"Let him that thinketh he standeth, take heed lest he fall."
"Here Tip!" said Howard Minturn; "hold this frame steady while I try
that nail. Will, don't put that one up so high, it ain't even with the
others. Hold on, Ellis,--catch hold of this stool, it's tipping. There,
now, it's all nice and in order,--isn't it, Mr. Burrows?" And he sprang
from his stool, as their teacher entered the schoolroom door.
"Very likely," answered Mr. Burrows, smiling; "only I didn't hear what
you said."
"I say we're ready for examination, room and all."
"The room is, certainly; and I hope your brains are. Ellis, I'd move that
chair a little to the left; it will be in the way of the classes as it
stands now. Do you feel brave to-day, Edward?"
"Yes, sir," answered Tip promptly; "pretty brave."
And he did, besides feeling eager and excited. The long winter term was
over; to-day and tomorrow were to be days of examination. The boys had
been working hard for it,--none harder than had Tip. It was the first
examination which had ever come to him in this exciting way. Always
before he had been among the few inevitable dunces, running away from
examination altogether, or else laughing good-naturedly over his own
blundering ignorance. But to-day it was different: he stood there on the
stage among the workers, proudly answering his teacher's questions, and
looking proudly over at the group of idlers,--Bob Turner at their
head,--who loitered near the windows, wondering that he could ever have
been of their number. This was going to be a great day for Tip; it is
true he was far behind some others of his age, so far that not a single
class of Howard Minturn's and Ellis Holbrook's were to be examined that
day,--the advance classes being put for the next day,--while all of his
came that morning; but then Tip knew there was change enough in him to
call the attention of every one present. He felt the change in himself;
his mother felt it, when she that morning brushed his hair for him, and
fastened a clean collar on his jacket; the boys in school felt it. He had
taken his place among the workers.
The bell rang at last, and the scholars filed in and took their places.
There were visitors, even in the early morning; the people liked to
attend Mr. Burrows' examinations. Tip's class in reading came first on
the list, and never had his eyes been so bright or his face so eager. Tip
had learned to read. Patiently, earnestly, he had plodded on through the
long winter; now his sad blunderings in that line were over for ever; not
a boy in school read more slowly, distinctly, and correctly than Tip
Lewis. The selections were to be made by the committee, immediately after
class, of those who were considered ready to enter the history class on
the following term. This was the highest reading class in the school: and
Tip's eyes fairly danced when Mr. Holbrook, who was chairman of the
committee, out of a class of thirteen read but two names,--"Thomas Jones"
and "Edward Lewis."
"Hallo, Tip!" Howard Minturn had said to him at recess; "let's shake
hands. Welcome to history; it's awfully hard and interesting."
And Tip did shake hands, and laughed; and looked over at the other
clique--the dunces--with a half-patronizing nod to Bob Turner; and
wondered how he _could_, have borne it to have been numbered with them
that day; then he felt that he was climbing into the first set, and
climbing _fast_.
In spelling, too, he came off conqueror; spelled down the class, spelled
until Mr. Burrows closed his book with the words, "I presume you are
tired of this, gentlemen, and, as our examinations are confined to the
lessons, I think it will hardly pay to go further, for Edward has not
missed since the second week in the term."
So again, flushed and excited, Tip went to his seat victorious. Only
arithmetic now, and he would be through with the working part of the day.
It was the last recitation in the morning, and he was so eager and
anxious to do well, that he began to grow nervous.
The class was called at last. They had gone slowly and carefully through
long division, and would be ready for fractions next term. The recitation
passed off finely. Tip had not studied day and night during the winter
for nothing. He was at the board, working an example in long division; it
was almost finished. The hand of the clock pointed to ten minutes of
twelve. In ten minutes he would be through, and his name would stand on
that honoured list, among those who had not missed one word or made one
mistake during the examination. His hand began to tremble. What was the
matter with that example? Oh, what _was_ the matter? The remainder was
too large; no--it was too small; no--it was--he didn't know what!
Everybody was watching him; he heard a boy laugh softly. He had made a
mistake, then; what was it? where was it? Mr. Burrows' voice came to him,
calm and kind:
"Edward, don't get excited. Look at your remainder closely; take the
first figures of divisor and remainder--nine in thirty-one, how many
times? That will help you."
Ellis Holbrook stood but a step from the blackboard, just behind him. Tip
heard his low whisper, "Seven," and, without waiting to think,--indeed,
he was too nervous to think,--he caught at the number.
"Seven times!" he said hurriedly.
Then he heard bursts of laughter from the boys, and dashed down his chalk
in an agony of shame and pain. And the clock struck twelve!
The honour was lost.
The boys gathered around him after school was closed.
"It was too bad, Tip," Howard Minturn said, in a tone of honest
sympathy. "You'd have had it in a minute more."
"I'd have had it if it had not been for Ellis Holbrook, and he's a mean
scamp!" Tip answered, in a rage.
"Whew!" said Will Bailey; "what did Ellis do?" and Ellis turned, and
proudly confronted the angry boy.
"He told me wrong just on purpose; that's what he did, and he knows it."
And Tip broke away from them, and dashed out of the room.
Howard Minturn stood aghast! That Ellis Holbrook, his best friend, and
the very pink of honour among the boys, should do so mean a thing, he
could not think, and yet it was hard to think that Tip had not told
the truth.
"What does he mean, Ellis?" he asked at last.
"You'll have to ask him if you want to find out," said Ellis haughtily.
"He knows better than anybody else what he means, I guess."
The boys started homeward presently in a body. Bob Turner and his friends
surrounded Tip, and Bob, who never lost a good opportunity for teasing,
commenced at once:
"Poor little fellow, missed his lesson, so he did. Don't him cry; him
shall have a penny to buy a multiplication-table with."
"Hold your tongue!" answered Tip, too angry to see how foolish it was to
let such words, coming from a boy who didn't know a single line of the
multiplication-table, provoke him.
"_Such_ a pity!" began Bob again; "when it had spelled its lesson all so
nice, and had its face washed and its hair combed so pretty. Mustn't cry
now, to spoil its face. Poor little fellow!"
Tip turned to his tormentor a face perfectly white with rage, and the
boys hardly knew his voice:
"Bob Turner, if you say another word, I'll knock you down and thrash you
within an inch of your life. I will"--
Oh, Tip Lewis! God forgive you for the way in which you in your blind
rage have finished that sentence,--for the use which you have made of
that great Name, which above all others you profess to reverence and
fear! The awful word, once spoken, recalled him to himself: he
clapped both hands over his face and ran wildly up the hill, then
down out of sight.
The boys had all heard it. Howard, Ellis, Will Bailey, and a half-dozen
others, were just behind him.
Ellis Holbrook's pride rose high.
"There's your wonderful boy," he said, "who was so changed, and has
taken it upon himself to preach so many sermons to _me_. I'm sure I
never finished any of my angry speeches with an oath, if I _am_ so far
below him."
What an afternoon that was to Tip! he will _never_ forget it. He went
no farther than the great tree, which was budding out in spring
green. Down he sat on a stone, and once more covered his face with
his hands, and such a storm of rage and pain swept over him as he had
never known before.
How could he, how _could_ he have said that word?
Ever since he had learned to pray, he had been afraid of that
sin,--afraid he might forget, and go back to his old habits, and he had
watched and guarded his lips with such care and prayer. But lately he had
given up all fear; it had been such a long time, and he had never once
fallen, he felt sure that he never would again.
He had felt so sure and proud and strong, that he had asked no help from
God that day; he had been so eager to spend every moment on his
arithmetic, that he had found no time to go to his Bible for strength. No
wonder--oh, no wonder that he fell! He had been standing too firmly,
feeling no need of help. Now, what should he do? How low he felt, how
mean! Could God forgive him? Yes, He _could_.
Tip felt in his soul that there was nothing which God could _not_ do, and
yet he felt too mean and fallen to dare to ask Him for anything more; he
forgot for the moment that Jesus Christ died to save _sinners_.
The sun went on over his head, and commenced his afternoon work; then
there came up the hill the sound of the school-bell, but Tip took no
notice of that; he didn't want to _think_ of school, much less even _go_.
He began to fumble presently for his Bible,--he _must_ have some help. It
opened of itself at the Psalms, and he read the first line which he saw:
"Unto Thee, O God, do we give thanks "--No, not that, and he turned back
a couple of leaves. "Make a joyful noise "--No, no! he didn't want to
hear anything about joy; his heart was as heavy as lead. So he turned
over several leaves at once: he _must_ find something that would read as
if it meant him. "O Lord, rebuke me not in Thy wrath, neither chasten me
in Thy sore displeasure." Oh, that was it! God was very angry with
him,---had a right to be,--this was just what he ought to say. He read on
through the psalm; almost every verse seemed for him, and when he read
the one next to the last,--"Forsake me not, O Lord; O my God, be not far
from me,"--he said it over and over, and finally, in a great burst of
tears, got down and said it on his knees.
The short spring day was over, and the chilly night was setting in. Tip
had reached home finally, had split the wood for the next day, done
whatever he could find to do about the house, and then carried the vests
which his mother had just finished to the clothing-store,--going away
around behind the mill so as to avoid passing the schoolhouse, lest he
might chance to see some of the boys. Then he came home, ate his supper
in silence, and went up to his attic. He felt better than he had at noon,
but his heart was still heavy, and he dreaded the next day, not knowing
what he ought to do, or how to do it. This was Thursday evening, but he
didn't mean to go to prayer-meeting. Kitty had asked him, had even coaxed
a little, but he said, "No, not to-night." He felt stiff and sore from
his long sitting under the great tree in the early spring dampness. He
told himself that this was the reason why he was not going to
prayer-meeting; but the real one was, he felt as if he could not possibly
face Mr. Burrows that evening, and _certainly_ not Mr. Holbrook,--of
course, Ellis had told him all about it. He felt very tired, and his
head and limbs ached; he was going to read a chapter in his Bible and go
to bed. He chose the same psalm which had come to him with so much power
that afternoon, read it slowly and carefully, then knelt down to pray,
and as he did so a new trouble loomed up before him. What should he do?
He had prayed for Ellis Holbrook and Bob Turner ever since he began to
pray for himself, but he felt as though he could not possibly pray for
either of them to-night. Both had tried to injure him; both had
succeeded. He wished them no harm: he didn't want to choke or drown them,
as he had felt like doing at noon, but clearly he didn't want to pray for
them. He had arisen from his knees, and was sitting on the edge of the
box which was his table and chair, with a very troubled face. The more he
thought about it, the more he felt that he could not pray for those boys
just then. At last he thought he had found a way out of the difficulty.
He said to himself that he was very tired, almost sick; he would just
repeat the Lord's Prayer and go to bed. In the morning, very likely, he
should feel differently; he almost knew he should. So he knelt down once
more.
"Our Father which art in heaven," slowly reverently, through the sweet
petition, until he came to "forgive us our debts as we"--There he
stopped. He understood that prayer; they had been taking it up in Sunday
school, a sentence at a time, and talking about it, and only the Sunday
before last that sentence had been explained. To-night Tip could not
finish it; there was no getting around the fact that he had not forgiven
either Ellis or Bob. Once more he got up, and took a seat on the edge of
his bed to think. He was never so perplexed in his life. What ought he to
do? Couldn't he pray at all? Mr. Holbrook had said he must never mock God
by asking for what he did not mean, and to say those words, "as we
forgive our debtors," feeling as he did to-night, would be mocking God.
He ought not to feel so, but how could he help it? Suddenly, with a
little sigh of relief, he went down on his knees again: he had thought of
something which he could say. "Oh, Jesus, make me feel like praying for
Bob and Ellis; make me want them to be Christians as hard as I did last
night; make me feel like forgiving them." Then there was silence in the
lonely attic, while Tip, still on his knees, struggled with the evil
spirit within him, and came off conqueror, for presently he added, "Oh,
dear Jesus, I'll forgive them both!" and then he finished the
prayer--"forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors." While he went
around after that, making ready for rest and sleep, the "peace of God
which passeth understanding" came down and settled in his heart.
Presently he seemed to come to another difficulty, for he sat down with
one boot in his hand and one still on his foot. This question, however,
was settled promptly: he pulled the boot on again in a hurry, then picked
up his jacket and put that on, seized his hat, and ran down-stairs.
"Kitty," he said, putting his head in at the kitchen door, "I'm going,
after all; come on."
And Kitty joyfully ran for her hood and shawl.
But Tip did not open his lips in prayer-meeting that evening; he felt
bowed down to the very ground with shame; he did not once raise his eyes
to the seat where Howard Minturn, Will Bailey, and others of the
schoolboys were sitting; and, when the short hour was gone, he made haste
to get out from Mr. Holbrook's sight and the sound of his voice. But he
had much reason, after that, to thank God that he did not succeed. He had
just got from under the gaze of the hall-lamp, and stood a minute in the
darkness waiting for Kitty, when he felt Mr. Holbrook's hand on his arm,
and heard his kind, quiet voice:
"Edward, Mrs. Holbrook has some little business to transact' with Kitty
to-night; shall I walk with you?" And, as Tip saw there was no help for
it, and walked by his side, he said, "I didn't see you at school this
afternoon: how was that?"
"Mr. Holbrook, didn't Ellis tell you about it this noon?"
"Ellis has told me nothing. I heard, from one of the smaller boys, a very
sad story. Have you anything to tell me?"
"No, sir, I have not; it's all true. I got awful mad, and I said mad
things. I--I did worse than that."
Tip's voice sank to a solemn whisper. Mr. Holbrook, too, was silent and
sad; at last he said,--
"What, Edward! do you mean to give up, and go back to the old life?"
And he remembered, years after, just how painfully his heart throbbed
while he waited for Tip's answer; it was prompt and plain: "No, sir; God
wouldn't even let me do that."
And then for a minute Mr. Holbrook did not speak for very
thankfulness, that, through all this maze of sin, God was leading Tip
into the light again.
"Do you feel that you have God's forgiveness?" he asked, speaking gently.
"Yes, sir." Tip could not give very long answers that evening.
"Why were you so quiet to-night in prayer-meeting?"
"Because," said Tip, speaking low, "I was ashamed to say anything before
you or Mr. Burrows or the boys, after what happened today."
"More ashamed with us than you were with God?"
"Yes, sir, I was; because God knows all about it,--just how sorry I am,
and how He has forgiven me, and is going to help me; and you didn't
know that."
Again Mr. Holbrook was thankful.
"How about to-morrow, Edward?" he asked at last.
And this time Tip's answer was very low: I don't know; I don't know
what to do."
"If you knew what was right to do, would you _do_ it?"
"I'm pretty sure I'd _try_ to, sir."
"Well, did you honour or dishonour Christ to-day?"
Tip's answer was in a more timid tone than he often spoke:
"I dishonoured Him."
"Do the boys know that you are very sorry, and have asked God to
forgive you?"
"No, sir; they don't know anything about it."
"Don't you think, for the honour of Christ, they ought to?"
"I suppose so."
"Who ought to tell them?"
No immediate answer came to this; then, after a little,--
"Mr. Holbrook, how could I tell them--to each one--about it?"
"See if you cannot answer your own question. Will not all the boys be
likely to hear about it?"
"Yes, sir; they'll be sure to."
"And would they all be likely to hear what you have to say, unless you
spoke to all at once?"
"But, Mr. Holbrook, if I did that, it would have to be in school."
"Well?"
"But to-morrow is the last day, and it's examination."
"Well?"
That short word seemed to have a good deal of power over Tip, for he
only answered it by saying, after a long silence,--
"Mr. Holbrook, I wonder if you can think how very hard that would be?"
"Edward, I wonder if you can think how very hard it was for your Saviour
to listen to your words this noon?"
And Mr. Holbrook heard no more from Tip, save, when they reached the
corner, a very low, very grave "Good-night."