Then it was such a grand idea, this of founding an institution like the lady Maud had spoken of. What should it be—an orphan asylum, or a hospital for children, or a school for idiots like Johnny? All that money would be hers when she was twenty-five, and the great place at Rockside, and the two grand houses in Fifth Avenue that Aunt Julia had shown her. Perhaps she might turn Rockside itself into an asylum, to be called "The Bogardus Institute"; or should she call it "Amity Park"? Yes, that would be the best; then, when people asked the meaning of the name, they would be told that it was the name of the young lady who had given all her fortune to found this noble charity. The last phrase pleased Amity very much, for it sounded like something she had read.
The same evening Amity and Maud were standing together on the veranda. Amity had not seen Emma since their little tiff in the morning, but she had sought out Maud as soon as she returned from her afternoon ride with her grandfather.
"Perhaps I can do her some good," she had said to herself. "At any rate, I ought to show her that I don't mean to insult her, like Emma."
If any one had told Amity that she wanted to show how much better she was than Emma, Amity would have denied with scorn that she ever thought of such a thing.
As Maud and Amity were standing together, Emma came up to them, her cheeks very pink and her eyes looking brighter than usual, and a little as if the tears might be pretty near them.
"Maud," said she, winking rather hard, "I am sorry I mimicked you this morning, and spoke so about your mother. Please forgive me."
Maud stared a moment, as if she did not quite understand Emma's meaning. Then she laughed, not mockingly, but quite good-humoredly.
"My! That wasn't anything," said she. "I had forgotten all about it, and I didn't care anyway. I say a great deal worse things than that myself, very often. I couldn't think what you meant at first."
"Then you are not angry?" said Emma.
"No, not a bit. I am not so silly as that, I hope. I did not mind it at all and if I had, I should have got all over it by this time. I never can keep mad, if I try ever so hard. But anyhow, it is real sweet in you to come and say you are sorry—isn't it, Amity?"
"It is better to take care and not say things one has to be sorry for," said Amity. Somehow she did not feel pleased at all with the turn things had taken.
Her remark did not make Emma's task any easier, but she had come to do her duty, and she did it.
"And, Amity, I am sorry I laughed at you, and said you were like that horrid girl in the book. It was all true what you said, and I have been thinking about it ever since."
"If you are sorry, of course that is all about it," answered Amity, coldly; "only, another time I hope you won't be so ready to snap one up, that's all."
"Well now, Amity, I call that mean," said Maud, as Emma went slowly away, and entered the house.
"What is mean?"
"Taking Emma up that way, when she said she was sorry. I am sure it is more than I would have done, after what you said, and I don't set myself up to be pious either. I sha'n't forget it in a hurry. How lovely she looked, didn't she?"
"Handsome is that handsome does," replied Amity, quoting her grandfather's proverb. "She just wanted to make a scene."
"Amity, for shame!" said Maud, who had a good disposition, and might have been a good girl if she had been taught. "I don't believe she ever thought of such a thing."
"Of course you know all about it," said Amity, tartly.
"I don't know anything about it, nor you either," returned Maud. "You can't see inside of Emma's heart any more than I can. You know what we had in the Bible lesson only last Sunday—'Judge not, that ye be not judged' (Matt. 7:1)."
"It doesn't mean such things," said Amity.
"What does it mean then? I don't pretend to be pious—sometimes I think I should like to be."
"Then why don't you?" asked Amity, contemplating her, and thinking that here was a nice opening for the "talk" she had prepared to give Maud.
"Well, for several reasons. I wasn't brought up that way, for one thing; but if I were going to be pious, I would rather have Emma's kind than yours."
The "talk" did not seem possible after this very outspoken remark.
And when Maud said, "I am going to find Emma," Amity did not try to keep her.
THE KNITTING FINISHED.
ALL that evening Amity staid by herself, thinking over the wonderful and glorious things she would do when she was grown-up, and had her fortune in her own hands. She had not been given to thinking very much about this fortune, and therefore it had hitherto done her no harm; for it is not money, but "the love of money," which "is the root of all evil." But now she was thinking of it, and that in one of the most undesirable ways in the world, for she was considering how she should spend it, not for the glory of God and the good of others, but to increase her own consequence in the eyes of the world.
The result was that she quite forgot the cotton and needles she had promised to buy for Johnny, and came near forgetting his lesson in the morning. She was so late in coming that Mrs. Franklin sent a messenger to know if she meant to give the lesson.
"Of course I do," answered Amity, so shortly that her grandfather looked over his spectacles. "I only wish I had said I would come every other morning."
"It might have been as well," remarked her grandfather; "but you cannot very well change the plan now you have begun, especially as we go away so soon. But don't waste any more time, for I want you to go over to Albany with me at half-past twelve to meet Aunt Julia, and it is after nine now."
"I might miss the lesson for one morning," said Amity.
"No, no, don't do that: the poor little fellow will feel very much disappointed. And besides, a promise is a promise; remember that, little girl."
"I wish grandfather would not always call me a little girl, and before people too," said Amity to herself as she went along the hall and up the long stairs: "I am not such a baby as all that. And I don't see why he should care so much more for Johnny's comfort than mine. I do think, as Mrs. Wickford says, it is taking a great deal out of me to expect me to spend an hour every day with that poor little idiot."
Johnny was looking out for Amity, and his first eager words were, "Have you got the cotton, Amity?"
Amity was vexed at her own forgetfulness, and seized the first excuse that came to her mind. Now excuses are very dangerous things to handle for people who wish to speak the exact truth.
"I haven't got the cotton, Johnny, because I am going over to Albany to-day, and can get it so much better there."
Johnny's pale face flushed and his eyes filled with tears. Like other people of deficient mind, he was apt to set his heart very strongly on whatever was promised him. People who have the care of such persons cannot be too careful not to disappoint them.
"But you said you would get it—you said you would!" he repeated piteously. "And now you haven't brought it at all!"
"Hush, Johnny; don't cry, my dear," said Mrs. Franklin: "you will make your head ache. Amity will get your cotton in Albany, and that will be a great deal nicer."
"Of course it will," said Amity, feeling both vexed and ashamed. "And besides, you will be able to knit a great deal better when you have had another lesson. We will begin the towels to-morrow."
"'To-morrow' never comes," said Johnny. "It is always to-day, all the time. I don't see the use of talking about 'to-morrow' when it never is 'to-morrow.'" *
* This remark was really made by a child like Johnny.
"There is some truth in that," said Mrs. Franklin, smiling; then, in a low voice, she said to Amity, "Never mind—only don't disappoint him again. It is so hard to divert his mind from anything he has set his heart on, and especially anything that has been promised him."
"Well, come, Johnny, if you want to knit; I haven't any time to spare," said Amity, not in the pleasantest tone in the world. "Take care! You will have all your stitches off."
The sharp warning, as often happens brought on the very trouble it was meant to prevent. Johnny started nervously, and out came the needle. Johnny was not as well as usual, and he was already nervous and excited with waiting and with his disappointment. He dropped the work and began to cry.
"There now, don't cry," said Amity. "I will pick up the stitches, and you must be more careful another time. But do stop crying first of all!" she added, more sharply still, as Johnny sobbed. "I won't touch the work till you do. There is no earthly use in your being such a baby. Hush now!"
But for Johnny to stop crying when he once began was impossible, and the more Amity scolded him the more he cried. Till Mrs. Franklin, who had gone out, came back to find him utterly beside himself, sobbing and calling for "mamma" and "Aunty Franklin" by turns.
"You cannot do anything with him now," said Mrs. Franklin to Amity. "He will go on till he cries himself to sleep. I presume that will be the worst of it."
"I should think you would govern him, and not let him cry so," remarked Amity, vexed with herself, with Johnny, and everybody. "I don't believe it is any kindness to him to let him be so naughty and troublesome."
"Johnny is neither naughty nor troublesome," answered Mrs. Franklin, a good deal annoyed, for she was very fond of her poor little charge. "He is very good considering how many hindrances he has. Pray, Miss Amity, how would you go to work to govern a child with spinal and heart disease?"
"Anyhow, there is no use in my trying to do any more this morning," said Amity, as Johnny's sobs grew worse and worse; "and I must get ready to go to Albany with grandfather. Good-by, Johnny. I will buy your cotton in Albany, and if you will be good and not cry, I will begin your work to-morrow."
"Now you must not talk to me, my dear," said Judge Bogardus, when they were safely seated in the drawing-room car; "I have a paper to look over." So saying, he took from his pocket one of those long written papers which Amity was learning to know by sight, and Amity was left to her own thoughts.
They were not very pleasant. Amity had been brought up to speak the truth and to consider a lie one of the worst of sins; and as she looked back over the events of the morning, she could not but see that the excuse she had made to Johnny about the cotton was a false one. She had never thought of buying the cotton in Albany till that minute. She had forgotten all about it. Moreover, she had been cross and unkind to Johnny, and pert to Mrs. Franklin. In short, she had behaved like anything but a Christian.
"Well, I will buy his cotton, and that will make it true, and I will get him a pretty present beside. Let me see. I have four dollars that I meant for my sofa cushion like Mrs. Fairchild's, but the cushion can wait. I wonder if I could buy a little musical box for that. He would like it, I know, for he is so fond of music; and that would be giving up something, too, because I really want the cushion, and I shall not have any more money till next month. Yes, I will buy the music-box if I can find it, and if not, I will buy him a bird. That will do nicely."
Amity felt quite good as she made mind to sacrifice her cushion to Johnny, and the good feeling lasted till late in the evening, when they took the last train for Saratoga. Aunt Julia had not come after all. They had waited for her to the last minute, and then received a telegram that she would not arrive for two days more. Amity was tired and hungry. The car was too dark to read, and grandpapa was too sleepy to talk; so she had nothing to do but to think.
She had found a very pretty music-box for four dollars, and she had bought the cotton and some pretty wooden needles for Johnny beside, but somehow she did not feel satisfied. The lie she had told stuck in her conscience. You know you sometimes get a "pricker" in your finger, and do not feel it for some hours or even days. Then it begins to throb and burn, and unless you can get it out, you will have a bad time with it. Amity's false excuse was like the thorn. It had been quiet for a while, but now it began to trouble her. Conscience would persist in calling it by its right name, and in telling her that she had been unkind and unfaithful to the poor little motherless, helpless child, and perhaps had done him more harm than she would ever do him good. She had a very uneasy feeling as she remembered what Mrs. Franklin said about "heart disease." What if Johnny should die?
When a person has been brought up in the habit of listening to the voice of conscience, the habit is not easily broken up. That voice may be silenced or disregarded for a time, but in some interval of quiet it will make itself heard, and must be silenced a great many times before it ceases to speak whenever it has a chance. Now, as Amity sat in the quiet, half-lighted car, with nobody to talk to and nothing to look at but the lamps and the two or three gentlemen nodding in their chairs, her faults showed themselves to her in all their ugliness. She had been unkind to the poor, helpless little boy who loved her so dearly, she had broken a promise which she might just as well have kept, and she had told a lie to hide her own carelessness. Yes, a lie! She I called it by its right name now. She knew she could have bought the cotton in Saratoga just as well as in Albany, if she had not forgotten it.
But Amity had not yet gotten quite to the root of the thorn. She felt ashamed and sorry for her faults, and honestly asked for forgiveness, and for help to do better. Then she began to think how she had fallen into such trouble.
"It seems strange it should have come from my wanting to help Johnny!" she said to herself.
And then, all at once, as if some one had held a mirror up to her, she saw herself as she really had been for some days. She had not been thinking nearly so much of helping Johnny as of showing off herself—of showing how good and self-sacrificing she was—so much better than Maud, who cared for nothing but her fine white frocks and colored silk stockings—than Emma, who cared for nothing but play. She had been thinking how much better it was to be good, as she was, than to be dressy like Maud or beautiful like Emma. She had taken pains to have every one know that she spent an hour after breakfast teaching the little boy to knit, and she had been greatly "set up" in her own good opinion when the ladies praised her.
Then all those foolish dreams about setting up a hospital, and making her name famous—Amity could not think of them now without disgust. It had been her self—her own dear precious self—who was to be praised and glorified. Of her GOLDEN TEXT—of the motto which her friend Mrs. Paget had given her that day in the summer-house—she had never thought at all.
Amity buried her face in her hands, leaned her head against the side of the car, and cried bitterly. She had never been so ashamed and so unhappy in all her life.
"I wish I had never seen Johnny! I wish I had never come to Saratoga at all!" was her first thought. "But then I dare say I should have been just as bad anywhere else!" was her second. And she began to remember other cases where she had done things "to be seen of men."
It was a very sad two hours that Amity passed in the parlor-car that night, but it Was one of the most profitable evenings of her whole life. They were very late in reaching Saratoga, and Amity went straight to her own room. She was very tired and sleepy, and her head ached with sight-seeing and with crying, but she did not go to bed till she had kneeled down and confessed all her sin to her heavenly Father, and asked forgiveness in his name whose blood "cleanseth us from all sin" (1 John 1:7). Then feeling somewhat comforted she lay down to sleep, after she had taken from her bag the presents she had bought for Johnny, and set them on her dressing-table.
There was a good deal of moving about on the floor overhead, and once she thought she heard some one crying.
"I hope Johnny is not sick again!" she thought. "Poor dear little man! I will make it up to him somehow." And with this thought she fell asleep.
But Amity was to find, as so many other people have found, that it is not so easy to "make up." She slept rather late, and as soon as she was dressed, she took the little music-box which she had wound up, and the cotton, and went up to Johnny's room.
"I will take the things to him directly," she thought; "then he can amuse himself with them, and as soon as I have done breakfast, I will give him his lesson."
As she came into the hall where Johnny lodged, she was surprised to see that the door was open, and that several people were standing about it, among them Mrs. Wickford, who held up her finger as Amity drew near. Maud was leaning against her mother, with her face hidden, but Amity could see that she was crying.
"What is the matter?" asked Amity, in a half whisper. "Is Johnny worse?"
"Hush, my dear!" said Mrs. Wickford, in a low tone. "The poor little boy is very near the end of his troubles. He will not suffer much more."
Amity looked into the open door. Johnny was sitting up in bed, supported by Mrs. Franklin. The doctor was on one side of the bed, and Mr. Gordon, a minister who was staying in the house, stood on the other, with a book in his hand, as if he had been reading or praying. Johnny seemed to breathe with difficulty, but his cheeks were a little red, and his eyes had dropped the kind of veil which usually covered them, and looked bright and clear, as Amity had never seen them before.
Mrs. Franklin was crying quietly, and Johnny put up his little hand and stroked her cheek, as he did when he wished to express affection. As he did so, his eyes fell on Amity, and he smiled brightly.
"Come and speak to him, Amity," said Mrs. Franklin. "He has asked for you several times."
As Amity drew near, and bent over to kiss the little boy, the music-box which she held in her hand began to play.
"What is that?" asked Johnny, in a whisper, but clearly and distinctly.
"It is a music-box I brought you from Albany," said Amity, trying to speak calmly, though she felt as if she should choke. She held out to him the pretty toy, which was playing Beethoven's last waltz. Johnny took it in his hand and held it up to his face.
"Pretty, pretty!" said he. And then, with a great effort, he added, "I was cross yesterday—I am sorry."
"Don't, Johnny," said Amity, feeling as if this was more than she could bear. "It was I who was cross, not you. But I have got your cotton, and we will have a nice time knitting when you get better."
"I shall never get better," said Johnny. "I am going to mamma, and I am glad." Then, looking at Mrs. Franklin, he added, "The watch—Amity—you said I might, you know."
Mrs. Franklin put her hand under the pillow and took out a pretty gold watch, which she gave to Johnny. Johnny laid it in Amity's hand.
"It is yours—take it, Amity!"
"It is his mother's watch," explained Mrs. Franklin. "He wants to give it to you."
"Oh, I can't—I can't!" sobbed Amity, drawing back.
Johnny looked troubled.
"Take it, my dear—don't worry him," whispered the clergyman.
"Put it on," said Johnny, and he seemed pleased when she did so.
He lay still a few minutes longer listening to the music-box. Then he suddenly raised himself and stretched out his arms.
"Mamma!" he exclaimed, joyfully, and then, sinking back with a gentle sigh, he was gone!
That day's lesson was not lost on Amity, She had learned, by bitter experience, that it is not so easy to "make up" for unkindness and neglect. "That which is crooked cannot be made straight: and that which is wanting cannot be numbered" (Eccles. 1:15) or "made up."
"I feel as if I had killed him!" she said, later in the day, as she stood by Johnny's bedside. "Perhaps if I had not made him cry, he might have been alive now!"
"You must not feel so," replied Mrs. Franklin. "We have known for a long time that the poor child had but a little time to live. The doctor says it is a great wonder that he has lasted so long. He was not well yesterday morning, and that was the reason he cried so easily."
"And Amity was good to him, wasn't she?" said Maud, who had just come in with a box of beautiful flowers.
"Yes, she gave him a great many happy hours."
"I'm sure I wish I had ever done anything for him," continued Maud. "But I didn't. I wouldn't let him take my talking doll, and I called him 'an idiot.' Mrs. Franklin, won't you please take these flowers? I bought them with my own money. I felt as if I wanted to do something. I know one thing, anyhow," said Maud, as they walked away: "I never will call any one names again. I suppose we ought not to wish Johnny back, because he is a great deal better off; but I can't help wishing I could see him long enough to tell him how sorry I am."
"You will have to tell it to the Lord, as I did," said Amity, softly.
————————
"And what kind of a girl has Amity turned out?" asked Mrs. Paget of Miss Julia, when they met in Europe.
Miss Julia, however, was not Miss Julia now. She was the wife of an American embassador. Mrs. Paget had been abroad for some years.
"Amity! Oh, she is just the same homely little round-about thing she was at twelve years old. She has not changed at all."
"I did not think she would ever be handsome," remarked Mrs. Paget; "but how is she in other respects. Is she bright?"
"Why, I hardly know what to say. She is a good deal of a reader, and likes steady plodding work like mathematics. She is wonderfully industrious, too—always busy about something. She keeps house now, and really, for one so young, she manages uncommonly well. She is a great deal better at accounts than ever I was, and keeps the house cheerful and pleasant. Then she makes herself useful in the church—teaches in Sunday-school, looks after poor folks, and has a great sewing-class. She is always knitting babies' socks, or a shawl for some old woman, or a comforter for some urchin in her class. That is her style of fancy work."
"She must keep herself pretty busy."
"Oh, she does; but then she likes that sort of thing. To do her justice, she does not make any parade of her deeds, like some people I could name. She never seems to think of herself in connection with them."
"She must have made a very nice woman, by your description, Julia."
"Oh yes, indeed she is. A more dutiful child than she is to father could not be. But she does not care at all for general society, and would rather stay at home and make babies' shoes than go to the best opera that ever was performed. In short, she is a good, honest, homely little body, but she will never make any figure in the world, with all her advantages. She really has no talent—none at all."
image003
"Phil's Pansies."—Frontispiece."If you please, Miss, these are yours," said Phil.
PHIL'S PANSIES.
A GOLDEN TEXT STORY.
BY
LUCY ELLEN GUERNSEY
AUTHOR OF
"IRISH AMY," "OPPOSITE NEIGHBORS," "TWIN ROSES," ETC.
—————————"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shalt find it after many days."—Eccles. 11:1.—————————
PHILADELPHIA:
AMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,
NO. 1122 CHESTNUT STREET.—————————NEW YORK: 8 & 10 BIBLE HOUSE, ASTOR PLACE.CHICAGO: 73 RANDOLPH ST.
———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1880, by theAMERICAN SUNDAY-SCHOOL UNION,In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
PHIL'S PANSIES.——————
THE SEEDS.
MISS ISABEL had been taking great pains with her class that day. She had walked down to Sunday-school, more than a mile, in the rain to meet her scholars, and she was expecting to walk home again. She had spent much time in studying the lesson herself, and she had noted down some things which she hoped the boys would like to hear. The "Golden Text" of the lesson was this:
"Cast thy bread upon the waters: for thou shall find it after many days" (Eccles. 11:1).
Miss Isabel had been telling the boys of the custom to which this verse referred, and of which, as it happened, none of them had ever heard. She told them how, in some parts of the world, there was very little rain, and the lands were watered by streams from some neighboring river or reservoir; how the farmers scattered their grain on the surface, and then, as the water sank into the ground, how the seed was buried and took root and grew; and so, after many days, the farmer found his "bread" again in the shape of ripe, waving grain, ready for the harvest.
You might think the boys would have been pleased to hear such a story as this, and that they would have listened and remembered, when she told them of what the seed cast on the waters was meant to represent; namely, the word of God, and the other means of doing good which he has placed in our hands, and which we must use at the right time and in the right way, even though our doing so should seem as hopeless work as throwing seed into the water.
But Horace Maberly had his head full of a boating frolic, which he meant to tell the boys about after school, and Harry Merton was thinking whether his aunt meant to ask him home to dinner with her, and John Drayton was watching a wasp, and the others had their heads full of nothing but idleness,—all but one. Phil O'Connor listened with all his ears, and they were very large ones, and what was better with all his heart and soul; and when Miss Isabel stopped talking, he ventured to ask a question. It was the first time he had spoken a word in the class, and he was a good deal scared at the sound of his own voice, but he kept on:
"Please, Miss Isabel, suppose you haven't any seed and no place to plant any?"
The other boys stared at Phil, and Horace laughed rather rudely, but Miss Isabel turned to him with a smile. She had been feeling tired and sad, and it was a real pleasure to perceive that one of the class at least had listened.
"I don't think that ever happens, Phil," said she. "God gives every one of us some kind of seed to sow, and some kind of a place to sow it in. It may be a very small, narrow corner that we have to cultivate; but if we work faithfully at that he is sure to give us more. We can all speak kindly to some one, or give some one a little help, or take some hindrance out of their way. A very poor old man once gave a boy poorer than himself a pair of old shoes to wear, that the boy might go to church and Sunday-school. The shoes had holes in them. The old man was fond of his coffee for breakfast, but he went without a whole week that he might have the money to get the shoes mended. The boy went to Sunday-school, where he learned to read and love his Bible, and he afterward became a useful and learned Christian minister. That was a very little bit of seed—a pair of old shoes—and see what a great crop it bore."
"And suppose the boy's mother had sold the shoes for whisky, as the woman did whose girl mother fixed up last winter, what would have become of the seed then?" asked Horace, in rather a sneering tone.
"Sure, 'twould have done the old gentleman himself good, anyhow!" answered Phil, eagerly. "Wouldn't it, Miss?"
"You are right, Phil," said Miss Isabel. "The Lord says that he who gives even a cup of cold water in his name shall in no wise lose his reward, and that we are to do good and lend, hoping for nothing again, and our reward shall be great in heaven."
"A man wouldn't make much money that way, I guess," said Horace Maberly, who was taught at home that the chief good of life was money.
"I don't remember any place in the Bible where we are told that it is our duty to make a great deal of money do you?" asked Miss Isabel. "St. Paul says we are to be diligent and work with our hands, in order that we may be able to give to him that lacks, and also that we may not be burdensome to others, but we are nowhere told that it is our duty to be rich."
Horace looked a good deal vexed. In his home, money was the great thing thought about and talked about. His father had become very rich within a few years, and Horace thought himself a great person in consequence. He could not see how it was that Miss Isabel, whose own father was richer even than Mr. Maberly, should seem to care no more for him than she did for Harry Merton, or even for little Phil O'Connor.
"Well, I don't know what seed I can sow," said Phil, sighing.
"Think about it a little, and maybe you will find some," said Miss Isabel.
Just then the superintendent's bell rang, and the school was closed.
Phil did not stay to church, though he would have liked to do so. He remembered that probably granny was alone, and she might want something. His mother would be sure to be at home in the evening, and he could come down to the prayer meeting. It would be sowing a little bit of good seed, he thought, if he went and waited on granny, instead of leaving her alone all the morning.
Phil had sown another seed of which he never thought. He had cheered up his teacher's heart, and given her new faith and courage. Here was at least one, Miss Isabel said to herself, who listened to what she said, and made an effort to understand it. The others had not seemed to care. She wondered what made the difference. They were all bright boys enough, and gave her very little trouble; but, somehow, they had no interest in the lessons. She could not make them see that the words they learned and recited had any relation to themselves. A very little excuse kept them away from school, and she was rather surprised at seeing so many of them together that rainy day. I think myself that they came to hear about the boating party which was to take place the next day.
Miss Isabel had for some time cast her bread upon the shallow or muddy waters of their minds with rather a heavy heart. She almost thought she would give up the class, and let some one else take it and try what could be done. But as she walked home in the rain that day—for the coachman was sick, and there was nobody at home who could drive—she felt her heart lighter, and she made up her mind to work and pray a while longer.
Phil's father was dead, and his mother and he lived with his grandmother in "Irishtown." Irishtown was not pretty like the rest of Rockside and Brookvale, though it was built on the side of a rocky hill where there were evergreen trees, and a pretty little brook, and such beautiful views as many a rich man would give thousands of dollars for. The houses were rickety and dirty, with broken windows which were stuffed sometimes with rags or old hats. There were no gardens about them, and many of the people threw their slops and refuse out on the top of the ground to rot in the sun and poison the air, and breed showers of flies to torment the children and sick people. There were plenty of sheltered spots and hollows among the rocks where the sun shone, and the soil was fertile, and these refuse things might have been dug into the ground where they would have helped to raise vegetables and flowers; but nobody thought as far as that.
Granny O'Connor could not be called poor, like many of her neighbors. She owned the land on which her house was built, instead of being a mere squatter on some other person's ground. She owned a cow, too, and a pig, and some chickens. She was too old and infirm to work herself, but her daughter-in-law, Phil's mother, went out washing five days in the week, and was well paid. Fanny, Phil's sister, had lately gone to a good place where she was to have a dollar a week, and more after a while if she made herself useful.
Phil was the youngest of the family, and had never been set to any harder work than watching the cow as she fed in the lanes and by the roadsides, and feeding the pig. Sometimes he went to the places where his mother washed, and carried away the slops from the kitchens for the pig and cow; but his chief business was to wait on the cow and on granny, who was growing very feeble and helpless.
As Phil had expected, he found granny alone, his mother having gone to gossip with some of her neighbors after being at mass in the morning. That was the way she kept Sunday. Granny had fallen asleep in her chair; the fire was nearly out; the ashes were scattered over the stove, hearth, and on the floor, and the room looked and felt forlorn and dismal. A few months before, Phil would not have minded these things, but he was learning how other people lived. When he went into the kitchens where his mother washed, and saw how neat and pleasant they were, he wished they could have things like that at home.
"It looks enough to break one's heart," said Phil to himself. "I might as well have stayed, after all."
And then he bethought himself that here was a chance for putting in practice of the things he had heard that morning. He found a broom, and swept up the floor and the hearth; made up the fire, and put on some water. When it was hot, he washed and put away the dirty dishes, which his mother had left standing, and would have left for a week if she had not happened to want them again, wiped off the table and the hearth—both with the same cloth—and put the room in the best order he could.
He then filled the tea-kettle, and set it on the stove, and began washing and paring some potatoes. Presently he saw that the old woman was awake and watching him. Granny was far more neat and economical than her daughter-in-law, and fretted not a little over the dirt and disorder she was too feeble to help, and therefore had to endure.
"Sure you're as handy as any girl, and better than most," said she. "You've made the place look as fine as a pin. But why didn't you stay to church, dear?"
"I thought you might be alone and want me, granny."
"It's your granny's own boy you are!" said the old woman, fondly. "And did you have a good time at your school?"
"Yes, granny, and Miss Isabel gave me a nice book to read. Just look at the pictures."
"Miss Isabel? Sure, she's a good young lady entirely, and like the rale old gentry I used to work for at home. 'Tis a fine thing for you to have her for a teacher."
"I wish I could go to school week days again," said Phil, as he popped his potatoes into the pot. "I'm afraid I'll forget all that I learned."
"I'm thinking about that same myself," said granny.
"I don't see how I can, though," pursued Phil, still busy about his cooking. "What would we do about the cow?"
"Well, well, we'll see. Don't you fret. It'll all come round right. Sure, you're my own boy and all my comfort in life. It's myself and your father, that's in glory this minute, you take after, and not your mother's folks at all, at all. Them Mehans were always a shiftless set, not that I'm faulting your mother, dear. Considerin' her bringing up, she does wonderful; and she's kind to the old woman, too. But come now, sit down and read to me a bit out of the Bible. Them old ancient histories is wonderful entertaining."
As Phil saw how pleased his granny was with his care for her, he felt as if one of his seeds had come up already. He was not quite sure that her way of looking at Scripture was the right one, but he was glad to get her to hear it at all. He turned to the history of Joseph, and read several chapters before his mother came home to dinner.
SEEDS BY THE WAYSIDE.
THE next morning when Phil waked, he heard what seemed to be a lively discussion going on down in the kitchen, which was also the parlor and dining-room.
"Shure, the child's got learning enough for the likes of him already!" he heard his mother say. "Wasn't yourself saying yesterday he could read like a priest?"
"But he can't write, Mary—not to speak of. I'd like him to have a real good education, and you know, dear, it costs nothing with the free schools they have."
"Oh, well! Just as you like, granny dear," said easy-going Mary. "He's your own boy, and you can bring him up to suit yourself. It's a good boy he is, anyhow. But I must be start-in' out, or I'll be late at Mrs. Maberly's."
Phil hurried down stairs, but his mother had already gone. She took her breakfast where she washed, but she had got ready some tea, milk, and potatoes for her mother-in-law and Phil, whom she loved, as she would have said, "with all the veins of her heart."
With all the dirt and carelessness and waste of the household, there was more real love and comfort within its walls than in many a fine house kept in the best manner. But then, Mary might have been just as good-natured without leaving the potato parings in a heap on the floor by the stove, and her Sunday gown in another heap on a chair for the cat and kittens to make a bed of, spoiling it more than a year's careful wear and putting away would have done.
Phil, however, was used to his mother's heaps, and did not mind them. Granny did mind, but she could not help herself, and did not let her daughter-in-law's ways make her unhappy for more than a few minutes at a time. Phil hung up the gown, picked up the potato skins and gave them to the cow, and then sat down to breakfast. Looking at his grandmother as he gave her her cup of tea, he saw that she had been crying.
"Has anything happened, granny?" he asked.
"No, dear; just nothing at all. I was thinking of old times, that's all. An old woman will have her thoughts."
"You are sure it isn't anything else? Have your pains come on again? Shall I go to the doctor for some medicine?"
"Well, you might just take the bottle down if you like. It's well to have it on hand; and as you go step into Mrs. Barnard's, and tell Mr. Regan I'd like to speak to him if he can spare the time to come round."
Phil made haste to finish his breakfast. He washed up the dishes, put the house to rights, and set within reach of granny's chair everything she was likely to want, that she might be spared the pain of moving. Then he washed his own face and hands, and "made himself decent" to go to the town.
He liked any business which took him down to Rockside, and he still better liked calling at Mrs. Barnard's. He was sure to meet the lady herself in her flower garden, and to have a kind word from her. He liked to walk down through the grounds, and peep through the windows of the green-house to see the strange and lovely flowers that grew there. All this was very pleasant.
Phil did not think of being envious or unhappy because none of these fine things belonged to him. It seemed to him quite natural that some people should have fine houses and gardens, and others should live in tumble-down houses, as at Irishtown, and have no gardens at all. He did his errand at the doctor's first, to make sure of finding him at home.
"Do you think granny will ever be well, sir?" he asked, when he had told the doctor just how granny was, and received directions to get the same medicine as before.
"Why, no, not well exactly," said the doctor, kindly. "You see granny is an old woman, and we can't make a mill to grind old people young again. But I presume that as the warm weather comes on, she will be much better, and be able to get about the house and out of doors once more."
Cheered by these words, Phil turned toward home. As he drew near a pretty little cottage on the street where the doctor lived, he saw a young lady come to the gate and empty a quantity of little folded papers from the pocket of her linen gardening apron into the road.
As she went back into the house, Phil stopped and picked up some of the papers to see what they were. They turned out to be little bags which had once held flower seeds. The young lady had planted most of the seeds, but as Phil felt the papers, he found that almost every one had three or four seeds left in it, and one, marked on the outside "Viola tricolor," was quite full, though it had been opened like the others.
"I wonder why did she throw that away?" said Phil to himself, as he stuffed the papers into his pocket and went on his way. "Maybe they wasn't a good kind. Anyhow, I mean to plant them and see what they turn out. There's the corner back of the cow-shed at the foot of the rock, where the wild flowers come out so early. There's a bit of a fence now, and I could mend it up with poles and things. Enough of those are lying round the place to fence an acre. I don't see why I shouldn't have a garden as well as any of them."
Phil's head was so full of his garden that he came near passing Mrs. Barnard's place without going in, but he recollected himself and hurried in at the gate. As he expected, Mrs. Barnard was at work among her flowers.
"Is that you, Phil?" she asked, pleasantly. "How is your granny?"
Phil answered the question, and then asked for Mr. Regan.
"Regan is in the green-house," was the answer; "you can go in and speak to him if you wish."
This was a pleasure Phil did not expect, though he had often longed to find himself within those curious glass walls. It was with great delight that he breathed the warm, damp, spicy smell of the green-house, filled with geraniums, roses, and all sorts of plants, some of which, Phil thought, must have come straight from Fairy-land.
"I'll step round this evening," said Regan, when Phil had delivered his message. "Did she say what she wanted of me?"
"No, sir, only that she wanted to spake to you. What a beautiful place! Shure, I'd like to be a gardener like yourself, Mr. Regan!"
"It's the sweetest trade and the wholesomest trade in the world, besides being the oldest," said Regan. "Adam was a gardener, you know."
"Adam got into lots of trouble, though," said Phil.
"Yes, through keeping bad company, and not minding his work. You can stay and help me a bit if you like; I'm full of business this morning."
Phil knew he could be spared for an hour longer at least, and the time passed very happily in handing Mr. Regan the large pots he wanted to use, and piling away the small ones.
"You're a handy boy," said the gardener. "Here, you may have this fine red geranium to carry home if you like. Take care of it, and you'll have flowers all summer."
Phil was delighted not only with the present but with the kindness, for Mr. Regan was a great man in his eyes. He ventured to ask a favor.
"Please, sir, would you tell me what kind of flowers these make?"
"Viola tricolor—Pansy," read Mr. Regan from the parcel Phil gave him. "Well, some of them are like this, and this," pointing out some plants growing in the cold frame outside the door. "There's a great many kinds of them. Where did you get them?"
"I found them in the street along with these others," said Phil, producing the rest of the parcels. "They've all got a few seeds in them, and I thought I'd try to plant them."
"Dig up your ground well and put in plenty of manure, not too new, and you're sure to have them grow, only be careful to make your soil fine enough. You get it ready and I'll take a look at it when I come round to-night, and show you how to plant the seeds."
"Granny," said Phil, when he had given his messages and the bottle of medicine, and told his grandmother how he had been employed, "can't I have a garden of my own? There's that warm bit behind the cowhouse, where the violets come so early. Why can't I dig it up and make a little garden?"
"There's nothing in life to hinder, if you want to do the work," answered granny. "Your father used to have a garden bit in that very spot, and raise radishes and what not. You'll find all his tools up in the garret if you want them. But the fence is all down, isn't it?"
"Not so but I can mend it up again," said Phil. "I didn't mean a real garden though—only a bed for flowers and maybe some radishes or the like. I can dig up the ground and mend the fence and plant my seeds before it's time to take the cow out, and then they'll be growing while we're sleeping. Mr. Regan said he'd show me how to plant the seed. I'd like to be a gardener when I'm grown-up, granny. I think it is so nice all among the trees and plants; better than working in the dusty, woolly carpet factory, or in the hat factory among the dyestuffs and smells."
"Thrue for you, dear; I'd like it better for ye. Them factories isn't very healthy, they say."
"And it's a good trade too," continued Phil. "Mr. Regan gets large wages I know, and Mrs. Barnard thinks everything of him."
"And well she may. There, go and dig in your garden if you like."
"Granny's got something on her mind," thought Phil as he climbed to the garret where he slept, and turned over a great heap of mostly useless lumber to find the tools he wanted. "I wonder what it is. Here's the things at last—spade, rake, and hoe—good luck to me. I'll want the hatchet too, so I'd best take it along."
Phil would have liked to go at once to digging, but his own common sense told him that there would be no use in making a garden for the neighbors' pigs to run over, so he set to work on the fence first. It was hard, tiresome work for one not very large boy, and more than once he was tempted to give it up. But the thought of his flower seeds and of what Mr. Regan would say gave him courage. He only stopped long enough to cook his own and granny's dinner, and by night he had made a pretty good fence and dug up part of his ground. It was the hardest day's labor of his life, but he felt rewarded when Mr. Regan looked over his work and declared that he had made a very good beginning.
"I'll give you a bit of a vine to run up on the rock here, and some morning-glories and scarlet beans. Oh! You'll have a fine garden if you take pains. But then you must remember that a garden is a thing that can't be just made and left. You've got to work at it every day, and pull up the weeds just as fast es they show themselves, or else they'll get ahead of you.
"Well, Mrs. O'Connor, I've looked at the cow all over, and I think I can in conscience advise Mrs. Barnard to take her at the price. She is a nice creature, and we know the stock she comes of. I'll let you know in two or three days."
"Why, granny, do you mean to sell the cow?" asked Phil, in great surprise.
He knew how much granny thought of Crummie, and with how much reason. Crummie was a nearly pure-blooded Jersey cow. Her mother had been given to granny many years before by a lady whom she had nursed in a very bad fever, and was of the best breed. Crummie might have been sold many times over, but granny had always refused to part with her.
"Well, yes, dear, I think I will," said granny. "You see what with me being helpless and your mother away all day, the poor thing don't get the best of care, and our milk customers is mostly fell off. I sha'n't be here long, anyhow, and I'd rather know she had a good home with a kind lady like Mrs. Barnard, than think she'd maybe grow old or go dry, and then be sold to a drover. And, besides, if there's no cow to tend, what will hinder your going to school? But don't you say a word till we see what the lady says. I don't want this one and that one coming and talking to me about it."
"But if you feel so bad about it," said Phil, seeing granny wipe her eyes.
"Oh, never mind that, my dear. I'd be hard-hearted not to feel bad for the poor creature that I brought up from a baby, as I might say. But she'll be real well off with Mrs. Barnard."
"She'll have an elegant stable," said Phil. "Their barn is nicer than many houses, and as neat as a new pin."
"It isn't the elegant stable I'm thinking of," said granny. "The Maberlys have got that and more, and it's not to them I'd be selling a cow of mine. It's the care and the kindness, and not the fineness, that makes cows happy as well as children. Come, get your book and read me a bit to cheer me up a little before I go to bed."
THE WEEDS.
IN two or three days' time the bargain was completed about the cow. Mrs. Barnard paid a good price for her, and Phil went with Mr. Regan, at his granny's desire, to put the money in the savings bank at Rockside. He was also allowed to lead Crummie to her new home, and give her her first meal in the fine cowhouse.
The poor thing was very unhappy and homesick at first, and lowed so pitifully when Phil left her that he had to go into the barn and cry a little.
"Don't you grieve, little boy," said John, the coachman. "She'll soon be wonted and as happy as ever she was."
"I know it," answered Phil, wiping away his tears; "but you see I've known her so long, and tended her every day since I was old enough."
"And that's true, and I don't blame you for not liking to part with her. But look here, didn't I hear your granny was wanting a cat?"
"Yes, sir. Our old gray died two or three days ago."
"Well, you may have your pick of these, or take two if you want them," said John, showing Phil an empty manger where some kittens by sleeping all coiled up in a warm, furry heap. "Maybe you'd better take two. They will be company for each other, and you can give one away when they grow older."
Phil was delighted. He chose a tabby, and a black kit with a white nose and white feet.
"When can I take them?" he asked.
"Now, if you like. The cat has weaned them so they won't miss her. That is the way to have a nice, clean, useful cat, to let the mother bring them up herself."
"Shure, it stands to reason she would know best," said Phil, admiring and stroking the kittens, while John hunted up a basket to put them in. "Won't granny be pleased though? She says the house don't seem like home without a cat in it."
Granny was as much pleased as Phil had hoped she would be. The two kits soon made themselves at home, and were as happy and playful as possible.
It was now settled that Phil was to go to school, but he was obliged to wait till he could get some new clothes, his old ones being quite unfit. Even his Sunday suit was growing shabby, and it was decided that he should take this into every-day wear, while on Saturday his mother would go with him to the village and buy him an entire new suit with some of the money that had come from the sale of the cow.
Meantime, Phil worked in his garden and got it all in nice order. He had seen how Mr. Regan planted his seeds, putting down a flower-pot to mark an exact ring, and then marking a little trench for the seeds more or less deep according to their size. He made the mould very fine and picked out all the stones, just as his friend had done; for Phil not only had bright eyes to see, but good brains behind them to think and remember.
He had at last sowed all his seeds, and stood, looking at the ground with great delight, when he was startled by hearing granny's voice. The old woman was getting better with the warm weather, as the doctor had said she would, and she had crept out, with the help of her cane, to see what Phil was about.
"It's a nice little garden you've made, dear. And what have you got planted in all these places?"
"Flower seeds, granny—the seeds I picked up in the street, you know—and some morning-glories and scarlet runners that Mr. Regan gave me. This bed is the pansy seed. I'll have a lot of them, the bag was full."
"I'm not just clear about them seeds," said granny; "I mistrust you ought to have gone in and asked the young lady did she mean to throw them away."
Phil was a little vexed. He had "mistrusted" the same thing himself more than once; but then he wanted so very much to see what the flowers would be like.
"Anyhow, we can't help it now, they are in the ground," said he. "Mr. Regan said maybe she didn't think they were a good kind. The gentlemen and ladies are very particular what they have in their gardens. Mr. Regan was looking at the daisies he had in a 'cold frame,' he called it, the day I was up to see the cow. There was a good many that had a little bit of yellow in the middle. I thought they were as pretty as any, but he said he should only plant out the double ones, and I might have as many of the others as I liked. I'm going down to get them this very day. Haven't I made the fence good and tight? I put that bush at the top so the chickens couldn't fly over. See, the morning-glories and runners are planted down here, so when they grow they can run all over it."
"And that's a good plan too. But if you are going so far, you might step on to the village and get me some more medicine. The last did me a deal of good. There's fifty cents to pay for it, and you may have the change for yourself."
Phil undertook the errand with a very good will. He left his basket at Mrs. Barnard's, and went down town. Mr. Ryan, the nurseryman, had just brought in a wagon load of blossoming plants, and Phil stopped to look at them. They were geraniums, verbenas, plants with red and yellow and dark brown leaves like velvet, and a great many more of what are called "bedding-out plants."
A lady was also looking at the plants, and Phil listened with great interest to hear what she and Mr. Ryan were saying, as she took up one and another.
"Are all these hardy?" asked the lady.
"Oh yes, ma'am. These are all bedding-out plants. This coleus is new, and one of the finest we have."
"How much do they cost?"
"From a dollar to a dollar and a half a dozen," was the answer. "From twelve to fifteen cents each, if we sell them singly."
The lady selected a few of the plants, saying she would look over her list and see what more she needed. She then asked for some flower seeds, and followed Mr. Ryan into the shop. Phil stood looking at the plants. Oh, if he could only have even one of those lovely velvety-leaved things! He knew just where he could set it, and how beautiful it would be all summer long, But fifteen cents! He had not so much in the world. Granny had said he might have the change from the fifty-cent piece, but that would be only five cents.
Suppose he should not pay for the medicine. He knew Mr. Eddy, at the drug store, would trust him, because he had done so before when granny was so sick. Then he could buy two or three plants of various kinds. But what would granny say when she knew it? She was, as Mr. Regan said, "honest as daylight," and nothing vexed her so much as a debt. She had more than once scolded his mother for buying even such things as sugar and tea on credit, and had declared that she would sell her place and go to the hospital or almshouse sooner than run into debts which she might never be able to pay.
"She need never know it!" whispered the tempter in Phil's ear. "You can earn the money somehow and pay the bill at the druggist's. You can save the money off your new clothes and pay it that way. You can tell her Mr. Regan gave you the plants."
"She's sure to speak about it the first time she sees him," said Phil to the tempter.
"She is old and forgetful," answered the tempter. "Come, you had better buy the plants now. They will be gone by Saturday perhaps, and then you will be sorry. Come, let us at least go in and ask the price. That can do no harm."
That is the way the tempter almost always acts. "That can do no harm," he says. "Let us just go a step further," and so he leads people on, till the way down hill grows so steep that they need no more leading, but run head-long down.
Phil followed the tempter into Mr. Ryan's shop, and then all at once he saw who had been leading him, and what he had been going to do. What was it that opened his eyes so suddenly? Just the sight of Miss Isabel in her pretty gray dress and India striped shawl, the very dress she had worn on Sunday, buying seeds at the counter. Just the sight of her made Phil open the eyes of his conscience and see what he was going to do. What would Miss Isabel think? What would his heavenly Father think?
"Miss Isabel won't know," said the tempter, making a last effort.
"But God will," said Phil, and then the tempter went away for that time.
"Why, Philip, is this you?" said Miss Isabel kindly. "How do you do, and how is you grandmother this fine weather?"
Phil answered her questions, and then yen. Lured to ask one for himself.
"Please, Miss Isabel, what kind of seeds can I buy for five cents that will make sweet-smelling flowers?"
"Why, let me see. You might have mignonette, or sweet alyssum, or sweet peas."
"Is it sweet peas that are so many different colors—pink and white and purple?" asked Phil eagerly.
"The very same. I think you will like them best. Mr. Ryan, how many sweet peas can you afford to give this little boy for five cents?"
"Oh, quite a good handful," said Mr. Ryan, taking a little bag and filling it from a drawer that stood open. "There, that will make you a fine row, and very nice ones they are. Only if you want plenty of new flowers, you must keep cutting the old ones. Flowers mostly, madam, are like the riches of the man in the 'Pilgrim's Progress,' perhaps you remember:
"'A man there was, though some did count him mad,The more he cast away, the more he had.'"
"True," said Miss Isabel. "So you have a garden, Philip. I must come and see it some day."
Phil paid for his seeds, and after buying his granny's medicine, he went on his way home. Perhaps you think the tempter let him alone after being defeated. Not at all. All the way home, he kept whispering, "How silly you were! You might just as well have bought the plants as not. Nobody would have known it." And Phil was just silly enough to listen to him, and let himself be put out of humor.
The daisies with which Mr. Regan filled his basket were just as pretty as they had been before, but somehow they looked like mean little weeds compared to the plants he had seen at Ryan's. He almost thought he would not set them out at all. He looked at the plants in the green-house and stopped to watch Mr. Anderson's gardener planting the odd-shaped flower beds in the lawn, and thought how small and rough his own little garden looked by the side of this grand place; why the very bed the gardener was filling with red geraniums was larger than his whole garden. What was the use of poor people trying to do anything?
It was in a very bad humor that Phil arrived at home, and found granny sitting on the bench in the sunshine. She exclaimed over the daisies; they were just such as used to grow in the old country, she said, and the sight of them warmed her very heart.
"'Twas very kind, entirely, to give them to you," said she.
"No such great kindness," answered Phil, rather shortly; "he was going to throw them away if I hadn't taken them. But I suppose they are good enough for poor folks."
"It's likely they are, seeing who made them," answered the old woman, quietly. "Who did you see down town?"
"Nobody but Miss Isabel. Has any one been here?"
"Yes, Horace Maberly. His mother wants Mary to go up and help the cook Saturday. It's a grand dinner they are to have."
"Just so she can't buy my new clothes!" said Phil. "It is just my luck. Everything goes wrong that I want to do."
"Take care it isn't yourself that's going wrong," said granny. "It is in a bad humor you are this afternoon. What's happened to you?"
Phil turned away without reply, and taking up his basket went to his garden. As he turned round the corner of his house, he started and ran as fast as he could go. The little gate which he had contrived with so much pains and fastened with so much care was open. An old hen and a flock of chickens were scratching in the fine newly-turned dirt, and a white goat, which belonged to a neighbor, was just cropping off the head of his beautiful geranium.
Now it is really one of the most vexatious things in the world to have a neighbor's hens come in and scratch up one's flower garden. I know, because I have tried it a great many times. Still I don't think Phil would have sworn as he did if he had not been listening to those whispers of the tempter all the morning. Nor would he have pounded the poor little nanny-goat, who did not know any better, with such a big stick; for he was very far from being a cruel boy, and he had not sworn for a long time before—not since he had been in Miss Isabel's class.
He drove the animals out, pelting them with stones, laming two or three of the poor little downy chicks, and killing one outright. It was this last act which brought him to his senses a little. He picked the chicken up and looked at it. The poor thing was not quite dead, and as he held it in his hand, it opened the little round eyes which had just been so bright, and looked at him as he thought with a glance of reproach, made a piteous little peeping noise, and then its eye grew dim and filmy, its little feet curled up—it was dead.
Phil stopped swearing, sat down on a stone, and cried as if his heart would break—partly for the chicken, partly for his garden. He did not despise it any more. Now that it was spoiled as he thought, it seemed to him that nothing could be more precious than the little bit of ground on which he had worked so hard. And then he was so sorry for the chicken. How pretty it was, and how happy! It did not know that it was doing anything wrong, and now he had killed it. And he had hurt the poor little white nanny-goat too. It limped as it ran away. As if that would bring back his geranium!
"What is it, dear?" said granny. She had heard the noise, and hobbled round the house to see what was the matter, and was surprised and alarmed when she saw the state Phil was in.
"What's the matter, dear?" she repeated as Phil did not answer. "What has happened to make you cry so?"
Phil pointed to the garden.
"Oh, what a pity! What is it that's done it—the chickens?"
"The chickens and that white goat of Ryan's," answered Phil. "But they couldn't have got in unless somebody had left the gate open."
"Maybe the goat opened it: they're full of cunning, them goats."
"She couldn't," answered Phil. "It was fastened with a wire as tight as it could be. I don't see who would have done such a mean thing."
"She's a troublesome beast, that same white goat," said granny. "I'd complain of her only she's all the dependence they have for the sickly baby that has no mother, poor thing! But there, don't cry." For Phil was crying harder than ever. "See, here's your best bed they haven't touched at all."
Phil looked. It was true. The pansies had quite escaped. That was some comfort. Perhaps they had not dug up quite all the seeds in the other beds, though they had thrown down the sticks with their labels, so that he would never know which was which. That did not matter so much if only the plants grew. But then his geranium! Nothing could help that.
"I may as well pull it up and throw it away," said he, when he had made all neat again and planted his sweet peas. "I can't bear to see the poor thing."
"I wouldn't," said granny, who had sat on a stone in the sun watching Phil at his work. "Maybe 'twill come out again. I've seen the gardeners cut them down as close as that, and they grew all the better. Just tread down the soil around it and give it some water. You mustn't be so easy discouraged, dear. Sure everything has hitches in it sometimes."
"My things are all hitches I think," said Phil.
Granny did not reason with Phil just at that time. She saw that his heart was as full as it could hold, and she was a wise woman, though she could not read a word. There is a great deal of wisdom which does not of books. She coaxed Phil to go into the woods and see if he could not cut her a longer cane, as the end of hers was worn off.
"And maybe you'll find a pretty five-leaf vine to plant at the end of your garden and run up on the rocks. Not the three-leaved mind: that's poison, and will make your hands and face swell. And some of those brakes would look pretty growing in with your flowers."
"Mr. Regan has them I know," said Phil. "Well, granny, I'll get you your cane and the vine too, if I can find one. But it's no use: poor folks can't have anything."
"You just put that notion right out of head, Phil O'Connor," says granny severely, "It's envy makes you say that, and it's one of the devil's own weeds, worse than the three-leaved poison vine that spoils all it touches. Don't the poor have the blessed sunshine, and the sight of the trees and green fields, and all the fine things that God has made for all alike? Don't we have a roof over our heads, and plenty to eat and drink and wear? And don't you have the best of teaching on Sundays, and as good a chance to learn as anybody? Put all that out of your head if you don't want it to poison everything for you. It's an ill weed, and no plant of grace ever throve where it grew."