p. 10 | TAKING A “DARE.”

Pacific Press Publishing Company · Oakland, California · Jan 29, 1902

TAKING A “DARE.”

There was no quality Andrew so longed to possess as that of bravery. From early childhood he had done all sorts of courageous, even foolhardy things, and nothing pleased him more than to prove to every one that he “wouldn’t take a dare.”

One day, coming through the back pasture with Ned Peters and his city cousin, Max, they noticed the colt ambling about the field.

It was a blooded colt, still unbroken, and Andrew knew it to be the pride of his father’s heart. As they stopped to admire its free, graceful movements, Max asked suddenly, “Did you ever ride it, Andy?”

“No, indeed; it never had anybody on its back. Father’s going to have a professional horseman come and train it soon. He doesn’t allow any one to handle it now but himself.”

“Well,” laughed Max, in a disagreeable way, “if that was my father’s colt, I should ride it, if I wanted to, and I don’t pretend to be uncommonly brave, either.”

Andrew flushed up. “You don’t suppose I’m afraid!” he cried. “I’ve broken more than one colt, I can tell you—it’s only that this is too valuable to be fooled with. I never saw the horse yet that I was afraid of!”

Both boys laughed—that taunting, goading laugh, so much harder to bear than any words.

“Nobody said you’re afraid, as I see,—only it’s very evident you can’t ride that colt.”

“No, indeed, you can’t,” put in Max. “Come, I’ll dare you to!”

This was too much for Andrew. “I will ride it!” he said between his shut teeth.

He pulled some clover, and imitating his father’s peculiar whistle, approached the pretty creature, which arched its neck and curvetted coquettishly. But as it had never known anything but gentle treatment, it was soon contentedly eating from Andrew’s hand.

The boy, meanwhile, watching his opportunity, and being both quick and lithe, soon made a sudden spring, and found himself astride the colt, without even a bridle to guide him. The creature reared angrily to get rid of the strange weight; but Andrew grasped the mane, and leaned forward to preserve his equilibrium.

Then began a battle that could have but one termination;

for after a few minutes the pony drew his four feet together, and made a spring that would have unseated a monkey. Andrew flew into the air like a rubber ball, and came down, hitting the ground with a sickening thud, while the colt, snorting defiance, ran away.

Ned and Max ran to the fallen boy. He lay still and white, with one arm doubled under his prostrate body.

“He’s dead!” gasped Max, in horror, while Ned ran to the well near by, and brought some water, which they dashed into his face.

After a while he opened his eyes, and sat up, but gave a cry of pain, as his right arm dangled helplessly at his side. It was broken.

They helped him to the house, and even his father had no reproaches for him, as he saw how much the boy was suffering.

However, in the long days that followed, Andrew had time to think over things to some purpose.

“Father,” said he one day, “did I do the colt any harm?”

“Considerable,—he is just getting over his lameness; but you did yourself more.”

“Yes, I know,” looking down at his splintered arm.

“I don’t mean that alone, Andrew. A broken arm will get well again; but cowardice is not so easily cured.”

“Cowardice, father!” and Andrew’s face was the picture of astonishment. “You don’t think I was cowardly in that affair?”

“Yes, I do, my son.”

“But even the boys had to give it up that I wasn’t afraid.”

“Of the colt—no, but of their ridicule—yes. Don’t you know, my son, that the fear of ridicule is the most cowardly thing in our nature, and that the brave man is he who does right in spite of it?”

“But, father, don’t you think it’s a brave boy who will never take a dare?”

“It’s a brave boy who will take one, when he knows it is the right thing to do. Moral courage is as much higher than physical courage as you are higher than a brute. Remember that, my boy, and never be afraid again to take a foolish dare.”—Anon.