Tom Never Left the Bars Down Again
A STORY comes from a New England home of years ago, told by one of the two boys concerned, grown to manhood. Once I saved Tom from a promised whipping for leaving down the bars when he went after the cows at milking-time, thus giving the young cattle left in the pasture a chance to get out, which they always improved. If they were at the back of the lot when Tom got the cows, he thought it unnecessary to put up the bars, it would be so short a time before the cows would be driven back. Father cautioned and reproved him several times, and finally he threatened to whip him if it happened again. Several weeks passed, and he left the bars down again. The young cattle got into the corn, doing much damage. The next morning father said nothing, but went about his usual work. Tom was gloomy; there was an air of depression in the house, and I was greatly troubled. I couldn't bear to have Tom whipped, nor could I blame father. At last I resolved to go and speak to him. The sun was shining brightly, and he was opening some tumbles of hay in the east meadow. I approached him slowly, for I did not feel sure of my ground, and stood still without saying a word. He looked up at me, and said: “Well, Joe, what is it?” “I have come to you to speak about Tom, I don't want him whipped.” “I don't see how you can help it, my son. I can not have my crops destroyed in this way, and I must keep my word.” “Father, didn't you read this morning in the lesson: ‘He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; . . . and with his stripes we are healed’?” “Yes; what a boy you are to remember, Joe.” “Well, I will take the blows you intend to give Tom.” “I can't do that, Joe. Tom is the transgressor, not you,” father answered, his face softening. Then looking at me keenly, he asked: “Did Tom send you to me?” “No; he knows nothing of my coming.” My father stood leaning on his pitch-fork, looking down on the ground. At length he said: “Go and bring Tom.” I found him on the front porch with a sober face, trying to study. “Come with me, Tom; father wants you.” “I know what he wants,” turning a little pale. After a moment's hesitation he arose, saying: “I might as well go now and have it done with.” As we walked along, I thought it best to give him a little advice, for he generally did as occasion served him. There was no knowing beforehand what he would do. “Now, Tom, you mustn't flare up. You must be good, and answer father's questions in a pleasant, kind way. You mustn't talk any; only answer his questions. I don't think he will be hard with you.” Father stood as I had left him. I can see him now, after the lapse of so many years, with his back to the morning sun, leaning forward a little on the handle of his fork, looking down to the ground, one hand above the other and his chin on his hands, and some hay scattered about him. He did not seem to see us. He was lost in reverie. “Father,” I ventured, timidly, “Tom is here.” He looked up at us quickly, then said: “Tom, do you remember these words in our Scripture reading this morning: ‘He was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities; . . . and with his stripes we are healed’?” “Yes, sir,” answered Tom, greatly surprised. “What do you think these words mean?” “That Christ suffered for us,” replied Tom, his voice unsteady and his face flushing. “Well, Joe offers to suffer for you.” Tom turned to me with a look on his face I shall never forget, and exclaimed: “No, Joe, you shall not do that!” Then, flinging his arms around my neck, he kissed me, and, as quick as a flash, he stepped up to father, and held out his hand, saying: “The stripes belong to me, father; I am ready.” Tears were falling down father's face, and for a moment he could not speak. Then he said: “No, Tom, I can not punish any one now. I do not think you'll ever forget this day. If you do, remember Joe's offer holds good. I love my children, and I want to do them all the good I can. But I must be obeyed, and this is one way of doing them good. You may go now.” Tom did not stir. He was evidently9waiting for me, and yet, for some reason I could not explain, I hesitated. Stepping closer, I said: “Father, I want to kiss you.” He caught me in his arms, saying, “O my boy!” and kissed me. Then taking Tom, he said, “God bless you, dear Tom,” and kissed him, with swimming eyes. Then with great awe upon us, we went to the house. Tom never left the bars down again. —From “Quiet Talks on Home Ideals.”