THE tears of childhood are soon dried. Grief is but as the summer
rain. On the next morning, little Andrew's voice was heard singing
over the house, as merrily as ever. But the sound did not affect,
pleasantly, the mind of his father. He had not forgotten the scene
of the previous evening, and was far from having forgiven the
disobedience he had punished so severely. Had Andrew come forth from
his chamber silent and with a sober, abashed, and fearful
countenance, as if he still bore the weight of his father's
displeasure, Mr. Howland would have felt that he had made some
progress in the work of breaking the will of his child. But to see
him moving about and singing as gaily as a bird, discouraged him.
"Have I made no impression on the boy?" he asked himself.
"Father!" said Andrew, running up, with a happy smile upon his face,
as these thoughts were passing through the mind of Mr. Howland,
"won't you buy me a pretty book? Oh! I want one--"
"Naughty, disobedient boy!"
These were the words, uttered sternly, and with a forbidding aspect
of countenance, that met this affectionate state of mind, and threw
the child rudely from his father.
Andrew looked frightened for a moment or two, and then shrunk away.
From that time until his father left the house, his voice was still.
During the morning, he amused himself with his playthings and his
little sister, and seemed well contented. But after dinner he became
restless, and often exclaimed--
"Oh! I wish I had somebody to play with!"
At length, after sitting by the window and looking out for a long
time, he turned to his mother, and said--
"Mother, can't I go and see Emily Winters?"
"No, Andrew, of course not," replied Mrs. Howland.
"Why, mother? I like her, and she's good."
"Because your father doesn't wish you go to her house. Didn't he
punish you last evening for going there?"
At this the child grew impatient, and threw himself about with angry
gestures. Then he sat down and cried for a time bitterly, while his
mother strove, but in vain, to soothe him. For hours his
thoughts had been on his little friend, and now he cared for nothing
but to see her. Denied this privilege from mere arbitrary authority,
his mind had become fretted beyond his weak ability to control
himself.
It was, perhaps, an hour after this, that Mrs. Howland missed
Andrew, and fearful that he might have been tempted to disobey the
command laid upon him, raised the window and looked into the street.
Just as she did so, she saw him running back toward his home from
the house of Mr. Winters, on the steps of which sat Emily. Entering
quickly, she heard him close the street-door with a slight jar, as
if he designed making as little noise as possible.
"Where have you been, Andrew?" asked Mrs. Howland as soon as he came
up to her room, which he did soon after.
"Down in the kitchen with Jane," was replied without hesitation.
"Have you been nowhere else?" Mrs. Howland repented having asked
this question the moment it passed her lips, and still more when the
child answered as unhesitatingly as before, "No, ma'am."
Here was falsehood added to disobedience! Poor Mrs. Howland turned
her face away to grieve and ponder. She found herself in a narrow
path, and doubtful as to the steps to be taken. She said nothing
more, for she could not see clearly what it was best for her to say;
and she did nothing, for she could not see what it was best for her
to do. But she resolved to be watchful over her boy, lest he should
again be tempted into disobedience.
The mother's watchfulness, however, availed not. Ere night-fall
Andrew was with his little friend again. Unfortunately for him, the
pleasure he derived from her society caused him to forget the
passing of time, and his stolen delight was, in the end, suddenly
dispelled by the stern voice of his father, who passed the door of
Mr. Winters on his way homeward.
Slowly and in fear did the child obey the angry command to return
home. He knew that he would be punished with great severity, and he
was not mistaken. He was so punished. But did this avail anything?
No! On the next day he asked his mother to let him sit at the front
door.
"I'm afraid you'll go into Mr. Winters," said Mrs. Howland, in
reply.
"Oh, no; indeed I won't, mother," was the ready answer.
"If you disobey me, I can't let you go to the door again."
"Oh, I won't disobey you," replied the child.
"Very well, Andrew, I'll trust you. Now, don't deceive me."
The child promised over and over again, and Mrs. Howland trusted
him. Ten minutes afterward she looked out, but he was nowhere
to be seen. A domestic was sent to the house of Mr. Winters, where
Andrew was found, as happy as a child could be, playing with his
little friend Emily. On being reproved by his mother for this act of
disobedience, he looked earnestly in her face and said--
"You won't tell father, will you? He'll whip me so, and I don't like
to be whipped."
"But why did you go in there?" said Mrs. Howland. "Haven't we
forbidden you? And didn't you promise me that if I'd let you go to
the front door, you would stay there?"
"I couldn't help it, mother," replied Andrew.
"Oh, yes, you could."
"Indeed I couldn't, mother. I saw Emily, and then I couldn't help
it."
There was an expression in the child's voice as he said this, that
thrilled the feelings of his mother. She felt that he spoke only the
simple truth--that he could not help doing as he had done.
"But Andrew must help it," she was constrained to reply. "Mother
can't let him go to the front door again."
"You won't tell father, will you?" urged the child, lifting,
earnestly, his large, bright, innocent eyes to his mother's face.
"Say, you won't tell him?"
Grieved, perplexed, and troubled, Mrs. Howland knew not what to say,
nor how to act.
"Dear mother!" urged the boy, "you won't tell father? Say you
won't?" And tears began to glisten beneath his eyelids.
"Andrew has been disobedient," said the mother, trying to assume an
offended tone. "Will he be so anymore?"
"If you won't tell father, I'll be good."
The mother sighed, and fixed her gaze musingly on the floor. Her
thoughts were still more confused, and her mind in still greater
perplexity. Ah, if she only knew what was right!
"I will not tell your father this time," she at length said, "but
don't ask me, if you are again disobedient."
But of what avail was the child's promises. He had strong feelings,
a strong will, and, though so very young, much endurance. A law, at
variance almost with a law of his nature, had been arbitrarily
enacted, and he could not obey it. As well might his father have
shut him up, hungry, in a room filled with tempting food, and
commanded him not to touch or taste it. Had an allegation of evil
conduct been brought against Emily Winters; had any right reason for
the interdiction been given, then Mr. Howland might have had some
power over the strong will and stronger inclinations of the child.
But into the mind of Andrew, young as he was, came a sense of
injustice and wrong on the part of his father, and there was no
willingness, from filial duty, to yield obedience in a case where
every feeling of his heart was at variance with the command.
The struggle so early commenced between the father and his child,
was an unceasing one. The will of Andrew, which by other treatment
might have been bent to obedience, gained a vigor like the young oak
amid storms, in the strife and reaction of his daily life. Instead
of drawing his child to him, there was ever about Mr. Howland a
sphere of repulsion. Andrew was always doing something to offend his
father; and his father was in consequence always offended. A kind
word from paternal lips rarely touched the ears of the boy, and, but
for the love of his gentle mother, home would have been almost
intolerable. Steadily, against all opposition, chidings, and
punishment, Andrew would seek the company of his little friend Emily
on every convenient occasion. To avoid the consequences he would
practice deception, and utter direct falsehood without compunction
or hesitation. At last, after a struggle of two years, even the
father became wearied and discouraged at the perseverance of his
child; and there came a suggestion to his mind, that probably, to
continue as he had been going on for so long a time, would do more
harm than good. It requires no little self-denial for a man like
Andrew Howland to yield in such a contention, and let the will of
his child remain unbroken. But, after a long debate with himself,
his better conviction triumphed over prejudice and the tenacity of a
mind fixed in its own opinions. He ceased to command obedience in
the case of Emily Winters, and therefore ceased to punish Andrew on
her account. Nevertheless, he rarely saw him in her company that the
displeasure he felt was not manifested by a frown, or some word that
smote painfully upon the ear of his child.
Possessing an active, independent mind, Andrew failed not to excite
the displeasure of his father in many ways. In fact he was always in
disgrace from some cause or other and the subject of angry reproof,
harsh judgment, or direct punishment. Often his conduct needed
reproof and even punishment; but he was the victim of such frequent
wrong judgment and unjust reproof and punishment, that by the time
he was eleven years of age, he looked upon his father more as a
persecuting tyrant than a kind parent, who sincerely desired his
good. An instance of wrong judgment and unjust punishment we will
here give.
As Andrew grew older and formed school boy associations, his
impulsive and rather reckless character brought him frequently into
collision with his companions, and he gained a reputation which was
by no means good. Every now and then some one would complain to Mr.
Howland of his bad conduct, when he, taking all for granted, would,
without investigation, visit the offence with severe punishment.
One day, when in his twelfth year, as Andrew was at play during a
recess in the school hour, a boy larger than himself made an angry
attack upon a lad much below him in size, and was abusing him
severely, when Andrew, acting from a brave and generous impulse, ran
to the rescue of the smaller boy, and, in a sudden onset, freed him
from the hands of his assailant. Maddened at this interference, the
larger boy turned fiercely upon him. But Andrew was active, and kept
out of his way. Still the larger boy pursued him, using all the
while the most violent threats. At length finding that he was likely
to be caught and get roughly handled, Andrew took up a stone, and
drawing back his hand, warned the boy not to approach. He continued
to approach, however, vowing, as he did so, that he would beat the
life half out of him. True to his word, and in self-defence, Andrew
threw the stone, which struck the boy full on the forehead and
knocked him down. For some minutes he lay stunned and half-insensible.
Frightened at the consequences of his act, Andrew sprung to the side
of the fallen lad and tried to raise him up. Failing in this he ran
for the teacher, who was in the school-room. A little cold water
thrown into the boy's face revived him, when he went home to his
parents. The teacher made careful inquiries into the matter, which
satisfied him that Andrew was not very greatly to blame.
A short time after this occurrence, a gentleman entered the store of
Andrew's father, and said, with much excitement of manner,
"Mr. Howland! I've come to make complaint against that boy of
yours."
"Against Andrew?"
"Yes, sir. He's nearly killed my son!"
"Bless me!" exclaimed Mr. Howland, in a distressed voice. "What has
happened? How did he do it?"
"Why, sir! without the slightest provocation, he took up a large
stone and struck my boy with it on the forehead, knocking him down
senseless. I have had to send for the doctor. It may cost him his
life."
"Oh dear! dear! What will become of that boy?" exclaimed Mr.
Howland, wringing his hands, and moving up and down the floor
uneasily. "Knocked him down with a stone, you say?"
"Yes sir And that without any provocation. I can't stand this.
I must, at least, protect the lives of my children. Every week I
have had some complaint against your son; but I didn't wish to
have a difficulty, and so said nothing about it. But this is going a
little too far. He must have a dreadful temper."
"There is something very perverse about him," remarked Mr. Howland,
sadly. "Ah, me! What am I to do?"
"There may have been some slight provocation," said the man, a
little modified by the manner in which his complaint was received,
and departing from his first assertion.
"Nothing to justify an assault like this," replied Mr. Howland with
promptness. "Nothing! Nothing! The boy will be the death of me."
"Caution him, if you please, Mr. Howland, against a repetition of
such dangerous conduct. The result might be deplorable."
"I will do something more than caution him, you may be sure," was
answered, and, as he spoke, the lips of Mr. Howland were drawn
tightly across his teeth.
The man went away, and Mr. Howland dispatched a messenger to the
school for Andrew immediately, and then started for home. He had
been there only a little while, when the boy came in with a
frightened look. To his father's eyes conscious guilt was in his
countenance.
"Go up stairs, sir!" was the stern salutation that met the lad's
ears.
"Father, I--"
"Silence, sir! Don't let me hear a word out of your head!"
The boy shrunk away and went up to his own room in the third story,
whither his angry father immediately followed him.
"Now, sir, take off your jacket!" said Mr. Howland who had a long,
thick rattan in his hand.
"Indeed father," pleaded the child, "I wasn't to blame. Bill
Wilkins--"
"Silence, sir! I want none of your lying excuses! I know you! I've
talked to you often enough about quarreling and throwing stones."
"But, father--"
"Off with your jacket, this instant! Do you hear me?
"Oh, father! Let me speak! I couldn't--"
"Not a word, I say! I know all about it!" silenced the pleading boy.
His case was prejudged, and he was now in the hands of the
executioner. Slowly, and with trembling hands, the poor child
removed his outer garment, his pale face growing paler every moment,
and then submitting himself to the cruel rod that checkered his back
with smarting welts. Under a sense of wrong, his proud spirit
refused to his body a single cry of pain. Manfully he bore his
unjust chastisement, while every stroke obliterated some yet
remaining emotion of respect and love for his father, who, satisfied
at length with strokes and upbraiding, threw the boy from him with
the cutting words--
"I shall yet have to disown you!" and turning away left the
apartment.