Part 3

And poor Phil was left behind lamenting; for it seemed as if it grew suddenly dark, as the sound of the wheels got faint and fainter, and at last died quite away. Then he went to the end of the crooked lane, and climbed into the fork of a tree to watch for Essie’s return.

You may be sure, when the dear little child was met by her father, and lovingly placed close beside him for the pleasant ride home, she told him how good Phil had been all day, at which Farmer Goodfellow looked very much pleased; and when he and Essie got to where the tree was in which Phil had perched himself, he was told to jump into the wagon, and they all came down the crooked lane, just as the stars were peeping out, three very happy people.

I don’t think you would have known Phil for the same boy, had you seen how he flew round, giving the horses their supper, putting them in their comfortable stalls, and dragging at the wagon, with, the help of the farm man, to get it safely housed. The boys at the school would certainly have declared that it could not be “Philip Badboy,” but a sensible, industrious fellow called Philip Wiseman.

And the farmer showed how much he was gratified, by giving him a seat next his own at the table, and letting Essie help him twice to apple-sauce.

“I dare say,” said the farmer, “you will like farming better than Greek and Latin; while my son John is all for books. Learning suits _him_ to a T.”

Phil blushed deeply, and hung down his head.

“Never mind,” said the farmer; “you’ve got your good points too. To-morrow is Sunday. After you have done your stable-work, you can go to church, and if you listen to our good parson, you can’t help improving.”

That night Philip knelt down in his lonely garret, and asked God to forgive his many sins, for Jesus’ sake. His face was wet with penitent tears when he rose, and God heard his prayer, and saw the tears.

* * * * *

Let us go back to the school. You would have thought that Johnny Goodfellow, who was left in place of Philip Badboy, wore a fairy talisman outside of his heart, which made everybody love him, so great a favorite did he become almost immediately. Yes, he wore a charm; but it was _inside_ his heart, and it was called LOVE. Do you know, darling little reader, whom _I_ love with all my heart—that in that sublime chapter in Corinthians which tells about Charity, it is _Love_ which is meant? The word in the original is “Love;” but for good reasons, and so as not to be misunderstood—because this word “love” has not always a divine meaning—the translator chose the word “Charity.” And now, whenever you read the beautiful chapter, which I hope you do very often, and, what is more, _practise its heaven-sent lessons_, always think that “Charity” means the purest “Love.”

How the little fellow did study! It seemed as if he could not say his lessons wrong if he tried; and in play hours, he frolicked at such a rate with his particular friend Kriss Luff, who clung to him from the very first day, that he did not lose his bright rosy cheeks, as his good mother had feared. He wrote her a long letter once a week, sending many loving messages to his father and darling sister Essie, and not forgetting Phil. And once, when a travelling photographic gallery came up to the school, he had himself taken with his arm round his friend Kriss’s neck; and he particularly requested that Kriss should be looking at his watch at the moment, as it would seem such a grand thing, he said, for a boy to have one.

Johnny learned to construe Latin in such a surprisingly short time, that Dr. Gradus forgot one morning to be as pompous as usual, and tapping his new scholar on the back, told him he was an honor to the school, and said he was quite a “multum in parvo,” which, I am certain, meant a great compliment, for Johnny colored deeply, while an expression of delight illumined his features. It is a very majestic thing to praise people in Latin; but for my part, I wish Dr. Gradus had talked English, don’t you? If you can find out what “multum in parvo” means, just write it to me in a dear little letter, directed to the care of Mr. Sheldon.

Of course Johnny told Kriss all about his sister Essie; how pretty and good she was, and how she had to walk with crutches, because she had hurt her knee when she was a little bit of a thing, and the leg that was injured never grew any more, at which Kriss was dreadfully sorry, and sent his love to her, and a funny little picture, in an envelope, of a boy who was pulling out the nose of his sister’s india-rubber doll, and making it at least half a yard long. And Essie, in return, sent him a great gingerbread cake, which she helped to make herself, and Kriss had what he called “a public dinner” off of it, and made a fine speech, standing on top of the pump in the play-ground; after which he cut a slice of cake for every boy, all elegantly arranged on cabbage leaves for plates, upon receiving which they gave him three perfectly tremendous cheers, and in five minutes more every single crumb had disappeared.

And Johnny kept rosy and fat, although he really seemed to live on geography, the multiplication table, and the Latin grammar; but he could play too; for Kriss declared that he could run faster, jump higher, swim longer, and shout louder than any other fellow in the school, which was very remarkable, for some of the boys could run like lamplighters, jump like kangaroos, swim dog-fashion and crab-fashion, dive like stones, float like feathers, stand on their heads under water and bow, to you with their feet, and as to shouting, I only wish you could hear them once—that’s all.

* * * * *

All the boys agreed that Johnny made the very best back of them all at leap-frog,—so strong and square, with his hands firmly planted on his knees, and looking between his legs with his round face upside down. Then he was a capital hand at mending broken-down drums, toy-carts, horses, and all manner of playthings. The little boys in the school would bring them to him, and, first hugging him, would coax him to “make them as good as new,” until he declared that the little closet in his room was a perfect hospital, of which he was the doctor, and a jack-knife and Spalding’s glue the medicines.

And such wonderful kites as he could make! They quite astonished the whole neighborhood, birds and all. A famous one which he made was, as he declared, a genuine portrait of a round-shouldered, bullet-headed member of Congress he had seen, whose brains being made of feathers, were just the very ones to go off in a high wind, at a tangent, and never touch any sensible thing, or cut even a curve in the air, much less a difficult question. So the member of Congress was painted on an immense sheet of tissue paper, and furnished with an exceedingly long tail, made of scraps of cotton-wadding tied on a string at intervals of four inches, and so light that it balanced his brains to perfection. When he was finished, he was dubbed “The Honorable Mr. Kite;” and many a fine day did the honorable gentleman air his feather-brains over the broad fields, and look down with his stupid fat face at the delighted boys, who all took turns in giving him a “flier.”

But perhaps the very best of Johnny’s social accomplishments came out on rainy days, when he told stories without end, so excellent was his memory of what he had read or heard; and the bright play of his features added so much to the interest, that the boys declared, when they came to read the very same stories in books, as sometimes happened, they did not seem one quarter as good. I really feel tempted to tell you one of them, though, like the boys, you will lose three-quarters of the interest because you do not get it direct from him. Shall I.

Aunt Fanny had read thus far in her manuscript, when she paused, looked up, and repeated, “Shall I?”

“Oh, yes! yes! if you please,” cried all the children.

“But it won’t seem more than a quarter as entertaining.”

“Oh, you funny Aunt Fanny! you know we shall like it just as well—better. But tell us, did _you_ hear that jolly Johnny Goodfellow tell a story?”

“Of course I did,” she answered, “and this is the way he did it. First, let’s all sit down on the carpet.”

You would have thought that each of the children had been presented with a fine present, they received this proposition with such delight and so many chuckles. Down they all got in a bunch, with Aunt Fanny in the midst. Then she clasped her hands over her knees, made her mouth into a button-hole, and looked up at a corner of the ceiling, pretending to think. She looked so long, that Fred, full of Johnny Goodfellow and his story, quite forgot he was speaking to Aunt Fanny, and shouted—

“Come, old fellow! we’re all waiting; why don’t you begin?”

Then suddenly remembering himself, he turned as red as scarlet, and stammered out—

“Oh, I didn’t mean—— I beg your pardon.”

The button-hole mouth broke loose, and Aunt Fanny burst out laughing, as she said—

“That was just what I wanted. Now, attention, squad! Aunt Fanny has jumped over the moon, and Johnny Goodfellow is here in her place to tell you the wonderful tale, a good deal altered, which he read in an English magazine, called

“BROTHER BOB’S BEAR.”

Once upon a time, a Yankee farmer found he had such a lot of children, that they cost him more than they were worth. So he concluded to emigrate out West, where the old ones could shoot game and plant corn and keep out of mischief, and the young ones could laugh and grow fat by rolling on the prairies and eating hasty-pudding.

He found that he was well enough off, when he got to his new home, to build a very aristocratic log-house. Very few, you know, have more than one room, while his had three—all elegantly ceiled with hemlock-bark, with the smooth side out—quite gorgeous, you may believe.

It was in May that he moved, and the whole summer was before the children to frolic in, and have a grand good time; and the eldest brother, Bob, began the game by shooting a bear who wanted to hug him. You know a bear’s hug is a remarkably tight squeeze, and generally takes your breath away for good. So Bob declined the honor, and popped a bullet in the bear’s cranium, and carried home in his arms a perfect little darling of a cub, for the poor bear was a mother.

Oh, what a welcome the little cub got! It was hugged and kissed all round; and Bob, congratulating himself that it was too young to mourn long for the loss of its mother, solemnly declared that he intended to be a mother to it for the rest of its life. And he kept his word.

The cub, who was named Moses, slept with Bob, always laying his nose in a sentimental manner over Bob’s shoulder. He grew very fast; you could almost see him grow; and there really seemed no end to the bread and milk and mush and butter he would eat.

The first winter he was kind of numb and stupid, and spent a great deal of time in sleeping and sucking his paws. But when the warm weather came on, he was the happiest little bear in the world, following Brother Bob about like a dog, and only miserable when he lost sight of his master. He always woke him in the morning; and as the bear liked to get up early, you see he was quite a blessing to Bob in this respect, as getting up early, according to the proverb, is one of the sure and certain ways of becoming healthy, wealthy, and wise. I always feel the wisdom sprouting out all over me when I get up very early in the morning; but I’m afraid I should spend all the extra money I made by early rising in buying an extra breakfast, for it also makes me so tremendously hungry.

Well, one day Brother Bob had to go a long journey to buy material for building a frame house, of a man who had a saw-mill. Moses could not accompany him; and this was a dreadful affliction. Bob had to steal away; and when the bear found he had gone, he commenced a search for him. He went to Bob’s bed, and, beginning at the head, poked his nose under the sheets and blankets, and gravely travelled down till he came out at the foot; then he turned and slowly marched up again. He kept this up by the hour, never stopping till he was shut out of the room. He then took possession of all Bob’s clothes he could find, and got as far as he could push into the legs of the trousers and arms of the coats, still hoping that his beloved master would be found in some of the dark corners; and Bob’s mother, half distracted at seeing the clothes tearing with such rough usage, got them away with great difficulty, and locked them up in a wardrobe.

Then Moses, with tears in his eyes, and grunting with grief, managed to climb to the top of the wardrobe, and seized a large Bible which rested there, and, curling himself up into a round ball, dropped on the floor, hugging the Bible fast. Bob’s mother tried to get this away, but the bear showed fight for the first time, and kicked out his hind legs, and gave sly dabs at the broomstick with which she was beating him; but he held the book tight, and Bob’s mother had to give up, and come off second best; and what’s more, the bear knew it, and made use of his triumph afterward.

When Bob came back, the bear fairly danced for joy, dropping the Bible, and showing his contempt for Bob’s mother by taking the butter from the tea-table and eating it before her eyes. His master gave him a good drubbing for stealing, and he submitted to it with perfect indifference, for his dear master might do as he pleased; but when he was not present, butter and honey, and sugar and molasses, were all taken with the utmost coolness; and the poor old lady could not help herself, for he had now grown so large and strong that she was afraid of him.

“Oh, Bob,” she said, one day, “your bear is the plague of my life.”

“Now, mother,” he answered, “you have only got to be resolute, and show that you are not afraid of him.”

“But I _am_ afraid of him, and he will do me some dreadful harm yet.”

“Give him a taste of hot poker, mother, and he’ll never bother you again.”

“Oh, Bob!” she exclaimed, “I would not do that for the world!”

And so the bear had his own way, and became a very tyrannical member of the family, till something happened which did more than even a mother’s remonstrances.

For Brother Bob fell in love. Just at this time the Yankee farmer got a neighbor—a very near one for the West, only five miles off—and this neighbor had a pretty daughter, seventeen years old; so what does Bob, who, I forgot to tell you, was nineteen years old—what does he do but fall so head over ears in love, that he declared she was the prettiest and best girl in the whole universe, which _I_ think was saying a great deal.

But Susan (that was her name) treated Brother Bob shamefully. She played tricks upon him; she made fun of him before his face, and kept him perfectly miserable; and declared, moreover, that she did not care half an ear of corn for him. Here was a pretty state of things! for even the bear could not comfort the poor fellow.

But one day Susan and a younger sister came to take tea with Bob’s mother. They had never seen Moses, and did not know of his existence. Bob shut the bear up in his room, in compliment to the guests, and the afternoon passed off very pleasantly; that is, to all but Moses, who was highly disgusted at being locked in.

When the time came for Susan and her sister to leave, Bob prepared to see them home through the path in the woods. He ran into his room for his hat, never thinking of Moses, and left the door open, and came quickly out of the house, as Susan, with her teazing ways, had already started.

Down rushed the bear after him, out of the door, up to Bob, seized him in his arms, and hugged him, in his joy, in a way frightful to behold; and Susan, turning, saw Bob in this terrible embrace. She screamed; oh, how she screamed! and instead of running away, _she rushed right up to the bear_, and tried to pull him off, crying and sobbing, “Oh, Bob! dear, dear Bob! you will be killed!” and then fell fainting to the ground.

Ha! ha! Miss Susan, you were found out! But Bob behaved very well; for he caught her in his arms, and said—

“Dear Susan, he is a tame bear; do not be afraid.”

The poor girl looked like a broken white lily, trembling at the bear, and ashamed that she had showed Brother Bob how much she cared for him; and when she had recovered her wits, she cried out piteously—

“Oh, I will never come here again!”

“Yes, you will!” said Bob, “now that I know you like me. I’ll banish the bear, or put him in prison, or do any thing you wish.”

It was wonderful how many faults Bob discovered that the poor bear had after this; and one day when he snatched a pudding from the plate in the very hands of Bob’s mother, as she was taking it to the table, he made up his mind that Moses must be chained.

So the bear was fastened to a surveyor’s chain, made tight to a stake in the ground. He immediately began walking in a circle round the stake, at the extreme length of the chain, always turning a somerset at one particular point, and only stopping to eat, or look reproachfully at Bob when he came that way. Why he wanted to exercise in this very peculiar fashion, tumbling head over heels at one spot every time he went around, is a good deal more than I know; but I believe all bears who are chained act in this comical way, though it can’t be much fun to them.

This was all very well in the daytime, but sure as night came, Moses broke his chain, and did his best to get back into his master’s bedroom. Poor fellow! he so wanted to lie at the foot of Bob’s bed, hugging an old vest. And at last they had to build a prison for him of logs, with a roof of boards kept on by heavy stones.

The very first night the poor bear was put in this den, he raised the boards off the roof in his desperate struggle to get out and see his beloved master. He got his head out, and then, oh! ah! alas! hung by his neck, and was choked to death—a martyr to his great love for Brother Bob.

You may be sure, Bob’s mother was rather glad, but, old as he was, Bob could not help shedding a few tears for his clumsy, ugly pet. He got a new and pretty pet before long; and so it came to pass that the farmer and all his family soon gave up bewailing the tragical end of

BROTHER BOB’S BEAR.

* * * * *

“There!” said Aunt Fanny; “what do you think of Johnny’s story?”

“Grand!” cried the children. “We know more about bears now than we ever did before.”

“I wish I could have a bear,” said Peter.

“Come here and I will give you a bear’s hug,” cried Fred.

He jumped upon Peter and squeezed him till both were perfectly red in the face, and breathed in puffs. Then Fred kindly offered to give Aunt Fanny a hug; but she, jumping up and laughing, said she had no breath to spare. And after a good deal of skirmishing around, and making believe to punch each other with their elbows, dancing and singing—

“There was an old woman, Who had but one spoon, And all she wanted Was elbow room, Elbow room, elbow room,— All she wanted Was ELBOW ROOM”—

they consented to sit down quietly to hear once more about their friend Philip.

* * * * *

At the farm, all this time, Phil had been improving. Not steadily, for no one becomes good all at once. He would have his fits of laziness and sulkiness; but the ministering love and sweet example of little Essie soon made him ashamed of himself, and try to conquer the enemy, praying to his Father in Heaven for help. You know very well, darling children, that our worst enemies are our evil passions and bad habits, and when we gain a victory over them, all the angels in heaven rejoice, and then God’s Holy Spirit descends into our hearts, sending a glow and thrill of happiness all through us.

As Phil grew good-tempered and industrious he began bitterly to regret the advantages he had neglected and lost while at school, and when Johnny’s letters were read aloud, his heart would beat violently, and he would say to himself—“Shall I ever be so smart? What a miserable foolish fellow I have proved myself!”

One Saturday evening he went softly up to Mr. Goodfellow, and asked—“Won’t you please tell me something about my dear father and mother?” and then burst into tears.

“Why, Phil!” cried the farmer, “what’s the matter? Your parents are well, and know that you are trying to be a better boy. Don’t cry. The time will soon pass; and a little farm learning will not hurt you. If you go on as you have done this two or three weeks past, you’ll come out all right, my boy.”

The next morning, after his work, Phil washed and dressed himself carefully, and went to church. His history, by this time, was pretty well known, and the good minister, who had become quite interested in him, had not only been to see him, but had always spoken to him kindly when he waited in the churchyard after the service, while the farmer and his wife talked awhile to their neighbors.

On this day, Phil went up to the good clergyman, and, blushing deeply, stammered out, “I should like to speak to you, sir.”

“Well, my dear boy,” he answered kindly, “don’t be afraid; tell me what I can do for you.”

“Oh, sir, if—if—you would only ask Mr. Goodfellow to let me go to evening school. I want to learn—I do indeed.”

“Well, that is quite right; but you were at an excellent school. Why did you not study there?”

Phil blushed more deeply than before, but he said, truthfully and manfully, “I neglected my opportunities, sir: I would not learn; and all the boys hated me—because I tormented them; and I did not want to do any thing harder than to walk about with my hands in my pockets—or else to be eating.”

“But, my child, did this kind of life make you _happy_?”

“No, sir. I grew tired of every thing, and gaped till I sometimes thought the top of my head would crack off; and I used to wish I could sleep all day as well as all night; but now, oh! how I wish I could go back and study diligently—although the farmer and his wife are very kind, and I could hardly bear to leave dear little Essie. And I want to see my parents, and beg them to forgive me”—and here Phil’s lip quivered painfully.

“Well, my son, I will speak to the farmer, and if he consents, you shall come to _me_ for an hour every week-day evening and continue your studies.”

Phil could hardly believe his ears.

“You, sir! come to you!” he exclaimed, his whole face radiant with joy. “Oh, thank you, thank you; how can I ever thank you enough!”

He flew to the good farmer, the minister coming slower, and told him the precious good news, ending with, “Now I shan’t grow up a dunce!”—and I am afraid I must add that he took one or two great joyful jumps in the air, at which the minister looked a little grave, as it was Sunday, but did not say one word of reproof, because he knew that “boys would be boys,” and sometimes jumped when they ought to stand as still as a mouse.

It was all settled, and the next evening, just as the stars were peeping out, Phil shouldered his books, which, you will remember, were sent away from the school with him, and almost ran all the way to the parsonage.