They were such woods as some of my little readers have never seen—steep
and full of gray mossy ledges of rock which seemed to stand straight
up on their edges like books in a bookcase, while here and there were
piled great loose rocks as big as houses. On these grew little clumps
of white flowers called rock saxifrage, and tufts of red and yellow
columbines nodding their pretty heads with every breeze, and sprawling
ugly prickly pears which were just beginning to get the winter wrinkles
out of their faces and to look as pleasant as the poor things knew how.
The ground in some places was white with anemones, and in others blue
with violets. The ferns were sticking up their curly frizzy heads, and
long wreaths and sprays of the evergreen ferns were lying on the moss
beds, all the prettier for the cold weather they had been through.
Birds of different kinds were singing in the branches, and the cat-bird
was making fun of them all.
It was not easy for Phil to keep cross long at any time, and as he
looked about him and breathed the sweet smell of the evergreens and
other growing things, he almost forgot his troubles. "Almost," but
not quite. He could not forget what wicked words he had used, nor how
cruelly he had hurt the poor goat. He had a pain in his conscience,
and that is the worst pain that I know anything about; but it has the
advantage of other pains, because there is a cure for it which never
fails.
Phil found a cane without any trouble, a very nice one with a natural
crook for a handle. He knew that he might have it, for Mr. Anderson, to
whom the woods belonged, had told him to get a cane for granny whenever
she needed a new one. Then he began to look for a vine, which he also
found without much trouble, for the woods were full of them. He dug it
up carefully with as long a root as possible, and wrapped it in a paper
which he had brought on purpose, that the roots need not get dry.
"What lovely flowers?" said he as he looked around him. "I mean to pick
a good large bunch to take home. Granny always says it does her good
to see them. And I will carry some to Matty Mehan too. Poor thing! She
can't get away from the house and the baby for an hour's pleasure, let
alone a day's."
Now Matty Mehan was the owner of the goat which had eaten Phil's
geranium. She was the oldest girl in a family of four children. Her
mother was dead; her father was away at his work all day, and Matty had
to do the housework, look after the little ones, and take care of the
poor sickly baby, which had never thriven since its mother died. The
poor thing was thin as a little skeleton, and cried till the neighbors
were tired of hearing it.
"It would be a good thing if the poor child were taken too," they said,
but Matty did not think so.
She loved the little pale thin creature, that was hardly larger than
a doll, though it was six months old, and she often wished she had
nothing to do but to tend it. Bridget, her sister, was a good-natured
little thing, but she was not old enough either to be trusted with the
baby or to do the work. However, she helped Matty before and after
school, and was always pleasant and good-natured, even when poor tired
Matty was rather cross and unreasonable.
When Phil came down to the Mehan house, which was more properly a
shanty than a house, he found Matty at the door stroking the white
goat, while it ate some beans out of a pail.
"Just see here, Phil, how somebody has hurt our goat," said she, before
Phil had time to speak. "Isn't it a shame? I'm afraid her leg is
broken."
Phil felt his face turn scarlet as he bent down and carefully felt the
goat's leg.
"Oh no, it isn't broken," said he, trying to speak cheerfully. "I dare
say it will be quite well in a few days. See what a fine bunch of
flowers I have brought you."
"Oh how lovely!" exclaimed Matty, who loved flowers as well as did Phil
himself. "But won't you rob yourself?"
"I got them on purpose for you," said Phil. "I knew you couldn't get
away. How's little Patsy?"
"I think he's a little better, poor dear," said Matty, looking tenderly
at the thin little mite. "He don't cry so much, and he eats more. I'm
sure I don't know what we shall do if the goat gets sick, for he won't
touch any milk but hers. I don't see who could be so wicked as to hurt
her."
All at once Phil resolved to make a clean breast of it.
"Well, to tell you the truth, Matty, 'twas myself that did it, but I
didn't mean to—"
"Oh, Phil! How could you?"
"Well, you see, Mr. Regan gave me a fine geranium, and when I came home
she was just eating off the head of it, and 'twas kind of provoking,
you see."
"What made you leave the plant in the poor thing's way then?" said
Matty. "You know 'tis the beast's nature to eat every such thing. And
now I dare say she'll die," exclaimed Matty, bursting into tears,
"and then my dear precious little Patsy will die too, and you'll be
just a murderer, Phil O'Connor, as bad as King Herod that killed the
innocents."
Phil felt that this was unreasonable in Matty. The goat was not much
hurt after all, and not in the least likely to die; and even if she
did, there was a good deal of difference between killing several little
babies on purpose and hurting a troublesome goat more than one meant.
But then Matty was tired, and anxious about poor Patsy, and it was no
wonder she was cross when she never had a bit of real rest, much less
fun, from one week's end to another. I say he felt this. We often feel
in an instant things it would take a long time to think.
"Oh come, Matty dear, 'tisn't so bad as that," said he; "Nanny isn't
going to die—she'll be as well as ever to-morrow. I'm real sorry I hurt
her so, but then you see 'twas vexing to have my only flower eaten up
as cool as if it had been an old stump of cabbage. Come now, let me
take Patsy and carry him about a little. See how he puts out his arms
to me, the dear. Yes, he will come to Phil, won't he?"
Matty could not help relenting when she saw the poor baby stop its
wailing, smile, and put out its hands to Phil, who took it carefully in
his arms.
"I do believe he remembers you," said she. "I'll just put on the kettle
for daddy's tea, and put my flowers in water, and then I must mend
Bridget's frock decent for the sewing-school to-morrow."
"I'll tend him while you do it," said Phil, whose heart began to feel a
good deal lighter.
He walked up and down, or sat on the seat by the door, crooning a song
till the poor little baby fell fast asleep and had a good nap.
"Thank you ever so much; he'll be quiet now," said Matty. "Just lay him
in his cradle. And, Phil, I'm sorry I said what I did."
"Oh, never mind; it didn't signify," answered Phil. "Do you mean to go
to Sunday-school?"
"I can't get away, but I learn my lessons all the same," said Matty.
"'Tis a beautiful Golden Text we have this week: 'If God so loved us,
we ought also to love one another' (1 John 4:11). He gave his Son to
die for us, and that's the way we are to be saved. Well, good-by, Phil,
and thank you for the flowers, and for tending Patsy."
Phil planted his vines, and then went into the house, where he found
his mother.
"You've been gone a long time," said she.
"I went to carry Matty Mehan some flowers, and then stayed to tend
Patsy a bit," said Phil.
"Oh well, you're right to help the poor thing when you can," said his
mother, who with all her careless ways was very kindhearted. "I think
I'll go up to-morrow when I've done our own washing and wash their bits
of clothes for them. But now look on granny's bed and see what fine
clothes I brought you from Mrs. Barnard's the day, as good as new, and
better than any new you would get at the store."
Phil took up the clothes and looked at them one by one. There was an
entire suit, good as new, and, as his mother said, of better fashion
and material than any he could afford to buy.
"They look as if they'd just come out of the store," said he in wonder.
"Why did she give them away?"
"She said Mr. Cornelius had outgrown them—he grows like a vine in the
spring—and she told me herself she had saved them for Phil, because she
had heard from Miss Isabel that he was such a good boy."
Phil blushed to the top of his hair as he thought, "Miss Isabel
wouldn't say so if she knew how I had sworn at the chickens and hurt
the goat, and how I wanted to steal granny's money. Oh dear, if only I
hadn't done it!"
He tried on the clothes and found that they fitted very well. They were
somewhat large, but that was a "good fault," as granny said, since he
was growing very fast.
"So now Phil is fixed for clothes," said granny, "and, Mary dear, you
can take the money and buy yourself a new gown for summer."
"Oh, I shall do very well a while yet," said Mary pleasantly. "You need
one more than I do."
Phil finished his supper, did up all the chores, and paid a last visit
to his garden to see that all was right. As he did so his eyes fell
on something half buried in the soft mould. He took it up. It was a
handsome pearl-handled knife, with several blades and a corkscrew,
and on the handle was a silver plate with the letters H. M. Phil knew
the knife, which he had often seen in Horace Maberly's hands. He had
evidently used it in opening the gate.
So Horace had left the gate open. Phil's blood tingled with anger
again, but he stamped his foot and clenched his teeth so that not a
word came through. He put the knife in his pocket, and getting out his
Bible, he sat down in his favorite corner to learn his Sunday-school
lesson. He looked up the Golden Text, though he had it on his "lesson
paper," for he liked to read the verses which came before and after.
"Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent
his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved
us, we ought also to love one another" (1 John 4:10, 11).
Phil did not know the exact meaning of all the long words, but he knew
what Christ had come to do, to die for sinners that they might be
saved. God loved us so well as that! And "if God so loved us, we ought
also to love one another."
It is a very great thing when any person comes to know that God loves
him—himself—despite all his faults and foolishness. It is too great a
thing to put into any words of mine. It helps to make the hardest tasks
easy and the heaviest burdens light, to conquer the worst sins and make
us long to forgive those who have done us the most harm. And more than
that, there is nothing which makes any one feel so little in his own
eyes as the conviction that the great and wise and perfectly lovely God
loves him.
So Phil felt. Oh how wicked and ungrateful and stupid he had been! How
he had taken that holy name in vain, and insulted that one who loved
him, even him, all the time! Phil went away up into a dark corner among
the rocks, where two great slabs had fallen together so as to make a
kind of little cave, into which he could just squeeze himself, though
there was plenty of room to turn round and sit down when he got in.
It had been a favorite playing place of his, and he liked it all the
better because nobody else seemed to know of it. He crept into this
little cave and knelt down.
There are, as you know, places on the railroad called switches, where
two tracks come together. By means of a curious contrivance, a train
of cars may be shifted from one track to the other. The two tracks are
close together at first. You can hardly tell the difference. But the
switchman puts down his lever, and the rail is moved a little tiny bit,
and presently the train which would perhaps have gone to New York is
flying toward Philadelphia, and the two tracks are growing farther and
farther apart all the time.
There are just such places in people's lives. The lives which were
going one way get what seems a very little push, and their whole course
is altered. The life which might have gone right is turned wrong, and
the life which seemed going to ruin is turned into the right track.
Phil had come to one of these switches this very afternoon. He had
taken the right turn, and his whole life was going to be made the
better by it.
CHAPTER FIFTH.
THE FRUIT.
ON Sunday morning Phil set out for school dressed in his new clothes,
with a clean shirt on, and his face and hair polished with extra care.
He had his Bible in his hand, and in his pocket Horace Maberly's knife,
which he meant to give him after school. He was quite early, and
finding that nobody had come to church but the sexton, he chose a shady
place behind the cedar hedge and sat down to look at his lesson once
more. As he was thus sitting, he heard voices on the other side of the
hedge.
"You ought to have heard him swear," said a voice which he knew to be
Horace's. "The way he ripped out the big words! I only wish Miss Isabel
had been there to hear her pattern boy."
"And I wish she had been there to see you, and somebody else with a
good thick boot on," said another voice, John Drayton's. "I never heard
of a meaner trick in my life—to turn a goat into another boy's garden."
"And a poor boy at that," said Henry Merton. "Phil thinks so much of
flowers too. I've seen him go down on his knees and fairly worship a
geranium or verbena."
"Garden—much of a garden! One of my father's hotbeds is bigger than the
whole of it."
"What of that? It was all he had, and he thought all the more of it,"
said Harry, whose father was as rich as Mr. Maberly, and had beautiful
grounds and gardens.
"Well there, you needn't make such a fuss," said Horace, who began to
be sorry he had said anything, when he saw what the other boys thought
of him. "I'll pay the little beggar for it, only I don't want him to
know I did it. Those people are so revengeful, he might set our barn on
fire."
This was a little more than Phil could stand. He jumped up and went
forward so as to meet the boys at the gate.
"Here's your knife, Horace," said he, holding out the knife and
speaking quite steadily. "You dropped it in my garden, and I found it."
Horace looked blank for a minute, and then broke into a sneering laugh.
"Oh ho, Paddy! So you were listening, were you? Just like your sort of
people. You needn't look so mad. Here's money enough to pay for your
beggarly old garden ten times over."
Phil dropped the bill which Horace had thrust into his hand, into a
puddle which last night's rain had left at the gate, and walked into
the church without a word.
"Served you right, you snob," said John.
"Well, I think he might have taken the money, so long as he is not too
proud to wear Neil Barnard's old clothes. I knew them the minute I saw
them."
"It's one thing to take a present given in kindness, and another thing
altogether to take it when it is thrown in your face," said Harry. "You
think you can do just what you like because you are rich; but there are
some things money won't buy. Poor as he is, Phil is a better gentleman
than you are."
"See if I don't tell Miss Isabel of him, anyway," said Horace.
"Do, and I'll tell her of you. Come, boys, let's go into school."
Phil was sitting quietly in his place When the boys went in. They all
spoke kindly to him except Horace, who felt very mean and very angry.
Horace had not had much chance to learn to be a good boy. He was the
only son of a very foolish, uneducated father and mother, who spoiled
him in every way, and made him think he was a person of very great
consequence. Mr. and Mrs. Maberly thought and talked of nothing but
money. They valued things for what they cost, and always told the price
of everything to their visitors. It was quite natural, therefore, that
Horace should do the same. Moreover, Horace had all his life been
allowed to do any piece of mischief that came into his head; to torment
cats, and dogs, and horses, and everything that fell in his way.
"He had such spirits," his mother said, "and bright boys are always
full of mischief—" a very great mistake, by the way.
But Mr. Maberly was at last beginning to think that Horace was rather
too full of mischief, especially since he had utterly spoiled a
valuable horse which he had taken out without leave and then wantonly
and cruelly over-driven. The horse would never be good for anything
again.
"It is a dead loss of a thousand dollars," Mr. Maberly said to Horace,
angrily. But he never uttered a word about the disobedience, nor about
the cruelty to the horse.
Brought up in this way, it was perhaps no great wonder that Horace
should think it good fun to let the goat and hens into Phil's garden,
and then watch behind a rock to see what he would do and say.
Despite that Golden Text and the prayer behind the rock, Phil found it
very hard to forgive. He felt that Horace had done him a wanton injury,
and the way in which he had sought to pay for it only made matters
worse. If Horace had only said he was sorry! But then it was plain to
be seen he was not sorry. And yet he knew that he must forgive, or God
would not forgive him.
"I mean to ask Miss Isabel after school," said he to himself, and this
was in itself a victory, though Phil did not know it. It was a great
thing for him to wish to forgive, and to try to find out the way to do
so, for Phil, like almost all boys of his age, was very shy of talking
about his feelings.
The lesson went on very pleasantly. The boys had all learned it, even
including Horace, and Miss Isabel felt quite encouraged. Then came the
Golden Text. Phil's voice trembled as he repeated it, and his eyes were
moist.
"Miss Isabel, does it mean that we are to love real spiteful people?"
asked Harry. "I don't see how we can."
"What do you mean by spiteful, Harry?"
"Well, just like this. Suppose I had a garden, and another boy should
put a cow or a goat into it just to plague me, ought I to love such a
boy as that?"
"I should hope there were not many boys as bad as that," said Miss
Isabel.
Horace colored and dropped his eyes, and Harry got a glance from Phil
that he did not quite understand. It was as if Phil were begging him
with his eyes not to say any more.
"Well, I knew of that very thing being done," said John.
"You could not love such a boy as you would a good boy, it would not be
right that you should," said Miss Isabel; "but you should forgive him,
and try to do him a good turn if you get a chance. Turn over to Matthew
5:44, 45."
Harry turned over and read:
"'But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you,
do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully
use you, and persecute you; that ye may be the children of your Father
which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on
the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.'"
"You see that God is good, even to those who never think of him, or who
blaspheme his name and disobey his laws. And if we ask him, he will
give us his Spirit to make us like him. I think too, Harry, that when
we once come to have a real sight of our own sins, we shall not think
so much of other people's sins against us."
"But suppose you do try to forgive and think you have, and then
something makes it all come up again?" asked Phil eagerly.
"Yes; suppose the same fellow that spoiled garden should poke some
money at you and say, 'There, there's enough to pay for your beggarly
garden ten times over,'" said Harry, finishing his sentence in spite of
Phil's beseeching looks. "What are you to do then?"
"Then you must forgive again, and keep on forgiving every time the
anger comes up," answered Miss Isabel. She saw that there was something
going on which she did not understand, but she was too wise to ask any
questions. "Weeding our hearts is like weeding a garden—you cannot do
it all at once, but you must keep at it all summer long, every time a
weed shows its head. But we must not talk any longer."
"Didn't we make Hod Maberly squirm, though?" said Harry, as they were
going home. "He was just in an agony for fear we should tell Miss
Isabel."
"I'm sorry, though," said Phil. "I'm afraid, he won't come any more."
"Suppose he don't, we sha'n't miss him much," said Harry, scornfully.
"No, but he will miss something," answered Phil.
"That's so," said John Drayton. "He don't get much that's good at home.
His father don't believe in anything. If I had thought of that, I would
have let him alone."
"If I had thought of that!" how much mischief it would have saved all
the world over. Phil was right. Horace did not come to Sunday-school
again.
Phil's garden grew and flourished all summer, and was the admiration of
all the neighbors, though some of them wondered that he should take so
much pains just for a parcel of flowers. If they had been potatoes now,
or cabbages, they would have done some good. But granny said that the
boy liked flowers and did the work, so he should plant what he pleased.
The hens had scratched Phil's seeds about badly, nevertheless he had a
good many flowers. There were two or three kinds of portulacas, some
sweet alyssum, and various others. The sweet peas turned out famously,
and so did the morning-glories. Phil used to get up every morning by
sunrise to see the beautiful twisted buds pop open as soon as the sun
touched them. This was his time for working in his garden.
He went to school every day, and as he worked as hard at his books as
he did at his flowers, he got on finely. The owlets liked him because
he was so steady and industrious and made them no trouble. The boys
liked him because he was so good-natured, always ready to help in
whatever was going on. In short, he passed a very happy summer.
Phil did not forget what Mr. Ryan had said about cutting his flowers,
and many a nosegay of sweet peas, violets, and other flowers did he
carry to Matty Mehan, and to poor Jonas Smith, who was lame and never
got out of his chair. His pansies were rather late in coming into
blossom, but when the flowers appeared they were quite wonderful.
Purple, yellow, brown, almost black with a yellow eye, almost white
with purple rays, there were many varieties. The first Sunday that they
were out in perfection, Phil gathered a bunch of them for Miss Isabel.
He put no other flowers in his nosegay, only the seven different kinds
of pansies, and surrounded the flowers with a little frame of small
sprays of evergreen ferns.
"How lovely they are!" said Miss Isabel, showing them to a friend who
was visiting her and had come to Sunday-school with her. "Look, Mary!
Did you ever see a greater variety or finer flowers?"
"They are indeed quite wonderful," answered Miss Mary. "I love pansies
above all other flowers, but I have none this year. A friend sent me a
bag of very fine imported seed, but I carelessly threw it out into the
street with some empty papers. When I missed it and went out to look
for it, the papers were all gone. I suppose some child picked them up."
"What a pity!" said Miss Isabel.
"Yes, it was a pity, but I dare say they grew somewhere and did
somebody good," answered Miss Mary.
"We must go down and see Phil's garden some day," said Miss Isabel. "He
is one of my best scholars."
Phil's head was so full of thoughts that day that he hardly paid so
much attention as usual, till he missed a question, a thing he had not
done for a long time. Then he roused himself and gave his mind to the
lesson. It was about Ananias and Sapphira.
"Now what was the sin which these unfortunate people committed?" asked
Miss Isabel. "Was it in not giving up all their property?"
"Yes, ma'am," said John, giving as usual the first answer that came
into his head.
"I don't think so," said Harry, "because Peter said, 'Whiles it
remained, was it not thine own? and after it was sold, was it not in
thine own power?' That means, I suppose, that they had a right to give
it or not as they pleased."
"Well, what was the sin then?" asked Miss Isabel, glad to see that
Harry had thought about the matter.
"I don't think I quite understand," answered Harry.
"What do you think, John?"
But John did not think at all. He was not given to thinking.
"And you, Phil?"
"I think it was keeping back part, when they pretended to give it all,"
answered Phil slowly. "'Twas lying about it they did. They wanted to
get the credit of giving it all, when they were keeping part, and maybe
the very best, for themselves."