LITMIR.BIZ

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Primmins trembled like a leaf.

      “For fun!” said I, hanging my head,—“just to see how you’d look, papa; and that’s the truth of it. Now beat me, do beat me!”

      My father threw his book fifty yards off, stooped down, and caught me to his breast. “Boy,” he said, “you have done wrong: you shall repair it by remembering all your life that your father blessed God for giving him a son who spoke truth in spite of fear! Oh! Mrs. Primmins, the next fable of this kind you try to teach him, and we part forever!”

      From that time I first date the hour when I felt that I loved my father, and knew that he loved me; from that time, too, he began to converse with me. He would no longer, if he met me in the garden, pass by with a smile and nod; he would stop, put his book in his pocket, and though his talk was often above my comprehension, still somehow I felt happier and better, and less of an infant, when I thought over it, and tried to puzzle out the meaning; for he had a way of suggesting, not teaching, putting things into my head, and then leaving them to work out their own problems. I remember a special instance with respect to that same flower-pot and geranium. Mr. Squills, who was a bachelor, and well-to-do in the world, often made me little presents. Not long after the event I have narrated, he gave me one far exceeding in value those usually bestowed on children,—it was a beautiful large domino-box in cut ivory, painted and gilt. This domino-box was my delight. I was never weary of playing, at dominos with Mrs. Primmins, and I slept with the box under my pillow.

      “Ah!” said my father one day, when he found me ranging the ivory parallelograms in the parlor, “ah! you like that better than all your playthings, eh?”

      “Oh, yes, papa!”

      “You would be very sorry if your mamma were to throw that box out of the window and break it for fun.” I looked beseechingly at my father, and made no answer.

      “But perhaps you would be very glad,” he resumed, “if suddenly one of those good fairies you read of could change the domino-box into a beautiful geranium in a beautiful blue-and-white flower-pot, and you could have the pleasure of putting it on your mamma’s window-sill.”

      “Indeed I would!” said I, half-crying.

      “My dear boy, I believe you; but good wishes don’t mend bad actions: good actions mend bad actions.”

      So saying, he shut the door and went out. I cannot tell you how puzzled I was to make out what my father meant by his aphorism. But I know that I played at dominos no more that day. The next morning my father found me seated by myself under a tree in the garden; he paused, and looked at me with his grave bright eyes very steadily.

      “My boy,” said he, “I am going to walk to ——,” a town about two miles off: “will you come? And, by the by, fetch your domino-box. I should like to show it to a person there.” I ran in for the box, and, not a little proud of walking with my father upon the high-road, we set out.

      “Papa,” said I by the way, “there are no fairies now.”

      “What then, my child?”

      “Why, how then can my domino-box be changed into a geranium and a blue-and-white flower-pot?”

      “My dear,” said my father, leaning his hand on my shoulder, “everybody who is in earnest to be good, carries two fairies about with him,—one here,” and he touched my heart, “and one here,” and he touched my forehead.

      “I don’t understand, papa.”

      “I can wait till you do, Pisistratus. What a name!”

      My father stopped at a nursery gardener’s, and after looking over the flowers, paused before a large double geranium. “Ah! this is finer than that which your mamma was so fond of. What is the cost, sir?”

      “Only 7s. 6d.,” said the gardener.

      My father buttoned up his pocket. “I can’t afford it to-day,” said he, gently, and we walked out.

      On entering the town, we stopped again at a china warehouse. “Have you a flower-pot like that I bought some months ago? Ah! here is one, marked 3s. 6d. Yes, that is the price. Well; when your mamma’s birthday comes again, we must buy her another. That is some months to wait. And we can wait, Master Sisty. For truth, that blooms all the year round, is better than a poor geranium; and a word that is never broken, is better than a piece of delf.”

      My head, which had drooped before, rose again; but the rush of joy at my heart almost stifled me.

      “I have called to pay your little bill,” said my father, entering the shop of one of those fancy stationers common in country towns, and who sell all kinds of pretty toys and knick-knacks. “And by the way,” he added, as the smiling shopman looked over his books for the entry, “I think my little boy here can show you a much handsomer specimen of French workmanship than that work-box which you enticed Mrs. Caxton into raffling for, last winter. Show your domino-box, my dear.”

      I produced my treasure, and the shopman was liberal in his commendations. “It is always well, my boy, to know what a thing is worth, in case one wishes to part with it. If my young gentleman gets tired of his plaything, what will you give him for it?”

      “Why, sir,” said the shopman, “I fear we could not afford to give more than eighteen shillings for it, unless the young gentleman took some of these pretty things in exchange.”

      “Eighteen shillings!” said my father; “you would give that sum! Well, my boy, whenever you do grow tired of your box, you have my leave to sell it.”

      My father paid his bill and went out. I lingered behind a few moments, and joined him at the end of the street.

      “Papa, papa,” I cried, clapping my hands, “we can buy the geranium; we can buy the flower-pot.” And I pulled a handful of silver from my pockets.

      “Did I not say right?” said my father, passing his handkerchief over his eyes. “You have found the two fairies!”

      Oh! how proud, how overjoyed I was when, after placing vase and flower on the window-sill, I plucked my mother by the gown and made her follow me to the spot.

      “It is his doing and his money!” said my father; “good actions have mended the bad.”

      “What!” cried my mother, when she had learned all; “and your poor domino-box that you were so fond of! We will go back to-morrow and buy it back, if it costs us double.”

      “Shall we buy it back, Pisistratus?” asked my father.

      “Oh, no—no—no! It would spoil all,” I cried, burying my face on my father’s breast.

      “My wife,” said my father, solemnly, “this is my first lesson to our child,—the sanctity and the happiness of self-sacrifice; undo not what it should teach to his dying day.”

      CHAPTER V

      When I was between my seventh and my eighth year, a change came over me, which may perhaps be familiar to the notice of those parents who boast the anxious blessing of an only child. The ordinary vivacity of childhood forsook me; I became quiet, sedate, and thoughtful. The absence of play-fellows of my own age, the companionship of mature minds, alternated only by complete solitude, gave something precocious, whether to my imagination or my reason. The wild fables muttered to me by the old nurse in the summer twilight or over the winter’s hearth,—the effort made by my struggling intellect to comprehend the grave, sweet wisdom of my father’s suggested lessons,—tended to feed a passion for revery, in which all my faculties strained and struggled, as in the dreams that come when sleep is nearest waking. I had learned to read with ease, and to write with some fluency, and I already began to imitate, to reproduce. Strange tales akin to those I had gleaned from fairy-land, rude songs modelled from such

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