HOW HE LEARNED TO KEEP HIS TEMPER.
By Eleanor A. Hunter
JACK'S temper was the family terror. He was one of the nicest, kindest, pleasantest boys in the world when his temper was not roused. He was honest, clever, quick at his lessons, ready to run on an errand for his father, or to help his mother, and if it had not been for that temper, he would have been a very satisfactory boy; as it was, everybody lived in fear of crossing him. His mother never left home for the afternoon without anxiety, for she knew that if Jack had a tantrum while she was not there, the consequence might be serious. Jack was always sorry after every explosion, and ashamed of himself, too, when his mother talked it over with him. "I wish I could lose it and never find it again, the villainous old thing!" said he to her after a very hard time. "I don't want to keep that kind of a temper; it's worse than a torpedo; why, mother, it goes off quicker than a flash, almost before I know it, and I can't help it." "That is true, Jack," his mother answered sadly. "You have let it go so long, now, that you cannot help it, and I know that if you continue in this way you will never make a good or useful man. As you grow older, you grow worse instead of better, and I am afraid that in a fit of passion some day you may do some dreadful thing, perhaps even committing murder. That is the end which I fear for my boy." Jack looked very sober. He had never heard his mother talk quite like this before. "What can I do, mother?" said he. "You know there is one way in which you can gain the victory, Jack," she answered. "With God's help you can conquer your temper, but you never will without it." "Mother," said Jack, "I get mad so quick that I don't have time to ask him to help me." "Of course you do not," his mother returned, "but you can ask him when you are quiet and at peace, for help in time of need." "I did," said Jack in a low voice, "only last night, and this morning I got angry just the same as ever." "But," said his mother, "God cannot help you unless you try to help yourself also. Instead of staying and bandying words this morning with Harry, you should have run away and left him. Then you would have been saved. Instead of that you courted danger." "I would not like to run away," objected Jack. "I would feel ashamed to." "I should feel more ashamed of speaking such words as you spoke this morning, than I should of running away until I could regain my self-control," his mother replied. "Mother," said Jack, "I will try harder than ever; see if I don't." His mother smiled a little sadly. She saw Jack's weakness more plainly than he did, but she only said, "I hope you will, my son," and rose and left the room. The next morning was Saturday, and Jack was out under the big apple tree, near the10kitchen door, churning for his mother. He had a blue checked apron of hers tied about his waist, and he was splashing the dasher of the old-fashioned churn up and down with great energy when his friend Tom Mallory from across the road came over. Tom had his bean slinger in his hand, and he was slowly peppering various objects as he walked along. "Hello, Bridget!" said he, as he caught sight of Jack in his kitchen regalia. "Hello yourself!" responded Jack cheerfully. He was not at all ashamed of either his costume or his occupation. "Can you go fishing this afternoon?" inquired Tom, continuing his shooting, as he seated himself on an upturned pail. "I guess so. I'll ask mother," answered Jack. Tom began aiming his ammunition at the churn, when suddenly one bean flew wide of the mark and hit Jack with considerable force in the eye. "Stop that," Jack cried, making a sudden, involuntary motion, which knocked the churn over and sent its contents flowing out upon the grass. Jack's foot slipped in the buttermilk, and down he went full length in the midst of it. He picked himself up dripping, and with his apron flapping about his heels. The sight was too much for Tom's boy nature. "I'm awful sorry," said he, but he laughed. Jack, wild with passion, flew at him. Tom turned to run, but it was too late. Jack caught up with him. "I'll pay you for this!" he shrieked, and his hard brown fist sprang out like a hammer and struck Tom on the side of his head. The boy dropped on the soft green grass without a sound, and lay quite still. "Are you hurt, Tom?" said Jack, sobered at once; but there was no answer. Jack looked at the white face for one long, dreadful minute, then he turned and went into the house as if he was walking in some frightful dream, and found his mother. "Mother," said he coming up to her and speaking thickly, "mother, come downstairs. I've killed Tom Mallory." They lifted the poor, unconscious boy up in their arms, and carried him home to his mother, while Jack crept away into a remote corner of the barn, and flung himself face downward on the hay, silent and tearless, his whole being one great ache of misery. The doctor came, and after three anxious hours Tom came to himself. It was a dangerous hurt, but there was hope of his recovery. At twilight Jack's mother came home, and her first question was, "Where is my poor boy?" But no one had seen him; indeed, no one had thought of him. They searched the house and the garden, and at last his mother thought of the barn. She stepped inside of the great doors. "Jack," she called, "Jack, dear, I want you." Listening she heard a rustling in the mow, and presently a forlorn figure came slowly down the ladder. She ran and caught him in her arms, and he hid his white face on her shoulder. "The doctor has hope," said she. "We think Tom will live." At these glad words and the tremendous revulsion of feeling they brought, Jack sobbed as though his heart would break. Tom did live; youth and health triumphed; and in after days the two boys became firmer friends than ever. Better yet, through that one hard experience Jack learned the lesson of a lifetime, for never afterward did he lose control of his temper. The old evil habit did not lose its hold at once, but he made it a subject of constant prayer and watchfulness, and he was always master of himself under any provocation.—Christian Work.