A Troublesome Boy

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Apr 15, 1886

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 12, No. 15.

A Troublesome Boy.

"Ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath; but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord." Eph. 6:4.

"LANE has been making us trouble again. I dislike to tell you, but what can we do with him?"

Mrs. Houston stood by the gate, with the tears running down her cheeks, as her husband, after an absence of a day and a night, drove up to his house.

"What is it now?" he asked, alighting from his wagon, and going to his wife's side, with a dark, discouraged look settling down upon his face.

"Oh, that poor boy sold his watch that his grandfather gave him, to procure one of those little pocket revolvers that are so temptingly advertised in our papers. He got angry at his sisters this morning, and presently hearing him say in a loud voice, 'Take care there, or I will draw my seven-shooter on you!' I entered the room to find him standing on one of the chairs, brandishing a loaded revolver, and pointing it at the girls' heads. I commanded him as calmly as I could to go to his room; but the scene gave my nerves such a shock that I have been in a tremble ever since!"

"He obeyed you, did he not?"

"He refused to give up the murderous little weapon, but left the parlor for his room, saying that he had got the best of this family now, and would bring them all to terms before he got through with this quarrel. I have been momentarily expecting that he would shoot himself, or some one of the family, and have listened for the report of the revolver till I am quite unnerved. I am thankful that you have come; but do not, I entreat you, go near the desperate boy until his paroxysm of temper has had time to subside."

"We shall have to send him to the Reform School," said Mr. Houston decidedly. "His offenses heretofore have been grave enough to send him to a worse place. I will have lunch, and then immediately start for M—— on the twelve o'clock train. Oh, it is hard, it is humiliating beyond measure, to be obliged to acknowledge to the world that I have a son whose conduct is such as to bring him within the statutory provisions concerning commitments to the Reform School."

Mr. Houston returned from his mournful errand just in time for the six o'clock dinner. When he went to his room to make his toilet, his wife followed him.

"What is the result of your journey?" she asked, as soon as they were alone.

Her husband looked so distressed that she began to tremble again; and when he attempted to reply, it was some moments before he could command his voice, or find words to make himself intelligible.

"The superintendent of the school, a very pleasant, agreeable man, and a Christian, to whom I had confided, some time since, my anxiety in regard to Lane, listened to this new trouble with a grave sympathy which quite won my heart. When I had finished speaking, he said, 'Yes, Mr. Houston, you must have him sent here by all means. He needs the discipline of this institution. But before definite arrangements are made, I want to ask you one question. You say he has always been a hard case to manage; that you have tried every way to effect his reformation; that love, fear, and force have all been employed in the premises; and that you have even tried to hire him to alter his behavior, paying him a certain sum of money per day so long as he should commit no misdeed; but all these measures have failed. Now I want to know whether you have tried praying with him?'"

"No," said I, very much taken by surprise. "I have never thought of doing that."

"Well," said the superintendent, "you must go home and pray with him. I don't feel as if I could receive him here, or have anything to do with the case, until the power of prayer at his home, and that in his presence, has been tried."

"I cannot pray before my family," I said.

"What! you a church-member, and do not have family prayer?" he replied.

"No, sir," was my answer, very deeply humiliated by the confession.

"Go home and set up a family altar tonight," he said.

"I cannot," I pleaded. "I have not the courage to broach the matter, even to my wife. We never speak upon the subject of religion."

"It is high time you take up this cross, if a cross it is," he urged. "How can you expect that son to submit his will to yours when you do not submit your will to the Master? To-night at nine o'clock, call your family together, read a chapter from the word of God, and lead in prayer. At that time my wife and I will go into our closets and pray for you all, especially for Lane. Let us now take the Lord Jesus into our council."

"I came away upon that. But what am I to do about it? I don't know. I can never pray aloud in the presence of my family."

"Dear husband," replied Mrs. Houston, sobbing, "I have been thinking for a long time that we are shirking our duty in this direction. Do not have any more misgivings about it, do not hesitate another moment. I will arrange everything this evening—never fear. The Lord will pardon us, let us hope, and give us strength when the hour arrives."

"Has Lane been down-stairs since?" asked the father, himself moved to tears.

"No; and he has had nothing to eat, and no one has spoken to him since breakfast."

"What if he should start to go down town to spend the evening?"

"I have a plan which I think will keep him at home to-night."

On his way down-stairs Mr. Houston went to his son's door and called in a pleasant voice, "Come, my son, dinner is waiting." Lane quickly opened the door, with his hair freshly brushed, and neatly attired. He had dressed for dinner, although expecting, should he try the door, he would find it still locked upon the outside, and not doubting that he was to be again put upon a protracted diet of bread and water.

He came down-stairs, wondering on the way if it were possible that his father, in this controversy, had espoused his cause against his mother; or whether, as it seemed most likely to him, the possession of the vicious little fire-arm had indeed brought them all to "terms."

Lane was given to stealing out of the house in the evenings, and frequenting questionable resorts in company with boys who were nearly as wayward as himself; but to-night Mrs. Houston forestalled any such course by saying, as soon as dinner was over: "I wish, children, you would make two or three panfuls of pop-corn balls, to carry to the charity festival to-morrow. The materials are all ready, and, Lane, you must superintend the popping of the corn, and the preparation of the molasses and sugar."

This was one of the lad's favorite pastimes, and he went about the business in hand with alacrity, his brothers and sisters obeying his many orders, glad to have this new outbreak blow over without developing into a regular warfare between him and his father.

When eight and a half o'clock came, Mrs. Houston was called out into the kitchen to see the result of the evening's labors.

"Thank you, my good children," she said. "They are as nice, and white, and round, as any that could be made by the confectioners themselves. Now wash up, so as to be in the parlor when the clock strikes nine; there is something else pleasant in store for you."

The young people obeyed, wondering and eager. At nine o'clock, precisely, their mother folded up the day's newspapers, put them in the large wall-pocket, and brought a Bible and placed it upon the reading-table.

Mr. Houston's voice trembled a little as he said: "It has been brought very forcibly to my mind to-day, that I have been shamefully neglecting my duty and the highest welfare of you, my children, in not joining with you in the study of this blessed word, and in family prayer. To-night we will begin a different course, and see whether we shall not all be made happier and better by following it." He now read a chapter, and then knelt down. His wife and children followed his example, all except Lane. He sat bolt upright, with a stern, pale face, and perturbed air, now and then casting quick glances toward the door, as if meditating an escape.

The poor father at first could find no words to express his conflicting thoughts, and deep, prayerful desires; but as he called to mind his friends, the superintendent and his wife, on their knees in prayer for him at that very moment, his stammering tongue was unloosed, and his unburdened soul found wonderful freedom at the throne of grace. As he was closing a most tender and pathetic appeal in behalf of his erring son, and that all might submit their rebellious wills to Christ's loving sovereignty, Lane arose from his chair, crossed the room, and, kneeling by his father's side, threw his arm around his father's neck; sobbing: "Pray on, father! pray on! I have tried to ask God to cleanse my wicked heart; but I could not seem to reach him by myself. I know he will hear me now, when you are willing to pray with me."

Lane was completely subdued. The leaven of repentance and faith toward God had worked entire reformation and healing. He stepped up to the table, and laid the loaded revolver upon it near his father's side. "It is I who have been brought to terms," he said. "I don't think you will have any more trouble with Lane. Forgive, oh, forgive me, my father and mother, and brothers and sisters, as I hope in the forgiveness of Jesus Christ!"—American Tract Society.