Stories Worth Rereading

V >> Various >> Stories Worth Rereading

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20

"What in the world?" I began, and stared at the pockets. Muriel's merry
laugh rang out.

"Haven't you seen my pockets before?" she asked. "They astonish you, of
course; everybody laughs at them; but I am proud of them; they are my own
invention. You see, we are such a busy family all day long, and so tired
when we get home at night, that we have a bad habit of dropping things just
where they happen to land, and leaving them. By the last of the week this
big living-room is a sight to behold. It used to take half my morning to
pick up the thousand and one things that did not belong here, and carry
them to their places. You do not know how many journeys I had to make,
because I was always overlooking something. So I invented this apron with a
pocket in it for every member of the family, and it works like a charm.

"Look at this big one with a B on it; that is for Ben, of course, and it is
always full. Ben is a great boy to leave his pencils, and his
handkerchiefs, and everything else about. Last night he even discarded his
necktie because it felt choky.

"This pocket is Esther's. She leaves her letters and her discarded
handkerchiefs, as well as her gloves. And Kate sheds hair ribbons and
hatpins wherever she goes. Just think how lovely it is to have a pocket for
each, and drop things in as fast as I find them. When I am all through
dusting, I have simply to travel once around the house and unpack my load.
I cannot tell you how much time and trouble and temper my invention has
saved me."

"It is a bright idea," I said, "and I mean to pass it on. There are other
living-rooms and busy girls. Whose is that largest pocket, marked M?"

"Why, I made it for mother; but, do you know, I have found out just in this
very way that mothers do not leave things lying around. It is queer, isn't
it, when they have so many cares? It seems to be natural for mothers to
think about other people. So I made the M stand for 'miscellaneous,' and I
put into that pocket articles which will not classify, and that belong to
all of us. There are hosts of things for which no particular one seems to
be responsible. Is it not a pity that I did not think of pockets last
winter, when we all had special cares and were so dreadfully busy? It is
such a simple idea you would have supposed that any person would have
thought of it, but it took me two years. I just had to do it this spring,
because there simply was not time to run up- and down-stairs so much."

"You have proved once more the truth of the old proverb, 'Necessity is the
mother of invention,'" I said. "And, besides, you have given me a new idea.
I am going home to work it out. When it is finished, I will show it to
you." Then I went home, and made rows and rows of strong pockets to sew on
a folding screen I was making for my work-room.--_Pansy, in Christian
Endeavor World. By permission of Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co_.

* * * * *

Just Do Your Best

Just do your best. It matters not how small,
How little heard of;
Just do your best--that's all.
Just do your best. God knows it all,
And in his great plan you count as one;
Just do your best until the work is done.

Just do your best. Reward will come
To those who stand the test;
God does not forget. Press on,
Nor doubt, nor fear. Just do your best.

ERNEST LLOYD.

THE STRENGTH OF CLINTON

When Clinton Stevens was eleven years old, he was taken very sick with
pneumonia. During convalescence, he suffered an unexpected relapse, and his
mother and the doctor worked hard to keep him alive.

"It is ten to one if he gets well," said Dr. Bemis, shaking his head. "If
he does, he will never be very strong."

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton's pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor
Clinton! who had always been such a rollicking, rosy-cheeked lad. Surely it
was hard to bear.

The long March days dragged slowly along, and April was well advanced
before Clinton could sit at the window, and watch the grass grow green on
the slope of the lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a
troublesome "bark," that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily in through the window, and Clinton held
up his hand to shield his eyes. "Why, Ma Stevens!" he said, after a moment,
"just look at my hands! They are as thin and white as a girl's, and they
used to be regular paws. It does not look as if I would pull many weeds for
Mr. Carter this summer, does it?"

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands in her own patient ones. "Never mind,
dearie," she said, "they will grow plump and brown again, I hope." A group
of school-children were passing by, shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned
forward and watched them till the last one was gone. Some of them waved
their caps, but he did not seem elated. "Mother," he said, presently, "I
believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I--I guess I am not quite
so--strong--now as I used to be."

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around
with the milkman, and did a little outdoor work for his mother, which
helped him to mend. One morning in July he surprised the village by riding
out on his bicycle; but he overdid the matter, and it was several weeks
before he again appeared. His cough still continued, though not so severe
as in the spring, and it was decided to let him go to school in the fall.

Dr. Bemis told Mrs. Stevens that the schoolroom would be a good place to
test Clinton's strength. And he was right. In no other place does a young
person's strength develop or debase itself so readily, for honor or
dishonor. Of course the doctor had referred to physical strength; but moral
strength is much more important.

Clinton was a bright lad for his years; and, although he had not looked
into his books during the summer, he was placed in the same grade he had
left when taken sick. He did not find much difficulty in keeping up with
any of his studies except spelling. Whenever he received a perfect mark on
that subject, he felt that a real victory had been won.

About Christmas-time the regular examinations were held. The teacher
offered a prize to each grade, the pupil receiving the highest average in
all studies to receive the prize. Much excitement, no little speculation,
and a great deal of studying ensued. Clinton felt fairly confident over all
his studies except spelling. So he carried his spelling-book home every
night, and he and his mother spent the evenings in wrestling with the long
and difficult words.

Examination day came at length, and the afternoon for the seventh grade
spelling was at hand. The words were to be written, and handed in. Across
the aisle from Clinton sat Harry Meyers. Several times when teacher
pronounced a word, Harry looked slyly into the palm of his hand. Clinton
watched him, his cheeks growing pink with shame. Then he looked around at
the others. Many of them had some dishonest device for copying the words.
Clinton swallowed something in his throat, and looked across at Matthews,
who pursed up his lips and nodded, if to say that he understood.

The papers were handed in, and school was dismissed. On Monday, after the
morning exercises, Miss Brooks gave out the prizes to the three grades
under her care. "I have now to award the prize for the highest average to
the seventh grade," she said. "But first I wish to say a few words on your
conduct during the recent examination in spelling. I shall censure no one
in particular, although there is one boy who must set no more bad examples.
No one spelled the words correctly--Clinton Stevens the least of
any--making his average quite low; yet the prize goes to him. I will tell
you why--" as a chorus of O! O's! greeted her ears. "Spelling is Clinton's
hardest subject, but he could easily have spelled more words right had he
not possessed sufficient strength to prevent him from falling into the way
followed by some of you."

As Clinton went up the aisle for his prize, he felt like crying, but he
managed to smile instead. A few days before, Harry Meyers had ridiculed him
because he was not strong enough to throw a snowball from the schoolhouse
to the road; now the teacher had said he was strong!

Clinton's Aunt Jennie came to visit the family in December, bringing her
little daughter Grace with her. Now Grace had a mania for pulling other
people's hair, but there was no one in the Stevens family upon whom she
dared operate except Clinton. She began on him cautiously, then
aggressively. Clinton stood it for a while, and then asked her, politely
but firmly, to stop. She stopped for half a day.

One night Clinton came home from school pale and tired. Some of the boys
had been taunting him on his spare frame, and imitating his cough, which
had grown worse as the winter advanced. Sitting down by the window, he
looked out at the falling snow. Grace slipped up behind him, and gave his
hair a sharp tweak. He struck out, hastily, and hit her. She was not
hurt,--only very much surprised,--but she began to cry lustily, and Aunt
Jennie came hurrying in, and took the child in her arms.

That night after supper Clinton went into the sitting-room, and called
Grace to him. "I want to tell you something," he said. "I am sorry that I
hit you, and I ask your pardon. Will you forgive me, dear?" Grace agreed
quickly, and said, shyly, "Next time I want to pull any one's hair, I will
pull my own."

Aunt Jennie was in the next room and overheard the conversation. "It
strikes me, Sarah," she said to Mrs. Stevens, later, "that Clinton is a
remarkably strong boy for one who is not strong. Most boys would not have
taken the trouble to ask a small girl to forgive them, even if they were
very much in the wrong. But Clinton has a strong character."

The year Clinton was thirteen, the boys planned to have a corn roast, one
August night. "We will get the corn in old Carter's lot," said Harry
Meyers. "He has just acres of it, and can spare a bushel or so as well as
not. I suppose you will go with us, Clint?"

Clinton hesitated. "No," said he. "I guess not; and I should think if you
want to roast corn, you could get it out of your own gardens. But if Mr.
Carter's corn is better than any other, why can you not ask him----"

"O, come, now," retorted Harry, "do not let it worry you! Half the fun of
roasting corn is in--in taking it. And don't you come, Clinton--don't. We
would not have you for the world. You are too nice, Mr. Coughin."

Clinton's cheeks flushed red, but he turned away without a word. When Mr.
Carter quizzed Billy Matthews, and found out all about it, Clinton was made
very happy by the old man's words: "It is not every chap that will take the
stand you took. You ought to be thankful that you have the strength to say
No."

In the fall, when Clinton was fifteen, his health began to fail noticeably,
and Dr. Bemis advised a little wine "to build him up."

"Mother," said the boy, after thinking it over, "I am not going to touch
any wine. I can get well without it, I know I can. I do not want liquor,"
he continued. "'Wine is a mocker,' you know. Did you not tell me once that
Zike Hastings, over in East Bloomfield, became a drunkard by drinking wine
when he was sick?"

"Yes, Clinton, I believe I told you so."

"Well, then, I do not want any wine. I have seen Zike Hastings too many
times."

In December Aunt Jennie and Grace made their annual visit. With them came
Uncle Jonathan, who took a great liking to Clinton.

"My boy," said he one day, placing a big hand on the lad's shoulder, "early
in the new year Aunt Jennie and I start for the Pacific Coast. Should you
like to go with us?"

"Well, I rather guess I should!" gasped the surprised boy, clasping his
hands joyfully. "Very well, then, you shall go," returned Uncle Jonathan,
"and your mother, too."

Clinton began to feel better before they were outside of Pennsylvania. When
they had crossed the Mississippi and reached the prairies, his eyes were
sparkling with excitement. The mountains fairly put new life in him. Uncle
Jonathan watched him with pleasure. "Tell me," he said one day, when they
were winding in and out among the Rockies, "what has given you so much
strength of character?"

"Why, it was this way," said Clinton, bringing his eyes in from a chasm
some hundreds of feet below: "one day when I was beginning to recover from
that attack of pneumonia, I saw a lot of the boys romping along, and I felt
pretty bad because I could not romp and play, too; then I thought that if I
could not be strong that way, I could have the strength to do right; so I
began to try, and----"

"Succeeded admirably," said Uncle Jonathan, approvingly. "And, really, my
boy, I see no reason why you should not shout and play to your heart's
content in a few months."

And Uncle Jonathan's words proved true; for Clinton, in a sun-kissed
California valley, grew well and strong in a few months. But through all
his life he will have cause to be glad that he learned the value of the
strength that is gained by resisting temptation, controlling one's spirit,
and obeying the Lord's commands.

BENJAMIN KEECH.

THE DOCTOR'S COW

"I am afraid she is done for," said the veterinary surgeon as he came out
of the barn with Dr. Layton, after working for an hour over Brindle, who
had broken into the feed bins, and devoured bran and middlings until she
could eat no more. "But keep up the treatment faithfully, and if she lives
through the night, she will stand some show of getting well."

The doctor walked down the driveway with the surgeon, and stood for a few
minutes at the gate under the maple-trees that lined the sidewalk, talking
earnestly. Then he went back into the house by the kitchen door. His wife
met him, with the oft-repeated words, "I told you so; I said that boy would
turn out of no earthly account."

"But he has turned out of some account," contradicted the doctor mildly.
"In spite of this carelessness, he has been a great help to me during the
last month. It was boyish ignorance more than mere carelessness that
brought about this disaster. To be sure, I have cautioned him not to leave
the door of the feed-room unfastened. But he had no idea how a cow would
make a glutton of herself if she had a chance at the bins. You cannot
expect a boy who was reared in a city tenement to learn all about the
country, and the habits and weaknesses of cattle, in one short month. No, I
shall not send him adrift again--not even if poor Brindle dies."

"You mean to say you are going to keep him just the same, John Layton?"
cried the doctor's wife. "Well, if you are not the meekest man! Moses was
not anything to you! He did lose his temper once."

The doctor smiled, and said quietly: "Yes, and missed entering the promised
land on account of it. Perhaps I should have done the same thing in his
place; but I am sure that Moses, if he were in my place today, would feel
just as I do about discharging Harry. It is pretty safe to assume that he,
even if he did lose his temper at the continual grumbling of the croakers
who were sighing for the flesh-pots of Egypt, never ordered a young
Israelite boy whose father and mother had been bitten by the fiery serpents
and died in the wilderness, to clear out of camp for not putting a halter
on one of the cows."

"John Layton, you are talking Scripture!" remonstrated the perturbed
housewife, looking up reprovingly as she sadly skimmed the cream from the
very last pan of milk poor Brindle would ever give her.

"I certainly am, and I am going to act Scripture, too," declared the
doctor, with the air of gentle firmness that always ended any controversy
between him and his excellent, though somewhat exacting, wife. "Harry is a
good boy, and he had a good mother, too, he says, but he has had a hard
life, ill-treated by a father who was bitten by the fiery serpent of drink.
Now because of his first act of negligence I am not going to send him
adrift in the world again."

"Not if it costs you a cow!" remarked the woman.

"No, my dear, not if it costs me two cows," reasserted the doctor. "A cow
is less than a boy, and it might cost the world a man if I sent Harry away
in a fit of displeasure, disgraced by my discharge so that he could not
find another place in town to work for his board, and go to school.
Besides, Brindle will die anyway, and discharging the boy will not save
her."

"No, of course not. But it was your taking the boy in, a penniless, unknown
fellow, that has cost you a cow," persisted the wife. "I told you at the
time you would be sorry for it."

"I have not intimated that I am sorry I took the boy in," remarked the
doctor, not perversely, but with steadfast kindness. "If our own little boy
had lived, and had done this thing accidentally, would I have been sorry he
had ever been born? Or if little Ted had grown to be thirteen, and you and
I had died in the wilderness of poverty, leaving him to wander out of the
city to seek for a home in God's fair country, where his little peaked face
could fill out and grow rosy, as Harry's has, would you think it just to
have him sent away because he had made a boyish mistake? Of course you
would not, mother. Your heart is in the right place, even if it does get
covered up sometimes. And I guess, to come right down to it, you would not
send Harry away any more than I would, when the poor boy is almost
heart-broken over this unfortunate affair. Now, let us have supper, for I
must be off. We cannot neglect sick people for a poor, dying cow. Harry
will look after Brindle. He will not eat a bite, I am afraid, so it is no
use to call him in now. By and by you would better take a plate of
something out to him; but do not say a harsh word to the poor fellow, to
make it any harder for him than it is."

The doctor ate his supper hurriedly; for the sick cow had engaged every
moment of his spare hours that day, and he had postponed until his evening
round of visits a number of calls that were not pressing. When he came out
to his buggy, Harry Aldis stood at the horse's head, at the carriage steps
beside the driveway, his chin sunk on his breast, in an attitude of
hopeless misery.

"Keep up the treatment, Harry, and make her as easy as possible," said the
doctor as he stepped into his buggy.

"Yes, sir; I'll sit up all night with her, Dr. Layton, if I can only save
her," was the choking answer, as the boy carefully spread the lap robe over
the doctor's knees.

"I know you will, Harry; but I am afraid nothing can save the poor
creature. About all we can do is to relieve her suffering until morning,
giving her a last chance; and if she is no better then, the veterinary
surgeon says we would better shoot her, and put her out of her misery."

The boy groaned. "O Dr. Layton, why do you not scold me? I could bear it
better if you would say just one cross word," he sobbed. "You have been
kinder to me than my own father ever was, and I have tried so hard to be
useful to you. Now this dreadful thing has taken place, all because of my
carelessness. I wish you would take that buggy whip to me; I deserve it."

The doctor took the whip, and gently dropped its lash across the drooping
shoulders bowed on the horse's neck as the boy hid his face in the silken
mane he loved to comb. Indeed, Dandy's black satin coat had never shone
with such a luster from excessive currying as in the month past, since the
advent of this new little groom, who slept in the little back bedroom of
the doctor's big white house, and thought it a nook in paradise.

"There's no use in scolding or thrashing a fellow who is all broken up,
anyway, over an accident, as you are," the doctor said, kindly. "Of course,
it is a pretty costly accident for me, but I think I know where I can get a
heifer--one of Brindle's own calves, that I sold to a farmer two years
ago--that will make as fine a cow as her mother."

"But the money, Dr. Layton! How can I ever earn that to make good your
loss?" implored the boy, looking up.

"The money? O, well, some day when you are a rich man, you can pay me for
the cow!" laughed the doctor, taking up the reins. "In the meantime, make a
good, trustworthy, honest man of yourself, no matter whether you get rich
or not, and keep your 'thinking cap' on a little better."

"You had better eat some supper," said a voice in the doorway a little
later, as Mrs. Layton came noiselessly to the barn, and surprised the boy
kneeling on the hay in the horse's stall adjoining the one where Brindle
lay groaning, his face buried in his arms, which were flung out over the
manger.

The lad scrambled to his feet in deep confusion.

"O, thank you, Mrs. Layton, but I cannot eat a bite!" he protested. "It is
ever so good of you to think of me, but I cannot eat anything."

"You must," said the doctor's wife, firmly. "Come outside and wash in the
trough if you do not want to leave Brindle. You can sit near by and watch
her, if you think you must, though it will not do a particle of good, for
she is bound to die anyway. What were you doing in there on your
knees--praying?"

The woman's voice softened perceptibly as the question passed her lips, and
she looked half-pityingly into the pale, haggard young face, thinking of
little Ted's, and wondering how it would have looked at thirteen if he had
done this thing.

"Yes," muttered Harry, plunging his hands into the water of the trough, and
splashing it over the red flame of a sudden burning blush that kindled in
his ash-pale cheeks. "Isn't it all right to pray for a cow to get well? It
'most kills me to see her suffer so."

Mrs. Layton smiled unwillingly; for the value of her pet cow's products
touched her more deeply than a boy's penitent tears, particularly when that
boy was not her own. "There is no use of your staying in there and watching
her suffer, you cannot do her any good," she insisted. "Stay out here in
the fresh air. Do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," choked Harry, drying his face on the sleeve of his gingham
shirt. He sat down on a box before the door, the plate of food in his lap,
and made an attempt to eat the daintily cooked meal, but every mouthful
almost choked him.

At about midnight, the sleepless young watcher, lying on the edge of the
hay just above the empty manger over which a lantern swung, lifted himself
on his elbow at the sound of a long, low, shuddering groan, and in another
moment, Harry knew that poor Brindle had ceased to suffer the effects of
her gluttonous appetite. Creeping down into the stall, he saw at a glance
that the cow was dead, and for a moment, alone there in the stillness and
darkness of the spring night, he felt as if he were the principal actor in
some terrible crime.

"Poor old boss!" he sobbed, kneeling down, and putting his arm over the
still warm neck. "I--I have killed you--after all the rich milk and butter
you have given me, that have made me grow strong and fat--just by my
carelessness!"

In after-years the memory of that hour came back to Harry Aldis as the
dominant note in some real tragedy, and he never again smelled the
fragrance of new hay, mingled with the warm breath of sleeping cattle,
without recalling the misery and self-condemnation of that long night's
watch.

In the early dawn, Dr. Layton found the boy lying beside the quiet form in
the stall, fast asleep from exhaustion and grief, his head pillowed on the
soft, tawny coat he had loved to brush until it gleamed like silk.

"Child alive!" he gasped, bending over and taking the lad in his arms, and
carrying him out into the sweet morning air. "Harry, why did you not come
and tell me, and then go to bed?" he cried, setting the bewildered boy on
his feet, and leading him to the house. "Now, my boy, no more of this
grieving. The thing is done, and you cannot help it now. There is no more
use in crying for a dead cow than for spilled milk. Now come in and go to
bed, and stay there until tonight; and when you wake up, the new heifer,
Brindle's daughter, will be in the barn waiting for you to milk her. I am
going to buy her this morning."

* * * * *

Five years after that eventful night, Harry Aldis stood on the doctor's
front porch, a youth of eighteen, bidding good-by to the two who had been
more to him than father and mother. He was going to college in the West,
where he could work his way, and in his trunk was a high-school diploma,
and in his pocket a "gilt-edge recommendation" from Dr. Layton.

"God bless you, my boy! Don't forget us," said the doctor, his voice husky
with unshed tears as he wrung the strong young hand that had been so
helpful to him in the busy years flown by.

"Forget you, my more than father!" murmured the young man, not even trying
to keep the tears out of his eyes. "No matter how many years it may be
before I see you again, I shall always remember your unfailing kindness to
me. And can I ever forget how you saved me for a higher life than I could
possibly have lived if you had set me adrift in the world again for leaving
that barn door unfastened, and killing your cow? As long as I live, I shall
remember that great kindness, and shall try to deserve it by my life."

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20