"SHE'S as good as she is pretty, and as pretty as she is good." This was the opinion of Oakvale people respecting the minister's youngest daughter, Amy Fleming. Very bright and lovable she must have been, or the cottage children would not have thrown down toys, abandoned games, and rushed in her direction as soon as the flutter of Miss Amy's garment could be discerned in the distance.
When on a visiting expedition she was sure to be surrounded by a motley bodyguard, each member of which was desirous that the dwelling of his or her parents should have the honour of a first call from their favourite.
It was sometimes rather inconvenient to be so much liked, for the owners of dirty little faces insisted on being kissed, and small hands, equally removed from cleanliness, stroked down Miss Amy's dresses without the previous ceremony of washing the sticky fingers.
Amongst all her acquaintance, however, Bob Marsh was perhaps the most devoted, and in many ways the most unfortunate. His doings and misdoings were the cause of more talk, censure, and head-shakings than those of all the other Oakvale boys put together.
Bob was the only son of a widowed mother, and the only brother of four small girls, all much younger than himself. A fine, well-grown, handsome lad, who ought to have been the comfort of his parent, but unfortunately he was always in some scrape or other. If he took up a stone and threw it, he was sure to break a window. If he climbed a tree he came down at one step and hurt himself, or else tore his garments to ribbons, and had to retire into private life—namely, to bed—until they were mended.
But who can go through the list? Other lads seemed to do the same thing, play the same pranks, and come off scot-free, while Bob was always in trouble. Mother watered Bob's rags with nightly tears, as she sat up to mend them for the morrow. Granny said lads were never like that in her young days, and was sure he would come to a bad end. The village gossips talked at him as he slunk home wet, out of the ditch he had jumped into instead of over, and pitied his poor mother for having such a son.
To tell a person, young or old, that he is on the high road to ruin, hopelessly bad, a plague to everybody, and of no use or comfort to anybody, is not the way to mend him. On the contrary, it is pretty sure to give him a push in the wrong direction.
Bob had heard such remarks dinned into his ears at every turn for a good while, but one evening an event happened which made matters worse than ever. He was not given to crying, but his cheeks were wet with tears, and as he entered the cottage he looked the picture of misery. He had been turned away from his situation as pig-tender by Farmer Oliver.
Neither mother nor granny waited to ask any questions, but took it for granted that Bob was to blame, and scolded accordingly. They only knew one fact: a little pig, one of his charges, had lost its life— a thing that happens to most pigs sooner or later, only this was sooner, and altogether at the wrong time, and in the wrong way; so Farmer Oliver, sharing the bad opinion of the villagers generally, had first cuffed Bob soundly, and then sent him off with a warning not to show his face on his premises again.
The poorest and most miserable of human beings is rarely quite friendless. Bob had one friend in Miss Amy, and, fortunately for him, she was on her way to his mother's cottage when he entered it in disgrace after his dismissal. If he had but known this! Had he not been in her class at the Sunday-school, and so loth to leave it for a higher, that he had purposely bungled over his lessons and played the dunce so as to stay amongst the little ones and with his beloved teacher?
Miss Amy had found him out, of course, and brought him then and there to tears and penitence. But though he had gone to another class and among the elder boys, he always felt that he belonged to Miss Amy, and she was the one being who ever encouraged and comforted poor Bob.
It was like sunshine to see her enter the cottage now. First she softened mother by telling her that Bob, though rash, thoughtless, and consequently always in hot water, was not such a bad fellow at the bottom. "He was in my class for four years, and no person ever knew Bob tell a lie, say a bad word, or ill-use or tease a child younger than himself," she said.
Then she made granny happy by presenting her with some flannel and a packet of tea, and insisted afterwards that some day she would be proud of her grandson Bob. "He has the making of a fine fellow in him," she continued, "only there's a great deal of smoothing and shaping to be done before the material can be seen to advantage."
However much mothers may scold their own lads, or grandmothers predict evil, the former do not like others to grumble at their offspring any more than do the latter wish their prophecies to come true. Mrs. Marsh's forehead lost its frown as she listened to Miss Amy; and granny for once gave the lad a more kindly look, and hoped the young lady would turn out right in the long run. "Now come with me," said Miss Amy to Bob; "I must try and get Farmer Oliver to take you on again."
"He won't, miss; it's no good," said Bob, hanging back. But he had to go, for there was no resisting Miss Amy. She could not, however, succeed in taking him into the farmer's presence, for Bob had such a lively recollection of the cuffing he had received, that he ran away and hid behind a hedge.
How Miss Amy managed to persuade the farmer—whom she met driving home his own pigs, and very angry at having to do it—to take back Bob and give him one more chance, would take too long to tell. But she did it, and more, for she proved to him that on this particular occasion Bob had really done his best for his unruly flock, only a ferocious dog had proved too much for the young drover, and the one little pig had been the sacrifice.
"I'm afraid, Miss Amy, I was too hasty," replied Farmer Oliver; "but everybody gives that Bob a bad name, and when I saw the pig worried I took it for granted it was his fault. Pigs are not the easiest things to manage, and you know that old saying, 'Give a dog a bad name.' I'm afraid I acted on it in turning off Bob. He may come in the morning, and we'll say no more about it."
Miss Amy thought the farmer ought to say something more, but she shook hands with him, thanked him heartily, and ran off to tell Bob the good news.
"I can't do any good. Everybody says so—mother, and granny, and the neighbours. They don't listen to me, and when I tell the truth they don't believe me. There's only you, Miss Amy, that does not think I am bad on purpose. They all say I am good for nothing. I can't do right," sobbed the lad.
"Not of yourself, Bob—I know that well enough. No more can I. But you can pray, Bob, and you can try. You surely have not forgotten all your old Sunday-school lessons. Don't you remember that the Saviour who says, 'ask,' promises that we shall have? The best people in the world will tell you that they get their strength and comfort through going to Jesus. They always say, 'I can't,' until He shows them how to do right, and then they are like St. Paul, full of joy, and cry, 'I can do all things through Christ.' So can you, Bob, and you must begin from this very minute."
And Bob did begin. His dear old yet young teacher, cheered him on, prayed with him, talked with him, and to other people about him, until at last the village folk began to discover that there was good in Bob Marsh after all.
He has lost his bad name now, but he always says that he turned the right corner, and started on the new and happier road, on the night that Miss Amy persuaded him to say, "I'll try," instead of "I can't."
WILLIAM RIDER AND SON, PRINTERS, LONDON.