“What new experiment are you trying, my son?” asked Mr. Willard, as he
entered his pleasant parlor late in the afternoon of a day in early
spring, unperceived by his little son Arthur, who was busily employed in
tying up several small packages which lay on the table before him.
Arthur looked up at his father with a bright smile; for Mr. Willard
always took a great interest in the amusements of his children, and they
were in the habit of consulting him and asking his assistance in many of
their sports.
“Don’t tell Willie and Jane, father,” said Arthur, “and I will tell you
all about it. You know to-morrow will be the first day of April, and I
expect to have a fine time playing tricks upon people. There is nothing
in these parcels but little chips and stones. I shall put one of them
upon Jane’s table after she is asleep to-night; and she will be sure to
open it the first thing in the morning. I expect she will think that
Uncle Samuel or Aunt Mary were here in the evening, and brought her a
nice little present. Then I shall drop another package where Willie will
find it when he goes to feed his chickens. What a hurry he will be in to
pick it up!
“And, father,” continued Arthur, “you do not know what a nice joke I
shall play upon Susan! Sometimes, when I get up early in the morning,
and she is in a hurry getting breakfast, I go to Mr. Conant’s for the
milk. Now, to-morrow morning I mean to be up very early, before Susan
leaves her room. Then I will take the milk-pail, and put a quart of
water into it, and set it in the place where I usually put it when I
bring the milk. When Susan comes into the kitchen, she will see the pail
on the table, and, finding it heavy, will suppose I have been for the
milk. So she will say, ‘O, Arthur! you are a good boy to bring my milk;’
and then she will take off the cover to pour it into the pitcher. How I
shall laugh at her when she finds it is water!”
Mr. Willard smiled a little as Arthur clapped his hands at the thought
of Susan’s vexation: but in a moment he looked grave, and, seating
himself in his rocking-chair, he drew his little son close to his side,
and said, kindly,—
“Do the angels try to make people happy or unhappy, Arthur?”
“Happy, father,” replied the boy, looking wonderingly in his father’s
face.
“Then you are not trying to do like the angels,—are you, Arthur. You
mean to vex people, and make them unhappy.”