Part 6

He drove the animals out, pelting them with stones, laming two or three of the poor little downy chicks, and killing one outright. It was this last act which brought him to his senses a little. He picked the chicken up and looked at it. The poor thing was not quite dead, and as he held it in his hand, it opened the little round eyes which had just been so bright, and looked at him as he thought with a glance of reproach, made a piteous little peeping noise, and then its eye grew dim and filmy, its little feet curled up—it was dead.

Phil stopped swearing, sat down on a stone, and cried as if his heart would break—partly for the chicken, partly for his garden. He did not despise it any more. Now that it was spoiled as he thought, it seemed to him that nothing could be more precious than the little bit of ground on which he had worked so hard. And then he was so sorry for the chicken. How pretty it was, and how happy! It did not know that it was doing anything wrong, and now he had killed it. And he had hurt the poor little white nanny-goat too. It limped as it ran away. As if that would bring back his geranium!

"What is it, dear?" said granny. She had heard the noise, and hobbled round the house to see what was the matter, and was surprised and alarmed when she saw the state Phil was in.

"What's the matter, dear?" she repeated as Phil did not answer. "What has happened to make you cry so?"

Phil pointed to the garden.

"Oh, what a pity! What is it that's done it—the chickens?"

"The chickens and that white goat of Ryan's," answered Phil. "But they couldn't have got in unless somebody had left the gate open."

"Maybe the goat opened it: they're full of cunning, them goats."

"She couldn't," answered Phil. "It was fastened with a wire as tight as it could be. I don't see who would have done such a mean thing."

"She's a troublesome beast, that same white goat," said granny. "I'd complain of her only she's all the dependence they have for the sickly baby that has no mother, poor thing! But there, don't cry." For Phil was crying harder than ever. "See, here's your best bed they haven't touched at all."

Phil looked. It was true. The pansies had quite escaped. That was some comfort. Perhaps they had not dug up quite all the seeds in the other beds, though they had thrown down the sticks with their labels, so that he would never know which was which. That did not matter so much if only the plants grew. But then his geranium! Nothing could help that.

"I may as well pull it up and throw it away," said he, when he had made all neat again and planted his sweet peas. "I can't bear to see the poor thing."

"I wouldn't," said granny, who had sat on a stone in the sun watching Phil at his work. "Maybe 'twill come out again. I've seen the gardeners cut them down as close as that, and they grew all the better. Just tread down the soil around it and give it some water. You mustn't be so easy discouraged, dear. Sure everything has hitches in it sometimes."

"My things are all hitches I think," said Phil.

Granny did not reason with Phil just at that time. She saw that his heart was as full as it could hold, and she was a wise woman, though she could not read a word. There is a great deal of wisdom which does not of books. She coaxed Phil to go into the woods and see if he could not cut her a longer cane, as the end of hers was worn off.

"And maybe you'll find a pretty five-leaf vine to plant at the end of your garden and run up on the rocks. Not the three-leaved mind: that's poison, and will make your hands and face swell. And some of those brakes would look pretty growing in with your flowers."

"Mr. Regan has them I know," said Phil. "Well, granny, I'll get you your cane and the vine too, if I can find one. But it's no use: poor folks can't have anything."

"You just put that notion right out of head, Phil O'Connor," says granny severely, "It's envy makes you say that, and it's one of the devil's own weeds, worse than the three-leaved poison vine that spoils all it touches. Don't the poor have the blessed sunshine, and the sight of the trees and green fields, and all the fine things that God has made for all alike? Don't we have a roof over our heads, and plenty to eat and drink and wear? And don't you have the best of teaching on Sundays, and as good a chance to learn as anybody? Put all that out of your head if you don't want it to poison everything for you. It's an ill weed, and no plant of grace ever throve where it grew."

CHAPTER FOURTH.

FLOWERS.

AS I said, granny was a wise woman, though she could not write her own name or read it when it was written. She knew that there was no use in talking to Phil while his mind was so worked up and troubled with the misfortune to his garden.

"Sure it was enough to vex a saint," said she to herself, "but when the boy gets away from the sight of his trouble into the woods, and sees all the pretty things growing, he'll be diverted, and feel better, and then he'll be ready to hear reason. It's a real turn he has for the gardening, and as soon as he learns to write and gets a bit more learning in figures, I'll get Mr. Regan to look him up a place with some nurseryman or gardener where he can learn the trade—that's what we'll do. Pusheen!"

Granny always talked to animals as if they could understand every word. Pusheen (that was the name of the tabby kitten) looked very wise and solemn for just about half a minute, and then made a dive after Silvertoe's tail. Silvertoe was the name of the black kitten, but Phil called her Tozy "for short."

Granny was right. Phil walked on pretty fast till he came to the woods. They were such woods as some of my little readers have never seen—steep and full of gray mossy ledges of rock which seemed to stand straight up on their edges like books in a bookcase, while here and there were piled great loose rocks as big as houses. On these grew little clumps of white flowers called rock saxifrage, and tufts of red and yellow columbines nodding their pretty heads with every breeze, and sprawling ugly prickly pears which were just beginning to get the winter wrinkles out of their faces and to look as pleasant as the poor things knew how.

The ground in some places was white with anemones, and in others blue with violets. The ferns were sticking up their curly frizzy heads, and long wreaths and sprays of the evergreen ferns were lying on the moss beds, all the prettier for the cold weather they had been through. Birds of different kinds were singing in the branches, and the cat-bird was making fun of them all.

It was not easy for Phil to keep cross long at any time, and as he looked about him and breathed the sweet smell of the evergreens and other growing things, he almost forgot his troubles. "Almost," but not quite. He could not forget what wicked words he had used, nor how cruelly he had hurt the poor goat. He had a pain in his conscience, and that is the worst pain that I know anything about; but it has the advantage of other pains, because there is a cure for it which never fails.

Phil found a cane without any trouble, a very nice one with a natural crook for a handle. He knew that he might have it, for Mr. Anderson, to whom the woods belonged, had told him to get a cane for granny whenever she needed a new one. Then he began to look for a vine, which he also found without much trouble, for the woods were full of them. He dug it up carefully with as long a root as possible, and wrapped it in a paper which he had brought on purpose, that the roots need not get dry.

"What lovely flowers?" said he as he looked around him. "I mean to pick a good large bunch to take home. Granny always says it does her good to see them. And I will carry some to Matty Mehan too. Poor thing! She can't get away from the house and the baby for an hour's pleasure, let alone a day's."

Now Matty Mehan was the owner of the goat which had eaten Phil's geranium. She was the oldest girl in a family of four children. Her mother was dead; her father was away at his work all day, and Matty had to do the housework, look after the little ones, and take care of the poor sickly baby, which had never thriven since its mother died. The poor thing was thin as a little skeleton, and cried till the neighbors were tired of hearing it.

"It would be a good thing if the poor child were taken too," they said, but Matty did not think so.

She loved the little pale thin creature, that was hardly larger than a doll, though it was six months old, and she often wished she had nothing to do but to tend it. Bridget, her sister, was a good-natured little thing, but she was not old enough either to be trusted with the baby or to do the work. However, she helped Matty before and after school, and was always pleasant and good-natured, even when poor tired Matty was rather cross and unreasonable.

When Phil came down to the Mehan house, which was more properly a shanty than a house, he found Matty at the door stroking the white goat, while it ate some beans out of a pail.

"Just see here, Phil, how somebody has hurt our goat," said she, before Phil had time to speak. "Isn't it a shame? I'm afraid her leg is broken."

Phil felt his face turn scarlet as he bent down and carefully felt the goat's leg.

"Oh no, it isn't broken," said he, trying to speak cheerfully. "I dare say it will be quite well in a few days. See what a fine bunch of flowers I have brought you."

"Oh how lovely!" exclaimed Matty, who loved flowers as well as did Phil himself. "But won't you rob yourself?"

"I got them on purpose for you," said Phil. "I knew you couldn't get away. How's little Patsy?"

"I think he's a little better, poor dear," said Matty, looking tenderly at the thin little mite. "He don't cry so much, and he eats more. I'm sure I don't know what we shall do if the goat gets sick, for he won't touch any milk but hers. I don't see who could be so wicked as to hurt her."

All at once Phil resolved to make a clean breast of it.

"Well, to tell you the truth, Matty, 'twas myself that did it, but I didn't mean to—"

"Oh, Phil! How could you?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Regan gave me a fine geranium, and when I came home she was just eating off the head of it, and 'twas kind of provoking, you see."

"What made you leave the plant in the poor thing's way then?" said Matty. "You know 'tis the beast's nature to eat every such thing. And now I dare say she'll die," exclaimed Matty, bursting into tears, "and then my dear precious little Patsy will die too, and you'll be just a murderer, Phil O'Connor, as bad as King Herod that killed the innocents."

Phil felt that this was unreasonable in Matty. The goat was not much hurt after all, and not in the least likely to die; and even if she did, there was a good deal of difference between killing several little babies on purpose and hurting a troublesome goat more than one meant. But then Matty was tired, and anxious about poor Patsy, and it was no wonder she was cross when she never had a bit of real rest, much less fun, from one week's end to another. I say he felt this. We often feel in an instant things it would take a long time to think.

"Oh come, Matty dear, 'tisn't so bad as that," said he; "Nanny isn't going to die—she'll be as well as ever to-morrow. I'm real sorry I hurt her so, but then you see 'twas vexing to have my only flower eaten up as cool as if it had been an old stump of cabbage. Come now, let me take Patsy and carry him about a little. See how he puts out his arms to me, the dear. Yes, he will come to Phil, won't he?"

Matty could not help relenting when she saw the poor baby stop its wailing, smile, and put out its hands to Phil, who took it carefully in his arms.

"I do believe he remembers you," said she. "I'll just put on the kettle for daddy's tea, and put my flowers in water, and then I must mend Bridget's frock decent for the sewing-school to-morrow."

"I'll tend him while you do it," said Phil, whose heart began to feel a good deal lighter.

He walked up and down, or sat on the seat by the door, crooning a song till the poor little baby fell fast asleep and had a good nap.

"Thank you ever so much; he'll be quiet now," said Matty. "Just lay him in his cradle. And, Phil, I'm sorry I said what I did."

"Oh, never mind; it didn't signify," answered Phil. "Do you mean to go to Sunday-school?"

"I can't get away, but I learn my lessons all the same," said Matty. "'Tis a beautiful Golden Text we have this week: 'If God so loved us, we ought also to love one another' (1 John 4:11). He gave his Son to die for us, and that's the way we are to be saved. Well, good-by, Phil, and thank you for the flowers, and for tending Patsy."

Phil planted his vines, and then went into the house, where he found his mother.

"You've been gone a long time," said she.

"I went to carry Matty Mehan some flowers, and then stayed to tend Patsy a bit," said Phil.

"Oh well, you're right to help the poor thing when you can," said his mother, who with all her careless ways was very kindhearted. "I think I'll go up to-morrow when I've done our own washing and wash their bits of clothes for them. But now look on granny's bed and see what fine clothes I brought you from Mrs. Barnard's the day, as good as new, and better than any new you would get at the store."

Phil took up the clothes and looked at them one by one. There was an entire suit, good as new, and, as his mother said, of better fashion and material than any he could afford to buy.

"They look as if they'd just come out of the store," said he in wonder. "Why did she give them away?"

"She said Mr. Cornelius had outgrown them—he grows like a vine in the spring—and she told me herself she had saved them for Phil, because she had heard from Miss Isabel that he was such a good boy."

Phil blushed to the top of his hair as he thought, "Miss Isabel wouldn't say so if she knew how I had sworn at the chickens and hurt the goat, and how I wanted to steal granny's money. Oh dear, if only I hadn't done it!"

He tried on the clothes and found that they fitted very well. They were somewhat large, but that was a "good fault," as granny said, since he was growing very fast.

"So now Phil is fixed for clothes," said granny, "and, Mary dear, you can take the money and buy yourself a new gown for summer."

"Oh, I shall do very well a while yet," said Mary pleasantly. "You need one more than I do."

Phil finished his supper, did up all the chores, and paid a last visit to his garden to see that all was right. As he did so his eyes fell on something half buried in the soft mould. He took it up. It was a handsome pearl-handled knife, with several blades and a corkscrew, and on the handle was a silver plate with the letters H. M. Phil knew the knife, which he had often seen in Horace Maberly's hands. He had evidently used it in opening the gate.

So Horace had left the gate open. Phil's blood tingled with anger again, but he stamped his foot and clenched his teeth so that not a word came through. He put the knife in his pocket, and getting out his Bible, he sat down in his favorite corner to learn his Sunday-school lesson. He looked up the Golden Text, though he had it on his "lesson paper," for he liked to read the verses which came before and after. "Herein is love, not that we loved God, but that he loved us, and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins. Beloved, if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another" (1 John 4:10, 11).

Phil did not know the exact meaning of all the long words, but he knew what Christ had come to do, to die for sinners that they might be saved. God loved us so well as that! And "if God so loved us, we ought also to love one another."

It is a very great thing when any person comes to know that God loves him—himself—despite all his faults and foolishness. It is too great a thing to put into any words of mine. It helps to make the hardest tasks easy and the heaviest burdens light, to conquer the worst sins and make us long to forgive those who have done us the most harm. And more than that, there is nothing which makes any one feel so little in his own eyes as the conviction that the great and wise and perfectly lovely God loves him.

So Phil felt. Oh how wicked and ungrateful and stupid he had been! How he had taken that holy name in vain, and insulted that one who loved him, even him, all the time! Phil went away up into a dark corner among the rocks, where two great slabs had fallen together so as to make a kind of little cave, into which he could just squeeze himself, though there was plenty of room to turn round and sit down when he got in. It had been a favorite playing place of his, and he liked it all the better because nobody else seemed to know of it. He crept into this little cave and knelt down.

There are, as you know, places on the railroad called switches, where two tracks come together. By means of a curious contrivance, a train of cars may be shifted from one track to the other. The two tracks are close together at first. You can hardly tell the difference. But the switchman puts down his lever, and the rail is moved a little tiny bit, and presently the train which would perhaps have gone to New York is flying toward Philadelphia, and the two tracks are growing farther and farther apart all the time.

There are just such places in people's lives. The lives which were going one way get what seems a very little push, and their whole course is altered. The life which might have gone right is turned wrong, and the life which seemed going to ruin is turned into the right track.

Phil had come to one of these switches this very afternoon. He had taken the right turn, and his whole life was going to be made the better by it.

CHAPTER FIFTH.

THE FRUIT.

ON Sunday morning Phil set out for school dressed in his new clothes, with a clean shirt on, and his face and hair polished with extra care. He had his Bible in his hand, and in his pocket Horace Maberly's knife, which he meant to give him after school. He was quite early, and finding that nobody had come to church but the sexton, he chose a shady place behind the cedar hedge and sat down to look at his lesson once more. As he was thus sitting, he heard voices on the other side of the hedge.

"You ought to have heard him swear," said a voice which he knew to be Horace's. "The way he ripped out the big words! I only wish Miss Isabel had been there to hear her pattern boy."

"And I wish she had been there to see you, and somebody else with a good thick boot on," said another voice, John Drayton's. "I never heard of a meaner trick in my life—to turn a goat into another boy's garden."

"And a poor boy at that," said Henry Merton. "Phil thinks so much of flowers too. I've seen him go down on his knees and fairly worship a geranium or verbena."

"Garden—much of a garden! One of my father's hotbeds is bigger than the whole of it."

"What of that? It was all he had, and he thought all the more of it," said Harry, whose father was as rich as Mr. Maberly, and had beautiful grounds and gardens.

"Well there, you needn't make such a fuss," said Horace, who began to be sorry he had said anything, when he saw what the other boys thought of him. "I'll pay the little beggar for it, only I don't want him to know I did it. Those people are so revengeful, he might set our barn on fire."

This was a little more than Phil could stand. He jumped up and went forward so as to meet the boys at the gate.

"Here's your knife, Horace," said he, holding out the knife and speaking quite steadily. "You dropped it in my garden, and I found it."

Horace looked blank for a minute, and then broke into a sneering laugh.

"Oh ho, Paddy! So you were listening, were you? Just like your sort of people. You needn't look so mad. Here's money enough to pay for your beggarly old garden ten times over."

Phil dropped the bill which Horace had thrust into his hand, into a puddle which last night's rain had left at the gate, and walked into the church without a word.

"Served you right, you snob," said John.

"Well, I think he might have taken the money, so long as he is not too proud to wear Neil Barnard's old clothes. I knew them the minute I saw them."

"It's one thing to take a present given in kindness, and another thing altogether to take it when it is thrown in your face," said Harry. "You think you can do just what you like because you are rich; but there are some things money won't buy. Poor as he is, Phil is a better gentleman than you are."

"See if I don't tell Miss Isabel of him, anyway," said Horace.

"Do, and I'll tell her of you. Come, boys, let's go into school."

Phil was sitting quietly in his place When the boys went in. They all spoke kindly to him except Horace, who felt very mean and very angry.

Horace had not had much chance to learn to be a good boy. He was the only son of a very foolish, uneducated father and mother, who spoiled him in every way, and made him think he was a person of very great consequence. Mr. and Mrs. Maberly thought and talked of nothing but money. They valued things for what they cost, and always told the price of everything to their visitors. It was quite natural, therefore, that Horace should do the same. Moreover, Horace had all his life been allowed to do any piece of mischief that came into his head; to torment cats, and dogs, and horses, and everything that fell in his way.

"He had such spirits," his mother said, "and bright boys are always full of mischief—" a very great mistake, by the way.

But Mr. Maberly was at last beginning to think that Horace was rather too full of mischief, especially since he had utterly spoiled a valuable horse which he had taken out without leave and then wantonly and cruelly over-driven. The horse would never be good for anything again.

"It is a dead loss of a thousand dollars," Mr. Maberly said to Horace, angrily. But he never uttered a word about the disobedience, nor about the cruelty to the horse.

Brought up in this way, it was perhaps no great wonder that Horace should think it good fun to let the goat and hens into Phil's garden, and then watch behind a rock to see what he would do and say.

Despite that Golden Text and the prayer behind the rock, Phil found it very hard to forgive. He felt that Horace had done him a wanton injury, and the way in which he had sought to pay for it only made matters worse. If Horace had only said he was sorry! But then it was plain to be seen he was not sorry. And yet he knew that he must forgive, or God would not forgive him.

"I mean to ask Miss Isabel after school," said he to himself, and this was in itself a victory, though Phil did not know it. It was a great thing for him to wish to forgive, and to try to find out the way to do so, for Phil, like almost all boys of his age, was very shy of talking about his feelings.

The lesson went on very pleasantly. The boys had all learned it, even including Horace, and Miss Isabel felt quite encouraged. Then came the Golden Text. Phil's voice trembled as he repeated it, and his eyes were moist.

"Miss Isabel, does it mean that we are to love real spiteful people?" asked Harry. "I don't see how we can."

"What do you mean by spiteful, Harry?"

"Well, just like this. Suppose I had a garden, and another boy should put a cow or a goat into it just to plague me, ought I to love such a boy as that?"

"I should hope there were not many boys as bad as that," said Miss Isabel.

Horace colored and dropped his eyes, and Harry got a glance from Phil that he did not quite understand. It was as if Phil were begging him with his eyes not to say any more.

"Well, I knew of that very thing being done," said John.

"You could not love such a boy as you would a good boy, it would not be right that you should," said Miss Isabel; "but you should forgive him, and try to do him a good turn if you get a chance. Turn over to Matthew 5:44, 45."

Harry turned over and read: