she thought she heard some one crying.
"I hope Johnny is not sick again!" she thought. "Poor dear little man!
I will make it up to him somehow." And with this thought she fell
asleep.
But Amity was to find, as so many other people have found, that it is
not so easy to "make up." She slept rather late, and as soon as she was
dressed, she took the little music-box which she had wound up, and the
cotton, and went up to Johnny's room.
"I will take the things to him directly," she thought; "then he can
amuse himself with them, and as soon as I have done breakfast, I will
give him his lesson."
As she came into the hall where Johnny lodged, she was surprised to see
that the door was open, and that several people were standing about it,
among them Mrs. Wickford, who held up her finger as Amity drew near.
Maud was leaning against her mother, with her face hidden, but Amity
could see that she was crying.
"What is the matter?" asked Amity, in a half whisper. "Is Johnny worse?"
"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little
boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."
Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed,
supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed,
and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the
other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying.
Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little
red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered
them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.
Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and
stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he
did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.
"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for
you several times."
As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box
which she held in her hand began to play.
"What is that?" asked Johnny, in a whisper, but clearly and distinctly.
"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to
speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to
him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny
took it in his hand and held it up to his face.
"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I
was cross yesterday—I am sorry."
"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could
bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and
we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."
"I shall never get better," said Johnny. "I am going to mamma, and I am
glad." Then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he added, "The watch—Amity—you
said I might, you know."
Mrs. Franklin put her hand under the pillow and took out a pretty gold
watch, which she gave to Johnny. Johnny laid it in Amity's hand.
"It is yours—take it, Amity!"
"It is his mother's watch," explained Mrs. Franklin. "He wants to give
it to you."
"Oh, I can't—I can't!" sobbed Amity, drawing back.
Johnny looked troubled.
"Take it, my dear—don't worry him," whispered the clergyman.
"Put it on," said Johnny, and he seemed pleased when she did so.
He lay still a few minutes longer listening to the music-box. Then he
suddenly raised himself and stretched out his arms.
"Mamma!" he exclaimed, joyfully, and then, sinking back with a gentle
sigh, he was gone!
That day's lesson was not lost on Amity, She had learned, by bitter
experience, that it is not so easy to "make up" for unkindness and
neglect. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which
is wanting cannot be numbered" (Eccles. 1:15) or "made up."
"I feel as if I had killed him!" she said, later in the day, as she
stood by Johnny's bedside. "Perhaps if I had not made him cry, he might
have been alive now!"
"You must not feel so," replied Mrs. Franklin. "We have known for a
long time that the poor child had but a little time to live. The doctor
says it is a great wonder that he has lasted so long. He was not well
yesterday morning, and that was the reason he cried so easily."
"And Amity was good to him, wasn't she?" said Maud, who had just come
in with a box of beautiful flowers.
"Yes, she gave him a great many happy hours."
"I'm sure I wish I had ever done anything for him," continued Maud.
"But I didn't. I wouldn't let him take my talking doll, and I called
him 'an idiot.' Mrs. Franklin, won't you please take these flowers? I
bought them with my own money. I felt as if I wanted to do something. I
know one thing, anyhow," said Maud, as they walked away: "I never will
call any one names again. I suppose we ought not to wish Johnny back,
because he is a great deal better off; but I can't help wishing I could
see him long enough to tell him how sorry I am."
"You will have to tell it to the Lord, as I did," said Amity, softly.
————————
"And what kind of a girl has Amity turned out?" asked Mrs. Paget of
Miss Julia, when they met in Europe.
Miss Julia, however, was not Miss Julia now. She was the wife of an
American embassador. Mrs. Paget had been abroad for some years.
"Amity! Oh, she is just the same homely little round-about thing she
was at twelve years old. She has not changed at all."
"I did not think she would ever be handsome," remarked Mrs. Paget; "but
how is she in other respects. Is she bright?"
"Why, I hardly know what to say. She is a good deal of a reader,
and likes steady plodding work like mathematics. She is wonderfully
industrious, too—always busy about something. She keeps house now, and
really, for one so young, she manages uncommonly well. She is a great
deal better at accounts than ever I was, and keeps the house cheerful
and pleasant. Then she makes herself useful in the church—teaches in
Sunday-school, looks after poor folks, and has a great sewing-class.
She is always knitting babies' socks, or a shawl for some old woman, or
a comforter for some urchin in her class. That is her style of fancy
work."
"She must keep herself pretty busy."
"Oh, she does; but then she likes that sort of thing. To do her
justice, she does not make any parade of her deeds, like some people
I could name. She never seems to think of herself in connection with
them."
"She must have made a very nice woman, by your description, Julia."
"Oh yes, indeed she is. A more dutiful child than she is to father
could not be. But she does not care at all for general society, and
would rather stay at home and make babies' shoes than go to the best
opera that ever was performed. In short, she is a good, honest, homely
little body, but she will never make any figure in the world, with all
her advantages. She really has no talent—none at all."
[Illustration: _"Phil's Pansies."—Frontispiece._
"If you please, Miss, these are yours," said Phil.]
PHIL'S PANSIES.
A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.
—————————
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."—
Eccles. 11:1.
—————————
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.
—————————
NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.
CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by the
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
PHIL'S PANSIES.
——————
CHAPTER FIRST.
THE SEEDS.
MISS ISABEL had been taking great pains with her class that day. She
had walked down to Sunday-school, more than a mile, in the rain to meet
her scholars, and she was expecting to walk home again. She had spent
much time in studying the lesson herself, and she had noted down some
things which she hoped the boys would like to hear. The "Golden Text"
of the lesson was this:
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shall find it after many
days" (Eccles. 11:1).
Miss Isabel had been telling the boys of the custom to which this verse
referred, and of which, as it happened, none of them had ever heard.
She told them how, in some parts of the world, there was very little
rain, and the lands were watered by streams from some neighboring river
or reservoir; how the farmers scattered their grain on the surface,
and then, as the water sank into the ground, how the seed was buried
and took root and grew; and so, after many days, the farmer found his
"bread" again in the shape of ripe, waving grain, ready for the harvest.
You might think the boys would have been pleased to hear such a story
as this, and that they would have listened and remembered, when she
told them of what the seed cast on the waters was meant to represent;
namely, the word of God, and the other means of doing good which he has
placed in our hands, and which we must use at the right time and in the
right way, even though our doing so should seem as hopeless work as
throwing seed into the water.
But Horace Maberly had his head full of a boating frolic, which he
meant to tell the boys about after school, and Harry Merton was
thinking whether his aunt meant to ask him home to dinner with her, and
John Drayton was watching a wasp, and the others had their heads full
of nothing but idleness,—all but one. Phil O'Connor listened with all
his ears, and they were very large ones, and what was better with all
his heart and soul; and when Miss Isabel stopped talking, he ventured
to ask a question. It was the first time he had spoken a word in the
class, and he was a good deal scared at the sound of his own voice, but
he kept on:
"Please, Miss Isabel, suppose you haven't any seed and no place to
plant any?"
The other boys stared at Phil, and Horace laughed rather rudely, but
Miss Isabel turned to him with a smile. She had been feeling tired and
sad, and it was a real pleasure to perceive that one of the class at
least had listened.
"I don't think that ever happens, Phil," said she. "God gives every
one of us some kind of seed to sow, and some kind of a place to sow it
in. It may be a very small, narrow corner that we have to cultivate;
but if we work faithfully at that he is sure to give us more. We can
all speak kindly to some one, or give some one a little help, or take
some hindrance out of their way. A very poor old man once gave a boy
poorer than himself a pair of old shoes to wear, that the boy might
go to church and Sunday-school. The shoes had holes in them. The old
man was fond of his coffee for breakfast, but he went without a whole
week that he might have the money to get the shoes mended. The boy went
to Sunday-school, where he learned to read and love his Bible, and he
afterward became a useful and learned Christian minister. That was a
very little bit of seed—a pair of old shoes—and see what a great crop
it bore."
"And suppose the boy's mother had sold the shoes for whisky, as the
woman did whose girl mother fixed up last winter, what would have
become of the seed then?" asked Horace, in rather a sneering tone.
"Sure, 'twould have done the old gentleman himself good, anyhow!"
answered Phil, eagerly. "Wouldn't it, Miss?"
"You are right, Phil," said Miss Isabel. "The Lord says that he who
gives even a cup of cold water in his name shall in no wise lose his
reward, and that we are to do good and lend, hoping for nothing again,
and our reward shall be great in heaven."
"A man wouldn't make much money that way, I guess," said Horace
Maberly, who was taught at home that the chief good of life was money.
"I don't remember any place in the Bible where we are told that it is
our duty to make a great deal of money do you?" asked Miss Isabel. "St.
Paul says we are to be diligent and work with our hands, in order that
we may be able to give to him that lacks, and also that we may not be
burdensome to others, but we are nowhere told that it is our duty to be
rich."
Horace looked a good deal vexed. In his home, money was the great thing
thought about and talked about. His father had become very rich within
a few years, and Horace thought himself a great person in consequence.
He could not see how it was that Miss Isabel, whose own father was
richer even than Mr. Maberly, should seem to care no more for him than
she did for Harry Merton, or even for little Phil O'Connor.
"Well, I don't know what seed I can sow," said Phil, sighing.
"Think about it a little, and maybe you will find some," said Miss
Isabel.
Just then the superintendent's bell rang, and the school was closed.
Phil did not stay to church, though he would have liked to do so.
He remembered that probably granny was alone, and she might want
something. His mother would be sure to be at home in the evening, and
he could come down to the prayer meeting. It would be sowing a little
bit of good seed, he thought, if he went and waited on granny, instead
of leaving her alone all the morning.
Phil had sown another seed of which he never thought. He had cheered
up his teacher's heart, and given her new faith and courage. Here was
at least one, Miss Isabel said to herself, who listened to what she
said, and made an effort to understand it. The others had not seemed
to care. She wondered what made the difference. They were all bright
boys enough, and gave her very little trouble; but, somehow, they had
no interest in the lessons. She could not make them see that the words
they learned and recited had any relation to themselves. A very little
excuse kept them away from school, and she was rather surprised at
seeing so many of them together that rainy day. I think myself that
they came to hear about the boating party which was to take place the
next day.
Miss Isabel had for some time cast her bread upon the shallow or muddy
waters of their minds with rather a heavy heart. She almost thought she
would give up the class, and let some one else take it and try what
could be done. But as she walked home in the rain that day—for the
coachman was sick, and there was nobody at home who could drive—she
felt her heart lighter, and she made up her mind to work and pray a
while longer.
Phil's father was dead, and his mother and he lived with his
grandmother in "Irishtown." Irishtown was not pretty like the rest of
Rockside and Brookvale, though it was built on the side of a rocky hill
where there were evergreen trees, and a pretty little brook, and such
beautiful views as many a rich man would give thousands of dollars
for. The houses were rickety and dirty, with broken windows which
were stuffed sometimes with rags or old hats. There were no gardens
about them, and many of the people threw their slops and refuse out
on the top of the ground to rot in the sun and poison the air, and
breed showers of flies to torment the children and sick people. There
were plenty of sheltered spots and hollows among the rocks where the
sun shone, and the soil was fertile, and these refuse things might
have been dug into the ground where they would have helped to raise
vegetables and flowers; but nobody thought as far as that.
Granny O'Connor could not be called poor, like many of her neighbors.
She owned the land on which her house was built, instead of being a
mere squatter on some other person's ground. She owned a cow, too, and
a pig, and some chickens. She was too old and infirm to work herself,
but her daughter-in-law, Phil's mother, went out washing five days in
the week, and was well paid. Fanny, Phil's sister, had lately gone to
a good place where she was to have a dollar a week, and more after a
while if she made herself useful.
Phil was the youngest of the family, and had never been set to any
harder work than watching the cow as she fed in the lanes and by the
roadsides, and feeding the pig. Sometimes he went to the places where
his mother washed, and carried away the slops from the kitchens for
the pig and cow; but his chief business was to wait on the cow and on
granny, who was growing very feeble and helpless.
As Phil had expected, he found granny alone, his mother having gone to
gossip with some of her neighbors after being at mass in the morning.
That was the way she kept Sunday. Granny had fallen asleep in her
chair; the fire was nearly out; the ashes were scattered over the
stove, hearth, and on the floor, and the room looked and felt forlorn
and dismal. A few months before, Phil would not have minded these
things, but he was learning how other people lived. When he went into
the kitchens where his mother washed, and saw how neat and pleasant
they were, he wished they could have things like that at home.
"It looks enough to break one's heart," said Phil to himself. "I might
as well have stayed, after all."
And then he bethought himself that here was a chance for putting in
practice of the things he had heard that morning. He found a broom,
and swept up the floor and the hearth; made up the fire, and put on
some water. When it was hot, he washed and put away the dirty dishes,
which his mother had left standing, and would have left for a week if
she had not happened to want them again, wiped off the table and the
hearth—both with the same cloth—and put the room in the best order he
could.
He then filled the tea-kettle, and set it on the stove, and began
washing and paring some potatoes. Presently he saw that the old woman
was awake and watching him. Granny was far more neat and economical
than her daughter-in-law, and fretted not a little over the dirt and
disorder she was too feeble to help, and therefore had to endure.
"Sure you're as handy as any girl, and better than most," said she.
"You've made the place look as fine as a pin. But why didn't you stay
to church, dear?"
"I thought you might be alone and want me, granny."
"It's your granny's own boy you are!" said the old woman, fondly. "And
did you have a good time at your school?"
"Yes, granny, and Miss Isabel gave me a nice book to read. Just look at
the pictures."
"Miss Isabel? Sure, she's a good young lady entirely, and like the rale
old gentry I used to work for at home. 'Tis a fine thing for you to
have her for a teacher."
"I wish I could go to school week days again," said Phil, as he popped
his potatoes into the pot. "I'm afraid I'll forget all that I learned."
"I'm thinking about that same myself," said granny.
"I don't see how I can, though," pursued Phil, still busy about his
cooking. "What would we do about the cow?"
"Well, well, we'll see. Don't you fret. It'll all come round right.
Sure, you're my own boy and all my comfort in life. It's myself and
your father, that's in glory this minute, you take after, and not your
mother's folks at all, at all. Them Mehans were always a shiftless
set, not that I'm faulting your mother, dear. Considerin' her bringing
up, she does wonderful; and she's kind to the old woman, too. But come
now, sit down and read to me a bit out of the Bible. Them old ancient
histories is wonderful entertaining."
As Phil saw how pleased his granny was with his care for her, he felt
as if one of his seeds had come up already. He was not quite sure that
her way of looking at Scripture was the right one, but he was glad to
get her to hear it at all. He turned to the history of Joseph, and read
several chapters before his mother came home to dinner.
CHAPTER SECOND.
SEEDS BY THE WAYSIDE.
THE next morning when Phil waked, he heard what seemed to be a lively
discussion going on down in the kitchen, which was also the parlor and
dining-room.
"Shure, the child's got learning enough for the likes of him already!"
he heard his mother say. "Wasn't yourself saying yesterday he could
read like a priest?"
"But he can't write, Mary—not to speak of. I'd like him to have a real
good education, and you know, dear, it costs nothing with the free
schools they have."
"Oh, well! Just as you like, granny dear," said easy-going Mary. "He's
your own boy, and you can bring him up to suit yourself. It's a good
boy he is, anyhow. But I must be start-in' out, or I'll be late at Mrs.
Maberly's."
Phil hurried down stairs, but his mother had already gone. She took her
breakfast where she washed, but she had got ready some tea, milk, and
potatoes for her mother-in-law and Phil, whom she loved, as she would
have said, "with all the veins of her heart."
With all the dirt and carelessness and waste of the household, there
was more real love and comfort within its walls than in many a fine
house kept in the best manner. But then, Mary might have been just
as good-natured without leaving the potato parings in a heap on the
floor by the stove, and her Sunday gown in another heap on a chair for
the cat and kittens to make a bed of, spoiling it more than a year's
careful wear and putting away would have done.
Phil, however, was used to his mother's heaps, and did not mind them.
Granny did mind, but she could not help herself, and did not let her
daughter-in-law's ways make her unhappy for more than a few minutes at
a time. Phil hung up the gown, picked up the potato skins and gave them
to the cow, and then sat down to breakfast. Looking at his grandmother
as he gave her her cup of tea, he saw that she had been crying.
"Has anything happened, granny?" he asked.
"No, dear; just nothing at all. I was thinking of old times, that's
all. An old woman will have her thoughts."
"You are sure it isn't anything else? Have your pains come on again?
Shall I go to the doctor for some medicine?"
"Well, you might just take the bottle down if you like. It's well to
have it on hand; and as you go step into Mrs. Barnard's, and tell Mr.
Regan I'd like to speak to him if he can spare the time to come round."
Phil made haste to finish his breakfast. He washed up the dishes, put
the house to rights, and set within reach of granny's chair everything
she was likely to want, that she might be spared the pain of moving.
Then he washed his own face and hands, and "made himself decent" to go
to the town.
He liked any business which took him down to Rockside, and he still
better liked calling at Mrs. Barnard's. He was sure to meet the lady
herself in her flower garden, and to have a kind word from her. He
liked to walk down through the grounds, and peep through the windows of
the green-house to see the strange and lovely flowers that grew there.
All this was very pleasant.
Phil did not think of being envious or unhappy because none of these
fine things belonged to him. It seemed to him quite natural that some
people should have fine houses and gardens, and others should live in
tumble-down houses, as at Irishtown, and have no gardens at all. He did
his errand at the doctor's first, to make sure of finding him at home.
"Do you think granny will ever be well, sir?" he asked, when he had
told the doctor just how granny was, and received directions to get the
same medicine as before.
"Why, no, not well exactly," said the doctor, kindly. "You see granny
is an old woman, and we can't make a mill to grind old people young
again. But I presume that as the warm weather comes on, she will be
much better, and be able to get about the house and out of doors once
more."
Cheered by these words, Phil turned toward home. As he drew near a
pretty little cottage on the street where the doctor lived, he saw
a young lady come to the gate and empty a quantity of little folded
papers from the pocket of her linen gardening apron into the road.
As she went back into the house, Phil stopped and picked up some of the
papers to see what they were. They turned out to be little bags which
had once held flower seeds. The young lady had planted most of the
seeds, but as Phil felt the papers, he found that almost every one had
three or four seeds left in it, and one, marked on the outside "Viola
tricolor," was quite full, though it had been opened like the others.
"I wonder why did she throw that away?" said Phil to himself, as he
stuffed the papers into his pocket and went on his way. "Maybe they
wasn't a good kind. Anyhow, I mean to plant them and see what they turn
out. There's the corner back of the cow-shed at the foot of the rock,
where the wild flowers come out so early. There's a bit of a fence now,
and I could mend it up with poles and things. Enough of those are lying
round the place to fence an acre. I don't see why I shouldn't have a
garden as well as any of them."
Phil's head was so full of his garden that he came near passing Mrs.
Barnard's place without going in, but he recollected himself and
hurried in at the gate. As he expected, Mrs. Barnard was at work among
her flowers.
"Is that you, Phil?" she asked, pleasantly. "How is your granny?"
Phil answered the question, and then asked for Mr. Regan.