But while I am talking here, his hogs are destroying
my corn.”
And so saying, Farmer Gray hurried off, towards his cornfield. When he
arrived there, he found four large hogs tearing down the stalks, and
pulling off and eating the ripe ears of corn. They had already destroyed
a good deal. But he drove them out very calmly, and put up the bars
through which they had entered, and then commenced gathering up the
half-eaten ears of corn, and throwing them out into the lane for the
hogs, that had been so suddenly disturbed in the process of obtaining a
liberal meal. As he was thus engaged, Mr. Barton, who had from his own
house seen the farmer turn the hogs out of his cornfield, came hurriedly
up, and said,
“I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I am, that my hogs have done this! I
will most cheerfully pay you for what they have destroyed.”
“Oh, never mind, Friend Barton--never mind. Such things will happen,
occasionally. My geese, you know, annoy you very much, sometimes.”
“Don't speak of it, Mr. Gray. They didn't annoy me half as much as
I imagined they did. But how much corn do you think my hogs have
destroyed? One bushel, or two bushels? or how much? Let it be estimated,
and I will pay for it most cheerfully.”
“Oh, no. Not for the world, Friend Barton. Such things will happen
sometimes. And, besides, some of my men must have left the bars down, or
your hogs could never have got in. So don't think any more about it.
It would be dreadful if one neighbour could not bear a little with
another.”
All this cut poor Mr. Barton to the heart. His own ill-natured language
and conduct, at a much smaller trespass on his rights, presented itself
to his mind, and deeply mortified him. After a few moments' silence, he
said,
“The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel better if you will let me pay for
this corn. My hogs should not be fattened at your expense, and I will
not consent to its being done. So I shall insist on paying you for at
least one bushel of corn, for I am sure they have destroyed that much,
if not more.”
But Mr. Gray shook his head and smiled pleasantly, as he replied,
“Don't think anything more about it, Neighbour Barton. It is a matter
deserving no consideration. No doubt my cattle have often trespassed on
you and will trespass on you again. Let us then bear and forbear.”
All this cut the shoemaker still deeper, and he felt still less at ease
in mind after he parted from the farmer than he did before. But on one
thing he resolved, and that was, to pay Mr. Gray for the corn which his
hogs had eaten.
“You told him your mind pretty plainly, I hope,” said Mrs. Gray, as her
husband came in.
“I certainly did,” was the quiet reply.
“And I am glad you had spirit enough to do it! I reckon he will think
twice before he kills any more of my geese!”
“I expect you are right, Sally. I don't think we shall be troubled
again.”
“And what did you say to him? And what did he say for himself?”
“Why he wanted very much to pay me for the corn his pigs had eaten,
but I wouldn't hear to it. I told him that it made no difference in the
world; that such accidents would happen sometimes.”
“You did?”
“Certainly, I did.”
“And that's the way you spoke your mind to him?”
“Precisely. And it had the desired effect. It made him feel ten times
worse than if I had spoken angrily to him. He is exceedingly pained at
what he has done, and says he will never rest until he has paid for that
corn. But I am resolved never to take a cent for it. It will be the
best possible guarantee I can have for his kind and neighbourly conduct
hereafter.”
“Well, perhaps you are right,” said Mrs. Gray, after a few moments of
thoughtful silence. “I like Mrs. Barton very much--and now I come
to think of it, I should not wish to have any difference between our
families.”
“And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has read a good deal, and I find it
very pleasant to sit with him, occasionally, during the long winter
evenings. His only fault is his quick temper--but I am sure it is much
better for us to bear with and soothe that, than to oppose rand excite
it and thus keep both his family and our own in hot water.”
“You are certainly right,” replied Mrs. Gray; “and I only wish that I
could always think and feel as you do. But I am little quick, as they
say.”
“And so is Mr. Barton. Now just the same consideration that you would
desire others to have for you, should you exercise towards Mr. Barton,
or any one else whose hasty temper leads him into words or actions that,
in calmer and more thoughtful moments, are subjects of regret.”
On the next day, while Mr. Gray stood in his own door, from which he
could see over the two or three acres of ground that the shoemaker
cultivated, he observed two of his cows in his neighbour's cornfield,
browsing away in quite a contented manner. As he was going to call one
of the farm hands to go over and drive them out, he perceived that
Mr. Barton had become aware of the mischief that was going on, and had
already started for the field of corn.
“Now we will see the effect of yesterday's lesson,” said the farmer to
himself; and then paused to observe the manner of the shoemaker towards
his cattle in driving them out of the field. In a few minutes Mr.
Barton came up to the cows, but, instead of throwing stones at them, or
striking them with a stick, he merely drove them out in a quiet way, and
put up the bars through which they had entered.
“Admirable!” ejaculated Farmer Gray.
“What is admirable?” asked his wife, who came within hearing distance at
the moment.
“Why the lesson I gave our friend Barton yesterday. It works admirably.”
“How so?”
“Two of our cows were in his cornfield a few minutes ago, destroying the
corn at a rapid rate.”
“Well! what did he do to them?” in a quick, anxious tone.
“He drove them out.”
“Did he stone them, or beat them?”
“Oh no. He was gentle as a child towards them.”
“You are certainly jesting.”
“Not I. Friend Barton has not forgotten that his pigs were in my
cornfield yesterday, and that I turned them out without hurting a hair
of one of them. Now, suppose I had got angry and beaten his pigs, what
do you think the result would have been? Why, it is much more than
probable that one or both of our fine cows would have been at this
moment in the condition of Mr. Mellon's old Brindle.”
“I wish you wouldn't say anything more about old Brindle,” said Mrs.
Gray, trying to laugh, while her face grew red in spite of her efforts
to keep down her feelings.
“Well, I won't, Sally, if it worries you. But it is such a good
illustration that I can't help using it sometimes.”
“I am glad he didn't hurt the cows,” said Mrs. Gray, after a pause.
“And so am I, Sally. Glad on more than one account. It shows that he has
made an effort to keep down his hasty, irritable temper--and if he can
do that, it will be a favour conferred on the whole neighbourhood, for
almost every one complains, at times, of this fault in his character.”
“It is certainly the best policy, to keep fair weather with him,” Mrs.
Gray remarked, “for a man of his temper could annoy us a good deal.”
“That word policy, Sally, is not a good word,” replied her husband. “It
conveys a thoroughly selfish idea. Now, we ought to look for some higher
motives of action than mere policy--motives grounded in correct and
unselfish principles.”
“But what other motive but policy could we possibly have for putting up
with Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct?”
“Other, and far higher motives, it seems to me. We should reflect that
Mr. Barton has naturally a hasty temper, and that when excited he does
things for which he is sorry afterwards--and that, in nine cases out of
ten, he is a greater sufferer from those outbreaks than any one else. In
our actions towards him, then, it is a much higher and better motive for
us to be governed by a desire to aid him in the correction of this evil,
than to look merely to the protection of ourselves from its effects. Do
you not think so?”
“Yes. It does seem so.”
“When thus moved to action, we are, in a degree, regarding the whole
neighbourhood, for the evil of which we speak affects all. And in
thus suffering ourselves to be governed by such elevated and unselfish
motives, we gain all that we possibly could have gained under the mere
instigation of policy--and a great deal more. But to bring the matter
into a still narrower compass. In all our actions towards him and every
one else, we should be governed by the simple consideration--is it
right? If a spirit of retaliation be not right, then it cannot be
indulged without a mutual injury. Of course, then, it should never
prompt us to action. If cows or hogs get into my field or garden, and
destroy my property, who is to blame most? Of course, myself. I should
have kept my fences in better repair, or my gate closed. The animals,
certainly, are not to blame, for they follow only the promptings of
nature; and their owners should not be censured, for they know nothing
about it. It would then be very wrong for me to injure both the animals
and their owners for my own neglect, would it not?”
“Yes,--I suppose it would.”
“So, at least, it seems to me. Then, of course, I ought not to injure
Neighbour Barton's cows or hogs, even if they do break into my cornfield
or garden, simply because it would be wrong to do so. This is the
principle upon which we should act, and not from any selfish policy.”
After this there was no trouble about Farmer Gray's geese or cattle.
Sometimes the geese would get among Mr. Barton's hogs, and annoy them
while eating, but it did not worry him as it did formerly. If they
became too troublesome he would drive them away, but not by throwing
sticks and stones at them as he once did.
Late in the fall the shoemaker brought in his bill for work. It was a
pretty large bill, with sundry credits.
“Pay-day has come at last,” said Farmer Gray, good-humouredly, as the
shoemaker presented his account.
“Well, let us see!” and he took the bill to examine it item after item.
“What is this?” he asked, reading aloud.
“'Cr. By one bushel of corn, fifty cents.'”
“It's some corn I had from you.”
“I reckon you must be mistaken. You never got any corn from me.”
“Oh, yes I did. I remember it perfectly. It is all right.”
“But when did you get it, Friend Barton? I am sure that I haven't the
most distant recollection of it.”
“My hogs got it,” the shoemaker said, in rather a low and hesitating
tone.
“Your hogs!”
“Yes. Don't you remember when my hogs broke into your field, and
destroyed your corn?”
“Oh, dear! is that it? Oh, no, no, Friend Barton! Ii cannot allow that
item in the bill.”
“Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall never rest until
it is paid.”
“I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting into my field; and
then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese were very
troublesome!”
The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but Farmer Gray slapped him
familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in a lively, cheerful way,
“Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And hereafter let us
endeavour to 'do as we would be done by,' and then everything will go on
as smooth as clock-work.”
“But you will allow that item in the bill?” the shoemaker urged
perseveringly.
“Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong to make you pay for
my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down.”
“But then (hesitatingly), those geese--I killed three. Let it go for
them.”
“If you did kill them, we ate them. So that is even. No, no, let the
past be forgotten, and if it makes better neighbours and friends of us,
we never need regret what has happened.”
Farmer Gray remained firm, and the bill was settled, omitting the item
of “corn.” From that time forth he never had a better neighbour than
the shoemaker. The cows, hogs, and geese of both would occasionally
trespass, but the trespassers were always kindly removed. The lesson
was not lost on either of them--for even Farmer Gray used to feel,
sometimes, a little annoyed when his neighbour's cattle broke into his
field. But in teaching the shoemaker a lesson, he had taken a little of
it himself.