"THERE come the children from school," said Aunt Mary, looking fromthe window. "Just see that Clarence! he'll have Henry in the gutter.I never saw just such another boy; why can't he come quietly alonglike other children? There! now he must stop to throw stones at thepigs. That boy'll give you the heart-ache yet, Anna."
Mrs. Hartley made no reply, but laid aside her work quietly and leftthe room to see that their dinner was ready. In a few minutes thestreet-door was thrown open, and the children came bounding in fullof life, and noisy as they could be.
"Where is your coat, Clarence?" she asked, in a pleasant tone,looking her oldest boy in the face.
"Oh, I forgot!" he replied, cheerfully; and turning quickly, he randown stairs, and lifting his coat from where, in histhoughtlessness, he had thrown it upon the floor, hung it up in itsproper place, and then sprang up the stairs.
"Isn't dinner ready yet?" he said, with fretful impatience, hiswhole manner changing suddenly. "I'm hungry."
"It will be ready in a few minutes, Clarence."
"I want it now. I'm hungry."
"Did you ever hear of the man," said Mrs. Hartley, in a voice thatshowed no disturbance of mind, "who wanted the sun to rise an hourbefore its time?"
"No, mother. Tell me about it, won't you?"
All impatience had vanished from the boy's face.
"There was a man who had to go upon a journey; the stage-coach wasto call for him at sun-rise. More than an hour before it was timefor the sun to be up, the man was all ready to go, and for the wholeof that hour he walked the floor impatiently, grumbling at the sunbecause he did not rise. 'I'm all ready, and I want to be going,' hesaid. 'It's time the sun was up, long ago.' Don't you think he was avery foolish man?"
Clarence laughed, and said he thought the man was very foolishindeed.
"Do you think he was more foolish than you were just now forgrumbling because dinner wasn't ready?"
Clarence laughed again, and said he did not know. Just then Hannah,the cook, brought in the waiter with the children's dinner upon it.Clarence sprang for a chair, and drew it hastily and noisily to thetable.
"Try and see if you can't do that more orderly, my dear," his mothersaid, in a quiet voice, looking at him, as she spoke, with a steadyeye.
The boy removed his chair, and then replaced it gently.
"That is much better, my son."
And thus she corrected his disorderly habits, quieted his impatienttemper, and checked his rudeness, without showing any disturbance.This she had to do daily. At almost every meal she found itnecessary to repress his rude impatience. It was line upon line, andprecept upon precept. But she never tired, and rarely permittedherself to show that she was disturbed, no matter how deeply grievedshe was at times over the wild and reckless spirit of her boy.
On the next day she was not very well; her head ached badly all themorning. Hearing the children in the passage when they came in fromschool at noon, she was, rising from the bed where she had laindown, to attend to them and give them their dinners, when Aunt Marysaid--"Don't get up, Anna, I will see to the children."
It was rarely that Mrs. Hartley let any one do for them what shecould do herself, for no one else could manage the unhappy temper ofClarence; but so violent was the pain in her head, that she let AuntMary go, and sank back upon the pillow from which she had arisen. Agood deal of noise and confusion continued to reach her ears, fromthe moment the children came in. At length a loud cry and passionatewords from Clarence caused her to rise up quickly and go over to thedining-room. All was confusion there, and Aunt Mary out of humourand scolding prodigiously. Clarence was standing up at the table,looking defiance at her, on account of some interference with hisstrong self-will. The moment the boy saw his mother, his countenancechanged, and a look of confusion took the place of anger.
"Come over to my room, Clarence," she said, in a low voice; therewas sadness in its tones, that made him feel sorry that he had givenvent so freely to his ill-temper.
"What was the matter, my son?" Mrs. Hartley asked, as soon as theywere alone, taking Clarence by the hand and looking steadily at him.
"Aunt Mary wouldn't help me when I asked her."
"Why not?"
"She would help Henry first."
"No doubt she had a reason for it. Do you know her reason?"
"She said he was youngest." Clarence pouted out his lips, and spokein a very disagreeable tone.
"Don't you think that was a very good reason?"
"I've as good a right to be helped first as he has."
"Let us see if that is so. You and Marien and Henry came in fromschool, all hungry and anxious for your dinners. Marien isoldest--she, one would suppose, from the fact that she is oldest,would be better able to feel for her brothers, and be willing to seetheir wants supplied before her own. You are older than Henry, andshould feel for him in the same way. No doubt this was Aunt Mary'sreason for helping Henry first. Had she helped Marien?"
"No, ma'am."
"Did Marien complain?"
"No, ma'am."
"No one complained but my unhappy Clarence. Do you know why youcomplained? I can tell you, as I have often told you before; it isbecause you indulge in very selfish feelings. All who do so, makethemselves miserable. If, instead of wanting Aunt Mary to help youfirst, you had, from a love of your little brother, been willing tosee him first attended to, you would have enjoyed a real pleasure.If you had said--'Aunt Mary, help Harry first,' I am sure Henrywould have said instantly--' No, Aunt Mary, help brother Clarencefirst.' How pleasant this would have been! how happy would all of ushave felt at thus seeing two little brothers generously preferringone another!"
There was an unusual degree of tenderness, even sadness in the voiceof his mother, that affected Clarence; but he struggled with hisfeelings. When, however, she resumed, and said--"I have felt quitesick all the morning; my head has ached badly--so badly that I havehad to lie down. I always give you your dinners when you come home,and try to make you comfortable. To-day I let Aunt Mary do it,because I felt so sick; but I am sorry that I did not get up, sickas I was, and do it myself; then I might have prevented this unhappyoutbreak of my boy's unruly temper, that has made not only my headache ten times as badly as it did, but my heart ache also"--
Clarence burst into tears, and throwing his arms ground his mother'sneck, wept bitterly.
"I will try and be good, dear mother," he said. "I do try sometimes,but it seems that I can't."
"You must always try, my dear son. Now dry up your tears, and go outand get your dinner. Or, if you would rather I should go with you, Iwill do so."
"No, dear mother," replied the boy, affectionately, "you are sick;you must not go. I will be good."
Clarence kissed his mother again, and then returned quietly to thedining-room.
"Naughty boy!" said Aunt Mary, as he entered, looking sternly athim.
A bitter retort came instantly to the tongue of Clarence, but hechecked himself with a strong effort, and took his place at thetable. Instead of soothing the quick-tempered boy, Aunt Mary chafedhim by her words and manner during the whole meal, and it was onlythe image of his mother's tearful face, and the remembrance that shewas sick, that restrained an outbreak of his passionate temper.
When Clarence left the table, he returned to his mother's room, andlaid his head upon the pillow where her's was resting.
"I love you, mother," he said, affectionately, "you are good. But Ihate Aunt Mary."
"Oh, no, Clarence; you must not say that you hate Aunt Mary, forAunt Mary is very kind to you. You mustn't hate anybody."
"She isn't kind to me, mother. She calls me a bad boy, and saysevery thing to make me angry when I want to be good."
"Think, my son, if there is not some reason for Aunt Mary callingyou a bad boy. You know yourself, that you act very naughtilysometimes, and provoke Aunt Mary--a great deal."
"But she said I was a naughty boy when I went out just now, and Iwas sorry for what I had done, and wanted to be good."
"Aunt Mary didn't know that you were sorry, I am sure. When shecalled you 'naughty boy,' what did you say?"
"I was going to say 'You're a fool!' but I didn't. I tried hard notto let my tongue say the bad words, though it wanted to."
"Why did you try not to say them?"
"Because it would have been wrong, and would have made you feelsorry; and I love you." Again the repentant boy kissed her. His eyeswere full of tears, and so were the eyes of his mother.
While talking over this incident with her husband, Mrs. Hartleysaid--"Were not all these impressions so light, I would feelencouraged. The boy has warm and tender feelings, but I fear thathis passionate temper and selfishness will, like evil weeds,completely check their growth."
"The case is bad enough, Anna, but not so bad, I hope, as you fear.These good affections are never active in vain. They impress themind with an indelible impression. In after years the remembrance ofthem will revive the states they produced, and give strength to gooddesires and intentions. Amid all his irregularities and wanderingsfrom good, in after-life, the thoughts of his mother will restorethe feelings he had to-day, and draw him back from evil with cordsof love that cannot be broken. The good now implanted will remain,and, like ten just men, save the city. In most instances where menabandon themselves finally to evil courses, it will be found thatthe impressions made in childhood were not of the right kind; thatthe mother's influence was not what it should have been. For myself,I am sure that a different mother would have made me a differentman. When a boy, I was too much like Clarence; but the tendernesswith which my mother always treated me, and the unimpassioned butearnest manner in which she reproved and corrected my faults,subdued my unruly temper. When I became restless or impatient, shealways had a book to read to me, or a story to tell, or had somedevice to save me from myself. My father was neither harsh norindulgent towards me; I cherish his memory with respect and love;but I have different feelings when I think of my mother. I oftenfeel, even now, as if she were near me--as if her cheek were laid tomine. My father would place his hand upon my head caressingly, butmy mother would lay her cheek against mine. I did not expect myfather to do more--I do not know that I would have loved him had hedone more; for him it was a natural expression of affection; but noact is too tender for a mother. Her kiss upon my cheek, her warmembrace, are all felt now; and the older I grow, the more holy seemthe influences that surrounded me in childhood."
THE END.
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