BY the mass of school-boys, vacation is hailed not only as a respite from study, but also as a time to indulge in that “dolce far niente” life[A] so refreshing after months of prolonged effort. Not so in my case. I must not take advantage of Miss Grimshaw’s kindness, nor encroach too far on the benevolence of Mrs. Jeffries. Through their goodness I had been enabled to finish the term, and now I must work as faithfully as I had studied.
As there was little to do in the grocery and Mr. Willett already had a boy, I thought best to try the farmers. True, I knew little of haying or harvesting; but I was strong, and willing to do my best.
The next day after school closed I set out to find employment. Mr. Cosgrove at the Corners was the first one to whom I applied.
“No; you have been to school for the year; of course that has spoiled you for labor.”
“But mine has not been an easy life, Mr. Cosgrove. I walked three miles to the academy and back every day. I can work just as well, for all that?”
“No, indeed; books spoil every one for work. There never was a better boy than Farley Steadman, till he took it into his head to go to college; and now I would not let him drive a cart through a pair of bars. He don’t know any thing; it has just spoiled him;” and the old man drove the nail into the fence he was strengthening, with more force than usual.
“Do you know of any one, Mr. Cosgrove, likely to want help?”
“Why, yes, every one wants help if he can get it; I do, but I don’t want school-boys.”
I walked away not a little disconcerted. To get work would, I thought, be an easy matter. I had never for one moment supposed my going to school would be the least drawback. The next place was Mr. Colton’s; he had just engaged all the help he would need for the summer. “Farmer White on the hill might hire you,” he said; so I trudged off to farmer White’s. “No, I have rented my farm, and keep no one myself.”
What to do I hardly knew; I had walked all the morning, and was tired. Besides, I did not know of any one else that would be likely to want extra help for the summer.
“There’s Mr. Wyman at the Cross,” said farmer White; “I shouldn’t wonder if he might want you. You can try him; he is a mighty fine man, and his wife is a good Christian woman.”
I started for Mr. Wyman’s. It was five miles from Mr. White’s, and the hot June sun was pouring down his strongest beams. I walked fast, but I could not help thinking; and almost before I was aware, I seemed to feel the visible presence of Mr. Kirby, to hear again the prayer he made in the mountain temple. I remembered too that he had told me how much distressed he was when the doctor first told him to go into the mountains. He had laid out his summer’s work, and was not willing to leave it. Days passed; he grew worse, and again his physician advised him to spend a few weeks among the hills. “I called it so much waste time,” he said—“time in which I could do nothing for myself, or for others. Yet it has not proved so.”
No, I knew it had not, for it was his constant aim to serve his heavenly Father, and if he had for a time left his work in one place, still he labored for souls wherever he was; consequently his daily life among the hills blossomed into sweet charities which would ripen into sweeter fruit.
What did I not owe him? Jennie too had remembered his words, and studied the little Bible he gave her, first because he had given it, and afterwards because its teachings responded to her spirit’s need. It is hardly possible for one to be a constant reader of that blessed book without a marked effect on heart and life. The diligent student of the Bible will have his tastes refined, his affections made more pure, his aspirations elevated, and his whole moral and mental tone immeasurably exalted. I could see this in Jennie, and I trusted there was something of the like in my own case. But as yet I knew nothing of the pardoning love of the Redeemer.
I gained the brow of the hill from which I could see Mr. Wyman’s house, and look down on the rich field of grain waving in the sunlight. Every thing had a fresh, tidy appearance, and spoke of good management on the part of Mr. Wyman. Looking along the road, I saw a boy of my own size coming leisurely along; and as he approached I saw it was Ezra Metcalf, a lad that I had seen in Claverton.
“A long time since I have seen you, Ezra,” I said as he came up. “Are you going to the village?”
“Yes; I can’t stand it any longer. Old Wyman is so cross there’s no doing any thing with him. It is work, work, work; and when I would think it was all done, he’d send me into the house to wait on his wife.”
“Men hire boys to work,” I answered.
“Yes; but all the time is a little too much. Rain or shine, it made no difference. It seemed to be all that he thought of, to get as much work out of me as he could.”
I listened to his statement without any misgiving, and when he had finished, I told him of my purpose to ask Mr. Wyman for work.
“You had better not, if you want any flesh left on your bones,” he answered.
I bade him good-by, and we walked on, each his own way.
I found Mr. Wyman in his field hoeing corn. He did not stop as I came up and made known my errand.
“Yes, I want a smart, go-ahead kind of boy; one who knows how work should be done, and will do it faithfully, whether I am by or not, if I could only find one of that sort.”
“Have you ever worked on a farm?”
“No, sir; but I am willing to work, and I think I could do whatever there is to be done.”
“What have you been doing for the last year?”
“I have studied at the Rockdale academy.”
“What is your name?”
“Marston Howe.”
“Marston Howe! I have heard Mr. Farnham speak of you as a good scholar. If you work as you study, I will take you.”
“I shall aim to do so, Mr. Wyman.”
“Let me see you hoe;” and he rested a moment.
“That’s right, thrust your hoe deep; in that way you cut off the roots, and they will not be apt to sprout again; while if you hoe lightly, you only clip off the tops, and after the first rain they will be quite as bad as they are now.”
It was new work to me. I went to bed at night tired as I never was before in my life; and but for the remembrance of Mr. Kirby, I doubt if I should have had courage to commence anew in the morning. But life is something more than sleeping and eating. It is the maturing into noble deeds, the consciousness of mental power, the exercise of that power in heroic self-conquest, and in doing good to others. I thought of this as I arose and looked up to the mountain we had once climbed. There it stood clearly defined against the calm, pure sky, its sides radiant with golden light that had not yet reached the valley. The noble manhood that Mr. Kirby exemplified must be sought with tireless footsteps and self-sacrificing heart.
The farmer was out as I came down.
“So you did not oversleep yourself,” said he as he bade me good-morning.
“I did not rise as early as usual this morning, Mr. Wyman; hoeing is new business. I shall get accustomed to it, and can sleep just as well after it as after any thing else, I suppose.”
“It is hard work, and so is every thing else. Some people make play out of it, but that is not my way. I was brought up to think that any thing that was worth doing at all, was worth doing well.”
There was no lack of work at Mr. Wyman’s, neither was it always the same thing. Sometimes I felt like murmuring when, after a hard day’s work in the field, I was obliged to take the horses to the blacksmith’s, or carry corn to the mill, mend fences, or do something else of like nature. Mr. Wyman did not hold to sitting still. There were no idle moments, all were filled up; and when night came, I was so tired that I fell asleep without so much as a verse in my Bible.
Then haying came on; and while the hands swung their scythes with an easy grace that I tried in vain to imitate, it fell to my part to do the raking. There was something so sweet and fragrant about the new-mown hay, that I enjoyed haying much better than hoeing.
Once Jennie came to see me in the hay-field, and her dimpled face lit up with excess of joy as she tossed the clover and chased the butterflies, her heart full of sweet-springing thoughts. Resting a few moments on the hay, with her glad blue eyes looking up into the sky, she said a few hearty words about God’s love in opening up a path to us. Young as she was, she was beginning to feel the sweet influence of his Spirit in her heart, inciting her to love and serve him, believing that his promises were sure, and that he would never leave nor forsake her.
Sweet little comforter; she hardly knew from what her words often saved me, desponding as I not unfrequently was, and inclined to go back instead of forward, feeling tempted to half do my work, and never dream of any thing more than present comfort.
Coming to me in my need, repeating the words Mr. Kirby had spoken, going over with her Sabbath-school hymns and texts, she reminded me more and more of our sainted mother, and stimulated me more than words can tell to make use of every means in my power to get good and do good. Thus my evil thoughts did not gain the ascendency; and by continual striving I grew to enjoy my labor as my study, doing both with a will and determination to succeed.
Every Saturday I walked five miles, for the purpose of hearing Jennie’s weekly lesson and walking to church with her on the Sabbath.
“Do not forget the Sabbath,” had been one of the last injunctions of my dear mother; and when tempted, as I often was, to stay from church or from Sabbath-school because I was tired, or my dress was old and patched, or to read and study since I had so little time in the week, the thought of transgressing against her wish, rather than because it was a positive command of God, has often led me to his house, trying to cultivate a proper spirit on his holy day. And now that I have learned more of his law and of the wonderful plan of redemption for a guilty world, I bless his great name that I was early inclined to keep his Sabbath. Let me ask any little boy or girl who is trying to be a climber, to remember the Sabbath; not to think idle, foolish, wicked thoughts, neither to make companions of those who are accustomed to doing this; but reading God’s word, thinking of his love, listening to his servants, and praying for the indwelling of his Spirit.
The Sabbath before the fall term of the academy was to commence, Mr. Harlan preached at Claverton. His text was, “The entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding unto the simple.” He spoke of light as the great vivifier, the life-giving principle, the beautifier. It paints the leaf of the lily and the rose, veins the violet, and tinges the varied landscape with beauty. Without sunlight the visual scope would be limited, and the beautiful around us would fail to awaken our interest.
Before the Creator uttered that great fiat, “Let there be light,” darkness was upon the face of the great deep; all matter was in a circumfused mass, no ray of light to penetrate the gloom; and when there was light, it presented the earth without form and void. But when the sun was set in the firmament of heaven, then the earth brought forth grass, herbs, trees, and flowers; even the angels were charmed with its beauty, and the morning stars sang together for joy.
So without the Lord Jesus Christ, who is the great light of the moral firmament, all the light man has can only present a world without form, void of all beauty and all good; and it is only so far as “the Day-spring from on high has visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death,” that the moral earth begins to shoot forth the choicest plants and to produce the richest fruits, so that the sons of God shout for joy and heaven rings with anthems of praise.
The Scriptures set forth the birth of Christ under the figure of the rising sun. How glorious is this figure! When the heart drinks in the beauty of his words, when the light of his countenance shines upon the repentant soul, what a flood of rapture thrills the entire being! Christ is to us what the sun is to the material world, the dispenser of light, life, and joy.
We have seen vegetables growing in corners or cellars, pale and delicate, creeping feebly towards a ray of light that penetrated some small crevice, like beings in distress stretching out their hands for help. Like those delicate and sickly plants, watching eagerly every ray of light, feeling their way through the darkness, hoping to find some opening that would lead out into a world of beauty, is often the experience of the individual Christian. Religion is not a thing of gloom and clouds. It is a lamp, a light, a sun; the very thing to cheer a desolate heart, and to brighten still more a cheerful, happy spirit.
“That was what made Mr. Kirby so good and happy, wasn’t it?” said Jennie as we went home.
“And Mr. Brisbane,” I continued. “I often wondered how he could be so happy when he was always suffering.”
It had always been a habit since we had been with Miss Grimshaw to repeat as much of the sermon as we could to grandma, as we called Miss Grimshaw’s mother. This morning the sermon was easy to remember; and when we finished the poor woman took off her spectacles, and wiped the tears from her wrinkled face. She was one of God’s chosen ones; but her life had been darkened with much sorrow. Of eight children, she had buried all but one. Still was she uniformly cheerful and happy. A simple untaught woman, her understanding had been developed by the reading of His word, and his precious promises were familiar utterances in her humble home.
Monday morning I rose early; the dew-drops sparkling on the grass, and the birds filling the trees with music. Jennie walked through the village and beyond the mill with me. Stopping to say good-by, we heard a noise of distress, and a fluttering of wings in a thicket near the roadside.
Jennie was attracted at once, her loving heart responsive to the agony of the fluttering birds. On careful inspection, we found two little birdlings on the ground. They had fallen out of their nest, and though able to hop a little, could not fly.
“Come, brother, put them back again,” and she held the little panting things, while I parted the leaves and found the nest, standing on tiptoe to put them in, and then retreating a little distance to see what the old ones would do.
“Fallen out of their nest, just like us, brother; but God will take care of us. He has, and he will;” and she flung her arms round my neck and kissed me good-by, and I ran on as fast as I could.
“Like birds fallen out of our nest.” I thought of it till I reached Mr. Wyman’s. I had lost a little time, for Jennie could not walk as fast as I could. Breakfast was nearly over; but Mr. Wyman was not cross, and Mrs. Wyman gave me a cup of coffee, and a plate filled with what she had set away for me, and for which my early walk had given me a keen relish.
The haying was over; but there was grain to cut, and I took my sickle for the first time. All day my heart was light and cheerful; I felt the influence of the Sabbath rest, and I seemed continually to hear Mr. Harlan’s text, “The entrance of thy word giveth light; it giveth understanding to the simple.” I resolved that I would study my Bible; it should be to me a daily friend and companion. Mr. Kirby’s words too went ringing through my brain: “Do what you do well, and God will open a path where He sees that you can do something better.” Then Jennie and the birds came up again; and thus with a continued succession of pleasant thoughts, the day went happily away.
Mr. Wyman was kind, and more jovial than usual; and after the evening meal, when I had filled the buckets with water, and helped Mrs. Wyman in the dairy, I drew up my chair to the table and commenced reading the weekly paper. Presently Mr. Wyman left his seat on the porch, knocked the ashes from his pipe, laid it on the mantel, and said,
“Wife, have you told Marston what Mr. Farnham said?”
“I have not had time; you had best tell him, papa.”
I looked up in surprise. What had I done now? Was it because I was a few minutes behind time in the morning? There was no room for conjecture. Taking the arm-chair, Mr. Wyman began:
“Have you any plans for the fall and winter, Marston?”
“I was hoping that you would need me for the fall, Mr. Wyman; and in the winter I should like to go to school,” I answered with a choking voice.
“Mr. Farnham was here Saturday night, after you went to Claverton. He spoke of you, and said that you was trying to study, and hoped to go through college. Do you really think of any thing like this?”
“If I can, Mr. Wyman, although I am sometimes afraid it will take a long time. I can only hope to go to school winters, at least for several years.”
“That is just what Mr. Farnham said, and as we no longer have a boy to educate, he made me more than half believe that I ought to help you. He said that you could nearly pay your board with errands, and odd jobs for Mr. Harlan; and I told him I would pay you wages through this month and the next. So if you want to go to school, you had better begin Wednesday. The more one knows, the better they may get along. Learn all you can, and try and make a man. Boys sometimes think their employers have no hearts. There has not been a day since you came here, in which I have not remembered my Willie, and felt for you. I could have made your work easier, but that would not be the way to make you a prompt, useful, industrious man.”
My head bowed low while he spoke. I wished that I could live over the past months. I had tried; but there had been many days when I had dragged on, working because obliged to, yet not cheerful and happy. So many resolves I had made and broken; so many times felt like running away, and hiding myself out of sight and sound, longing to be free from responsibility and from effort, and then in a moment ashamed to think I should so forget, should be so weak and vacillating. Could I only live the vacation over again, I would be more watchful, more patient in trial.
It is thus we ever feel, when we look back. Yet do we always gain wisdom from the retrospect? The future instead of the past calls for our resolves, and the wail of memory blending with the whispers of conscience, should be our incentive to a more useful life.
But when Mrs. Wyman came in with some nice new shirts that were once Willie’s, and a handsome blue cloth jacket, that “looked so like the dear boy,” she said, I broke down entirely.
“I do not deserve all this,” I said, choking down the tears. She put her hand on mine.
“We give you these, Marston, to show that we approve your effort. Mr. Farnham told us how you went to school last year. There were no obstacles you did not overcome. A long walk twice a day, with bitter, stinging cold, and still you made no excuse. You have worked faithfully during vacation, and Mr. Wyman will let your wages run through the next month. But you cannot go to school without clothes; we have no one to wear them now;” and tears were on both of our faces. “Here’s a cap, and boots too, that were Willie’s. I shall be glad to see you wear them. Willie loved books. He would have gone to college, had he lived.”
I could not answer; it was all so sudden, so unexpected. I could look back and see so many places where I had failed. With a full heart I hurried up to my room, thankful that I was to go to school, that a path had opened; and resolving anew that each moment should be spent to the best advantage.
How it would gladden Jennie’s heart. “One step at a time,” she had whispered to me so often; “Mr. Kirby said that was enough for you to plan now. All that you are required to do is the work of the present hour, and then forward to the next. You will do it yet, Marston, I know you will.”
Borne up on the encouragement of her words, I felt that I should. It would take years; but others had gone over the ground, and I could do the same; and with the thought of Mr. Kirby and Jennie, I fell asleep.
