THERE is something in the beautiful story of the Prodigal Son which appeals irresistibly to the hearts of the boys.
“I tell you,” says Johnnie Wildhead, “I shouldn’t expect to be forgiven if I’d ever done like the prodigal. I don’t believe my father’d run to meet me, with a nice robe and a gold ring. Why, last night I stayed out till eleven o’clock because I couldn’t very well get away from the boys. My father met me in the hall as cross as two sticks. He didn’t have any ring for me, I can tell you. ‘Don’t you remember, John,’ he said stiffly, ‘that I told you to be home at nine? your mother and I have been sitting up waiting for you all this time;’ and then he added severely: ‘Now, don’t let this occur again.’ Mother’s eyes were all red and swollen, and I heard her say to father that she believed she smelled cigarets on my clothes. I hurried off to bed fast as I could go; but I do think it’s too bad I can’t have my own way at all, but must be watched like a little boy,—why, I’m most fifteen years old!”
So says Johnnie Wildhead, as he straightens himself up very straight, tips his hat a little farther on one side, and assumes an air of great importance.
Of course, boys, this is Johnnie Wildhead,—it isn’t you! I don’t suppose any of you would do as he does,—but just step in a minute and listen while I have a little talk with young Mr. Wildhead.
You say, John, that your father did not meet you with a robe and a ring. Well, my lad, did you comply with the conditions with which the prodigal in the parable complied?
“Why, I didn’t know that the prodigal did anything worthy of imitation, except to go home.”
But he did, John. Do you forget that the first and only thing he said was, “Father, I have sinned against heaven, and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son; make me as one of thy hired servants.” He was humble enough to take the lowest place if he might only stay at home. Now, sir, did you meet your father with the words, “Father, I have sinned”? Then how could you expect the ring and the robe?
Seriously now, do you not think your father and mother showed great care and love for you in sitting up until you came home? Don’t you remember how pale your mother looked, and how tired your father seemed? Your father is getting to be an old man, John, and your dear mother will not always be with you. She was weary last night, and needed her rest, but she could not sleep while you were away. She feared you were in bad company. It would break her heart if she knew you were spending all the long evening with those rough, profane Blank boys. The first thing you know, sir, you will be learning to drink beer like an old toper. Already your mother smelled cigaret smoke on your clothes,—this you admit.
Come, tell me now; you have learned to smoke, haven’t you?
“Well, the boys made fun of me. They called me a baby, and I couldn’t stand that,—I’m no baby—I’m in my fifteenth year.”
So you told me before. Yet you are not man enough and you have not enough true courage to brave a little ridicule. O John! you are a great coward, in spite of your fifteen years. How long before you are going to be a man instead of a coward?
I see your eyes snap at that word “coward.” I hope you are not angry with me,—wait, I’m not done yet. I want to speak a word about the way you treat your sister. She is a little younger than you, and so you treat her as if she were your inferior. This morning you were not civil to her. You were positively cruel. Is that the way a true gentleman treats those who are weaker than he? If that is your idea of manliness, I pity you. Why do you not treat your sister as well as you do other girls? When you meet Amy Jones or Susie Dean on the street, you very gallantly raise your hat. That is good; I am glad you do; but what has your own dear sister done that she is not entitled to as much love and respect as other girls? If any other fellow dared to treat her as you do, you would be angry enough to punish him. Do you not see that you lack some of the qualities of a true gentleman?
Now then, my boy, turn square about. Be loving and kind and helpful in your home. Quit staying out late nights. Break off from your questionable companions. Don’t smoke another one of those dirty cigarets. Be good and generous toward your sister, and never be ashamed of showing your affection for her. Be brave enough to dare the ridicule of bad boys, even if they are larger than you. Don’t be afraid of being laughed at if you should be seen to give your mother a good, warm kiss now and then. She loves you, Johnnie Wildhead, better than any one else does in this world. And remember that your father needs your help. Quit dawdling. Have some aim and object in life. Don’t deceive yourself into the idea that you know it all, even if you are almost fifteen. You can’t imagine how disgusting your pompos airs appear to every one. Have courage enough to confess your faults, both to the God whom you have offended, and to your parents and friends,—and perhaps, Johnnie Wildhead, you may yet become a man, and a true one.
What! crying? I’m glad to see those tears—you need not try to hide them, they are the best proof of a tender and loving heart, and they are a much better proof of true manhood than a cigaret between your lips.
Now, boys, all this has been said to John Wildhead. But if any one of you should notice that Johnnie’s coat fits you exactly, why, just put it on; and then you will not have listened in vain, and maybe some day you will be glad you heard every word.