It is the easiest thing in the world for some people to make a promise. They will say yes or no to anything that may be asked of them, sometimes knowing what they say, but often without knowing; sometimes intending to keep their word, and sometimes without thinking or caring anything about it. Such persons are usually very polite and pleasant, full of smiles and soft words, and if one could only rely upon them, they would be very obliging, for you know they will promise anything. But there is just the difficulty; for these easy-tempered, good-natured people who never can bear to say no are oftentimes so very easy-tempered that they are able to utter a falsehood as easily as a truth and feel no disturbance of conscience whatever.
Bessie Hill's character, it must be confessed,was such a one as has just been described. She was a child whom every one loved, for she seemed to love every one, and she appeared so anxious to please, so unwilling to be disobliging, that one who had known her only a short time might have considered her disposition very nearly perfect. Yet if Mr. A., her music-teacher, had been questioned as to what he knew of Bessie, he might have told how every week for a whole quarter she had repeatedly promised to practice for an hour each day, and how, every week in the quarter, she had failed to keep her word, until, at length, his patience would have been completely exhausted had not his little pupil renewed more earnestly than ever the assurance that she would really try to do better. Yet he knew that while he hoped for the best his hope was doomed to be disappointed.
And Miss Ellers, who every Sabbath went to Sunday-school thinking, "How glad I will be if Bessie has learned her lesson, as she said she would do!" and every Sabbath went away sorry because of Bessie's brokenpromise; and Mrs. Banks, who day after day worried through one imperfect recitation after another in the constant expectation of an improvement which it seemed must come, it had been so often promised,—both of these might have agreed with Mr. A. in saying that Bessie was certainly the most amiable of all their pupils, but, at the same time, the most unreliable. Bessie's mother, too, mourned over this fault of her child, and tried, but tried in vain, to help the little girl to overcome it. She would persist in promising to meet her schoolmates at certain hours and places, and in then going home and forgetting all about her engagements, leaving her friends to wonder where Bessie Hill could be. And she would not give up her habit of running over to Aunt Hester's in the morning and saying: "Auntie, I will come and play with the baby this afternoon," when she knew very well that when afternoon came the baby would probably be left to amuse himself while his little cousin across the street was occupied with some new toy or book, just as thoughshe had made no promise at all. At last Bessie found out by experience what her friends had so long been trying to teach her—that it was very important that she should learn to keep her word.
Among Bessie's companions was one whom she often visited, and whose home was at some distance from Mr. Hill's. The road, over which it was necessary to pass in going from one house to the other was a lonely one, and Bessie had been often told that it was not safe for her to attempt to go back and forth alone. There was usually some one willing to accompany her, and she was too young to be without protection. So it happened that one pleasant Saturday morning her father said: "Come, Bessie, I am going to take a long ride to-day. If you would like to go and see Mary Brown (for that was the little girl's name), I will leave you there on my way and stop for you on my return."
"Thank you, father," answered Bessie. "I would like it very much." So the arrangement was made.
"Now, you will be sure to wait for me this afternoon, will you not?" said the gentleman to his daughter as he left her at Mr. Brown's door. "Oh yes, father, I will wait, of course," Bessie replied, and for once she really intended to keep her word. But when afternoon came, and with it no appearance of her father, Bessie began to grow impatient. She suddenly remembered an arithmetic lesson which she had promised to learn for the next Monday, and which she had not before thought of, and she felt slightly uneasy in regard to the verse which she had assured Miss Ellers she would be able to recite on the next day, and which now for the first time came to her recollection. You see her conscience was not quite dead, after all, only it troubled her at the wrong time. However that may be, Bessie imagined that she had a sufficient excuse for not keeping the promise to her father, as, by observing that, she would be in danger of breaking two others made before it; so she said to Mary: "Mary, I don't believe father will be here till evening, and mother will be anxiousabout me, so I am going home. See, it is growing dark already."
Neither Mary nor herself knew that the darkness was caused by the gathering storm, and not by the approach of night.
So Bessie set out on her return, feeling, meanwhile, very guilty and unhappy. She had not gone more than halfway before the raindrops began to fall. They came faster and faster until the single drops became torrents of water. Bessie took shelter under a large tree, and looked about her in dismay. Above her all was blackness, around her the pouring rain. The branches over her head swayed to and fro in the wind until Bessie was afraid that they might fall and crush her, and the rain penetrated beneath them, and came and made a little pool at her feet. Bessie remembered the story of the flood which had once been sent to punish people for their wickedness, and she began to fear that the water around her would continue to rise gradually until she should be swallowed up in the waves, just like the transgressors whowere drowned in the time of Noah. She was in the act of looking about her to see whether there might not be a board that she could get to float upon, as some were represented as doing in the picture in the large Bible at home, when suddenly the sky grew brighter, the clouds overhead began to break and move away, and before her, reaching from the glowing hills in the east higher and higher up along the brightening heavens, shone, all the more beautiful for the darkness that had gone before, a rainbow. Bessie was comforted. "How foolish I was!" she said to herself; "I might have known that there could not be another flood, for God promised Noah that there never should be one again. I remember now that the rainbow was the sign of the promise." And as Bessie thought of the faithfulness of the great Father in keeping his word to his children, and of how far she had been from imitating his example, she began to cry. As she stood there under the tree, the very image of distress, troubled with mingled sorrow for her naughtiness andanxiety to reach her home, Dr. Burroughs came riding slowly along, his old gray horse looking almost as rueful as Bessie herself, and his gig bespattered with mud from top to bottom.
"What, little girl! out here in this storm? Crying too! Well, I don't wonder. Jump in here by me, and I'll take you where you can get some dry clothes. Strange that your mother should let you be out when she saw the shower coming on!"
"She didn't let me," sobbed Bessie; "I promised father to wait for him at Mr. Brown's, and instead of that I started alone. I'm so sorry."
"Yes, I should think you would be," said the doctor. He was a kind-hearted man, but not sparing of his words. "I guess you will remember to keep your promise the next time you make one. When people neglect to keep their word they generally get into trouble." And with this remark the doctor left Bessie to her own reflections, not speaking again till he came before her own home. There he puther down, saying: "Let me give you one piece of advice, little girl: Never make a promise unless you mean to keep it, and never break a promise after it is made."
Bessie entered the house feeling very miserable and forlorn, but it is to be hoped a wiser and a better girl than when she had left it in the morning.
Reader, whoever you may be, whether boy or girl, if you would be happy and prosperous in this world, if you would enjoy the confidence of your friends, would win the favour of the God above, speak always the "truth in the love of it." Be so honest, so upright in your engagements that all who know you may be able to trust in your good faith, your fidelity to your word. Remember that "it is better not to vow than to vow and not perform," and that the seat of faithfulness is in the heart where God's Holy Spirit dwells, for "the fruit of the Spirit is faith."
Thirty years ago there was seen to enter the city of London a lad about fourteen years of age. He was dressed in a dark frock that hid his under apparel, and which appeared to have been made for a person evidently taller than the wearer. His boots were covered with dust from the high road. He had on an old hat with a black band, which contrasted strangely with the colour of the covering of his head. A small bundle, fastened to the end of a stick and thrown over the shoulder, was the whole of his equipment. As he approached the Mansion House, he paused to look at the building, and seated himself on the steps of one of the doors. He was about to rest a while, but the coming inand going out of half a dozen persons before he had time to finish untying his bundle made him leave that spot for the next open space where the doors were in part closed.
Having taken from the bundle a large quantity of bread and cheese, which he seemed to eat with a ravenous appetite, he amused himself by looking at the building before him with all the eager curiosity of one unaccustomed to see similar objects.
The appearance of the youth soon attracted my curiosity, and gently opening the door, I stood behind him without his being the least conscious of my presence. He now began rummaging his pockets, and after a deal of trouble brought out a roll of paper, which he opened. After satisfying himself that a large copper coin was safe, he carefully put it back again, saying to himself in a low voice: "Mother, I will remember your last words: 'A penny saved is twopence earned.' It shall go hard with me before I part with you, old friend."
Pleased with this remark, I gently touchedthe lad on the shoulder. He started, and was about to move away when I said:
"My good lad, you seem tired, and likewise a stranger in the city."
"Yes, sir," he answered, putting his hand to his hat. He was again about to move forward.
"You need not hurry away, my boy," I observed. "Indeed, if you are a stranger and willing to work, I can perhaps help to find what you require."
The boy stood mute with astonishment, and colouring to such an extent as to show all the freckles of a sunburnt face, stammered out:
"Yes, sir."
"I wish to know," I added, with all the kindness of manner I could assume, "whether you are anxious to find work, for I am in want of a youth to assist my coachman."
The poor boy twisted his bundle about, and after having duly placed his hand to his head, managed to answer, in an awkward kind of way, that he would be very thankful.
I mentioned not a word about what I hadoverheard with regard to the peony, but, inviting him into the house, I sent for the coachman, to whose care I entrusted the newcomer.
Nearly a month had passed after this meeting and conversation occurred when I resolved to make some inquiries of the coachman regarding the conduct of the lad.
"A better boy never came into the house, sir, and as for wasting anything, bless me, sir, I know not where he has been brought up, but I really believe he would consider it a sin if he did not give the crumbs of bread to the poor birds every morning."
"I am glad to hear so good an account," I replied.
"And as for his good-nature, sir, there is not a servant among us that doesn't speak well of Joseph. He reads to us while we sup, and he writes all our letters for us. Oh, sir, he has got more learning than all of us put together; and what's more, he doesn't mind work, and never talks about our secrets after he writes our letters."
Determined to see Joseph myself, I requested the coachman to send him to the parlour.
"I understand, Joseph, that you can read and write."
"Yes, sir, I can, thanks to my poor, dear mother."
"You have lately lost your mother, then?"
"A month that very day when you were kind enough to take me into your house, an unprotected orphan," answered Joseph.
"Where did you go to school?"
"Sir, my mother has been a widow ever since I can remember. She was a daughter of the village schoolmaster, and having to maintain me and herself with her needle, she took the opportunity of her leisure moments to teach me not only how to read and write, but to cast up accounts."
"And did she give you that penny which was in the paper that I saw you unroll so carefully at the door?"
Joseph stood amazed, but at length replied with emotion, and a tear started from his eye:
"Yes, sir, it was the very last penny she gave me."
"Well, Joseph, so satisfied am I with your conduct that not only do I pay you a month's wages willingly for the time you have been here, but I must beg of you to fulfil the duties of collecting clerk to our firm, which situation has become vacant by the death of a very old and faithful assistant."
Joseph thanked me in the most unassuming manner, and I was asked to take care of his money, since I had promised to provide him with suitable clothing for his new occupation.
It will be unnecessary to relate how, step by step, this poor lad proceeded to win the confidence of myself and partner. The accounts were always correct to a penny, and whenever his salary became due he drew out of my hands no more than he absolutely wanted, even to a penny. At length he had saved a sufficient sum of money to be deposited in the bank.
It so happened that one of our chiefcustomers, who carried on a successful business, required an active partner. This person was of eccentric habits and considerably advanced in years. Scrupulously just, he looked to every penny, and invariably discharged his workmen if they were not equally scrupulous in their dealings with him.
Aware of this peculiarity of temper, there was no person I could recommend but Joseph, and after overcoming the repugnance of my partner, who was unwilling to be deprived of so valuable an assistant, Joseph was duly received into the firm of Richard Fairbrothers & Co. Prosperity attended Joseph in this new undertaking, and never suffering a penny difference to appear in his transactions, he so completely won the confidence of his senior partner that he left him the whole of his business, as he expressed it in his will, "even to the very last penny."
Alice and Eva were sitting together in the pleasant sitting-room, one engaged in reading and the other in arranging an almost countless variety of pieces of calico destined to form, at some future time, a quilt which might fitly have had written upon it the motto of our country,E pluribus unum—one composed of many. So completely was Eva surrounded by the bright stripes of cloth that, at a distance, one might have supposed her to be clothed in a garment very much like that which Joseph wore—a "coat of many colours." She was considering whether or not it would be a proof of good taste to place a red block next to a blue one when she happened to remember a piece of green chintz which some one had given her, and which,with the red calico, would form precisely the contrast she desired. But the chintz was, unfortunately, in her own room, and how she should rise to go after it without displacing the groups which had been formed so carefully was a problem which Eva was unable to solve. While she was puzzling over it her brother, two years younger than herself, came into the room. He was a bright-eyed, active boy who thought nothing too difficult when fun was in prospect, but, as we shall see, was not always as ready to exert himself in order to oblige others.
"Oh, Willie," Eva exclaimed as soon as she saw him, "I am so glad you've come! Won't you please go up stairs and get something for me?"
"Well, I guess you can go after it just as well as I can," was the unbrotherly reply. "You girls seem to think that all a boy is good for is to wait on you, and I think you might just as well learn to wait on yourselves."
Eva did not answer, but wisely concluded to do without the chintz as well as she could.Willie sat down and began to whittle, taking care to let some of the splinters fall among his sister's work. Eva seemed to take no notice of this, but went quietly on with her cutting and planning. She grew tired of it, however, before long, and made up her mind to rest a while. So she began in silence to gather up her work. As she did so it would have been very easy for her to pick up the few chips which were scattered here and there about her, but Eva had not yet forgiven her brother for his want of kindness; so she said to herself: "Willie can pick up his own whittlings if he wants to. I'm not going to do it for him. I think it would be just as well to let mother see how he makes the room look when she is out. If he does not care, I am sure I needn't, and so I will let them remain just as they are."
What an affectionate brother and sister! and how they disobeyed the command, "Bear ye one another's burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ"! Willie, failing to find any more amusement in the use of his jack-knife, put itaway, and began to study his French lesson for the next day.
Eva, on her part, commenced reading a story-book. But either it was less interesting than she had expected to find it, or her conscience would not allow her to enjoy it, for she soon laid it aside, and, for want of better employment, leaned her head on the window and watched the passers-by. Willie also failed to make such progress as he had intended, and after some time had passed exclaimed in a sort of despair, "Oh dear! I cannot translate this at all! Eva, won't you just read it to me?" Eva had now an excellent opportunity of showing her brother that she knew how to return good for evil, for she was a fine scholar and might easily have given him all the help he needed. But she resisted the "still small voice" which pleaded with her to do so, and chose rather to "pay him back" for the manner in which he had treated her. "Out of the fulness of the heart the mouth speaketh," and as Eva felt cross it was not strange that she spoke crossly: "If you will not doanything for me, you can't expect me to do anything for you. You may learn your lesson the best way you can. I'm not going to help you." Alice, who had all along been watching the conduct of her brother and sister without remark, now thought it time to interfere.
"Bring your book here, Willie," she said; "perhaps I can help you."
Willie eagerly accepted this offer, and with Alice's aid the translation was made easily and quickly. The lesson, which was a passage from a celebrated French author, happened to be the history of a savage race who lived long ago in a far-off country. These people, so the history went, having killed their rulers and thus freed themselves from the power of law, resolved that in the future every one should attend to his own interests without respect to those of his neighbours. Each one said: "Why should I kill myself by working for people for whom I do not care? I will only think of myself; I will live happily; what difference does it make to me what others maybe? I will satisfy all my needs, and, provided that I have what I wish, I do not care though all around me are miserable."
So when the time came for planting corn every one said to himself: "I will plant only enough for my own wants; a greater quantity would do me no good; and why should I take trouble for nothing?" Now, the country where these people lived was divided into lowlands, which were well watered and fertile, and mountainous districts, which were less fruitful. Well, it happened that the first season was a very dry one, and while the people who lived in the valleys had plenty of food, those who lived on the mountains, having no harvest, suffered from famine. The next year the case was entirely different. This time the season was a rainy one, and the inhabitants of the lowlands were as much troubled by too great a supply of water as their fellow-countrymen had been by the want of it. And now the mountaineers rejoiced in plenty while their brethren starved. These foolish men continued their system of selfishness both whenthey were attacked by foreign enemies and when disease came upon them. Each one refused help to every other, and finally the whole nation perished.
"One would suppose that this story had been written expressly for you and Eva," Alice remarked when she had finished reading it.
"Why, I hope you don't think we are as bad as those savages!" exclaimed Willie, indignantly.
"Well, I think you have been acting very much like them. Don't you think so, Eva?"
Eva's face turned crimson, but she did not exactly like to confess the truth, so she made no answer.
"Well," said Willie, more frankly, "perhaps we haven't been very kind to each other to-day, but then we wouldn't keep on acting so all our lives, as those people did."
"No, I should hope not," Alice replied, "for I believe you see the folly and wickedness of such conduct. You know if we act selfishly and unkindly, it is not because wehave never been taught to do better, for we have all read often of the example of Christ, who 'went about doing good,' and of whom it is written that 'he pleased not himself.' Surely we ought not to be unwilling to perform little acts of kindness toward others, although it may cost us some trouble and self-denial to do so. And even when we think that we have not been treated rightly ourselves, there is no reason why we should act unkindly in return; at least I never heard of any, did you?"
Willie answered "No," very emphatically, but Eva still kept silence. Yet the next morning when she, as usual, recited a Scripture text to her sister, Alice noticed that she had chosen this: "Be ye kind one to another, tender-hearted, forgiving one another, even as God for Christ's sake hath forgiven you."
THE END.