Read Ebook: No and Other Stories Compiled by Uncle Humphrey by Various

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Ebook has 176 lines and 12969 words, and 4 pages

It happened about six months after his introduction to such an entirely new course of life that he was invited one evening by his companion Boyd, to call on a friend with him. He had, on that day, received from his father forty dollars, with which to buy him a new suit of clothes and a few other necessary articles. He went, of course, and was introduced to a very affable, gentlemanly young man, in his room at one of the hotels. In a few minutes, wine and cigars were ordered, and the three spent an hour or so, in drinking, smoking, and chit-chat of no elevating or refined character.

"Come, let us have a game of cards," the friend at last remarked, during a pause in the conversation; at the same time going to his trunk and producing a pack of cards.

"No objection," responded Boyd.

"You'll take a hand, of course?" the new friend said, looking at Thomas Howland.

But Thomas said that he knew nothing of cards.

"O that's no matter! You can learn in two minutes," responded the friend of Boyd.

Young Howland felt reluctant, but he could not resist the influence that was around him, and so he consented to finger the cards with the rest. As they gathered around the table, a half-dollar was laid down by each of the young men, who looked towards Thomas as they did so.

"I cannot play for money," he said, coloring; for he felt really ashamed to acknowledge his scruples.

"And why not?" asked the friend of Boyd, looking him steadily in the face.

"Because I think it wrong," stammered out Howland, coloring still more deeply.

"Nonsense! Isn't your money your own? And pray what harm is there in your doing with your own as you please?" urged the tempter.

"But I do not know enough of the game to risk my money."

"You don't think we would take advantage of your ignorance?" Boyd said. "The stake is only to give interest to the game. I would not give a copper for a game of cards without a stake. Come, put down your half-dollar, and we'll promise to pay you back all you loose, if you wish it, until you acquire some skill."

But Thomas felt reluctant, and hesitated. Nevertheless, he was debating the matter in his mind seriously, and every moment that reluctance was growing weaker.

"Will you play?" Boyd asked in a decided tone, breaking in upon his debate.

"I had rather not," Thomas replied, attempting to smile, so as to conciliate his false friends.

"You're afraid of your money," said Boyd, in a half-sneering tone.

"It is not that, Boyd."

"Then what is it, pray?"

"I am afraid it is not right."

This was answered by a loud laugh from his two friends, which touched Thomas a good deal, and made him feel more ashamed of the scruples that held him back from entering into the temptation.

"Come down with your stake, Howland," Boyd said, after he had finished his laugh.

The hand of Thomas was in his pocket, and his fingers had grasped the silver coin, yet still he hesitated.

"Will you play, or not?" the friend of Boyd now said, with something of impatience in his tone. "Say yes, or no."

For a moment the mind of Thomas became confused--then the perception came upon him as clear as a sunbeam, that it was wrong to gamble. He remembered, too, vividly his father's parting injunction.

Both of his companions looked disappointed and angry.

"What did you bring him for?" he heard Boyd's companion say to him in an under tone, while a frown darkened upon his brow.

"I will be free!" he said, pacing his chamber backward and forward. "I will be free, hereafter! No one shall persuade me or drive me to do what I feel to be wrong."

WILLY AND THE BEGGAR GIRL.

"An apple, dear mother!" Cried Willy one day, Coming in, with his cheeks Glowing bright, from his play. "I want a nice apple, A large one, and red." "For whom do you want it?" His kind mother said. "You know a big apple I gave you at noon; And now for another, My boy, it's too soon." "There's a poor little girl At the door, mother dear," Said Will, while within His mild eye shone a tear. "She says, since last evening She's eaten no bread; Her feet are all naked And bare is her head. Like me, she's no mother To love her, I'm sure, Or she'd not look so hungry, And ragged, and poor. "Let me give her an apple; She wants one, I know; A nice, large, red apple-- O! do not say no." First a kiss to the lips Of her generous boy, Mamma gave with a feeling Of exquisite joy-- For goodness, whene'er In a child it is seen, Gives joy to the heart Of a mother, I ween-- And then led her out, where, Still stood by the door, A poor little beggar-girl, Ragged all o'er. "Please ma'am, I am hungry," The little thing said, "Will you give me to eat A small piece of bread?" "Yes, child, you shall have it; But who sends you out From dwelling to dwelling To wander about?" A pair of mild eyes To the lady were raised; "My mother's been sick For a great many days So sick she don't know me." Sobs stifled the rest And heaved with young sorrow That innocent breast. Just then from the store-room-- Where wee Willy run, As his mother to question The poor child begun-- Came forth the sweet boy, With a large loaf of bread, Held tight in his tiny hands High o'er his head. "Here's bread, and a plenty! Eat, little girl, eat!" He cried, as he laid The great loaf at her feet. The mother smiled gently, Then, quick through the door Drew the sad little stranger, So hungry and poor. With words kindly spoken She gave her nice food, And clothed her with garments All clean, warm and good. This done, she was leading Her out, when she heard Willy coming down stairs, Like a fluttering bird. A newly bought leghorn, With green bow and band. And an old, worn out beaver He held in his hand. "Here! give her my new hat," He cried; "I can wear My black one all summer-- It's good--you won't care-- "Say! will you, dear mother?" First out through the door, She passed the girl kindly; Then quick from the floor Caught up the dear fellow, Kissed and kissed him again, While her glad tears fell freely O'er his sweet face like rain.

THE GOOD SON.

Little Martin went to a peasant and endeavored to procure employment, by which he might be able to earn some money.

"Yes," said the peasant, "I will take you for a herds-boy, and if you are industrious, will give you your board and ten dollars for the whole summer."

"I will be very industrious," said Martin, "but I beg you to pay me my wages every week, for I have a poor father at home to whom I wish to carry all I earn."

The peasant, who was pleased beyond measure at this filial love, not only willingly consented, but also raised his wages much higher. Every Saturday the son carefully carried his money, and as much bread and butter as he could spare from his own mouth, to his father.

Children, love and gratitude Always please the wise and good, But contempt and hate from all, On the thankless child will fall.

THE SICK MOTHER.

A mother once lay very sick, and suffered great and constant pain. Her children were all very sad and melancholy, and the large ones often kneeled down together, and prayed that God would restore their mother to health once more.

The youngest child would stand all day by the bed of her mother, and with tearful eyes, anxiously inquire when she would be well and get up again. One day this little child observed a glass filled with some dark fluid standing by the sick bed, and asked, "Mother, what is this?" The mother answered, "My dear child, it is something very bitter; but I must drink it, that I may get well again." "Mother," said the good child, "if it is so bitter, I will drink it for you; then you will be well again."

And the sick mother, in all her pains, had the comfort and consolation of seeing how dearly all her children loved her.

Parents, joy and comfort find In a child that is good and kind; But their hearts are very sad, When the child they love is bad.

CORNELIA'S PRAYER.

Cornelia was the joy and pride of her parents, for she was a slender, graceful little creature, darting about like a young fawn, and her cheeks were as fresh and blooming as the young rose when it first opens to receive the dew. Added to this, she was blessed with a temper as sweet and serene as a spring morning when it dawns upon the blooming valleys, announcing a fair and delightful day.

Cornelia had never in her life known what it is to experience trouble and anxiety, for her youth had been all brightness and sunshine. But such freedom from all trials does not generally continue for a long time uninterrupted. And so it was with Cornelia. She was one day very much delighted at being shown a little brother with which her mother had presented her, but her joy was soon clouded by the severe illness of that mother. She lay many long days without noticing or appearing to know her little Cornelia, for her fever was strong, and her senses were continually wandering.

Cornelia was almost heart-broken at this, and they could scarcely persuade her to leave the bedside of her dear mother, for a single moment. She would entreat and implore until she won their consent that she should remain in the sick room; and then all night long would the affectionate little girl watch by her mother's bed, and attentively study her every want, wetting her parched lips and moving around her with the lightest and most anxious footsteps.

On the seventh day of her sickness the fever approached its crisis and there was deep silence in the little chamber, and stifled weeping, for every one thought that death was near.

But with the night came long absent slumber, and revived the almost dying mother, and seemed to give her back to life. What a season for Cornelia! Through the whole night she sat by the bed listening to her now soft and regular breathing, while hope and fear were struggling together in her bosom. When daylight appeared the mother opened her eyes, and turning them upon the anxious Cornelia, knew her. "I am better, my child," said she in a clear, but feeble voice, "I am better, and shall get well!" They then gave her drink and nourishment, and she went to sleep again.

What joy was this for the affectionate little girl! Her heart was too full for utterance, and she stole softly out of the chamber, and skipped out into the field, and ascended a hill near by, just as the sun was dawning. Here she stood her hands clasped together, and her bosom swelling with many contending emotions of pain and hope. Presently the sun arose and streamed over her face, and Cornelia thought of the new life of her mother after her reviving sleep, and the anguish of her own feelings. But she could not long shut up the flood of feeling within her own heart, and she knelt down upon blooming flowers with which the hill was covered, and bowing her face to the fragrant sod, her tears were mingled with the dew of heaven.

After a few minutes silence, she lifted up her head, and rising from the ground, returned to her home, and the chamber of her mother. Never before had there been so sweet and calm a loveliness on the face of Cornelia. It was a reflection of the peace and tranquility of her soul, for she had held communion with her God!

FORGIVENESS.

A friend with whom I was conversing a few weeks since, told me of a beautiful example of this Christian grace, even in a little child. It has often dwelt in my memory since, and perhaps some of my little readers may be induced to cultivate the same spirit, if I repeat it to them.

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