Page images
PDF
EPUB

'And your exercise that is finished, I hope?' said Mrs. Harley when the meal was nearly over.

'Oh, dear! I forgot all about it,' answered the young idler in dismay. Then more cheerfully, 'But there's plenty of time-there's all the evening.'

'But there are your other lessons.'

'And you know we fixed to go and speak to James Barlow after tea,' said Harry.

'So we did; that was why I set to my work directly I got in. And I'll go; I can manage all I've to do very well afterwards, or in the morning.'

'I thought your exercise was so difficult,' said Mrs. Harley.

'Oh! I've looked well at the rule, and it won't be so bad, I think.'

And you are all ready for to-morrow, Harry?'

'Yes, mother; I worked up in my bedroom because he stopped, not liking to give the reason that if he had come down into the breakfast-room, usually given up to the boys of an evening for the preparation of their lessons, he knew he should have been perpetually interrupted by Clement, who, like any other idle person, not only loitered himself, but was a great hindrance to those about him.

"Then I think you had better go alone. and see James,' said Mrs. Harley to Harry. 'Clement must stay in and write his ex

[merged small][ocr errors][merged small]

morning, I will indeed, if you'll only let me go. You will, won't you?-there's a dear mother;' and his arms were round Mrs. Harley's neck and his rosy cheek pressed close to hers.

The lad's coaxing ways overcame her better judgment, and she yielded a reluctant consent. So Harry and Clement set off and made their arrangements with their friend, and when they came back their father was at home and kept them with him till their bedtime.

Remember to ask Ann to call you early to-morrow,' said Mrs. Harley, as Clement bid her good-night.

So Ann received strict injunctions in the matter, which she punctually carried out.

'Half-past six, Master Clement,' she called out the next morning, rapping sharply at the door of the boys' room. Repeated knocks bringing no answer, she went in and shook the little sleeper, till the lazy eyes opened, and the drowsy brain took in the unpleasant fact that it was time to get up.

'Don't go to sleep again,' advised Ann, with a parting shake. You'd better jump out of bed at once.'

That at once was an expression so often used to Clement, that perhaps he had grown callous to its force; at any rate it had no effect in the present case: he turned round on his pillow for one more little nap, and of course he did not wake again until

[ocr errors][merged small]
[graphic][merged small]
[graphic][merged small]
[blocks in formation]

MARTIN BLACK'S CHILDREN. (Concluded from p. 107.)

FA

ARMER WELLAND, one sunny morning in July, fell off one of his own hay- waggons, and seriously injured himself. Martin was passing by and helped to carry the poor fellow to the side of the road; he was insensible at first, but soon came round, and said he felt no pain, though he was unable to move or stand. The kind

landlady of The Oak,' close to which the accident happened, came out with offers of help, and sheltered the poor man from the hot sun, while Martin arranged with a crusty flyman who was taking a little boy

to school to delay a quarter of an hour, and help in conveying Farmer Welland home.

You'll look in a bit, till I get over this,' said the Farmer to Martin. I'm a lone man, you know, and have only old Betty to talk to.'

And Martin promised.

The farmer had lost his wife very soon after they were married, and since then, now ten years ago, he had turned melancholy, the villagers said, and cared little to converse with his fellow-men.

A pity, folks said, for he was young yet, barely forty, and might have married again. But this was not John Welland's way. He wanted no one to fill the place of his lost Mary. Martin himself was half surprised at the invitation to visit the farmer, but he gladly availed himself of it. Welland was a rich man for his position in life, and there was a good deal of real business to be done in the way of overlooking and account-keeping on his farm which would have suffered from neglect, so it became a regular custom for Martin to go up to the Red Farm when the children were in bed, and do what he could for the sick man. Often the business talk would shade off into something less hard and worldly, and by-and-by it came to pass that Martin had the story of the farmer's early sorrow, and was able to say the word of comfort that the sorely stricken heart needed.

'I never could speak of it to any but you,' said the farmer, with a sigh of relief; 'but somehow it came across me that you and Mary would have made friends over those orphans if she had lived, she was always one for children. I must do somewhat for them when I get round.'

But days went by, and Farmer Welland did not seem to get round, he had never had the doctor, always declaring that it was

but a shake he had had, and a few days' more rest would restore him; but now that the hay was all in, and the corn began to look red, he began to wonder why the strength did not return to his limbs.

A few days later and the village doctor was called in, and told him that he would never rise from his bed again.

Martin Black was now more than ever by John Welland's bedside, and it seemed to him that he did well in this case to let Mrs. Fortescue have the care of his little household while he tended the dying man.

Weak as he was, John Welland liked to lie by the open window whence he could see the old church with Mary's grave in the shadow; it did not disturb him either when the children's voices at play on the green would be heard in their shrill young gladness. For Welland had them much in his thoughts, that little flock of Martin's whom Mary might have held dear.

At his request Martin had one day | opened his Prayer Book at the Burial Service and read the opening sentences. Then Welland stopped him.

Nay, but that's true,' he said, we can carry nothing out of the world. I've often wanted to say a word to you, Martin, about my bit of money. I don't think I've done that good with it I might while I was about in the world. I was too down-hearted, and God forgive me for that; but I should like it to be of use, and I've willed it where I think it will do good. Remember that when you hear where it's gone. Mr. Fortescue has my will. And now go on, please, it'll not be long before they'll be reading that chapter when I can't listen to it.'

Welland was right. Before the air grew chill and keen with the early frosts he was in his grave. And the Red Farm, as well as all the worldly goods which once were John Welland's, were left to Martin Black.

'Having none near of kin left to me,' ran the words of the will, I leave all my possessions to Martin Black, only wishing on my death-bed that I had lived like him, caring for the poor.'

Martin was completely taken aback; such an event had never occurred to him as possible, even when he recalled Welland's mention of his will.

Here was wealth indeed, not to be refused.

But first he was almost alarmed at the bequest. Not for some time could he see that here was the answer to his prayer for guidance. God had willed that he should work in a wide sphere.

The orphans were moved to the Red Farm; their numbers were greatly enlarged, but still Martin kept his name of father, and still the little lads and lasses, as they grew up, laboured with their hands for daily bread.

Once again Martin Black's household excited attention, and he was advised to try new plans for its management, but he shook his head.

'I'm too old for fine ways,' he would say; they may be best, but they would. not suit me.'

And Martin Black's children as a rule turned out well, loving him first, the kind father who rescued them from misery and want, and afterwards the good Father in Heaven of Whom he daily spoke to them.

My story is ended now, the story of a poor man doing what he could for his brethren. Martin Black is rich now, but we may be sure that he who put his one talent to such good account will not be found wanting when God asks him as to those other talents given into his charge.

You who read, I pray you may learn somewhat from the tale of this poor deformed shoemaker. H. A. F.

'SWIFT TO HEAR.'

T. JAMES tells us that every one ought to be swift to hear, slow to speak' (i. 19); but this does not mean that we should do as the girl is doing in the picture, for she is being swift to hear' things that were not intended for her.

It is wrong to listen at cracks or keyholes. Such conduct is no better than thieving for it is as dishonest to steal people's words as to steal their pockethandkerchief. We should all be above such meanness, and never let our car be where we should not wish our ear to be seen. A common proverb says, 'Listeners never hear any good of themselves.' And even if this be not always true, at least listeners never ought to hear any good of themselves; for they are doing what is mean and wrong by listening to what is not intended for them.

But there are many times when we ought to be swift to hear.' We should be 'swift to hear' in church, when God's word is read and preached. Children ought to be 'swift to hear' in school, when their teachers are taking pains to teach them. They ought to be swift to hear' when their father or mother speaks to them; and they ought to be swift to do what they are told, even if it stops them in their play. They ought specially to be swift to hear when the still small voice' in their own breast speaks to them; for that voice is conscience, which is really God's Spirit telling them what is right and what is wrong. For all that we hear, even in right ways, without any eaves-dropping' (as dishonest listening is sometimes called), will not do us good for alas! the devil has his preachers in the world as well as God. So when you have been 'swift to

[ocr errors]
« PreviousContinue »