The Silver Knife.
"Then said Jesus unto him: Go and do thou likewise."--LUKE, x. 37.
_Mary_.--(After having searched about the dining-room,) "Who has seen
my silver knife? William, John, Lucy, you who are amusing yourselves in
the garden, have you seen my silver knife?"
_William_.--(Going up to the window, and in a sententious tone of
voice,) "'Disorder,' says an ancient writer, 'occasions sorrow, and
negligence, blame.'"
_Mary_.--"Admirable! But that does not apply to _me_, for it is
scarcely an hour since I laid my knife on this very table, which
certainly belongs to us."
_Lucy_.--"Are you quite sure of it, Mary!"
_Mary_--"Yes, indeed, there is no doubt of it, for Sophy asked me to
give her a pretty little red apple, as usual, before going to school. I
went immediately to the fruit-room for it, and as it was a little
spoiled, I cleaned it with my silver knife, which I laid on this table,
whilst I was kissing her. I am therefore quite sure of it."
_John_.--(Frowning,)--"For my part, I confess, I don't like all these
strangers who come about the house. For instance, that little _Jane_,
who sells lilies of the valley, and strawberries, and so on--I very
much distrust her sullen look; and who knows, if perhaps...?"
_Lucy_--"Fie, fie, brother, to suspect that poor little modest gentle
child, who supports her sick mother by her own industry! Oh! it is very
wrong, John!"
"What is the matter?" said their Father, who had heard this dispute
from the garden, where he was reading under the shade of a tree.
Mary related her story, and finished by saying,--"Well, if it be God's
will, So-be-it! My beautiful knife is lost!"
"Yes, my dear girl," answered her father, "What God wills, is always
best. But it is His will that I should watch over, my household. I must
therefore know what has become of your knife. Did you ask Elizabeth if
she had taken care of it, when she cleaned the room?"
Mary ran to the kitchen, and enquired of Elizabeth.
"Your silver knife! Miss," said the servant, coloring. "Have you lost
that beautiful knife, which was given you on your birthday?"
"I ask you, if you have taken care of it," answered Mary. "I laid it
this morning upon the table in the dining-room, near the window."
_Elizabeth_.--(with astonishment,)--"Near the window! Oh!--I know where
it is, now. About half an hour ago, when I went into the dining-room,
to ... put ... down ... some plates, I saw the great magpie, which
builds its nest up in the large elm-tree, at the end of the garden,
sitting on the window-ledge. It flew away as soon as it saw me; but it
had something white and shining in its beak. Oh! yes, I remember now!
it was the silver knife!"
"The magpie," exclaimed Mary, "with my knife in its beak!"
"Oh! Miss," replied Elizabeth, "there is no thief like a magpie. When I
was at home, one of their nests was once pulled down, and nine pieces
of silver were found in it, and a whole necklace of pearls! Oh! magpies
are terrible birds, and you may be sure that your knife is in their
nest."
Mary returned to her father in the garden, and related to him all that
Elizabeth had said, but added, "For my part, I don't believe a word of
it!"
"And why not?" exclaimed John, sharply, "Elizabeth is quite right!
Nothing steals like a magpie. Everybody says so. Come! let us to work!
A ladder, a cord, and a long stick! Down with the nest!--Papa, will you
allow me to climb the tree!"
_Lucy._--(Holding John by the arm.)--"Brother, how _can_ you think of
it? The elm is more than eighty feet high! Papa, I beg of you, not to
allow it."
_Father_.--(Calmly.)--"No one shall get up the tree and risk his life,
for a thing which certainly is not there."
"There is no thief like a magpie," repeated John, looking at the nest,
which might be seen through the higher branches of the tree; "but I
confess it would not be easy to reach it. These branches are very long
and very slender!"
William, who had said nothing as yet, but had been walking backwards
and forwards, with his head down, and his hands in his pockets, turned
suddenly round to Mary, and said, "I have been thinking we can soon
know if your knife is in the nest. We only want a polemoscope for that.
Hurrah! long live optics!"
"A lemoscope!" said Lucy, "What is that? Is it a long hook?"
_William_.--(Smiling rather contemptuously.) "Poor sister! What
ignorance!"
_Father_--"William, speak kindly--tell your sister what this instrument
is, and what you want to do with it."
_William._--(Scientifically.)--"In war, when a besieged garrison wishes
to know all the movements of the enemy, without being seen, they erect
behind the walls, or the ramparts, a mirror, placed at the end of a
long pole, and inclining towards the country. You understand, then,
that everything that takes place outside, is reflected in the mirror,
and can be seen from within, or in another mirror placed at the bottom
of the pole, and sloping inwards. This, Lucy, is what is called a
polemoscope--that is to say, an instrument for observations in war."
"Thank you, William," said Lucy, "but what are you going to do with it?"
_William._--"The thing is quite plain. I am going to fasten a small
mirror on a light pitchfork, inclining it downwards. This pitchfork I
shall fasten firmly to pole; then some one will climb, dear papa,
without any danger, as far as the strong branches reach; from thence he
can draw up the pole and its mirror, with a long string, and by raising
the mirror above the nest, he will enable us to see, with the aid of
your telescope, all that the nest contains. This is my plan, and I
think it is not so bad!"
_Father_.--(Smiling.)--"Dear William. It is a great pity, however, that
you are so blind. There are two things you have not considered. One is,
that the branches which cover the nest, are very thick and tufted.
Therefore, your mirror, even if it reached their summit, would only
reflect the leaves, and consequently neither the nest nor the knife;
and the other thing which you do not observe, is this, that the
magpies, by an admirable instinct, which God has given them, build
their nests, not like a basin, as you supposed, but in the form of a
ball; so that the nest is covered with a vaulted roof, formed of sticks
closely interwoven, which shelters the bird and its brood from bad
weather, and above all, from the cruel claw of the kite or hawk."
"I am much obliged to you, dear papa," said William. "What a pity," he
added, with a sigh; "for my plan would otherwise have been infallible."
"Let us seek a better one," said their father. "Mary, go and see if you
have not left your knife in the fruit-room. Perhaps it was yesterday,
that you peeled the apple for Sophy."
"I will do so," said Mary, and she went into the house for the key of
the fruit-room.
She soon returned, exclaiming, "The key is not in its place, and I put
it there this morning."
"Miss Mary is mistaken," said Elizabeth, coming out of the kitchen; "I
see the key in the door."
"Papa," said Mary, "I recollect, when I put the key in the cupboard,
this very morning, Sophy looked at it, and said, 'It is certainly the
prettiest key on the bunch.'"
"Let us go to the fruit-room," said the father, directing his steps
thither. "I fear this will prove a sad affair."
"What is this, too," cried Mary, examining the shelves, "the big key of
the cellar here Where did it come from? And this key covered with
cheese, from one end to the other!"
"Let us go to the cellar!" said the father. "I believe we shall find
out more there than we can here."
They opened the door, and found the brilliant silver knife, not in the
magpie's nest, but sticking in a cheese, from which a large portion
appeared to have been detached.
The children were amazed, and their Father much grieved.
"Here is your knife, Mary," said John, who first saw it. "Certainly,
there is no need of a looking-glass to find it."
"You must not joke, my children," said the Father; "this is a very sad
business. I am thankful it has taken place in the absence of your dear
Mother, and I forbid you writing her anything about it. This must
concern me, and me alone."
_William_.--(Indignantly.)--"It amounts to a theft, a falsehood!"
_Lucy_.--"But who has done it, William? Did not Mary leave her knife
here?"
_William_.--"Who saw the Magpie carrying it off in his beak?"
_Mary_.--(To Lucy.)--"Do you not understand that it was poor Elizabeth,
who came here with my knife, which she took off the table where I left
it, and who, after having cut a piece of cheese with it, went to the
fruit-room, no doubt to steal some apples also."
_John_.--(Angrily.)--"Papa, Elizabeth has acted deceitfully--will you
allow her to remain with you? One of the Psalms, the 101st, I think,
says, 'He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house.'"
_The Father_.--(Gravely.) "It is said also in Holy Scriptures, my son,
that 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment,' and perhaps, John, if any of
us, had been brought up like poor Elizabeth, we might have done even
worse than this."
"I am quite vexed," said Mary, "Oh! why did I not take more care of
that wretched knife!"
_William._--"But, Mary, it was not your knife left upon the table,
which tempted her to take two keys secretly out of the cupboard, and
which made them the instruments of this theft. For Papa," continued he,
"it _is_ a theft, and a shameful one too! These stolen keys are no
small matter!"
_The Father_.--(Calmly.)--"I know it my children, and it grieves my
heart, that one of my servants, who daily hears the word of God read
and explained, should so far have forgotten the fear of the Lord! This
is what saddens me, and wounds me deeply."
_Lucy_.--"Elizabeth has not long been our cook, and probably she never
heard the word of God before she came here. Poor girl I she is perhaps
very unhappy now,--and I am sure, she will repent and turn to God."
_The Father_.-"That is right, my dear child, I rejoice to hear you
plead the cause of the unhappy, and even of the guilty, for as I said
before, 'mercy rejoiceth against judgment.'"
"I was therefore wrong," said John, "and I confess it ... for certainly
I scarcely pitied her.... I did wrong I and now I think as Lucy does."
"And I also," said William, "'Clemency governs courage,' says a Grecian
historian, and ..."
_The Father._--(Very seriously.)--"But, my dear William, what have the
pagans of old and their morals to do here? My son, you know it is the
word of God which rules our conduct, and which commands us to suffer
and to forgive."
_Lucy._--"Papa, will you allow me to repeat a passage, which I learnt
by heart last Sunday?"
_The Father._--"Repeat it, Lucy, and may God bless it to us all!"
_Lucy._--"'Execute true judgment, and show mercy and compassion every
man to his brother.' It is in the seventh chapter of Zechariah."
"I too, was wrong then," said William, "very wrong! for it is the
wisdom of God alone, that enlightens us."
"True, my son," said his Father, "may God always remind you of this. I
am going to speak to Elizabeth," he added, "as for you, my children, do
not say a word about it, and above all, bless the Lord, for having made
known to you his grace and holy law. Pray to him together, that my
words may have their due effect upon the mind of this poor guilty
creature."
The Father went out to look for Elizabeth, and the children repaired to
William's room, who, having knelt down with them, prayed to the Lord to
take pity upon her, and to touch her heart, and he ended the prayer in
the following words:--"In thy great wisdom, O Most Gracious God, and in
thine infinite compassion, through Jesus Christ, grant unto each of us
true repentance, and a sincere change of heart, and may this affliction
be turned to the glory of our Saviour Jesus."
The children then returned to their several occupations, and not one of
them ever thought of judging Elizabeth, or even speaking harshly of her.
We may add, that the exhortation of her charitable master, produced
sincere penitence in Elizabeth, and that the poor girl was not sent out
of the house; for "mercy pleaded against judgment."
It is thus that God deals with us! Oh! which of us can tell how often
he has received pardon from the Lord!