“Ellen cry when Tara gone,—then Ellen find sugar.”
“Sugar,” said Clara, snatching the paper from her hand. “Have you been
eating it, Ellen? I wonder what it is.”
As she spoke she looked at the writing upon the back of the paper, and
saw “Sugar of Lead” written upon it in large letters, and the word
“poison” beneath.
Clara saw that the paper was now empty, and she knew that Ellen must
have eaten its contents. She turned deadly pale, and for a few moments
stood motionless, as if at a loss what to do. Then rushing to the
staircase, she screamed to her mother and Margaret in such a frantic
manner that they both ran to her in great alarm.
“Oh, mother, mother!” she sobbed, “I have killed Ellen. I left her alone
for a few minutes, while I listened to Mary’s music-box, and she has
eaten some sugar of lead.”
“Eaten sugar of lead!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray. “It is impossible, for it
was upon the upper shelf in the closet; she could not have reached it.”
“No, no, mother, she did not reach it; but I left it on the table, and
forgot to put it back, and then I forgot to return to Ellen, and stood
listening to the music a long time. She has eaten it all, and she will
die, mother. Oh, what shall I do?”
Poor Margaret had caught Ellen in her arms, and was now sobbing as if
her heart would break; but Mrs. Gray, with more presence of mind, begged
her to be calm, and not alarm the child, as any agitation might hasten
the effect of the poison.
“Do you, Margaret, go immediately for Dr. Gregory,” she said, “and Clara
must go to her father’s office and ask him to come directly home. There
was but a small quantity in the paper. We may do much for her if we are
calm.”
Then, taking the child in her own arms, she spoke to her in a quiet and
soothing manner, and taking her up stairs, gave her an antidote for
poison, and then amused her until the physician and Mr. Gray arrived.
Prompt and judicious remedies in a measure counteracted the fatal
effects of the poison, but a serious illness could not be avoided. For
many days little Ellen seemed to hover between life and death, and even
after the physician had pronounced her out of danger, she was for a long
time so feeble that no one would have supposed her to be the same child
who had seemed so full of life and health but a few weeks before.
I shall not attempt to describe the agony which poor Clara suffered
during the sickness of her little cousin. Her parents treated her with
great kindness, for they thought the lesson she had received was
sufficiently severe, without adding to it by their reproaches.
For a long time she could not bear to say a word upon the subject, but
it was evident that a great change was taking place in her character.
She was now not only industrious and obliging, but so thoughtful and
considerate that her friends soon felt willing to trust her, even where
the greatest care was necessary.
The cold winter months had passed away, and spring had again returned to
gladden the earth. Favorable accounts had been received from Ellen’s
parents. Her father’s health had improved rapidly, and they were now
about to return home.
“Do you think they will be here in another month, mother?” asked Clara,
as her mother finished reading a letter which she had just received from
their distant friends.
“I think they will, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “Are you prepared to part
with our dear Ellen?”
Clara’s eyes filled with tears as she replied, “I shall try to be
prepared, mother, but it will be a great trial. I always loved Ellen
dearly, and since I came so near being the cause of her death, I have
loved her more than ever. Every day I thank the Lord for His mercy in
restoring her to health. It was a sad lesson, mother, but it helped me
to see how really selfish I was. I could never quite understand why you
and father should call forgetfulness a kind of selfishness; but when I
sincerely endeavored to become more thoughtful, I found that the true
reason why I used to forget so often was because I thought so much more
of myself than I did of others. I now try to be very watchful of this
fault, and I pray to the Lord to help me put it away.”
“And you will never look to Him in vain, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Gray.
“You have already improved very much. Persevere steadily in the endeavor
to remove selfishness in all its forms. It is the fountain from which
many evils flow.”
THE SILVER MORNING
AND
THE GOLDEN DAY.
“O Father! please to come to the door, and see how pretty everything
looks,” exclaimed William Mason, running eagerly into the room where his
father was sitting.
Mr. Mason was always glad to give his son pleasure, and he laid aside
the newspaper which he was reading, and followed him to the door.
There had been quite a heavy snow-storm a few days before, which was
succeeded by rain, and then by severe cold. Everything was now entirely
cased in ice.
“Is it not beautiful, father?” said William. “I have been all around the
yard and garden, and everything has put on its winter coat. Every little
branch and twig, every blade of grass, and even the little stones are
covered with ice.”
“This is what we used to call a silver morning, when I was a boy,” said
Mr. Mason.
“That is a good name for it, father,” replied William; “for everything
shines like silver. Look at the road; it is almost as smooth as the
pond. I think I can skate to school this morning.”
“You would probably find some rough places, which would injure your
skates,” replied Mr. Mason; “but look towards the east, my son, and you
will see something more beautiful than anything you have yet observed.”
There was a thick wood of pines toward the east, and, as William looked,
he saw that the trees glittered like diamonds, and he could see colors
like those of a rainbow in every direction.
He clapped his hands with delight.
“O father,” he exclaimed, “this is the most beautiful sight of all. The
sun is rising, and soon it will shine on all the trees and plants, and
then everything will look as beautiful as the pine trees do now. It was
a silver morning, father, but it will be a golden day.”
“It will, indeed,” replied Mr. Mason. “Everything looked cold and dead
before the rays of the sun shone upon them, but now all are sparkling
with beauty. The trees will soon lose their icy casing, but the water
will sink into the ground, and perform many important uses. The frosts
and snows of winter prepare the way for the warmth and beauty of spring
and summer. The earth rests from its labors, and is in various ways
enriched and strengthened.”
“I like all the seasons, father,” said William. “In winter, I am so
happy when skating and sliding in the fine cool air, that I wish the
weather might always be cold; but when spring and summer and autumn
come, with their long sunny days, and their beautiful birds and flowers
and delicious fruits, I quite forget winter and its pleasures.”
“Yes, every season has its delights,” replied his father; “but look,
William, there is one of your school-fellows. Is he already on his way
to school?”
“Oh, that is only Louis Cunningham,” returned William, glancing rather
contemptuously at a plainly dressed, but intelligent and manly looking
boy, who was passing by.
“_Only Louis Cunningham_,” repeated Mr. Mason! “Well, is he not one of
your school-fellows?”
“Why, yes, father, he goes to the same school. The master gives him his
schooling for making the fire and keeping the room in good order. We
call him the charity scholar.”
“I am grieved to hear you speak in this manner,” said Mr. Mason,
gravely. “Mr. Cunningham died when Louis was very young, and his mother
has been obliged to deny him many advantages of education, which she
would gladly have given him if it had been in her power. Your teacher
heard of their situation, and finding, from conversation with Louis,
that he was an intelligent boy, and very desirous to learn, he kindly
offered to take him into his school. But Louis and his mother, although
they were very grateful for the offer, felt unwilling to accept it,
unless they could make some return for the kindness; and it was finally
arranged, that Louis should take care of the school-room and make the
fire, and I have been told that he performs these duties very
faithfully.”
“He does, indeed,” replied William. “The room is always warm and
comfortable, and so nicely swept and dusted, that we never have any
cause of complaint.”
“One would suppose, then, my son, that you would feel grateful to the
person who performs these kind offices, instead of regarding him with
contempt and dislike.”
“Oh, we do not dislike Louis, Father. He is always kind and obliging;
but we do not like to see him placed on an equality with the rest of the
boys, and often pronounced the best scholar in his class.”
“These are evil feelings, William, and I hope to have the pleasure of
helping you put them away. Sit down by me in the parlor for a few
minutes, and we will talk about Louis. Can you tell me why the boys
think he should not be placed upon an equality with them? Is he inferior
to the others as a scholar, or is he a wicked, profane boy?”
“Oh no, father. Louis is a very good boy, and a better scholar than many
who have had greater advantages; but, as he does not pay for his
schooling, we do not think that he is entitled to the same privileges
that we are.”
“Even if this were the case, he would be entitled to every privilege,
William, if Mr. Grant chose to instruct him without remuneration; but
Louis does pay for his schooling; not indeed with his father’s
money,—because the Lord has seen fit to remove his father to the
spiritual world,—but with his own labor. Mr. Grant considers his
services as an equivalent to his instruction, and, according to your own
account, the duties are well performed. Louis, then, pays for his
schooling as much, or more, than any boy in school; for the others
depend upon their father’s labor, while he depends upon his own. Your
school bills, as well as other expenses, are paid from the proceeds of
my daily labor in my profession, and the case is the same with the other
boys who attend your school.”
“This is very true, father,” replied William, “and I know it is wrong to
despise those who are poorer than ourselves. We often laugh at Louis,
when he comes to school with coarse, patched clothes; but I suppose his
mother cannot afford to buy him any better.”
“She cannot, indeed, William; and of how little consequence is external
clothing, compared to many other things in which Louis probably
surpasses your other school-mates. It is right to be neat and clean, and
as well dressed as our circumstances will admit; but the clothing of our
soul is of more importance than the clothing of our bodies. If Louis is
industrious, obedient, faithful in the performance of his duties, and in
the endeavor to shun evil words and deeds, he appears to the Lord and
the angels as if clothed in the most beautiful raiment.”
William made no reply, but appeared much interested in what his father
was saying, and Mr. Mason continued,—
“You must ever remember the Golden Rule, my son. Think how you would
wish to be treated, if you were situated like Louis; and then you will
be more careful not to wound his feelings, by contempt or idle jests.”
“I will try to remember, father. I know I have done wrong, and I will
begin to-day, and treat Louis just the same as I do the other scholars.
Perhaps I may be able to help in some way.”
“These are good resolutions, my son; and, if they are carried into
practice, they will do you and others much good. The light has dawned in
your mind. It is a _silver morning_, and the rays of the spiritual sun
will render it a _golden day_.”
Within an hour after this conversation, William was on his way to
school, with his satchel of books and his skates slung over his
shoulder, and his dinner pail in his hand. He was soon joined by several
companions, and each boy tried to display his skill in keeping his
balance on the glare ice, which to many would have rendered the road
almost impassable. But boys have little fear of ice and snow, and, half
running and half sliding, they soon reached the school-house, where they
found, as usual, a comfortable and neatly arranged room.
Louis Cunningham was busily engaged at his desk, and, being little
accustomed to any morning salutations from his school-fellows, he did
not look up when they entered. He was somewhat surprised to hear William
exclaim: “Good morning, Louis. What a grand fire you have got for us. I
am sure we are much obliged to you, this cold morning.”
“You are very welcome,” he replied with a pleasant smile. “I came
earlier than usual, on account of the severe cold. I am glad you find
the room comfortable.”
“I should not have liked to have been the one to make the fire this
morning,” remarked one of the boys. “In many schools the scholars take
turns in cleaning the room and making the fire.”
“It is not fair that they should do so,” observed another. “Their
parents pay for their schooling, and it is not right that they should be
obliged to spend their time and injure their clothes in sweeping rooms
and making fires. It does well enough for those who cannot pay.”
“For shame! John Gray,” exclaimed William. “You should not speak so
thoughtlessly. You trouble Louis,” he added in a whisper.
John was a kind-hearted boy, but rude and thoughtless in his manners.
“I do not wish to trouble Louis,” he said aloud. “I only spoke the
truth.”
The color, which had deepened on Louis’s cheek, faded away, and he said,
kindly,—
“You do not trouble me, John. I agree with you in thinking that those
whose parents can pay for their schooling should not be expected to take
care of the room. But as I am situated, I regard it as a very great
favor that I am in this way enabled to earn my own schooling.”
“It is a great favor to us,” exclaimed several boys. “We never before
had so neat and comfortable a room.”
The entrance of Mr. Grant, the teacher, prevented any farther
conversation, and each boy quietly took his seat, and performed his
accustomed duties.
At noon, there was fine sport with coasting and skating, but, in the
midst of his play, William remembered his promise to his father; and,
finding that Louis was not among his companions, he sought him in the
school-house. He found him seated at his desk, busily engaged with a
pencil and piece of paper.
“Come, Louis,” he exclaimed, “Come and play with us. There is fine
skating on the pond.”
“Thank you,” replied Louis, “but I have no skates this winter. I had a
pair once, but they are worn out.”
“Then I will lend you mine, and I will slide for a little while. I shall
like that quite as well. Do come,” urged William; and, as he spoke, he
approached the desk, and looked at the picture which Louis was drawing.
“Why, Louis!” he said, with an expression of surprise, “I had no idea
that you could draw so beautifully. You almost equal our drawing-master.
Who taught you?”
“No one,” replied Louis. “I love to draw. If it were not wrong to
neglect other duties, I would spend every day in doing nothing else.”
“Why do you not take lessons with the rest of us, Louis? I am sure our
drawing-master would be proud of such a pupil. How you would laugh at
our strange-looking pictures!”
“Mr. Grant is very kind, to give me so many other advantages,” answered
Louis; “I should not like to ask the privilege of a seat at the
drawing-tables, and then the pencils and paper are quite an expense. And
if I learned to paint, it would be still more expensive; but, oh! I
should love to learn so much,” and his face grew bright with pleasure at
the very thought.
“You must learn, Louis; I am resolved that you shall,” said William;
“but come now, and have one good play before school.”
Thus urged, Louis joined his companions, and, encouraged by William’s
example, all received him kindly, and were careful to allow him equal
rights with themselves, and not to wound his feelings by foolish jokes
and sarcastic observations.
About fifteen minutes before the hour for school to commence, William
saw Mr. Grant enter the school-house, and, quietly leaving his
play-fellows, he hastened to follow him.
Taking from Louis’s desk the picture upon which he had been so busily
engaged at noon, he presented it to the teacher, saying,—
“Is not this pretty well done, sir?”
“Remarkably well,” replied Mr. Grant. “You have improved wonderfully,
William.”
“It is not mine, sir. Louis did it. He has never had any instruction in
drawing, but I am sure if you will allow him a seat at the
drawing-tables, he will soon equal our drawing-master himself.”
“He shall have every advantage, certainly,” replied Mr. Grant. “I am
pleased with your request, William; for I have observed with pain that
some of the scholars regard Louis with feelings of contempt and dislike,
which are certainly quite undeserved.”
“I have been in fault in this respect,” replied William, blushing
deeply, “but my father has convinced me that such feelings are very
wrong, and I am resolved to do better.”
“I am glad that you have made so good a resolution, William. Your
example will help the other scholars to do right also. You may have the
pleasure of telling Louis that he can receive regular instruction in
drawing, on the afternoons when the drawing-master attends the school.”
“Thank you, sir,” replied William, and he joyfully returned to his
play-fellows.
A few whispered words told Louis of what had passed, and the glow of
pleasure which suffused his countenance, and the warm pressure of the
hand, amply rewarded William for his kindness.
“I have pencils and paper enough for both, Louis,” he continued, “and I
know my father will be glad to have me share them with you.”
The sound of the bell now summoned the whole party to the school-room,
and as this was the afternoon for the drawing-master, William had the
pleasure of seeing his new friend seated by his side, and of hearing the
warm commendations which were bestowed upon the contents of his little
portfolio, which, at the request of the teacher, Louis modestly
exhibited.
Much of the ice in the streets had melted away, but the trees were still
glittering in the bright sunlight, when William left the school-house
and took the road toward home. To him everything seemed even more
beautiful than it had done in the morning, for his heart was filled with
that happiness which always results from doing good. His father met him
at the door.
“Well, my son,” he said, “has it been a golden day with you?”
“It has, indeed, father,” replied William. “I have remembered what you
told me, and I have already found an opportunity to do Louis some good.”
Mr. Mason listened with much interest to William’s little story, and
gladly gave him leave to assist Louis, by lending him his own drawing
implements.
It was pleasing to observe the effect which William’s example of
friendliness to Louis had upon the rest of the scholars. He was no
longer regarded with contempt or indifference, but became as great a
favorite with the boys as a play-fellow, as he was with the master as a
scholar. The younger boys looked to him for assistance in all their
pleasures and troubles, for they found that he was always willing to
give up his own pleasure for the sake of making them happy; and the
older ones frequently assisted him in his duties in the school-room, in
order to gain so valuable a companion in their plays.
His improvement in drawing and painting was so rapid, that, before many
months had elapsed, the drawing-master declared he could teach him
nothing more, and advised him to procure a situation in some of the
large schools in the neighborhood, as teacher of these branches. But
about this time circumstances occurred, which induced Mrs. Cunningham to
remove to a distant part of the country, and Louis was obliged to bid
farewell to his teachers and companions.
All parted from him with regret, but none felt the loss so keenly as
William Mason. He had been the first among the boys to love Louis and
endeavor to assist him; and, although the latter was some years older, a
warm attachment had sprung up between them.
Many years passed before they again met. Both had grown to manhood, but
the remembrance of their early days was still fresh in their minds.
William was travelling through the principal States of the Union, and
stopped for the night in one of our most flourishing cities. In the
course of the evening he visited, with some of his friends, a gallery of
paintings which had been particularly recommended to his notice. The
collection was a fine one, and an hour soon passed pleasantly away. At
length William suddenly stopped before a small picture, and uttered an
exclamation of surprise, which brought his friends to his side. The
scene represented was not a remarkable one,—a bright winter’s morning,
and a lad with a satchel of books and a pair of skates slung upon his
shoulder, and a dinner-pail in his hand, quietly pursuing his way to
school.
“What do you find surprising in this?” asked one of William’s
companions. “It is a spirited little sketch, to be sure. That lad bears
a strong resemblance to you, William.”
“It is myself,” exclaimed William; “and there is the old school-house in
the distance, and the pond where we used to skate. Every object in the
picture is familiar to me, even that old tree which seems so completely
cased in ice. I must find the name of the artist.”
“That is easily ascertained,” replied his companion, turning to the
catalogue which he held in his hand; “Cunningham, Louis Cunningham.
There are several other fine pictures in the gallery by the same person.
Do you know him, William?”
“He is an old school-mate and particular friend,” replied William; “I
must inquire if he resides in this city.”
Louis Cunningham’s address was easily obtained, and William had the
pleasure of hearing him spoken of as a young artist of uncommon talents.
At an early hour the following morning he sought his early friend, and
received a warm welcome. Louis’s story was soon told. His mother’s
situation in life had been improved, by a legacy left by a distant
relative, and she was thus enabled to give her son many advantages. He
had travelled in Europe, and received the best instruction in his
favorite pursuit, and his name was now becoming widely known as one of
our best American artists.
“But I have not forgotten the old school-house, and our boyish days,
dear William,” he continued; “and I do not forget that my first
instructions in drawing were received through your kindness. It was a
bright day to me when I was first seated at the drawing-table, and
allowed free access to your pencils and paper.”
“I remember it, as if it were but yesterday,” replied William. “We had
indulged a strange prejudice against you up to that day, Louis. My
father had labored hard that bright and beautiful morning, to show me
the sin of which I was guilty, in indulging such feelings, and his words
sunk deep in my heart. When I parted from him, at school time, he
remarked on the beautiful appearance of the earth, clad in its robe of
silver, but pointed out the new beauty it would receive when the rays of
the sun should fall upon it; and he prayed that the rays of the
spiritual sun might thus vivify and add new beauty to the good
resolutions springing up in my mind, that the silver morning might
become the golden day.”
“It was indeed a golden day to me,” said Louis, with emotion. “A
fountain of kind feelings, which had been checked by the coldness of my
companions, gushed forth at the kindness with which you treated me; and
it seemed as if from that time all coldness toward me disappeared, and I
was treated by all with kindness which I have ever remembered with
gratitude. The little picture which you saw in the gallery is a proof of
my remembrance of that day. You must take it to your father, as a token
of my respect and love.”
“I will gladly do so,” replied William. “My father will receive it with
pleasure, and it shall hang in our room as a memento of our early
friendship, and of a day which I shall always remember with pleasing
reflections.”