Let Us Be Kind

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Jul 31, 1913

“COME, Nell, run down to the office and get the papers,” said Mr. Watkins in a coaxing tone to his fourteen-year-old daughter, who was sitting in a hammock, deep in an interesting story.

Two little wrinkles gathered on the young girl’s forehead as she said, poutingly, “O, dear, father, I don’t want to stop now; I’m reading!”

“Now that’s a good girl,” coaxed her father. “I want to see the news. Come, you’re younger than I am.”

“I should think you might wait till Uncle James goes; he can get the mail,” Nell argued fretfully.

“Perhaps Uncle James won’t go today, and I want the papers,” said Mr. Watkins, a shade of sternness now in his voice.

“Well, I suppose I’ll have to go,” Nell declared, petulantly, rising from the hammock and closing her book reluctantly.

She went into the house for her hat, and when she came out a moment later, ready to start for the office, Dr. Newhall, who had been calling on her invalid mother, said with a smile: “Going to the office, Miss Nell? Wait a minute, and I’ll give you a ride there.”

Half ashamed for fear the doctor had heard her petulant replies to her father, Nell waited while the horse was brought around.

Soon the young girl was seated in the chaise, bowling merrily along beside the kind old doctor, laughing in spite of herself at his funny jokes. Dr. Newhall knew well how to entertain young people, and was much beloved by them. All the boys and girls thought it was a great treat to ride with the doctor.

But by and by, after a short silence, the doctor said gravely, “Nell, I’ve a little story to tell you;” and then to the gray horse, “Whoa, Billy; slowly down the hill.”

“One day when I was a boy of thirteen,” the doctor began, “I was coming from school with the other lads of my age. For a week or more we had been planning to go swimming in the pond below my father’s house the first warm day. And that was just the day for it at last, hot and muggy. So we were hurrying along to have our swim before supper.

“The schoolhouse was about two miles from our house, on the outskirts of the village. When nearly home, we met my father on the road into town carrying a bundle. He stopped me. ‘I wish you would take this package to the village for me, Jim,’ he said, hesitatingly.

“I’m sure I looked disappointed; and my first impulse was to refuse, and rather crossly. But father had not been quite well for a week, and if I didn’t go he would; and he was a good, kind father. Something stopped the petulant word,—one of God’s good angels, I think.

“‘Of course, father, I’ll take it,’ I said quite cheerfully. ‘Never mind, boys, I’ll go swimming some other night.’

“‘Father gave me the package. ‘Thank you, Jim,’ he said; ‘I’m sorry to have you lose your pleasure. I was going to the village myself, but somehow I don’t feel very strong today.’

“‘He walked with me to the road that turned off to the town, giving me some directions about delivering the package. When he was turning back he put his hand on my arm, saying again, ‘Thank you, my son. You’ve always been a good boy to me, Jim.’

“‘I hurried into town and back again. When I came near the house, I saw some of the neighbors standing about the door, and hurrying forms inside the house. One of the men came to me, the tears rolling down his face. ‘Your father,’ he said, ‘fell dead just as he reached the house after he left you.’

“‘I am an old man now, Nell, but I’ve thanked God through all these years that I didn’t refuse my father’s last request, and that his last words to me were, ‘You’ve always been a good boy to me.’”

The old doctor wiped his eyes at the recollection. Nell had been crying softly during the last of the story; and now, as she dried her eyes, she said, “O, doctor! and I was so cross to my dear father tonight! I never will be again.”

It was a very thoughtful girl that walked from the post-office that night with the papers. It was with a thrill of pleasure that she saw her father sitting on the piazza, awaiting her coming. She went straight up to him, put her arms about his neck, and kissed him, as

she said, softly and penitently, “I’m sorry I was cross tonight. Please forgive me, father.”

“Of course I will, my daughter;” and he returned her kiss, thanking her for the papers.

Nell kept her resolution pretty well, though she often had a struggle with herself to keep back the petulant word. She wrote on a slip of paper, “Remember the doctor’s story,” and pinned it on her cushion on the bureau, where her eyes fell on it a dozen times a day.

And who of us ought not to remember the doctor’s story? There is no page of remorse so keen as the bitter regret with which we remember neglect or unkindness which we have shown to loved ones now dead.

And, after all, it is such a brief little while we can be with our friends on earth. Let us be kind.—Children’s Friend.