A LITTLE COWARD by Minnie E. Kenney

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Jun 5, 1900

A LITTLE COWARD.

By Minnie E. Kenney

Minnie E. Kenney, in Christian at Work.

ELSIE and Dick were on their way to meet some of their schoolmates, who were going to the woods to hunt for ferns.

Elsie had started first, because it would take her longer to get there than it would Dick. It was quite a little walk to the place of meeting. It would not have been so far if Elsie had “cut ’cross lots,” like most little country girls and boys; but there was a very large field in the way, which Elsie always went around.

Now, if I tell you why Elsie did this, some of you will think that she was a very silly little girl; and perhaps some little boys and girls will call her a coward, as her brother Dick did.

Elsie was very much afraid of cows. Even of gentle old Brindle, whom she had known all her life, she was somewhat afraid, and she would go a long way out of her path to avoid meeting a strange cow. You will not wonder, then, why Elsie did not go through the field when I tell you that there were always several cows in it, some of which had the reputation of being bad-tempered. One big black cow, with ugly-looking horns, Elsie was particularly afraid of, and a loud moo-oo would send her scampering past the field as fast as her feet could carry her. She had just passed this part of her walk when she heard Dick calling.

“Hello, Elsie! wait a minute,” and looking back, she saw him running right through the field, among those dreadful cows, without the least sign of fear.

“O Dick! how can you come through that field?” exclaimed Elsie, with a sigh of relief as he jumped over the fence, and stood safely beside her.

“I’m not a ’fraid cat like you,” answered Dick, scornfully. “I’m not such a baby as to be afraid of a few cows.”

Elsie did not resent being called a coward; she was quite used to it by this time.

“Let’s stop, and rest a while under this big tree; it’s so hot,” she said.

“All right,” answered Dick, throwing himself on the grass. “We’ve lots of time. I say, Elsie,” he exclaimed, as he looked up into the green branches waving over his head, “do you see that nest up there? Tom Reed said yesterday that he would bet any money that I don’t dare go up and get it. Now, I will just get it down, and show it to him this morning,” and he sprang up and took off his coat.

“O Dick, please don’t!” cried Elsie. “Perhaps there are little birds in it.”

“No, there are not,” answered Dick, “for it’s an old nest, and has been there two or three years,” and in another moment he had reached one of the lower limbs, and was making his way upward.

The bird that had built the nest had evidently intended that it should be beyond the reach of any boy; for she had selected the end of a long and not very strong limb to build upon, and her home had hitherto been undisturbed, for no boy had cared enough about the nest to venture after it.

Elsie stood looking up into the tree. She could hear Dick rustling among the leaves as he went up higher and higher, although she could only now and then catch a glimpse of him.

“Dick!” she cried, as she saw him venturing cautiously out on a limb. “Dick, please don’t go any farther. I am sure that branch will break with you. Don’t go out on it.”

Dick paused, irresolute. He knew that he would be running a great risk if he ventured any farther out on that slender limb; and he half determined to please Elsie and come down again, without making any further effort to get the nest.

Then he thought of what the boys would say if they should hear that he had been up the tree, and was afraid to get the nest.

Afraid! At the mere thought of such a taunt, Dick’s face flushed, and he resolved to get the nest, even at the risk of breaking his neck.

“This branch is safe enough, Elsie,” he called down to her. “Don’t you wish you were up here, too?” and he rocked backward and forward on the swaying limb.

“I see Aunt May coming around the corner,” he said, presently. “I must hurry and get the nest before she comes. Here’s my hat,” and he threw his broad-brimmed straw hat down on the grass that it might not be in his way.

“Dick, Dick, don’t,” pleaded Elsie, almost crying with terror, as she saw the branch bending beneath his weight.

“Stop your noise, Elsie,” commanded Dick, a little roughly, it must be confessed. He was nervous himself, although he wouldn’t have owned up to it for anything in the world.

Elsie stood still, her hands clasped together, scarcely breathing in her anxiety. Dick was crawling cautiously along, and he had almost reached the nest, and with his hand outstretched to grasp it, had “Hurrah” on the tip of his tongue, when there was a crackling noise, and Elsie uttered a scream of terror as the limb broke off, and Dick came crashing through the branches. One of the lower limbs broke his fall, and he hung on it for a moment and then fell to the ground.

“Dick, Dick, are you dead?” cried Elsie, as he lay white and unconscious. “O Aunt May, Dick is killed.”

Aunt May bent over him with face as white as Elsie’s own.

“No, he isn’t dead, Elsie,” she said, as she could hear a faint breathing. “Run home as fast as you can for your father, Elsie. I will stay here with him.”

Elsie hardly waited for her auntie’s words to start off. Her little feet fairly flew over the ground. When she reached the field where the cows were, she paused just a moment. Could she go through it? Could she pass those terrible cows? She was only a little girl, you know, and it required almost as much courage to think of going among them as it would if they had been bears. Only a moment she paused; then one thought of Dick lying white and motionless under the trees, decided her. With a very earnest little prayer in her heart, Elsie climbed over the fence. Every moment was so precious. Perhaps Dick might die before her father could get to him. She ran bravely on, trembling as the cows raised their heads and looked at her in mild-eyed wonder, and as the black cow uttered a loud “moo-oo-oo,” it seemed as if her feet would refuse to carry her another step. At last she reached the fence, and clambered over it, scarcely believing that she had really crossed the field unhurt.

It took only a few moments for her father to harness up the horse and drive back with her to where she had left Dick. He was sitting up now, leaning against Aunt May, a little color returning to his white cheeks, the nest closely held in his right hand, while his left arm hung helplessly at his side.

He had really escaped with only a broken arm and a slight bruise, wonderful as it seemed, considering the height of his fall. The hardest thing would be to keep him quiet while his arm was getting well again. For a few days the pain made him so weak that he was glad enough to stay in bed and have the window darkened so that the light would not make his head ache. When he was able to sit up, then indeed it was a hard matter to keep him quiet. He was irritable, and it took everybody’s best efforts to keep him in a good humor.

“O Dick, I wish you had not climbed up after that nest, and hurt yourself,” said Elsie one morning, when it seemed impossible to please him.

“I don’t then,” said Dick. “I am not a coward. I would rather get hurt than be afraid to do a thing because there is a little danger in it. You’re only a girl, and girls are always afraid to do anything except walk around and play croquet. Bah! ’Fore I’d be a girl!”

Aunt May heard this speech.

“Do you really think you’re braver than Elsie?” she asked, quietly.

“Of course I am,” answered Dick, in surprise. “Do you think Elsie would have dared to climb the tree after that nest?”

“Do you know, Dick, it seemed to me that day as if Elsie was the brave one and you were the coward,” said Aunt May.

“Why, auntie!” exclaimed both the children, in surprise.

“I mean just what I say,” said Aunt May, smiling at their surprise. “Tell me, Dick, why did you want to get that particular nest so much?”

“Tom Reed dared me to get it,” answered Dick, promptly. “I didn’t want the nest itself; but I wanted to get it because it was so far out that no other fellow would dare to go after it.”

“Oh!” said Aunt May, “then you went because you were afraid not to go,—afraid to be thought a coward; and that fear made you hazard your life. I should call that being very much of a coward indeed. Now, I will tell you how my little Elsie proved her bravery,” she added, putting her arms around the little girl, and drawing her to her side. “Dick, you know how afraid Elsie is of cows?”

“Yes, she’s more afraid of a cow than I am of a bear,” said Dick, wondering how Aunt May was going to prove Elsie’s bravery.

“Don’t you think it would take a good deal of courage for her to go through a field full of them? I don’t say that it would have been brave for either you or me, but don’t you think it would be a pretty hard thing for Elsie to do?”

“That’s just what she never will do,” exclaimed Dick, triumphantly. “I’ve seen Elsie walk all the way around that field a hundred times.”

“Yes, I know you have,” answered Aunt May; “but the other day, when you were lying under the tree, and Elsie thought you were dying, she went right through the field, because she wanted to bring your father to you as soon as possible. She was afraid to go, but her love for you led her to conquer her fears, and go bravely through among the cows. Wasn’t that true bravery, Dick?”

“You’re a brick, Elsie,” said Dick, warmly. “I didn’t think anything in the world would make you go past black Daisy.”

“There is a difference, you see, Dick,” said Aunt May, “between daring and courage. It was a daring thing in you to go out on that branch, when you knew yourself that it was dangerous; but your daring came from a sort of cowardice after all, while Elsie didn’t put herself in the way of danger from a desire to prove that she was brave, but her courage came to her when she needed it to do what she thought was right for her to do. Boys don’t often stop to think about this in the right way, I know, Dick; but don’t you think it is better sometimes to be thought a coward than really to be one? I am going to fasten this nest up in the corner of your room so it will remind you sometimes of my little lecture. Shall I?”

“Yes, if you like,” said Dick, rather doubtfully.

I think it was a reminder to him sometimes of the difference between daring and courage. Of course, like all boys, he sometimes got them sadly mixed, but I don’t think he ever risked his life again to show that he was not afraid.