Discontented Boys at Home.
It has been said by those who knew him best that Joe Davis, when at home, was one of the most discontented boys that could be found in Hampden, and yet none of the other fellows could understand why. If Joe didn't feel like doing up his chores at night, his poor old mother, although she was not able to do such work, would bring in the wood and water, milk the cow, prepare the kindlings, and never scold or complain. Joe could go out coasting or skating the moment he had finished his supper, and stay just as long as any one would remain with him, positive that nothing would be said, no matter what time it was when he got home. Then he could lie in bed until eight o'clock, if he didn't chance to feel like getting up earlier, for he knew that not only his work would be done for him, but that a nice warm breakfast would be prepared as soon as he should say he was ready to eat it. Every boy in town thought that Joe was one of the most fortunate fellows in the world, and more than once, when some of them were prevented from joining their companions at play, because of work to be done, they would wish that they were in Joe Davis' shoes. But yet Joe was discontented. Somehow, he never seemed to enjoy his sport as much as the other fellows did who were obliged to do their work before they could play; and as for his privilege of lying in bed mornings it is certain that he never appreciated it fully. He never could seem to understand why some of the other boys always kissed their mother before they went out of the house, nor why they would be so anxious to save her any labor, when by so doing they were losing a game of ball, or the first of the coasting. In fact, he was thoroughly discontented, even though he had a much easier time than his companions, and he never understood why it was. But there came a day when Joe understood fully, and knowledge brought with it a sorrow from which he will probably never be free. His mother died. Congestion of the lungs, the doctors said. Overwork, the neighbors decided, and Joe knew that it was because she had taken cold one rainy night when she went after the cow, because he was trying an experiment with a new water-wheel at the brook. Now, strange as it may seem, the moment Joe's mother was dead, and he had kissed the cold lips that would never more answer him, and pressed the white hands that had grown rough and calloused working for him, he understood all that he had wondered at before. It seemed to him that his play had not been enjoyable as was the other fellows' because he had not had the tasks to make it an agreeable relief. He knew that if he had done his work the hours of recreation would have been sweeter; that if it had been impossible for him to do just as he wanted to at all times, he would have had more zest in his sports when he did have perfect freedom. When it was too late, Joe realized how dear a kiss from a mother might be, more especially when accompanied by the thought that he had done all he could to make her life-burden lighter. He realized, also, that the best and truest friend a boy can ever have is his mother, and it is little wonder that Joe's heart was heavy—that the tears he shed did not lessen his grief. The reason of Joe Davis' sorrow, which will last through all his life, has not been told with an idea that a single boy who reads this has ever neglected his mother, although it is just possible that some of them have at times forgotten to do a certain piece of work or deliver a message that they were charged with. I chanced to be thinking, when I began to write, of my own dear old mother, whose love and kindness have been tried in many ways, and of Joe Davis, and it is not strange that, with these memories, I should wonder if any other boy had done, or would do, anything that would cause him unutterable grief when he should look upon his mother for the last time in this world. Now, boys, when you get discontented with your home or anything about it, stop and think if your discontentment does not come from the fact that you are getting less work with your play than is good for you. Look about to see if you cannot find something to do which shall make you feel better after it is done; and above all, remember that a contented heart comes from knowledge of some good accomplished. No fellow who truly loves his mother, who does all he can to help her, who is willing to give up his pleasure for hers, will ever be discontented at home. And no fellow who does all this will ever feel as Joe Davis does to-day, even though he is now a man, as he remembers that his discontent came from actual neglect of his dear old mother. But there is really no need of writing all this, for, of course, no fellow now-a-days would ever neglect in any way, or cause sorrow to, his best and truest friend on earth.—Congregationalist.