Earlier text: ANGRY WORDS.At noon on a dreary November day, a lonesome little fellow stood at the door of a cheap eating-house, in Boston, and offered a solitary copy of a morning paper for sale to the people passing. But there were really not many people passing, for it was Thanksgiving day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to, and a dinner to eat, seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner, while Bert Hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last “Extra” left on his hands by the dull business of the morning. An old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a seedy black coat, stopped at the same doorway, and, with one hand on the latch, he appeared to hesitate between hunger and a sense of poverty, before going in. It was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper seeing it was Thanksgiving day; so at least Bert thought, and accosted him accordingly. “Buy a paper, sir? All about the fire in East Boston, and arrest of safe-burglars in Springfield. Only two cents.” The little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes which seemed to light up the pinched look of his face, and answered in a shrill voice:— “You ought to come down in your price, this time of day. You can’t expect to sell a morning paper at 12 o’clock for full price.” “Well, give me a cent then,” said Bert. “That’s less than cost; but never mind. I’m bound to sell out, anyhow.” “You look cold,” said the old man. “Cold,” replied Bert, “I’m nearly froze. And I want my dinner. And I’m going to have a big dinner, too, seeing it’s Thanksgiving day.” “Ah! lucky for you, my boy!” said the old man. “You’ve a home to go to, and friends, too, I hope.” “No, sir; no home, and no friend—only my mother.” Bert hesitated and grew serious, then suddenly changed his tone—“and Hop Houghton. I told him to meet me here, and we’d have a first-rate Thanksgiving dinner together—for it’s no fun to be eating338 alone Thanksgiving day! It sets a fellow thinking—if he ever had a home, and then hasn’t got a home any more.” “It’s more lonesome not to eat at all,” said the old man, his gray eyes twinkling. “And what can a boy like you have to think of? Here, I guess I can find one cent for you—though there’s nothing in the paper, I know.” The old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow he dropped two cents instead of one into Bert’s hand. “Here! you’ve made a mistake!” cried Bert. “A bargain’s a bargain. You’ve given me a cent too much!” “No, I didn’t—I never give anybody a cent too much!” “But—see here!” And Bert showed the two cents, offering to return one. “No matter,” said the old man. “It will be so much less for my dinner—that’s all.” Bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies, when, on a moment’s reflection, his sympathies were excited. “Poor old man!” he thought; “he’s seen better days, I guess. Perhaps he’s no home. A boy like me can stand it, but I guess it339 must be hard for him. He meant to give me the odd cent, all the while; and I don’t believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day.” All this, which I have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went through Bert’s mind like a flash. He was a generous little fellow, and any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart overflow. “Look here,” he cried; “where are you going to get your dinner, to-day?” “I can get a bite here as well as anywhere—it don’t matter much to me,” replied the old man. “Dine with me,” said Bert, “I’d like to have you.” “I’m afraid I couldn’t afford to dine as you are going to,” said the man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again. “I’ll pay for your dinner!” Bert exclaimed. “Come! we don’t have a Thanksgiving but once a year, and a fellow wants a good time then.” “But you are waiting for another boy.” “Oh! Hop Houghton. He won’t come now, it’s too late. He’s gone to a place340 down in North street, I guess—a place I don’t like, there’s so much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there.” Bert cast a final glance up the street. “No, he won’t come now. So much the worse for him! He likes the men down there; I don’t.” “Ah!” said the man, taking off his hat and giving it a brush with his elbow as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy of such fastidious tastes. To make him feel quite comfortable in his mind on that point, Bert hastened to say:— “I mean rowdies, and such. Poor people, if they behave themselves, are just as respectable to me as rich folks. I ain’t the least mite aristocratic!” “Ah, indeed!” And the old man smiled again, and seemed to look relieved. “I’m very glad to hear it.” He placed his hat on the floor, and took a seat opposite Bert at a little table which they had all to themselves. Bert offered him the bill of fare. “I must ask you to choose for me; nothing very extravagant, you know I am used to plain fare.” “So am I. But I’m going to have a dinner, for once in my life—and so are you,” cried Bert, generously. What do you say to chicken soup—and wind up with a big piece of squash pie? How’s that for a Thanksgiving dinner?” “Sumptuous!” said the old man, appearing to glow with the warmth of the room and the prospect of a good dinner. “But won’t it cost you too much?” “Too much? No, sir!” said Bert. “Chicken soup, fifteen cents; pie—they give tremendous big pieces here, thick, I tell you—ten cents. That’s twenty-five cents; half a dollar for two. Of course, I don’t do this way every day in the year! But mother’s glad to have me, once in a while. Here! waiter!” And Bert gave his princely order as if it were no very great thing for a liberal young fellow like him, after all. “Where is your mother? Why don’t you dine with her?” the little man asked. Bert’s face grew sober in a moment. “That’s the question! Why don’t I? I’ll tell you why I don’t. I’ve got the best mother in the world! What I’m trying to do is to make a home for her, so we can live342 together, and eat our Thanksgiving dinners together, sometime. Some boys want one thing, some another—there’s one goes in for good times, another’s in such a hurry to get rich, he don’t care much how he does it; but what I want most of anything is to be with my mother and my two sisters again, and I am not ashamed to say so.” Bert’s eyes grew very tender, and he went on; while his companion across the table watched him with a very gentle, searching look. “I haven’t been with her now for two years—hardly at all since father died. When his business was settled up—he kept a little hosiery store on Hanover street—it was found he hadn’t left us anything. We had lived pretty well, up to that time, and I and my two sisters had been to school; but then mother had to do something, and her friends got her places to go out nursing—and she’s a nurse now. Everybody likes her, and she has enough to do. We couldn’t be with her, of course. She got us boarded at a good place, but I saw how hard it was going to be for her to support us, so I said, ‘I’m a boy; I can do something for myself; you just pay343 their board and keep them to school, and I’ll go to work, and maybe help you a little, besides taking care of myself.” “What could you do?” said the little old man. “That’s it; I was only eleven years old; and what could I do? What I should have liked would have been some nice place where I could do light work, and stand a chance of learning a good business. But beggars mustn’t be choosers. I couldn’t find such a place; and I wasn’t going to be loafing about the streets, so I went to selling newspapers. I’ve sold newspapers ever since, and I shall be twelve years old next month.” “You like it?” said the old man. “I like to get my own living,” replied Bert, proudly. “But what I want is, to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down and make a home for my mother. But there’s no use talking about that.” “I’ve told you about myself,” added Bert; “now suppose you tell me something?” “Yes. I think that would go pretty well with the pie.” But the man shook his head. “I could go344 back and tell you about my plans and hopes when I was a lad of your age; but it would be too much like your own story over again. Life isn’t what we think it will be, when we are young. You’ll find that out soon enough. I am all alone in the world now; and I am nearly seventy years old.” “It must be so lonely, at your age! What do you do for a living?” “I have a little place in Devonshire street. My name is Crooker. You’ll find me up two flights of stairs, back room at the right. Come and see me, and I’ll tell you all about my business and perhaps help you to such a place as you want, for I know several business men. Now don’t fail.” And Mr. Crooker wrote his address, with a little stub of a pencil, on a corner of the newspaper which had led to their acquaintance, tore it off carefully, and gave it to Bert. Thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket and handed it across the table to his new friend. “Herbert Hampton, Dealer in Newspapers,” the old man read, with his sharp gray eyes, which glowed up funnily at Bert, seeming to say, “Isn’t this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old newsboy?” Bert blushed and explained. “Got up for me by a printer’s boy I know. I had done some favors for him, and so he made me a few cards. Handy to have, sometimes, you know.” “Well, Herbert,” said the old man, “I’m glad to make your acquaintance, and I hope you’ll come and see me. You’ll find me in very humble quarters; but you are not aristocratic, you say. Now won’t you let me pay for my dinner? I believe I have money enough. Let me see.” Bert would not hear of such a thing; but walked up to the desk, and settled the bill with the air of a person who did not regard a trifling expense. When he looked around again, the little old man was gone. “Now mind; I’ll go and see him the first chance I have,” said Bert, as he looked at the penciled strip of newspaper margin again before putting it into his pocket. He then went round to his miserable quarters, in the top of a cheap lodging-house, where he made himself ready to walk five miles into the suburbs, and get a sight, if only for five minutes, of his mother. On the following Monday, Bert having a leisure hour, went to call on his new acquaintance in Devonshire street. Having climbed the two flights, he found the door of the back room at the right ajar, and, looking in, saw Mr. Crooker at a desk, in the act of receiving a roll of money from a well dressed visitor. Bert entered unnoticed, and waited till the money was counted and a receipt signed. Then, as the visitor departed, old Mr. Crooker looked round and saw Bert. He offered him a chair; then turned to place the money in the safe. “So this is your place of business?” said Bert, glancing about the plain office room. “What do you do here?” “I buy real estate, sometimes—sell—rent—and so forth.” “For myself,” said old Mr. Crooker, with a smile. Bert started, perfectly aghast, at this situation. This, then, was the man whom he had invited to dinner and treated so patronizingly the preceding Thursday! “I—I thought—you were a poor man!” “I am a poor man,” said Mr. Crooker, locking his safe. “Money don’t make a man rich. I’ve money enough. I own houses in the city. They give me something to think of, and so keep me alive. I had truer riches once, but I lost them long ago.” From the way the old man’s voice trembled and eyes glistened, Bert thought he must have meant by these riches friends he had lost, wife and children, perhaps. “To think of me inviting you to dinner!” he said, abashed and ashamed. “It was odd. But it may turn out to have been a lucky circumstance for both of us. I like you. I believe in you, and I’ve an offer to make you. I want a trusty, bright boy in this office, somebody I can bring up to my business, and leave it with, as I get too old to attend to it myself. What do you say?” Again that afternoon he walked—or rather ran—to his mother; and, after consulting with her, joyfully accepted Mr. Crooker’s offer. Interviews between his mother and his employer followed. The lonely, childless old man,348 who owned so many houses, wanted a home; and one of these houses he offered to Mrs. Hampton, with ample support for herself and children if she would also make it a home for him. Of course this proposition was accepted; and Bert soon had the satisfaction of seeing the great ambition of his life accomplished. He had employment, which promised to become a profitable business, as indeed it did in a few years. He and the old man proved useful to each other; and, more than that, he was united once more with his mother and sisters in a happy home, where he has since had a good many Thanksgiving dinners. Be kind to those around you,
To charity hold fast;
Let each think first of others,
And leave himself till last.
Act as you would that others should
Act always unto you;
Much may be done by every one—
There’s work for all to do.
The following affecting narrative was given by a father to his son, as a warning derived from his bitter experience of the sin of resisting a mother’s love and counsel:— What agony was on my mother’s face when all that she had said and suffered failed to move me. She rose to go home, and I followed at a distance. She spoke to me no more until she reached her own door. “It is school-time now,” she said. “Go, my son, and once more let me beseech you to think upon what I have said.” “I shan’t go to school,” said I. She looked astonished at my boldness, but replied firmly:— “Certainly you will, Alfred! I command you!” “One of two things you must do, Alfred—either go to school this minute or I will lock you up in your room, and keep you there until you promise implicit obedience to my wishes in the future.” “I dare you to do it,” I said; “you can’t get me up stairs.” “Alfred, choose now,” said my mother, who laid her hand upon my arm. She trembled violently and was deadly pale. “If you touch me I will kick you,” said I in a fearful rage. God knows I knew not what I said! “No,” I replied, but I quailed beneath her eyes. “Then follow me,” said she as she grasped my arm firmly. I raised my foot—“O, my son, hear me”—I raised my foot and kicked her—my sainted mother. How my head reels as the torrent of memory rushes over me. I kicked my mother, a feeble woman—my mother. She staggered back a few steps and leaned against the wall. She did not look at me. “O, Heavenly Father,” she cried, “forgive him, he knows not what he does.” The gardener, just then passing the door, and seeing my mother pale and almost unable to support herself, came in. “Take this boy up stairs and lock him in his room,” said she, and turned from me. It was a look of agony, mingled with most intense351 love, it was the unutterable pang from a heart that was broken. In a moment I found myself a prisoner in my own room. I thought for a moment I would fling myself from the open window, but I felt that I was afraid to die. I was not penitent. At times my heart was subdued, but my stubbornness rose in an instant, and bade me not yield yet. The pale face of my mother haunted me. I flung myself on my bed and fell asleep. Just at twilight I heard a footstep approach my door. It was my sister. “What shall I tell mother for you?” she said. “O, Alfred, for my sake and for all our sakes, say that you are sorry. She longs to forgive you.” I would not answer. I heard footsteps slowly retreating, and flung myself on the bed to pass a wretched night. Another footstep, slower and more feeble than my sister’s, disturbed me. “Alfred, my son, shall I come in?” she asked. I cannot tell what influence, operating at that moment, made me speak adverse to my352 feelings. The gentle voice of my mother, that thrilled me, melted the ice from my heart, and I longed to throw myself upon her neck; but I did not. My words gave the lie to my heart when I said I was not sorry. I heard her withdraw. I heard her groan. I longed to call her back, but I did not. I was awakened from an uneasy slumber by hearing my name called loudly, and my sister stood by my bedside. “Get up Alfred, Don’t wait a minute. Get up and come with me, mother is dying.” I thought I was yet dreaming, but I got up mechanically, and followed my sister. On the bed, pale as marble, lay my mother. She was not yet undressed. She had thrown herself upon the bed to rest, and rising again to go to me she was seized with heart disease, and borne to her room. I cannot tell you my agony as I looked upon her—my remorse was tenfold more bitter from the thought she never would know it. I believed myself to be her murderer. I fell on the bed beside her, I could not weep. My heart burned within me, my brain was on fire. My sister threw her arms around me and wept in silence. Suddenly we saw a motion of mother’s hand;353 her eyes unclosed. She had recovered her consciousness, but not her speech. I could not understand her words. “Mother! mother!” I shrieked, “say only that you forgive me.” She could not tell with her lips, but her hand pressed mine. She looked upon me, and lifting her thin white hands, she clasped my own within them, and cast her eyes upward. She moved her lips in prayer and thus died. I remained kneeling beside her, that dear form, till my sister removed me, the joy of youth had left me forever. Boys who spurn a mother’s counsel, who are ashamed to own they are wrong, who think it manly to resist her authority, or yield to her influence, beware. One act of disobedience may cause a blot that a lifetime cannot wipe out. Wrong words and wrong actions make wounds that leave their scars. Be warned, subdue the first risings of temper, and give not utterance to the bitter thoughts. Shun the fearful effects of disobedience. Lay not up for yourselves sad memories for future years. THAT there is a sphere of influence possessed by every one, not even excepting the child, was affectingly illustrated in the following incident:— “Some years ago,” said the late Benjamin Rotch, in one of his telling speeches, “I was addressing a public meeting in the neighborhood of Aylesbury; and in the course of my remarks I endeavored to enforce individual duty, and the right exercise of individual influence. There sat, on the front form, a fine looking but weather beaten railway laborer, who paid very earnest attention to me. He had, sitting on his knee, a little girl about five years old. By way of refuting the common excuse for indolence, ‘I have no influence,’ I remarked that the little girl sitting on the working man’s knee, in front of me, even she, had influence. The man, as if acting under some magic spell, jumped on his feet, put the child on the floor, and then355 striking his hand against his thigh exclaimed, ‘That’s true!’ “This singular interruption somewhat disconcerted me. The man, evidently embarrassed at what he had done, took his seat, reinstated his little girl on his knee, and again drank in the truths delivered to the meeting. As I was leaving the room this man was waiting at the door. I said to him, ‘Now, my good man, tell me what induced you to conduct yourself in the way you did?’” “Some time ago,” said he, “I was employed on the railway, and was in the habit of going every night to a beer shop, from which I seldom returned sober. I had,” said he, with a big tear glistening in his eye, “at that time a daughter nineteen years of age; she was a dutiful child, with a warm and affectionate heart. She used to come after me to the beer shop, but she would never go inside, though I sometimes pressed her to do so. She would wait outside the door, in the cold and wet, until I came out that she might conduct me home. She was afraid, if left to myself, I might fall into some pit, or down some precipice, and lose my life. By this conduct, poor thing, she caught a severe cold.356 It turned to consumption, and she died. “I felt her death very much, though I still went to the beer shop; but somehow or other I never, after her death, liked to go that way alone, especially in the night; and for the sake of company, I used to take with me the little girl whom you saw sitting on my knee to-night.” “‘But one night,’ he continued, ‘I was walking along with the little girl, she holding on to my coat; and when we got very near the beer shop there was a great noise within, and my little girl shrank back and said, ‘Father, don’t go!’ Vexed with her I took her up in my arms and proceeded; but just as I was entering the beer-house door I felt a scalding tear fall from her eyes. It went to my heart. I turned my back upon the public house. This was twelve months ago, and I have never tasted drink since. I could not help getting up and doing as I did; but I hope, Sir, you will forgive me.’” A father bore upon his arm
A girl of tender years;
She shiver’d sadly with the cold,
Her eyes were full of tears.
I paused to see why she should weep—
A girl so young and fair—
And why her father wore a look
Of horror or despair.
I did not need to tarry long
Her tears to understand,
For on a gin-shop’s half-shut door
The father laid his hand.
Loud was the wintry wind without,
Loud was the noise within;
But o’er them all I heard her words,
“Oh! father, don’t go in?”
He turned him sternly from the door
And strode along the street,
Thanking his young deliverer
With words and kisses sweet.
Strong were the few and gentle words
The little girl did speak;
But stronger far the silent tear
That trickled down her cheek!