Part 8

Thus saying, Clara opened the door of the closet, and stepped upon a chair that she might reach the basket. There were several other things upon the shelf, and amongst others a box of small papers, neatly folded up and carefully labelled. When Clara took her basket down she upset this box, and some of the papers fell to the floor. She picked them up and put them in their place; but after she had shut the door, she saw that one little parcel had fallen upon the table near to the closet. “Never mind,” thought Clara, “I will put it back directly, as soon as I have fixed the basket for Ellen.”

They continued their play, and an hour passed very happily. Clara had forgotten all about the paper, which still lay upon the table. She was showing Ellen the pictures in a large and valuable book of her father’s, when Margaret looked in at the door, and inquired if they wanted any thing.

“Nothing at all, I thank you, Margaret,” replied Clara; “you may quilt another hour, if you like. We are having a fine time.”

Margaret gave them each a cake, and returned to her work.

While they were eating their cake, Clara saw a little girl, of whom Ellen was very fond, driving her hoop back and forth in front of the house.

“Oh, there is Mary!” she exclaimed; “look, Ellen, how fast she drives her hoop! I wish I could take you out there.”

Ellen knocked upon the window, and called “Mamy, Mamy!” but Mary did not hear.

“I will run to the door and call her,” said Clara, “and then she will come and see Ellen. Will you sit still while I am gone?”

Ellen sat down very quietly, and folded her hands, as she always did when asked to wait for any one, and Clara ran to the door to call Mary.

Mary was an obedient, thoughtful child, and she told Clara that she could not come without her mother’s leave, but if she would wait a moment, she would ask her.

The house where Mary lived was next door to Mr. Gray’s, so Clara promised to wait while she asked her mother.

“Be as quick as you can, Mary,” she said, “for I left Ellen alone.”

Mary ran into the house, but returned directly, saying, “I cannot come now, Clara, because mother wants me to take care of the baby. But just look at this beautiful present that my aunt sent me last evening,” and she showed Clara a pretty little work-box, and, touching a spring, it commenced playing a lively tune. “How pretty!” exclaimed Clara, “I never saw a musical work-box before;” and she stood still listening to the music until the sounds died away, and the box was as silent as any other work-box.

“Oh, make it play once more, Mary!” said Clara; and Mary again touched the spring, and it played another tune even prettier than the first.

Clara would still have begged for another, for the music and the pretty box had banished every thing else from her mind; but her more thoughtful companion reminded her that Ellen was alone, and that she must go to her mother.

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Clara, “I forgot all about Ellen; I hope she has not cried for me. Perhaps she opened the door and went up stairs. She goes up alone sometimes. Good-bye, Mary,” and she ran back to the sitting-room.

Ellen had left the seat where Clara had placed her, and was standing by the table, with the little parcel which had been left there in her hand.

As her cousin entered the room, she looked up and said,—

“Ellen cry when Tara gone,—then Ellen find sugar.”

“Sugar,” said Clara, snatching the paper from her hand. “Have you been eating it, Ellen? I wonder what it is.”

As she spoke she looked at the writing upon the back of the paper, and saw “Sugar of Lead” written upon it in large letters, and the word “poison” beneath.

Clara saw that the paper was now empty, and she knew that Ellen must have eaten its contents. She turned deadly pale, and for a few moments stood motionless, as if at a loss what to do. Then rushing to the staircase, she screamed to her mother and Margaret in such a frantic manner that they both ran to her in great alarm.

“Oh, mother, mother!” she sobbed, “I have killed Ellen. I left her alone for a few minutes, while I listened to Mary’s music-box, and she has eaten some sugar of lead.”

“Eaten sugar of lead!” exclaimed Mrs. Gray. “It is impossible, for it was upon the upper shelf in the closet; she could not have reached it.”

“No, no, mother, she did not reach it; but I left it on the table, and forgot to put it back, and then I forgot to return to Ellen, and stood listening to the music a long time. She has eaten it all, and she will die, mother. Oh, what shall I do?”

Poor Margaret had caught Ellen in her arms, and was now sobbing as if her heart would break; but Mrs. Gray, with more presence of mind, begged her to be calm, and not alarm the child, as any agitation might hasten the effect of the poison.

“Do you, Margaret, go immediately for Dr. Gregory,” she said, “and Clara must go to her father’s office and ask him to come directly home. There was but a small quantity in the paper. We may do much for her if we are calm.”

Then, taking the child in her own arms, she spoke to her in a quiet and soothing manner, and taking her up stairs, gave her an antidote for poison, and then amused her until the physician and Mr. Gray arrived.

Prompt and judicious remedies in a measure counteracted the fatal effects of the poison, but a serious illness could not be avoided. For many days little Ellen seemed to hover between life and death, and even after the physician had pronounced her out of danger, she was for a long time so feeble that no one would have supposed her to be the same child who had seemed so full of life and health but a few weeks before.

I shall not attempt to describe the agony which poor Clara suffered during the sickness of her little cousin. Her parents treated her with great kindness, for they thought the lesson she had received was sufficiently severe, without adding to it by their reproaches.

For a long time she could not bear to say a word upon the subject, but it was evident that a great change was taking place in her character. She was now not only industrious and obliging, but so thoughtful and considerate that her friends soon felt willing to trust her, even where the greatest care was necessary.

The cold winter months had passed away, and spring had again returned to gladden the earth. Favorable accounts had been received from Ellen’s parents. Her father’s health had improved rapidly, and they were now about to return home.

“Do you think they will be here in another month, mother?” asked Clara, as her mother finished reading a letter which she had just received from their distant friends.

“I think they will, Clara,” replied Mrs. Gray. “Are you prepared to part with our dear Ellen?”

Clara’s eyes filled with tears as she replied, “I shall try to be prepared, mother, but it will be a great trial. I always loved Ellen dearly, and since I came so near being the cause of her death, I have loved her more than ever. Every day I thank the Lord for His mercy in restoring her to health. It was a sad lesson, mother, but it helped me to see how really selfish I was. I could never quite understand why you and father should call forgetfulness a kind of selfishness; but when I sincerely endeavored to become more thoughtful, I found that the true reason why I used to forget so often was because I thought so much more of myself than I did of others. I now try to be very watchful of this fault, and I pray to the Lord to help me put it away.”

“And you will never look to Him in vain, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Gray. “You have already improved very much. Persevere steadily in the endeavor to remove selfishness in all its forms. It is the fountain from which many evils flow.”

THE SILVER MORNING AND THE GOLDEN DAY.

“O Father! please to come to the door, and see how pretty everything looks,” exclaimed William Mason, running eagerly into the room where his father was sitting.

Mr. Mason was always glad to give his son pleasure, and he laid aside the newspaper which he was reading, and followed him to the door.

There had been quite a heavy snow-storm a few days before, which was succeeded by rain, and then by severe cold. Everything was now entirely cased in ice.

“Is it not beautiful, father?” said William. “I have been all around the yard and garden, and everything has put on its winter coat. Every little branch and twig, every blade of grass, and even the little stones are covered with ice.”

“This is what we used to call a silver morning, when I was a boy,” said Mr. Mason.

“That is a good name for it, father,” replied William; “for everything shines like silver. Look at the road; it is almost as smooth as the pond. I think I can skate to school this morning.”

“You would probably find some rough places, which would injure your skates,” replied Mr. Mason; “but look towards the east, my son, and you will see something more beautiful than anything you have yet observed.”

There was a thick wood of pines toward the east, and, as William looked, he saw that the trees glittered like diamonds, and he could see colors like those of a rainbow in every direction.

He clapped his hands with delight.

“O father,” he exclaimed, “this is the most beautiful sight of all. The sun is rising, and soon it will shine on all the trees and plants, and then everything will look as beautiful as the pine trees do now. It was a silver morning, father, but it will be a golden day.”

“It will, indeed,” replied Mr. Mason. “Everything looked cold and dead before the rays of the sun shone upon them, but now all are sparkling with beauty. The trees will soon lose their icy casing, but the water will sink into the ground, and perform many important uses. The frosts and snows of winter prepare the way for the warmth and beauty of spring and summer. The earth rests from its labors, and is in various ways enriched and strengthened.”

“I like all the seasons, father,” said William. “In winter, I am so happy when skating and sliding in the fine cool air, that I wish the weather might always be cold; but when spring and summer and autumn come, with their long sunny days, and their beautiful birds and flowers and delicious fruits, I quite forget winter and its pleasures.”

“Yes, every season has its delights,” replied his father; “but look, William, there is one of your school-fellows. Is he already on his way to school?”

“Oh, that is only Louis Cunningham,” returned William, glancing rather contemptuously at a plainly dressed, but intelligent and manly looking boy, who was passing by.

“_Only Louis Cunningham_,” repeated Mr. Mason! “Well, is he not one of your school-fellows?”

“Why, yes, father, he goes to the same school. The master gives him his schooling for making the fire and keeping the room in good order. We call him the charity scholar.”

“I am grieved to hear you speak in this manner,” said Mr. Mason, gravely. “Mr. Cunningham died when Louis was very young, and his mother has been obliged to deny him many advantages of education, which she would gladly have given him if it had been in her power. Your teacher heard of their situation, and finding, from conversation with Louis, that he was an intelligent boy, and very desirous to learn, he kindly offered to take him into his school. But Louis and his mother, although they were very grateful for the offer, felt unwilling to accept it, unless they could make some return for the kindness; and it was finally arranged, that Louis should take care of the school-room and make the fire, and I have been told that he performs these duties very faithfully.”

“He does, indeed,” replied William. “The room is always warm and comfortable, and so nicely swept and dusted, that we never have any cause of complaint.”

“One would suppose, then, my son, that you would feel grateful to the person who performs these kind offices, instead of regarding him with contempt and dislike.”

“Oh, we do not dislike Louis, Father. He is always kind and obliging; but we do not like to see him placed on an equality with the rest of the boys, and often pronounced the best scholar in his class.”

“These are evil feelings, William, and I hope to have the pleasure of helping you put them away. Sit down by me in the parlor for a few minutes, and we will talk about Louis. Can you tell me why the boys think he should not be placed upon an equality with them? Is he inferior to the others as a scholar, or is he a wicked, profane boy?”

“Oh no, father. Louis is a very good boy, and a better scholar than many who have had greater advantages; but, as he does not pay for his schooling, we do not think that he is entitled to the same privileges that we are.”

“Even if this were the case, he would be entitled to every privilege, William, if Mr. Grant chose to instruct him without remuneration; but Louis does pay for his schooling; not indeed with his father’s money,—because the Lord has seen fit to remove his father to the spiritual world,—but with his own labor. Mr. Grant considers his services as an equivalent to his instruction, and, according to your own account, the duties are well performed. Louis, then, pays for his schooling as much, or more, than any boy in school; for the others depend upon their father’s labor, while he depends upon his own. Your school bills, as well as other expenses, are paid from the proceeds of my daily labor in my profession, and the case is the same with the other boys who attend your school.”

“This is very true, father,” replied William, “and I know it is wrong to despise those who are poorer than ourselves. We often laugh at Louis, when he comes to school with coarse, patched clothes; but I suppose his mother cannot afford to buy him any better.”

“She cannot, indeed, William; and of how little consequence is external clothing, compared to many other things in which Louis probably surpasses your other school-mates. It is right to be neat and clean, and as well dressed as our circumstances will admit; but the clothing of our soul is of more importance than the clothing of our bodies. If Louis is industrious, obedient, faithful in the performance of his duties, and in the endeavor to shun evil words and deeds, he appears to the Lord and the angels as if clothed in the most beautiful raiment.”

William made no reply, but appeared much interested in what his father was saying, and Mr. Mason continued,—

“You must ever remember the Golden Rule, my son. Think how you would wish to be treated, if you were situated like Louis; and then you will be more careful not to wound his feelings, by contempt or idle jests.”

“I will try to remember, father. I know I have done wrong, and I will begin to-day, and treat Louis just the same as I do the other scholars. Perhaps I may be able to help in some way.”

“These are good resolutions, my son; and, if they are carried into practice, they will do you and others much good. The light has dawned in your mind. It is a _silver morning_, and the rays of the spiritual sun will render it a _golden day_.”

Within an hour after this conversation, William was on his way to school, with his satchel of books and his skates slung over his shoulder, and his dinner pail in his hand. He was soon joined by several companions, and each boy tried to display his skill in keeping his balance on the glare ice, which to many would have rendered the road almost impassable. But boys have little fear of ice and snow, and, half running and half sliding, they soon reached the school-house, where they found, as usual, a comfortable and neatly arranged room.

Louis Cunningham was busily engaged at his desk, and, being little accustomed to any morning salutations from his school-fellows, he did not look up when they entered. He was somewhat surprised to hear William exclaim: “Good morning, Louis. What a grand fire you have got for us. I am sure we are much obliged to you, this cold morning.”

“You are very welcome,” he replied with a pleasant smile. “I came earlier than usual, on account of the severe cold. I am glad you find the room comfortable.”

“I should not have liked to have been the one to make the fire this morning,” remarked one of the boys. “In many schools the scholars take turns in cleaning the room and making the fire.”

“It is not fair that they should do so,” observed another. “Their parents pay for their schooling, and it is not right that they should be obliged to spend their time and injure their clothes in sweeping rooms and making fires. It does well enough for those who cannot pay.”

“For shame! John Gray,” exclaimed William. “You should not speak so thoughtlessly. You trouble Louis,” he added in a whisper.

John was a kind-hearted boy, but rude and thoughtless in his manners.

“I do not wish to trouble Louis,” he said aloud. “I only spoke the truth.”

The color, which had deepened on Louis’s cheek, faded away, and he said, kindly,—

“You do not trouble me, John. I agree with you in thinking that those whose parents can pay for their schooling should not be expected to take care of the room. But as I am situated, I regard it as a very great favor that I am in this way enabled to earn my own schooling.”

“It is a great favor to us,” exclaimed several boys. “We never before had so neat and comfortable a room.”

The entrance of Mr. Grant, the teacher, prevented any farther conversation, and each boy quietly took his seat, and performed his accustomed duties.

At noon, there was fine sport with coasting and skating, but, in the midst of his play, William remembered his promise to his father; and, finding that Louis was not among his companions, he sought him in the school-house. He found him seated at his desk, busily engaged with a pencil and piece of paper.

“Come, Louis,” he exclaimed, “Come and play with us. There is fine skating on the pond.”

“Thank you,” replied Louis, “but I have no skates this winter. I had a pair once, but they are worn out.”

“Then I will lend you mine, and I will slide for a little while. I shall like that quite as well. Do come,” urged William; and, as he spoke, he approached the desk, and looked at the picture which Louis was drawing.

“Why, Louis!” he said, with an expression of surprise, “I had no idea that you could draw so beautifully. You almost equal our drawing-master. Who taught you?”

“No one,” replied Louis. “I love to draw. If it were not wrong to neglect other duties, I would spend every day in doing nothing else.”

“Why do you not take lessons with the rest of us, Louis? I am sure our drawing-master would be proud of such a pupil. How you would laugh at our strange-looking pictures!”

“Mr. Grant is very kind, to give me so many other advantages,” answered Louis; “I should not like to ask the privilege of a seat at the drawing-tables, and then the pencils and paper are quite an expense. And if I learned to paint, it would be still more expensive; but, oh! I should love to learn so much,” and his face grew bright with pleasure at the very thought.

“You must learn, Louis; I am resolved that you shall,” said William; “but come now, and have one good play before school.”

Thus urged, Louis joined his companions, and, encouraged by William’s example, all received him kindly, and were careful to allow him equal rights with themselves, and not to wound his feelings by foolish jokes and sarcastic observations.

About fifteen minutes before the hour for school to commence, William saw Mr. Grant enter the school-house, and, quietly leaving his play-fellows, he hastened to follow him.

Taking from Louis’s desk the picture upon which he had been so busily engaged at noon, he presented it to the teacher, saying,—

“Is not this pretty well done, sir?”

“Remarkably well,” replied Mr. Grant. “You have improved wonderfully, William.”

“It is not mine, sir. Louis did it. He has never had any instruction in drawing, but I am sure if you will allow him a seat at the drawing-tables, he will soon equal our drawing-master himself.”

“He shall have every advantage, certainly,” replied Mr. Grant. “I am pleased with your request, William; for I have observed with pain that some of the scholars regard Louis with feelings of contempt and dislike, which are certainly quite undeserved.”

“I have been in fault in this respect,” replied William, blushing deeply, “but my father has convinced me that such feelings are very wrong, and I am resolved to do better.”

“I am glad that you have made so good a resolution, William. Your example will help the other scholars to do right also. You may have the pleasure of telling Louis that he can receive regular instruction in drawing, on the afternoons when the drawing-master attends the school.”

“Thank you, sir,” replied William, and he joyfully returned to his play-fellows.

A few whispered words told Louis of what had passed, and the glow of pleasure which suffused his countenance, and the warm pressure of the hand, amply rewarded William for his kindness.

“I have pencils and paper enough for both, Louis,” he continued, “and I know my father will be glad to have me share them with you.”

The sound of the bell now summoned the whole party to the school-room, and as this was the afternoon for the drawing-master, William had the pleasure of seeing his new friend seated by his side, and of hearing the warm commendations which were bestowed upon the contents of his little portfolio, which, at the request of the teacher, Louis modestly exhibited.

Much of the ice in the streets had melted away, but the trees were still glittering in the bright sunlight, when William left the school-house and took the road toward home. To him everything seemed even more beautiful than it had done in the morning, for his heart was filled with that happiness which always results from doing good. His father met him at the door.

“Well, my son,” he said, “has it been a golden day with you?”

“It has, indeed, father,” replied William. “I have remembered what you told me, and I have already found an opportunity to do Louis some good.”

Mr. Mason listened with much interest to William’s little story, and gladly gave him leave to assist Louis, by lending him his own drawing implements.

It was pleasing to observe the effect which William’s example of friendliness to Louis had upon the rest of the scholars. He was no longer regarded with contempt or indifference, but became as great a favorite with the boys as a play-fellow, as he was with the master as a scholar. The younger boys looked to him for assistance in all their pleasures and troubles, for they found that he was always willing to give up his own pleasure for the sake of making them happy; and the older ones frequently assisted him in his duties in the school-room, in order to gain so valuable a companion in their plays.

His improvement in drawing and painting was so rapid, that, before many months had elapsed, the drawing-master declared he could teach him nothing more, and advised him to procure a situation in some of the large schools in the neighborhood, as teacher of these branches. But about this time circumstances occurred, which induced Mrs. Cunningham to remove to a distant part of the country, and Louis was obliged to bid farewell to his teachers and companions.

All parted from him with regret, but none felt the loss so keenly as William Mason. He had been the first among the boys to love Louis and endeavor to assist him; and, although the latter was some years older, a warm attachment had sprung up between them.