AN UNSATISFACTORY EFFORT.
By Mary E. Wilkins
"ALLIE won't get any, there's no sense in her going. Why, she went berrying a dozen times last year, and she never got the bottom of her pail covered once." "I will, too, now you keep still, Mabel," said Allie. "I'll pick as many as you, see if I don't." "Now, children, if you are not sweeter-tempered toward each other, you shall not go at all," said Mrs. Blakesly, coming out on the piazza, where the children were assembled with their pails all ready to start. There were two little girls from the neighborhood, Allie and Mabel Blakesly and little Josie. Josie was only eight and had never been berrying before. Her little fat face and her bright black eyes were fairly radiant with delight. "O mamma, I didn't mean anything," said Mabel, who was really a good-natured girl. "I was only joking." "You wouldn't like to be joked," said Allie, in an injured way. "Well, I couldn't help it. It was funny the way she went berrying. Some of the time she ate her berries, and some of the time she sat under a tree and rested, and, if she didn't do anything else, she spilled them." "I think you're too bad," said Allie, half laughing herself. "Well, I won't say another word. Come on." Allie, in her old gingham and her old hat, marched along with the others. She did not talk as much as usual. She was thinking. By the time they reached the berry pasture, she was fired with resolution. She would fill her pail full to the brim this time; they should see. Allie was a slow-motioned, dreamy little girl. She was not deft with her fingers. If she worked steadily, it was long before she could get a task done, and it was very hard for her to work steadily. To-day, in spite of her firm resolve, it was very difficult for her to pick five minutes without stopping and staring lazily at the blue sky through the tall bushes, or at her busy companions. As Mabel had said, she ate a good many berries, too, in an abstracted way. Poor little Allie really lacked sadly the power of concentration, but the others knew nothing about that. They only laughed at her good-naturedly because she was so slow about picking berries. To-day, it seemed to Allie herself that she had never worked with such feverish speed. When it was time to go home, and her pail was only two-third's full, she could not understand it. She peeped furtively at the others, keeping hers out of sight. They were all full, even little Josie's, though hers was much smaller than the rest. She had turned out an apt little picker. She was close beside Allie, indeed she had picked beside her all the afternoon. She felt that she was more of a chum; the other girls were a little older. When her pail was full, she held it up to Allie with rapture. Mabel was singing out across the pasture that it was time to go home. Allie looked at the little pail brimful of berries, and a great temptation seized her. She looked at Josie's pail, then at her own. If about half of Josie's berries were turned into her pail, it would fill it full. Allie hesitated. Could she? "It would be so mean," she told herself. "Come," called Mabel impatiently. Josie started. "Wait a minute," whispered Allie. "Look here, Josie, I want to tell you something." Allie blushed before her little sister. "See here, Josie, if you'll give me enough of your berries to fill up my pail, I'll give you Miss Prim." Miss Prim was a doll, which Josie had especially admired. The poor little thing hesitated, and looked wistfully at her berries; she had so counted on showing them, and being praised. Then she thought of Miss Prim, who was dressed in black silk and wore a white lace handkerchief around her neck, and consented. Allie's pail was filled to the brim, and she trudged soberly home with hers half full. She had promised faithfully not to tell. "Allie's got her pail full after all, mamma," Mabel said, when they got home, "and I do feel so mortified because I laughed at her. They are lovely ones, too. I do believe they're better than mine." Everybody exclaimed over Allie's berries. She did not take much pleasure in their praise, however. She felt guilty, and she did not dare to look at Josie. The poor little girl stood by with her half pailful, looking rather pitiful. Even Miss Prim could hardly console her. They were very kind to her about her berries; they thought she had done wonderfully for the first time. But she kept thinking, "What would they say if they knew how many I really picked?" She felt hurt at Allie's depriving her of her first little hard-earned glory, and wondered innocently how she could. But she faithfully kept her promise not to tell. They had berries and milk for tea, but Allie did not eat any. She was growing uneasy. She had passed over Miss Prim slyly to Josie, but that had not made matters any better with herself. The meanness and deceit of which she had been guilty kept standing out blacker and blacker. It was a long time before she could get to sleep that night. At last she made a resolution which pacified her a little, and fell asleep on it. She would not eat another berry that season. She was extremely fond of berries, too. She kept her resolution to the great wonderment of everybody. They could not imagine what had turned Allie against berries. She even refused berry pie, like a sincere but mistaken little martyr. She did more than this to satisfy her conscience. They went berrying again, and she assisted Josie to fill a larger pail, and went home with hers half empty. But that made matters no better. Honest little Josie told at once that Allie had helped her; she never even dreamed of taking credit which did not belong to her. Allie looked so black to herself beside Josie! Her self-imposed penances did not seem to whiten her at all. Still she went on with them. One day there was a beautiful berry pudding for dinner, and she would not take any. Her mother laid down the spoon, and stared at her. "What is the reason you act so about eating berries, Allie?" said she. "I—don't care for them," Allie faltered. "Why not, have they made you sick?" "No, mamma." She was almost crying. Her mother said nothing more. After dinner, when her mother had gone into the sitting-room, Allie followed her. She stood looking meditatively out of the window for a minute, then she began. "I want you to tell me something. If—anybody does anything wrong, is there anything that can make up for not telling of it?" "No, Allie, I don't think so." "Suppose—anybody kept on being real good—for a thousand years, wouldn't they feel any—easier then?" "Then I shan't try it any longer—I didn't pick all the berries. I filled the pail up with Josie's, and made her promise not to tell." "What?" It took considerable explanation before Mrs. Blakesly understood. "I suppose I ought to tell Mabel and papa, and the other girls," said Allie, with a pale, determined look. "I suppose I had. I'll go right and tell Mabel now, then I'll go and tell the girls, and I'll tell papa when he comes home." That night, when passed her saucer of berries, Allie took it with a happy, humble look. Never had they tasted so good before. "Mamma," she said, in her slow, reflective way, when she was being tucked up in bed that night, "how very silly it is for anybody to try and punish themselves, when it's a great deal harder than God's way, and doesn't do any good either."—Mary E. Wilkins, in Congregationalist.