How Trot Was Cured by Mary F. Lathrop

International Tract and Missionary Society · Oakland, California · Jun 10, 1886

FromSigns of the Times, Vol. 12, No. 22.

How Trot Was Cured.

By Mary F. Lathrop

His real name was Thomas Trotter Wadsworth, but everybody, from the minister to the milkman, called him Trot. He was nine years old, and small of his age. He had big blue eyes, and a round, chubby face, plentifully sprinkled with freckles, and crowned with bristling sandy hair. When the minister, who had no little boys or girls of his own, visited Trot's home, he shook hands gravely with the boy, and said: "Trot, my little man, I am glad to see you so regular in attendance at Sabbath-school." The minister never said any more, and never any less. Trot was somewhat afraid of his solemn voice and stiff manner, but nothing save measles or diphtheria would have kept him home from Sabbath-school. He even attended when his arm was broken by a fall from the grape arbor, which he had climbed to rescue Laura Joslyn's kitten. Laura cried because the kitten could not get down, and Trot would have willingly risked his neck to save Laura a tear. When his face was battered and scratched in the grand foot-ball scrimmage, Trot convulsed the boys and tried his mother's patience to the utmost by appearing in Sabbath-school with more court-plaster than skin visible on his face. He had an idea—and it was not such a bad idea, either—that the Sabbath-school would fail and the minister be disheartened, if he did not attend.

On the whole, Trot was a clever, honest boy—just such a fun-loving, rough-and-tumble chap as you would like for a playmate. But he had one bad habit, learned from boys of a larger growth. On the corner above the brick house in which Trot lived was a grocery store. Only an ordinary grocery store, with the usual stock of fruit and berries in season; but that store was Trot's stumbling-block. Try as he might, he could not pass it; something seemed to draw and hold him, as on enchanted ground. Mr. Martin, the grocer, was a good-natured man, who bore patiently the annoyance of ten or twelve boys standing around his pavement. His patience was sorely tried, however, when the boys developed a talent for tasting and sampling his pears, cherries, and apples. Some of them further annoyed him by pulling the silk out of the ears of corn to wrap in brown paper and smoke as imitation cigars, but Trot was above that. He thought smoking was a filthy habit. What do you think? But he was not above picking the largest strawberry out of a box, or the best bunch of red currants off a tray, else this story never would have been written for other little Trots. At such times he usually said: "What are currants to-day, Mr. Martin? Fine lot you have there!" just as he heard Mr. Avery and Mrs. Miller say when they picked and tasted.

Poor tormented Mr. Martin saw his profits being carried away before his eyes without redress. He did not want to offend the boys' parents; but on several occasions, when his outraged sense of justice got the better of his discretion, he caught some of the more daring offenders by the shoulders and spanked them—just as your mother spanks you. Trot was not punished in that way. It was reserved for his mother to cure him effectually. For a long time he had been helping himself to Mr. Martin's dried peaches, raisins, currants, berries, and fruit, when one morning he went home with three fine bunches of cherries in his hand.

"Where did you get your cherries, Trot?" said his mother.

"Up at Mr. Martin's," said Trot, promptly. "Aren't they beauties?" with an admiring gaze, as he held them up.

"Yes, very nice. Did he give them to you?" was the next question.

The answer was not so prompt this time. Trot began to have misgivings.

"No," he said.

"Oh! you bought them," his mother went on, blithely. "How much were they?"

Trot's answer was long delayed. At last he said: "They are twelve cents a pound; but—but—I did not buy these."

His mother was looking searchingly at him, and those last words were hard to say. His eyes fell before the quick glance of his mother.

"What do you mean, child?" she questioned. "You did not buy them, and Mr. Martin did not give them to you. How did you get them?"

Should Trot live to be an old man, I do not believe anything will ever seem quite so difficult as that explanation to his mother. He stood on his left foot, ran his empty hand through his bristling hair, stood on his right foot. His face grew red, and his breath grew short. Oh, it was dreadful! And all the while his mother's eyes seemed piercing him through.

"Why—a, you see, they were there in the tray by the door, and I put my head inside, and I said, 'Fine cherries these, Mr. Martin; how much are they?' and he said, 'Twelve cents;' and then I—I—tasted them to see if they were good, you know."

Trot looked appealingly at his mother, but her face was very grave.

"Trot Wadsworth, do you mean to tell me that you stole Mr. Martin's cherries?"

There was an ugly little emphasis on the word "stole" that made Trot wince, but he spoke up bravely:—

"No, ma'am, I didn't; I don't steal things. I just took them like the other people, so I could see if they were nice."

The excuse had a lame sound as he made it, even to his own ears.

"Stop, Trot," said his mother; "you did not buy those cherries, and Mr. Martin did not give them to you, so you must have stolen them; taking them in that way is stealing. Do you understand?"

Yes, Trot understood all too well for his own comfort. "How many are there?" continued Mrs. Martin perseveringly.

Trot counted.

"Eleven."

"How many more did you have?"

Trot was not sure; he thought about five.

"Well," said his mother, "we will say seven. Eleven and seven are eighteen. Here are twenty-five cents. Take it up to Mr. Martin. Tell him you took eighteen cherries off his tray, that you did not mean to steal, and are very sorry." Trot looked as if he would cry, and he despised boys who cried. "Get him to weigh eighteen cherries, then pay him."

In vain, Trot explained about Mr. Avery and Mrs. Miller. His mother was inflexible. Incidentally, in his explanation, he mentioned a bunch of currants which Mr. Martin had seen him take without remonstrance. At that his mother looked so sorrowful that Trot thought she was going to cry.

"To think my little boy, whom I so trusted, is a thief," she said.

Trot broke down and cried lustily. Then the whole dreadful story came out,—raisins, dried apples, evaporated peaches, strawberries, currants, plums, and so on through the list of Trot's petty pilferings. It was a long story, interspersed with a great deal about Johnny Harris, and George McBride, and Charlie Keyser, and how they picked up Mr. Martin's wares. The grown folks also came in for their share. In a way that should have made the interested parties blush Trot told how Mrs. Walker ate two or three pears, to see if they were good, then said, "I believe I will not take any to-day;" how Mr. Myers cut off a piece of cheese, and Mr. Oldman devoured the ginger-cakes, while Mrs. Merrill displayed a fondness for peaches and blackberries. But Mrs. Wadsworth insisted that this was no excuse for Trot. The end of it all was, that she made a list, on a sheet of paper, of all the things Trot could remember. She gave him this paper, and also two silver dollars, with instructions to go at once to Mr. Martin, privately tell his story, show his paper, and get the grocer to affix a value to each of the articles taken. With his two dollars Trot was to pay the bill, and bring the receipt back to his mother.

The little boy demurred at this, shook his head, cried, and passionately said: "I will not go; I never will. I'll die first."

His mother was firm. In the quiet way that meant so much to Trot, she said: "Must I go with you? I thought you would rather go alone."

That made Trot gasp for breath. To have his mother take him up to Mr. Martin, just as a policeman would take a thief; as if he, Trot Wadsworth, could not be trusted alone—why, it was too dreadful to think about! Trot's mind was made up; he would go at once, and have it over.

It was very hard to do, and though Trot crept along at a snail's pace, the walk to Mr. Martin's never seemed so short. The grocer was very kind and forgiving to the little boy who sobbed out his unpleasant story, and at first refused to take his money. But Trot could not and would not go home without paying his debt. Afterward Mr. Martin offered to return the money to his mother, but Mrs. Wadsworth said firmly: "No; it is justly yours, and the lesson in honesty is worth a thousand dollars to my little son."

To-day Trot is cashier in one of the largest banks in a great city. Not long since, one director said to another: "Good fellow, that Wadsworth! Very exacting, but honest as the sun! I believe if he picked up a dime on the floor, he would look up the owner. No danger of his running off with the cash."

"True," assented the second, "he is a queer fellow, though. Seems to worship that painted bunch of cherries over his desk. Won't have it out of his sight a minute. Must prize it because it matches his hair," and he laughed heartily at his joke.

At his desk near by Trot heard their talk. An odd little smile flitted over his face, and he said grimly to himself: "A bunch of cherries made Thomas Trotter Wadsworth an honest man."