Earlier text: WILL WINSLOW.In a cheerful sitting-room in one of our Western homes, at the close of the day a happy group of friends were gathered. A young man who had been perusing a paper by the window in the twilight came forward and joined the happy circle around the table. From his brown cheek and full chest we arrive at the conclusion that he is a young farmer of about eighteen years of age. As he took his seat, a cheerful voice greeted him with,— “Well, Emerson, what’s the news?” “Nothing in particular, uncle Ben,” replied Emerson, “but I was reading an offer for premiums to the young people for their best compositions.” “Ah! are you going to try?” “I! why, uncle, do you suppose a young farmer of limited education can produce anything worth reading?” “Well, I will answer your question if you will tell me what your opinion is in regard to the editor’s offers,” said uncle Ben. “Well, uncle,” replies Emerson after a few moments consideration, “it seems to me that it is intended to draw forth and develop those powers of the mind which place the mental above the physical life, and which serve to educate and refine the young. And I think this offer designed to prove that the efforts made by the writers to win the prize would result in as great benefit to those who were unsuccessful as to those who gain the prizes.” “Exactly,” said uncle Ben. “The influence is thrown in the right direction. Habits that are acquired in boyhood are sure to be found in the man, as my own experience has taught me too well. In fact, children,” continued uncle Ben, “I have a mind to tell you a story of my early life.” “Do, uncle Ben, do,” came from a chorus of voices. As uncle Ben announced his intention of telling a story, all eyes were turned upon him. Mother laid aside her book and her spectacles, for she had been reading before the twilight deepened. Father leaned back in his easy chair, and seemed to listen with as deep interest as we children did. He80knew how well uncle Ben’s mind was stored with rich incidents. While uncle spoke we thought he looked very sad. Placing his feet upon a footstool, he presently proceeded as follows:— “Many years ago, after my college education was completed, I had a strong desire for a situation on one of the railways that was then being laid through the United States. Through the influence of my friends, I received a position as fireman, on one of the leading roads. I soon won the esteem and good-will of all the officers and employees on the road. As time passed on, the superintendent and myself became deeply attached. We were about the same age. There was nothing I would not do for Frank Benway. I realized the duties of my position and determined to discharge them honorably. “But, children, I was led away; led down, down, where so many have gone before and since! I was induced by thoughtless associates to drink. What came next? I drank again, and again. One evening I had drank more than usual, when Frank Benway came in. I did not see him until he touched me on the arm. “‘Ben,’ said he, ‘come away. For my sake, come.’ “He took my arm and led me out into the cool night air. When he spoke again, it was in a pleading sorrowful tone. “‘Ben, for the sake of your mother, for the friendship between us, never drink again. Good night, my dear friend.’” “I went to my lodgings with a dizzy head, and heavy heart. I knew that Frank ought to turn me away from my situation, but he was too noble, had too much confidence in me, even yet, to do that. “When I awoke the next morning, I felt the strong thirst for liquor on me again. I found a flask in one of my pockets, filled with brandy, which I had procured the night previous. I had started down the hill, and could not resist the temptation to drink just once more! The Superintendent had gone down the road on an express train, early that morning, as there were some repairs being made, part way down the line, which he wished to superintend, personally. “Our train started in about an hour after the express. The engineer of our train had been detained at the other end of the road82on account of sickness. I was alone on the engine, but the conductor had perfect confidence in my ability. Alas! he would have mistrusted me had he known that I was at that very moment, mad and dazed with liquor! I had never drank enough to become intoxicated before, and no one on the train suspected I had formed the fatal habit. Still I drank until I became so helpless that I could not stand. “I fell against the tender soon after we got under headway, and cut a severe gash in my forehead. I attempted to rise but could not. My senses were clear, however, and I knew all that was passing, with horrible reality. I had fallen in such a position that I could see out on one side, between the tender and the engine. On, on we swept at lightning speed, with no hand to stop or regulate it. We had just passed the point where they were making the repairs I spoke of, and as we swept around a little bend in the road, I saw Frank Benway, a few steps ahead of us, walking swiftly up the track. The moment I saw him, he stepped upon a bit of stone which lay there, purposely, it seemed to me, to lure him to death; and slipping,83his foot was caught between the ground and the rail. Poor Frank struggled to rise, but could not. On we rushed, and Frank’s efforts were all in vain. Oh, children! the bitterest part of my story is the knowledge that had I not been intoxicated I could have reversed the steam, probably in time to have saved his life! “There I lay too intoxicated to move! As we came nearer, Frank saw me, for he had fallen across the track on the side where I lay on the locomotive, and he held out both hands, imploringly to me, as if to say ‘Help me, Ben, help me!’ In another moment I was so near I could look into his eyes, and the next they were closed forever. A brakesman who saw Frank when we passed over him, now rushed to the engine and finding me lying disgracefully stupid, divined it all. He stopped the train. Frank’s remains were gathered up, and I was taken to my home a raving maniac. None on the train save this man suspected I had been drunk. He kept my secret—why I never knew. Perhaps he felt I was punished enough. I was ill with brain fever a long time. “After I recovered, I never tasted another84drop of liquor. It seemed as if I was more than a murderer. Afterward, when I went on the road again, I was a changed man. I gradually worked myself up until I became President of that road. “I have seen my youth’s companions pass away, one by one, and I know I shall join them ere long. Yet I would say a few words to you, my dear ones before I go. When you pass out from your parents’ care, there will be many temptations to allure you. Then, I trust, you will bear in mind the evening when you all sat round uncle Ben’s knee, and heard his sad story, told in the twilight of his life.” O YOUTH! in your promise, your faith and your pride,
Remember, remember the strength of the tide.
It sweeps down the current the good and the brave,
And has in its bosom a gulf and a grave.
The wine-cup may sparkle with beams of the sun,
Remember, remember from whence it is won.
It comes with its pleasures that change into pains;
It comes with its promise but never remains.85
How many have traveled with light heart and free,
Remember, remember the way to the sea!
But free heart and light heart have vanished away,
And doubt and the darkness have shadowed the day.
The spell of the tempter is subtle, yet strong!\nRemember, remember it binds to the wrong.
Then nothing can save you! nothing recall
The hopes that will vanish away at your fall.
The loved you may cherish—the flowers of the heart,
Remember, remember will all, all depart.
The blossoms of springtime, the roses of May,
Like vapors of morning, will vanish away.
The promise of manhood, pride, honor and fame,
Remember, remember will change into shame,
And on life’s record this epitaph stand:
“He died by the poison that curses the land.”
O brother! my brother! to you I appeal!
Remember, remember, you win woe or weal.
Though tide is against you, though current is swift,
The Pharos of safety shines over the drift,
Hard out o’er the waters a beckoning hand,
Remember, remember, points out the sure land.
’Tis the temperance signal that floats in the air,
O brother! my brother! true safety is there!
During a walk that I once had with the clergyman of Landsdroff and his wife, they told me of a sudden death which had lately taken place in the village. “It is awful,” I said; “what a thread life hangs upon!” “That was really the case with one of my family in times past,” said the clergyman’s good wife. “Her life did hang by a thread.” “Tell me how it was,” I said. “It was that story,” said the lady, “which caused the inscription you see to be placed over our door-way.” The inscription was as follows:— “If once we learn why God sends grief and woe,
How great his boundless love we then should know.”
I read the lines, and then asked the minister’s wife if she would kindly tell me the story. “About a hundred years ago, my mother’s great aunt, the Countess Von Merits, was living with her two daughters in a castle in Germany. “They were once invited to a wedding, which was to take place by torch-light, according to the old German custom. They did not, accordingly, set out till it was beginning to get dusk. They had to pass on their way through a part of the Black Forest. “Now it happened that Gertrude, the eldest daughter of the Countess, had a wreath of pearls given her, and she wore them on the evening of the wedding. But it chanced as they entered the forest, that a branch of black thorn caught in her hair, and before it could be disentangled, the thread broke, and the small seed pearls were scattered far and wide. “The servants and ladies busied themselves alike in picking up the scattered pearls, when suddenly a wood-cutter came running from the forest, and went up quite out of breath to the Countess.” “Pray go no further ladies!” he exclaimed; ‘when I was cleaving wood just now, I heard two robbers planning how they might waylay your party, rob you, and kill your servants if they made any resistance. I had the greatest difficulty in getting to you in time. If you had not been later than you88expected, you would most certainly have fallen into the hands of these robbers.’ “Of course no more was said about going on to the wedding, and the horses’ heads were directly turned homeward. On arriving safely at her castle, the good mother thanked God, who had preserved her and those with her. Nor did she forget to reward the wood-cutter who had warned her in time of her danger. And there were two lessons which she tried to draw for her children from the history of that evening. First, that our life always hangs on as weak a thread as that which held Gertrude’s pearls, and that therefore God only keeps us alive; and, secondly, that all troubles and disappointments are as much sent for our good, as the delay in getting to the wedding, which saved the family from the robbers. “From this time,” continued the clergyman’s wife, “the lines you read over our door became the motto of the Countess and her family. And when I married, and my husband had the parsonage repaired, he inscribed, over the entrance:— “If once we learn why God sends grief and woe,
How great his boundless love we then should know.”
THE coffin was a plain one,—a poor, miserable, pine coffin. No flowers on its top, no lining of rose-white satin for the pale brow; no smooth ribbons about the coarse shroud. The brown hair was laid decently back, but there was no crimped cap, with its neat tie beneath the chin. The sufferer from cruel poverty, smiled in her sleep. “I want to see my mother,” sobbed a poor child, as the city undertaker screwed down the top. “You can’t—get out of the way, boy! why don’t somebody take the brat?” “Only let me see her one minute,” cried the hapless, homeless orphan, clutching the side of the charity box, and as he gazed into that rough face, anguish tears streamed rapidly down the cheek on which no childish bloom ever lingered. Oh, it was pitiful to hear him cry, “Only once, let me see my mother only once!” Quickly and brutally the hard-hearted monster struck the boy away, so that he90reeled with the blow. For a moment the boy stood panting with grief and rage; his blue eye distended, his lips sprang apart, a fire glittering through his tears, as he raised his puny arm, and with a most unchildish accent screamed, “When I’m a man, I’ll kill you for that!” There was a coffin and a heap of earth between the mother and the poor, forsaken child, and a monument stronger than granite, built in the boy’s heart to the memory of a heartless deed. The court-house was crowded to suffocation. “Does any one appear as this man’s counsel?” asked the judge. There was a silence when he finished, until with lips tightly pressed together, a look of strange intelligence, blended with haughty reserve upon his handsome features, a young man stepped forward with a firm tread and kindling eye, to plead for the erring and the friendless. He was a stranger, but from his first sentence there was silence. The splendor of his genius entranced and convinced. The man who could not find a friend was acquitted.91“May God bless you, sir, I cannot.” “I want no thanks,” replied the stranger, with icy coldness. “I—I believe you are unknown to me.” “Man! I will refresh your memory. Twenty years ago you struck a broken-hearted boy away from his mother’s poor coffin. I was that poor, miserable boy.” “Have you rescued me, then, to take my life?” “No, I have a sweeter revenge; I have saved the life of a man whose brutal deed has rankled in my breast for twenty years. Go! and remember the tears of a friendless child.” The man bowed his head in shame, and went out from the presence of a magnanimity as grand to him as incomprehensible, and the noble young lawyer felt God’s smile in his soul. MOVING slowly along Prince street one afternoon, I heard the measured tramp of numerous little feet behind me. Turning round, I saw that this sound proceeded from about a hundred boys and girls belonging to one of the charitable institutions. It was a pleasing sight to see these children appear happy. They had the hue of good health on their countenances, their dress was plain, but comfortable and clean; no fantastic grotesquely cut clothes disfigured their little persons, nor did they wear any badge to tell the world that they were children of misfortune. I entered into conversation with one of the teachers, who informed me that they were going to view the Zoological Gardens, and that, with such a prospect before them, they were quite delighted. The little troop passed up St. Andrew street, and as I was going in the same direction, I moved along in the front, conversing with one of the boys, the girls being all behind. Passing down St. Andrew street south,93my attention was directed to two boys about fourteen years of age. Each was driving a small pony, attached to a cart. The first boy, when he saw the children, called out to his young friend, who was a little behind, and the moment his eye caught the sight he leaped from the cart with a spring, crying out, “James, I’ll see my sister! I’ll see my little sister!” He drew his horse quickly to the side of the pavement, and left it alone the instant the girls came toward him. Just as he commenced his anxious search his horse moved off, he sprung to its head and checked its progress, and in an instant he was at the front ranks of the girls, keenly glancing along the line to discover his little sister. Being all dressed alike, it was not easy to distinguish any one in particular without the strictest search. On they passed, but his sister came not. Poor boy, thought I, his kind heart will be doomed to suffer disappointment, as his little sister does not appear to be among them, and from his sorrowful look, he thought so too. They all passed but two—his sister was one of them, the anxious boy rushed to her, and grasping one of her hands in his, he placed94his other gently on her neck, and could only say, “MARY.” The little girl, who appeared to be about seven years of age, looked up, and oh, such ecstasy! she was by the side of her brother. She clasped her little arms around him, and her sweet face was lighted up with smiles. He bowed down his head to catch the few hurried words she spoke to him, and to let her hear his little tale. He took his eyes from off her face but once, and only once, and that for a moment, and this was to see that his pony was still where he left it. The poor brute seemed to be sensible of the sacred mission on which its conductor had gone, as it moved not. He again bowed down his head to breathe into the ear of his beloved and loving sister his few parting words, for he could not go any farther; they grasped each other’s hands and exchanged looks of tenderness, and the little girl moved on with her companions. His eyes saw nothing but that one loved object, they followed her along. The children in front turned down York-place, and before she was out of her brother’s view, she turned round, and with a smile, held out her hand in token of adieu. The boy started as her face met95his gaze, and moving one step forward held out both his hands—the next moment she was hid from his sight. He slowly returned toward his horse, and while a tear moistened his eye, and a cast of melancholy shrouded his countenance, there was still something like an expression of satisfaction and pleasure on his features. He mounted his little cart, and, as I turned from beholding this affecting scene, there was a dimness over my eyes which took a few applications of my handkerchief to remove. This was food for reflection. I thought on the thousands who never knew what it was to want the fostering care of a mother, or the anxious solicitude of a father; again upon the thousands who are thrown upon the charity of strangers, friendless and alone. These two young creatures, perhaps spent their first years under one roof, and slept in each other’s arms. The one is now earning his bread humbly but honestly; while the other is enjoying the benefits of an excellent institution. Their meetings are few but sweet, and, as in the present case, doubly so. May the remembrance of their present lonely situation endear them more firmly to each96other; and if the world should smile upon them, may they consecrate a portion of their means toward the support of those institutions which shelter and protect the orphan child. HOME is where affection binds
Gentle hearts in union;
Where the voices all are kind,
Holding sweet communion! Home is where the heart can rest
Safe from darkening sorrow;
Where the friends we love the best
Brightening every morrow! Home is where the friends that love
To our hearts are given;
Where the blessings from above
Make it seem a heaven! Home is where the sun will shine
In the skies above us;
Peeping brightly through the vine
Trained by those who love us! Yes, ’tis home where smiles of cheer
Wreathe the brows that greet us;
And the one of all most dear
Ever comes to meet us! JESSY WARNER stood before a pier-glass, gazing on the image reflected in it with silent delight. And truly the image was a very pretty one, though perhaps every one would not have admired it as much as did this vain young lady. She had twined a wreath of flowers in her luxuriant tresses, and smoothed every ringlet. She was smiling at the form in the mirror, which smiled in return. Jessy was evidently too much charmed with her occupation to give a thought to the pile of lesson-books which lay unopened on the table, or the unfinished jacket beside it, which her lazy little fingers had failed in a whole month to complete. Mrs. Warner entered unobserved by Jessy, and that which made the young daughter smile, cost the mother a sigh. “My poor child is so much engaged in contemplating her own pretty face, that everything else is neglected and forgotten! Oh, how shall I teach her the comparative98worthlessness of the outward adorning!” were the reflections of Mrs. Warner. She moved forward a few steps, and her reflection in the glass first made Jessy aware of her presence. “Oh, mamma!” she exclaimed, “I did not know that you were there!” and a blush rose to Jessy’s cheek at being discovered in the act of admiring her own beauty. Mrs. Warner glanced at the books and the work, but made no observation on the subject; and merely asked her daughter if she would like to accompany her to a house at some distance, where she was about to pay a visit on business. “I should like it of all things!” said Jessy, hastily divesting her head of its gay wreath, and getting her bonnet and shawl. Mrs. Warner gave her daughter an allowance for her dress; Jessy was therefore able to choose it herself, and please her own taste in the selection. It must be owned that her attire was more remarkable for the gayety of its colors than for the goodness of its materials, and that money was often wasted upon some expensive piece of finery, when some necessary article of dress was required. Jessy's99bonnet was now radiant with pink bows and flowers, and pretty bracelets adorned her arms; while she was in actual want of a good common dress, in which she could run about the garden; but she had chosen one of a tint so delicate, and a fabric so fragile, that while wearing it she never felt at ease. Mrs. Warner and her daughter pursued their way along green shady lanes, and across daisy-dotted meadows, with nothing to mar the pleasure of their walk, except the brambles in the former, which were always catching poor Jessy’s flounces. Jessy and her mother arrived at last at an exceedingly beautiful spot. On an emerald lawn, embosomed in trees, stood a villa of tasteful form, its elegant windows of stained glass overhung with clusters of roses and jasmine. In the center of the building rose an ornamental clock-tower whose gilded pinnacle glittered in the sun! In her admiration of its beauty, Jessy did not notice that the hands of the gay clock pointed to a wrong hour, for its works were motionless and out of order. “Oh!” she exclaimed, “what a lovely place! How delightful it would be to live here! How proud one would be if it were their own!” “It is pretty enough on the outside,” said Mrs. Warner, rather dryly; “but with houses, as with those who live in them, it is not sufficient to look only at the face—we must examine further before we decide whether they are subjects either for pride or for admiration.” They entered the pretty porch, and Mrs. Warner pulled the bell handle. It was broken, and came off in her hand; so, seeing that the door was open, the lady walked into the house. Strangely different from what the exterior had led her to expect, Jessy found the inside of the dwelling. It bore every token of neglect and disrepair, as if either uninhabited or occupied by those who paid no attention to neatness and comfort. There was no carpet on the floors, and the dust lay thick upon them. There was a sad lack of chairs and tables, even of the commonest kind, in the sitting-room, which Mrs. Warner entered in hopes of finding a more efficient bell. “What a shame to furnish such a pretty house so badly!” exclaimed Jessy. “I never saw a place so neglected! Just look at the dull, spotted picture-frames, and the dirty101cobwebs across the corners of the room! What is the use of having a beautiful house, if nothing but rubbish is in it?” “What is the use indeed!” replied Mrs. Warner, trying again the effect of pulling the old bell-rope. “But houses are not the only things which need furnishing, and yet I fancy that there is some one not far from me who occasionally acts as though she thought that it matters not how empty a head may be, so that it looks well to the eye!” “Oh, mamma!” said Jessy, laughing, yet half vexed, “heads and houses are such different things!” “To my idea,” replied Mrs. Warner, “an unfurnished mind is much like an unfurnished house, only a much sadder object. Youth is the time above all other to fit up the intellect richly. We may then lay in an almost boundless store of valuable information, increasing with every day of our lives, for none are too old to learn.” “But study is so tiresome!” sighed Jessy. “It cost us something, my dear; like rich furniture, it is not to be had for the mere wishing! But it is well worth the trouble which it costs. And remember, Jessy, with102the mind, as with the house, it cannot be entirely empty. Where knowledge is neglected folly will come—the dust gathers, the spider spins her web. If we are not learning we are losing—a mind left to itself is a mind left to decay!” “I wonder if any one lives here!” said Jessy, who was rather desirous to turn the conversation. “No one takes the trouble to answer the bell.” “I believe that we shall find Madame L’Ame in one of the upper rooms,” replied her mother, “and she will not regard my visit as an intrusion; as I have to speak to her on important business, regarding a large property to which she is heir.” Mrs. Warner, therefore, followed by her daughter, proceeded up the dusty uncarpeted stair, Jessy feeling some curiosity to see the mistress of the beautiful but neglected mansion. They reached the landing place, where Mrs. Warner knocked at the door of one of the upper rooms. As the sound brought no answer, the lady knocked again, when a shrill voice bade her “come in;” and she and Jessy entered an apartment as unsightly as the rest of the interior of the103house. There was not, perhaps, the same deficiency of furniture, but everything was in confusion and disorder, as it might be heaped together in the warehouse of a broker. At one corner of the room a maid-servant, on her knees, was engaged in cutting out pictures from old magazines of fashion figures of slender-waisted belles and coxcombical-looking beaux, and pasting them on a large screen. This Jessy observed when she had a little leisure to look around her, but at first her attention was engaged by the mistress of the house, who advanced to meet Mrs. Warner. Madame L’Ame was a very inferior looking person and went stooping about with a vacant expression on her face which gave Jessy an idea, at first sight, that the lady possessed a very small share of sense. The young girl was confirmed in this impression by her conduct during the whole of the visit. Notwithstanding the very serious and important business upon which Mrs. Warner soon entered—business which concerned the lady’s title to succeed to an immense property, and even her claim to all that she then possessed—Madame L’Ame appeared as104though she thought the subject was not worthy a moment’s attention. She was constantly interrupting Mrs. Warner with some frivolous remark which had nothing to do with the question at issue. She was far more taken up with the tricks and gambols of Plaisir, her petted and pampered monkey, than she was with business on which depended so much. The screen also occupied much of her attention, and she often interrupted to give directions to the maid about placing the pictures upon it. Mrs. Warner’s usually serene countenance showed signs of impatience and annoyance, as she said: “I really must beg for half an hour of your earnest, undivided attention. I have walked some distance on purpose to let you know the full extent of the evil which threatens you.” Madame L’Ame’s eyes were wandering curiously over the dress of Jessy—her bonnet, her bracelets, her flounces; and at the first pause in her visitor’s address, she inquired, “Pray who is your milliner, my dear?” Mrs. Warner rose in despair; she had given up all hopes of engaging the mind of105her weak and frivolous acquaintance on anything beyond the trifles of the hour. She quitted the apartment and the house, but not before Madame L’Ame had detailed to her all the petty gossip of the neighborhood, and asked her opinion on various subjects, such as the fit of a glove, style of the bonnet or the tint of a ribbon. “Mamma,” said Jessy, as they stepped out into the open air, glad to escape from society so insipid, “who would ever have believed Madame L’Ame to be the owner of so beautiful a house? Surely she is quite out of her mind!” “She is weak in her intellect.” “Weak! oh! mamma! I do not believe that she has any intellect at all! She seemed to think more of that monkey than of all the splendid fortune of which you were telling her; and I do believe that she would care more about losing a few of her paltry beads and pictures than for forfeiting a kingdom, if she had one! I never saw any one so silly!” “Ah! my child,” said Mrs. Warner, quietly, “let us take care that we ourselves are not betrayed into greater and more fatal106folly. If it is sad to see the mere outward appearance regarded, how much sadder to see the mind, unworthy mistress of a beautiful mansion, itself unlovely and stunted, devoted to trifles unworthy its regard, while its highest interests are forgotten! Have we never met with one to whom the most important of all subjects appeared tedious and uninteresting? who cared more for the amusements of the moment than the happiness of ages to come? whom serious conversation only wearied, though it might regard a future crown to be inherited or lost, and who would rather listen to any tale of idle gossip than to a message of glad tidings from heaven. Jessy walked home silent and reflecting. For the first time in her life she thought less of the “cottage of clay” which she had so delighted to adorn, and more of improving the mind, the dweller therein. Many years passed away before Jessy had occasion to again visit the beautiful villa embosomed in the trees. It looked changed. The former occupant had died in poverty years before; her very memory had almost passed away from the place in which she had dwelt. A happy, united family now inhabited the beautiful home. The house was much changed; but Jessy herself was more changed than the house. She was now far more agreeable as a companion, and far more valuable as a friend; more loved in the family, more happy in her own mind, than she ever was when pretty and young. A gentle, cheerful, loving spirit dwells in the faded form, and sheds a light on the features which makes them more fair. The beauty which passes away like a flower is exchanged for the beauty of holiness, which never fades, which never dies, but finds its perfection in heaven! “Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain; but a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised.” A pearl may enshrine—
In homely form dwell
A spirit divine.
Oh! favor’s deceitful,
And beauty is vain;
But virtue’s the pearl
Which will precious remain!
What matters what hue
To the eye has been given,
If the soul that looks through
Wear the beauty of heaven!
Oh! favor’s deceitful,
And comeliness vain
But virtue forever
Will lovely remain!
THE BOY AND HIS SPARE MOMENTS.
A LEAN, awkward boy came one morning to the door of the principal of a celebrated school, and asked to see him. The servant eyed his mean clothes, and thinking he looked more like a beggar than anything else, told him to go round to the kitchen. The boy did as he was bidden, and soon appeared at the back door. “I should like to see Mr. Brown,” said he. “You want a breakfast, more like,” said the servant girl, “and I can give you that without troubling him.” “Thank you,” said the boy; “I should have no objection to a bit of bread; but I should like to see Mr. Brown, if he can see me.” “Some old clothes, may be, you want,” remarked the servant, again eyeing the boy’s patched trowsers. “I guess he has none to spare; he gives away a sight;” and without minding the boy’s request, she went away about her work. “Can I see Mr. Brown?” again asked the boy, after finishing his bread and butter. “Well, he’s in the library; if he must be disturbed, he must; but he does like to be alone sometimes,” said the girl, in a peevish tone. She seemed to think it very foolish to admit such an ill-looking fellow into her master’s presence; however she wiped her hands, and bade him follow. Opening the library door, she said:— “Here’s somebody, sir, who is dreadfully anxious to see you, and so I let him in.” I don’t know how the boy introduced himself, or how he opened his business, but I know that after talking awhile, the principal put aside the volume he was studying, and took up some Greek books and began to examine the new-comer. The examination lasted some time. Every question which the principal asked, the boy answered as readily as could be. “Upon my word,” exclaimed the principal, “you certainly do well!” looking at the boy from head to foot, over his spectacles. “Why, my boy, where did you pick up so much?” “In my spare moments,” answered the boy. Here he was, poor, hard-working, with but few opportunities for schooling, yet almost fitted for college, by simply improving his spare moments. Truly, are not spare moments the “gold dust of time?” How precious they should be! What account can you give of your spare moments? What can you show for them? Look and see. This boy can tell you how very much can be laid up by improving them; and there are many other boys, I am afraid, in the jail, in the house of correction, in the forecastle of a whale ship, in the gambling house, or in the tippling shop, who, if you should ask them when they began their sinful courses, might answer, “In my spare moments.” “In my spare moments I gambled for marbles.” “In my spare moments I began to smoke and drink.” “It was in my spare moments that I began to steal chestnuts from the old woman’s stand.” “It was in my spare moments that I gathered with wicked associates.” Oh, be very, very careful how you spend your spare moments! Temptation always hunts you out in small seasons like these, when you are not busy; he gets into your hearts, if he possibly can, in just such gaps.111There he hides himself, planning all sorts of mischief. Take care of your spare moments. As the shuttle swiftly flies
Back and forth before our eyes,
Blending with its fingers light
Warp and woof till they unite
In a fabric good and strong,
Let us hear the weaver’s song.
Weaving ever, day by day,
As the shuttles briskly play,
Broken threads how oft annoy
And our precious time employ;
Warning us by sharp reproof,
We must watch the warp and woof!
Weaving in life’s busy loom—
Mingling sunshine with the gloom—
Warp and woof with deeds we blend
Till life’s fabric has an end;
Broken threads we often find
Burdening the noble mind!
Broken threads in life abound,
In each station they are found;
May Faith’s kind and friendly hand
Help us to adjust the strand,
That, when life’s last tide shall ebb,
There shall be a perfect web.