THE MAN WHO KILLED THE HENS.
By H. L. H.
Tom and Fred were neighbors, tho they could hardly be said to be great friends. A man who would have friends must show himself friendly; but, tho Tom was friendly enough, Fred was rather a surly chap. They were, however, sober and industrious; and each prided himself on his well-kept garden, striving to produce the earliest peas and the biggest cabbages, tho when Tom happened to get the advantage Fred was sure to be savage about it. One spring morning Fred looked out and saw Tom's hens scratching up his peas. He rushed out half dressed, and made an onslaught upon the invaders, killed two hens, and drove the rest away, and, feeling a little mean over his exploit, flung the dead hens over into the field at the back of the gardens, and went into the house. When the hens were found, Fred pretended to know nothing about it. But as Tom suspected that Fred had killed them, and Fred knew he had, it was not strange that coolness sprang up between the families. Harvest-time came, and Fred Archer fell from the top of a wagon, and broke a leg and some ribs, and was laid up in the house. He did not suffer for bread, for his employer and others looked after that, but his garden went to the dogs, and got weedy and seedy enough. Tom thought it over, and one day said to his wife: "I can't bear to see it so. It isn't doing as we'd be done by. I'll take a spell at poor Fred's garden myself." "He doesn't deserve it," said Tom's wife, as she thought of the dead hens. "The Bible tells us to bear one another's burdens," replied Tom. "Fred wouldn't have put his little finger to one of ours," said the wife. "If ye do good only to them that do good to you, what thank have ye?" was Tom's prompt reply. "I believe you are right, Tom," said his wife, "but there's our garden wants as much work as you can give it." "Look not every man on his own things, but every man on the things of others," was Tom's rejoinder, and that put an end to the argument. Fred was sitting in the easy chair one evening; he was rather more cross than usual, as sick folks are when they begin to mend, when in came neighbor Tom with— Fred, with an effort, growled out a half-civil answer. "About your garden, neighbor?" said Tom. "What about it?" asked Fred. " 'Tis in a terrible mess." "Could have told you that," said Fred. "I want to put it to rights a bit, if you would let me!" "Yes, why not; there's those trees need cutting." "A good many things want seeing to," said Tom. "You need not tell me that," said the crippled man. "What for? I can't pay you if you do." "I don't want you to; may I do it?" "If you like," answered Fred. So Tom put his odd time into Fred's garden. A month later Fred was hobbling around with a stick and watching Tom as he was raking over a bed. Everything was neat and tidy; but when he looked over Tom's fence he said:— "Why, Tom, you are backward with your own work." "Rather, neighbor, but I'll soon catch up. There, I think that puts on the finishing stroke," he added, as he shouldered his rake to go home. "But Tom,—stop a bit, Tom,—I've got something to say. I say, Tom, this is very kind of you. I could not have thought of it. And Tom! I say, Tom, I can't bear it," and he drew his brown hand across his face, and brought it away moist. "I can't bear it, Tom; to think how crooked I've always been with you. Those hens of yours, Tom." "Never mind about them, Fred." " 'Twas I that killed 'em, Tom." "Never mind," answered Tom, "they shouldn't have got into your garden." "Did you know I did it, then?" "Well, I gave a pretty close guess; but what matters?" "You've beat me," sobbed Fred; "you've beat me out and out. God bless you for it, Tom!" And he held out his hand to Tom, who grasped it and shook it heartily. The man who killed the hens was conquered, and Tom Carter had learned how to "overcome evil with good."—H. L. H.