Tom's Copy by Margaret Finley

Seventh-day Adventist Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jul 27, 1882

Tom's Copy.

By Margaret Finley

It was writing hour in the home school-room of the Dalton children: The governess had been called out, and they were left on honor.

Jack Dalton had not written a stroke since the summons came, and by the time his teacher was beyond the door, had drawn from his pockets treasures in the shape of marbles, alleys, fish-lines and a knife.

"Tom," he called to his cousin, and added emphasis with a well-aimed paper ball, "what'll you give in cash for this stock?"

"Don't want it at any price," answered Tom without looking up.

"But I'm hard up and will sell at a sacrifice," continued Jack; "besides I want to get something else."

"I want to get something too," Tom replied, "but not trash."

Jack looked over at his cousin curiously, but he was intent upon his copy. He had been laboring steadily at the letters, and was half-way down the page when the thought dawned in his mind that they might mean something.

This was the copy:—

"Industry need not wish."

Ah! what did not Tom wish? That very morning he had been wishing to buy a story paper and some fruit for his invalid sister. Then he had heard his mother wish their little garden could be cultivated, and he felt sure he could do it if he had only the tools to work with. And when it came to his own wants they were really without number, and here right before his eyes, if there were truth in this copy, was a remedy.

"Jack," he said, "listen and tell me what you think of this—Industry need not wish."

"Oh, bother!" returned Jack, "I think nothing of it. It's good practice on the lettering, but as for sentiment it means no more than if it said 'Jack and Gill went up the hill'!"

"But Benjamin Franklin said it," argued Tom. "It must mean something."

"Oh, it don't follow," returned his cousin. "He gained a great reputation, and after that everything he said was accounted wise. My own private opinion is that he said a great many stupid things."

"But if this should be true, Jack, just think of all the things we could have without wishing."

"I thought something was up," replied Jack impatiently. "You've been sitting like a deacon ever since Miss Ray went out. Your copy-book has struck in, I suppose. For my own part I'm not so stupid as to pin my faith on old proverbs."

But to Tom, who was poor and being educated by his uncle, it seemed worth trying.

"I will begin this very afternoon," he thought. "I wish most for the papers for Amy, and will see if I can earn them."

His enthusiasm almost overcame his appetite, and, his hastily-eaten dinner over, he set off in quest of work.

Right near his own home, and on one of the main thoroughfares of the town, was the quaint old residence of Eben Underhill. He was so old an inhabitant that everybody called him uncle. For sixty years he had lived in the same substantial farm-house. Modern improvements had branched out round him, and stately store-houses reared their French roofs far above the lowly dwelling; but they only seemed to make a protection, shutting out the busy world, while the quiet, old-time life within kept its monotonous course.

The place always had a charm for Tom, and many rides had he enjoyed in Uncle Eben's spring-cart as he took his daily journey to the distant pasture and wood lot.

To-day he paused at the gate, wondering if he might not find work there; but how he hated to ask when it came to the point.

Uncle Eben was coming from the barn with a basket of corn cobs. In another minute he would be in the house, and Tom was sure he would never have courage enough to knock at the door and make known his wish to the women of the house. His resolution carried him forward and he reached the porch as Uncle Eben had his hand on the door-latch.

"Have you any work for a boy to do?" he inquired eagerly.

"Well, I don't know," the old man replied. "If the right boy happened along I might give him a job."

"Would I do?" asked Tom.

"Your clothes don't look much like it," said Uncle Eben doubtingly. "It's sorting potatoes."

"I can do that," said Tom, "if you'll just start me."

"I've a mind to try you, and will pay thirty cents for the rest of the afternoon, but you'll have to put on my overalls, and 'kiver up your fine clothes."

Uncle Eben was stout and tall, and little of Tom was visible when encased in them. They were turned up six inches at the bottom, and when they reached his arm-pits, Uncle Eben tied them with a piece of clothes-line while the remaining length fell over in a ruffle. When new, they had been brown in color, but frequent washings had turned them a slight yellow, and they were ornamented with patches of lime and plaster.

"Now," said Uncle Eben, "with something to save your coat-sleeves you'll be ready for work."

And he brought out a pair of blue and white butcher's sleeves.

When these were drawn on, Tom would have laughed, had the gift been given him to see himself as others saw him, but happily, he was thinking about the work, and to Uncle Eben the outward appearance was nothing.

The cellar was large and quite light, and, being floored with brick, was quite comfortable. In one corner was an old-fashioned, wide-mouthed oven, where the weekly baking of the family was done. Near it was the long, hanging shelf with a cloth covering it and reaching over the sides, and Tom imagined the bumps in the cloth represented the cakes, puddings, and pies underneath.

"Here's the potatoes," said Uncle Eben as they came to a part of the cellar devoted to vegetables.

"The little and specked ones put in the basket and carry to the feed-bin in the barn. The good-sized and fair ones put in the barrels."

Then he fell to sorting with great energy; and Tom, watching his movements a few minutes, was able to take up the work.

All went well until he was returning from the barn for the third time, when he heard a derisive shout from the store on the opposite side of the street. Looking up he saw his Cousin Jack coming as fast as paroxysms of laughter would allow. This was unexpected and Tom felt suddenly ashamed and frightened. His first thought was to drop the basket, take to his heels, and find a hiding-place in the barn. But it was too late. Jack was in the yard and so overcome with the ludicrous appearance of his cousin that he sat down on the chopping-log in the wood-pile and laughed so long and loud that it brought Uncle Eben half-way up the cellar steps to see what was happening.

"Oh, my eyes!" exclaimed Jack. "What a figure! I knew your old yellow copy-book took root this noon, but to think you should bloom out in it so soon, is a little too much for me!" and fresh laughter shook him until he rolled off the block and down the slanting wood-pile.

"Charity!" called Uncle Eben to his wife, "get ready a kettle of water, and have it reasonably hot. Here's a boy in a fit!"

Jack picked himself up at this, and walked off a little distance.

"'Industry need not wish,'" he quoted, "and certainly it need not," he continued, "if it rigs its followers in that style. Good-day, my sunflower!" and with a taunting bow he left the yard.

Tom turned back to the cellar. The work was left, but the pleasure he had felt in it was all gone. For the first time he was comprehending what a joke may be from the victim's stand-point.

"Has he been so long?" inquired the old man.

"Been? been how?" asked Tom not understanding.

"Why, foolish-like—lacking in sense."

"It was not that," answered Tom, unwilling to accept the doubtful comfort of leaving a false impression about Jack. "He was laughing at my looks. He is very smart."

"A poor way of showing it then, is all I can say; but I'd rather be on your side the joke than his."

"But I never thought it hurt so to be on the wrong side," said Tom.

"Not the wrong side at all, my boy," said Uncle Eben, "and you'll find, as you go along through life, you'll have to take many a hurt and carry many a sore spot if you hold to the right. Why I'm way past eighty, and the other evening I went down to the meeting of the Common Council—all those city fellows, you know, who are ruining the place with their extravagance. I tried to remonstrate with them as a Christian and a citizen, and what do you think they did but laugh and hiss, and ask for a pattern of my hat."

"Yes," said Tom, "I read about it in the paper, and Uncle Dalton said you were right, and the people would see it some day."

"Well, I hope so; and my advice is, never be ashamed when you know you are right."

"But what if you can't help it?" asked Tom, who was in just this trying position, and had experienced shame, anger, and many conflicting emotions, in which he knew the evil outbalanced the good.

"Of course," continued Uncle Eben, "bad thoughts will spring up powerful fast when you're in a tight place, but don't let 'em keep you from doing the square thing. Just hold on, I say, and let the scorner laugh, and after a while the joke turns over of itself, and it comes your turn to laugh."

Under the sting of Jack's ridicule, Tom had concluded never to be found in such a job again, but he changed his mind as he talked with Uncle Eben, and resolved to test the truth of his copy, though raillery met him at every step of the way.

This resolution was so strengthened when he received payment for his work that he promised to come every afternoon that week.

When he reached home the remnant of wounded pride sank out of sight at Amy's pleasure over the papers and dainties half his earnings had brought her. The remaining half was laid away as a foundation toward the garden tools.

All this was many years ago. Tom is a wealthy man now, and the owner of a far-western ranch, but he dates the beginning of his business life from that afternoon's work, and attributes his success to the truth of the copy, "Industry need not wish."—Margaret Finley, in Golden Days.