nil 
 
 1 
 
 CORNELL 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 BEQUEST 
 
 OF 
 
 STEWART HENRY BURNHAM 
 1943 
 
Cornell University Library 
 PS 1039.A77G5 
 
 Golden grains from life's harvest field. 
 
 3 1924 022 196 723 
 
Cornell University 
 Library 
 
 The original of tiiis book is in 
 tile Cornell University Library. 
 
 There are no known copyright restrictions in 
 the United States on the use of the text. 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924022196723 
 
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™ 
 
 GOLDEN GEAINS 
 
 FROM 
 
 LIFE'S HARYEST FIELD. 
 
 BY 
 
 T. S. ARTHUR. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 L. P, CROWN & CO., 61 CORNHILL. 
 
 PHILADELPHIA: 
 
 J. W. BRADLEY, 48 NOKTH FOURTH ST. 
 
 1854. 
 
 f- f- IS" V 
 
^llfl 
 
 Enieted. according to Act of Congress, in the year 1 850, bj 
 
 J. W; BRADLEY, 
 
 In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the f'niieil Str.tTB, 
 in and for the Eastern district of Pennsylvania. 
 
 f«* 
 
INTEOLUCTION. 
 
 The title of our book needs but a 
 word of explanation. Golden Grains 
 from Life's Harvest Field, what are they 
 but good and true principles, pure affec- 
 tions and human sympathies, gath- 
 ered by the mind as it passes through 
 its fields of labor ? These are^ indeed, 
 golden grains, full of the soul's nutri- 
 tion. A handful or two have we shaken 
 from the full ears, and now present 
 them to our readers. May the offering 
 bear with it strength to the weak and 
 the tempted, comfort to those who are 
 in affliction, and good impulses to all. 
 
r 
 
 4 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 With this brief introduction, we 
 scatter a few "golden grains," gathered 
 on our way through life, over other 
 hearts, believing that many of them 
 will fall upon good ground, and yield | 
 fruit in their season. 
 
 I * 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Paga 
 
 The Night and the Mokninq 7 
 
 The Mother's Beeah of Heaven, ... 26 
 
 Floweks by the Wat Side 32 
 
 A Merrt Cheisthas, 35 
 
 To Mart in Heaten . 46 
 
 Sowing in Tears and Reaping in Joy, . . 49 
 
 Tee Mother, ....... 70 
 
 OcK Little Harry, 87 
 
 A Domestic Sketch, 91 
 
 All for the Best, . 97 
 
 The Sphere of Use, 101 
 
 The Old Man to his Wifb, ..... 104 
 
 Good foe Etil, 107 
 
 The Great Man, ....... 134 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 ^ Page 
 
 Fading Flowers 135 
 
 Stanzas, ........ 140 
 
 I Said So 1 141 
 
 Our Little Son • . 149 
 
 Bread in the Winter Night, .... 151 
 
 To A Child with a Dote 162 
 
 How TO BE Happt, ...... 163 
 
 A Thought, 174 
 
 A Domestic Scene, 175 
 
 The Departed One, ...... 184 
 
 Going to Heaven, ]88 
 
 Frank 208 
 
 Autumn Thoughts, ...... 211 
 
 The Poor Man, 219 
 
 Too Busy, 235 
 
GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 ; THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 
 
 \ . • . 
 
 ; Evert one in passing through life has times of 
 
 J darkness, after which there breaks a dim light upon 
 j his mind, followed by the cold gray tints of morn- 
 ! ing. But to few, very few, does the broad bright 
 \ day come in its sunny brightness. There is a change 
 J from darkness to light, but the light is dim and cold, 
 J and the way is not clear before the straining sight. 
 Soon even this poor image of day fades in the men- 
 \ tal horizon, and all is dark again. And thus life 
 progresses, from darkness to the feeble dawn ; but 
 I to few — we repeat it — to very few does this dawn 
 I advance until lost in perfect day ; nor can it thus 
 i advance to any one until he has right views of life, 
 and then, not until these views, becoming active 
 principles in his mind, are brought dpwn into ulti- 
 mate forms. 
 
 (t) 
 
r 
 
 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 At twenty-one Albert Earnest stepped upon the \ 
 ■world's broad stage as a man, confident that he j 
 would be able to act well his part, even without the ? 
 aid of a prompter. He had talents, was well edu- '< 
 cated, and the profession he had chosen was law. < 
 A student in the office of an eminent counsellor; and ? 
 admitted to the bar under his patronage, and with | 
 a share of his practice, Albert Earnest might well | 
 be pardoned for imagining that there was a plain 
 way before him, and that the most complete sue- \ 
 cess, accompanied by the most perfect satisfaction 
 of mind, would be his in the end. 
 
 Our young friend was ambitious. He wished to 
 stand high in the community, so that all eyes could 
 be upon him. 
 
 " The world shall hear of me before I die," was 
 a favorite thought with him ; and sometimes it even 
 fell into oral expression. i 
 
 With ardor, activity, and unwearied industry. 
 Earnest commenced his life-struggle. He did well, ; 
 very well, at every step, — but his best performances '^ 
 fell so far short of what others — longer on the stage, I 
 and more perfect in their parts — could do, that he ! 
 was dissatisfied with himself, and often unhappy, i 
 He pressed on, however, the more ardently for 'i 
 these depressing contrasts, and night, ere long, gave l 
 place to spmething resembling the morning, in which I 
 he could see the advancement he had made, and I 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 
 
 feel some small degree of self-congratulation. This 
 light was only dim and brief. It faded as he caught 
 sight of some towering eminence before him, upon 
 which stood one whose talents and genius had ena- 
 bled him to mount far above the great mass of his 
 fellow-men. He did not feel, deeply moving in his 
 soul, the power that was to lift him to that proud 
 eminence. He felt that he possessed power, but 
 not adequate to the attainment of such a height. 
 He was discouraged and unhappy ; but still he 
 abated not an effort. He struggled and toiled on, 
 even in darkness. 
 
 In the midst of these stern efforts, he was touched 
 by a gentle sentiment. A beautiful being passed 
 before his eyes, and filled his heart with her pre- 
 sence. For a time his mind was all absorbed in a 
 new pursuit. He saw no longer the high reward 
 of ambition, but only the reward of love. In this 
 new pursuit he was successful, and led to the altar 
 a young and lovely bride. For a time he believed 
 himself to be perfectly happy. But old states came 
 back upon him. There was something yet to be 
 obtained before he could be happy. 
 
 Once more he turned, with renewed energy and 
 a more determined purpose to his life-pursuit. He 
 sought eminence as an end, by means of the legal 
 profession. Usefulness to the community, in his 
 profession, formed no part of that end. His own 
 
10 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 elevation was the good after which he was strug- 
 gling. Of course, in this struggle the community 
 received a benefit, perhaps nearly equal to what it 
 would have received had his end been the good of 
 the whole instead of the good of the individual ; the 
 difference was to himself. Of the nature of that 
 difference he-had no idea. He comprehended not 
 the great truth, " It is more blessed to give than to 
 receive." 
 
 Success crowned the efforts of Albert Earnest. 
 He rose rapidly. At the age of thirty, he stood 
 very high at the bar of his native state. It hap- 
 pened, JTist at that time, that a fierce struggle was 
 going on between two great political parties. Each, 
 in ,the hope of gaining ascendency in the councils 
 of the nation, chose the most popular man that 
 could be found, and nominated him as the party 
 candidate for a seat in Congress. Earnest received 
 one of these nominations, and consented to serve. 
 He was elected ; and a clearer morning, with the 
 promise of a longer and a brighter day than he had 
 yet known, opened upon him. At Washington, dur- 
 ing the first session he attended, Earnest did him- 
 self great credit. Letter writers lauded his efforts 
 for the party from one end of the country to the 
 other, and created an interest every where in the 
 brilliant young Congressman. 
 
 As might be supposed, Earnest, who looked 
 
 L 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 11 
 
 mainly to the attainment of a distinguished name, 
 felt much elated by his success. All was bright 
 around him ; and his sun was far below its zenith. 
 
 During his second year, clouds began to show 
 themselves along the horizon of Earnest's sky. 
 His over-zealous devotion to party, instead of to 
 the general interests of his country, not only made 
 him a point of attack from the opposition, but ex- 
 posed him to charges and allegations that, when 
 publicly brought, fretted and fevered his mind to a 
 high degree. Thus far, he had only been pressing 
 the downy pillow of political life — now he was be- 
 ginning to feel the thorns that were concealed be- 
 neath. Instead of going right on in the plain path 
 of duty, regarding, as a truly wise man ever does, 
 the good of the whole in the faithful performance 
 of all the obligations of his office or station, Ear- 
 nest turned now to the right, and now to the left, 
 to parry a thrust here, or return a, blow there. 
 Thus he soon stood out in full view, as one engaged 
 in a mere war of personalities, instead of a public 
 servant, earnestly striving to promote the general 
 good. Severely was he now paying the penalty of 
 the mistake he had committed, in endeavoring to 
 rise into eminence by means of a party nomination 
 to office — even though the office were a high one. 
 With other and better views he might have taken 
 the same office, and filled it with honor to himself 
 
12 GOLDEN GRAINS. j 
 
 \ 
 
 and benefit to the nation ; but the selfish end of 
 mere distinction blinded his judgment, and led him 
 into the commission of etrors that caused the firm 
 ground Tie had imagined himself standing upon to 
 shake beneath his feet. 
 
 In the strong passionate whirl of excitement in 
 ■which Earnest lived, every gentler domestic senti- 
 ment, was, for a time, extinguished. His beautiful, 
 loving-hearted wife, whose devotion to her husband 
 was as tender and deep as ever burned in a woman's 
 breast, felt, sadly felt, that he had changed towards 
 her. His letters were few and brief, and contained 
 little more than words. It was plain that he wrote 
 home as a duty, and not because he wished to send 
 his heart there, that his wife might read the love 
 which was inscribed upon it. 
 
 To feel that he was cold towards her, painful as 
 it was, grieved not Mrs. Earnest half so much as 
 did the slanders that were heaped upon his good 
 name. There was a cause for this coldness in the 
 new and exciting interests with which a public sta- 
 tion had filled his mind. It was only upon the sur- 
 face, her own heart assured her ; at the centre all 
 was yet warm with a true affection. Still, this 
 external coldness, added, as it was, to most acute 
 pangs, occasioned by one dishonorable charge after 
 another, that was made against her husband by a 
 venial party press, and by hired concoctors and 
 
,^/\y\y>_/\^_AjX/\AAAA/WN-'\/N.^ ' 
 
 THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 13 ;: 
 
 venders of political detraction at Washington, ; 
 caused the cheek of Mrs. Earnest to grow to pale. i 
 
 During his brief visits at home, Earnest could j 
 not help noticing that his wife did not look so well. ! 
 But his mind was too full of something else to more \ 
 than remark upon it. 'i 
 
 At length a stormy session of Congress, in which f 
 the two great parties struggled long and fiercely I 
 for the ascendency, came to a close, and Earnest I 
 returned home to resume the duties of his profes- I 
 sion, feeling that he had won but few laurels, al- ; 
 though he had received many severe wounds. Poorly, 
 indeed, was he satisfied with the result. The morn- 
 ing that open'ed with such a beautiful promise of a 
 bright and glorious day, had too soort grown dim 
 with gathering clouds, and ere the sun had reached 
 the glowing zenith, thick darkness enshrouded his 
 sky, and a fierce tempest was breaking upon his 
 head. He was unhappy — ^more unhappy than he 
 had ever felt, for his disappointment was the 
 greatest he had yet known. Instead of gaining 
 eminence he had gained detraction. Instead of 
 displaying great ability, he had displayed great 
 weakness, and had spent moro time in petty 
 personal and narrow party contentions, than in 
 carrying out any schemes of usefulness to his coun- 
 try. All this he now saw and felt, and he was 
 2 
 
14 GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 deeply mortified at the error he had committed— " I 
 an error almost irretrievable. ! 
 
 A few months of quiet at home permitted the bet- j 
 ter feelings of his nature again to come forth, and j 
 the heat that stUl glowed at the centre of his heart ? 
 to extend to and warm the surface. He felt that ^ 
 there was a blessing in home, and something elevat- | 
 ing and purifying in the very atmosphere that sur- ', 
 rounded his innocent-minded wife, whose virtues ; 
 had never before appeared to shine so brightly. i 
 
 They were sitting together one day, talking of I 
 theu" two children, a girl and a boy, and looking i 
 into the future with hope for these beloved ones. | 
 Earnest felt a new impulse, and the inspiration of \ 
 a higher end. He had glimpses of a new truth ; j 
 he saw that there were a better purpose and a higher I 
 reward than in distinction for its own sakfe. Still, ; 
 there was mingled with this the weakness of a fond i 
 desire that his boy might become a distinguished 
 man. But this hour of pleasant, healthy commu- 
 nion of thought and feeling, was not to pass without 
 the tempter's presence. A servant came to the 
 j door, and announced a committee of gentlemen in 
 j the parlor, who had particular business with Mr. 
 j Earnest. 
 
 i This cominittee proved to be some old political 
 i friends, who had come to announce to Earnest that 
 < be had been again nominated as a candidate to run 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE M0ENINQ. 15 
 
 for Congress, and to know if he would accept the 
 nomination. His first impulse 'was to decline the 
 honor which had been conferred upon him. But a 
 whisper of ambition caused him to hesitate, reflect, 
 and then agree to run again as a party candidate, 
 under the assurance that his election would be 
 certain. 
 
 " Who were they, dear ?' asked Mrs. Earnest, 
 when her husband rejoined her. There was doubt 
 in her face, and clearly expressed anxiety in the 
 tones of her voice. 
 
 "I have been again nominated for Congress," 
 was replied. 
 
 " But you will not accept the nomination ?" His 
 wife spoke with eagerness. 
 
 " I could not decline, Flora," he answered. 
 
 " Then you have agreed to run again ?" 
 
 "I have." 
 
 Mrs. Earnest did not reply, but her countenance 
 fell, and there came over it an expression that was 
 painful to look upon. 
 
 No further allusion was made to the subject ; 
 but Earnest never forgot the strange look that set- 
 tled upon his wife's face when he declared his inten- 
 tion of again becoming a candidate for a seat in the 
 national legislature. 
 
 The canvass that ensued was characterized by a 
 bitter, criminating, and accusing spirit. Strong 
 
 1-, 
 
16 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 efforts were made to destroy public confidence m 
 the two candidates by allegations against their per- 
 sonal characters. An upright, honest man, in whose 
 whole life there was not a passage he could wish to 
 hide. Earnest felt keenly these base attempts to do 
 him injury. For two months he was in a state of 
 feverish excitement; and his mind was so filled with 
 the hope of a successful issue to the contest in 
 which he was engaged, that he saw not how deeply 
 his wife was suffering, nor how rapidly her health 
 was failing. The primary cause of this failure in 
 Mrs. Earnest's health was far more radical than the 
 distress occasioned by seeing her husband lost in 
 the mad excitement of a political canvass, and hear- 
 ing him shamelessly traduced, when she knew him 
 to be a man of unflinching integrity. But, even 
 though there was a primary cause, there was also 
 a secondary and exciting cause, and this was in»the 
 disturbance of mind to which we have just referred. 
 Upon a re-election to Congress Earnest set. his 
 heart. During his first term he had committed 
 many serious mistakes and had exhibited many 
 weak points. But let him get once more within the 
 ; legislative halls of his country ; let him again have 
 ', a chance to be heard ; and he felt that he could 
 \ build up for himself a name and a fame that would 
 i make the past forgotten. So earnest was he to se- 
 l cure his re-election, that he stepped below the dig- 
 
; THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 17 I 
 
 J I 
 
 ; nity of manhood, and stooped to, use his personal | 
 
 i influence in order to secure the favor of voters. l 
 
 I At last the trial day came ; the votes were cast l 
 
 i and counted, and Earnest suffered a defeat. It was I 
 
 '/ night with him again, and it soon became darker l 
 
 i and more profound ; for, within a month after his j 
 
 i defeat, his oldest child, a boy, sickened and died — ^ 
 
 that boy, for whom he had so oftened looked into I 
 
 the future with hope and pride. Yes, it was night f 
 
 again with him, gloomy night ; and made gloomier ; 
 
 far by the reflection which would cross his mind, $ 
 
 that, although in the prime of manhood, in the ze- I 
 
 nitb of his intellectual strength, he had signally ? 
 
 failed' in the attainment of his dearest hopes in life, j 
 
 He had gained some eminence, it is true, but he j 
 
 sto|)d far, very far below the position to which he / 
 
 had!?ispired. ; 
 
 The death of this child fell with a heavier blow \ 
 
 upon his wife than Earnest imagined. He saw her ; 
 
 tears, pale face, and bowed head, but he did not see S 
 
 how feebly the vital forces moved in the centre of | 
 
 her physical frame ; nor was he aware of the fact, I 
 
 that weak as her spirit felt, it did not and could not | 
 
 cling to him fully for support, for though its tendrils | 
 
 reached out searchingly in all directions, they | 
 
 found only here and there a point of attachment. | 
 
 No, he was not aware of this ; for he did not know, | 
 
 as he should have known, the loving heart that beat \ 
 
 2* I 
 
18 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 in her inner bosom. Not but that lie was ever gen- 
 tle and kind towards her ; not that he did not love 
 her; not that he treated her with cold neglect. 
 The cause lay deeper. As his second self, she 
 yearned intensely to enter into and sympathize with 
 him fully in his highest aspirations. But mere am- 
 bition — the selfish love of making for himself a great 
 name — ruled in the upper regions of his mind, and 
 with this she had no fellow-feeling. She had sim- 
 pler, but truer and nobler views of life ; and so her 
 spirit could not unite itself fully with that of her 
 husband — could not blend with his until the two 
 became as one spirit. 
 
 One truth Earnest learned in this season of dark- 
 ness and affiction, and it was of use to him after- 
 wards ; he learned that, in forgetfulness of self and 
 in the quiescence of selfish ends, there was a strong 
 sustaining power and deep peace for the troubled 
 spirit. ■ - 
 
 New excitement followed this calm state. As the 
 current of his thoughts and feelings began to flow 
 on again in the old channels, the old ambition for 
 political elevation stirred within his heart onee more. 
 There was something like disgrace attached to his 
 defeat at the late election ; at least he felt that 
 there was, and so did some of his friends. To cover 
 this, a foreign mission was suggested. At this Ear- 
 nest caught eagerly ; and from that time until the l 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE MOENINfi. 
 
 appointment was made, -which took place in the 
 course of a few months, he could think or dream of 
 little else. 
 
 Much to the surprise, and no little to the disap- 
 pointment of Earnest, his wife begged the privilege 
 of remaining at home with her parents during the 
 time her husband stayed abroad. Her health had 
 become feeble and her spirits had lost the buoyant 
 tone of former years. Earnest strongly urged her 
 to accompany him ; to which she replied in a sad 
 voice — 
 
 " If you insist upon my going, Albert, I will go ; 
 but I shall be far happier here." 
 
 " Happier away from your husband ?" said, he 
 with a significance that made her heart bound with 
 a wild throb. 
 
 " I win go, Albert," she replied instantly. " Par- 
 don me if, in the selfishness of my feelings, I forgot 
 a wife's duty." 
 
 Earnest felt that, little as he had said, he had 
 said too much ; but his effort to unsay it had no 
 effect. His wife had taken, on the instant, her 
 resolution, and steadfastly adhered to it. When 
 he set sail for the foreign country in which he was 
 to represent his government, she went with him. 
 There was something in this self-devotion of Mrs. 
 Earnest that caused her husband to think of her 
 more, and to regard her with a tenderer interest 
 
20 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 than lie had yet done. She could not conceal from 
 him, though it was plain that she tried hard to do 
 so, the fact that her heart was ever turning towards 
 the beloved ones in her old home, and longing to be ^ 
 with them. As the wife of a foreign minister, she l 
 filled the position in which circumstances had placed i 
 her with becoming dignity. All who came into asso- 
 ciation with her, respected, honored, and loved her. 
 The beautiful consistency of his wife's conduct, and 
 the high estimation in which she was held, were, to 
 Earnest, a matter of no little pride. She had never 
 appeared to him so lovely, so wise, so truly good 
 before. He saw her in a new light, that revealed 
 new points of beauty ; and in loving her more ten- 
 derly and truly he ceased to bend with such intense 
 idolatry before the shrine of self-aggrandizement. 
 She was winning him away from ambition. 
 
 After they had been abroad for a little over a year, 
 the approach of an event, looked for with trembling 
 interest by Mrs. Earnest, caused her to turn her 
 eyes towards home. 
 
 " Albert," she said one evening as they sat alone 
 she with her head reclining against him, " Albert 
 dear," and she spoke with a slight faltering of the 
 voice, " I don't want to leave you, but I cannot tell 
 how eager I feel to go home, that my mother may 
 be with me. She has always been with me, you 
 know." 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE MORNING. 21 
 
 " It is a long voyage for you to take alone, Flora," 
 her husband remarked. 
 
 " But I will take it cheerfully, Albert." 
 
 " If I could only leave my duties here and return 
 with you." 
 
 " But you cannot. If I go, I must therefore go 
 alone." 
 
 " What will be done with Agnes ?" 
 
 " I must take her with me." 
 
 "And leave me all alone ?" 
 
 " I know it is hard, dear husband !" Mrs. Earnest 
 said, laying her arm across his bosom, and looking 
 with dimmed eyes into his face. " But Agnes will 
 be much better with me. Don't you think she 
 will?" 
 
 " Yes, I suppose it will be best. But if you go, 
 you wiU have to start immediately." 
 
 " Tes ; I must leave you within a week. 
 
 And at the expiration of a week, Mrs. Earnest 
 
 left P for the United States, accompanied by 
 
 her little daughter and a servant. 
 
 Earnest felt strangely after he had parted from 
 his wife. He thought of her with a feeling of ten- 
 derness unknown before ; accompanied by a presen- 
 timent that they would never meet again. A 
 shadow came over his spirit, that grew darker every 
 day. He felt that night was again approaching, 
 and his heart shrank from the gathering shadows 
 
 ,J 
 
22 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 in dread of a deeper darkness than he had yet 
 known. Of little account in his eyes seemed now 
 the reward of ambition, and poor the honors for 
 which he had striven. Scarcely a week elapsed 
 after parting with his wife, before the thought of 
 resigning his post as foreign minister, and following 
 her home, there to sink into private life and enjoy 
 its inestimable blessings, passed through his mind. 
 The thought once formed lingered for a time, and 
 then fixed itself, and was ever present to him. 
 Nearly two months must elapse before he could 
 hear of his wife's arrival at home. It was a long, 
 long time to be in doubt and suspense. Before the 
 expiration of this period, the question of resigning 
 his place, or holding on for a time, was seriously 
 debated ; but there was no decision of the matter 
 untU a letter came from Flora, announcing her safe 
 arrival in the United States. It was a long, tender 
 appealing letter, and urged him to come home, with 
 such arguments and entreaties as, in his then state 
 of mind, could not be resisted. A part was in these 
 words. 
 
 " If you are ambitious to serve your country 
 
 if your country's good is your end in seeking poli- 
 tical elevation, then I will say — serve your country 
 in . any office you may be called to fill. But is this 
 so, Albert ? Have you not rather sought distinc- 
 i tion, and the poor reward to be found in the honor 
 
 i 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE MOKNING. 23 
 
 that men pay to those who stand above their fel- 
 l-ows ? Look closely at your own motives, my dear 
 husband ! and see what are the ruling ends that 
 govern you. Do they spring from a love of doing 
 good to others, or of gaining something for yourself? 
 If the latter, you are doomed to a perpetual dark- 
 ening of your fondest hopes ; if the former, to per- 
 petual and ever brightening sunshine. 
 I "We may never meet again, dear Albert ! I 
 ^ feel as if I should not recover from my approaching 
 i illness. If such should indeed be the case, oh ! 
 I think of this, my earnest appeal to you : remember 
 J it as the last tender injunction of one who, living, 
 loved you, and dying prayed for your happiness." 
 
 The scales fell from the eyes of Albert Earnest. 
 He saw where he stood, and comprehended the 
 great error in life that he had committed, though 
 not so clearly as he did a few years afterwards. 
 
 Ten days from the receipt of this letter. Earnest 
 was on his way to the United States. Two weeks 
 was aU the time it took the swift rushing steamboat 
 to cross the broad Atlantic ; but to Earnest they 
 seemed like so many months. On arriving in New 
 York, he learned the fatal truth that Flora had died 
 just two weeks before, shortly after giving birth to 
 a son. 
 
 Th« unhappy man was stricken to the earth. For 
 many days he remained in New York, not even 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 announcing his arrival in the country to his friends ; 
 but of that they soon became aware, through other 
 sources, and surprised at his neither writing nor 
 coming home, some of them went to seek him. He 
 was found in a listless, dark, and gloomy state of 
 mind. The blow had completely stunned him. To 
 meet with those who had been with his wife in her 
 last illness, and who could repeat the many loving 
 remembrances that she had left for him, when life 
 was beating low, stirred his heart again within him, 
 and gave him, even in this, the darkness of his 
 blackest night, the hope of a coming day. 
 
 His return to the shrine of his early love, the 
 fires of which were now extinguished, was, indeed, 
 a sad pilgrimage. And when he knelt at that 
 shrine, his very soul was bowed to the earth. 
 
 But he had duties in life to perform ; and he 
 lifted himself up to perform them, strong as was the 
 effort it required to do so. 
 
 Almost the first thing that met his eyes at home 
 was a portrait of his wife, that had been painted 
 after her return from Europe. He started with a 
 sudden thrill when his eyes rested upon it — it was 
 so wonderfully life-like. As he gazed long and 
 mournfully into the sweet face that looked upon 
 him with almost living affection, he could not help 
 murmuring with Cowper, 
 
 " Oh ! that those lips had language !" 
 
THE NIGHT AND THE MOEBING. 25 
 
 In the presence of this image of the loved and 
 lost one, his children were brought to him. Agnes ! 
 the dear Agnes, so like her mother ! And the babe, 
 whose coming had been in tears. As he held these 
 sweet pledges of love in his arms, and -looked into 
 the pictured representation of their mother's face, 
 he felt that her spirit was present with them. 
 
 From that hour Earnest had new purposes 
 clearly formed in his mind. He was cured of am- 
 bition. And from that hour the morning again 
 began to break. 
 i Five years have elapsed since that period of deep- 
 i est gloom, five years of unselfish devotion to the 
 j duties of his profession. Without thinking about, 
 ; or seeking for distinction, he has gained more 
 'i honor for the well-directed efibrts of a vigorous 
 i mind, than he ever gained before. It is broad 
 I bright day with him nowj and the light, instead of 
 ; declining, seems ever advancing towards noon ; and 
 \ if he does not again make mere self-aggrandizement 
 ^ the ruling end of his Kfe, it will so continue to in- 
 \ crease, even to the mellow axLtumn of a peaceful 
 I old age. 
 
THE 
 
 MOTHER'S DREAM OF HEAVEN. 
 
 5 Three beautiful children made glad the home of 
 ; a happy mother. Her love for them was intense, 
 '', and her care never failing. They TTere in her 
 ,' thoughts all the day long and in her dreams by 
 i night. The youngest of these children was a boy. 
 \ He had large, deep blue eyes, and his long lashes, 
 J when he slept, lay upon his cheeks like the lashes 
 ; of a woman. Something in his face ever awakened 
 ; in the minds of those who gazed upon him, thoughts 
 ; of heaven, and many said of him that he was but a 
 '', stranger here and would soon return to his own 
 '( country. And such thoughts came, sometimes, to 
 < the happy mother, and then her heart trembled 
 ' and grew faint. 
 
 \ At last, what had been feared, befell the child. 
 \ The Angel of death came and removed him from 
 ^ his earthly abode to his heavenly dwelling-place, 
 
 and the stricken mother bowed her head and would 
 
 not listen to the voice of consolation. 
 
 " God is good," were the words, of one who 
 
 sought to comfort her, " and he afflicts us in lovincr 
 
 kindness." 
 (26) 
 
; THE mother's debam of heaven. 27 
 
 i 
 
 ^ ^ — . 
 
 ; " I will not believe it," replied the weeping mo- 
 \ ther. " It was not good to take from me my pre- 
 \ cious boy." 
 
 " He is with the angels, — think of that. The 
 great problem of his life is solved, and it is well 
 with him. There is neither doubt, nor fear, nor 
 anxiety on his account, for he is safe in the ever- 
 lasting habitations of our Father in heaven. 
 The mother listened, and the consoler went on. 
 " No more grief, no more sorrow, no more pain ! 
 Think of that. Let not your thoughts droop with 
 feeble win^, about the dark and gloomy grave. He 
 is not there. But, let them rise on swift and sunny 
 pinions to the beautiful dwelling-place of the angels'. 
 His decaying body alone fills the grave ; but his 
 pure spirit, that gave life and beauty to its earthly 
 tenement, has gone to his better home. Would you 
 have hiTTi back again ? Had you the power, with a 
 word, to call him to earth, would you speak that 
 word, now that he .has escaped the long trial and 
 suffering that comes to all who have to make the 
 journey of life ? No, I am sure you would not." 
 
 The tears of the mother ceased to flow, and she 
 bent nearer to him who spoke and listened more in- 
 \ tently. He went on. 
 
 \ " All children who die, are raised up in heaven 
 \ and received by angels, who love them with the ut- 
 \ most tenderness. Your dear boy, though he has 
 
28 OOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 been taken from ah earthly mother, has already | 
 
 found a heavenly one. And you have not really | 
 
 lost him, for he is present in your thoughts, and you I 
 
 love him with even an intenser affection than before. ^ 
 
 To part with him is hard ; for our natural feelings ; 
 
 cling to those we love, and their removal brings ; 
 
 exquisite pain. But our natural feelings have in I 
 
 them the taint of selfishness, and it is needful that i 
 
 they should be elevated and purified; or, rather, i 
 
 that they should die in order that spiritual affections l 
 
 may be born. And what are spiritual affections ? i 
 
 The love of things good and true for their own sake ? l 
 
 And such affections are not born unless natural i 
 
 affections are laid in the grave. ' The death of these ; 
 
 affections is always accompanied by pain ; but the ; 
 
 birth of corresponding spiritual affections will be ! 
 
 with joy. The deep sorrow you now feel is a na- ; 
 
 tural sorrow. Your heart is aching for its loss; I 
 
 and, even whUe reason and religion tell you that ; 
 
 this removal from earth to heaven is one of infinite j 
 
 blessedness to your boy, you mourn his loss and ; 
 
 will not be comforted. But, it is for you to look I 
 
 up and feel an exquisite joy in the thought that you l 
 
 have added one to the company of God's angels. ; 
 
 It may not be now ; it cannot be now ; for the \ 
 
 smiting of your natural affections is too recent, and i 
 
 the waters of affliction must flow for a time. And I 
 
 it is good that they should flow forth, in order that I 
 
THE MOTHBK'S dream OF HEAVEN. 29 
 
 spiritual con&olation may flow into your heart from 
 heaven. But, this influx of healing waters will de- 
 pend on yourself. You must be willing to look up 
 and to seek comfort from the only source whence 
 it springs. You must be spiritually glad that your 
 child has gone to heaven — that is, glad for his sake, 
 and for those who are made happier in heaven by 
 his presence. There is such a gladness — ^but it 
 thrills in a region of the mind far above the place 
 where natural afi"ections move — and it is full of that 
 interior delight which fills the hearts of angels." 
 
 Thus spoke the comforter, and his words found 
 their way into the mother's heart. She did not 
 ; make a response, but her thoughts were filled with 
 ; new images ; and, even in the bitterness of her 
 ( sorrow, she tried to look away from her own loss 
 and to think of all that her absent one had gained. 
 \ In the night following, as she lay slumbering on 
 \ her pillow which was wet with tears, a sweet dream, 
 'i that was not all a dream, came to her. She saw 
 'i before her a company of angels, surrounded by in- 
 ; fants and little children — the latter dressed in 
 ', white garments, with flowers blushing amid their 
 clustering curls. They were in a garden, and the 
 \ children were sporting with one another, and, ever 
 \ as they drew near or touo'hed the flowers that were 
 ; springing around them, each blossom glowed with 
 ;' a new and living beauty. Eagerly the mother 
 J 3* 
 
30 *" GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 looked for her precious boy, for she knew that he 
 was in this company, and, as she looked intently, 
 one of the angels, who held a child by the hand, sepa- 
 rated herself from the rest, and approached her. She 
 knew her sweet one in an instant ; and, oh ! inex- 
 pressible delight ! she knew the angel also. It was 
 her own mother ! Her mother who had been taken 
 to heaven when she was only a child, but whose ? 
 gentle, loving face, had ever remained pictured on > 
 her memory. ^ 
 
 Oh ! the exquisite joy of that moment. Her I 
 own mother was now the angel-mother of her beau- I 
 tiful boy. How sweet the smile that beamed upon t 
 her from eyes seen only in dreams for years ! And, l 
 as her lost darling sprung into her arms and laid ; 
 his head upon her bosom, a voice of exquisite me- I 
 lody, whose tones had come to her as if from a far l 
 off, many and many a time, since childhood, said — I 
 
 " Daughter, be comforted ! He was too pure, too I 
 gentle, too frail for earth. Life would have been a 
 scene of pain and suffering ; He would have been 
 sorely tried and tempted-v of evil, and, perchance 
 might have fallen by the way. Therefore in 
 mercy he was removed to this heavenly land where 
 there is no evil to tempt, no pain to afflict, no grief 
 to bow the stricken heart. Sorrow not for him for 
 all is well. He has been committed to my care 
 and I will love him with a%nderness made deeper 
 
for the love that is felt for you. A little -while 
 longer, and you ■will be called home. I will keep 
 your darling safe for you until that time." 
 
 An angel's kiss then warmed the mother's cheek 
 and she awoke. Heavenly light and heavenly 
 music were in her chamber. Slowly the light 
 faded, and the music grew fainter and more dis- 
 tant ; not outwardly but inwardly distant ; and, as 
 she hearkened after it, bending her spirit towards 
 heaven, she still heard the sounds ; and, even yet 
 she can hear them, when earthly grief is hushed 
 and her mind is elevated into heavenly tranquillity. 
 
 Erom that time, joy mingled with the mother's 
 sorrow. She believed the dream. To her it was 
 not fantastic, but a vision of things that were. She 
 had treasure above, and her heart was there also. 
 Love's golden chain had extended its links and the 
 last one was fastened in heaven. Daily, hourly, 
 momently, she missed the one who was away, and 
 she longed to hear again the sound of his happy 
 voice, and to look upon his beautiful face ; but, she ^ 
 knew where he was, and that it was well with him ; ! 
 and she dried her eyes and patiently bore her | 
 afBiction. i 
 
FLOWERS BY THE WAYSIDE. 
 
 Stop, Edward, and let me pick this sweet flower," 
 said a young lady to her brother. They had come 
 along a winding path, through the woods, and were 
 crossing a meadow in which grew many sweet and 
 fragrant blossoms. As the sister spoke, she let go 
 her hold upon her brother's arm*, and ran a little 
 way from the path to gather the wild flower whose 
 beauty had pleased her eye. 
 
 " Kate, Kate," called Edward, with some impa- 
 tience, " why will you stop in this way ?" Don't 
 you see how near to sunset it is growing ! We 
 shall be late home." 
 
 " It will only take a moment," replied Kate, as 
 she plucked the flower. " Oh ! I must have this 
 one also !" she added, going a few steps farther, 
 and adding another flower to the small bunch she 
 held in her hand. 
 
 " How beautiful !" said the sister, as, with a 
 glowing cheek, she resumed her place by her bro- 
 ther's side. 
 
 " Yes, they are pretty enough," replied Edward; 
 
 " but it takes too much time to gather them. We I 
 
 I are late now." f 
 
 i (32) I 
 
FLOWERS BY THE WAYSIDE. 33 ! 
 
 " Oh, no ; not very late. Suppose the sun is 
 
 down. There is beauty and fragrance in the early ' 
 
 twilight, and a holy calm that is sweet to the spirit. ' 
 
 Oh, I must add that flower, also, to my boquet !" | 
 
 And springing^ away, Kate ran a dozen steps i 
 
 from the path to secure the object of her desire. J 
 
 i "We shall not be home to night, Kate," said I 
 
 t Edward, " if you go on in this way." ^ 
 
 i "Oh, yes we will; and in good time, too," re- ', 
 
 >, turned Kate, as she came back ; " and I shall have ; 
 
 \ a bunch of wild flowers iato the bargain, which wiU \ 
 
 \ be so much gained." _ \ 
 
 \ It was all to no purpose that Edward chided his \ 
 
 \ sister. She could not pass a beautiful flower with- < 
 
 \ out stepping aside to gain it. \ 
 
 '> The sun was still above the hill-tops when they \ 
 
 \ arri-^ at home. Edward sat down in the porch \ 
 \ to await the summons to tea, and Kate went for a 
 
 p. vase in which to arrange her flowers. \ 
 
 \ "Are they not lovely?" said the pure-minSed \ 
 girl, holding before her. brother, as he still sat en- 
 joying the cool air of evening, her bunch of flowers. 
 " They are, indeed !" And the young man took 
 them in his hands, admired their beauty and en- 
 joyed their fragrance. 
 "We were home in time," said Kate, smiling. 
 "Yes." 
 " And have these sweet flowers. We lost nothmg 
 
 .J 
 
S4 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 by Stopping to pluck them, and gained hours of 
 enjoyment in so doing. 
 
 "You're a philosopher, sister," returned the 
 young man, smiling also. " I only hope your phi- 
 losophy may go with you through Jife." 
 
 " And why not ? Life is as a journey through 
 woods and fields. Along the path grow many 
 flowers of affection. If we stop to pluck them, 
 their fragrance and beauty will refresh us on the 
 way, and gladden our senses on reaching the end 
 of our journey. We shall all get home at last. 
 Better, in doing so, to have our hands filled with the 
 flowers that grow by the wayside. 
 
 " You are right, sister," was the thoughtful reply. 
 " In our eagerness to get to the end of our journey, 
 we too often neglect the beauty and fragranc^hat 
 present themselves at every step. I will n|Pioon 
 forget your flowers by the wayside." r 
 
 L.., 
 
A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " I don't think it at all worth while," said Mrs. 
 Lamherton. "It's a great waste of money, and, 
 besides, does them no real good." 
 
 "Very true," remarked Mr. Lamberton; "thou- 
 sands of dollars are spent at Christmas for one 
 trimipery thing and another that might be far more 
 usefully employed. I never liked the system. It 
 i does children, as you say, no good." 
 ^ " How much did we spend on last Christmas for 
 drums, horses and dogs, and the dear knows what 
 aU?" • ; 
 
 ^.," Oh, don't ask me ! More than I'd like to count 
 -up. And it was all a sheer waste. If the money 
 had been given to the poor, there would have been 
 some satisfaction in thinking about it. But now 
 there is none." 
 
 " WeU, I'm not in favor of spendiag a single cent 
 for toys and such like things." 
 
 " Grive them all a sixpence a-piece, and they'll be 
 happy enough/' said the father, "and then we'll 
 have no crying' over broken dolls' heads, crippled 
 wagons, or legj^ss horses." 
 
 • (35) 
 
"Harry will be dreadfully disappointed, I'm 
 afraid," remarked the mother, already half relent- 
 ing. "He has done little else aU day but talk 
 about what Kriss Kringle will put in his stocking 
 to-night. And Anna will cry her eyes out if she 
 doesn't get a new doU." 
 
 Uncle Joseph and Aunt Rachael were silent au- 
 ditors of this httle conversation. Just then the 
 lights were brought into the room, and Anna, Harry 
 and Charley came bounding in with them, as wild 
 and playful as young fawns. They had been look- 
 l ing forward to Christmas for I can't tell how long, 
 ; and now that it was only one day off, they could 
 I hardly contain themselves. Their young imagiaa- 
 5 tions teemed with images of things iu store for them 
 ^ by the good Kriss Kringle, in regard to whose iden- 
 tity, there was a division among the younger members 
 of the house. Anna, who was eight years old, and|. 
 therefore, entitled by her age to have her opinions -^ 
 considered of weight, positively declared that her 
 father was Kriss Kringle ; but Harry, three years her 
 junior, as positively asserted that the aforesaid Kriss 
 came down the chimney, and was, therefore, a very 
 different personage from her father, who was too 
 big to get in at the top or out at the bottom. As 
 for little curly-headed, rosy-cheeked Charley as 
 mischievous a rogue as ever lived to love sugar 
 plums, he didn't trouble his head at all about the 
 
A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 37 ? 
 
 matter. His ■whole theory on the subject lay in his 
 confident expectation of finding his stockings filled 
 with toys and candies on Christmas morning. Be- 
 yond that he had no questions to ask nor doubts for 
 solution. 
 
 " Oh, papa ! To-morrow's Christmas !" cried Char- 
 ley, climbing upon his father's knee. To-morrow's 
 Christmas ! And wont Kriss Kringle bring me the 
 J nice things ! I want a horse, and a sword, and a 
 \ wheelbarrow — and a whole heap of sugar plums." 
 I "I'm afraid Kriss won't come this year," re- 
 '^ turned Mr. Lamberton, wishing to take the edge off 
 i of Charley's disappointment. 
 j " Oh ! yes he will !" spoke up Anna and Harry, 
 ^ quickly. "And he'll bring me," said the latter, 
 ; "a gun and a sword — and then won't I fight the 
 ; Mexicans! Bang! boom! bang!" 
 ;# "And he'll bring me the dearest wax doll !" said 
 I Aniia, "with curly hair, and eyes that open and 
 ; shiit just as if it were alive. Oh! won't it be nice !" 
 M|t "Don't be too certain, Anna," said the father, 
 ', Kriss Kriagle don't come every year." 
 I " Oh, yes he does ! yes he does !" answered two 
 ' or three little voices at once. " He came last Ghrist- 
 j mas, and the Christmas before," added Anna, " and 
 ; he'U be here this year — I know he will." 
 I "But suppose he shouldn't come?" suggested 
 i Mr. Lamberton, and he looked very grave. 
 
 4 
 
There was sometliing so serious in their father's 
 Toice, that the children felt that his words really 
 meant more than they had at first believed — and 
 their faces became sober also. Just then the tea 
 beU rang, and aU thoughts of toys and dolls were, 
 for the moment, dissipated. After supper, the chil- 
 dren were washed and dressed in their night clothes. 
 Each hung a stocking ia the chimney corner, ready 
 for the advent of the good genius who loves chil- 
 dren, and then yielded to the oft-repeated solicita- 
 tion of Margaret the nurse, to come along and go 
 to bed. 
 
 " I must say my prayers, first," lisped dear little 
 Charley, running up to his mother, and kneeling 
 down before her. 
 
 " Our Father," said the mother, in a low, serious 
 voice. 
 
 " Won't Kriss fill my stockings full, mother ?" 
 
 " But you are saying your prayers, now. You 
 mustn't think of toys, Charley. Our Father." 
 
 " Our Father," came musically from the sweet 
 lips of the child. 
 
 "Who art in heaven." 
 
 " Oh ! I hope he'll bring me a whole pile of 
 wagons and dogs and horses !" And Charley 
 clapped his hands with delight. 
 
 " Hush, dear ! You mustn't think about toys 
 now. Who art*La ^eaven." 
 
I A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 39 
 
 / 
 
 .• ~~ 
 
 " Our Father, -wlio art in Heaven," softly mur- 
 mured the child. 
 
 " HaUowed be Thy—" 
 
 " Won't good old Krissy come, mother ?" 
 
 " Charley must say his prayers good, if he wants 
 the dear angels to stay with him while he is asleep. 
 Come, love ! Now don't think any more about toys, 
 and sugar plums. Hallowed be Thy name." 
 
 But it was no use. Charley could not say his 
 prayers. His head was too full of Christmas. Harry 
 met with but little better success — and Anna, after 
 she had been in bed five minutes, remembered her 
 neglect on this score, and, kneeling under the clothes, 
 piously lifted her thoughts to Heaven. 
 
 Ere this scene closed, Mr. Lamberton had half 
 repented his resolution — and the mother of these 
 three dear little ones felt her heart almost too weak 
 to carry out her purpose. 
 
 " I declare," said the former, " I'm afraid it will 
 be felt as too serious a disappointment." 
 
 "And so am I," returned the latter. 
 
 " It is such a useless waste of money." 
 
 "I know it is." 
 
 "Besides, it does children no real good. In fact, 
 as far as my observation goes, it does them harm." 
 
 In this Mrs. Lamberton agreed. 
 
 " Then,' said the husband, " wiU it not be a mere 
 
 1 
 
40 
 
 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 weakness on our part, if we follow thp old custom 
 this year, and not a true regard for our children ?" i 
 
 "I suppose so." 
 
 " Will we be acting right then ?" 
 
 " Perhaps not. But it wiU be such a disappoint- 
 ment." 
 
 " No doubt of that. But a light one compared 
 to what they will have to suffer in after life. The 
 fact is, a trial Hke this will help to prepare them 
 for the severer ones to come in the future." 
 
 Thus arguing the question, Mr. and Mrs. Lam- 
 berton finally came back to their origiual determi- 
 nation, which was to dispense with the usual " non- \ 
 sense" of toys, that would be broken or thrown i 
 aside in an hour, and heal the wounded hearts oc- { 
 casioned thereby, with a generous distribution of a ? 
 few sixpences and shillings. This would be a saving ; I 
 and I am afraid the economy of the new order of 5 
 things, was, iu reality, its highest recommendation. 
 Bed-time at last came, and Mr. and Mrs. Lamber- 
 ton retired for the night, leaviag the expectant 
 stockings hanging empty ia the chimney-corner. 
 The mother, just before lying down, had occasion 
 to go into the room adjoining. It waB the one in 
 which Kriss Kringle was expected to make his ap- 
 pearance some time during the night. There was 
 Charley's Httle stocking, round, almost as when his 
 foot was in it, and Ibpnt to the very shape. Mrs. 
 
Lamberton sighed gently, as the image of his hope- 
 ful face, turned up to hers, presented itself; and 
 she heard, in imagination, his sweet voice as it 
 mingled his evening prayer with words that showed 
 his thoughts to be near the earth. "• 
 
 Hours went by after the mother's head rested 
 
 upon its pillow, before sleep came. And then sTie 
 
 dreamed that it was Christmas morning, and that 
 
 the children's stockings were filled, and that they 
 
 'j were wild with delight. Charley was on her knee, 
 
 i showing his wagons, and dogs, and horses. Harry 
 
 ; was marching about the room with his sword and 
 
 ^ drum, and Anna was hugging in her arms a wax- 
 
 ; doll with almost as much delight as a young mother 
 
 ; ever felt in clasping to her bosc^her new-born 
 
 5 babe. A noise, which seemed to come from over- 
 
 5 head, where Uncle Joseph and Aunt 'Eachel slept, 
 
 ; awoke Mrs. Lamberton from this dream. She started 
 
 ; up and listened, but all was silent. 
 
 I The mother slept again. But this time her dreams 
 
 ; were less pleasant. Christmas morning had come ; 
 
 5 but it brought no joy to the expectant children. 
 
 s Their stockings were empty and their hearts well 
 
 nigh broken. '^ Sleep passed once more from her 
 
 eyelids, and, though it was long before the approach 
 
 of dawn, the gentle visitant came not again to her 
 
 pillow. 
 
 4* 
 
And long ere tlie morning broke, Mr. Lamberton 
 found himself awake and thinking of the children. 
 
 " They will be so disappointed," sighed the mo- 
 ther, when she found that her husband's slumber | 
 was hkewise broken. ^ 
 
 " Is there nothing that we can put into their 
 stockings?" asked the father, thus indicating the 
 state of his mind. 
 
 "I've been thinking of that; but there isn't 
 
 a thing in the house that would do. I'm sorry we I 
 
 hadn't bought them something," replied the mother. | 
 
 " We can do so still. I will go out directly after i 
 
 breakfast and buy them lots of things," said Mr. ; 
 
 Lamberton. S 
 
 " The mischief will all be done long enough I 
 
 I before breakfast. The disappointment of their ; 
 
 I eager hopes — ^the scattering of their delightful ; 
 
 ^ dreams — will almost break their hearts. Dear Uttle '; 
 
 Charley ! He couldn't say his prayers last night ; 
 
 for thinking of his well-filled stockings. Ah me ! — ; 
 
 We have done wrong — I feel it." | 
 
 " Suppose I put a half dollar in each of their ' 
 
 stockings?" said Mr. Lamberton. ', 
 
 " You can do so if you like ; but it won't satisfy i, 
 
 them." I 
 
 Undetermined what to do, or rather seeing no J 
 
 mode whatever of remedying their error, Mr. and ; 
 
 MrSi Lamberton lay awaiting the approach of day ; 
 
A MEREY CHRISTMAS. 43 
 
 yet dreading to see the dark curtain that was close 
 about the Eastern horizon begin to hft itself up. 
 But at length morning broke, and a dim, pale light 
 began to steal in at the window, showing first one 
 object and then another, until all parts of the room 
 became clearly \dsible. In expectation of trouble with 
 the disappointed children, Mr. and Mrs. Lamberton 
 left their bed and commenced dressing themselves 
 hurriedly in order to be prepared to meet and offer 
 the little comfort that it was in their power to give. 
 Soon there was a sound in the room above where the 
 children all slept with the nurse. Their pattering 
 feet were next heard upon the stairs; anon the 
 door of the adjoining room was burst open. AH 
 was then stitl for a few moments. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Lamberton listened with oppressed feehngs. There 
 was a low exclamation from one of the children that 
 sounded like a sob. Following this was a sudden 
 burst of joy and loud wild shouts of, 
 
 " Kjiss has come ! Kriss has come ! Oh ! Mother ! 
 Mother ! Father ! Kriss has come !" 
 
 Mr. Lamberton sprung to the door and threw it 
 quickly open. His surprise and dehght were scarcely 
 less than that felt by the children. Sure enough ! 
 Kriss Kringle was there, sitting close within the fire- 
 place, well loaded with toys, his pipe in his mouth, 
 and his merry face turned towards the shouting 
 children. The father and mother paused in wonder. 
 
Daylight came in, still but faintly tlirougli the half- 
 closed shutters and gave to the figure of Krjss the 
 very air and expresssion of life. Some moments 
 passed before they could really convince themselves 
 that it was not a breathing figure, but one cunningly 
 wrought by the hand of man, which was before them. 
 Soon the children, at first disposed to look on from 
 a distance, began gradually to approach. Harry 
 laid violent hands upon a wagon, and Anna seized 
 upon a beautiful wax doll ; Charley, last to over- 
 come his doubts as to whether Kriss were really alive 
 or not, came up cautiously, and while his eyes were 
 fixed upon the laughing face of the figure, he with- 
 drew from its hand a stocking crowded to overflow- 
 ing with toys. 
 
 The good Genius had forgotten no one in the 
 house. There was a beautiful scarf stowed away 
 in his pocket for father, and a handsome card-case 
 for mother. Uncle Joseph and Aunt Rachel, too, 
 were remembered. Even Betty and Margaret had 
 something, and there was no end to the toys and 
 sugar-plums contained in pack and pockets for the 
 children. 
 
 But, the mystery was as to who had prepared this 
 delightful surprise, coming as it did opportunely, 
 and correcting in such a good-natured way the error 
 of Mr. and Mrs. Lamberton ? It was Uncle Joseph 
 and Aunt Rachel, of course, who had been up 
 
A MERRY CHRISTMAS. 
 
 45 
 
 nearly all night in order to have every thing ready ; 
 though they never clearly owned to the fact. 
 
 That was indeed a merry Christmas for all ; and 
 Mr. Lamberton was as much pleased with his hand- . 
 some scarf, as was any child in the house with his 
 or her present from Kriss Kringle. As to the trou- 
 ble taken in advance on account "of broken doUs' 
 heads, wagon-wheels, and all that, none appeared 
 through the day, and when night came, and the tired 
 little ones went off willingly to bed, they slept with 
 their treasures around them. 
 
j TO MARY m HEAVEN. 
 
 \ WRITTEN I'OK FKIENDS IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 'i Thou hast passed the shadowy portal ; 
 
 I Thou hast borne the mortal strife ; 
 
 J Thou hast left this world of sorrow 
 
 ■ For a world of heavenly life ; 
 
 f And our hearts are grieving for thee, 
 
 i Grieving with intensest pain, 
 
 \ Grieving that we shall not see thee — 
 
 '/ Our sweet daughter ! — here again. - 
 
 I Blinding tears are 'neath oui" eyelids ; 
 
 '/ Every lash contains a tear ; 
 
 S And our hearts are wet with weeping — ' 
 
 I Weeping for thee, Mary dear ! * ~-' 
 
 "Weeping far thy loss, sweet angel ! 
 
 I Ah ! thou'rt with the angels now, 
 
 I And their hands have smoothed the furrows 
 
 I Pain dreW' sternly on'±hy brow. 
 
 ; How they love thee ! Ah ! we loved thee — 
 
 'i Loved thee more than words can tell, 
 
 \ (46) 
 
Loved thee, not, we trust, unwisely ; 
 
 Lost one ! not, we trust, too well. 
 Lost one ? No, not lost, for near us, 
 
 In the spirit, still thou art, 
 And in all our best affections 
 
 Bearest stiU a precious' part. 
 
 Lost ? Oh no ! But safe in Heaven, 
 Where, by childhood's shorter way, 
 
 Grod in tender mercy took thee — - 
 I Took thee with himself to stay. 
 
 j Took thee — ^but He did not bear thee 
 5 Far from us — no, thou art near, 
 
 \ And thy voice comes, in sweet music, 
 'j Stealing softly on the ear. 
 
 J When the morning breaks, we see thee ; 
 
 ^ ^,Slowly as the day goes by, 
 
 j Hojjr by hour, till fall the shadows, 
 
 '' Every moment though art nigh. 
 
 ; In the diEpess of the twilight, 
 
 > Clearer still thy form appears ; 
 
 } Thou art with us through the darkness — 
 
 \ >* All our piUows wet with tears. 
 
 ; 
 
 ; Wasted almost to a shadow. 
 
 Sad and pale from recent pain, 
 Wert thou, when oiir Father took thee, 
 Ne'er to feel one pang again; 
 
48 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 ( 
 
 And tliy sad, pale face, in changing, ;: 
 
 Slowly changing in our eyes — ', 
 
 Glimpses of thy former features, | 
 
 Even now before us rise. i 
 
 As it was, ere sickness touch'd thee, > 
 
 Soon thy gentle face we'll see, | 
 
 In its mild and thoughtful beauty, ; 
 
 And its pure tranquillity. j 
 
 Calmer, then, will be our feelings ; j 
 
 Better thoughts our minds will fill, ; 
 
 And, with hearts bow'd down, yet patient, ; 
 
 We will own oiir Father's t^ill. '> 
 

 i 
 
 SOWING IN TEARS AND REAPING IN JOY. 
 
 Emily Welbon was tappy. She had been wooed 
 and won. The wedding-day was appointed, and, in 
 the pleasant excitement of preparation for that joy- 
 ous time, the hours passed sweetly away. 
 
 The young man, whose willing bride Emily soon 
 expected to become, was engaged in mercantile 
 pursuits. His store was- near thst of Mr. Weldon, 
 the father of Emily, with whom he was in regular 
 
 I business intercourse 
 
 \ 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 One day, it was within too weeks of the time at 
 which the marriage was tQ take place, Mr. Weldon j 
 
 i (janfe home, looking very gra^ve. This was noticed } 
 
 I both by his wife and daughter, although no remark J 
 
 ', was made thereon by either of them. The cause J 
 
 i they supposed to he in some matter of business that 
 
 i gave bim more than usual concern. 
 
 { _ On that evening, when Mr. Weldor. was alone 
 
 < with his wife, he said, in a very serious tone, 
 
 I "I heard something about Henry Miller this 
 
 ' morning, that I do not like. 
 
 I "Indeed! What is it?" 
 
 I (49) 
 
50 &OLDBN GKAINS. 
 
 " I am afraid lie does not possess honest princi- 
 ples." 
 
 " Whj do you tliink so ?" 
 
 " I will tell you. Week before last lie went to 
 New York, and attended a sale of French Silks. 
 He purcliased largely, and had the goods forwarded 
 before he left the city. They were received here 
 some ten days ago, and have since been sold by him 
 in the original packages, which, he stated to the 
 purchaser, had never been opened. The sale was 
 made from the pattern cards, and at a small advance 
 on the prices paid. The last purchaser, on examin- 
 ing the goods, found nearly every package more or 
 less damaged. Of the fact of this damage, Mr. 
 Miller denies all previous knowledge ; but I have 
 evidence of a character not to be disputed, which 
 satisfies me that he did know of this damage, and, 
 knowing, it sold the goods as sound, thus actually 
 defrauding the purchaser. A man who wiU do this 
 is a rogue at heart, and not fit to become the hus- 
 band of Emily." 
 
 " This is a grave matter," said Mrs. Weldon, 
 looking very serious. " Bui; will not Henry take 
 back the goods, or make some abatement in the 
 price ?" 
 
 " He wiU do neither, the purchaser informs me. 
 He alleges that it was a fair sale, and cannot be 
 cancelled." 
 
" Will the person wto bouglit from him lose much 
 in the transaction. 
 
 " At least a thousand dollars. " 
 
 "That is bad, very bad! But perhaps what 
 Henry says is true. It may be that he did not 
 know any thing of the defect in the goods." 
 
 "Unfortunately for him," replied Mr. Weldon, 
 " there are at least three merchants in my neighbor- 
 hood, of whose veracity there can be no question, 
 who positively say that several of these packages 
 of goods were seen by them, open, in Henry's store, 
 on the day they were received from New York, and 
 that they saw him looking over them. That is one 
 fact, and a pretty strong one — for it comes in a 
 positive shape. The presumptive evidence is equally 
 strong. At least six days elapsed from the time 
 these goods were received until they were sold ; and 
 it is hardly to be presumed that they were suffered 
 to lie in his store aU that time without examination. 
 And again, they were purchased with a special view 
 to his country sales, for he so informed me on his 
 return from New York ; stating at the time that he 
 had bought them low, and expected to obtain quite 
 handsome returns from them. The small advance 
 he received on the whole lot was not worth consid- 
 ; ering as a set-off to what he would have made if 
 i the goods had been sound, and he had sold them by \ 
 \ the piece to his country and city customers. The \ 
 
52 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 more I look at it and tMnk about it, the less am I 
 satisfied. I am afraid lie lias acted with dishonesty. 
 If I can be fully assured of tliis, he can never have 
 the hand of Emily with my approval, for I will at 
 once withdraw the consent I gave to the marriage. 
 
 " Be well persuaded in your own mind that the 
 charge is a true one, Mr. Weldon, before you take 
 this decided step, for there is no telling what may 
 be the consequences," said the wife much disturbed 
 in her mind. 
 
 "What stronger proof do I need that Henry is 
 not honest at heart,", replied Mr. Weldon, "even 
 admitting his own version of the matter, than the 
 fact that he sold the damaged goods, and refuses to 
 take them back. Admit that he sold them under 
 a belief that they were in a sound condition — does 
 this alter the case ? Not at all, in my mind. He 
 represented them as good, and the purchaser, believ- 
 ing his representation, paid him the price of sound 
 goods and received a damaged article, upon which 
 he must loose heavily. Upon every principle of 
 mercantile honesty, he is bound to take them back, 
 and cannot refuse to do so without dishonor. This 
 is my doctrine." 
 
 " Suppose you talk to him. Perhaps you could 
 persuade him to act differently." 
 
 " Oh, no ! I shall not say a word. I shall use no 
 influence. Mere persuasions, if yielded to, would 
 
SOWING IN TEARS AND EEAPING IN JOT. 
 
 not change the principles from wliicli he acts. They 
 would remain the same, and would show themselves 
 at another fitting opportunity. Let him act out, 
 in freedom from aU interference from me, his real 
 character ; and then we can see its true quality. It 
 is of the most vital consequence to our daughter 
 that this become fully apparent." 
 
 On the next day, other and stronger evidence 
 reached Mr. Weldon, and he no longer had the 
 smallest doubt remaining upon his mind as to the 
 question, whether Miller did or did not know that 
 the goods he sold were in a damaged condition. It 
 was clear that he did know this, and deliberately 
 took a dishonest advantage in trade. 
 
 It now became the mother's duty to break this 
 unhappy news to her daughter, and dash from her 
 lips the brim full cup of joy she was about lifting 
 with an eager hand ; and she sought the very earliest 
 opportunity to do so. 
 
 Emily was sitting alone in her room, singing to 
 herself a pleasant air, while her hands were busied 
 in preparations for the coming event to which she 
 looked forward with so much happiness. The en- 
 trance of her mother caused her to look up. The 
 sweet murmur of her voice became instantly still. 
 There was something in the expression of her mo- 
 ther's face so unusual that it caused her heart to 
 \ beat with quicker and stronger throbs. 
 \ 5=^ 
 
54 GOLDEN GEAIUS. 
 
 "Emily," said Mrs. Weldon, coming at once to 
 the point, for the subject was af too grave and 
 weighty a character to admit of any gradual ap- 
 proaches — "I have sad news for you. But it is 
 better that you hear it now." 
 
 The face of the maiden grew pale, and her lips 
 quivered. She tried to ask what the sad news was, 
 but could not utter a syllable. 
 
 "Your father has discovered something in the 
 conduct of Henry that displeases him very much. 
 And it is something that should excite as strongly 
 your displeasure." 
 
 Emily tried in vain to ask what her lover had 
 done. But her tongue was paralyzed. 
 
 " Your father calls what he has done, dishonest !" 
 resumed Mrs. Weldon. 
 
 Instantly the face of Emily became flushed. 
 
 "He charges him falsely then!" she said, with 
 strongly expressed indignation. 
 
 " Your father would be the last man to bring a 
 false accusation against any one," rephed the mo-~ 
 ther seriously. 
 
 " I know ! I know ! But he is mistaken !" replied 
 the daughter, quickly, leaning forward against her 
 mother, and burying her face on her bosom. Her 
 frame quivered, and tears gusiied from her eyes. 
 
 After the violence of the first outburst of mental 
 anguish had subsided, and while the face of her 
 
daughter was still hidden upon her bosom, Mrs. 
 Weldon said : 
 
 " To yon, Emily, this is a thing of vital impor- 
 tance ; and, because it is so, I bring it at once to 
 your mind. Try and feel calm about it. Let your 
 reason act freely, in order that you may weigh dis- 
 passionately all the evidence that wiU be brought to 
 your mind. If we have been mistaken in our esti- 
 mation of Mr. Miller's character, it is much better 
 that we should know it now." 
 
 Emily made no answer. After pausing a few 
 moments, to collect her thoughts, the mother in as 
 coherent and connected a manner as possible, re- 
 lated to her daughter all that she had learned about 
 the sale of the damaged goods. After she had con- 
 cluded, Emily arose from her reclining position. 
 She looked very pale and sad ; but was perfectly 
 _calm. 
 
 "I shaU beheve nothing against Henry, mother," 
 said she, " until I hear what he has to say about . 
 this matter. It is but right that he should be heard 
 in his own defence. That he will make all clear, 
 and show himself to be a man of honor and integ- 
 rity, I have not the least doubt." 
 
 " But which he would not be, if the charge made 
 agaiQSt him were a.true one." 
 
 "No certainly not," replied Emily, firmly. 
 
 " Keep yourself calm, and your mind evenly ba- 
 
66 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 lanced, my daughter," said Mrs. Weldon, encourag- 
 ingly. " A circumstance more nearly affecting your 
 peace for life, lias never before occurred. Move 
 forward not a single step until you are sure of tlie 
 ground upon wMcli your are treading. Above all 
 things, do not suffer yourself to think for a moment, 
 that either your father or myself are less anxious 
 about the innocency of Henry Miller than you are. 
 Evidence that will satisfy your mind ought to sa- 
 tisfy ours ; and evidence that will satisfy our minds 
 ought to satisfy yours." 
 
 Some hours after this brief interview had closed, 
 Henry Miller, while writing at his desk, received a 
 note from Emily. Its contents were, in substance, 
 as follows : 
 
 "I have been surprised and deeply grieved to 
 hear allegations touching your character as a mer- 
 chant, which I lose not a moment in brino-ing to 
 your notice. It is said that you recently purchased 
 a lot of silk goods in New York, which on examina- 
 tion, you found .to be damaged, and that you resold 
 these damaged goods, as a fair article, to a person 
 who wUl lose heavily by the transaction. I have 
 denied this charge on the spot, and I want you to 
 fui-nish me with indubitable proofs of its falsehood. 
 Let me see you, by all means, this evening." 
 
 This note caused Henry MUlor to fell deeply 
 disturbed. The charge against him was true. He 
 
SOWING IN TEARS AND EEAPING IN JOT. 
 
 had examined several packages of the goods pur- 
 chased at the sale in New York, and for which he 
 had paid cash, and found thena all more or less in- 
 jured. Without proceeding a step further in the 
 examination, he closed up the few packages opened, 
 determining, as he did so, that he would work them 
 off upon somebody, and thus save himself a seriouS 
 loss. About the morality of the act he did not stop 
 to inquire. He had, some where, imbibed the doc- 
 trine that aU was fair in trade ; and, in most of his 
 transactions, he was governed by that doctrine. 
 He was, therefore, known as being pretty shrewd at 
 a bargain. These damaged sUks were sold pretty 
 much in the way that has been stated ; and MUler 
 was quite self-complacent at the lucky escape from 
 loss that he had made. When the purchaser dis- 
 covered the damage, he stoutly denied knowing any 
 thing about it, and persisted in this to the last, 
 while he resolutely refused to have the bargain 
 cancelled. 
 
 The reception of EmUy's note disturbed this 
 gmlty self-complacency, and startled him almost as 
 much as the tumbling of his house over his head 
 would have done. There was a tone about the note, 
 too, that he did not like ; for, while it declared that 
 the writer had denied the facts, it was clear that 
 her own mind was in some doubt. He very natu- 
 rally concluded, that her information in regard to 
 
58 GOLDEN eKAINS. 
 
 the transaction alluded to must haye come to her 
 from her father, who was a man of great probity, 
 and had that reputation in business cuxles; and 
 who would not be likely to mention the subject un- 
 less the evidences of what was alleged were pretty 
 conclusive to his own mind. The more he thought 
 about the matter, the more uneasy he felt. It was 
 clear that she to whom he was engaged in marriage 
 held in deep aversion the principles from which he 
 had acted and, if she were satisfied that he had 
 really acted from them, would refuse to become his 
 wife. He loved her sincerely, and his heart took 
 instant alarm, lest in gaining an advantage in trade, 
 he had lost a jewel of priceless value. 
 
 Thinking and feeling thus, his mind became more 
 and more disturbed. Most heartily did he wish that 
 he had met the loss himself, instead of shifting it 
 ofi" upon a neighbor. The strong censure upon what 
 he had done, that was impHed in the note of Emily, 
 set him to thinking seriously about the morality of 
 the act. Less under the influence of a strong desire 
 to make money, than usual, he could now see that 
 what he had done was unjust, if not dishonest ; and 
 his cheek burned wP-th shame, as the thought flashed 
 over his mind, that it might be possible to hide 
 the truth from Emily. 
 
 In no very pleasant frame of mind the young 
 
 man called that evening upon his intended bride, l 
 
SOWING IS TEAES AND REAPING IN JOT. 59 
 
 He found her a good deal agitated, and very seri- 
 ous. As for himself) he was so ill at ease that he 
 carried a confession of his guilt in liis face. 
 
 " Could you believe me guilty of such an act as 
 that to which you referred in your note of t(?-day ?" 
 ] he asked, as soon as he met her. 
 ^ "No, I could not," she promptly replied. "But 
 ; my father says that he has evidence which he can- 
 / not doubt, going to prove that you must have known 
 } the quahty of the goods before you sold them. To 
 j me this is a very serious matter, Henry, and, there- 
 I fore, you must forgive my plainness of speech. It 
 I is best for us to understand each other clearly now. 
 ; The fact of your knowing the goods to be damaged 
 before you sold them I cannot believe. No one will 
 make me believe it. I care not how strong the 
 proofs may be, I will not credit them. But tell me, 
 were the goods you sold really damaged?" 
 
 " Unfortunately they proved to be so, and I was 
 very sorry for it when I heard it." 
 "You sold them for sound goods V 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And they proved to be damaged ?" 
 " Unfortunately so." 
 
 " Then you of course received them back again?" 
 
 The blood instantly rose to the neck, face, and 
 
 forehead of the young man, and he stammered out 
 
 an incoherent reply, while Emily Weldon sat look- 
 
60 
 
 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 ing steadily and calmly into his face. How sad her 
 heart grew, and how low its pulses beat, we need 
 not say, at these evidences of her lover's want of 
 correct principles. By his own confession he had 
 sold, for good a damaged article, and when the 
 damage was reported, it was plain that he had re- 
 fused to annul the bargain. For a few moments 
 there was a deep, oppressive, and troubled silence, 
 then Emily said, — 
 
 " Henry, am I to understand that you really 
 refused to perform this act of justice?" 
 
 " I have not yet received back the goods," he 
 replied, " but I will do so to-morrow." 
 
 " Do, in the name of all that is just, Henry I" 
 said Emily, with fervor. " How could you have 
 hesitated about this for a single instant ! There is 
 no earthly gain that can compensate for the small- 
 est violation of what is just between man and man. 
 The purchase was made from you in -good faith, 
 and your ignorance of the quality of the article is 
 no reason why you should not receive it back." 
 
 Henry Miller felt completely subdued before the 
 single-minded girl, whose every word and tone con- 
 demned him. He had regarded his own interests 
 so intently, that in seeking them he had injured 
 those of his neighbor, and of this he stood con- 
 victed before one, who, of all others in the world 
 
BOWING IN TEARS AND REAPING IN JOT. 61 
 
 he desired should think him governed in every act 
 by the.highest and best of motives. 
 
 The young man's own explanation of his conduct 
 by no means satisfied the mind of EmUy.. A veil had 
 been taken from before her eyes, and she saw more 
 deeply into his character. It was clear that he 
 lacked principle — in fact an honest principle. The 
 more Emily thought about this, the more did she 
 ] feel troubled. Her father was a man of the strict- 
 l est iutegrity. In all his dealings he was rigidly 
 I just. From him she had inherited a love of jus- 
 l tice, as well as been taught, from her earUest chUd- 
 l hood, to respect in every thing the rights of others, 
 i The imexpected discovery that her lover had been 
 ' guilty of a most palpable infringement of another's 
 ' rights, caused, as she continued to reflect upon it, a 
 ] most severe conflict in her mind, between the love 
 i she bore the young man, and her abhorrence of 
 i what he had done. For several days this continued, 
 t during which time Henry Miller called twice to see 
 i her, but she declined meeting him. At the end of 
 a week she wrote to him a long letter. A part of 
 it ran thus : 
 
 "It was not for your person that I loved you, but 
 for the manly virtues I believed you to possess. I 
 have been taught from my infancy up to regard 
 justice in all things, and to seek to benefit others 
 rather than to injure them in the pursuit of selfish 
 6 
 
62 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 ends. I fondly believed you to possess the same 
 principles I had been taught to respect, as well as 
 to love them as they were daily embodied before 
 me in the life of my father ; and, in consenting to 
 become your wife, I did so gladly, because I believed 
 that, in a union with you, my own character would 
 not only be elevated and purified, but that, in this 
 union, I should be supremely happy. But alas ! 
 alas ! how have I been disappointed ! How have I 
 been stricken in heart to find that you held but 
 lightly the good of others, and, to secure your own 
 good, hesitated not to commit a great wrong. True, 
 you have repaired that wrong, but you did so, evi- 
 dently, because I condemned the act, and not be- 
 cause you felt it to be evil, and condemned it as 
 such. 
 
 "Henry, how truly and tenderly I have loved 
 you I will not say ; nor wiU I so open to you my 
 heart that you can become conscious of all I suffer 
 in taking the step you have compelled me to take. 
 To become your wife when I cannot respect nor ap- 
 prove your priociples, would be to make us both 
 miserable — would be a wrong to both ; and, there- 
 fore, I cannot now consent to have the marriage 
 contract between us solemnized, but ask of you that 
 it may be annulled." 
 
 The effect of this letter upon Henry Miller was 
 very severe. His love for the beautiful and virtuous 
 
maiden waa deep and true ; and lie had looked for- 
 ward to the union that was soon expected to take 
 place between them with a heart full of joy. Sud- 
 denly the cup he was about placing to' his lips was 
 dashed to his feet and broken. He was not angry, 
 but deeply grieved. He was not incensed at the 
 maiden, but felt a profound respect for her charac- 
 ter. His own conduct now appeared to him in its 
 truly odious light. Restitution had been made, but 
 he felt that there was no merit in this, for it had 
 been rather compulsory than otherwise. Emily had 
 said truly that it was because she had condemned 
 the act, not because he had felt that it was evil. 
 But the position in which his- conduct placed him, 
 now caused him to reflect, and abstract reflection 
 brought to his mind a perception of right and wrong 
 in a clearer light than he had ever before perceived 
 it. He saw that the doctrine upon which he had 
 acted — " AU is fair in trade" — was a false and sei- 
 fish doctrine, and sincerely did he repent of many 
 an act of overreaching of which he had been guilty, 
 and firmly resolve, that let come what might, he 
 would, in all that he did in the future,' strictly re- 
 gard justice between man and man. 
 
 Of this change in his views and intentions, Emily 
 knew nothing, because he felt that he could not com- 
 municate them, for they would not be received as 
 coming from his heart, but, rather, as extorted by 
 
64 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 the force of cii-cumstances, and urged as a reason 
 why she should recall her request to have their 
 marriage contract annulled. He did not return an 
 answer to her letter for nearly a week. Then he 
 wrote, in brief, as follows — 
 
 "There is but one thing left for me to do in this 
 unhappy affair, and that is, to release you from 
 your engagement. In doiag so, permit me to say, 
 that I feel no resentment towards you for the 
 course you have taken. The sincere love I have 
 borne you, and the respect I have had for your 
 virtues, still remain. I cannot force them from my 
 heart, nor will I try to do so. May you be happy. 
 Farewell !" 
 
 The character of this reply, so diEFerent from 
 what Emily had expected, touched her deeply. To 
 her, it appeared subdued and sad, and she felt that 
 there was an earnest in it of a change that might 
 lead to the regeneration of his character. 
 
 Bitter were the heart experiences that were en- 
 dured by Emily from this time forth for many 
 years. She had, indeed, sown ia tears. In acting 
 right she had done violence to her feelings, and had 
 entailed upon her heart the keenest sufferings. 
 People wondered why the marriage had not been 
 consummated ; and strange stories were circulated ; 
 but neither EmUy nor her parents gave any reasons, 
 though frequent inquiries were made. It is not to 
 
SOWING IN TEARS AND REAPING IN JOT. bu 
 
 be supposed that the former could conceal from the 
 eyes of others the fact that the trial through which 
 she had passed had proved to be one of great pain. 
 The effect was too visible to all eyes. The lightness 
 of her spirit was gone ; the music of her happy 
 laugh was no more heard among her pleasant com- 
 panions. Even at, home, she joined the family circle 
 less frequently, and, when she did do so, the quiet- 
 ness of her manner contrasted sadly with its previous 
 hilarity. 
 
 From the time Henry MUler received the severe 
 lesson to which we have referred, he became a 
 changed man. Reflection enabled him to see that 
 to overreach in dealing was dishonest, and that to 
 take from another in trade, without rendering a full 
 equivalent for Lis goods, waji, in plain terms, steal- 
 ing. Arraigned before his own conscience, he stood 
 self-convicted of dishonesty and theft. Shame 
 brought repentance, and repettance a fixed deter- 
 mination to be rigidly just in all his dealings. And 
 from that time forth he kept his good resolution. 
 The image of Emily Weldon stiU remained present 
 with him, but his love for her haii in it but little 
 hope. He met her in company a few times, and 
 noticed that she was very much changed. This 
 made him feel sad. 
 
 Years went by, and changes and reverses came. 
 Mr. Weldon died, and left his wi^ow and only 
 6* 
 
66 GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 daughter in poor circumstances. The latter had 
 received two or three oflfers of marriage, but de- 
 clined them all. In the mean time, the fortunes of 
 MUler had steadily improved. Frequently, before 
 his death, had Emily heard her father allude to 
 him, as being as far as could be judged, most up- 
 right in all his dealings, and as bearing that repu- 
 tation among business men. Emily was always 
 gratified when such allusions were made ; why, she 
 did not ask herself. 
 
 A few months after the death of Mr. Weldon, 
 and just as Emily and her mother were beginning 
 to feel that want^as nearer to their door than they 
 had ever thought to find that unwelcome guest, the 
 former received the following unexpected letter : — 
 
 " My DEkAE, Miss "Weldon..— Years have elapsed 
 since an unhappy circumstance occurred to destroy 
 both your peace and mine. The course you then 
 felt it your duty to take, I have never condemned, 
 although it has cost me much pain of mind. But 
 you were governed by high principles that you 
 could not violate. The effect of your conduct was 
 to cause me to look moro narrowly into my motives 
 than I had ever before done, and to examine the 
 principles upon which I acted by the standard that 
 I saw you had set up. The standard was high, but 
 I was forced to acknowledge it as the true one. 
 
SOWING IN TEARS ANIX REAPING IN JOY. 67 
 
 From that day, I have fixed mj eyes upon, and 
 endeavored to reach it. I will not say that I have 
 always been successful ; I will not say that I have 
 not been sorely tempted to act from selfishness, in 
 a way to iujure my neighbor ; but I will say, freely, 
 that if in any case I have been betrayed into wrong, 
 I have afterwards made restitution. 
 
 " So much for the principles from which I am 
 endeavoring to act. And now, let me say, that I 
 have never ceased to regard you with the same ten- 
 derness that I felt when no cloud intervened to 
 obscure the sun of our happiness. I think, from a 
 clearer appreciation of the pureness and unselfish- 
 ness, as well as the integrity of your character, 
 which I now have, that I love you with a higher 
 and better afi"ection than I did then. All this I 
 now lay open to you, and again ofier you my heart, 
 which is I trust, more worthy of you than it was 
 when you once before accepted its love. Answer 
 this letter as early as you can, and say whether 1 
 may now claim your hand ; or, if there be still a 
 barrier, say what it is, frankly. Perhaps it can be 
 removed. Yours, as ever, 
 
 " HENRY MILLEK." 
 
 JtStev a day's reflection, Emily thus replied : 
 
 "Dear Henry. — Your letter, altogether unex- 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 pected, has filled my heart with joy. What I did 
 five years ago, was done from a stern sense of duty, 
 and it has caused me many a heart ache. But I 
 have never repented the step, and now less than 
 ever, siace it has been the means of causing you to 
 see that you were then governed by wrong princi- 
 ples, and what is better, has led you earnestly and 
 successfully to enter into the combat with what was 
 false and evU. That you have overcome, fills me 
 with such gladness that my eyes run over with 
 tears. After all, my love has not been misplaced 
 — my love, that even the past could not extinguish. 
 You ask if there now be any barrier to our union ? 
 I know of none, except the altered circumstances 
 of our family. If you take me now, you take a 
 portionless bride. Yours, 
 
 "EMILY." 
 
 A few weeks elapsed, and then two hearts that 
 had passed through years of suffering, were made 
 happy ; but they were happier far for this suffering, 
 for it had been the means of making them worthy 
 of each other. Had it not been for the severe 
 lesson Henry Miller received, it is not probable 
 that he would ever have reformed the leading pur- 
 pose of his life, and might have been led on under 
 the inspiration of the dishonest principles by which 
 he was governed, into some bolder act of overreach- 
 
BOWINtl IK TEAKS AND REAPING IN JOY. 69 
 
 ing, that would have brought him to the bar of 
 justice. With such a man as her husband, could 
 Emily Weldon have been happy ? No — that would 
 have been impossible. But now, she was the wife 
 of a man who was all she could desire her husband 
 to be. She had indeed sowed in tears, but was 
 reaping in joy. 
 
 Thus it is that right actions, no matter how much 
 suffering they may cause in the present, ever bring 
 their reward; while the smallest deviation from 
 principle, is surely visited, at some time in life, by 
 evil consequences. This may seem a trite adage to 
 some, and be hghtly thought of by others ; but its 
 truth is indubitable; and its importance to every 
 one is of such serious moment, that it cannot be too 
 often repeated, nor too often made the subject of 
 familiar illustration. 
 
THE MOTHER. 
 
 t 
 
 " CqME, dear," said Mrs. Burton to a bright 
 looking child about three years old, who was amus- 
 mg himself with his playthings, — " it is your bed- 
 time," 
 
 The happy voice of the little fellow changed to a 
 fretful tone. 
 
 "I don't want to go to bed, mother," said he. 
 
 " yes ! It is Charley's bed-time, now. Come, 
 dear: here is your night-gown." 
 
 "No — no — I don't want to go bed." The child 
 spoke impatiently. 
 
 " Not want to go into your nice, warm crib ?" 
 
 " No, I don't !" 
 
 Charley's sweet little face had now lost its lovely 
 expression. His rosy UpS were pouted out, his 
 white brows contracted, and his eyes fixed and stern 
 in childish rebelUon. 
 
 "No, I don't !" he repeated. 
 
 "But it's Charley's bedTtime," urged the mother, 
 in so calm a voice, that the father, whose impatient 
 spirit had been reproduced in his child, could hardly 
 
 (70) 
 
 ^ 
 
THE MOTHER. 71 
 
 1 
 
 refrain from a strong word of reproof to Hs wife for 
 not at once enforcing obedience. 
 " I don't want to go to bed !" 
 Tbe lips of Mr. Burton parted, and he was about 
 to utter a stern command to the child ; but he re- 
 strained himself with an effort, and rising from his 
 chair commenced pacing the floor. Mrs. Burton 
 knew very well what was passing in the miud of her 
 husband, for she understood his impatient temper. 
 He never could bear the least opposition or reluct 
 5 ance from his children. Imphcit obedience, on the 
 ^ instant, he laid down as the only law by which 
 I children could be rightly governed, and yet few 
 I were more impatient than he of aU restraint upon 
 < his freedom of action, or more unwilhng to do either 
 I right or wrong on the instant, if any immediate 
 \ change in the state of his feehngs were required. 
 ^ " Charley !" said Mrs. Burton in so cheerful and 
 '' pleasant a tone, that the child's feelings instantly 
 i changed, and he answered quite as cheerfully, while 
 I the whole expression of his face altered — 
 i ' " What, dear mother ?" 
 
 i " Don't you want to hear a pretty little story 
 5 about a lamb, that went away from its mother and 
 i got lost in the woods ?" - 
 
 ; " Oh, yes ! Tell me about the lamb," eagerly 
 ;; returned the child, running up to his mother and 
 ! climbing into her lap. 
 
72 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 As soon as Mrs. Burton had Charley in her arms, 
 she said. 
 
 "I'll tell you the story up stairs," and she imme- 
 diately rose with him and left the room. 
 
 " He'd have no story about a lamb from me," 
 muttered the father when alone. " I'd let him 
 know that when I spoke to him he had to mind. 
 The child wiU be ruined, if he is permitted to have 
 his own way." 
 
 It was nearly five minute before Mr. Bmrtoii 
 could so far compose himself as to resume the pe- 
 rusal of his newspaper received by the evening 
 mail. 
 
 Meantime the mother had retired to the chamber 
 above, with her little rebelHous subject in her arms, 
 who repeated at least half a dozen times before she 
 was ready to begin the *tory — | 
 
 " Tell me about the dear little lamb, mother." l 
 
 Mrs. Burton repeated in a low, impressive, yet ! 
 tender voice, Mrs. Barbauld's story of the lamb that 
 wandered from the sheep-fold, and came near being 
 destroyed by wolves ; and while she was doing so, 
 she was removing the listener's clothes, and putting 
 on his night-gown, while aU feeling of reluctance,, 
 or thought of resistance} was far from his mind. 
 After she had finished both story and prepara- 
 tion for bed, the child looked up into her face and 
 said — 
 
; " Ain't I a little lamb, mother ? Ain't I your 
 I lamb?" I 
 
 I " Yes, you are my innocent little lamb. I hope \ 
 I you wiU never wander away, upon the cold, dark t 
 i mountain where the wolves are." j 
 
 < " Oh, no. I'll always stay with you, mother." | 
 j " But the wolves will come even here, darling, if > 
 
 you don't take care." '; 
 
 " Here ?" The chUd looked frightened. 
 "Yes, love. They were here to-night." I 
 
 Charley still looked in his mother's face with 
 i wondering eyes. 
 
 i " You are not a lamb like the little creatures out 
 i 'm. the fields that you saw yesterday, all covered 
 ', with warm soft wool. But inside of you there is 
 ; something just like the innocent lambs, and when 
 
 < you are naughty, and don't mind father and mother, 
 \ but say, ' I won't,' and feel and look very angry 
 'j then the wolves come and eat up the dear lambs, in 
 J your heart." 
 
 ^ All this the child but dimly understood, but he 
 
 j believed that it was all so, because his mother had 
 
 5 told him. His sweet young face grew serious, and 
 
 i he said — 
 
 j "I won't let the wolves come in any more." 
 
 j "No, love, never let them come again," said the 
 
 ; mother, as she drew his head close down upon her 
 
 ', bosom. 
 
 i ■ 7 
 
74 GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 " Let me say my prayers now," spoke up tlie 
 child, in a moment after, and he dropped down be- 
 side his mother, and with his dimpled hands clasped 
 t-ogether, lisped " Our Father." &c. 
 
 "Sing, 'Hush my Babe,' T'on't you mother?" 
 he asked as she laid him in his crib. 
 
 Mrs. Burton bent over her innocent child, and 
 I sung, in a low voice, the beautiful cradle hymn 
 I which has lulled into sweet slumber millions of 
 ; Christian children. She had reached only to the 
 I conclusion of the second verse, when Charley was 
 ; asleep. The mother looked down upon him with a 
 I smiling lip and a moistening eye, for the space of a 
 i minute, and then, after tucking the clothes snugly 
 around him, gave him a gentle kiss, and withdrew 
 from the chamber, the very atmosphere of which 
 seemed breathed by angels. 
 
 « 
 
 t 
 On the next evening, it happened that the mother 
 
 was away at tea time, a very unusual thing, and 
 
 Mr. Burton and his little pet — for, when Charley 
 
 did not exhibit any naughty temper, his father felt 
 
 the most tender love for him, and always called him 
 
 his "pet" — were alone at the table. The novelty 
 
 of the thing pleased the child much. He did not 
 
 want to be taken down even after his father had 
 
 arisen. 
 
 "Let Hannah take Charley down," said the 
 
 father, kindly. 
 
 _.,.,. _ ... , i_j 
 
THE MOTHER. 
 
 75 
 
 " Oh — ^no — Hannali shan't take Charley down !' 
 returned the child, pouting out his lips, and shaking 
 himself impatiently. 
 
 "Yes, yes, Hannah must take him down." 
 
 Mr. Burton now spoke positively. 
 
 "No — no" — opposed the little feUow. 
 
 " Charley, if you don't get down from the table, 
 Hannah must take you right away to bed." 
 
 But Charley was immovable. 
 \ "Hannah take him up to bed!" said the father 
 sternly. 
 
 His nurse lifted the child, now screaming and 
 struggling from his chair, and carried him quickly 
 from the room. From the chamber above, his cries 
 came ringing down"into the ears of the father, caus- 
 ing him to feel excited and impatient, as well as 
 indignant, at this rebeUion against his authority. 
 Still the screams were continued, until Mr. Burton's 
 indignation arose into a firm resolution to stop them 
 by a mode of argumentation altogether different 
 from what the mother ordinarily employed on simi- 
 lar occasions. Throwing down the newspaper that 
 he had been trying to read, the father arose and 
 went up stairs with a quick, firm step. He found 
 Charley struggling vigorously with his nurse, his 
 face red with passion. Taking him from her arm, 
 he shook him severely, and then, with angry words, 
 administered half a dozen severe blows. This was 
 
76 GOLDEN" GRAINS. 
 
 effectual. The frightened child hushed its screams 
 on tlije instant, and turned upon his father a look of 
 blended fear and pain that haunted him for weeks 
 afterwards. 
 
 ; When about an hour subsequent to this, Mr. 
 ^ Burton returned to the chamber, in order to make 
 ] some shght alteration in his dress, preparatory to 
 I going for his wife, who was spending the evening 
 J from home, the first sound that fell upon his ear, 
 I was a sigh, or, more properly speaking, a sob from 
 I the crib where lay the sleeping child. He went up 
 < close to the little bed, with the light in his hand, 
 ] thinking that Charley was still awake. But no — 
 \ he was sound asleep ; but the usual sweet, innocent, 
 5 happy expression, was not upon his face. His lips 
 J were compressed, grievingly, and there were two or 
 i three lines upon his forehead. Mr. Burton looked 
 ', at him, untU another sob struggled up from his 
 l bosom, and then he turned away with a feeling 
 about his heart that was by no means comfortable. 
 When he met his wife, she inquired, with a 
 smile, how he and Charley had got along in her 
 absence. 
 
 " Oh, very well," he replied. But there waa 
 something in his manner that did not agree with his 
 lips in saying "very well." On their way home, 
 she asked again about Charley, and then Mr. Bur- 
 ton told her of what had occurred, and did it with 
 
THE MOTHER. 
 
 77 
 
 the fullest justification of what he had done. The 
 mother made no objection, but she sighed, and did 
 not converse any longer in a free, cheerful way. 
 On arriving at home, they went up into the chamber 
 where the child slept. As they opened the door, 
 t Mr. Burton heard the same deep sigh, or sob, that 
 had before fallen reprovingly upon his ear. He did 
 not go near the child's bed, but the mother went to 
 the crib and stood long gazing into the still troubled 
 face of the young sleeper. When he sighed, she 
 sighed in response,, but without remarking that she 
 did so. 
 
 Mrs. Burton said nothing in objection to her 
 husband's mode of quieting the rebellious Charley, 
 but she resolved never again to leave to his peculiar 
 discipline, at the close of a long day, a weary, 
 fretful, and impatient child. And she kept her 
 resolution. 
 
 As Charles Burton grew older, notwithstanding 
 his mother's most earnest efforts to keep all evil 
 passions, wrong tempers, and perverse tendencies 
 quiescent, by bringing whatever was opposite to 
 them into activity in his mind; and his father's 
 more rigid and imperious system of enforcing obe- 
 dience on all occasions, and at any cost, the mani- 
 festation of his natural character was such as to 
 give both of his parents much anxiety and pain. 
 He was self-willed, impatient of control, and even 
 7* 
 
78 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 rebelled against punishment, wlietlier mild or 
 severe. 
 
 At the age of eleven years, Charles met with the 
 saddest misfortune that could have befallen him, in 
 the death of his gentle, forbearing, long-suffering 
 mother. For a time, her loving spirit seemed ever 
 present with the father, when he thought of Charles, 
 and this softened his imperious temper, and made 
 him treat the lad's faults with more than his usual 
 forbearance. But, after awhile, his natural state 
 of mind returned, and his son felt his iron hand 
 upon him. The effect was evil, and not good. Charles 
 hid his faults for fear of punishment, and indulged 
 them in spite of the terrors of the rod, which he 
 knew would inevitably follow detection. 
 
 The boy's repeated acts of disobedience and 
 wrong, soured the father's temper towards him. 
 He rarely saw him without administering a rebuke, 
 and never spoke kindly to him, nor sought, as his 
 mother had done, to win him from his perverse 
 ways by love. Often, after having been driven from 
 his father's presence with angry words, or, perhaps, 
 punished with blows for some glaring act of disobe- 
 dience, Charles would lie awake for hours, thinking 
 of his mother until his heart would become softened, 
 and he would weep bitterly. He generally felt 
 better after this, and would sink into a peaceful 
 sleep, in which a dream, perhaps, of her -nhose image 
 
had presented itself and called up old and better 
 feelings, -would make bright the darkness in which 
 his soul was enshrouded. 
 
 As the boy grew older, and all his natural tem- 
 pers gained strength, he openly rebelled against his 
 father's coercive system of government, and, at his 
 sixteenth year, went away, not only from his house, 
 but from the city, determined to be free from all 
 restraints. He was pursued and brought back ; but 
 he went off again, at the first opportunity, this time 
 taking from his father about a hundred dollars in 
 money. 
 
 Mr. Burton was deeply distressed, as well he 
 might be. He could gain no information of Charles 
 for at least four months, when he heard of him as 
 being in Cincinnati, and acting in the capacity of 
 bar-tender, in a low drinking-house. He immedi 
 ately proceeded to the West, and with the assistance 
 of an officer, took possession of him and brought 
 him back. The arrest, in a public place, of Charles, 
 by direction of his father, imbittered the lad's feel- 
 ings still more against him. To threats of sending 
 him to the House of Refuge, he opposed merely a 
 sullen silence. He made no promises of future 
 good conduct; showed no sign of penitence, re- 
 fused to go to school, or to enter into any employ- 
 ment, and at the first chance escaped again, and left 
 the city. For months his father sought to find him, 
 
80 
 
 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 but in vain ; and, finally, the search was abandoned 
 as hopeless. A long time passed before the father 
 and son again met. 
 
 One day, about four years from the period at 
 ■which the lad took his final leave of home, a young 
 man, dressed but indifierently well, landed at Louis- 
 ville from a boat just arrived from New Orleans, 
 and took lodgings at a second-class hotel. Though 
 young, he looked as if he had met with some rough 
 usage in the world, and had also indulged himself 
 in sensual pleasures to excess. Nor were the 
 marks of evil passions less distinct in his face than 
 these. 
 
 He remained at the hotel where he had stopped 
 for two days, going out but little, when he was 
 joined by a man much older than himself, who came 
 in the next boat that arrived from below. The two 
 men held long conferences with each other, at 
 nights, but never appeared together in the day 
 time ; and, if they happened to meet, passed with- 
 out the slightest sign of recognition. But this 
 appearance of being strangers did not deceive the 
 hotel keeper. He had seen one of them before,, 
 and had his own reasons for believing that they 
 understood each other, very well, and had met in 
 Louisville for the purpose of executing some well 
 concocted scheme of villany. In this he was con- 
 firmed, on learning from a servant that he had seen 
 
THE MOTHER. 
 
 81 
 
 one of them several times, late at night, passing 
 from the room of the other. As soon as this kind 
 of evidence came to his knowledge, he communi- 
 cated with the police, who soon had the two men 
 under close, but unsuspected ohservation. 
 
 On the evening of the third day after the arrival 
 of the last of the two men, they met about nine 
 o'clock in the room of the first one alluded to. The 
 door was carefully locked, and the following con- 
 versation took place in a low whisper : 
 
 " You are sure no one sleeps in the store ?" 
 
 " Qifite sure. I got it out of that talkative lad 
 yesterday ; and, to-day, in reply to some remark I 
 appeared incidentally to make, he confirmed it." 
 
 " Very well. All so far, so good. I've never 
 yet killed any one^ and would rather avoid doing so, 
 if possible. I'm glad the coast is clear. But how 
 shall we make our entrance ? The lamp opposite 
 gives too much light to think of trying the shutters 
 or door, and the rear windows are at least ten feet 
 from the ground, and overlooked by the back build- 
 ings of the — ■ — House, from which there would be 
 great danger of observation from some of the retir- 
 ing boarders." 
 
 " I've got aU that straight enough," was replied 
 to this." "A lucky thought struck me this morn- 
 ing. The store adjoining is vacant, you know; I 
 called upon the owners to-day and got the keys 
 
under pretence of -wishing to rent it. These I took 
 to a certain iadividual I happen to know and had 
 others made ; I have tried them and they will open 
 the door. The true keys I have returned, promis- 
 ing to see the parties owning the store on Monday. 
 
 The false keys were here produced, and the 
 speaker added : 
 
 " With these we can enter the vacant store to- 
 night, and cut our way through the wall without 
 risk of detection." 
 
 "Capital!" 
 
 " Nothing could be better. Before three o'clock 
 to-morrow morning we will be dashiag away through 
 Indiana with some ten thousand dollars' worth of 
 jewellery apiece, to the tune of ' Catch me if you 
 can ?' " 
 
 The companions in evil laughed silently at the 
 assurance of success this arrangement seemed to 
 guarantee. 
 
 After a conference of over an hour, in which all 
 the minutiae of the proceeding about to be under- " 
 taken were carefully discussed and settled, even to 
 the extent of resistance to be made in case of sur- 
 prise, the two men parted, with the understandiag 
 that they were to approach the store to be robbed 
 from two different points, and' to meet there precisely 
 at twelve o'clock. 
 
 The younger of the two men, when left alone sat ^ 
 
 ^s.'\rt^v",'\/VV 
 
THE MOTHER. 83 
 
 for nearly half- an hour by the table at which this 
 conference had been held, with his forehead resting 
 upon his hand. Then rising slowly, as if his mind 
 were too much disturbed to allow him to remaia 
 seated, he straightened himself up, muttering in an 
 under tone as he did so — 
 
 " Charles Burton ! has it come to this ?" 
 The young man stood, with folded arms, for some 
 five minutes, his eyes resting upon the floor. Then 
 be sank into the chair from which he had arisen, 
 and again rested his head upon his hand. Better 
 thoughts were struggling for entrance into his mind, 
 and better feelings for possession of his heart. 
 There was a strong conflict between good and evil ; f 
 the flrst conflict of the Mnd that had occurred for a 
 year, and the most vigorous for many years. AU 
 the plans for this, his first great sin against the 
 laws of his country and the rights and property of 
 his neighbors, had been well digested and the course 
 of action settled, and now there occurred a brief 
 space between the fuUy arranged intention and the 
 act ; and in this pause reflection came. He tried 
 hard to thrust these intruding and unwelcome 
 thoughts from his mind; but the more he tried to 
 obhterate or cast them away the more vividly did 
 they present themselves. 
 
 It was past eleven o'clock, and all was still 
 throughout the house. Most of the boarders had 
 
b'l 
 
 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 gone to bed, and the loungers in the bar-room below 
 had, one after another, retired. The very silence 
 seemed to give these better thoughts a power over 
 the young man's mind, and make it more difficult 
 for him to thrust them out. Just as this conflict 
 was at its height, and the unhappy object of it was 
 fighting with all his strength against the inflowing 
 good impulses, the faint cry of a child was heard 
 coming through the silence from a distant part of 
 the house. Involuntarily he hesitated — ^it was con- 
 tinued — but soon there arose a sweet voice that 
 drowned the child's unquiet murmur — 
 
 "Hush, my bate ! lie still and slumber; 
 Holy angels guard thy bed. 
 Heavenly blessings without number, 
 Gently falling on thy head." 
 
 Back, back through years of sin and: sufiering did 
 the mind of Charles Burton return with electric 
 speed. He was a child again, and he heard only 
 his mother's voice singing to him these old words in 
 the old familiar air. He was kneeling by her side 
 — he was lying on her bosom — he saw her bending 
 over him as he lay in his little bed — he felt her kiss 
 upon his cheek — her hand upon his brow. 
 
 From this dream of innocence and love he slowly 
 awoke to the stern and cruel reality of the present, 
 and the strong man was bowed and he wept like a 
 child. A thought of the evil he was about to com- 
 
'"5 
 
 THE MOTHER. 85 
 
 mit flitted across his mind, and caused him to shud- 
 der ; he turned from it with a feeling of horror. He 
 could not get away from the impression that his 
 mother was near him and looking into his heart that 
 was so full of evil influences. ^ 
 
 Not long did the repentant young man remain in 
 the room where he had so lately agreed with an 
 accomplice to do a deed of crime. With a small 
 bundle in his hand he stole quietly from the house, 
 half an hour before the time at which he was to be 
 at the jewellery store, and walked hastily to the 
 water, where he unfastened a small boat and pushed 
 off into the river. With his utmost strength he 
 pulled across and landed just above the falls. A 
 mile from Jeffersonville, in a dense piece of wood, 
 for which he made direct, he found two horses tied. 
 Mounting one of them, he picked his way through 
 the forest and was soon upon the main road, and on 
 his way to Indianapolis. Here he remained for a 
 few days, undetermined what to do, or which way 
 to proceed. On the second day the newspapers 
 brought intelligence of an attempted robbery of a 
 store in Louisville, with the apprehension of the 
 robber in the act of cutting threugh the wall from 
 an adjoining vacant building. The account stated 
 that the police had been watching the movement 
 of the fellow, who was an old ofi"ender, for some ■ 
 days, and that he had an accomplice, who, from 
 8 
 
some cause or other/ deserted Mm at the last 
 moment; 
 
 When young Bui'ton read this he could not but 
 tremble at the narrow escape he had made, nor 
 help blessing that memory of his mother which had 
 come to him and saved him just as he was about 
 committing a deed that would have wrought his 
 hopeless ruin. 
 
 Six years from the day his son left home for the 
 last time, Mr. Burton received a letter from him 
 dated Galena. It was the first intelligence that had 
 come to him since that unhappy separation. Its 
 contents were brief, but satisfactory to the present 
 well-doing, of the writer. Duty, not affection, had. 
 evidently prompted the epistle. In writing it, the 
 son had felt too deeply the evil and suffering iuto 
 which he had fallen on account of his father's harsh 
 treatment, to be able to write with any thing more 
 than a cold and explicit formality. There was 
 one expression in the letter which gave the father 
 both pleasure and pain. It was this : 
 
 " My mother's memory saved me, when I was on 
 the brink of ruin." 
 
 Mr. Burton answered this letter with a warmth 
 and tenderness that, softened the young man's heart 
 towards him. A year afterwards they met. A 
 veil was thrown over the past, and neither hand has 
 since withdrawn it. 
 
OUR LITTLE HARRY. 
 
 Otjr sweet wee brother Harry, 
 
 Say, have you seen him yet ? 
 He has a pair of bright blue eyes, 
 
 The darling little pet ! 
 And lips as soft, and rosy red. 
 
 As flower-buds in the spring, 
 And voice as sweet as voice of bird 
 
 On upward bounding wing. 
 
 Say have you seen the dear sweet boy, 
 
 With his wavy flaxen hair, 
 And eyes as full of innocence 
 
 As eyes of angels are ? 
 He was twelve months old, last Monday, 
 
 But still he does not walk. 
 And only says a word or two. 
 
 Though hard he tries to talk. 
 
 But I'm sure he'U walk right early, now, 
 
 For he stands up by a chair, 
 And steps out bravely, if Mamma 
 
 To take his hand is there ; 
 
 (87) 
 
i 88 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 And I'm sure he'll talk, too, very soon, 
 
 For lie knows, now, all we say, 
 And calls Papa, so very plain. 
 
 When Papa is away. 
 
 He's a very cunning little rogue — 
 
 Last evening, while at tea, 
 Nurse brought him in, and sat him down 
 
 In a high chair, close by me. 
 He laughed, and crowed, and clapped his hands, 
 
 And tried, just lite the rest, 
 To eat his bread and drink his tea — 
 
 And tried his very best. 
 
 But his tea went on the table cloth, 
 
 And his saucer on the floor. 
 And his spoon glanced past dear Papa's head, 
 
 And struck against the door, 
 And his little hands flew up and down 
 
 Like the swift wings of a bird, 
 And he laughed and crowed in such a way 
 
 As you have never heard. 
 
 I laughed till I could eat no more. 
 
 And little Will was wild, 
 To see the merry mischief shown 
 
 By such a tiny child. 
 Nurse took him out right quickly. 
 
 And I guess we'll take good care, 
 
OUE LIT^^LE HARRY. 89 
 
 How Mr. Harry we invite 
 Again our meals to share. 
 
 But lie 18 not always such a roguOj 
 
 He is not always wild, 
 But looks and acts, sometimes, as if 
 
 He were an angel-chUd. 
 Oh ! I wish that you could see him, 
 
 On the morning of each day, 
 When Papa reads the Bible, i 
 
 And then kneels down to pray,— ^ 
 
 As Mamma gets upon her knees, j 
 
 And we kneel round her chair^ ^ 
 
 Our dear pet-one drops softly down 
 
 To join with us in prayer. 
 He cannot say " Our Father," 
 
 Though very hard he tries. 
 And lifts, with such a gentle grac^ 
 
 His heavenly little eyes. 
 
 Our darling little Harry ! 
 
 He's loved the best of all, — 
 From mother's calm and thoughtful eyes 
 
 I've seen a tear-drop fall, 
 As sleeping sweetly on her breast, 
 
 The dear, dear, child would lie. 
 And she has looked long in his face, — 
 
 I know the reason why : 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 I've heard her say to dear Papa — 
 
 " This babe so sweet and pure : 
 So all unlike an earth-born child, 
 
 He win not live, I'm sure," 
 But Papa always smiles, and says, 
 
 " That's just the reason why. 
 Of aU the dear ones given to us, 
 
 Our Harry should not die." 
 
 Papa is right — sweet Harry ! 
 
 He's just the one to stay : 
 His purity and innocence 
 
 Will evU keep away. 
 If James gets cross, or little Will 
 
 And Anna fretful grow — 
 Bring Harry in the midst, and smiles 
 
 On all their faces glow. 
 
A DOMBSTIO SKETCH. 
 
 HOW TO COREECT A HUSBAND S FAULTS. 
 
 " Now, just look at you, Mr. Jones ! — I declare ! 
 it gives me a chill to see you go to a drawer. 
 What do you want ? — TeU me, and I'll get it for 
 you." 
 
 Mrs. Jones springs to the side of her husband, 
 who was gone to the bureau for something, and 
 pushes him away. 
 
 " There now ! Just look at the hurrah's nest you 
 have made ! What do you want, Mr. Jones ?" 
 
 The husband throws an angry look upon his wife, 
 mutters something that she cannot understand, and 
 then turns away and leaves the room. 
 
 " It is too bad !" scolds Mrs. Jones, to herself, 
 commencing the work of restoring "to order the 
 drawer that her husband has thrown topsy-turvy. 
 
 " I never saw such a man ! He has no kiud of 
 order about him ; and then, if I speak a word,- he 
 goes off in a huff. But I wont have my Ijjings for 
 ever in confusion." 
 
 In the mean time, Mr. Jones, iu a pet, leaves the 
 
 (91) 
 
92 
 
 GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 house, and goes to his store without a clean pocket- 
 handkerchief for which he had been in search. Half 
 of the afternoon passes^ before he gets over the ill 
 i humor, and then he does not feel happy. Mrs. 
 Jones is by no means comfortable in mind. She 
 is really sorry that she spoke so roughly, although 
 she does not acknowledge, even to herself, that she 
 has done wrong, for, every now and then, she utters 
 some censure against the careless habits that were 
 really annoying and inexcusable. They had been 
 married five years, and all that time Mrs. Jones had 
 complained, but to no good purpose. Sometimes 
 the husband would get angry, and, sometimes, he 
 would laugh at his wife ; but he made no effort to 
 reform himself. 
 
 " Mr. Jones, why will you do so ?" said Mrs. 
 Jones, on the evening of the same day. " You are 
 the most trying man alive." 
 
 " Pity you hadn't the chance to try another," re- 
 torted Mr. Jones, sarcastically. 
 
 The offence given was a careless overturning of 
 Mrs. Jones's work basket, and the scattering of 
 needles, cottons, scissors, wax, and a dozen little 
 etceteras about the floor. 
 
 The reply of Mr. Jones hurt his wife. It seemed 
 unkind. He had brought home a new book, which 
 he had intended reading; but the face of Mrs. 
 Jones looked so grave after the overturning of the 
 
A DOMESTIC SKETCH. 93 
 
 work-ba;sket, that he felt no disposition to read to 
 her, hut contented himself with enjoying the book 
 himself. 
 
 It must be said that Mr. Jones was a very trying 
 man indeed; as his wife had alleged. He could 
 open closets and drawers as handily as any one, 
 but the thought of shutting either, never entered 
 his mind. The frequent reproofs of his wife, such 
 as — 
 
 " Had you any doors in the house where you 
 were raised?" or, 
 
 " Please to shut the drawer, will you Mr. Jones?" 
 or, 
 
 " You are the most disorderly man in existence," 
 or, 
 
 " You are enough to try the patience of a saint, 
 Mr. Jones," produced no effect. In fact, Mr. 
 Jones seemed to grow worse and worse every day 
 instead of better. The natural habits of order 
 and regularity which his life possessed, were not 
 respected in the least degree. He drew his boots 
 off in the parlor, and left them in the middle of the 
 floor, put his hat on the piano, instead of hanging 
 it on. the rack in the passage — tumbled her drawers 
 whenever he went to thejn — left his shaving appa- 
 ratus on the dressing table or bureau^splashed the 
 water about, and spoiled the wall paper in washing, ' 
 and spite of all that could be said to him, would 
 

 c 
 
 94 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 neglect to take the soap out of the basin — spat- 
 tered every thing round him with blacking when he 
 brushed his boots, — and did a hundred other care- 
 less things, that gave his wife a world of trouble, 
 annoyed her sorely, and kept her scolding him 
 nearly all the time. This scolding worried him a 
 good deal, but it never for a moment made him 
 think seriously about reforming hi? bad habits. 
 
 One day he came in to dinner. It was a hot 
 day. He went up into the chamber where his wife 
 was sitting, and threw himself into a large rocking 
 chair ; took off his hat and tossed it over upon the 
 bed right in the midst of half a dozen lace collars, 
 newly done up ; and kicked (iff his boots with such 
 energy that one of them landed upon the bureau, 
 and the other in the clothes-basket, soiling a white 
 dress just from the ironing -table. Poor Mrs. Jones 
 was grievously tried. The husband expected a 
 storm, but no storm broke. He looked at his wife 
 as she lifted his hat from the bed and put it on the 
 mantelpiece, and took his boots and put them in a 
 closet, from which she brought out his slippers and 
 placed them beside hiflk but did not understand the 
 expression of her face exactly, nor feel comfortable 
 about it. Mrs. Jones did not seem angry, but hurt. 
 After she had handed him his slippers, she took the 
 Boiled dress from the clothes-basket, over which she 
 
A DOMESTIC SKETCH. 95 
 
 had spent nearly half an hour at the ironing-table, 
 and attempted to remove the dirt that the boots 
 had left upon it. But she tried in vain. The pure 
 white muslin was hopelessly soiled, and would have 
 to go into the washing tub before it would again be 
 fit to wear. 
 
 " If you knew, Henry," she said, in a voice that 
 touched her husband's feelings, as she laid aside the 
 dress, " how much trouble you give me, sometimes, 
 I am sure you would be more particular." 
 I "Do I really give you much trouble, Jane?" 
 ^ Mr. Jones asked, as if a new idea had broken in 
 j upon his mind. " I am sure I am sorry for it." 
 i " Indeed, you do. ^ If you would only be more 
 I thoughtful and orderly, you would save me a great 
 > deal. I shall have to wash out this dress myself, 
 \ now, for the washerwoman is gone, and I can't 
 I trust Sally with it. I spent nearly half an hour in 
 J ironing it to-day, hot as it is." 
 I " I am very sorry, indeed, Jane. It was a care- 
 j less trick in me, I must confess ; and if you will 
 'i forgive me, I will promise not to offend again." 
 All this was new. Both Mr. and Mrs. Jones 
 felt surprised at themselves and each other. He 
 had offended, and she did not get angry ; she had 
 been annoyed, and he was really sorry for what he 
 had done. Light broke into both their minds, and 
 
botli made an instant resolution to be more careful 
 in future of their words and actions towards each 
 other ; and they were more careful. In the exer- 
 cise of self-denial, the change has become radicaL 
 
ALL FOR THE BEST. 
 
 " All is for the best," said one to a merchant , 
 who had met with heavy losses. 
 
 " It is not for the best that I should lose my pro- 
 perty ;" indignantly replied the merchant. 
 I " The Lord's providence deals intimately with 
 I the affairs of men," said the other, " and all these 
 I deaUngs are for good." 
 
 I But the merchant spurned the sentiment. His 
 ; heart was placed on riches. He looked upon money 
 j as the greatest good. Loss of wealth was, thoe- 
 ; fore, in his mind, the greatest evil that could befall 
 ? him. 
 
 i "It is not for the best," he said in his heart; 
 t and with something of the spirit in which the fool 
 I said— "No God!" 
 
 ^ The disaster proved total. The merchant, yet 
 '< quite a young man, became bankrupt. Nor was 
 < this all. A marriage contract in a wealthy family 
 I was broken off, thus visiting him with a double 
 ^ calamity. 
 
 J " AU for the best !" he said to himself, bitterly, 
 I 9 (97) 
 
98 
 
 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 recurring to the sentiment wMcli tad been uttered 
 in Ms ears. " No ! It is not for the best. Why 
 have I been dealt with so harshly ? Of what crime 
 have I been guilty ? Whose ox, or whose ass, have 
 I taken unjustly ? I have been frowned upon with- 
 out a cause." 
 
 In this state he remained for months, and then 
 made another effort. On a few hundred dollars he 
 commenced business once more, and with hard labor 
 and slow progress made his way again along the 
 road to success. She to whom he had been engaged 
 in marriage, was united to a more wealthy lover ; 
 and he sought a union with one whose external cir- 
 cumstances corresponded with his own. In wedding, 
 he wedded happily. The partner of his bosom was 
 a true woman, and their hearts were joined in the 
 tenderest affection. 
 
 Years came and went, and many precious child- 
 ren blessed their union. Prosperity crowned the 
 merchant's efforts. He gathered in wealth, but 
 prized it less for its possession than its use. 
 
 "What now?" said the one who had previously 
 referred to the dark dispensation of Providence. 
 "Is all for the best? or does your heart stiU 
 doubt?" 
 
 " I see it clearer, yet, sometimes I doubt ;" said 
 the merchant. 
 
 "But for you loss of property," said the other. 
 
" you -would hare married the daughter of Mr. 
 Humphrey?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And she would have been the mother of your 
 ehildren?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Have you heard of her CQnduct ?" 
 
 " No. What has she done ?" 
 
 " Yesterday she deserted her husband, leaving a 
 babe three months old, and has gone off with an 
 opera singer." 
 
 "It cannot be!" 
 
 " Alas ! It is too true." 
 
 " Wretched creature ! ' Oh ! who could have be- 
 lieved her heart so corrupt !" 
 
 " Was not the loss of your wealth a blessing, 
 seeing that it has saved both you and your children . 
 from disgrace and wretchedness ?" 
 
 "A blessing? , Thrice a blessiag! Yes, yes. 
 It was for the best. I see, I feel, I acknowledge 
 it." 
 
 ^"Heaven knows what is best for us, and ordera 
 Sbil for good, if we only perform our duty. Not, 
 however, our mere natural good, but our spiritual 
 well-being. God is spiritual and eternal, and all 
 his providences in regard to his creatures look to 
 spiritual and eternal ends. Thus, while the saving 
 of you and your children from this calamity, may 
 
r 
 
 100 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 conduce to your higher good its permission to fall 
 
 upon another man and his children may be the 
 
 means of their spiritual elevation. All that occurs 
 
 in each one's life, is designed to react upon his 
 
 leculiar character ; and this is the reason why one 
 
 nan is visited by calamity, and another spared ; 
 
 .nd is the reason why one man is permitted to get 
 
 -■ich, while another, struggle as he will, remains 
 
 poor. God directs and overrules all for good, in 
 
 individuals as well as nations. AU is under his eye, 
 
 a,nd not a sparrow falls without his observation." 
 
THE SPHERE OF USE. 
 
 In all useful employments there is, for the mind, 
 ar sustaining power. 
 
 " How were you able to live tlirougli that great 
 affliction?" was asked of a gentleman, who had, some 
 years before, lost his only son, a promisiug young 
 man, just as he had finished his education, and was 
 " about taking his place on the stage of active, pro- 
 fessional life. 
 
 " It was the severest blow I had ever felt," re- 
 plied the gentleman; "a blow that caused every 
 fibre in jny heart to quiver. But I was able to 
 bear it." 
 
 " I give you credit for possessing great fortitude. 
 Such a blow would hay©; carried me to the earth." 
 
 " No ; I do not possess more fortitude than other 
 men," was replied. "I did not stand up in my 
 own strength." 
 
 " But put your trust in Heaven." 
 
 "Idid."- 
 
 "You had strong confidence. How many look 
 up and pray for strength in affliction, and yet find 
 none." 
 
 9* (101) 
 
102 GOLDEN SEAINS. 
 
 " I did not ask strength as a gift from Heaven," 
 replied the gentleman. 
 
 "No !" The friend spoke in a tone of surprise. 
 
 " For the power to bear affliction cannot be con- 
 ferred upon the mind." 
 
 "I do not comprehend your meaning," said the 
 friend." 
 
 "A man might pray for ever that God would 
 sustain him in affliction, and yet find no comfort, if 
 he did not put himself in the way of consolation." 
 
 " How is he to put himself in the way ?" 
 
 " By engaging in useful employments. But for 
 this resource, I should have sunk down into gloomy 
 despondency, and been wretched beyond descrip- 
 tion. While my boy lay sick and my heart was 
 trembling in fear of his loss, I did not omit a single 
 professional duty. I went regularly to my office, 
 and transacted every item of business with scrupu- 
 lous exactness, specially regarding, as I did so, the 
 good of those who had called upon me for service. 
 And when death removed my son, I did not sit 
 down in my affliction and pray for sustaining grace. 
 That would have been worse than idle. But, I 
 went daily to my offlce, and devoted as much time 
 and attention to my professional duties as before. 
 Thus, the sphere of use sustained me. Had I 
 neglected a single case in my hands ; had I sought 
 relief in a cessation of work, and tried to divert my 
 
THE SPHBEE OF USB. 103 
 
 mind from its sorrow by visiting new scenes, I woul^ 
 have sunk into the deepest gloom. As it was, how- 
 ever, I was kept in a state of resignation that occa- 
 sionally approached cheerfulness. Sometimes I 
 wonder at the fortitude with which I went .through 
 the fiery trial; but when I reflect upon it, I see 
 clearly wherein lay the strength by which I kept 
 my head above the waters." 
 
 Yes, strength to bear affliction with becoming 
 patience is only given in the degree that the suf- 
 ferer engages in useful work. Then thought turns 
 itself away from sorrow, and becomes interested 
 in the well-being and well-doing of others ; and into 
 such a state of mind there is an influx of heahng 
 from heaven. 
 
 This is a secret of hfe that all would do well to 
 lay up in their hearts ; if not for present, yet for 
 future use. Few pass far on their journey without 
 the need of comfort, and here is a source of true 
 consolation to which all may go in sorrow. 
 
THE OLD MAIJ TO HIS WIFE. 
 
 *T WAS in the blessed spring time, 
 
 Sweet sang tlie bonny bird, 
 And music from the happy stream 
 
 Amid the brake was heard, — 
 Young Zephyr, waked from slumber, 
 
 Among the bright leaves played ; 
 Or toss'd the plumy branches high. 
 
 Along the green arcade. 
 
 Dear Jenny ! Tou remember 
 
 That happy, happy day ; 
 Love's sunbeam fell upon us then. 
 
 And chased the night away. 
 I whispered low my passion. 
 
 You gently leaned to hear ; 
 Then, ia strong words of eloquence, 
 
 I charmed your willing ear. 
 
 I wooed you then, my Jenny, 
 
 I woo'd you then, Qiy Igve ; 
 The earth aU beautiful around 
 
 And bright the sky above. 
 
 (104) 
 
THE OLD MAN TO HIS WIFE. 105 
 
 And soon we wedded, Jenny — 
 You remember, too, that day, 
 \ When, side by side, we stood within 
 
 \ The old chui'ch, far away, — 
 
 < The old church, wreathed with ivy, 
 
 J Amid the old gray stones 
 
 \ Where have been laid, for ages pastt 
 
 \ Our old forefathers' bones. 
 
 ; Oh ! often now, dear Jenny ! 
 
 > I think of that old place — ■ 
 
 > 'Twas in that old church, far away, 
 \ I first looked on youj face. 
 
 \ 'Tis many years, dear Jenny, 
 
 ; Since that May time of life, 
 
 \ When you, so young and innocent, 
 
 \ Became my happy wife. 
 
 \ We've pass'd the warm, ripe summer, 
 
 We've reaped the golden grain. 
 And, now it is the autumn time, 
 
 And we're alone again. 
 
 i Alone ? Yes, for our birdies, 
 
 \ Full-fledged, have left their nest, \ 
 
 'i And, on strong wings, have gone to seek J 
 
 i Some other place of rest. \ 
 
 _ .,J 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS, 
 
 Oil ! tenderly we loved them, 
 WhBii pure, and sweet, and young ; 
 
 And tenderly we love them still, 
 To riper manhood sprung. 
 
 As in the early, happy years, 
 
 Our sun is warm and bright, 
 And though the days are shorter now, 
 
 We bless, as then, the light ; — 
 But we're thinking now, dear Jenny I 
 
 Of another, better chme, 
 Where love has stiU a warmer ray. 
 
 Beyond the bounds of time. 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 John Tiller was a thrifty fariatier in the 
 western part of I'epnsylvania, whose well culti- 
 vated acres contrasted strongly with those of 
 his neighbor, Peter Ellis, who was neither very 
 industrious nor very intelligent in agricultural 
 matters, but exhausted his lands, year after 
 year, by bad farming, precisely as his father 
 had done before him, and laughed at all scien- 
 tific farmers, and at Mr. Tiller in particular, as 
 •"new lights." Of course, no one ever saw the 
 "Cultivator," "American "Earmer," or "Plough- 
 man," in his house. It was his boast, that he 
 never read one of these " catch-pennies" in his 
 life; and that he had set his. dog on a "loafing 
 vagabond" who had the impuience to ask him 
 to subscribe for one of them. 
 ' Ellis did not like Tiller, and was barely civil to- 
 wards him when they happened to meet. If any one 
 had asked him the reason why he cherished unkind 
 feelings towards his neighbor, he would have found 
 it hard to answer the question, even to his own 
 satisfaction. The true cause lay, probably, in the 
 fact that almost everybody liked Tiller and spoke 
 
 ■ (107) 
 
108 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 well of him ; -while he had no very warm friends. 
 The superior productiveness of Tiller's farm, a i 
 thkig too plain to be denied, was also a source ot I 
 
 annoyance. Two of their fields, lying side by side, j 
 were, one season, both planted in corn. They 
 
 had been laid down in grass, and, for three or four j 
 
 years, furnished the two farmers with their winter's ? 
 
 hay. Tiller's field however, gave him one-third I 
 
 \ more than Ellis obtained, at which the latter ; 
 
 always felt in an ill humor. Without consultation, i 
 
 or knowing each other's intention, both commenced ; 
 
 ploughing their field on the same day. I 
 
 "What are you going to plant there?" asked j 
 
 'i Mr. Ellis of one of Tiller's farm hands. \ 
 
 5 "Corn," was replied. ^ I 
 
 >. A kind of grunt, the usual expression of con- 
 
 5 tempt and displeasure with which Ellis received f 
 
 '/ any information in regard to his neighbor's doings, ! 
 
 \ was the only reply made by the farmer as he turned \ 
 
 ] away. Then he muttered to himself — t 
 
 I "I wonder who told him that I was going to j 
 
 plant corn here. He kept his field in hay a great | 
 
 deal longer than he wanted to, I know, just to ; 
 
 annoy me by bragging about his two or three tons ; 
 to the acre. I'd like to see the scales on which 
 t they were weighed. Humph ! We shall now hear 
 
 i of seventy bushels of corn, no doubt. But I'll ! 
 not be fool enough to believe it. If the real truth 
 
 weje known, it would turn out that my farm is | 
 
■^ 
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. 109 
 
 just as produciive as his, notwithstanding all the 
 noise he makes about his bone dust, poudrette. 
 and the old scratch knows what all." 
 
 The two fields were planted with corn, the one 
 under that enlightened system of farming, which 
 
 gives to each product of the soil the food which I 
 
 experience and philosophy determine that it re- f 
 
 quires for its most luxuriant growth, and the other \ 
 
 in the good old way that Peter Ellis had seen the i 
 
 thing done since he was old enough to walk over a I 
 cornfield. 
 
 About June, the two fields began to look quite 
 
 green. But the green of Tiller's was darker, and ; 
 
 his plants taller. Ellis saw that this was so, although j 
 
 he maintained stoutly that his field looked quite as 5 
 well as the other, and would yield every grain as 
 
 much corn. \ 
 
 ' You see with partial eyes, Peter," said a { 
 
 neighbor to him, one day, after he had made this ; 
 
 assertion. " Tiller's corn looks far better than J 
 
 yours." I 
 
 This made Ellis angry, and he more than half I 
 
 insulted his neighbor, who left him soon after and * 
 
 walked away. In passing near the bars that ; 
 
 opened into the field of Tiller, the neighbor met \ 
 
 the more thrifty farmer. After standing and chat- I 
 
 ting awhile, he said — >, 
 
 " What ails your corn all about here ? It looks ; 
 
 as if the cattle had been eating it." i 
 10 
 
110 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 "Friend Ellis, over there, has a very trouble 
 some cow," replied Tiller, in a mild way, " ttat 
 has a trick of opening gates and letting down 
 bars. She got in here some time this morning, 
 and did considerable damage before we discovered 
 her. 
 
 " Too bad ! too bad !" said the neighbor. " I 
 know her ladyship very well. She has been in my 
 fields dozens of times. But I have worried her so 
 with the dogs that she's got a little shy of my 
 premises. Set your dogs on her, Mr. Tiller. It's 
 your only remedy. She'll destroy your whole field, 
 now that she's got a taste of them green blades, if 
 you don't look out." 
 
 " I dislike to do that, for my dogs are rather 
 sharp, and Peter is an unhappy sort of a man, you 
 know, and apt to take umbrage. I'd rather lose a 
 little corn than put him into a passion. No doubt 
 I can fix the bars so that she cannot get in." 
 
 "You'll have to fix them pretty tight then. I 
 tried fixing gates and bars, but she was too much 
 for me. I never saw such a beast. As to Peter's 
 getting into a passion, that is a small consideration. 
 He can get into a passion as easily as his cow can 
 open a gate." 
 
 "He's not a very agreeable neighbor certainly; 
 but, then, he's his own worst enemy, and we should 
 pity and soothe, rather than irritate him. He 
 seems all the time fretted with me about some- 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL, HI 
 
 thing, and I would' rather seek to allay than in. 
 crease this unhappy state of mind." 
 
 " That is all very well, Mr. Tiller, and I know 
 your good feeling towards Peter ; but a man can't 
 stand and see his labor all destroyed and not make 
 an effort to prevent it. It is every one's duty to 
 take care of his own. I think it as much your 
 duty to protect your cornfield, as it is Peter's duty 
 to keep his cow from trespassing upon it. If he 
 won't do his part, you are bound to do yours." 
 
 "Very true ; but if I can do it without arousing 
 an unhappy spirit in him, why, so much the better." 
 
 " Certainly — certainly. But if is the word." 
 
 " I must try." 
 
 " And I hope you will be successful ; but I have 
 my doubts." 
 
 After his neighbor had left him. Tiller took a 
 hatchet that he had in his hand, and cut a couple 
 of stout wedges which he drove tightly into one 
 end of the middle bars. 
 
 "I guess she'll find them rather hard to get 
 down," he said, with a smile, as he tried them 
 with his hand. 
 
 On the next morning, when Mr. Tiller looked 
 out, the first object that met his eyes was Peter's old 
 browney in his cornfield, enjoying herself finely. 
 
 " Just see that !" he exclaimed, with a good deal 
 of excitement, starting from the house. His first 
 impulse was to whistle for the dogs , but he checked 
 
 \ 
 
112 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 this, and called to one of his men to go and turn 
 the animal out. In performing this task, the man 
 made the stones fly about her head pretty freely. 
 Bat none of them happened to strike her. On 
 examining the bars, the wedges were found lying 
 on the ground. It was plain that the cow had 
 partially moved the bars up and down, with her 
 head and horns, until the wedges became loosened 
 and then dropped out. They were replaced, and 
 driven in hard this time. Several times during 
 the day the cow was seen ^ at the bars, but she 
 couldn't move theni. 
 
 When Mr. Tiller got up and -looked from his 
 window, on the following morning, there was the 
 cow again in his cornfield ! Quite out of patience, 
 he hurried down stairs, saying as he did so — 
 " I must try the dogs. There is no help for it." 
 Watch and Wolf were called, and away they 
 bounded for the oiFending animal and set upon her 
 fiercely. Wolf seized her by the nose, and Watch 
 made several efibrts to fasten upon her shoulder, 
 but without success. Mad with pain and affright, 
 the cow ran for the opening at which she had made 
 her entry, dragging Wolf, who held on vigorously. 
 Only the two middle bars had been removed ; the 
 upper and lower ones still remained in their places. 
 In passing through this narrow opening, the cow, 
 who was going at full speed, struck one horn against 
 the upper bar and broke it from her head. She 
 
GOOD FOE EVIL. J13 
 
 fell forward, clear of the field, and, as she fell, the 
 -fangs of the dog tore through her nostrils. 
 
 Almost from the instant Mr. Tiller saw his two 
 fierce dogs bound away towards the poor animal, 
 he regretted having called in their aid, and en- 
 deavored to stop them. But they heeded not his 
 voice. With the intention of driving them ofi", he 
 ran after them, and came up to the bars imme- 
 diately after the cow fell. Wolf had again seized 
 her, but the imperative voice of his master subdued 
 the instinct of his nature. He quitted his hold 
 and retired. At the same time, the cow got up 
 and moved quickly away, bleeding from both her 
 head and nostrils. 
 
 The whirl of excitement into which the circum- 
 stance had thrown the mind of Mr. Tiller had not 
 yet subsided, and he stood irresolute as to whether 
 he should go at once and see Peter Ellis, explain 
 how the damage to his cow had been occasioned 
 and express his sorrow for it, when the sharp crack 
 of a gun and a yell from Wolf startled him from 
 his state of perplexity and indecision. Turning 
 his eyes quickly in the direction from ■which the 
 report came, he saw his neighbor with his rifle in 
 his hand. He was re-loading it. Within twenty- 
 yards of where Mr. Tiller was standing. Wolf was 
 writhing upon this ground and howling in pain. 
 Watch stood with a frightened look a few paces 
 farther off. The rapidity with which Ellis was re- 
 10* 
 
114 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 loading his gun, made it evident to the mind ol 
 Tiller that it was his intention to shoot the other 
 dog. In order to prevent this, he called Watch 
 to his side, and placing his hand upon his neck, 
 threw his own hody in such a position as to protect 
 him. 
 
 As soon as Ellis had finished loading his gun, 
 he raised it in his hands and called out in a loud, 
 angry, imperative voice — 
 
 " Stand a one side there !" 
 
 But the owner of the dog did not move. 
 
 " Get out of the way, I tell you !" 
 
 The gun was now raised to the shoulder and 
 pointed at the spot where Tiller was standing, who 
 began really to fear that his excited neighbor would 
 fire at the dog, even at the risk of striking him 
 with the ball. He, however, stood firm. Slowly, 
 at length, the breech of the rifle sunk down from 
 the shoulder of Peter, who, as if some sudden reso- 
 lution had been taken, started forward and came 
 with long strides towards the spot where Tiller was 
 standing. Wolf continued his yells and writhings, 
 but both became less and less vigorous, , showing 
 that either the pain of his wound was abating, or 
 that life was ebbing rapidly away. It mattered 
 little which of these was the case, for another ball 
 from the rifle of Ellis, who had paused within 
 twenty or thirty yards of Tiller, put an end to 
 his sufi'erings. j 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL. 
 
 "Peter Ellis," said Tiller, in a firm, but not 
 angry Toice, as the former began again to load his 
 gun — " will you hear reason ?" 
 
 " I'll shoot your other dog, if I die for it ; and 
 you too, if you don't get out of the way !" 
 
 " But hear what I have to say, first, friend 
 Ellis." 
 
 "Don't 'friend' me ! I understand your smooth- 
 faced, canting hypocrisy. Any man who would 
 butcher a poor animal as you have butchered my 
 cow, deserves to be shot down like a dog. Now 
 take care of yourself!" 
 
 " As Peter said this, he presented his rifle again 
 at the dog, who was crouching down behind his 
 master. Tillei was a calm, cool, brave man, and 
 he did not, therefore, move, nor order his dog 
 away. For nearly a minute, Ellis stood with his 
 finger upon the trigger, pointing his rifle at the 
 head of Watch, which projected a few inches be- 
 yond his master's knee. Passion prompted him to 
 fire at all hazards, but the fear of worse conse- 
 quences than merely killing a dog, made him hesi- 
 tate. 
 
 " You might just as well get out of the way firsl;,^ 
 as last," said he, again dropping the rifie ; " for 
 I'll shoot that dog. I've sworn it, and I'll do it." 
 
 " But, Peter Ellis, first listen to me. I am " 
 
 " I don't want to hear anything ! I want none 
 of your soft speeches. Look at my cow there; 
 
116 , GOLDEN GRAINS, 
 
 that's enougH for me. But you'll be sorry for it ! 
 I'll have my revenge. I'll pay you up for old 
 scores, and this into the bargain." 
 
 " I had no intention of hurting your cow, Peter. 
 I only " 
 
 " Bah !" 
 
 Thus ejaculating, while he almost foamed with 
 passion, the angry farmer turned away and left Mr. 
 Tiller, grieved and perplexed, with his dog crouch- 
 ing at his feet. Wolf was already dead. As soon 
 as Ellis had gone out of sight. Tiller replaced the 
 bars and walked slowly back to the house, feeling 
 rather unhappy. 
 
 " So much for permitting myself to get angry," 
 said he, mentally. " If I had driven the cow out 
 quietly, and then taken a little more trouble in fast- 
 ening the bars, all this might have been saved. But 
 now his poor cow is badly injured. Wolf is dead, 
 and the worst passions of this unhappy man are 
 aroused. But this is the way ; when we lose com- 
 mand of ourselves, there is no telling what evil con- 
 sequences may follow." 
 
 Before dinner time Watch was shot, almost at 
 the door of Mr. Tiller. The latter was sitting in 
 the house, when the loud report of his neighbor's 
 rifle, followed quickly by the yells of the poor dog, 
 smote upon his ear. He ran out and saw Ellis 
 walking slowly away, with his gun in his hand, and 
 Watch dragging his maimed body painfully across 
 
the yard. A quick flash of indignation burned on 
 the cheek of Mr. Tiller ; but he controlled himself 
 •with an efiFort, saying as he did so — 
 " I trust he is now satisfied." 
 On examining the dog, it was found that both 
 hind legs were broken, and that there was a deep 
 wound under the shoulder. A ball through the 
 animal's heart, from his master's rifle, sent in sor- 
 row and kindness, put an end to his misery. 
 
 .As to the hope that Peter Ellis would now be 
 satisfied, that proved to be fallacious. He had a 
 clear case against his neighbor, and he determined 
 to make the most of it. Old browney^s torn nos- 
 trils and disfigured head were ever before him, and 
 kept alive his indignation. The evidences of its 
 continued existence were apparent to Mr. Tiller in 
 various ways. One day a fine turkey would be 
 found lying close to his fence, on some part of Ellis's 
 farm, dead, a ball through its body. On another, a 
 I favorite, ewe, in the same condition, its lambs bleat- 
 j ing about their unconscious dam. Nothing that be- 
 longed to Mr. Tiller could commit the smallest tres- 
 \ pass on the land of Ellis, without sufi'ering the 
 ; death-penalty. 
 
 \ At length a yearling colt, of the very finest breed, 
 ' for which Tiller had repeatedly refused three hun- 
 '< dred dollars, made his way through a gap in a fence 
 that divided one of his fields from a field that be- 
 longed to Peter Ellis, in which wheat was growing. 
 
This fence had been put up, originally, at the joint 
 expense of the owners of the two farms, and there 
 was a written agreement or contract between them, 
 I that it was to be kept in perfect repair one year by 
 ? Ellis, and the next by Tiller, and so on alternately. 
 I This year it was the duty of Ellis to see to the re- 
 i pairs. It usually happened that most of the repair- 
 i ing was done in the year that the contract made it 
 ] obligatory on Mr. Tiller to keep it in good order. 
 J The eyes of Peter Ellis, if they saw nothing else, 
 r»never failed to discover any trespass that was com- 
 J mitted on his farm by an animal so unfortunate as 
 I to be owned by John Tiller. The yearling had not 
 i been enjoying himself in Peter's wheat field for 
 more than ten minutes, when the fact was discovered. 
 < A grin of satisfaction lit up the face of the ill- 
 natured farmer as he took down his rifle and hastily 
 emerged from the house. When he returned, the 
 beautiful animal was quivering in the pangs of 
 death. 
 
 . The neighbor who had advised Tiller to set his 
 dogs on Peter's old browney, met him at his gate 
 about an hour after this occurrence, and said to 
 him — 
 
 " I'm sorry to see that fine coH of yours dead up 
 in the field yonder. How in the world did it hap- 
 i pen?" 
 
 '. " My colt dead ! Ain't you mistaken ?" 
 
 I " I believe not. I saw a colt lying dead as 1 
 
came along, and took it for yours ; and I don't 
 think I'm mistaken." 
 « Where is he ?" 
 
 "Just on the edge of Peter Ellis's wheat-field." 
 "In his field?" 
 "Yes," 
 
 " It can't be possible that he has shot my colt ! 
 Sheep and turkeys and chickens enough to pay for 
 two cows, let alone for a cow's horn, have already 
 been sacrificed to that man's evil passions. Surely 
 his malignant spirit has not carried him thus far !"•<> 
 
 A hurried walk to the spot mentioned by the 
 neighbor, dispelled this illusion. 
 
 « This is certainly carrying matters too far," he 
 
 said, speaking calmly, and yet in a very serious 
 
 voice. " The colt, I see, has broken into his field 
 
 I through a gap in the fence there, which, by written 
 
 I agreement, it is his duty to keep in repair this 
 
 year." 
 i " Then you can make him pay for the colt. The 
 
 case is plain enough," remarked the neighbor. 
 I " I have twice refused three hundred dollars for 
 I the animal." 
 
 " If I'm on the jury when the case comes before 
 court, I will give you my voice for four hundred 
 dollars." 
 
 "I should hardly like to sue him," Tiller replied - 
 to this. 
 
 " You're bound to do it. It's your duty to the 
 
 L 
 
I 
 
 120 ,^, ^ GOLDEIT SRAINS. 
 
 — ry- 
 
 community as well as to yourself. If this miserable 
 creature is allowed to go on unchecked, in this way, 
 nobody's property in the neighborhood will be safe.'' 
 
 " I'll see Peter before I determine upon any such 
 course of action. I was to blame, in the first place, 
 for setting my dogs, which I knew to be strong, 
 fierce animals, upon his cow, instead of driving her 
 out again, and making another efibrt to secure the 
 bars. If I had not permitted myself to get into a 
 passion, I would not have done it. So much for 
 being angry ! I have been well punished for it. If 
 he will now feel himself satisfied, and stop all his 
 retaliatory conduct, I rather think I may be in- 
 clined to let him alone, although he has certainly 
 laid himself liable to damages." 
 
 " He'll insult you if you call upon him, see if 
 he don't. He's as bitter as gall against you." " No 
 matter. I will at least see him. If he acts like an 
 insane man, from the violence of uncontrolled pas- 
 sions, it is no reason why I should not keep myself 
 cool, and look somewhat to his good as well as my 
 own. Suing him will only engender more bile in 
 his heart, and make him a worse man, and still 
 more unhappy than he now is. The loss of my fine 
 colt is a serious matter ; but not so serious as the 
 extinguishment of a good impulse in the heart of a 
 fellow creature." 
 
 " Precious few good impulses are there in the 
 heart of Peter Ellis," replied the neighbor." 
 
GOOD FOK EVIL. ' 121 
 
 "All are not entirely bad," said Mr. Tiller. 
 « For a man like Ellis, we should make many allow- 
 ances, and try if it be not possible to awaken some 
 good emotions in bis bosom, ratber than destroy 
 their latent life by harshness." 
 
 " That all sounds very fair, Mr. Tiller," was re- 
 plied to this. " But I think when a man outrages 
 the rights of another in the way this man has out- 
 raged yours, that he ought to be made to feel the 
 consequences of what he has done, and that, too, 
 pretty severely. I must Own, that I would feel 
 Bome satisfaction in seeing him smarting a little for 
 bis conduct." 
 
 But Mr. Tiller had nothing of a revengeful tem- 
 per in him. He rather possessed what too few men 
 have — a noble and generous regard for the good of 
 others. He we&t direct from the wheat-field where 
 his dead colt lay, to the house of Peter Ellis. 
 That individtial saw him coming, and made up big 
 mind to give him a pretty warm reception. The 
 very sight of Tiller had its usual effect, that of 
 arousing his bitterest spirit. He did not move from 
 where he was, to meet him, but remained sitting 
 until he entered the room, whither a domestic had 
 conducted him. He then arose to his feet, and 
 stood still where he was, with knit brows, tightly 
 compressed lips, and eyes fixed with a look of de- 
 fiance upon his visitor. Tiller advanced to within 
 a few feet of him, and then said in a mild voice — 
 11 
 
122 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 I " Mr. Ellis, did you shoot my colt ?" 
 
 I " Yes, I did !" was the firm reply. 
 
 j " Why did you do so ?" 
 
 i The eye of Ellis glanced quickly to the wall, and 
 
 i his upraised finger pointed to the spot upon which 
 
 ; he fixed his look — 
 
 ^ " There is your answer !" he said. 
 
 i On looking up, Tiller saw old brown ey's horn 
 
 J suspended from a nail. He understood the mean- 
 
 j ing of Ellis, and replied — 
 
 / "Two sheep, two dogs, three turkeys, and half a 
 
 } dozen chickens, it seems to me, ought, in all con- 
 
 i science, to have been considered a fair equivalent 
 
 i for the loss of a cow's horn. Reflect for a moment, 
 
 I and I am sure you will say that I am right." 
 
 ; This, so plain and cool a proposition, only had 
 
 ; the effect to make Ellis outrageously angry, and 
 
 / cause him to lavish all sorts of abuse, and make all 
 
 J manner of charges against T\Ir. Tiller,_who, finding 
 
 J that he could make nothing out of his neighbor, 
 
 I sought an opportunity to say in a very decided 
 
 ' manner — 
 
 ', " Peter Ellis, for all that is past I will forgive 
 
 j you, but upon this condition, that nothing of mine 
 
 < be harmed by you under any pretence whatever. 
 If the smallest injury be, hereafter, wilfully done 
 to anything belonging to me, I will tell yoa what I 
 will do ; and if I say it, you may be sure that 1 
 will keep my word." 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL, 123 
 
 - « What is that ?" asked Ellis, with a bitter sneer. 
 
 Tiller replied calmly — 
 
 " I have, as you well kno-w, a copy of an agree- 
 ment, signed by you as well as by myself, in which 
 you are bound to keep the fence, which separates 
 your field from mine, in good repair every alternate 
 year. You are also well aware, that in the present 
 year you have those repairs to look after. It is 
 plain, therefore, that my colt would not have tres- 
 passed on your field, if you had not permitted the 
 fence to get out of order ; and it is equally plain, 
 that all I have to do, is to sue you for damages, 
 and recover from you the value of the animal you 
 have killed. This I will certainly do, if you injure 
 anything belonging to me from this day forth. I 
 am sorry you have compelled me to make this 
 threat ; I did not want to do it. But to permit you 
 any longer to injure me as you have for some time 
 been doing, would be no virtue on my part. 
 Strangely enough," he continued, seeing that Ellis 
 did not meditate a reply, " you have looked upon 
 me as an enemy, when I wish to be regarded as a 
 friend. Try and consider me as such hereafter, and 
 it may be better for both of us." 
 
 After saying this, Mr. Tiller retired, and left his 
 somewhat astonished neighbor to his own reflections^ 
 which were by no means very agreeable. That was 
 a new view of the case, altogether, which had been 
 presented. He saw that he was completely in the 
 
 U 
 
124 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 power of Tiller, who had only to bring this mattei ; 
 before the court, and he would certainly be com- '. 
 pelled to pay the value of the animal he had so ; 
 wantonly killed, besides all costs of prosecution | 
 that might arise. The case was too plain to aiford i 
 a chance for successful litigation on his part. ; 
 Deeply chafed in spirit was he to find hinfself so ? 
 completely in the power of a man he almost hated, ; 
 though without a cause ; and, also, to find that this ; 
 man, when he could put his foot upon his neck, had > 
 the magnanimity not to do so. The caution of 5 
 Tiller had its desired effect. No more injury was j 
 done to anything belonging to him. | 
 
 What Ellis had done, quickly became known 5 
 thToughout the neighborhood ; and there were many ; 
 who strongly urged Tiller to sue him and recover J 
 the value of his colt. But he could not be induced | 
 to take that step. Some praised his forbearance, | 
 and some blamed him ; but all were more or less J 
 incensed at Ellis- 
 Things were very quiet after this, notwithstand- 
 ing old browney forgot the severe lesson she had 
 learned, and with her one horn, a standing and 
 pointed rebuke to Mr. Tiller whenever he saw it, 
 which was pretty often, managed to let down bars 
 and open gates as well as ever. Her depredations 
 were, however, generally guarded against by timely 
 care in making all things fast. Ellis was very shy 
 of his neighbor, and kept out of his way as much 
 
GOOD FOR EVIL. 125 
 
 as possible. When they did meet, Tiller always 
 spoke to him kindly. 
 
 A. good farmer does not get rich very fast, and 
 a bad one is sure to go behind hand. Peter Ellis 
 "was a bad farmer, and instead of bettering his con- 
 dition, year after year, became, as might be sup- 
 posed, worse and worse off. One debt after another 
 came into existence, and pressed him down, until, 
 at length, his whdle farm was about passing into the 
 hands of the sheriff for the purpose of satisfying a 
 debt of six hundred dollars, held by a man who 
 felt very little like sparing his farm from the law's 
 'extremity. ' 
 
 When this fact came to the ears of Tiller, he 
 said to the person who mentioned it to him — 
 
 "Do you really 'think his farm will be- sold by 
 this man in order to recover his debt ?" 
 
 « I have no doubt of it in the world," was re- 
 plied. "He has an old grudge against him, and 
 will be glad of a good opportunity to satisfy it. I 
 don't think Ellis has any right to complain. As 
 he would have done to you or any one else he 
 happened not to like, so will he be done by." 
 
 " But it is a pity to break any man up in this 
 way. His farm will be sacrificed for half its 
 value." 
 
 " No doubt of that. But, who can help it ? If 
 '. his ■ creditor pushes for his own, the law gives him 
 a right to do just as he is doing." 
 11* 
 
126 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 " True. But miglitv we not all join and help 
 him a little ? I am willing to do my part. What 
 do you say ?" 
 
 I don't believe you will find a man in the 
 neighborhood who would turn his finger to help 
 him. I know that I shall not risk a penny." 
 
 Mr. Tiller mused over the difficulty in which 
 Ellis was placed, for some time, after he was alone. 
 He forgot all about the difference that had existed 
 between him and Peter, and thought only of the | 
 means of saving him from the sacrifice of his pro- j 
 perty. At length, satisfied with the result of his | 
 refiections, he started for the residence of Ellis J 
 with the air of a man who had made up his mind | 
 as to what he was going to do. | 
 
 Peter sat alone, brooding over the misfortune 
 that was about to wrest from his hands the old 
 faiHiily homestead. Judgment had been obtained ; 
 a.gafnst him for six hundred dollars, an execution j 
 issued, and the sheriff had already levied upon his ; 
 property. He had tried to obtain security and j 
 thus put off the evil day, but no one to whom he 
 
 ventured to apply was willing to run any risks for ; 
 a man like Peter Ellis. If it bad not been for the > 
 encumbrance of an old mortgage upon his farm, he | 
 could have found persons ready enough to go secu- J 
 rity, if made perfectly safe by a pledge of the real ' 
 estate under execution. But the mortgage put J 
 that out of the question. I 
 
r'^ 
 
 GOOD FOR EVIL. •> 127 
 
 The thought of giving up the old homestead, ;, 
 where, as a child, he had been happy, and, even as 
 a man, seen many pleasant seasons, softened the 
 feelings of Peter Ellis into a gentler mood than 
 they had known for a long time. Every object 
 upon which his eyes rested, now, strangely eijough, 
 brought back some memory of childhood; some 
 vision of those early times, that seem to grow 
 brighter and brighter as we look back upon them 
 through the lengthening vista of years. The sur- 
 face of his mind was no longer darkly ruffled by 
 the too long prevailing winds of passion that 
 had blown over it, nor were its depths agitated 
 by the long ground swell of angry emotions. All 
 was calm. He was powerless in the strong hand 
 of the law, and, in conscious impotence, his heart 
 was oppressed with sadness. He was sitting near 
 a table, with many loose papers and letters before 
 him which he had been examining. They, too, had 
 helped to throw his mind back upon the past. 
 I ^ Overcome by his feelings, he had leaned his head 
 upon his hand and was sitting thus when the door 
 of his room was opened and some one came in. 
 He turned his head, and there stood the man for 
 whom he had cherished, for years, a bitter dislike, 
 — why, he would have found it hard to explain. 
 
 The sight of Tiller did not arouse his old feelings. 
 He was too much subdued for causeless anger now. 
 
128 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 [ Rising up, he received him with cool formality. 
 
 : As soon as Tiller was seated, he said, speaking 
 Tery kindly, and with much sympathy in his 
 voice — 
 
 " It grieves me to hear that you are in trouble ; 
 but I trust some means of relief may be found. I 
 have come as your friend, if you will permit me to 
 act as such towards you. In fact, I have always 
 been your friend rather than your enemy, and 
 have often felt sorry that you would not think so. 
 But let the past go, with all its mistakes. You 
 are in trouble, and if I can help you, I am ready 
 to do so. Will you accept the kind offices I tender 
 you, in all sincerity ?" 
 
 At this unexpected appearance and address, 
 Peter Ellis was quite overcome. His lips quivered, 
 and his hands and fingers moved about uneasily. 
 It was some moments before he could reply. He 
 then said in a low, unsteady voice— 
 
 " I did not expect this of you, Mr. Tiller, after 
 what has passed." 
 
 " Let the past go with all its missteps, as I have 
 just said," replied Mr. Tiller, cheerfully. " The 
 best are liable to error. I have never cherished 
 unkind feelings towards you ; much less do I enter- 
 tain thetn now. I wish to assist you, if I can, in 
 your present difficulty. I am told that your farm 
 is under execution for six hundred dollars, and 
 
that, on account of its being mortgaged, you can- ; 
 
 not indemnify any one forgoing your security." ? 
 
 "It is too true, Mr. Tiller," replied Peter, in a ; 
 
 desponding voice. I 
 
 "Very well; now, in a word, I will tell you ,' 
 what I will do. You have a ten-acre field that is J 
 almost worn out. If you will agree to let me culti- I 
 vate that field for four or five y.ears, which I can j 
 do with extra hands, at no great expense of time ^ 
 or care, I will at once advance you the money you i 
 need, and, at the end of the time named, after J 
 deducting interest and a reasonable per centage, l 
 hand you whatever profit I may have made over ^ 
 and above the sum now advanced." j 
 
 Ellis looked at Tiller for some moments, wiA \ 
 surprise and doubt strangely blended in the ex- 
 pression of his face. 
 
 "If you are in earnest in what you propose," 
 he at length said, in a subdued tone, " I can only 
 reply, that I accept your ofi"er with heartfelt grati- 
 tude. You will save me from ruin. But you will ; 
 never get your money out of that field in the time i 
 ^ou name." J 
 
 "I am perfectly willing to run that risk. But \ 
 come over to my house, and we will have this \ 
 matter speedily arranged. The sooner it is done I 
 the better." | 
 
 P«ter Ellis, as he walked along in silence beside 
 the man who was proving himself to be his best \ 
 
r 
 
 130 GOLDEN GRAINS. J 
 
 : ^ ( 
 
 friend, although he had treated him for years as J 
 aji enemy, and injured him severely, had many '^ 
 strange thoughts and strange feelings. He hardly | 
 understood how a man could act so generous and 
 so disinterested a part ; and yet he felt that there 
 must be a rich reward in thus seeking to do good 
 to others instead of evil. On their way, they 
 passed near the place where the colt had been 
 shot. The remembrance of that act smote upon 
 the heart of Ellis, and he resolved that, at the 
 earliest possible day, he would make restitution — 
 not only for this wrong done, but for others that 
 Tiller had suffered at his hands. 
 
 When Peter Ellis returned home from the resi- 
 dence of his neighbor, it was with feelings and 
 purposes all changed, and wi h a heart subdued 
 and deeply grateful for a service he expected from 
 no man, and least of all from John Tiller. 
 
 " Is it true," asked the neighbor before alluded 
 to, on meeting Tiller a few days afterwards, "that 
 you have loaned that miserable creature, Peter 
 Ellis, enough money to pay his debt?" 
 
 "Yes. I loaned him what was needed to save, 
 him from ruin." 
 
 " On the security of what you might get out of 
 his old, worn-out ten-acre field ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " You are a strange man, friend Tiller — a very 
 strange man; and if you don't see the day when 
 
GOOD FOE EVIL. 131 
 
 you regret putting your hand in kindness, upon 
 the head of that snarling wolf, whose teeth you 
 have already felt too often, then I am mistaken. 
 If you get six hundred cents out of his field 'you 
 may be thankful. I'd have seen him to Jericho 
 before I would have helped him." 
 
 "We shall see," was the quiet reply to this. 
 
 At the end of four years, Mr. Tiller called upon 
 Ellis — whose conduct had, in no instance, during, 
 that time, given marked oifence to any of his 
 neighbors, and whose fields had become much 
 more productive^and said to him — 
 
 " Our contract is now at an end. I have farmed 
 your field for the period agreed upon, and have 
 found it fertile and productive. You have looked 
 on and seen how I worked it, and I shall be 
 sincerely gratified if you will continue the system 
 I have pursued towards the land, which needs to 
 be farmed in a particular way; for then you will 
 reap from it a profit fully equal to your labor. 
 Your- debt is canceled; and here are three hundred 
 dollars surplus, after interest and a per centage on 
 my labor have been deducted." 
 
 Mr. Tiller presented a small package of bank 
 bill's as he said this ; but Ellis drew back, and 
 replied emphatically, while the color rose to his 
 face — 
 
 "No, Mr. Tiller, my debt is not yet paid', 'yoti 
 must keep all : and even that will not make us 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 fully clear. The colt, the sheep, the dogs and 
 the poultry I killed when possessed by an evil 
 spirit, must not be your loss but mine. I have 
 alwkys intended to pay for them, but have never 
 before had it in my power. You have now enabled 
 me to act justly, and I do so gladly. Ah ! sir, 
 your conduct towards me has been noble. You 
 have saved me from my own evil heart !" 
 
 The quivering lips, failing voice, and humid 
 eyes of Peter Ellis, attested the deepness of his 
 emotions and the sincerity with which he spoke. 
 
 Mr. Tiller again tendered the money, saying 
 that he wished nothing for the dead animals ; that 
 he had forgotten their loss. But Ellis was firm in 
 his refu-sal to receive a dollar. 
 
 " It is yours, not mine, and I will not touch it," 
 he said resolutely. " Now I can feel like a man 
 who has honestly repaired the wrongs into which 
 passion betrayed him." 
 
 "Well, friend Tiller, have you got^ your six 
 hundred dollars out of that ten-acre field yet?" 
 said the neighbor who had thought him a great fool 
 for his pains in doing a kind act to Peter Ellis. 
 This was on the day after the above interview 
 occurred. 
 
 "Oh yes; and three hundred dollars for the colt 
 and the sheep and poultry that were killed." 
 
 "What!" 
 
 " The net product of that field, after interest on < 
 
GOOD FOE EVIL. 133 j 
 
 the loan made to Ellis, and a per centage for my 
 labor and outlay of capital, were deducted, was 
 just nine hundred dollars. I took three hundred 
 of this to Peter Ellis yesterday, but he refused to 
 receive it. He said that he owed me fully that 
 much for property which he had wantonly de- 
 stroyed, and he now rejoiced in having an oppor- 
 tunity to~pay it. He is very much altered." 
 "He certainly is. Everybody says that." 
 " Don't, you think it has turned out much better 
 than it would if I had sued him for damages when 
 I he shoj;. my colt, as you so earnestly advised me 
 I to do!" 
 
 i " There is no doubt of that. You have got your 
 J pay, and Peter has saved his farm." 
 "And is a better man," said Tiller. 
 " Yes, — that is plain." 
 
 " And is not that best of all ?" was asked in an 
 earnest voice. ; , 
 
 "You are a strange man, friend Tiller," replied 
 the neighbor. "I don't know any one who would 
 have acted as you have done. But I rather guess 
 you are right. By returning good for evil, you 
 have made an honest man, a pleasant neighbor, 
 and a thrifty farmer out of Peter Ellis, besides 
 getting paid for all your losses by him. I wouldn't 
 have believed it ; but there is no denying what 
 you see before your eyes as plain as noonday." 
 12 
 
; THE GREAT MAN. 
 
 ; Bring him of giant intellect, 
 
 ; And a soul high deeds to dare, 
 
 '' And a spirit that will not be crushed 
 
 i By its weight of worldly care : 
 
 i Who^ pride can brook no rivalry — 
 
 i Ambition, no delay, 
 
 I Who will harden his heart 'gainst his fellow-men 
 
 i, If they hinder his onward way : — 
 
 And I will show you a nobler one — 
 
 He hath conquered his heart of pride, 
 And moveth in calm and silent joy 
 
 Still waters of- peace beside : 
 Ambition he hath, but 'tis good to do — 
 
 Pride, of his Father above — 
 High purpose, to win a glorious crown 
 
 In the Kingdom of Truth and Love. 
 
FADING FLOWERS. 
 
 One day, when a child, said a cheerftil-mindecl 
 friend who had passed over more than two-thirds 
 of the time usually allotted to men on earth, I went 
 into the field and gathered a bunch of beautiful 
 wild flowers, which I placed in a vase on the man- 
 tel-piece. To my eyes they were beautiful, and, 
 many times during the few hours that passed till 
 evening, did I come in from my play to look at 
 them. I had gathered and arranged them — th^y 
 were mine — and therefore the more highly prized. 
 
 Early the next morning I arose, and dressing 
 myself, went to look at my floral treasures. Alas ! 
 they had withered away, and hung with drooping 
 heads over the side of the glass in which I had 
 placed them. A few curled leaves, almost colour- 
 less, lay upon the floor, and upon some of them a 
 careless foot had trodden. 
 
 For a moment I stood bewildered ; then shrunk 
 away into a corner of the room and commenced 
 weeping and sobbing bitterly. My all of earthly 
 happiness seemed wrecked. 
 
 My kind, mother (I shall never forget her, nor 
 her early lessons of love) came in while my young 
 
 L ^1^^^ 
 
136 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 heart was trembling in its sorrow, and talcing my 
 hand, as she sat down by me, inquired in an 
 anxious tone, the cause of my grief. 
 
 "My flowers," said 1, sobbing more bitterly; 
 it was all that my tongue could articulate. 
 
 Her mother's heart comprehended, the moment 
 her eye caught my faded blossoms, the whole weight 
 of my childish affliction. She did not speak for a 
 few minutes, but raised me up and laid my head 
 upon her bosom. The fond action calmed my in- 
 fant transports of sorrow, and I soon looked up 
 composedly into her face ; she smiled on me with 
 a smile a mother's countenance can only wear ; 
 but I well remember now that a tear was on her 
 cheek. 
 
 I thought it strange at the time that my mother 
 should weep ; but I can now well imagine her feel- 
 ings, as the little incident I have mentioned threw 
 her thoughts upon the future and brought before 
 her mind, in sad array, the many disappointments 
 that would crowd my path, of which this one was 
 but a gentle prelude. 
 
 She looked placidly on my face for a moment, 
 which was upturned to hers, and then assuming a 
 serious tone, implanted in my young mind one of 
 her first lessons of patience and endurance — a les- 
 son which has never been forgotten. 
 
 « My dear child," said she, "I^am sorry that 
 your flowers have faded ; but you know there are 
 
FADING ITLOWEES. 137 ^ 
 
 i 
 
 many more in the fields, and mucli prettier ones 
 in the garden. You can gather a new bouquet." \ 
 
 " But I gathered them,, mother," said I, "and i 
 I liked them flowers .better than any others, be- \ 
 cause they were mine." And I wept again to think '', 
 that those yery ones that / loved should hare \ 
 faded. - i 
 
 "Your flowers will often wither my child," an- < 
 swered my mother; "and though you may love ^ 
 your own more than any others, yet when their ! 
 brightness and beauty are gone, you must remem- I 
 her that grieving cannot restore them. Every ; 
 thing which brings to you pleasure is one of the \ 
 flowers of life. Do you not love me more than all 
 those prett]^ coloured leaves 1" 
 
 I could feot say yes— but the smiling tears that 
 were in my eyes told her my feelings; and my 
 little arms twined fondly about her neck, made the 
 strongest affirmative her heart wanted. 
 
 "I am one of the flowers of life," continued 
 she, « and bo is your father, and so is sister Mary. 
 But did you never think that one day these flowers 
 would wither ?" 
 
 . I scarcely comprehended her meaning th^, but 
 >yid not forget the words she uttered ; and years 
 after, when manhood was upon my brow, and I 
 stood looking down into her grave, the whole truth 
 of her question and allusion came upon my mind, 
 and I wept anew in bitterness of spirit. 
 12* 
 
138 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 "Remember, my dear," said she, as I continued 
 looking seriously into her face, but half conscious 
 of the force of what she was saying, " that all 
 along your ways through life will spring up pleasant 
 flowers, and your hand will be constantly reaching 
 out and plucking them — but, my child, they will 
 all wither. Nothing on earth is permanent. All 
 things are changing and passing away. Tou will 
 indulge many brilliant anticipations, and, as you 
 spring up to manhood, will have many hopes of 
 happiness in this world ; but disappointment will 
 follow your steps "wherever you tread, and the 
 thorns of sorrow tear your hands often when you 
 have reached them out to pluck the blossoms of 
 joys. Yet amid all this, there is a virtue which 
 takes largely away from the darkness of the pic- 
 ture ; the virtue of patience. Do you not remem- 
 ber reading in the little book I gave you a day or 
 two since, that * 
 
 " To bear is to conquer our fate ?" 
 
 i That means, if we are patient under disappoint- 
 ment and grief, we will rob them of much of their 
 painfulness. We make our sorrows deeper than 
 they really are, by thinking and grieving over 
 them. Learn to have patience under all circum- 
 stances, and your happiness will be more certain. 
 
 " And now, my child," continued she, " gather 
 up those leaves from the floor; throw away the 
 withered flowers, and get fresh ones." 
 
FADING FLOWERS, l39 
 
 I ran to the field as soon as I had done my 
 breakfast, and collected another bunch as pretty 
 as those I had the day before, and was happy in i 
 looking at them in their nice arrangement upon 
 the shelf where I placed them. > 
 
 In a day or two they faded also, but I rem em- j 
 bered the words of imy mother, and tried to learn i 
 patience. It Was a hard lesson at first, but when- I 
 ever anything went wrong, I still tried the remedy l 
 called patience, and soon found that it was a charm > 
 which robbed disappointment of most of its pain. I 
 
 Ever since, said this friend, I have endeavoured l 
 to use patience under all circumstances, and find > 
 that it brings the mind nearer than anything else i 
 to that contentment which Campbell calls « The all i 
 in all of life." ' ; 
 
STANZAS. 
 
 Comb, loved one ! smile the gloom away 
 
 That clouds thy fair young brow; 
 Tears have not dimmed thy soft blue eyes 
 
 For many a day, 'till now. ; 
 
 Believe me, thine are idle fears ; j 
 
 Mere airy nothing. Dry thy tears ; 
 
 That gush so warm and fast ! f 
 Strange ! thoushould'st doubt the love, for thee ; 
 
 That welleth up unceasingly. I 
 
 I hold thee fondly to my heart ; ; 
 
 Again I tell the tale J 
 
 Young passion murmured first to thee f 
 
 At eve in shadowy vale ; f 
 
 I Thy trembling hand is fast in mine — I 
 
 I lay my warm cheek thus to thine, I 
 
 And woo thee, even as when '> 
 
 My love tale in thy willing ear t 
 
 \ I poured, and saw thee weep to hear. \ 
 
 \ Now thou art happy ! Dear one ! why, '> 
 
 i Oh why thus doubt the love, j 
 
 \ That hath, but thee, no polar star, ^ 
 
 { Save that which guides above ? j 
 
 ; If care weigh down my spirit, smile, | 
 
 ; And care shall own the pleasant wile, \ 
 
 i And half forget its gloom, — \ 
 
 ; But do not, dearest, thus be moved, \ 
 
 'i In fear thou art not wholly loved. \ 
 
 \ (140) 
 
I SAID SO! 
 
 " He'll be a ruined man in less tian a year. 
 Mark my words, and see if they do not come true." 
 
 This was said with an air, and jn a tone of self- 
 importance, by a brisk little fellow, who walked 
 uneasily about as he spoke, and seemed to consider 
 himself of no little consequence. 
 
 " I've had my eye on him for some months past," 
 he continued, " and can see which way he is going, 
 and where it will all end as clear as daylight." 
 
 " That's the way with you. Deal ; you always 
 see to the end of other people's courses," remarked* 
 a bystander. 
 
 " I can see to the end of Miller's course, and no 
 mistake. See if he isn't all used up and gone to 
 nothing before this day twelvemonth." 
 
 " Why do you prophecy so badly of Miller ? He 
 is one of the cleverest men I know." 
 
 " That's a fact, and no mistake. He is a gen- 
 tleman all over. But that won't keep him from 
 ruin." 
 
 " Give the reason, — you must have one." 
 
 " Oh, as to that, I don't give reasons for what I 
 Bay," was the self-complacent reply, with a toss of 
 
 ri41) 
 
142 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 I the head and two or three strides across the room. 
 5 " But, you mark my words, and see if they don't 
 I come true. See if Miller does not go ta the wall 
 < before this time next year." 
 ; (( Very well, we will see." 
 S " So you will, or I'm no prophet." 
 I The confident manner in which this man, named 
 '( Deal, spoke, led several of those who heard him, 
 I to suppose that he knew some fact connected with 
 i the business of Miller with which they were igno- 
 I rant. And this was true. 
 
 i Deal was one of those- restless, busy, here-there- 
 i and-every-where little bodies, who see and know 
 far more of what is going on in the world than do 
 your quiet, thoughtful, business-absorbed people. 
 He visited the theatre once or twice every week; 
 not really, so much to observe the play, as to see 
 who regularly attended. He looked into the differ- 
 ent club-rooms and political assemblages, and kept 
 his mind posted up in all the little and great mat- 
 ters that agitate the surface of a community, or 
 stir it more deeply. His means of information in 
 regard to his neighbors' business and prospects, 
 were certainly very great, and his opinion in regard 
 to these matters worth somethinjc. This fact made 
 his remarks about Miller half believed by several 
 who heard them. In truth he had good reasons 
 for his evil prognostications, for he met too fre- 
 quently at the theatre, and in very improper com- 
 
I SAID SO ! 143 -J 
 
 pany, Miller's confidential clerk, and was, likewise, 
 conversant with many facts proving that he was 
 clearly unworthy of the trust that had been re- 
 posed in him. Instead of doing his duty, which 
 was to promptly inform Miller of the conduct of 
 his clerk, he contented himself, like too many 
 others, with 'merely shrugging his shoulders, as has 
 been seen, when occasion warranted his doing so, 
 and prophecying ruin to the merchant who, un- 
 happily, had placed confidence in an unworthy 
 agent. 
 
 The business in which Miller was engaged, 
 although it embraced very important transactions, 
 and required many clerks for it's efficient manage- 
 ment, yielded only a light profit, so that it was in 
 the power of a dishonest assistant to ruin his prin- 
 cipal. It only required the abstraction of a few 
 thousand dollars to embarrass and finally break up 
 the merchant's business. The prospect of such an 
 untoward event was very fair. The habits of-young 
 Grey, the name of the principal clerk, had, for 
 more than a year, required for • their gratification 
 an amount of money much greater than his salary. 
 At first he was troubled with debts. The uneasi- 
 ness that these occasioned, led him to cast about 
 m his mind for some mode of relief. 'His first de- 
 cision o^n the subject was to ask for an advance of 
 salary. He was in the receipt of one thousand 
 dollars a year. Pressed hard by a man whom he 
 
owed, he was almost forced into an application for 
 more salary. He did not think of denying himselt 
 any of the expensive pleasures in which he indulged, 
 as a surer measure of relief. The application was 
 not favourably considered. Mt. Miller paid, al- 
 ready, as much for clerk-hire as he felt himself 
 able to do. The salary of Gray he considered 
 fully enough for a young man. After receiving a 
 positive refusal on the part of his employer to grant 
 his request, the clerk,, concealing as fully as pos- 
 sible his disappointment, turned to the performance 
 of his regular duties. But, there was a tempest in 
 his bosom. Even with an increase of salary up to 
 the amount he had asked, the difficulties that sur- 
 ■ rounded him would still have been great. The only 
 course by which he could then have extricated him- 
 self from immediate difficulties, would have been 
 to borrow upon the representation of an increase of 
 salary. Now that hope had failed. 
 
 Temptations try and prove men. Where there 
 is integrity of character, purification is the conse- 
 quence of strong trials. But when a man without 
 fixed principles gets into difficulties, especially when 
 brought about by his own wrong conduct, he is in 
 imminent danger. Evil counsellors are near him 
 with specious arguments ; he must not "iisten to 
 them — if he does, he will alm'ost inevitably fall 
 into the snare laid for his unwary feet. 
 
 " Something must be done," said the young. man 
 
"1 
 1 SAID SO ! 145 { 
 
 ■with, compressed lips, after he had recovered a little 
 from the confusion of mind into which Mr. Miller's 
 positive refusal to grant his request had thrown 
 him. >. . , 
 
 " Something wiMsf be done. What shall it be ?" 
 That question gave activity to his mind. He 
 thought, and thought, and thought for a long time. 
 But one only hope glimmered in upon the darkness, 
 and that was a light kindled upon a treacherous 
 coast. It was the hope of relief from pressing de- 
 mands by using, without his employer's knowledge, 
 a portion of the money that regularly passed 
 through his hands. The first suggestion of this to 
 his mind, caused him an inward shudder,^ He 
 I looked away from it ; but Everything was so dark, 
 J that, for relief, he turned to it again. The idea 
 I seemed not now so revolting. He did not think of 
 i embezzling his employer's money ; only borrowing 
 it as a measure of temporary relief. Finally the 
 ; tempter prevailed. A good opportunity presented 
 I itself for using as large a sum as two hundred dol- 
 i lars without a suspicion of the fact by Mr. Miller, 
 
 < and he embraced that opportunity. Pressing de- 
 mands were thereby met, and a surplus left in his 
 
 j hands. i 
 
 I From^this time forth a host of evil counsellors | 
 
 < had access to his ear, and he listened* to them too l 
 often. 'There was no reform in his habits or ex- 
 penses, but rather a giving of 'the rein to both. Ho 
 
 • 13 I 
 
146 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 indulged more frequently in expensive pleasures, 
 and had, in consequence, to resort oftener to the 
 funds of his employer, which he did with less and 
 less compunction of conscience each time. 
 
 Not many months passed before Miller found 
 his business pressing upon him too heavily. His 
 payments were not made with the same ease as 
 formerly. There having been no diminution in 
 his business, he was entirely at a loss to account 
 for this fact. Not 'the slightest suspicion of the 
 real cause passed over his mind ; for his confidence 
 in Gray was unbounded. Had he known anything 
 of his habits, doubts of his integrity would have 
 been ^ awakened : but of the many facts that had 
 come under the observation of Deal, not one had 
 been even suspected by Miller. 
 
 Rapidly did young Gray run his downward 
 course. His money-wants grew every day more and 
 more urgent, and his inroads upon his employer's 
 funds more and more steady and exhausting. 
 
 " Miller '11 be a ruined man as sure as the world, 
 if he keeps that Gray about him," Deal would say 
 to himself, whenever he perceived the young clerk 
 spending money with great freedom, as he often 
 di 1. But he never once thought of saying as much 
 to the wronged merchant. He never felt it to be 
 his duty to whisper a friendly warning in his ear. 
 
 Time passed, and the merchant's business became 
 daily more and more involved. Not a payment 
 
, I SAID so! 
 
 was made without having to borrow money from 
 one source or another. The, cause of this he could 
 mot define ; and, unfortunately, not suspecting 
 where it really lay, he remained altogether at fault 
 in endeavoring to counteract and resist the down- 
 ward tendency of his business, until ruin was the 
 consequence. 
 
 "It is just as I said," remarked Deal, when the 
 news of Miller's failure reached his ear. "I knew 
 it would be so ; and I said it would be so a hundred 
 times." 
 
 "You did?" replied the individual to whom this 
 was addressed, looking steadily into the little man's 
 face. He was a losing creditor of the broken 
 merchant. 
 
 «Y«s, Idid." - ( 
 
 " And, pray, what reason had you for saying so ?" 
 
 "This very good reason. His principal clerk 
 lived too fast, He kept a swift trotting horse, and 
 mdulged, to my certain knowledge, in very many 
 other extravagancies that must have consumed mo- 
 ney 9qual to four or five times his salary." 
 
 « Indeed !" 
 
 "It is a fact, sir." 
 
 "Did Miller know this?" 
 
 " Of course he did not." 
 
 "But you did." \ 
 
 « Tea : and I said, dozens of times, that If Miller 
 aid not look out he would be ruined." 
 
 J 
 
 V lCVVVVN.-Vi,T,-v-v-\.- k- 
 
 
J 148 GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 The creditor compressed his lips tightly, and 
 eyed the self-complacent Deal for nearly a minute, 
 steadily. 
 
 "You knew it! — you said so!" he remarked 
 half contemptuously, at length. " And you could 
 see an honest man wronged daily, and at last ruined 
 by a scoundrel, and all this time coldly stand look- I 
 ing on, and prophecy his downfall." | 
 
 " It was no concern of mine," said Deal, his face | 
 crimsoning. j 
 
 "No concern of yours! It is every man's busi- '< 
 ness to warn his neighbors of approaching danger. ! 
 He who does not do so, is little better than an ac- J 
 cessory to evil. For my part, sir, I shall ever look j 
 upon you as more than half guilty of poor Miller's ( 
 ruin. A word might have saved him ; but you heart- | 
 lessly forbore to speak. I would not have your I 
 conscience for a dozen worlds like this !" I 
 
 Thus saying, with a contemptuous look and tone, J 
 he turned from the abashed Deal, and left him to \ 
 his own self-accusing reflections. They were such j 
 as no true lover of his kind could ever wish to have. I 
 
 There is often much of self-complacent pride in | 
 the oft repeated — "I said So — " But more, we 
 fear, of Gfiminal neglect to warn an honest, but 
 unsuspecting neighbor of the danger that lurks in 
 his path. Let every one look to himself and see 
 I how far he is guilty in this respect. Few of us, I | 
 j fear, will find our garments spotless. i 
 
OUE LITTLE SOK \ 
 
 WiTHm our quiet nest at home 
 
 We have a little son ; 
 Five smiling years have passed away 
 
 Since his young life begun. 
 Five smiling years ! Brief, happy time ! 
 
 So fleet have moved the hours — ■ 
 So light our steps — we've only seemed 
 
 To tread among the flowers. 
 
 When day declines, and evening shades 
 
 Come stealfng soft and slow ; 
 And star-rays in the dusky sky 
 
 But dimly come and go ; 
 From care and thought and business free, 
 
 I homeward turn my feet 
 
 Oh ! how the absence is repaid 
 
 When that dear boy I meet. 
 
 I do not knbw that other eyes 
 
 Would linger o'er his face; 
 Or find on brow, or cheek, or lip 
 
 A single winning grace ; 
 And yet, it would be strange, I own, 
 
 If other eyes could see 
 No beauty in his countenance, 
 
 So beautiful to me. 
 
 13* (149) 
 
To us his face is loveliness — 
 
 There sweet expressions blend ; 
 There thoughts look upwards ; and on these 
 
 Affection's smiles attend. 
 A picture in our hearts he lives, 
 
 Bound by love's golden frame ; 
 And love has given the precious boy 
 
 A fitly chosen name. 
 
 Oh ! could we keep our darling one 
 
 As innocent as now ; 
 As free from lines of care and pain 
 
 His smoothly polished brow, — 
 As free from evil every throb 
 
 His joyous pulses fling ; 
 And free each thought that upward soars 
 
 On mind's expanding wing ! 
 
 Thou, who lovest every one — 
 
 Whose face their angels see — 
 The children thou hast given to us, 
 
 Hold, hold them near to Thee ! 
 If ever, in their future years, 
 
 Their feet aside should stray, 
 Oh ! lead them gently back again, 
 
 And keep them in Thy way. 
 
BEEAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 
 
 " Winter days and nights may bury beneath their pall of snow the 
 sown com j but, when the spring arrives, it will be found equally 
 true, that ' there grows much bread in the winter night.' " 
 
 Miss Brimer. 
 
 Yes, it is true, spiritually as well as naturally, 
 that there grows much bread in the winter night. 
 How better can I illustrate this thap by giving a 
 passage or two from the private history of one 
 whose bright summer declined into sober autumn ; 
 whose autumn gave place to winter, with its brief 
 days, its long, long nights, its cold, concealing 
 snows; and whose dreary winter was at length 
 succeeded by the warm and cheering spring-time. 
 There grew much bread in h«r winter night ! 
 
 Sunlight was upon the head and flowers along 
 the path of Ella Linden. Her heart was too full 
 of its own joy to feel sympathy for others. There 
 were so many blossoms around her feet, that she 
 could not realize the fact that others were moving 
 wearily along rough and barren ways, uncheered 
 by a glimpse of sunshine, and unrefreshed by the 
 grateful odor of a single flower. I 
 
 "Come, Ella," said I to her one day, "I want 
 you to go with me to see a poor woman in trouble. | 
 
 (151) \ 
 
152 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 I am sure you will feel sympathy for her, and that 
 this sympathy will inspire you with a wish to do 
 for her some good office ; and she needs all the 
 kindness that generous hearts may feel prompted 
 to bestow.' 
 
 "Excuse me," she returned a little coldly. <«I | 
 have no taste for anything of this kind. I never ( 
 like to meet people who are in trouble. If she is j 
 in want, I will give you something for her." | 
 
 " She stands in no pressing need of charity. 
 But she wants kindness and sympathy from those 
 who can feel for her. Try and conquer your ; 
 reluctance, and go with me. It will do both you I 
 and her good." j 
 
 « But Ella shook her head and replied : 
 
 " No, no. If you can do her any good, go and \ 
 see her. But, as I said before, I have no taste for ; 
 anything of this kind." ( 
 
 " No taste for wiping a tear from the eye of a i 
 weeping sister ?" 
 
 " If you please to say so." 
 
 " You may live to feel differently, Ella." 
 
 " Then I will act differently," was her lightly- 
 spoken reply. 
 
 Often did I thus seek to win her thoughts away 
 from the mere pleasures of life, and awaken in her 
 mind sympathy for others. But my words, like 
 seed cast upon a sterile soil, showed no signs of 
 germination. For years her life was a gay round 
 
BREAD IN THE 'WINTBE NIGHT. 
 
 of pleasure. Then clouds gathered over lier sky, s 
 and storms broke upon her head. After the fierce < 
 war of elements had subsided, and the atmosphere | 
 became calm again, the sun shone out, but not with I 
 its -vronted fervour, and his stay above the horizon | 
 was brief. It was winter. Briefer still became the } 
 days and feebler the sunshine, until over Ella's ; 
 heart was thrown a snowy pall — chilling it to the i 
 centre. ', 
 
 There were many of her old companions and ( 
 friends, who, like her, had no taste for anything but ' 
 flowers and sunshine ; and they turned coldly from j 
 her at the very time when she most needed their ; 
 warmest sympathies. ^ 
 
 As in the summer light of joy, so in the gloom of I 
 affliction and adversity, Ella only thought of hePATJ 
 self. It was in vain that I tried to lift her mindW 
 above its own wretchedness, and to interest it in ; 
 the work of doing something for others. i 
 
 " I have trouble enough of my own ; grief enough ; 
 of my own," she would answer me. j 
 
 " But try and forget these," I would sometimes I 
 urge her. " Stretch forth your hand and lift some \ 
 burthen from an oppressed heart, and your own will i 
 feel lighter." | 
 
 I spoke without effect. With her head bowed i 
 upon her bosom, Ella passed through her dreary 
 winter. Spring at length came. The hand of 
 sorrow and adversity that lay so heavily upon her 
 
heart, was lifted up ; its pulsation became freer, 
 and the life-blood flowed in warmer currents through 
 her veins. Then it was apparent that, although 
 the sown grain had been long buried beneath a pall 
 of snow, yet much bread had grown in the winter 
 night— many good affections had taken root in her 
 heart, and were now shooting up their green blades 
 in the warm sunshine. 
 
 But, to descend into plain prose. The death of 
 ! Ella's mother, and the loss of property by her 
 i father, changed all from brightness into gloom. 
 J Following this, came the desertion of friend and 
 lover. The pure waters of affection, so freely 
 poured out, instead of flowing in a bright and fer- 
 tilizing current, were frozen as they fell. The 
 winter was long and dreary, and full of suffering. 
 Jut there came, at length, a change. 
 
 Mr. Linden was a man possessing force of cha- 
 racter and business acumen. From the wreck of 
 his fortune he had been able to save a small rem- 
 nant. This formed the basis of new operations in 
 trade, that were successful as far as they went. 
 Gradually there was an increase of business, and '> 
 the promise of a still greater increase in the future. | 
 But still the income was small, and the style in i 
 which his family lived, exceedingly humble. Ella \ 
 was the oldest of three children, and the cares of < 
 the household, since her mother's death, devolved J 
 upon her. For a long' time she had no affection ', 
 
BREAD IN THE WINTER NISHT. 165 \ 
 
 for the duties that were forced upon her, but en- 
 tered into and performed them under the pressure 
 of necessity. 
 
 For two years the family lived humbly and in 
 strict retirement. A period so long gave ample 
 time for Ella's mind to acquire a healthier tone of 
 thinking and feeling. First,, she was touched with 
 a sense of her father's lonely condition since her 
 mother's death, and this led her to regard him with 
 a tender affection and to seek by every means in 
 her power to make their home cheerful and pleasant. 
 She thought of what his wants might be, and en- 
 deavored to supply them. If he looked gloomy, 
 she strove, by act or word, to dispel the gloom. To 
 her younger sisters she endeavored, more and more 
 fully every day, after her mind had awakened to a 
 true perception of her duties, to supply the place 
 of their mother. As she turned, lovingly, toward 
 them, they turned, like flowers to the sun, toward 
 her, and reflected back, smilingly, her warm aflec- 
 tion. 
 
 At the end of two years the coldness and gloom 
 of wmter passed fully away, and not even a snow 
 wreath lay upon the ground. Mr. Linden's busi- 
 ness efi'orts had been crowned with unexpected suc- 
 cess, and he was able to remove his family into a 
 larger and more comfortable dwelling. A few 
 weeks after this change had taken place, I called to 
 see Ella, whom I had met frequently during her 
 
 'V\.'V\/VVVW-^ 
 
156 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 i dark days of affliction and trial, that had continued, 
 
 '/ until the work they were designed to effect was 
 
 \ fully completed. I found her cheerful ; I might 
 
 I almost say, happy. But she was not idle, nor was 
 
 i she thinking of and caring for herself. Her love 
 
 I for her father and sisters extinguished mere selfish 
 
 I feelings, and ever prompted her to some new effort 
 
 < for their comfort or happiness ; and her reward 
 
 ; was sweet. 
 
 I "You remember Florence Dale ?" said I to her, 
 
 ' after we had been conversing some time. 
 
 I " Oh, yes ! She was one of my most intimate 
 
 f friends. I always liked Florence. — But with the 
 
 J rest, when adversity came, she grew cold toward 
 
 i me, and seemed to forget that I even lived." 
 
 I " Poor Florence !" said I. " Her days of sun- 
 
 ; shine have departed. Her father died some time 
 
 I ago, and to-day I hear that he died insolvent. 
 
 i Already his widow and children have been com- 
 
 j polled to remove from their luxurious home and are 
 
 5 sinking down into obscurity, and I fear privation 
 
 i if not want." 
 
 I " Poor Florence !" ejaculated Ella, tears filling 
 
 I her eyes. " I will see her, for I kiiow that I can 
 
 ' speak words of comfort and hope. Have you seen 
 
 I her?" 
 
 } " No, not yet," I replied. 
 
 'i "Shall we not go together?" 
 
 t "Yes, if you like." 
 
BREAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 157 
 
 •) 
 
 "Let us go now," said the sympathizing girl, 
 earnestly, while her face was lit up with a glow ot 
 unselfish affection. "Few will follow her in her 
 sad exile from old associations and friends; and 
 there will be few, if any, to lift her bowed head, or 
 speak a word of comfort. I have passed through 
 it all, and I know what it is." 
 
 Half an houi- afterward we stood at the door of 
 a small dwelling. There were few appearances of 
 comfort about it, and nothing of elegance. We 
 were admitted by a small colored girl, the only 
 domestic as we aftei;wards learned. Ella asked for 
 j Florence, and sent up both her own name and mine. 
 ' In about ten minutes Florence appeared, and re- 
 i ceived us with distant formality. There was some- 
 j thing cold and repulsive in her manner, as if she 
 I regarded us not as. friends, but as those who felt a 
 real pleasure in witnessing her downfa'l, and had 
 
 i come to ascertain how really low it was Ella did 
 
 I not seem to perceive this, but grasped the young 
 J girl's hand warmly, and said— 
 ; " It's a pleasure for me to meet with you, Flo- 
 j rence, and to hold your hand in mine once more ; 
 I though I cannot but wish that it were under differ- 
 ent circumstances. It is less than an hour since I 
 heard of the aflSiction you have been called to en- 
 dure, and I have come to ask the privilege of 
 j renewing the friendly relations that once existed 
 I * 14 
 
158 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 between us — for I have been in the deep waters 
 through which you are now passing. I have suf- 
 fered all that you are now suffering, and can there- 
 fore enter into your heart and feel with you." 
 
 Florence looked into the face of Ella, as she thus 
 spoke, her countenance still cold, and her manner 
 repellant. 
 
 " Let us be friends, as of old, Florence. — Old 
 friends are the best friends." 
 
 I saw the young girl's lips begin to quiver. Ella 
 still held her hand and looked earnestly into her 
 face. A moment passed, and then Florence sunk, 
 sobbing, upon the breast of Ella. 
 
 " Bread in the winter night," I could not help 
 murmuring, as I thought of Miss Bremer's beautiful 
 allusion to the growth of good affections in the 
 winter of adversity and affliction. 
 
 Long and earnest was the conversation that 
 passed between Ella and Florence, after the latter 
 grew calm. I had tried to speak many words of 
 assurance and comfort to Ella in her winter night, 
 but now I felt how cold they were, and wondered 
 not that they had glanced back from her heart like 
 sunbeams from an icy rock. She spoke from a 
 deeply realizing sense of what her friend was suf- ; 
 fering ; I merely uttered cold truths from my i 
 understanding. I never saw the fac& of Ella so 1 
 beautiful as while she strove, with a loving sgiiit, ' 
 
 - J 
 
BKEAD IN THE WINTER NIGHT. 159 
 
 to fill the mind of her young friend with hope in ^ 
 
 the future, through the means of duties earnestly ^ 
 
 done in the present. ^ 
 
 " Come and see me again, won't you ?" — said > 
 
 Florence, as she stood, with tears in her eyes, ; 
 
 almost clinging to the hand of Ella. We were I 
 
 about departing. | 
 
 "Yes, frequently; and you must not fail to re- i 
 
 turn my visit. It will do us both good to meet I 
 
 often." I 
 
 And they did meet often. Ella always saying j 
 
 something to give strength to the mind of her ? 
 
 young friend, or to sustain it with hope. The cir- t 
 
 cumstanees of Mrs. Dale were much straightened, ^ 
 
 and she had no income. In her own grief at the { 
 
 death of her father, and in her own sufferings, I 
 
 Florence had forgotten that to her mother's sorrow I 
 
 was added a heavy burden of care ; nor did she I 
 
 think of it until prompted' by Ella, who'^suggested | 
 
 whether it were not in her power to lighten this \ 
 
 burden. I 
 
 "What can I do, Ella, to lighten it !" she asked. \ 
 
 " Your mother has no income ?" 1 
 
 " None at all." t 
 "And but a small, remnant of money from your 
 
 father's estate ?" 
 
 "Pnly a few hundred dollars." \ 
 
 "Which will soon be exhausted. Now, is it not i 
 
 m your power to lift from her heart a mountain I 
 
 "^■vw-v^/ww \, 
 
r 
 
 160 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 weight by using a talent that you possess, and 
 thereby earning something toward the support of 
 the family ? I know of no one more capable of 
 giving music lessons than you are." 
 
 The face of Florence crimsoned over instantly. 
 
 "You cannot be in earnest !" said she, in a tone 
 of surprise — almost displeasure. 
 
 "Why not?" Ella asked, mildly, " Is there any 
 thing wrong in what I suggest ?" 
 
 " Me become a music teacher !" 
 
 " Deeply thankful should you be, my dear friend," 
 Ella replied with much seriousness, " that you have 
 the ability to render your mother most important aid 
 in the support of a large family. To be useful, Flor- 
 ence, is, in reality, the highest honor to which any one 
 can attain. Think of your mother's position. Think 
 of your younger brothers and sisters, who need 
 to be sustained and educated, and I am sure love 
 will prompt you to seek eagerly for some means 
 by which you can aid your mother and help to sup- 
 port and educate them. You need not seek far. 
 The means are in your hands." 
 
 For a time Florence could not bear to think of 
 what Ella proposed. But gradually her mind 
 gained strength and her preeeptions became clearer. 
 She not only saw, but felt, that her friend was right. 
 To seek employment as a music teacher, and to 
 enter upon the duties she had voluntarily taken upon 
 herself, was a great trial to Florence. But the 
 
BREAD IN THB WINTER NIQHT. 
 
 higb end she had in view sustained her. Instead 
 of feeling humbled in her new vocation after she 
 had entered upon it, her mind was elevated and 
 sustained by a calm, ever, abiding consciousness 
 that she was doing what was right. The noble, un- 
 selfish spirit of Florense, gave new life to her 
 mother's heart, and shot a ray of light across her 
 sky, where all had been darkness. 
 I All this I noticed with pleasure. I saw how, in 
 } reverses and affliction, the mind is opened more 
 \ interiorly affd filled with better afiections and truer 
 I sympathieSj and I understood more clearly than I 
 ; had ever done before, the meaning of the sentiment 
 I — " There grows much bread in the winter night." 
 I Time did its appropriate work for both Ella and 
 I Florence. A few years have passed since their 
 I winter days and nights. All that need be said of ', 
 J them is, that both are happier and more useful thafl i 
 < they were before, or could possibly have been with- 
 j out affliction. There grew much bread in their / 
 I winter night. | 
 
 ' i 
 
TO A CHILD WITH A DOVE. | 
 
 Dear child ! May dove-like innocence ? 
 
 Fold its light wings to rest — j 
 
 As now the bird thou lovest well, f 
 
 Upon thy gentle breast, l 
 
 Fold its light wings, and in thy heart j 
 
 Build for itself a nest. 5 
 
 Oh, heautiful is innocence ! ^ 
 
 ? 
 
 In all its forms we see 
 A grace that charms, a loveliness, 
 
 A heavenly purity, — 
 Come, gentle Eden wanderer ! 
 
 Oh, come and dwell with me ! 
 
 (16:j, 
 
HOW TO BE HAPPY. 
 
 I WAS reading on tte subject of heavenly joy, 
 vihen I came across this passage : " It was observed, 
 that when I wished to transfer all my delight into 
 another, a more interior and fuller delight than the 
 former continually flowed in in its place, and the 
 more I wished this, the more it flowed in ; and it 
 was perceived that this was from the Lord." 
 
 I was so struck with the passage, that I could 
 read no further, but closed the book and let my 
 mind dwell upon it. 
 
 While pondering the subject, it seemed to me a 
 fitting one for illustration. I therefore turned it 
 over and over in my mind, and endeavored to get 
 it into such a form as would be easily comprehended, 
 and at the same time be most interesting. 
 
 I took up the book, and read the passage over 
 again. Let me repeat it. " It was observed, that 
 when I wished to transfer all my delight into an- 
 other, a more interior and fuller delight than the 
 former continually flowed in, in its place, and the 
 more I wished this, the more it flowed in ; and it was 
 perceived that this was from the Lord." 
 
 I was still more afected by what I read, and saw 
 
 (163) 
 
164 GOLDEN GRAINS. i 
 
 I : I 
 
 how in it lay tlie wole secret of true happiness, as j 
 well as for men on earth as for angels in heaven; ; 
 and as -well for children as for men and women. 
 
 A certain writer has said that we understand 
 clearlj only wha,t we have lived. There is a great 
 deal of truth in the saying, — What we live through 
 we feel, and what we feel we understand. 
 
 But if we are only to comprehend this, or any 
 other precept, after we have lived through it, we may 
 have to wait for years. Perhaps nearly the whole 
 of our lives. But it is of the first importance to 
 comprehend it now,- and I am going to endeavor to 
 make it clear to the perceptions. 
 
 In order to this, by the aid of that wonderful 
 faculty called imagination, I will compose briefly 
 the history of a life in which this truth was per- 
 ceived by actual experience ; and, while the reader 
 follows me, likewise by the aid of imagination, he 
 will in imagination, as it were live through, or by, 
 this truth and thus, from liviny it, comprehend it. 
 
 There was a man who, for many years, devoted 
 himself to business and gathered together a great 
 deal of money. Like all of us, this rich man was 
 selfish — more selfish than some men, and not so 
 selfish as other men. But' there was enough of 
 selfishness in his heart to make him at times, very 
 unhappy, and to prevent his enjoying the many^ 
 earthly blessings that were around him as much as 
 he might otherwise have done. 
 
THE WAT TO BE HAPPY. 165 
 
 We have often been told, and it is a truth which 
 
 we should lay up in our hearts, that selfish feelings ; 
 
 produce unhappiness ; and if each one will examine j 
 
 himself on this subject, he will find that it is so. \ 
 
 When is our delight the greatest ? When we are f 
 
 seeking to enjoy some good thing alone? Or when | 
 
 we are sharing our pleasure with others ? If our own l 
 
 heart is full of joy, let us seek to impart that joy \ 
 
 to another, and then a deeper joy will flow in to take i 
 
 the place of that which has gone forth to bless an- ; 
 
 other. The heavenly delight of doing good, is con- ; 
 
 tinually pressing into human hea_rts from the spiritu- J 
 
 al world ; and if we let it flow forth to others, then ; 
 
 we become mediums of good to others, while our '' 
 
 own hearts are continually experieilcing new delight ? 
 
 from the higher good which takes the place of that I 
 
 which we have let pass to those around us. But if, } 
 
 in a spirit of selfishness, we hold fast to the good ' 
 
 which the Lord has given us, and thus refuse to be i, 
 
 medium of good to others, our own blessings, like t 
 pure water from long stagnation, lose their heavenly 
 quality and turn to disquietude or pain. 
 
 But the rich man to whom we have referred, did 
 not understand this. He was not aware of the fact, 
 that to truly enjoy the good things we have, we must 
 seek, by means of them, to benefit others — that we 
 
 must let our delight flow forth, in order that a I 
 
 fuller and more interior delight may flow in. He i 
 
 bad gained wealth by means of active exertions in ; 
 
 1 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 business, and he called' that -wealtli liis own ; and 
 believed that he had a right to use it exclusively for 
 his own enjoyment. 
 
 So the rich man built himself a large house, 
 around which beautiful grounds were laid out — there 
 was a park, and lawns and gardens. In the park 
 were beautiful deer, and swans floated gracefully on 
 the artifioial lake in the midst of his park. The 
 softest green grass covered the even lawns, and the 
 gardens were filled with the choicest flowers. 
 
 While this elegant house was building, and these 
 beautiful grounds and gardens were in preparation, 
 the rich man looked forward to the time of their 
 completion as a period when he would have obtained 
 about all the happiness in this world that his heart 
 desired. 
 
 But when all was ready, and he took possession I 
 of his luxurious mansion, he was no happier than l 
 before. Nay, he was not so happy ; for having \ 
 anticipated a great deal, he felt the pain of disap- j 
 pointment. | 
 
 He walked round and round his palace of a i 
 house, and noted its. architectural beauty — that ex- 
 ternal beauty which he had provided as a means of 
 happiness — but his heart did not bound lightly and 
 joyfully. He walked through his elegant park — 
 he gazed at the pleasant lawn — he lingered among 
 the flowers and shrubbery of his garden, where was 
 everything to delight the senses — and then, weary 
 
; HOTV TO BE HAPPY. 167 
 
 ! in mind and dissatisfied, he could not tell why, 
 
 '> would go back into his house, and sitting down 
 
 '/ among the costly and elegant furniture-he had pro- 
 
 ; vided as another means of happiness, but which 
 
 ; now he did not even notice, pass hours in a state 
 
 J of mind that was near akin to wretchedness. 
 
 ^ Can you noli understand the reason of this, from 
 
 ; what has been said ! Do not your minds now refer 
 
 ; to what we quoted at the beginning, with a better 
 
 ; apprehension of its meaning ? There was no wish 
 
 < on the part of the rich man to transfer all his de- 
 ; light to another, and, therefore, a more " interior 
 ) and fuller delight" could not flow into his mind 
 ; from the Lord. Selfishly he strove to keep all the 
 ; pleasure that came to him as a good gift from 
 ; above, and, as we remarked before, like water in a 
 ; close vessel, it stagnated and became impure. Thus 
 j good was changed into evil — happiness into misery. 
 I Weeks and months went by. It did not become- 
 I any better with the rich man, but rather worse. 
 I To this point in his life he had looked for years. 
 i Here he was to rest from the severe labor he had 
 : endured in order to lay up wealth and be happy. 
 ; But now, when he had done everything in his 
 I power to secure contentment, that smiling guest, to 
 
 < grace his dwelling, she turned away and left him, 
 ; faint and weary at heart, and wondering why she 
 J would not tarry in his princely abode. 
 
 :; By the end of a year, this rich man was so dis- 
 
168 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 contented that he hegan seriously to think of leav- 
 ing his elegant estate, where was everything to 
 delight the senses, and see if he could not, by 
 travelling in foreign countries, find something to 
 interest his mind, weary with itself and everything 
 around him. 
 
 One day while riding along, a short distance from 
 home, he saw a gray-headed man at work on the j 
 public road, breaking stone. It was in the summer i 
 season, and the sun shone down hot upon him. He 
 looked faint and weary. In passing, the image of 
 the poor old man fixed itself in his mind ; and, as 
 he rode along, pity awoke the desire to do him 
 good. So he turned hack and asked the old man a 
 good many questions. He learned that his wife 
 and two young grand-children were dependent on 
 him for support ; and that in consequence of a long 
 spell of sickness, he had been Jurnod away from a ; 
 small farm, in tilling which he had been able to 
 make a comfortable support. 
 
 " You find this very hard work," said the rich 
 man. 
 
 " Yes, very hard," replied the old laborer, wiping 
 the sweat from his wrinkled face ; " very hard for 
 one who is turned of sixty." 
 
 The rich man asked him his name and where he 
 lived, and then rode on. But he did not foro-et 
 him. Pity made him resolve to do what for him 
 was an easy task — give him a helping hand. And 
 
HOW TO ,BE HAPPY. 169 
 
 the moment this resolution was formed, he felt 
 happier than he had felt for a long time. Do you 
 know the reason ? I will tell you. There had come 
 a wish to transfer a part of the good he had received 
 to another, and the very wish relieved his mind of 
 the pressure of selfish affections, and opened to it an 
 influx of heavenly delight — which is the delight of 
 doing good — from the Lord. 
 
 Not in a mere kind resolution did the rich man 
 rest. On that very day he made inquiries about 
 the poor man, and learned that he was honest and 
 industrious, but had been reduced to his low estate 
 by sickness. So he went to the person who owned 
 the place from which he had been turned away, and 
 finding that it was still untenanted, paid the arrears 
 of rent and hired it for another season on his own 
 responsibility. Then he rode back to the place where 
 was at work, in the hot sunshine, the old man, and 
 said to him — 
 
 " My friend, you are too old and feeble for toil 
 like this. Would you not like to return again to 
 the little farm you have left ?" 
 
 There was a meaning in his tone of voice, as well 
 as in the question he asked, that made the poor old 
 man's heart tremble. He looked up earnestly, but 
 did not answer. 
 
 " I have paid the rent, and the farm is your's 
 again," said his benefactor. 
 
 The stone hammer that was in the old man's hand 
 15 
 
170 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 1 
 
 fell to the ground. But still he did not utter a 
 word in reply. His heart was so full that he could 
 not speak. ^ 
 
 " And here," continued the rich man, " is a little 
 money to help you begin the world again ; and 
 should you become sick, and get into trouble as I 
 before, send me word, and I will come and help I 
 jou." I 
 
 Such unexpected good news completely overcame [ 
 ihe poor old man. He tried to express his grati- i 
 tude, but words he had none; yet his quivering i 
 lips and tearful eye showed the nature of his feel- j 
 ings. Ere he could utter what was in his heart, f 
 the rich man turned his horse's head and rode 5 
 quickly away. | 
 
 It is hard to say which felt happiest, the rich man J 
 or the poor man — the giver or the receiver. | 
 
 All the wealth of the rich man, though used with I 
 the utmost freedom, for purposes of self-gratifica- \ 
 tion, had failed to bring happiness. He had ex- \ 
 pended thousands and thousands of dollars for this I 
 end alone, and yet' it was not gained. But with \ 
 less than a hundred dollars, used for the purpose of \ 
 doing good to another, from an unselfish motive, he 
 had gained the blessing so earnestly sought. The 
 dove of peace came to him unexpectedly, and for a 
 time folded its wings and rested in his bosom. 
 
 Need I explain the reason of this ? True heaven- 
 ly delight had flowed into the unselfish purpose of 
 
HOW Tp BE HAPPr, 
 
 his mind. In doing good to another, from a sincere 
 
 desire to serve him, he was acting from a heavenly I 
 
 principle; and this brought heaven near to him. I 
 
 This explanation did not come into the rich man's ; 
 
 mind; he pondered the subject, and rather wondered i 
 
 that he should feel so happy at the thought of doing ^ 
 
 an act of kindness to a poor old laborer, that cost I 
 
 him so small a sacrifice and little or no efibrt. ^ 
 
 Having once enjoyed the pleasures of benevo- I 
 
 lence, the rich man was attracted further along the < 
 
 way he had entered. He had plenty of time to look i 
 
 around him for objects of benevolence, and plenty I 
 
 of money with which to do good, if he cared t« <, 
 
 spend it in seeking to make others happy. t 
 
 One day he went to visit the old man — he always ^ 
 
 experienced a feeling of pleasure when he thought t 
 
 of him — to see how he was getting along. He found ', 
 
 him busy at work in his garden, while his two i 
 
 grand-children were playing among the flowers. \ 
 
 "These little fellows ought to be at school," < 
 
 said he. ' j 
 
 " True," replied their grandfather, "but there f 
 
 is no school in the neighborhood ; and if there was, ; 
 
 I have no money to pay the teacher." '< 
 
 « No school !" said the rich man, with surprise, 
 «« that's bad ! We ought to have a school here ; 
 
 unless children are educated, they cannot make j 
 
 useful men and women." I 
 
 " It's- very true, sir," replied the old man ; j 
 
 I 
 
172 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 " there are twenty or thirty children idling about 
 in this neighborhood, and growing up in ignorance. 
 But their fathers are poor and not able to pay a 
 teacher.'' 
 
 "This must not be," said the rich man, as he 
 ■walked homeward. " If the poor people about 
 here are not able to pay a teacher, I am." 
 
 So he opened a school for the poor children and 
 bore all the expense himself. At first his selfish 
 feelings held him back, but, after a struggle with 
 them, his good purposes overcame. 
 
 Still happier now, was the rich man. He had 
 again transferred a portion of his good things to 
 others, and in doing so, a more interior delight had 
 flowed into him from the Lord. 
 
 '< What is the pleasure of possession to this ?" 
 he said to himself, as he reflected upon the inward 
 delights he was experiencing. " It is pain in com- 
 parison. If the spending of a few hundred dollars 
 in doing good to others, bring me so great a 
 pleasure, how much enjoyment have I in reserve, 
 for God has blessed me with an abundance of 
 wealth." ^ 
 
 Next the rich man employed himself in assist- 
 ing by various means, the humble peasantry around 
 him. To some he gave good advice — others he 
 aided with money — to each and all he imparted of 
 his own surplus, as they had need. It was not 
 long before on every hand appeared some evidence 
 
HOW TO BE HAPPY. , 173 
 
 of his kind deeds. Wherever he -went, grateful looks 
 and -words came to his eyes and ears. He felt a 
 new pleasure in life. In regarding others, and in 
 seeking to transfer to them a portion of the good 
 he had received, there had been a continual influx 
 of delight into his spirit from the Lord. And now, 
 his elegant mansion began to look more attractive 
 in his eyes than it had ever looked before. There 
 was a beauty, now seen and enjoyed, in garden, 
 field and grove. In every object of taste which" 
 he had provided as a source of pleasure, real charms 
 were perceived. The rich man no longer thought 
 of going abroad for enjoyment. He had around 
 him all that his heart desired. He was happy, be. 
 caiise, in seeking to do good to others, he had 
 turned himself towards the Lord, from whom alope 
 _ can be received the ability to enjoy the good things 
 of life so freely bestowed upon all. 
 ? If, then, we would be happy, we must seek to 
 J make others happy. In no other way can this great 
 j blessing be obtained. If we try to keep our plea- 
 sures for ourselves alone, they will lose their virtue, 
 and turn to discontent ; but, if we let our delight 
 flow forth to others, the Lord will send into our 
 hearts a purer joy. And when this, too, flows forth, 
 a still deeper and purer delight will come in and 
 take its place. And thus will it ever be, until we 
 • rise into the ineffable joy of the angels. 
 15* 
 
A THOUGHT. 
 
 Beside a pleasant streamlet, 
 
 I sat me down one day, 
 And gazed upon the waters 
 
 That gently moved away. — 
 The bending flower, the beetling rock. 
 
 The tree of giant limb. 
 Through which the glorious light of heaven 
 
 Came solemnly and dim : 
 The blue o'erarching firmament 
 
 With its thousand cloudy isles ; 
 The sun whose beams come down to us 
 
 Like God our Father's, smiles — 
 These, all upon its bosom 
 
 Were pictured to the eye. 
 While the waters of that streamlet, 
 
 Went gliding gently by. 
 
 Oh, be my life like that pure stream, 
 
 That moves in light and shade, 
 With the beautiful of earth and sky 
 
 All pictured there, I said,— 
 And may no dark pollution, 
 
 No stain of sin be given, 
 But my spirit pass, like that pure stream, 
 
 All spotless on — to heaven. 
 (174) 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 «You look serious tMs evening, Henry," said 
 Mrs. Trueman, in a voice of tender interest, as she 
 came up and stood by her husband, laying her hand 
 upon him as she spoke. 
 
 "Do I?" he replied, half evasively, and with a 
 smile meant to be an indifferent one. But Edith 
 knew her husband's face too well to be deceived 
 in its expression. 
 
 " You certainly do," she said ; « and more than 
 that, I don't think you have been as cheerful as you 
 are usually, for several days." 
 
 Trueman's eyes fell to the floor, and he remained 
 silent. He continued so only for a short time ; then 
 he looked up steadily into his wife's face, and said, 
 
 « Edith, I do feel serious, and have felt so for 
 several days. Our family is large. Five children 
 to provide for and to educate, taxes me heavily, 
 usiness is dull : for the last three weeks I haven't 
 cleared the rent of my store. If there is not some 
 change for the better, I do not see what will be the 
 consequence." 
 
 «' It is a dull season," Edith remarked. 
 
 (115) 
 
176 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 " True." 
 
 "Are any of your neighbors doing mucli bet- 
 ter?" 
 
 " Very few, I believe." 
 
 " Of course business will revive again." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Then why feel dispirited, Henry ? " 
 
 "I can't help it, somehow or other. The fact 
 is, I don't seem to be getting along in the world. 
 It has been hand to mouth, as they say, ever since 
 we were married." 
 
 "And the hand has always had a full supply for 
 the mouth," was the smiling reply. 
 
 " I know it ; but suppose I were to be taken 
 down sick — suppose anything should happen to me 
 — the family could not possibly -hold together." 
 
 " But you are not sick : nothing has happened to 
 you yet. Why take trouble on interest? Have 
 you forgotten to put your trust in Him who feedeth 
 the ravens ?" 
 
 " I forget Him too often, Edith," Trueman re- \ 
 plied, looking into his wife's face steadily. " Thank- \ 
 ful am I that He has given me one who can recall ; 
 my thoughts back to their stay in trouble. He \ 
 will not forsake us — I know that He will not, even I 
 though we are called upon to pass through the fire ; j 
 but weak nature shrinks away ; it fears to encounter \ 
 J every purifying ordeal, even while conscioMS that '/ 
 \ it is for good." \ 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. 177 
 
 " Why anticipate, at this particular time, any 
 new ordeal ?" ^ 
 
 " A dark cloud gathering in the sky portends a 
 storm." 
 
 " Many, very many ; and from some have fallen 
 upon us fierce tempests." 
 
 " Many a cloud comes up from the horizon with 
 threatening aspect, in whose hosom no lightning lies 
 concealed, from which descends no rain. Have not 
 many such clouds swept harmlessly over our sky?" 
 
 "Purifying our atmosphere, and giving us, on 
 the morrow, a brighter sun." 
 
 " Yet sometimes marking their way with' desola- 
 tion. Our hearts bear some scars." 
 > Edith was silent. Life had not been to them all 
 sunshine — it had not passed on smoothly as a boat 
 upon a summer sea. Her own duties had been 
 arduous, and her trials severe. She had borne 
 eight children, and three of them slepf in the grave. 
 These afflictions were, to her, very grievous, for 
 she loved her children ; it was touching the very 
 apple of her eye to touch them. But in each dark 
 night of sorrow her glance had been steadily up- 
 ward. She had suffered, and she had likewise been 
 blessed — doubly blessed, it sometimes seemed to 
 her. Her voice was slightly tremulous, as after a 
 long pause, she said, 
 
 " They are deep scars, Henry ; but can either 
 of us now say, from the heart, as We look back 
 
178 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 L 
 
 upon life, that we would rather not have been 
 wounded as we were ?" 
 
 It was some moments before Trueman replied ; 
 his eyes were turned inward during the time. At 
 length, speaking with a sudden warmth of manner, 
 he said, 
 
 " No, Edith, no ! I do not regret a single care 
 nor sorrow that is past.. All have been for our good. 
 We are really happier in consequence of them." 
 
 " And will be, in consequence of all that may 
 come." 
 
 " Yes, I believe it." 
 
 " Then let us not be troubled in our minds. Let 
 us not distrust His goodness whose love is un- 
 bounded. He will bring all out right in the end." 
 
 Just at that moment the keys of a piano in the 
 adjoining room were touched lightly and skilfully. 
 Then a soft sweet voice sung Mrs. Hemans' beau- 
 tiful " Evening Song of the^Tyrolese Peasants." 
 
 " Come to the snnset tree ! 
 The day is past and gone ; 
 The TTOodman's axe lies free, 
 And the reaper's work is done. 
 
 The twilight star to heaven, 
 
 And the summer dew to flowers, 
 And rest to ns is given 
 
 By the cool soft evening hours. 
 
 Sweet is the hour of rest I 
 
 Pleasant.the wind's low sigh, 
 And the gleaming of the west. 
 
 And the turf whereon we lie. 
 
 .^./v'xrv-vvV 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. 179 
 
 When the burden and the heat 
 
 Of labour's task are o'er, 
 And kindly voices greet 
 
 The tired one at his door. 
 
 Come to the sunset tree ! 
 
 The day is past and gone ; 
 The woodman's axe lies free, 
 
 And the reaper's work is done. 
 
 Yes ; tuneful is the sound 
 That dwells in whispering boughi, 
 
 Welcome the freshness round, 
 And the gale that fans our brows. 
 
 But rest more sweet and still 
 
 Than ever nightfall gave. 
 Our longing hearts shall fill 
 
 In the world beyond the grave. 
 
 There shall no tempest blow, 
 
 No scorching noon-tide beat, 
 There shall be no more snow. 
 
 No weary wandering feet. 
 
 And we lift our trusting eyes, 
 
 From the hills our fathers trod, 
 To the quiet of the skies, 
 
 To the Sabbath of our God. 
 
 Come to the sunset tree ! 
 
 The day is past and gone; 
 Tlte woodman's axe lies free, 
 
 And the reaper's work is done." 
 
 It was the voice of their own child that warbled 
 low and distinctly the sweet air and soothing words 
 of tWs song — their Edith— now just at the tender 
 age of fourteen. She was more beautiful than her 
 mother had been, whose virtues were reproduced in 
 
i 
 
 i 
 
 her child, with added lustre. Towards her parents 
 she had ever exhibited the most devoted love. 
 Gentje, wise above her years, discreet, and firm, 
 she had truly been an elder sister to her younger 
 brothers and sisters, all of whom loved her, and 
 were ever willing to submit to her their little diffi- 
 culties, and abide her arbitration. To tell how 
 much her father loved her would be impossible. 
 She was his idol. No sound was to him so sweet 
 as the sound of her voice, singing some simple 
 ballad, or lingering on some soothing air. 
 
 Like oil poured upon troubled waters were words, 
 voice, and melody to his feelings. He listened 
 with rapt atteption to every word, every peculiar 
 grace in the air, every variation of affection in her 
 voice. When the last sound died upon his ear, he 
 looked up, and smiling in the face of his wife, said, 
 
 " Did you ever hear anything sweeter than that ? 
 It was the very soul of music that, breathed from 
 her lips." 
 
 " It is very sweet," returned the mother. "Edith 
 is a treasure that cannot be valued. If ever parents 
 were blessed in a child, we are blessed in her." 
 
 The door opened, and Edith entered. She was 
 tall, slender, and graceful, yet simple in her man- 
 ner. She walked up to where her mother stood, 
 with ,her hand still resting upon her husband, and, 
 crowding in between them and the window, half 
 reclined against her father, with an air of childlike 
 
A DOMESTIC SCENE. 
 
 181 
 
 affection. Trueman laid his hand fondly upon her 
 head, and gently smoothed her hair, at the same 
 time that he pressed his lips to her cheek. 
 
 No word was spoken for many minutes. "The 
 group remained as motionless during the time as 
 if under the eye of a painter ; but each heart was 
 beating high with pure and happy feelings. From 
 the father's mind all anxious care had fledi He 
 loved his family. Each member had a place in 
 his heart, and that place was kept sacred. 
 
 "You sung that evening song just at the right 
 moment, Edith." This was said by her father, 
 after she had stood by his side for several minutes. 
 " You knew I was sitting here ?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And sung for me my favourite air ?" 
 
 " Yes : it was for your ears, father." 
 
 " Thank you, dear. My mind was not as calm 
 as usual ; but that song, and your voice, have tran- 
 quillized my spirits. I am Saul, and you are to 
 me as David." 
 
 " No, no, father ; I cannot admit that comparison 
 to be true," Edith replied, taking hold of his hand 
 and gently pressing it. The twilight had deep- 
 ened into obscurity, and hidden each face from the 
 other's eyes. " You are not Saul, possessed of an 
 evil spirit. Oh no, no !" 
 
 "Distrust of Providence is an evil spirit, my 
 child." 
 
 16 
 
182 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 "But you cannot distrust a kind Providence. 
 My father knows Who it is that governs all things 
 in wisdom." This was said with' something of sur- 
 prise, that her father, who had so carefully taught 
 her to believe in the unfailing goodness and wisdom 
 of God, should himself feel distrust. 
 
 "It is not always, toy child," he replied, "that 
 we can keep, while subjected to this world's trials 
 and disappointments, our minds evenly balanced, 
 our confidence unwavering. But He who sees, 
 loves, and pities us, ever provides antidotes for 
 these states. We are not suffered to remain long 
 under the cloud. To me your voice alone, as you 
 sung some favourite song, has many a time dispel- 
 
 ed the gloom that has settled on my nund has 
 
 chased away the evil spirit." 
 
 " How glad I am that the voice given me is 
 pleasant to my father's ear. But hark ! little Char- 
 ley is crying ; I must run and see what ails him." 
 
 And away she sprang from the room. The sound 
 of little Charley's voice — he was the youngest 
 child — had suddenly arisen from a chamber above. 
 It was still almost in a moment after Edith's step 
 was heard at the door of his room. Her father's 
 troubled spirit was not the only one that grew 
 Tranquil under the sound of her voice. There was 
 not one in the house who did not feel its magical 
 
 influence 
 
 " If we had no other blessing, we would still be 
 
richly dowered," the father remarked, a3 soon as 
 the voice of little Charley was hushed. 
 
 "Yes; but we have, besid^iS her, many good 
 things. If ever disposed to repine or murmur, we 
 are much to blame." 
 
 " To that I freely assent. But sometimes, Edith, 
 weak, ignorant, shortsighted human nature cannot 
 see beyond a very narrow circle. We look ahead, 
 and our pathway bends suddenly out of sight. 
 There is a high mountain before us, with black 
 clouds mantling its summit. Is it any wonder that 
 sometimes the heart will fail ?" 
 
 '« Perhaps not," was replied. " But let us not 
 fix our minds too steadily upon the mountain bar- 
 rier and its mysterious threatening clouds, but think 
 of the many quiet paths that have opened to us, 
 and wound pleasantly along by cooling stream and 
 smiling meadow, when we had trembled at the sight 
 of a rugged acclivity, and shrunk from attempting 
 the ascent. ' A» thy day is, so shall thy strength 
 be.' While that blessed promise remains, what 
 have we to fear? Nothing, certainly, that this 
 world can threaten. If we have to climb a steep 
 ascent, strength to do so will be given ; if to pass 
 through a dark, gloomy valley, a light from some 
 star will fall upon our path, and show us clearly 
 the way in which it is safe to tread." 
 
THE DEPARTED ONE. 
 
 WRITTEN rOR FRIENDS IN AFFLICTION. 
 
 One bird had flown ; one flower was dead ; 
 
 One leaf had left our tree ; 
 One Heaven-sent blessing had gone back 
 
 To vast Eternity: 
 One babe, kind Father of us all ! 
 
 Had passed by death, to Thee. 
 
 Ah ! none may know how deep our grief ; 
 
 E'en yet some lines remain. 
 Tear-worn upon our hearts, the ead 
 
 Mementos of our pain. 
 It seem'd that joy had fled away, 
 
 And would not come again. 
 
 But other birds came to our nest, 
 
 And other blossoms hung 
 Around us, while their fragrant breath 
 
 On all the air was flung — 
 Though one was lost, yet, to our hearts 
 
 How many children clung ! 
 
 (184) 
 
We bless'd the Giver ! Yet our hearts 
 Were anxious while we bless'd : 
 
 One loss of danger warn'd, and made 
 Us fearful for the rest; — 
 
 Thus, in our very thankfulness, 
 Our bosoms were oppress' d. 
 
 And there was one-^our fair-hair'd boy — 
 With blue eyes, mild as even, 
 
 That turn'd, as if his home were there, 
 So often towards heaven — 
 
 Oh ! how we feared lest God would take 
 This treasure he had given. 
 
 Not idle phantoms were our fears, — 
 
 A messenger was sent, 
 To carry back the angel-boy 
 
 That Heaven to us had lent : 
 Ah ! when the summons came, how grief 
 
 Our very heart strings rent ! 
 
 Could tears or prayers have held him here, 
 
 He had not pass'd. away : 
 Could love have bound him to the earth, 
 
 He had been ours to-day : . 
 But tears, and prayers, and love were vain 
 
 The messenger to stay. 
 16* 
 
186 
 
 'Tis past ! The anguish of that hour, 
 
 Oh ! let it not remain, 
 So heavy on the weeping heart, 
 
 And on the throbbing brain ! 
 'Tis past ! And now we would not call 
 
 Our lost one back again. 
 
 Though wearily the day goes by. 
 
 And tearful falls the night. 
 And when the morning comes again 
 
 We do not bless the light ; 
 Though change, nor thought, nor earnest prayer, 
 
 Brings back our lost delight ; 
 
 Still, on this darkness of our grief 
 
 There shines a distant star ; 
 And Heaven's own lustre makes it bright. 
 
 E'en though it shines afar — 
 Our gentle, precious, loving one, 
 
 Is where the angels are. 
 
 Pain never more will shade his brow, 
 'i Nor tears his sweet blue eyes ; 
 
 i Nor grief the pure and loving lips, 
 I Whose musical replies, 
 
 j Are falling soft on memory's ear, 
 I Like dear words from the skies. 
 
THE -DEPARTED ONE. Ig 7 
 
 Our Father ! who, in tender love, 
 
 Hath taken from our care, 
 One whom our weak hearts loved too much, 
 
 Kegard our tearful prayer — I 
 
 This loss — such wond'rous gain to him— ', 
 
 0, give us strength to bear I j 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 Whatever our gifts may be, the love of imparting them for the good * 
 of others brings Heaven into the soul. — Mrs. Child. ', 
 
 An old man, with a peaceful countenance, sat in a 
 company of twelre persons. They were conversing, 
 but he was silent. The theme upon which they 
 were discoursing was Heaven, and each one who | 
 spoke did so with animation. 
 
 " Heaven is a place of rest," said one — " rest 
 and peace. Oh ! what sweet words ! rest and peace. 
 Here, all is labor and disquietude. There we 
 shall have rest and peace." 
 
 " And freedom from pain," said another, whose 
 pale cheeks and sunken eyes told many a tale of 
 bodily suffering. " No more pain ; no more sick- 
 ness ! The aching head will be at rest — the weary 
 limbs find everlasting repose." 
 
 " Sorrow and sighing shall forever flee away," 
 thus spoke a third one of the company. " No more 
 grief, no more anguish of spirit. Happy, happy 
 change ! " 
 
 ; There," added a fourth, " the wounded spirit, 
 that none can bear, is healed. The reed long 
 bruised and bent by the tempests of life, finds a 
 (188) 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 189 
 
 smiling sky, and a warm, refreshing and healing ^ 
 
 sunshine. Oh ! how my soul pants to escape from | 
 
 this world, and like a bird fleeing to the mountains, | 
 
 get home again from its dreary exile." I 
 
 Thus, one after another spoke, and each one re ; 
 
 garded Heaven ag a place of happiness into which > 
 
 he was to come after death ; but the old man still > 
 
 sat silent, and his eyes were bent thoughtfully upon ; 
 
 the floor. Presently one said, ', 
 
 " Our aged friend says nothing. Has he no hope 
 
 of Heaven ? Does he not rejoice with us in the t 
 
 happy prospect of getting there, when the silver f 
 
 cord shall be loosened, and the golden bowl broken ; 
 
 at the fountain ? " ^ 
 
 The old man, thus addressed, looked around upon | 
 
 his companions. His face remained serene, and his ^ 
 
 eyes had a heavenly expression. I 
 
 " Have you not a blessed hope of Heaven ? ; 
 
 Does not your heart grow warm with sweet antici- I 
 
 pations ?" continued the last speaker. I 
 
 "I never think much about going to Heaven," j 
 the old man said, in a mild, quiet tone. 
 
 « Never think of going to Heaven ! " exclaimed i 
 
 one of the most ardent of the ^company, his voice ( 
 
 warming with indignation. " Are you a Hea- j 
 
 then ? " I 
 
 " I am one who is patiently striving to fill his 
 allotted place in life," replied the old man, as calm- 
 ly as before. 
 
"And have you no hopes beyond the grave?" 
 asked the last speaker. 
 
 " If I live right here, all will be right there." 
 The old man pointed upward. " I have no anxie- 
 ties about the future — no impatience — no ardent 
 longings ' to pass away and be at rest' as some of 
 you have said. I already enjoy as much of heaven 
 as I am prepared to enjoy, and this is all that 
 I can expect throughout eternity. You all, my 
 friends, seem to think that men come into heaven 
 when they die. You look ahead to death with 
 pleasure, because then you think you will enter the 
 happy state you anticipate — or rather the place; 
 for it is clear you regard heaven as a place full of 
 delights, into which you are to come after this 
 mortal shall have put on immortality. But in this 
 you are mistaken. If you do not enter heaven 
 before you die, you will never do so afterward. If 
 heaven be not formed within you, you will never 
 find it out of you — you will never come into it." 
 
 These remarks offended some of the company, 
 and they spoke harshly to the old man, who made 
 no reply, but arose and retired, with a sorrowful 
 expression on his face. He went forth and resumed 
 his daily occupations, and pursued them diligently. 
 Those who had been assembled with him, also went 
 forth — one to his farm, another to his merchandize, 
 each one forgetting all that he had thought about 
 heaven and its felicities, and only anxious to serve 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 natural life and get gain. Heaven was above the 
 world to them ; and, therefore, while in the world, 
 they could o^ly act upon the principles that 
 goYerned in the world; and prepare for heaven 
 by pious acts on the Sabbath. There was no 
 other way for them to do, they believed. To 
 attempt to bring religion down into life would 
 only, in their estimution, be to desecrate it, and 
 expose it to ridicule and contempt. 
 
 The old man, to whom allusion has been made, 
 kept a store for the sale of various useful articles. 
 Those of the. pious company who needed these 
 articles as commodities of trade, or for their own 
 use, bought of him, because they believed he would 
 sell them only what was of good quality. One of 
 the most ardent of these came into the old man's 
 store one day, holding a small package in his hand ; 
 his eye was restless, his lip compressed, and he 
 seemed struggling to keep down a feeling of ex- 
 citement. 
 
 "Look at that," said he, speaking with some 
 sternness, as he threw the package on the old 
 man's counter. 
 
 The package was taken up, opened, and ex- 
 amined. 
 
 "Well?" said the old man, after he had made 
 the examination, looking up with a steady eye and 
 a calm expression of countenance. 
 
 " Well ? Don't you see what is the matter ?" 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 "I see that this article is a damaged one," was 
 replied. 
 
 "And yet you sold it to me for good." The 
 tone in which this was said implied a belief that 
 there^had been an intention of wrong. 
 
 A flush warmed the pale cheek of the old man 
 at this remark. He examined the sample before 
 him more carefully, and then opened a barrel of 
 I the same commodity and compared its contents 
 i with the sample. They agreed. The sample from 
 } which he had bought and by which he had sold 
 5 was next examined — this was in ^ood condition 
 and of the best quality. "Are you satisfied?" 
 asked the visiter, with an air of triumph. 
 
 " Of what?" the old man asked. 
 
 " That you sold me a bad article for a good one." 
 
 "Intentionally?" 
 
 "You are the best judge. That lies with God 
 and your own conscience." 
 
 " Be kind enough to return every barrel you 
 purchased of me and get your money." 
 
 There was a rebuke in the way this was said, 
 which was keenly felt. An effort was made to 
 soften the aspersion tacitly cast upon the old 
 man's integrity, but it was re.^eived without notice. 
 
 In due time the damaged article was brought back, 
 and the money which had been paid for it returned. 
 
 "You will not lose, I hope?" said the merchant, 
 with affected sympathy. 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 193 i 
 
 "I shall lose what I paid for the article." | 
 
 "Why not return it, as I have done ?" ! 
 
 " The man from whom I purchased is neither | 
 honest nor responsible, as I have recently learned. 
 He left the city last week in no very creditable 
 manner, and no one expects to see him back again." 
 
 " That is hard ; but I really don't think you 
 ought to lose." 
 
 " The article is not merchantable. Loss is, 
 therefore, inevitable." 
 
 "You can, of course, sell at some price." . 
 
 "Would it be right to sell, at any price, an 
 article known to be useless — nay, worse than use- 
 less, positively injurious to any who might use it ?" 
 
 " If one should see proper to buy from you the 
 whole lot, knowing that it was injured, you would 
 certainly sell. For instance, if I were to offer you 
 two cents a pound for what I bought from you for 
 six cents, would you not take me at my ofifer ?" 
 • " Will you buy at that price ?" 
 
 " Yes. I will give you two cents." 
 
 " What would you do with it !" 
 
 " Sell it again. What did you suppose I would 
 do with it ? Throw it in the street ?" 
 
 " To whom woi(ld you sell ?" 
 
 "I'd find a purchaser." 
 
 The inquiries of the old man created a suspicion 
 that he wished to know who was to be the second 
 purchaser, in order that he might go to him and 
 17 
 
^ 194 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 i ; i 
 
 I get a better price than was offered. This waa the i 
 I cause of the brief answers given to his questions. ; 
 I He clearly comprehended what was passing in the ; 
 J other's mind, but took no notice of it. ; 
 
 I "For what purpose would the individual who ; 
 j purchased from you buy V he pursued. { 
 
 I " To sell again." t 
 
 t " At a further advance, of course ?" | 
 
 ; " Certainly." I 
 
 i " And to some one, in all probability, who would J 
 I be deceived into purchasing a worthless article." 'i 
 > ''As likely as not; but with that I have no con- ; 
 / cern. I sell it for what it is, and ask only what it ; 
 I is worth." ( 
 
 \ " Is it worth anything ?" \ 
 
 i « Why — yes — I can't say — no." The first words ; 
 i were uttered with hesitation ; the last one with a ; 
 ; decided emphasis. "But then it has a market ; 
 I value, as every article has." I 
 
 i " I cannot sell it to you, my friend," said the old i 
 I man, firmly. | 
 
 'j " Why not ? I am sure you can't do better." 
 i "I am not willing to become a'party in wrong- ' 
 \ ing my neighbors. That is the reason. The 
 j article has no real value, and it would be wrong 
 'i for me to take even a farthing per pound for it. j 
 I You might sell it at an advance, and the purchaser 
 I from you at a still further, advance, but some one 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 195 
 
 would be cheated in the end, for the article never 
 could be used." 
 
 " But the loss would be divided. It isn't right 
 that one man should bear all. In the end it would 
 be distributed amongst a good many, and the loss 
 fall lightly upon each." 
 
 The good old man shook his head. « My friend," 
 said he, laying his hand gently upon the other's 
 arm — " Not very long since I heard you indulging 
 the most ardent anticipations of heaven. You ex- 
 pected to get there one of these days. Is it by acts \ 
 of over-reaching your neighbor that you expect to i 
 merit Heaven ? Will becoming a party to wrong 
 make you more fitted for the company of angels 
 who seek the good of others, and love others more 
 than themselves ? I fear you are deceiving your- 
 self. All who come into Heaven love God ; and I 
 would ask, with one of the Apostles. ' If a man love 
 not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love 
 God whom he hath not seen?' You have much 
 yet to learn, my friend. Of that true religion, by 
 by which Heaven is formed in man, you have not 
 yet learned the simplest rudiments." 
 
 There was, a calm earnestness in the manner of 
 the old man, and an impressiveness in the tone of 
 his voice, that completely subdued his auditor, who 
 felt rebuked and humbled, and went away more 
 serious than he had come. But though serious, his 
 
r- 
 
 196 GOLDEN GRAINS. | 
 
 mind was not free from anger ; his self-love had been ! 
 too deeply wounded. j 
 
 After he had gone away, the property about which j 
 so much has been said, was taken and destroyed as | 
 privately as it could be done. The fact, however, > 
 could not be concealed. A friend of a different 
 order from the one last introduced, inquired of the 
 old man why he had done this. His answer was as 
 follows. 
 
 " No man should live for h:mself alone. Each 
 one should regard the common good, and act with a 
 view to, the same. If all were to do so, you can 
 easily see that we should have Heaven upon earth, 
 from whence, alas ! it has been almost entirely 
 banished. Our various employments are means 
 whereby we can serve others — our individual good } 
 being a natural consequence. If the merchant sent 
 out his ships to distant ports to obtain the useful 
 commodities of other countries, in order to benefit 
 his fellow citizens, do you not see that he would be 
 far happier when his ships came in, laden with rich 
 produce, than if he had sought only gain for him- 
 self ? And do you not also see that he would 
 obtain for himself equal, if not greater advantages ? 
 If the builder had in view the comfort and con- 
 venience of his neighbors while constructing a house, 
 instead of regarding only the money he was to r& 
 ceive for his work, he would not only perform that 
 work more faithfully, and add to the common stock 
 
r" 
 
 GOING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 197 
 
 of happiness, but would lay up for himself a source 
 of perennial satisfaction. He would not, after re- 
 ceiving the reward of his labor in a just return of 
 this world's goods, lose all interest in the result of 
 that labor ; but would, instead, have a deep feeling 
 of interior pleasure whenever he looked at a human 
 habitation erected by his hands, arising from a con- 
 sciousness that his skill had enabled him to add to 
 the common good. The tillers of the soil, the ma- 
 nufacturers of its products into useful articles, the 
 artizans of every class, the literary and professional 
 men, all would, if moved by a regard for the whole 
 social body, not only act more eflSciently in their 
 callings, but would derive therefrom a delight now 
 unimagined except by a very few. Believing thus, 
 I could not be so blind as not to see that the only 
 right course for me to pursue, was to destroy a worth- 
 less and injurious commodity, rather than sell it at 
 any price to one who would, for gain, either himself 
 defraud his neighbor,, or aid another in doing it. 
 The article was not only useless, it waa worse than 
 useless. How then could I, with a clear conscience 
 sell it ? No — no, my friend. I am not afraid of 
 
 poverty ; I am not afraid of any worldly ill but I 
 
 am afraid of doing wrong to my neighbors, or of 
 putting it in the power of any one else to do wrong. 
 As I have said before, if every man were to look to 
 
 the good of the whole, instead of turning all his 
 
 17*. 
 
198 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 — ~- I 
 
 thoughts in upon himself, his own interests would be i 
 better served, and he would be far happier. \ 
 
 " This is a beautiful theory," remarked the friend, \ 
 « but it never can be realized in actual life. Men \ 
 are too selfish. They would find no pleasure in con- \ 
 templating the enjoyments of others, but would ; 
 rather be envious of others' good. The merchant, >, 
 so little does he care for the common welfare, that ; 
 unless he receive the gain of his adventures, he will ! 
 let his goods perish in the warehouse ; — to distribute ; 
 them, even to the suffering, would not make him \ 
 happier. And so with the product of labor in all 
 the various grades of society. Men turn their eyes 
 inward upon the little world of self, instead of 
 outward upon the great social world. Few, if any, 
 understand that they are parts of a whole, and that 
 any disease in any other part of that whole, must \ 
 affect the whole, and consequently themselves. Were ; 
 this thoroughly understood, even selfishness would \ 
 \ lead men to act less selfishly." 
 '<, "We should indeed have Heaven upon Earth if 
 \ your pure theories could be brought into actual life." 
 'i "Heaven will be found no where else by man," 
 I was replied to this, 
 
 '', "What!" said the friend in surprise. "Do you 
 ; mean to say that there is no Heaven for the good 
 \ who bravely battle with evil in this life ? Is all the 
 \ reward of the righteous to be in this world?" 
 I One of the pious company, at first introduced, 
 
aOING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 came up at this moment, and hearing the last re- 
 mark, comprehended to some extent, its meaning. 
 He was one who hoped from pious acts of prayer, 
 fastings, a^id attendance upon all the ordinances of 
 the church, to get to Heaven at last. In the ordi- 
 nary pursuits of life he was eager for gain, and men 
 of the world dealt warily with him ; they had: rea- 
 son, for he separated his religious from his business 
 life: 
 
 " A most impious doctrine !" he exclaimed, with 
 indignant warmth. « Heaven upon Earth ! A man 
 had better give all his passions therein, and freely 
 enjoy the world, if there is to be no hereafter. 
 Pain, and sorrow, and self-denial, make a poor kind i 
 of Heaven ; and these are all the Christian meets '} 
 here. Far better to live while we do live, say I, i 
 if our Heaven is to be here." i 
 
 i « What makes Heaven, my friend ?" calmly asked 
 j the old man. j 
 
 j «' Happiness. Freedom from care, and pain and l 
 
 I sorrow, and all the ills of this wretched life to live ^ 
 
 I in the presence of God and sing His praises for- | 
 ^ ever — to make one of the blessed company who, \ 
 I with the four-and-twenty elders, forever bow before \ 
 > the throne of God and the Lamb— to have rest, and | 
 i peace, and unspeakable felicity forever." | 
 
 " How do you expect to get into Heaven ? \ 
 I How do you expect to unlock the golden gates of I 
 I the New Jerusalem ? " pursued the old man. 'i 
 
 i 
 
200 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 change in all their feelings and perceptions." 
 "And is not that true?" asked one who had 
 
 previously spoken. 
 
 " I do not believe that it is, in the commonly 
 
 understood sense." 
 
 " By faith," was the prompt reply. " Faith un- 
 locks these gates." 
 
 " You asked me if I meant to say that there 
 was no Heaven for the good who bravely battle 
 with evil in this life ? If all the reward of the right- 
 eous was to be in this world ? God forbid ! For 
 then would I be, of all men, most miserable. What 
 I said was, that Heaven would be found no where 
 else but in this world, by man. Heaven must be 
 entered into here, or it never can be entered into 
 when men die." 
 
 "You speak in a strange language," said the 
 individual who had joined them. "No one can un- 
 derstand what you mean. Certainly I do not." 
 
 " I should not think you did," quietly replied 
 
 the old man. " But I will explain my meaning 
 
 more fully — perhaps you will be able to comprehend 
 
 something of what I say. Men talk a great deal 
 
 \ about Heaven, but few understand what it means. 
 
 ; All admit that in this life they must prepare for 
 
 ; Heaven ; but nearly all seem to think that this pre- 
 
 \ paration consists in the doing of something as a means \ 
 
 by which they will be entitled to enter Heaven after ? 
 
 J death, when there will be a sudden and wonderful 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 
 
 " And pray -what do you believe ? " 
 " I believe that all heavenly societies are engaged 
 in doing good, and that heavenly delight is the 
 delight which springs from a gratified love- of bene- 
 fiting others. And I also believe, that the begin- 
 ning of Heaven with every one is on this Earth, 
 and takes place when he first m^kes the efi'ort to 
 renounce self and seek, from a true desire to bene- 
 fit them, the good of others. If this coming into 
 Heaven, as I call it, does not take place here, it \ 
 can never take place, for 'As the tree 'falls so it I 
 lies.' Whatever is a man's' internal quality when t 
 he dies, that ittnust remain forever. If he have ; 
 been a lover of self, and sought only his own good, ' 
 he will remain a lover of self in the next life. But, I 
 if he have put away self-love from his heart and i 
 shunned the evils to which it would prompt him, as I 
 sins, then he comes into Heaven while still upon ; 
 Earth ; and when he lays aside his mortal body, his ? 
 heavenly life is continued. Thus you can see, that ? 
 if a man do not find Heaven while in this world, I 
 he will not find it in the next. He must come into 
 heavenly affections here, or he will never feel their 
 warmth hereafter. Hundreds and thousands live 
 on from day to day, thinking only of themselves, 
 and caring only for themselves, who insanely cherish 
 the hope that they will get into Heaven at last. 
 Some of these are church-going people, and par- 
 takers of its ordinances; while others expect, some 
 
time before they die, to become pious, and thus, by 
 a " saving faith," secure an entrance into Heaven. 
 Their chances of finding Heaven, at last, are about 
 equal. And if they should, be permitted to come 
 into a heavenly society, they would soon seek to es- 
 cape from it. Where all sought the good of others, 
 how could one who cared simply for his own good, 
 remain and be happy ? It could not be. If you 
 wish to enter Heaven, my friend, you must bring 
 heavenly life into your daily occupations." 
 
 " How can that be ? Religion is too tender a plant 
 for the world." 
 
 " Your error is a common one," replied the old 
 man,- " and arises from the fact that you do not 
 know what religion is. Mere piety is not religion. 
 There is a life of charity as well as a life of piety, 
 and the latter without the former is like sounding 
 brass and a tinkling cymbal." 
 
 "All know that," was replied. 
 
 " All profess to know it, but all do not know 
 what is meant by charity." 
 
 " It is love. That every Christian man admits." 
 
 " It is love for the neighbor in activity ; not a 
 mere idle emotion of the heart. Now, how can a 
 man best promote the good of his neighbor ? Love, 
 you know, always seeks the good of its object ; but in 
 no way, it is clear, so well as by faithfully and dilli- 
 gently performing the duties of his office, no matter 
 what it may be. If a judge, let him administer 
 
GOING TO HEAVEN. 203 
 
 justice with equity and from a conscientious prin- 
 ciple ; if a physcian, a lawyer, a sailor, a merchant, 
 or an artisan, let him with all diligence" do the work 
 that his hands find to do, not merely for gain, but 
 because it is his duty to serve the public good in 
 that calling by which he can most eflSciently do it. 
 If he act from this high motive, from this religious 
 principle, all that he does will be well and faithfully 
 done. No wrong' to his neighbor can result from 
 his act. True charity is not that feeling which 
 prompts merely to the bestowment of worldly goods 
 for the benefit of others — in fact, true charity has 
 very little to do with alms-giving and public bene- 
 actions. It is not a mere " love for the brethren'' 
 only, as many religious denominations think, but it 
 is a love that embraces all mankind, and regards 
 good as its brother wherever and in whomsoever it , 
 is seen." 
 
 " That everyone admits.' 
 
 "Admission and practice, my friend, are too 
 rarely found walking in the same path. , But I am 
 not at all sure that everyone admits that charity 
 consists in a man's performing his daily uses in 
 life with justice and judgment. By most minds 
 charity as well as religion are viewed as separate 
 from the ordinary business of man ; while the truth 
 is, there can be neither religion nor charity apart 
 from a man's business life. If he be not charitable 
 and religious here, he has neither charity nor reli- 
 
r 204 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 gion ; if he love not liis neighbor — if he do not deal 
 justly and conscientiously with his neighbor whom 
 he hath seen, how can he love God, or act justly 
 and conscientiously toward Grod, whom he hath not 
 seen ? How blind and foolish is more than half of 
 
 mankind on this subject ! You call R a very 
 
 pious man, do you not ?" 
 
 " I believe him to be so. We are members of 
 the same church, and I see a good deal of him. 
 He is superintendent of our Sabbath-school, and is 
 active in all the various secular uses of the church." 
 
 " Do you know anything of his business life ?" 
 
 "No." 
 
 "A man's reputation among business men gives 
 the true impression of his character ; for in busi- 
 ness, the eagerness with which men seek their ends, 
 causes them to forgot their disguises. Go and ask 
 
 any man who knows R in business, and he 
 
 will tell you that he is a sharper. That if you 
 have any dealings with him you must keep your 
 eyes open. I could point you to dozens of men 
 who are as pious as he is on the Sabbath, who, in 
 their ordinary life, are no better than swindlers. 
 The Christian religion is disgraced by thousands 
 of such, who are far worse than those who never 
 saw the inside of a church." 
 
 " I am afraid that you, in the warmth of your 
 indignation against false professors, are led into 
 the extreme of setting aside all religion ; or of 
 
"^. 
 
 GOING TO HEAVEN. 205 
 
 making it to consist alone in mere honesty and 
 integrity of character — your moral man is every 
 thing ; it is morality that opens heaven. Now, 
 mere morality, mere good works, are worth nothing, 
 and cannot bring a man into heaven." 
 
 " There is a life of piety and a life of charity, 
 my friend, as I have before said," replied the old 
 man, " and they cannot be separated. The life of 
 charity regards man, and the life of piety, God. 
 A man's prayers and fastings, and pious duties on 
 the Sabbath, are nothing, if love to the neighbor, 
 showing itself in a faithful performance of all life's 
 varied uses that come within his sphere of action, 
 is not operative through the week ; vain hopes 
 are all those which are built upon so crumbling a 
 foundation as the mere life of piety. Morality as 
 you call it, built upon man's pride, is of little use ; 
 but morality, which is based upon a sincere desire 
 to do good, is worth a thousand prayers from the 
 lips of a man who inwardly hates his neighbor." 
 
 " Then I understand you to mean that religious, 
 or pious duties, are useless" — was remarked with a 
 good deal of bitterness. 
 
 "I said," was mildly returned, "that the life of 
 piety and the life of charity could not be separated. 
 If a man truly loves his neighbor and seeks his 
 good, he will come into heavenly states of mind, 
 and will have his heart elevated, and from a con- 
 18 
 
 
206 GOLDEN SKAINS. 
 
 sciousness that every good and perfect gift cornea 
 from God, worsliip him in a thankful spirit. His 
 life of piety will make one with his life of charity. 
 The Sabbath to him will be a day of true, not 
 forced, spiritual life. He will rest from all natural 
 labors, and gain strength, from rest, to re-commence 
 those labors in a true spirit." 
 
 Much more was said that need not be repeated 
 here. The closing remarks of the old man were 
 full of truth. It will do any one good to remem- 
 ber them. 
 
 " Our life is two-fold. We have a natural life 
 and a spiritual life," said he. " Our natural life 
 delights in external things, and our spiritual life in 
 what is eternal. The first regards the things of 
 time and sense, the latter involves states and 
 qualities of the soul. Heaven is a state of mutual 
 love from a desire to benefit others, and whenever 
 man's spiritual life corresponds with the life of 
 heaven, so far as his spirit is concerned he is in 
 heaven, notwithstanding his body still remains 
 upon earth. His hea.enly life begins here, and 
 is perfected after death. If, therefore, a man does 
 not enter heaven here, he cannot enter it when he 
 dies. His state of probation is closed, and he 
 goes to the place for which he is prepared. The 
 means whereby man enters heaven here, are very 
 simple. He need only shun as sin everything that 
 
GOlNa TO HEAVEN. 
 
 207 
 
 would in any way injure his neighbor, either natu- 
 rally or spiritually, and look above for the power 
 to do this. This will effect an entrance through 
 the straight gate. After that, the way will be 
 plain before him, and he will walk in it with a 
 daily increasing delight," 
 
r 
 
 FRANK. ; 
 
 Dear one ! How many thrilling cliords awaken, j 
 
 As on the ear sweet falls thy precious name: j 
 
 Three moons have passed since thou wert from us ; 
 
 taken — i 
 
 Three moons, since Death unto our duelling J 
 
 came; — J 
 
 And still it seems as if, but briefly-parted, ] 
 
 Thou would'st to us a moment hence return — ( 
 
 We listen for thy voice, till, weary-hearted, ? 
 
 Vain expectation doth to sorrow turn. I 
 
 I 
 
 Fondly forgetful of our sad bereaving, J 
 
 Again we think our loved one will appear ; \ 
 
 Ah ' How this addeth to our silent grieving — ; 
 
 The hours pass on, and still thou art not here. > 
 All the old places, where we saw thee moving ^ 
 
 From early morn until the day was o'er — 
 Thy step so light, thy look and tone so loving — 
 
 Are round us, but we see thy form no more. 
 
 The little chair, in which, from play reposing, 
 
 A few brief moments thy light form reclined ; 
 The garments, thy pure body oft enclosing, 
 
 The hat that bound thy dark curls from the 
 wind; 
 f208) 
 
209 
 
 The shoes, half worn, and still the shape retaining 
 
 Impressed upon them by thy tiny feet ; 
 All these, and more, that once were thine, remain- ; 
 
 To speaK of thee, our daily vision meet. j 
 
 ' There's not a single room within our dwelling I 
 
 \ That is not full of memories of thee ; '' 
 
 \ No spot that some sweet story is not telling, \ 
 
 \ No object silent wheresoe'er we be. I 
 
 \ The echo of thy voice floats round us ever, ; 
 
 / And oft we turn to see if thou art near ; < 
 
 ', Hqw' sad the thought comes, thou hast pass'd \ 
 
 < forever — ; 
 
 \ In the old places will no more appear. \ 
 
 \ The first dear lamb from out our flock yet taken, \ 
 
 j By the Good Shepherd, absent one, thou art — \ 
 
 ; Ere this, no touch bade sorrow's chords awaken \ 
 
 ; Low, mournful music in the weeping heart. ; 
 
 / Can we not spare one for the fold in Heaven, \ 
 
 \ Without these tears that will not cease to flow? \ 
 
 i Ah, loved too well ! — such bonds may not be riven, 
 
 i Painless and tearless — and we answer, no ! 
 
 <■ 
 
 I Yet, with this grief, what precious thoughts are 
 
 I blending 
 
 ! In our dark web of pain, a golden thread ; 
 
 ^ Faith's eye is clear, an J seesbrightfrms attending 
 
 S Thy steps, 'mid green and flowery places led;— 
 
 \ 18* 
 
210 GOLDEN GEAINS. 
 
 Blight forms of angels, pure and gentle hearted ; 
 
 The best of all the shining ones above, 
 Who, little children from the earth departed 
 
 Receive and love with a celestial love. 
 
 Now thou art safely past all doubt and danger — 
 For this, how thankful 'mid our tears are we !~- 
 
 To all earth's ills for evermore a stranger ; 
 From earthly stain and evil passion free. 
 
 Even while to thee our souls are tearful clinging, 
 And sadly grieving that away thou art. 
 
 Pure wells of consolation, upward springing. 
 
 Pour their refreshing waters on the heart. ; 
 
 i 
 
AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 
 
 The air, which had been chilled for a week by 
 an early frost, was again genial as spring. A few 
 lingering birds were fluttering about, sending up an 
 occasional song or brief chirrup, while the mild 
 south wind gently stirred the branches and coloured 
 foliage of the trees. 
 
 " Our little world within — our sunny world, so 
 bright with promise, has closed our eyes and ears 
 to the beauty of a delicious autumn day," remarked 
 Flora, looking out upon the pleasant scene. " It 
 is not good to be so much absorbed in either the 
 past or the future, as to lose what the present has 
 to offer. Come, let us go out upon the lawn, and 
 down through that pleasant little grove, to the 
 fields beyond. There is much that we ought to 
 feel on a day like this. Nature has no phases that 
 does not reflect itself upon the heart, if the heart 
 only turn towards it an undimmed surface. Spring, 
 summer, autumn, winter, are full of instruction, 
 not given didactically, but in pictures, which the 
 eyes of all who can look upon and love nature may 
 perceiva and enjoy, at the same time that their 
 deeper meanings are whispered in the spirit's ear." 
 
 (211) 
 
212 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 Flora arose as she spoke, and drawing her arm 
 within that of her friend Emily, the two maidens 
 passed out into the open air. A slight crepitation 
 reached the ear of the former as she stepped from 
 the porch upon the grass, causing her to look down 
 upon a withered leaf that her foot had crushed. 
 
 "Poor leaf! fallen to rise no more," she said, 
 half sadly. "And yet," she added, in a more 
 cheerful voice, "it is not the leaf that is dead, it is 
 only the material form of a leaf that my foot has 
 touched. The leaf — yes, the thousand leaves that 
 were put forth hy the tree from which this effigy 
 has but just fallen, are still in the tree in perennial 
 potency. They have only withdrawn from a de- 
 caying form. They will take to themselves new 
 forms again when the warm springtime comes, as 
 they have done through many past seasons, and 
 gladden the eye of man with their beauty. No, 
 no, the leaf is not dead — the grass is not withered — 
 the flower has not faded : only what once mani- 
 fested the leaf, the grass, the flower, have lost their 
 life, their freshness, their loveliness. When the 
 winter is past the leaf will take to itself new cloth- 
 'i ing, visible to our natural eyes ; the grass will 
 I spring up, and the flowers will again gladden us 
 t with their presence. Will not the rose be the same, 
 I and the leaf the same ? Here is a bush that every 
 I spring gives us its wealth of buds and blossoms. 
 I Its flowers are more fragrant than any in the gar- 
 
AUTUMN TEOUGUTS.- 213 [ 
 
 I Jen. As the sultry heats of summer begin to bvirn 
 
 ; around, the leaves of these blossoms lose their 
 
 I freshness, their colour grows dim^ and at last they 
 
 ] fall to the ground ; but when spring returns, the 
 
 J same sweet flowers come again, and their colours 
 
 J and fragrance are as lovely and delightful as be- 
 
 5 fore. They are, in fact, the same flowers ; I know 
 
 ! them and love them as such." 
 
 ' " A sweet fancy. Flora, but only » fancy. How 
 
 ; full you always are of such pleasant dreams. You 
 
 \ look upon nature with the poet's eye, not with the 
 
 i eye of reason." 
 
 \ " The eye of the true poet sees nothing in na- 
 
 l ture that the eye of reason may not also perceive. 
 
 j It cannot, I think, require a dreamer of vague 
 
 ; dreams to see in a dead leaf merely the form of a 
 
 I leaf, or in the new developments in the spring the 
 
 ; same leaves or the same flowers that before clothed 
 
 ; the branches or hung upon the stems. Are the 
 
 '; elements from which the .potent leaf in the tree 
 
 ; forms a representation of itself visible to natural 
 
 \ eyes, changed in each successive season ? or is the 
 
 t form-producing principle itself changed ? No ! for 
 
 I if that were the fact, the leaf we saw this year 
 
 I would not be like the leaf we saw last year ; . the 
 
 ; flower would be a flower with difierent quality and 
 
 { odour." 
 
 ! " I cannot look so deep as that, Flora. To me 
 
 i a dead flower that 1 have loved is dead indeed, and 
 
n 
 
 214 GOLDEN GRAINS. } 
 
 \ f 
 
 \ \ ; ^ 
 
 ; 1 mourn for it as a friend lost to me forever. With \ 
 
 I f 
 
 \ Bryant, at this melancholy season, I can sigh — \ 
 
 '■ f 
 
 \ ' Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang ? 
 
 ; and stood « > 
 
 j In brighter light, and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood ? s 
 
 ? Alas I they all are in their graves ; the gentle race of flowers < 
 
 Are lying in their lowly beds,- with the fair and good of ours j 
 
 The wind-flower, and the violet, they perished long ago, f 
 
 And the brier-rose and orchis died amid the summer glow : < 
 
 But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood, / 
 
 And the yellow sunflower by the brook in autumn's beauty stood, / 
 
 Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on J 
 
 men, } 
 j And the brightness of their smUe was given from upland, glade. 
 
 J and glen. 
 
 I ' And now, when comes the calm, mild day, as still such days will ; 
 
 f come, ! 
 
 I To call the squirrel and the bee from out theij. winter home ; \ 
 
 j When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are j 
 
 I still, I 
 
 / And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill: J 
 
 ^ The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he I 
 
 / bore, I 
 
 i And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no moie.' " 5 
 
 s " While I," returned Flora, " can feel and love S 
 
 ; the more cheerful spirit of Waterston. Let me re- 
 
 ;■ peat to you his sweet thoughts on 'Autumn.' j 
 
 { ' Upon a leaf-strewn walk, ! 
 
 f I wander on amid the sparkling dews; J 
 
 ; Where autumu hangs, upon her frost-genim'd stalk, '' 
 
 '■ Her gold and purple hues: ? 
 
AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 215 
 
 Where the tall fox-gloves shake ' 
 
 Their loose bells to the wind, and each sweet flower > 
 
 Bows down its perfumed blossoms to partake > 
 
 The influence of the hour : J 
 
 Where the cloud-shadows pass j; 
 
 With noiseless speed by lovely lake and rill, ? 
 
 Chasing each other o'er the low, orisp'd grass, J 
 
 And up the distant hill ; ]■ 
 
 > 
 
 Where the clear stream steals on < 
 
 Upon its silent path, as it were sad 4 
 
 To flnd each downward-gazing flower had gone, / 
 
 That made it once so glad. J 
 
 I number it in days J 
 
 Since last I roam'd through this secluded dell, ; 
 
 Seeking a shelter from the summer rays, ' 
 
 Where flowers and wild-birds dwell. ; 
 
 "While gemm*d with dewdrops bright, j 
 
 Green leaves and silken buds are dancing there, f 
 
 I moved my li^ in murmurs of delight, i 
 
 " And bless'd them unawares." ( 
 
 How changed ea-.h sylvan scene ! j 
 
 Where is the warbling bird ? the sun's clear ray i 
 
 The waving brier-rose ? the foliage green, I 
 
 That canopied my way ? J 
 
 I 
 Where is the balmy breeze - '/ 
 
 That fann'd so late my brow '/ the sweet southwest, > 
 
 That, whispering music to the listening trees, ' / 
 
 My raptured spirit bless'd ? 5 
 
 Where are the notes of spring ? i 
 
 Yet the brown bee still hums his quiet tiihe, l 
 
 And the low shiver of the insect's wing ^ 
 
 Disturbs the hush of noon. 5 
 
I 216 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 j The thin, transparent leave's, 
 
 ; Like flalies of amber, quiver in the hght 
 
 ; Wtiile anturan round her silver fretworjs weaves 
 
 \ In glittering hoarfrost white. 
 
 ; Oh, antumn, thou art bless'd ! 
 
 1 My bosom heaves with breathless /apture here: 
 
 I 1 love -thee well, season of moivrnful rest ! 
 
 i Sweet Sabbath of the year !' 
 
 \ " If the j)oet had only said ' cheerful rest' instead ; 
 
 J of ' mournful rest,' he would have spoken a higher | 
 
 ! truth. Autumn is the seasons' rest after the mis- \ 
 
 J sion of spring and summer is accomplished ; the ; 
 
 time when, having finished her labour of love in ; 
 
 giving bountifully of her fruits to man and those ■ 
 
 below him in the scale of animate creation, the ■ 
 
 earth rests peacefL.lly from her toil. The leaves ; 
 
 and flowers have not perished ; they live still in j 
 
 her bosom, as green, as beautiful, as fragrant as ■ 
 
 ever, and after her Sabbath of rest has passed she ': 
 
 will give them to us again. Is not there in all ; 
 
 this, Emily, a moral of sweet import ? Our days ; 
 
 will pass on, and we shall arrive at the autumn of ! 
 
 life, the season of rest, the Sabbath of our year. ; 
 
 Shall it be a cheerful or a mournful rest ? When I 
 
 our leaves begin to fade and drop away, one by ; 
 
 one, and our branches, stripped of their beautiful : 
 
 foliage, cut sharply the cold, clear sky, shall we feel ; 
 
 that the leaves and blossoms are still fresh and > 
 
 green in our bosoms ? We may, Emily ! We shall J 
 
 live in vain if such be not our experience if such ; 
 
1 
 
 AUTUMN THOUGHTS. 217 J 
 
 an autumn rest do not await us — if, in the renewed 
 life we live beyond this region, our leaves do not 
 again put forth with a fresher greenness." 
 
 By this time the young friends had passed the 
 grove of tall trees to which Flora had alluded at 
 first, and were in a little island of green, through 
 which went rippling over white pebbles a narrow 
 brook, that farther on widened into a lake, around 'i 
 which,, in the summer days, the wild flowers and I 
 tall grass had gathered. Now the former had all j 
 departed, and the latter bent down until it lay 
 drooping upon the bosom of the water, over which 
 floated many faded leaves. Near this lake was a 
 rustic seat, and here the maidens rested themselves, 
 hand clasped in hand, and hearts impressed with 
 the scene around them. Nature was mirroring 
 herself in their bosoms ; but to each the ^^pectrum 
 was difierent. To one it was a well-defined image, 
 to the other dim and distorted ; to one it was cheer- 
 ful, to the other sad. One could look at nature 
 with the eye of poetic reason ; to the other, its hid- 
 den meanings were not revealed. 
 
 " See, Flora," said Emily, pointing to the little 
 lake, and speaking in a subdued and saddened 
 voice, " how many leaves are floating there ! Ah ! ■ 
 how many hopes will thus be stripped from us, and 
 fall as those withered leaves have fallen, forever I 
 lifeless ?" ; 
 
 "Yes, Emily, if our hopes regard nothing more i 
 19 
 
218 &OLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 i intrinsic than leaves — the graceful, tlie beautiful, 
 
 J the excellent, the useful in exterior — they will fade 
 
 t and ' fall when the autumn-time comes, and then 
 
 ; shall we be sad indeed ; but if, like the tree, our 
 
 J leaves do not exist for themselves alone, but to aid 
 
 i the interior life of our souls, to assist the work of 
 
 i fruit-bearing, we shall not mourn when they are 
 
 i stricken from our branches. Their work will be 
 
 J all done. The fruit will have been gathered, and 
 
 I garnered, and then a sweet Sabbath of rest will be 
 
 i our portion. The tree has produced its fruit, and 
 
 ! now is about to rest from its labours. It needs no 
 
 '' longer the leaves that before reacted in externals 
 upon the active life within, and assisted in the de- 
 velopment, growth, and maturity of fruit. It there- 
 
 ; fore casts them aside. Let us be glad that it has 
 
 I performed its true use. Let us think of the fruit, 
 
 i and not of the leaves ; and, still farther, let us see 
 
 I in this rest the regathering of its productive ener- 
 
 t gies, that shall again clothe its branches with fo- 
 
 ; liage, and load them with generous fruit." 
 
 \/V'\r\/V^'V 
 
r^ 
 
 THE POOR MAN. 
 
 :. " YoD don't look well, Mr. Preston ; I'm afraid 
 you stick too close to your shop," said a friend to 
 Mr. Archibald Prestoti, a thriving mamifacturer, 
 whose well conducted and growing business yielded 
 him from four to five thousand dollars yearly. 
 
 " I'm not very well," replied Mr. Preston. " The 
 fact is, as you say, I am confined too closely to 
 business. I need more recreation than I get." 
 
 "Why don't you go .off, then, and take a good 
 holiday ? A week at the sea shore, or a trip over 
 the mountains would add a year to your life." 
 
 " Very likely. But such luxuries are not for 
 me. I am too poor for these indulgences-." 
 
 " Too poor ! You, Mr. Preston ?" 
 
 " Yes, indeed, I'm too poor. There is no better 
 established fact than this. It would delight me t<j 
 do as you suggest. Last year I settled, as a thing 
 certain, a trip to Niagara this summer. But I ex- 
 pected a much easier money market than there has 
 been since mid-winter. No, I can't leave home on 
 any pleasure trip. I'm too poor for that." 
 
 "Poor man!" said the friend to himself, as he 
 
 (219) 
 
^ — 
 
 ; 220 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 ': walked away ; " I wonder if he will ever feel able 
 to take any enjoyment in life ?" 
 
 Shortly after, a gentleman called upon Mr. 
 Preston, and asked if he would not take two or 
 three dollars' worth of tickets for a concert, got 
 up for the benefit of a sick musician and his desti- 
 tute family. 
 
 "Nothing would give me greater pleasure," he 
 replied; "but I am too poor. We must be just, 
 _ you know, before we are generous. It wouldn't 
 be right for me to spend three or four dollars for 
 concert tickets, and then let my notes be pro- 
 tested." 
 
 " No ; certainly not. But there is no danger 
 of that." 
 
 "I don't know; I ought to be the best judge. 
 Every one knows where the shoe pinches. It's 
 just as I tell you. I'm too poor for such luxuries." 
 
 " Don't call it a luxury, but a charity," Mr. 
 Preston." 
 
 " But is not charity a luxury ? Can anything 
 produce more real pleasure than the act of re- 
 lieving the distress of our fellow creatures ? If I 
 were only able, no man would take more delight 
 in doing good. The time will come, I trust, when 
 my hand will be as open as my heart. At present, 
 as I have said, I must content myself with being 
 just. I am too poor to be generous." 
 
 Now, all this was not sheer hypocrisy. Mr. 
 
Preston did think, that if he were only in good 
 circumstances, lie would be exceedingly generous ; 
 that he would scatter benefits around him with a 
 liberal hand. But until he became better off in 
 the world, he deemed it but right to exercise pru- 
 dence in all things. And he was correct in the 
 principle, though scarcely so in the rigid way he 
 applied it to his own case. 
 
 A beggar came into Mr. Preston's little office or 
 counting-room, soon after the friend to the sick 
 musician had retired, and asked for a penny. 
 
 " We've nothing to give away," said he, waving 
 his hand for the mendicant to withdraw. " We're 
 all too poor here." 
 
 " Only a penny, sir," importuned the beggar; 
 " only a single penny." 
 
 " Didn't I tell you, that we had nothing to give 
 away," repeated Mr. Preston, sternly. Then he 
 muttered to himseM", as he turned to his desk, 
 
 " I'm too poor to scatter money in the street ; 
 or to fill the hand of every one who asks for 
 charity." 
 
 And Mr. Preston really did feel poor ; far poorer 
 than his clerk, to whom he paid seven hundred 
 dollars a year ; and who, on that sum, maintained 
 a wif^nd two children, and partook, at the same 
 time, rf such amusements and recreations within 
 his means, as he deemed essential to mental and 
 bodily health. He could also occasionally indulge 
 19* 
 
222 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 in the luxury of benevolence, a thing felt by his 
 employer to be almost entirely beyond his ability. 
 
 At home this poor feeling of Mr. Preston, mani- 
 fested itself in various forms, all, in some way or 
 other, abridging the comforts his family were enti- 
 tled by virtue of his real ability to enjoy. 
 
 Mr. Preston started in life with the purpose of 
 acquiring property. Never since his earliest recol- 
 lection, had he felt otherwise than poor ; and con- 
 sequently, unable to enjoy the good things of life 
 with which so many around him were blessed. The 
 means possessed in the present, were never ade- 
 quate to bring within his grasp such things as he 
 desired ; and, therefore, he felt always too poor to 
 indulge in the blessings appropriate to his true ex- 
 ternal condition. When his income was a thousand 
 dollars a year, he restricted himself and family to 
 an expenditure of five hundred ; and when it was 
 three thousand, the limit of expanse was one thou- 
 sand. Now, he was reaping an annual profit of at 
 least five thousand dollars, and was actually worth 
 thirty thousand dollars ; and yet he felt poorer 
 than he did five years before ; and was troubled in 
 his mhid at the thought of being under the ruinous 
 expense of fifteen hundred dollars a year for the 
 support of his family. 
 
 " If I were a rich man," was, next to, " I'm too 
 poor for that," his commonest form of expression. 
 And he was never called upon to expend a dollar, 
 
THE POOR MAN. 223 
 
 except in the way of busiaess, without a feeling of 
 reluctance at parting with the money, amounting 
 almost to pain. Wealth was, in his eyes, the 
 greatest good, and its possession the means of 
 bringing the highest earthly happiness. Yet, as 
 far as his experience went, it contradicted this idea 
 entirely ; for the better oif in the world he became, 
 the more was he inwardly dissatisfied, and the more 
 eagerly did he grasp for still larger possessions 
 His error was like that of far too many others. He 
 imagined that wealth in itself would bring a state 
 of mental tranquillity' — a peace of mind that no- 
 thing could disturb. And he believed also, that 
 after he had become rich, he would use his riches 
 for the procurement of all the good things for him- 
 self and family that earth had to offer. While he 
 was poor, self-denial was felt to be a virtue ; when 
 he became rich, he meant to be liberal to himself 
 and others. 
 
 And so the world went on with Mr. Archibald 
 Preston. Yearly he added house to house, and 
 dollar to dollar. But he was still in feeling, a poor 
 man. It really hurt him to part with a shilling ; 
 and almost every luxury his family enjoyed was 
 wrung from him by his pride, or yielded to an im- 
 portunity that he had not the moral power to with- 
 stand. His health was suflfering through prolonged 
 application to business, and he felt the necessity 
 for relaxation. If he could have done so at the 
 
GOLDEN GBAINS. 
 
 time a friend suggested, as has been seen, to visit 
 the sea-shore, he would have gone and taken cheap 
 boarding in some private family for a week or two. 
 But that economical way of doing the thing was 
 out of the question ; for his wife had been urging 
 him, year after year, to take her to Cape May, 
 Saratoga, or some other summer resort ; and if he 
 went for his heath, she must, of course, go along. 
 And this would make the trip far more expensive 
 than he felt able to afford. So he denied himself 
 on this ground. When he was able, even in h: 
 own estimation, to make his wife the companion in 
 the long-thought-of and desired summer recreation, 
 another drawback to the enjoyment was at hand. 
 Three daughters had come so near to the estate of 
 womanhood, that the leaving them at home, as 
 indifferent parties to such an arrangement, was out 
 of the question. And to take them along would 
 make the expense entirely too great. Their school 
 bills, music bills, and bills for various private les- 
 sons in the languages, etc., were really appalling 
 to the father, and kept him, all the time, with a 
 poor feeling about his heart. To add to the annual 
 cost of living, already alarmingly great, by a fash- 
 ionable trip' to the springs or the sea-shore, was 
 not to be thought of for a moment. 
 
 "But," urged Mrs. Preston, who was more im- 
 portunate than usual, "it is absolutely necessary 
 for you to take some relaxation from business. And 
 
I am sure we can afford the expense far better than 
 the Melvilles, who go to Saratoga, Newport, or 
 somewhere else every season." 
 
 "As for that," replied the husband, "I am of 
 opinion that the Melvilles had much better stay at 
 home. To my certain knowledge, Melville is always 
 short for money ; and rarely succeeds in getting a 
 note out of bank without borrowing from some one. 
 I believe I am worth two dollars to his one, if the 
 truth were known, but I can't afford the extrava- 
 gances in which he indulges." 
 
 " A couple of hundred dollars once in your life- 
 time," said Mrs. Preston, in reply to this argument "I 
 am sure, can't hurt you. For more than twenty years 
 you have been tugging at the oar of business, without 
 so much as a week's relaxation ; and I think it is a 
 pity if yon can't take a little enjoyment now. What's 
 the use of money , if it does not enlarge our comforts?" 
 
 " Two hundred dollars, indeed ! If it were not 
 going to cost any more than this I would not say a 
 word ; though I am not so clear that it would be 
 right to throw even that sum away. But five hun- 
 dred is not going to cover the cost- Why, you and 
 the girls would spend at least two hundred in new 
 clothes before thinking yourselves in any kind of 
 decent trim to appear at a fashionable watering 
 place. I know exactly how it will be. I've thought 
 it over and over again, and can come within a dol- 
 lar of the cost." 
 
" Suppose it were to cost a thousand dollars," 
 'said Mrs. Preston. " What of that ? It is only 
 once a year ; and it's a pity we can't enjoy, to some 
 small extent, the means in our hands. I'd rather 
 be poor than to suffer the tantalization of our pre- 
 sent circumstances." 
 
 " Poor ! Rich ! Can't I make you comprehend, 
 Ellen, that we are not rich ? If I were rolling in 
 wealth, it would be another thing. But I am not. 
 Every cent I can scrape together I need in my busi- 
 ness ; and, under these circumstances, to throw away 
 five hundred or a thousand in two or three weeks 
 for mere pleasure would be a folly that I am not 
 insane enough to commit. It would be a pleasant 
 thing indeed, to come home from Newport, after a 
 month's dissipation, and have my paper lie over 
 immediately after." 
 
 " Oh, there's no danger of that ["said Mrs. Pres- 
 ton, impatiently. 
 
 " Beg your pardon, madam ! there is danger. 
 No man who wastes his money can expect to pros- 
 per. Suppose we had gone on as extravagantly as 
 the Fultons — what then ? Why, we should have 
 been as poor as they are. Prudence and industry 
 have made me prosperous to a certain extent ; and 
 I cannot think of marring all by departing at the 
 present time from the good rule wisely adopted in 
 the beginning." 
 
 It was no use for Mrs. Preston to argue the case 
 
THE POOR MAN. 227 
 
 with her husband. He held the purse-strings, and 
 that, too, with no slight grasp. If he did. not feel 
 \ able to afford the expense, no matter how craved 
 ( the indulgence, it had to be given up. So the trip 
 i to Newport or Saratoga was abandoned for that 
 I season ; though under a promise, which was made in 
 I order to get the subject postponed, of a compliance 
 I with the wife's wishes when the next summer came 
 I .'ound. 
 
 I At the time this plea of being too poor to bear 
 ; the expenses was so successfully urged, Mr. Pres- 
 j ton was worth, at least, a hundred thousand dollars, 
 and was conducting business on a very extensive 
 scale. But all his means were locked up in his 
 business, or otherwise invested, and he kept himself 
 poor by pushing his enterprise to the fullest extent. 
 Every hundred dollar check, drawn for family ex- 
 penses, was filled up with a sigh ; for that much 
 was lost, irrevocably. Money expended in business, 
 like seed sown in the ground, produced more money ; 
 but money spent for eating, drinking, and other 
 things necessary to the support of life, was felt to 
 be like so much thrown upon the sea. As Mr. Pres- 
 ton grew older and more prosperous, this false 
 estimate of money became more and more confirmed, 
 and the feeling arising therefrom, stronger and 
 stronger. He never felt otherwise than poor ; 
 for he never saw clearly how he could spare money 
 fi-om his business or investments, when he could 
 
22 i GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 h&ve used profitably five times as much as he really 
 possessed. 
 
 When the daughters of Mr. Preston arrived at 
 woman's age, he found an influence brought to 
 bear upon him that he could not resist ; and money, 
 much as the extravagance pained him, was spent 
 with a freedom certainly at variance with his pre- 
 vious habits. Spite of all resistance on his part, 
 the trip to Saratoga was made in the summer suc- 
 ceeding that in which he admitted that he was able 
 to take his wife but not his daughters ; and, agree- 
 ably to his estimate of expense, the levy upon his 
 purte for that extra piece of 'folly,' as he did not 
 fail to call it, was exactly one thousand dollars ; 
 and this in despite of all his disputes with porters, 
 cabmen, boot-blacks, waiters and hotel-keepers, the 
 whole posse of whom he declared were in combina- 
 tion to rob travelers. 
 
 The wife and daughters of Mr. Preston having 
 gained a decided advantage to themselves, were 
 not at all disposed to relinquish it.. The trip to 
 the Springs made them three or four new city 
 acquaintances, with whom visits were exchanged 
 soon after their return home. These new acquain- 
 tances happened to be living in a style which rather 
 shamed the ladies of Mr. Preston's family, and 
 opened their eyes a little in regard to what was 
 . due to their social position. A larger house, and 
 newer and more elegant furniture were proposed, 
 
THE POOK MAN. 229 
 
 and, of course, opposed. But Mr. Prestpn's oppo- 
 sition was not of long continuance. The odds were 
 entirely against him. He tried to get the matter 
 put off for a year or two ; to a time when he hoped to 
 feel more able to afford the expense ; but no such 
 proposition would be listened to. As for the plea 
 of being. " too poor to afford an extravagant style j 
 of living," it was not in the least regarded, for it ( 
 was not believed. | 
 
 So very rapid was Mr. Preston's accumulation ' 
 of wealth, that could he have kept his annual \ 
 expenditure within the limit it had- obtained pre- ) 
 vious to this new innovation, he would have begun ; 
 to feel a little comfortable — ^in fact, to regard him- | 
 self as being in quite easy circumstances. But the | 
 purchase of a house at a cost of twenty thousand 
 dollars, with the additional item added thereto of 
 five thousand dollars for fashionable furniture, 
 caused him to feel so poor as to become actually 
 unhappy ; the more especially, as shortly after 
 the possession of his elegant residence, the new 
 year came round, and with it the accustomed 
 annual investigation into business affairs. Unex- 
 pectedly, the result of this investigation was a dis- 
 covery that, instead of a clear yearly profit of ten 
 or twelve thousand dollars, not a single cent had 
 really been made. Two or three pretty serious 
 losses, through failures, added to a sudden depres 
 sion of prices, while a large? stock of manufactured 
 20 
 
230 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 goods were on hand, had produced this result. 
 These failures and this depression in prices were 
 events of very recent occurrence, and their real 
 effect upon -the year's business was just becoming 
 apparent. 
 
 Poor Mr. Preston ! He had less enjoyment 
 now than ever in the good things of life with 
 .which God had blessed him. His property. was 
 nearly one hundred and fifty thousand dollars, 
 and his business a large and profitable one. Yet 
 so poor did he feel after the result of that one 
 unfortunate year became known to him, that for 
 the trouble of mind he scarcely slept at night, or 
 eat through the day. Not a block away from 
 where he lived was a man whose income was fixed 
 i at twelve hundred dollars. He, also, had grown-up 
 I daughters, and younger children were still to be 
 f raised and educated. Yet he was a rich man com- 
 ; pared with Mr. Preston ; for he rarely had a poor 
 I feeling, and enjoyed to the full extent the natural 
 ; blessings his income enabled him to procure. Some- 
 j times, as he passed the handsome residence of the 
 I man rich in this world's goods, he thought how 
 ; pleasant it must be to have money to spend for 
 ^ all that the heart desired, and to be removed from 
 \ the necessity of nice calculation in expenditure 
 i and self-denial in even moderate desires. But 
 ; such thoughts were soon dismissed, and caused but 
 j a small weight of discontent to rest upon his feel- 
 
ings. He had a hopeful and confident: spirit; and 
 
 I was, therefore, rich in comparison with his neighbor. 
 i The next year's business did not turn out much' 
 
 \ better for Mr. Preston. There had arisen a great 
 
 i competition in the principal article he manufac- 
 
 ; tured, prices had gradually been falling, and a large 
 
 I stock accumulating. In the early part of the year 
 
 '' he stopped his works altogether, and during the 
 
 ! remaining portion did but very little. Utterly dis- 
 
 t couraged at the prospect before him in the begin- 
 
 < ning of the next year, and fearful lest a continuance ■■ 
 
 I in business would result in some disaster, he sold, out 
 
 j his establishment at a sacrifice of about twenty 
 thousand dollars on the price at which he valued it, 
 and retired from the business world, feeling really 
 poorer than when he started in life with only a fey 
 
 j hundred dollars that he could call his own. 
 i The fact of his retiring from business gave very 
 
 ; naturally the impression that he had accumulated a 
 
 i handsome fortune and was determined to enjoy it. 
 
 I A man with this reputation is not always left un- 
 
 s disturbed in the possession of what he has accumu- 
 
 l lated. Not long after he had withdrawn himself 
 
 J from the active world to brood over his disappoint- 
 
 t ments, and to ponder on the smallness of his fortune, 
 
 ', and the danger of its being swept from his grasp by 
 
 '< some unforseen event, against the occurrence of 
 
 I which no foresight of his couldguard, he was called 
 
 i upon by a leading member of the church he regu- 
 
232 GOLDEN GKAINS. 
 
 larly attended every Sabbath, for a contribution to 
 its funds for some special purpose. The subscrip- 
 tion was unfolded, and, to his dismay, Mr. Preston 
 saw that men really not half so well off in the world 
 as he, had written down their hundreds. A ten 
 dollar subscription was in his mind, as the utmost 
 he felt justified in giving ; but his pride would not 
 let him write down "Archibald Preston, $10," 
 among names opposite to which stood three, four, 
 and five hundred dollars. He considered awhile to 
 see if there was no way of escape with credit to 
 himself; but none presenting itself, he resolved to 
 gain time by saying — 
 
 " Call to-morrow about this hour, and I will be 
 prepared to say what I will give." 
 
 To-morrow, at that hour, not having made up his 
 mind definitely, he managed to be out of the way. 
 By this means, he escaped for a week ; but the evil 
 day could not be put off entirely. The man with 
 the subscription-paper found him out again, when 
 with a sigh, he wrote — "Archibald Preston, $300." 
 
 The poor man felt at least twenty thousand dol- 
 lars poorer after this act. He did not hear ten 
 words of the sermon, on the next Sabbath, for 
 thinking of the ruinous subscription he had been 
 forced to make ; and half made up his mind, before 
 the services were concluded, to give up his pew 
 and attend some free church were the gospel was 
 dispensed as it ought to be, without money and 
 
■without price. Such an arrangement, however, he 
 knew better than to propose ; for there was a power 
 behind the throne of his will greater than, the 
 throne itself. His family knew precisely his ability, 
 and did not let their demands upon his purse fall 
 very far below it. 
 
 The annual income of Mr. Preston, on retiring 
 from business, and investing all his money in real 
 estate and government scrip, was $8,000. The ex- 
 pense at which he was living was about $6,000. 
 \ For two or three years this went on, and finding 
 j that he was better off by about two thousand dollars, 
 '/ at the end of each year, he began to feel as if 
 i he were in tolerable easy circumstances, when a 
 I large fire broke out in a part of the city where he 
 I owned five warehouses. These, with a large amount 
 of other property, were consumed. A mistake- of 
 just one day in the date of the policy of insurance, 
 threw him into a loss of $25,000 dollars. This 
 property had paid him seven per cent, above taxes and 
 5 all other expenses, and the loss in his annual income 
 i was, in consequence, over $1,700. 
 I Mr. Preston was now poor indeed. The rest of 
 > his property paid him but little over 6,000, and he 
 J was living at a cost equal to that sum. An imme- 
 \ diate change was insisted upon and carried ; the 
 ; poor man had arguments to urge that were made 
 I unanswerable. Reform once begun, was extended far 
 J beyond the point to which those who yielded at first 
 1 20* 
 
GOLDEN GRAINS, 
 
 imagined it would go. " It's no use to talk — I can't 
 afford it ! " was an all powerful argument, uttered 
 I as it was with unaccustomed determination of man- 
 ner. The elegant house was rented for $2,000, and 
 the family came down so far in their style of living 
 j as to take up their abode in one for which Mr. 
 ; Preston had been receiving $800. 
 5 By these changes Mr. Preston actually reduced 
 ] his expenses to $2,000 below his income. But he 
 j has never got over his loss of $25,000 ; and feels so 
 ^ poor that he refuses all applications of a charitable 
 I nature, denies himself and family at a hundred dif- 
 \ ferent points, to the abridgment of his own and 
 \ their real comfort, and makes both himself and them 
 I wretched. 
 
 j Poor man ! Had he the wealth of Croesus it 
 I would be all the same. To one like him, money 
 i never comes with a blessing, for his mind estimates 
 ^ it falsely, and is incapable of finding in its posses- 
 / sion any of the real enjoyments that competency is 
 j designed to bring. 
 
\ TOO BUST. ^ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ A mother's confession, 
 
 \ Mother ! mother !" cried my little Willy, com- 
 ini' in upon me, as I set busily at work, " I've lost 
 my arrow in the grass and can't find it." 
 
 He was just ready to burst into tears from grief 
 at his mishap. " I'm sorry, dear," I said calmly, 
 as I went on with my work. 
 
 « "Won't you go and find it for me, mother ?" he 
 asked with a quivering lip, as he laid hold of my 
 arm. 
 
 " I'm too busy, dear," I replied, gently shaking 
 him off. " Go and tell Jane to find it for you." 
 
 « Jane can't find it," said the little fellow, in a 
 choking voice. 
 
 " Tell her to go and look again.' 
 
 « She has looked all over, and can't find it. 
 Won't you come mother, and find it for me ?" 
 
 The tears were now rolling over his face. But I 
 was too busy to attend to Willy. I was embroider, 
 ing the edge of a little linen sack that I was mak- 
 ing for him, and that, for the moment, seemed of 
 more importance than the happiness of my child. 
 
 (235) 
 
236 GOLDEN GRAINS. 
 
 " No — no," I replied. " I'm to busy to go down 
 stairs. You must take better care of your arrows. 
 Go and ask Ellen to find it for you.'" 
 
 " Ellen says she won't look for it." Willy was 
 now crying outright. 
 
 " There ! there ! don't be so foolish as to cry 
 at the loss of such a little thing as an arrow," said 
 I, in a reproving voice. "I'm ashamed of you !" 
 
 "Won't you go and find it for me, mother ?" he 
 urged, still crying. 
 
 "No indeed, Willy. I'm too busy now. Go 
 and look for it again yourself." 
 
 " But I can't find it. I have looked." 
 
 "Then go and look again," said I, firmly. 
 ■^ Willy went crying down stairs, and I heard him 
 crying about the yard for some ten minutes, until ! 
 my patience began to give out. ; 
 
 " Such a to-do about an arrow ! I wish I'd never ; 
 Dought him the bow-arrow !" said I, moving uneasily '< 
 in my chair. j 
 
 "Ellen, won't you make me another arrow? ; 
 Here is a stick," I heard him ask of the cook, in 
 a pleading voice. But Ellen replied rudely — 
 
 " No indeed, I shall not ! I've got something 
 else to do besides making arrows." 
 
 The child's crying was renewed. I felt vexed at 
 Ellen. " She might have made him the arrow,'' I / 
 said. "If I wasn't so busy I would go down and make 
 him one myself. But I must get> this sack done." 
 
And I sewed away more rapidly than before. 
 Tlie crying went on. Willy had lost his arrow, 
 and his heart was almost broken. Unfortunately, 
 I was not in a mood to sympathise with him. An 
 arrow, to me, was a very little thing, and it worried 
 me to hear him crying as if his heart would break 
 over a loss so trifling as that of an arrow. 
 
 "Willy?"' I at length said, calling out of the 
 window, " you must stop that crying." 
 
 " I can't find my arrow, and nobody will make 
 me another," replied the little fellow. 
 
 " That's nothing to.make such disturbance about !" 
 I said. " Go and find something else to play with." 
 
 "I want my arrow. Won't you come and find it 
 for me, mother ?" 
 
 " No, not now. I'm too busy." 
 
 The crying went on again as loudly as before, and 
 I soon lost all my patience. Laying aside my work, I 
 went to the head of the stairway and called down — 
 
 " Come, now, Sir ! There^s been enough of this 
 crying, and you must stop it." 
 
 " I can't find my arrow," returned Willy. 
 
 " Well, suppose you can't ; will crying bring it ? 
 You should take better care of your things. Little 
 boys must look the way they shoot." 
 
 " I did look, but I can't find it." 
 
 "Go and look again, then." 
 
 " I have looked, and it ain't there." 
 
 And then the crying went on again.' To Willy 
 
j the loss of his arrow was a real grief, and he was too 
 
 ; young to have fortitude to bear his trouble patiently. 
 
 : But I was not in a state of mind to feel with him. 
 
 j « Stop that crying instantly," said I, as the worry- 
 
 j ing sound came again upon my ears. " I won't 
 
 \ have such a noise in the house." 
 
 i But my words had no effect : they did not produce 
 
 ; the -arrow. Willy cried on. 
 
 ; Unable longer to endure the sound, and also 
 
 ; thinking it wrong to let him indulge the habit of 
 
 ; crying, I laid my work aside, and going down stairs, 
 
 I took hold of him resolutely, saying as I did so — 
 
 J "Now, stop this instantly !" 
 
 I The child looked up at me with a most distressed 
 
 ; countenance, while the tears covered his face. 
 
 i « I can't find my arrow," said he with quivering lip. 
 
 I "I'm sorry — but crying won't find it. Come up 
 
 J stairs with me." Willy ascended to my room. 
 
 i " Now don't let me hear one word more of this. 
 
 i The next time you get an arrow take better care of it.'' 
 
 I There was no sympathy in my tones ; for I felt 
 
 i none. I did not think of his loss, but of the evil 
 
 5 and annoyance of crying. The little fellow stifled 
 
 5 his grief, or rather the utterance of it, as best he 
 
 ; could, and throwing himself at full length upon the 
 
 J floor, sighed and sobbed for some ten minutes. A 
 
 ; sigh, longer and more fluttering than usual, aroused 
 
 '< my attention, and I then became aware that he had 
 
 \ fallen asleep. 
 
TOO BUSY. 289 
 
 1 
 
 How instantly do our feelings change toward a \ 
 child when we find that it is asleep. If we have I 
 been angry or offended, we are so no longer. Ten- I 
 derness comes in the place of sterner emotions. I j 
 laid asi le my work, and taking Willy in my arms, > 
 lifted him from the floor, and laid him upon my bed. I 
 I Ano ther long, fluttering sigh, agitated his bosom as j 
 ; hishead touched the pillow. How reprovingly came J 
 > the sound upon my ears ! How sadly did it echo ^ 
 t and re-echo in my heart ! 'i 
 
 '■ "Poor child!" I murmured. "To him the loss j 
 \ of an arrow was a great thing. It has .disturbed \ 
 I him to the very centre, of his little being. I wish, \ 
 \ now, that I had put by my work for a few minutes | 
 \ until I could have found his arrow, or made him a i 
 '» new one. I would have lost no more time in doing 
 \ so than I have already lost. And, after all, what is 
 a little time taken from my work to the happiness 
 \ of my child ? Ah me ! I wish I could learn to think 
 \ right at the right time. Dear little fellow ! He 
 J was so happy with his bow and arrow. But all was 
 ; destroyed by the liptimely loss, which I could have 
 \ restored in a fdW moments. Unfeeling — unnatural 
 \ mother ! . Is this the way you show your love for 
 '< your child?" 
 
 ! I Stood for nearly five minutes over my sleeping 
 
 boy. When I turned away, I did not resume my 
 
 \ sewing, for I had no heart to work upon the little 
 
 'i garment. I went down into the yard, and the first 
 
240 GOLDEN GRAIN'S. 
 
 object that met my eye was the lost arrow, partly 
 concealed behind a rose-bush, where it had fallen. 
 
 " So eafsily found !" said I. " How much would 
 a minute given at the right time have saved ! Ah 
 me ! We learn too late, and repent when repent' 
 ance is of little avail.'' 
 
 It was an hour before the deep sleep into which 
 my Willy had fallen, was broken. I had, in the 
 meantime, resumed my sewing, after having lost 
 fully half an hour in consequence of being unwilling 
 to lose a few minuses for the sake of attending to 
 my child, and relieving him of the trouble that had 
 come upon him. The first notice I received of his 
 being awake, was his gratified exclamation at finding 
 his lost arrow beside him. All his past grief was 
 forgotten. In a few minutes he was down in tire 
 yard, shooting his arrow again, and as happy as be- 
 fore. No trace of his recent grief remained. 
 
 But I could not forget it. With me the circum- 
 stance was not as the morning cloud and the early 
 dew. The sunshine that came afterward did not 
 ^ dissipate instantly the one, nor drink up the other. 
 5 I was sober for many hours afterwards ; for the con- 
 ' sciousness of having done wrong, as well as of having 
 ^ been the occasion of grief to my child, lay with a 
 i heavy pressure upon my feelings. 
 
 THE END.