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The Baldwin Library

very
RmB Florida





ae ty ti, Ga a
A z a Wi Keer ©

Ab. , oe
Be i cs











ROBERT DAWSON:

a

THE BRAVE SPIRIT.



WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS,

LONDON :
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.,

BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN,



CAMDEN PRESS, LONDON, N.wW.



ID (
ae



CONTENTS.

- CHAPTER : ' PAGE
I—A Wise Father. . ‘ . Bice eh eg aN » &
Il—The Arithmetic Lesson. . . . . . 48
IIl.—The New Suit of Clothes , : . er » 82
IV.-Leaving Home . 7 rs SNe ee ? 72
V.—-An Important Era. . . . : eh te Oa BS

VI—The Publisher. . « . . a Area gee ES







bs

ROBERT DAWSON;

THE BRAVE SPIRIT.
—_~—.
CHAPTER I.

A WISE FATHER. .

“The slothful man saith, There is a lion in the way.”—Prov, xxvi. 13.

TIE most interesting event of our family his-



ye.) tory, during my tenth year, was the purchase
of a cow. My father had a patch of land two miles
off, large enough“to pasture a cow, and he justly
thought her milk might greatly add to the comforts of
our frugal table. What a world of good things eoine

in the wake of a good cow! Cream for our coffee,



6 ROBERT DAWSON.

_ milk for our berries, butter fot our bread, to say nothing
of occasional cheeses made by my mother in an anti-
quated cheese-press, an heirloom of her family. Next
to Cuff, the cow might have been called the pet, at
least in the esteem of ‘Jane,. Mary, and myself.

a4 And who is going to drive the cow to pashire
father?” I-asked, as he put her into ine yard on the
first evening after her arrival.

“You, my son ;” and: his answer imparted to me a,
new sense of responsibility : and for some tiie this
duty was discharged with great alacrity. The weather *
was fine, ‘our cow” was still a novelty, and above all,
my friend, Charley Frazier, had his cow to drive a
mile in the same direction. One difference in our
cow-driving duties soon became manifest, and it was
not long before it sorely afflicted me. Charley only
_ drove his cow in pleasant weather, while I had to drive
mine in all weathers, just as it happened, rain or shine.
Now Charley was a stout boy, and nearly two years
older than myself, and I did not see any reason why.

he should not drive his cow when I could mine. No:



A WISE FATHER. 7

_ that was not exactly the aspect in which I viewed it.
I began not to see any reason why I should drive
mine when Charley could not drive his.

“Mother says I shall not go in the rain. My father

“hires a boy for rainy weather. I am not going in rainy
weather. NotI. I do not like it.” ;

So said Charley, as he lounged idly over the railing.

- “Well, I have to go,” said I, pitying myself.

_ “TI would not. It is too bad to be obliged to gO, |
carrying a great heavy umbrella all the way. Mother
says it is enough te walk so far, without having to go
in the rain.”

So Charley talked; and so much did it begin to
appeat like a hard case, that I wondered why I had
not thought of it sooner, and grumbled more. The
more I thought’ of it, the more it troubled me, until,
by-and- bye, it looked like a very great hardship.

“I wonder if father thinks I am tougher than any-
body else? Charley Frazier i is older than I am ;” and
I had a-new fit of brooding over the matter, quite

natural to me.



8 -ROBERT DAWSON.

“A cold fain came pattering upon the windows one
morning in October.

“Tt rains, and I will not go to the pasture for any-
body, —not I!” and down I sank upon the bed,
thrusting my head under the warm clothes.

“ Robert!” presently called my father, at the foot of
the stairs. It was his usual summons before. going out
_ to milking. 2

“Tam not awake yet, sir,” said I to myself, getting
farther down, and resolving to sleep again. Who does
not know that sleep, vigorously wooed, is never won?
I was wide awake.

After a time I heard my father’s steps returning from
the barn.

“ Father-has done his part, ought I not to do mine?”

was 4 suggestion that tried to find its way fairly into
my heart, but I answered it with “No: ’tis too bad to
ge two miles in the rain such a morning as this!” |

“ Robert, my ‘son, get up; the cow is ready to go to
' pasture.” No answer. “Robert!” a little louder.

“ Robert !” louder yet. No response.



A WISE FATHER. 9

Presently his step was on the stair. It was a slow
and feeble step, for he was an invalid. I began to
breathe heavily; he entered the chamber, and took me
by the arm. “Come, my son, ta up; you have
over-slept yourself; this is unbusiness-like ; there is
work to do; jump up!” All this he said with a cheer-
ful, inspiring tone.

“Oh! it rains, father!” I began to say, but he was
gone. ‘There was no help; I was left to dress and
come downstairs; but my disposition to rebel brought
an ugly pout upon my lips.

“Come,” said my mother, when I at last appeared ;
$ come, Robert, put on your coat and thick shoes, and
take the old umbrella, and see how fast you can trot.”

‘ Nobody can trot fast in all this rain,” said I, pet-
tishly ; and muttering lower, “I guess Charley’s mother
would not let him go out’ such a morning; Ze could
stay at home, when he wanted to. This ugly old um-
brella, and these heavy old shoes!” And so nothing
suited me; I lagged and fretted, when, lo! my father

entered the kftchen door. I supposed he was gone,



Io ROBERT DAWSON.

“ Aré you ill this morning,. Robert?” he inquired of
me.

“No, father; I am not ill, but it rains, Charley
‘Fradier does not go to pasture except in. pleasant wea-
ther, and none of the other boys go my way.” My
tone was deprecating. Somehow or other I expected
he would pity me and begin to say, “ Well, wait a
while ;” or “You need. not go to-day, poor boy ;” or
‘* The rain is too bad; I will get somebody else to go.”
Similar remarks to these I had often heard. addressed
to Charley Frazier by his parents, when, having pity-
fully represented his case, he was relieved from some
disagreeable duty. ‘I wish I was as well off,” I said
to myself a hundred times, when I beheld Charley at
liberty, while I was tugging hard at work. But it took
long years to develop results. .

What I.expected—I might better have said, what I
wished—my father to say, he did mot say.. No unwise
- or indiscreet condolence came from his lips.
“My son, you must meet the shower just as you

must meet all obstacles. It will be only a few drops at



A WISE FATHER. 11

@ time, Can you not do that, Robert? Make up your
mind, now, and act like a man.”

His tone was both courageous and encouraging, and
his fine eyes were fixed earnestly upon me. “ Only a
few drops ata siied ” IT inwardly repeated it once,
and the great, huge, leviathan shower seemed actually
to dwindle down in an instant to only a few drops at
@ time.

_ “Yes, father,” I answered briskly, in spite of myself.
The shoes were no longer heavy, nor the umbrella
ugly. Off I walked bravely. “ Only a few arops at a
time,” I said aloud to the pelting:rain half a dozen
times, and my walk seemed comparatively a short one.
Passing by Charley’s house on my way home, he cried

out, “T have but just got up, and you have been away
| up to pasture, in the rain. Oh, I would not do that !”

iH Only a few drops at a time, Charley. Make up
your mind to it, and you will find it is nothing,” said I
—marching by with the agreeable consciousness of .
something gained, which I would not have exchanged

with any boy. I now know that it was the experience of



12 "| ROBERT DAWSON.

of the great art of. grappling with difficulties, rather
than avoiding them. It is not right to grumble about
them and magnify them—no; but to meet them with a
brave heart. Then every moment would be laden only
with its own burden. I have since learned from the
volume of Divine truth, that this is also a great princi-
ple of religion :—That we know not what shall be on
the morrow, but sufficient unto the day is the evil

thereof.

Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the beauteous land.

‘* And the little moments,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.”

LOIRE









‘CHAPTER II.

THE ARITHMETIC LESSON.

“* Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”—Z cles. ix. 10,

4;EHO does not know the natural reluctance of




A j| childhood to make steady effort? Indeed, is
it not the reluctance of the human heart at all ages?
Children in deed, and children in character, are often
ready enough to act from impulse or circumstances,
and make great achievements ; but it is the habit of
steady, self-relying, yet humble effort, which accom-
plishes all that is truly good and useful. We are to
do with our might whatsoever our hands find to do.
This habit cannot be begun too early, and it can only
be successfully cultivated in a child, by making him

feel that there is power enough in parental authority

ae feng



14 ROBERT DAWSON.

to compel obedience. He must understand that from
fs you must,” there is no appeal.

I was at the head of my arithmetic class. What
‘boy that has attained this honour, under the old sys-
tem of ‘teaching, forgets how great the honour, how
exquisite the satisfaction! What a length and breadth
- of proportion one feels! I well remember ‘how I
seemed to fill up the whole school-room with my little.
. self, By something that some boys would calla lucky
hit, Charley was next to me. Every month, ten os
twelve “test questions,” as they. were called, were
given to the class, comprising and combining the prin-
ciples and rules which we had just been studying.
The committee of examination, on such occasions.
usually visited the school, and each scholar felt desirous
of making a creditable appearance. On this occasion —
I raced home with my slate and pencil; and, with
great alacrity, finished splitting and bringing in my
wood before supper, that I might deyote the whole
eyening to the lesson, How carefully did I wash and
(ry the old slate, and cut and point my pencil! I



_THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 15

well remember how-we: all sat by the small deal table
ét those long-gone days : my mother, with her darn-
ing; my sisters braiding palm-leaf hats, wherewith to
add their mite to our family means; while I was work-
ing at my arithmetic with all the diligence I was mas-
ter of. With the first, second, and third sums there
was no difficulty ; nor was there with the fourth, fifth,
and sixth, They were done, and I could explain them.
At the seventh I made a full stop ; the eighth and
ninth looked quite as hard. The tenth I could see
howto do. “Oh, I cannot stop all this evening on
the seventh!” said I, impatiently. “Father must tell
me.” And I began to play with my sister’s palm:
leaves. ;
“But do you not remember,” said Jane, “that father
"never tells you to do test examples ? He always says
he is ready enough to explain all about the rules as you
go along, but you must learn how to wsethem. Do you
not remember he said so, Robert ?”
“Oh, it is so hard, I cannot find it ont, I know I
* cannot! Besides, Jane, you know I am the head of my

6



16 ROBERT DAWSON.

class. Father will help me out of this, I know,” said. .
i with a nod and a wink.

“Why, Robert, he never does help you in test sums.
He says you can and you must do them yourself.”

“And you know father never alters his mind,” added
Mary.

“But I am up at the head now, Mary; father would
rather help me than let me go down, I guess; right in
the face and eyes of the committee, too; would he not,
mother?” 7

“Would he not be likely to think, if you cannot
maintain your place by yourself, that you are not worthy
of it?” asked my mother, looking up from her work.
This reasoning was so exactly like father’s, that I turned
towards the slate, read the sum to myself and then read
it aloud, and put the figures on the slate; but all the
while I was inwardly declaring I could not do it. Of
what use is effort, unless one believes that effort can
accomplish something ? .

The sum remained as intricate as ever. In fact, I

would not make the exertion even of ¢rying fairly and

\



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 17

' bravely. It began to grow late, and father did not come
home. Jane and Mary kissed mother, and went away
to bed; I nestled close beside her.

“Mother, I wish, when you were a girl, you had
studied this arithmetic, so that you could tell me,” I
said, looking up into her face, and wondering that she,
who knew so much, should not know how to work-out
my sums. _

“‘T am very sorry my dear boy prefers being told to .
studying it out himself,” she answered, gravely.

“Mother, I cannot!” declared I, knocking my heavy
cow-hide shoes against the legs of her chair. ©

“Cannot is a lazy drone,” said she.

“And what is caz, mother?” I merrily: said.

“A smart, brisk, persevering creature, that stands on
his own legs, and does not need to use other people’s.”

Alas! how many bright prospects and fair hopes
has that same /azy drone overcast and blasted! How
many have met some flattering temptation, and when
* reason and ‘conscience have cried out, “Resist! Flee!”

they have drawled out a languid “JZ cannot!” and given

o



18: ' \ ROBERT DAWSON

themselves up to the influence of the wicked one! How
many have been urged and almost persuaded to choose
the strait and narrow path. that leads to life eternal,
who at the first sight of a cross to be borne,.or a darling
sin to be forsaken, cr a bad habit to be broken, have
shrunk back with that irresolute and cowardly “ J can-
not /”

“T like can best; I will try to be caz,” and my slate
and pencil began to be in motion again.

Hark | The front door opened, and my father’s step
was heard in the entry.

“What, my son, up still!” he exclaimed on entering:
“T hope the lesson is well learned. I suppose it must
be by this time.”

“T am waiting for you to help me, father;” and I
would have given much not to have’ been obliged: to
say it. He put on his slippers and sat down by the
fire.’

“Well, Robert,” said he, indy: “what are your

difficulties? Let us hear them.” .

Then he looked at the sum and heard all I had to



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 19

say—“that I wanted him to help me, because I was at
the head, and he would not wish to havé me go down;
and how hard the lesson was; and that I had tried and
tried, and could not do it”

Again he looked at the sum, then at my slate, and
then at me. With what anxiety did I watch his face:
e So hard!” I muttered, every now and then, in any-
thing but a manly tone. Then he gave the slate back
to me, and said slowly,” :

“ No, my son; I cannot help you. -This is a work
you can do, if you fairly try. “Besides, you must sup-
port your present position in the class by your own
exertions, or you are not worthy of it.”

«Oh, father !” I exclaimed bitterly.

“Tt is late now, my dear,” he said, patting my head.
“Go to bed now, and ‘ise early. Make up your mind
to do that sum, and then do ti, . L-want to see you sus-
tain yourself honourably.”

' As I trudged off with my little lamp I felt angry and
disappointed, yet I could not say ‘“ Father never helps

me!” for I could remember evening after evening which

. n



20 ROBERT DAWSON.

he had devoted to my studies, Sleep soon came, and
I forgot the seventh sum and every other vexation until
the cock crowed the next morning. Do you suppose
I awoke refreshed and grateful, and longing to begin
study? Oh,no! Although I enjoyed asleep so sweet,
and awoke in the bright, early dawn, as soon as I
thought of my arithmetic I began to kick the clothes
and toss about in bed, and to declare I did not feel
like looking at my slate at all. “The sum was so hard,
I was sure I could not do it;” and “It was just like
father not to help me.”

Ungrateful boy! I forgot my prayers and all good
thoughts while I lay there, dreading and shrinking from
duty. The consequence was that the sun was high up
in the east before the cow was in the pasture and I
was on my way home again,

“A pretty plight I am in!” I said to myself again
and again ; “but I know what Illdo. Imean to make
it just as late as I can, before I get home from pasture,
and then there will not be a minuté to study before

School begins, and then—and then ”—and I chuckled

4



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 21

at the thought—‘father will have to give me an excuse,
oad so I shall get off.”

To carry out my resolution, I began to climb fences,
and gather flowers, and knock apples off the trees with
stones. . I fully succeeded in wiling away the time, and
did not get home until within half an hour of school-
time.

But ah! I did not like showing myself to my parents,
nor did I feel as keen an appetite for breakfast as usual.
I feared they would penetrate my design, and Iwas a
coward. -My bowl of nice bread and milk, set aside for
me, was hastily swallowed. Then I followed my father
into the wood-house. |

“Father,” (I began with some exertion), “ father,
will you please to give rae an excuse? I have just got
home from. pasture, and have had no time to get my |
sums done.”

He stopped his work and looked at me. My eyes
fell, and were fixed on a chip at my foot.

“Do you honestly think you deserve one, Robert?”

he asked, seriously. -



oe ROBERT DAWSON.

“T-have not got my lesson, and cannot get it;” my
eyes being still fixed on the chip.

e ‘And that is your conclusion, after a fair, resolute
trial; is it, my son?”-

“Ves, father,” I would have said, but the effort died
in my throat. He still ‘rested from his work, his eyes
fixed on. mine, and mine fixed on the chip.

“No, father,” I faintly articulated ; for I call bnew

there was no such thing as deceiving him in such a
matter.
. “T am very glad to see you dealing honestly with
yourself, Robert. We can understand éach other in no
other way. People sometimes make miserable shifts to
get along easy, but it is in vain. I cannot honestly
give you an excuse, because I think your lesson can be
learned, and I do not think you have taken that time to
study this morning which you ought to have taken, and
which you might easily have done, had you really tried.
Make up your mind to do anything, and-you can do it.”

Knowing it was in vain to argue the case, I escaped

from the wood-house.



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 23

-“¥ hate the school, and my arithmetic, and every-
thing !” ciied I, aloud, when fairly beyond the hearing
“of my father. And what poor, lazy, inefficient youth ,
doés not indulge in the same foolish feelings? It is not
he who has conquered difficulties, but he who has been
conquered by them, that is unhappy, discontented, and
unreasonable. _

I went into the kitchen for my books, where my
pitiful and -complaining look. and tone wrought. upon
the sympathies of my sister Mary. |

“ Oh, mother ! por Robert will get down, he will,
I know; and the school committee will be there, too.
Oh, mother! do ask father to write an excuse; do,
mother.”

‘I was touched by this kindness; my little blue
spotted handkerchief was at my face.

“Mother, do!” added Jane.

“You are in trouble, Robert, I know,” said my
_mother, feelingly ; “but try and meet it like a man.”
‘Then I wiped my face, and sorrowfully left them.

On my way to school I met one and another of the



24 ROBERT DAWSON.

_ boys, and sympathy enough did I find. Joe Hill’s
mother had given him an excuse, and in consequence
he had been on the playground full an hour and a half.
Sam Jones had an excuse, Bill Farley declared flatly
he knew he could not do the lesson, and would not even
try. Charley Frazier, where is he? Soon we espied
Charley bounding over the green, approaching the
school-house upon the run.

“Your arithmetic lesson, Charley—how is it? You
look as if you had done it, but I do not believe you
have,” cried Farley.

“Yes: I’ve done it. Why, it’s ensy enough, I'm
sure,” declared Charley, with a most satisfied air.

« Easy enough-!” scornfully repeated’ Bill Farley; “I
don’t know where the easy, is, for my part.”

“TI knew the committee were coming in, and I did

“not mean to let the master mortify me before them, so
I got an excuse ; now I am ready for play !” cried Sam
Jones, flourishing his bat. | ’

“T'll join you. Come, who’s for'a game of bat and

ball?” shouted Charley.



z THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 25

‘Charley Frazier thinks the lesson easy enough, and
Z could not do it!” The idea fastened itself on me.
In truth, I had entertained no very high opinion of
Charley’s abilities, but now they rose much in my esti-
mation.

“Now, Charley, do tell me how you did the seventh,”
said I, taking him by the arm just as he was going to
join the game of ball. He pulled his arm away vio-
lently. .

“Oh! you know what I did for you yesterday,
Charley. Come, now,” I besought him; “come, and
I will lend you my new knife just when you want it—
my best knife.”

He unwillingly suffered himself to be dragged into
the ‘school-room, and even to our seats, where we sat
down together. He took up his slate, found out, and
began to-explain the sixth.

'.“ The seventh—the seventh, Charley. I know well

enough about the sixth,” I cried, impatiently. *

“Well, the seventh,” added Charley, good-naturedly ;

“there, Robert, you may copy it yourself; here it is.”



26 ROBERT DAWSON.

“But just tell me all the hows and whys,” I said,
' enviously reading over his figures.
“T do not believe I can explain it, Robert,” said
Charley, looking much puzzled.
“But it ’s-just nothing at all, unless. we can explain
its” -
“That is just what I cannot do,” whispered Charley,
“for father did all the hard ones for me, and I copied
them off; and then, when he tried to explain them to
me, I was so sleepy I did not know one word he said.
Was he not kind to do them? For mother said it was
too bad I should get down in my class, just because I
could not do them. Now, do not you tell, will you,
Robert?” .
“Why, we do not go down for anything else, except
‘for not doing them,” said I, bluntly. My fespect for
Charley’s abilities declined as rapidly as it had before
"risen, :
Whilé I was picking up my pencil, which had just
dropped at my feet, ‘Charley vanished. from my side,
and I heard his halloa on the green. .



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 27

“Pooh!” I inwardly exclaimed ; “people do make
miserable shifts to get along easy, as father says. I
will try, and then, if I do it, I shall know how to ex-
plain it. I will make up my mind to meet this hard
old seventh “ke a man, and I will master him.”

And now I began to work z-carnest. I read-over
the example, and meant to understand it. I began to.
cipher, and meant to work it out.

“Father says I can, and I must; now let me see,”
I said, with an honest desire to do all that I could. Oh,
what priceless value there is in an honest desire to do
‘what we can! It would save multitudes from present
uselessness and from eternal suffering. i

-“Bob! Bob! come out here; come! we have a
pla on foot!” cried Sam- Jones, opening the school-:
room door, and beckoning me thither.

I looked up and shook my head.

“Come!” shouted Charley, peeping over-his shoul-
der. “We cannot do without you. Come, Robert !
never mind about your seventh.”

“No. Business before pleasure,” I answered, keep-



28. ROBERT DAWSON. ‘

ing my pencil. moving and my eye fixed upon the |
column of figures,
“Business!” they shouted merrily; “business! I
guess he is Mr. Robert Dawson, with-his great big
ledger.” And they took off their hats to bow. with a
mock gravity. Then away they ran to the playground. |
. - By-and-bye the school-bell rang. The master ap-
peared, and the boys began to crowd in at the door.
Soon all became quiet. Books were laid aside. A
chapter was read in the Bible, and the master offered
up the morning prayer. I was attentive to this service,
and yet I was surprised to find how slight an interrup-’
tion all this proved to be; and now I see that it was
_ just because my mind was fixed, and easily returned to
its task, The resolute do not suffer from the slight in-
terruptions which disturb others. Thirty-five minutes
after school began beheld me labouring on the me-
morable seyenth, and zt was done! yes, done! and I
could explain every step of the process. How grate-
ful to my mind was the pleasure of achievement! As

I stood in the class that day, I knew I had earned my



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 7 29

position. I had bought it with the price of effort, and

eal valued it accordingly. Ah! my father understood
how fine a thing it is to make. us rely properly upon
ourselves. )

Poor Charley had hard work to maintain his ground:
He blushed, and stammered, and made some droll
blunders, until at length he was obliged to confess that
he knew nothing about his sum, and thus lost his stand:
ing in the class, z

“I thought young Hill and Jones belonged to this
class,” said Squire Hall, one of the committee; at the
same time looking around to sée where they were.

“Their parents wish them to be excused from the
recitation,” answered the master.

“They are not where they ought to be, then. We
want to see every boy at his post in his class,” said the
squire, who kept his eye upon the standing and cha-
racter of évery boy in the school.

The squire’s good opinion was worth having,:for it

‘was generally formed upon true grounds, and his esti-

mate of character was almost invariably correct. Jones



30 - ROBERT DAWSON.

and Hill hung down their heads when his eye searched
them out.

“Some of the boys have done themselves great
credit,” remarked the are when the class was dis-
missed. ‘They seem to understand what they are
about; it is not parrot-talk.”

He certainly looked very much gratified, and so-did
those of us who had earned the commendation.

“T will not study arithmetic—I declare I will not!”
exclaimed Charley, in a pet, as we went out of school
together. -

“Charley, if you would only do your examples your-
self, you would like it. There is nothing like helping
one’s self, depend -upon it,” said. I, feeling strong,
manly, and self-relying, from the morning’s victory

over myself, How different was our training !

‘Work is sweet, for Gop has blest
Honest work with quiet rest—

. Rest below, and rest above,
In the mansions of His love,
When the work of life is done,
When the battle ’s fought and.won.



THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 31

‘¢ Work ye, then, while yet ’tis day,
Work, ye Christians, while ye may,
Work for all that’s great and good,
_ Working for your daily food,
Working whilst the golden hours,
Health, and strength, and youth are yours.”











- CHAPTER III.

THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES.

“He that gathereth in summer is a wise son.”—Prvov. x. 5.

i|LTHOUGH our family always contrived to




make a decent and even respectable appear-
ance, we were poor. In his best days my father had
been a sea-captain, in which business he gained enough
to buy a small farm in the country, the object of his
fondest desires. Not long after his removal to our
new abode his health began to fail, and he was unable
to engage, to any great extent, in out-door occupa-
tions. A small sum invested in.some city stocks was
lost, and his three eldest boys died in childhood. So
that the -earliest remembrance of my parents is asso- _

ciated in my mind with traces of sorrow. I was a



o

THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 33

child of their mourning days, and yet to me what
happy days they were! I soon felt the necessity of
doing what little I could to add to the family stock.
Schoolboy as I was, sometimes by cutting wood, or.
going to mill, or planting, or harvesting for our neigh-
bours, I picked up a little money now and then, or
perhaps I earned a bushel of corn or half a bushel of
wheat.

One morning, as I lay in bed, with my best jacket
and trousers hanging up on a peg upon the wall before
me, it struck me how very shabby and threadbare
they looked. I well knew the sleeves of my jacket had
long since refused to approach my wrists, and that the
bottoms of my trousers had dropped all acquaintance
with my ankles. And now that winter was drawing
near, I needed a new warm suit.

“Mother would get me one if she could, and so
would father ;-but I am sure they could not, for father
' wants a new outside coat as much as I do, and he
does not get it. It must be because he has no money

to buy one. -I wish I was rich; but then it is of no
, 3



34 ROBERT DAWSON,

‘use to wish. I wish the fairy days would come back
again, and a good fairy would come and touch with
her wand my old clothes, so that in an instant they
would be new—all new and handsome. Then I would
give her Jane’s bonnet to touch, and all mother’s old
shoes, and her old red shawl. Then it might be as
handsome as father says it was when he brought it
home from sea, Yes; and I would give her the old
bellows, too; then I would not have such-a fuss
making the fire, mornings. - I would give her a good
assortment of things, if she would come.”

“Who come?”

“A fairy.”

“Pooh! there are no such things’ as fairies ; and
father says, ‘What is the use of brooding over what
cannot be?’ Yes; what is the use?”

“Well, I cannot have a fairy, good or bad, I am
sure; but why cannot I have a new suit? That is not
impossible, Then, if I ask mother, shé will say, ‘ Yes,
‘Robert ; I know you want a new suit ;’ and then she

will look sorry because she cannot get them. Now, I



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 35

wonder if I could not earn a whole suit? JZ earn!
Yes; I could—I know I could. Now I will make up
my mind to it, as father says, and then I will do it,—I
will earn a new suit. Earn the money, and then take
it to mother, and‘ask her to buy the cloth. Won’t her
eyes twinkle?” .

Oh, well do I remember how delightfully the thought
struck me! In very joy I seized my small pillow,
threw it up in the air, and caught it. Then jumping
out of bed, I hopped round the room, playing curious

_antics all by myself while engaged in the more serious

occupation of dressing. How to earn the desired sum. —

began to engage my attention. “Yes, Aow? That is
the question.” I mused on “how.” “I cannot braid
palm-leaf—that is Mary’s and Jane’s work. Mr. Jones’s
harvesting is about over. I do not know of anybody
that wants wood cut. If ‘I could go into the woods
and dig up and sell sassafras roots, now, that would
be something ; but they do not buy them here. Jem
Crout says they sell them to druggists, and I ain sure

we have no such people here.”



36 ROBERT DAWSON.

I took down my clothes from the peg and held them
up before me.

“ They are shorter than ever. They grow shorter
‘every week, it seems to me.” A very natural result,
by the way. “I'll have a new pair; I'll earn them
too. ‘Where there is a will there is a way.’ That is
-often said, and I believe it.”

Such were the beginnings of the new purpose which
I resolved to accomplish.

‘"On the way to school that morning, Sam Jones
joined me.

“T say, Bob, did you know Charles French is very
ill of fever? He is, and he had the doctor in last _
night.” - |

“‘T am very sorry for it. Poor Charles had a head-,
ache the very iast time I saw him, when I bought some
tea there for mother. But who has Mr. French got to
attend the shop?” I added quickly.

Sam did not know; and what was Sam's surprise to
behold me posting off in an opposite direction from

school, without saying one word more! For nearly a



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 37

mile did I continue my trot, until quite out of breath.
There was but one shop in that part of the village
where we resided, and it was kept by Mr. French, at
the corner. ;

And. a various stock he had, truly ; for who could
enumerate the contents of his shelves ?— Brooms,
brushes, crockery, tea, coffee, pipes, candy, seythes,
rakes, indeed every article that the neighbourhood for
ten miles round could want. My speed declined as I
approached the shop, and I began to consider what
I was about to do. Two waggons were at the door,
and as I looked into the shop, my eye caught several
people at the counters.

“Who is waiting upon them, I wonder?”

I stole in and sat down upon a tub near the door.
No one but Mr. French himself was behind the coun-
ter, and he looked very sad. He had his hands full
of work, supplying one and then another.

“JT wonder if Mr. French has got anybody yet?”
I said to myself. “TI wonder if he will have me? Will

he think I know enough to help him?”



38 ROBERT DAWSON, -

As the customers became supplied they went out,
even to the last. My heart beat quickly.

“Well, my boy, what do you want?” said Mr. French.

I arose from the tub, and taking off my hat, ap-
proached where he stood. I trembled and feared to
speak,

“Why, this is Robert Dawson!” said he. “Ahi I

did not know you with your cap over your face so.
How is your father?”
«YT heard Charles was ili, sir,” at last I summoned
resolution to say, “and so I thought you might be
- wanting help in the shop. I came to see if you would
not take me in till he gets well again.” I dared not
lift my eyes from the weights on the counter, and a
suffocating sensation arose in my throat,

“Tf you had offered yourself Galt an hour before,
I do not know but I should have taken you, for
you seem to be a smart little fellow. But I have sent
for my nephew, Charles Emery, at Orange, to come
and stay with me till Charles gets better. You go to

school, do you not, Robert?” -



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 39

“Yes, sir; but I thought if I could hire myself out
a little while, it would not ‘so much matter ; I can write
and cypher in the evenings with father.” ;

And as I ventured to look up into Mr. French’s
thin, kind face, as he stood jeaning against the shelves;
with his thumb caught in the arm-hole of his waistcoat,
how sorry did I feel that I had not come half an hour
sooner, “I came.as soon as I heard of it,” thought
I; and indeed there was nothing to regret.

“Ts Charles very ill, sir?” I asked.

“Well, I am afraid so, I am afraid so,” answered
Mr. French, sorrowfully. “There comes the doctor's

_ gig, now;” and at that moment the horse stopped at
one of the posts before the door.

- “T should like to have employed you, Robert, though
I suppose it-would have been’ new business to you;
but——”

By this he met the doctor, and they went round
together to the door which opened into his house,
adjoinitig the shop: i

“Well,” I sighed, as.I walked away, “tending shop



40 ROBERT DAWSON.

is not the only business. Poor Charles! I am sorry
he is ill, I remember now that he said, when he
weighed out the tea, that he had such a headache he ©
could hardly see how to do it.”

I did not reach the school-house till a quarter of an
hour after school had begun. The master took no
notice of my lateness, however. Sam Jones asked me
if I was taken with a running fit, when I left him in
such a hurry. And this was the end of my first attempt
to get a new suit.

Two or three days afterwards, as I was digging pota-
toes in our garden, I heard a neighbour, Mr. Giles, say
to his wife,

“T cannot go to the mill to-day or to-mosrow, or
next day, that is certain.”

“Well, but we must have some meal, Mr. Giles,”
said Mrs. Giles.

_ “T suppose so, and I must try and get somebody to
go, I think ; but everybody is so busy just now.”
eT go,” thought I, throwing down my spade. “I

am just:the one to go!” And pushing through a little _



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES, At

opening at the bottom of the garden, I soon found
myself with Mr. Giles in his wood-yard.

“There is Robert Dawson—send him,” cried Mrs.
Giles, espying me as I issued forth from behind the
wood-pile. She could not have made a more grateful
suggestion to my ear.

“ Robert,” said Mr. Giles, turning round, “can you
go to the mill for me this morning ?”

“Yes, sir; as soon as I have finished my stint of
digging. potatoes,” answered I, with cheerful alactity,
“T should liké to go.”

“You can take the horse and waggon, and I’ll put
in the com——”

“A good grist of it, too, Mr. Giles: so it will last;
and then I shan’t be plagued again very soon,” added
Mrs. Giles, setting down her pail on the door-step.

“ How long before you will get done your iob?”
said my employer. |

“Tn about three-quarters of an hour.”

“T’ll have the horses harnessed, and be here ready

for you; and I will put in six bushels of corn—three



42 ROBERT DAWSON.

bags full. The miller will take his toll,and you may
have yours. You can have yours ground there, and
bring home the meal for your folk or not, just as you
have a mind.” So said Mr. Giles, as he threw the
meal-bags into the bottom of the waggon.

“Flow much corn will be due to me, do you think,
Mr. Giles?”

“A peck, I suppose. Will you have it ground with
the rest, and then take it home, or will you take it out
in corn before you start for the mill?” _~
“T think 1 will take it all,” I answered, for I had not.
' had time to think just how I should dispose of my
corn, in order to turn it into ready money.

“That is right: bring home the meal to your mo-
ther ;” and with that I vanished through the hole in the
garden fence, and returned to my digging.

And now fancy me on the way to the mill, I was
fairly in business, and not losing my studies either 3 for
I should have said that the master had been called
home by a sudden death in his father’s family, and we

were enjoying a few days’ vacation.



|THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 43

“Now, how shall I sell my corn?” was the next
question that occupied my mind. “Shall I ask Mr.
French to buy it, or shall I sell it to. the miller? The
miller once before has taken my corn. Perhaps he will
now.” And to offer it to him was the final conclusion.
Arriving at the mill, a snug establishment in a hollow,
where a deep and narrow stream ran over a sort of
natural fall, three waggons were before me, and the mill
was at work merrily. The old miller was no favourite
with the customers of the mill, and I heartily wished I
might not have to transact any business with him. “He
was a hard man for a bargain.” So said the people
round ; while the miller’s son was a general favourite. |
I stopped my horse, and, tying him, went in to find the
men. Greatly relieved was I to behold the son, Tom
by name, standing by the hopper. Now, although Tom
must have: numbered twenty-five years-of his life, he
was still known to all the country simply as Tom; and
a better fellow could not have been found.

“Tom,” said I, “will you grind my corn—six bushels?”

“Try to,” answered Tom. ‘Who is it for?”



44 : ROBERT DAWSON.

“It’s Mr. Giles’s corn, and, Tom, he is going to pay

me a peck for bringing it. Now, I want to sell it 3 do -

you not want to buy it?”

“Father thinks we have got a good deal on hand
now,” answered Tom, stirring round the corn in the
hopper with his hand. “ How much will you take for
it?”

“T do not know what corn is worth now.”

“How much are you going to sell?” asked a man
who was walking in and out,

“A peck,” answered I.

“No great sale,” remarked the man, :

“He only wants enough to get a pipe and tobacco.”
Tom meant to be droll.

“No, Tom; I am going to earna new suit of clothes,
and the money for my corn is going towards it. I hope
I shall get enough before the cold weather sets in.”

“How much have you now?” asked, Tom.

“Nothing yet. Iam in hopes I shall take my first
earnings to-day ; so I offered to do this job for Mr.
Giles,” said IL



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 45

“Why, you are quite a little business fellow,” ex:
claimed the man, appearing from behind a post. ‘If
-you do not take the corn, Tom, I will.”

“Oh! I'll take it,” said Tom; “I would take all
Robert’s corn, whether I took anybody’s else or not.”
And his good-natured mouth widened into a pleasant
smile. é

By-and-bye the corn was duly measured out: a part
to the miller for grinding, a part to me for carrying,
which was added to the miller’s heap, and the rest was
poured into the hopper. Then I went away to look
about the pleasant precincts of thé mill. There was the
water dashing over the craggy rocks, here the white
foam, there the whirling eddy; and further on, the dark
glassy surface. I threw dry leaves into the stream and
" watched their motion till:they were swallowed up in the
miniature vortex. I leaped from rock to rock, and
bathed my bare feet in the little pools warmed by the
clear sunshine. Then I wound my way up a narrow
path among the pines on the hill-side, and sat down on

the smooth underbrush to eat my bread and cheese.



46 ROBERT DAWSON.”

“What I meant to be when I was a man” was a
subject that frequently occupied my fancies. Now, 1
thought, how pleasant it would be to be a miller, and live
by the side of a little river ; but, after all, father says it
would not so much matter what one’s business is, if one
does what one has.to do,.and does it right. Even if I
should live to be a man, my ideas about such things may
change very much. Iam sure this world isnot to be my .
home. I am to live for ever in another and very different
world, and perhaps I am nearer to it than I suppose.
Godis my Creator. He has given me a mind and heart,
and has placed me here to love and obey Him. Tamto
learn His will from the Bible, He there tells me what
He would have me to do, and He there promises to
give me all the grace and strength I need to doit. He
tells me of a Saviour, who died that I might live, and
that for His sake He will freely give me all things,
These were my graver thoughts, and the quiet -loneli-
ness of the place naturally led to them. ‘The conclusion
of the whole matter was that I would try to do my duty

day by day; and thinking that my corn must, by this ~



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 47

time, be nearly or quite ground, I hastened back to the
mill. That evening I reached home, the happy pos-
sessor of tenpence.

“What are you going to do with it, Robert?” asked
my father. ; ; .

“Keep it for the present, sir.”

“ Well, when you spend it, spend it usefully,” said
he. “Remember that a little spent wisely is better
than a thousand raieuaed,?

I at once_put my little fortune into a small tin trunk
which was carefully kept in the upper drawer of my
mother’s bureau. The money already earned was but
asmall part of that which was necessary-for my purpose;
and I began to look about for something else to do.

Some of the boys (myself among the number) were
stretched out, at noon, during the interval of school, on
the sunny side of the school-house. This noted building

_was situated at one end of the long plain through which
ran the village street. It was truly he street, for the
village had but one. On this, at long intervals from

each other, stood the principal houses, among which



48 ROBERT DAWSON.

the school-house and the meeting-house were, of course,
regarded as.the most prominent.

“There goes Squire Hall’s winter wood,” remarked
Charley Frazier. -“ He has got a neat yoke of oxen
there:—not another like them in our village — is
there ?”

A atau of this question, about Squire Hall’s
oxen, followed. Some of the boys supported the claims
of a pair that Major Brooks owned, but ‘they made a
feeble stand against the acknowledged merits of Squire
Hall’s,

“T wish I could help to pile that wood,” thought I.
“Squire Hall has got one man less than he used to
have. I wonder if he would not employ me? One
can never know till one tries, father says; so I'll try.”
When school closed in the afternoon, I determined
to go over to the squire’s; and soI joined the boys |
whose homes were below his house. The great gate of .
his wood-yard was open, and several of us went in. :
Everything about the premises was in perfect order.

We looked about, and in a short time my companions



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 49

departed. The wood-pile attracted my attention—or
rather, the wood to be piled. “I must find work here,”
was the uppermost thought in my mind. Mr. Merry,
Squire Hall’s chief workman, just then came along from
the field.

«Mr, Merry,” said i, “do you not think Squire Hait
will let me help pile his wood ?”

“You! How much could you pile, I wonder?” he
asked, in a surly tone.

“Try me, and see.”

“J do not want any boys about me: they are more
plague than profit,” growled Mr. Merry, as he turned |
his back upon me.

But I was resolved not to be discouraged.

“T can just ask the squire himself,” “thought I.
“There cdn be no harm in asking; and father says we
must not let little obstacles frighten us.” So, putting
my hands in my coat pockets, I walked out of the
yard.

AsI passed the iront of the house, I looked up at

every window, wondering whether the squire was in,
. 4 :



50 ‘ROBERT DAWSON.

and whether, after all, it would be best to ask him.
Perhaps it will be of no use, if I should. * Z~y,” father
always says when he would urge my courage on. I sat”
down upon the stone wall on the other side of his house,
revolving the subject in my mind. The chills of an
October sunset began to creep over me. .

“Tf Ihave a new, warm suit, I must ¢y for it. Sup-
pose I go in and ask Squire Hall, and then the matter
is settled.” -And I slowly approached the front gate.
“Perhaps Mr. Merry will not let me help him ;” and
at that moment I espied the squire turning a jane and ~
“coming towards-his house. “Here is a good chance.
I will run and ask him Now!” What a magic there
is in that little word now / “ Nobody is near!”

So I hastened to meet him. As I drew near I
pulled off my cap and made a respectful bow. He
stopped.

“Will you please Jet me help pile your wood, sir?”
‘said I, blushing to the very eyebrows. s

“What is your name? -I see you often.” And he

looked searchingly at me.



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 51

* Robert Dawson, sir.”
“Hem! ah, yes; Robert—Robert Dawson. I know:
you, Well, you want to pile my wood, do you?”
“Ves, sir.”
“Can you pile wood as well as you can cipher,
Robert?” he asked. © “ I remember-you at the school.
~ Does Mr. Merry want you? He’s the man to ask.”
“No, sir,” answered I, with great ‘simplicity; “he
does not want me.” ,
“You are after employment, then, Robert; and you —

do not go to school now, I suppose?” He spoke

kindly.

“Yes, sir, I go to school. But I wanted to get
something to do out of school-hours,” said I, poking
the dirt about with my bare toes.

“You cannot do much in these short days,” he said.

“I can TRY!” ae

“Ves, TRY; that is right.. And if Mr. Merry wanted
you, I should like to employ you very well. But Mr.
Merry manages these things pretty much in his own

way.” And he began to move on.



Bz. -RUBERT DAWSON.

He must have seen my disappointment, for he added,

“We will see, Robert! we will see! But Mr. Merry

. has got to be consulted - all these things.” And he
left me with a hurried step.

I stood still a few moments, in busy thought. Then >
crossing the street, I raced home over the dry leaves
and short turf on the other side of the road. At night
I bethought myself what new applications I could
make. On the afternoon of the third day my mother
sent me on an errand to the corner.

“ Hallo, there !” some one shouted. “ Hallo, boy !”
It came from Squire Hall’s yard. “Come over here.”

I looked up, and there was Mr. Merry beckoning
to me.

“You're the boy that wants some work, are you?”
said he, as I scampered over to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you will pile as fast as I can cut and split,
you may come. But you will have to work, I tell you.
All this wood must be housed within aweek. So you

can come as soon as you like.”



“THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES,” 53
Then I went upon my errand with great glee.
“Work to do! work to do!” was all I could say.
The early morning and the late evening found me
striving to keep up with Mr. Merry’s saw and axe.
The boys vainly tempted me to the playground, and I
was at home only to perform my accustomed duties,
A grand nutting party, long talked of among the
boys, was at length appointed to take place this week.
The boys in our district were all going to join another
district, and visit the great nutting region about ten
miles off. The plan was to go in waggons and spend |
the day, carrying our dinners to eat among the. trees.
We were to take a tea-kettle and other cooking uten-
sils, and live in true .camp style. Heavy frosts had
already cracked the bark of the nuts, and a warm day
- in the early part of November promised to give us the
finest weather for our excursion. How much had I
thought of it! ‘Boys in the country have so few ex-
citements of the kind, that a nutting party possesses
uncommon interest. I believe I dreamed about it for

nearly a week together: and it was now come! the



84 ROBERT DAWSON, —

day had been actually appointed! and I, what was I
to do? go or not go? Charley Frazier, and Sam
Jones, and all the boys whom I saw, talked of my
going as a thing of course. I was to go in Sam
Jones’s waggon. The evening before I made a few
preparations. My bread and cheese and pies were
laid aside, ready to be rolled up; and I borrowed a
large basket of neighbour Giles, for my nuts, :

“Then you will go, won’t you?” said Jane. “I would.”

“T shall not be sure till to-morrow morning,” said I, .
between fear and hope. eT can tell better when I
see Mr. Merry again.”

“Do go!” added Mary. ‘Do go, Robert!”

My parents offered no advice in the case.
’ Thad piled up all the cut wood that evening. My
work had been done clean. Meaning-to reach the
wood-pile the next morning before Mr. Merry, I could
ask him to let me go with great safety, because it
would appear that there was nothing then to do, and
I could promise to work the faster on the’ next day.

No man was harder to deal with than Mr. Merry. .



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 55

_At-early sunrise I was up and dressed, brimful of
delightful anticipations from the day’s excursion. It
was a wonderfully fine day in the Indien summer,—
days that are like a smile on the stern and grave face
"of November. I did not for a moment doubt that
within two.hours we should be.on our winding way to.
the nutting forest.

“T will be sure to go over to see Mr. Merry first ;”:
and away were my steps bent towards the squire’s.
“But he will not-be there: I shall have to wait.”

As I approached the gate, I heard the sound, saw—
saw—saw! “ Who is up so early?” I opened the
gate and went in, and who should be there but Mr.
Merry himself, and another man, with wood enough
sawn and split to employ me for two hours at least!

“What shall I do?” thought I “What shad? I
do?”

“Work enough ! work enough!” cried Mr. Merry.
“Tt is time for lazy boys to be at their work. Come!
take hold, or you will lose the bargain !”

r Z . . . *
There was a sly and wicked expression in his tone

»



56 ROBERT DAWSON.

and manner, which he usually wore when he had out- °
witted or overreached any of the boys with whom he
had anything to do. The truth is; Mr, Merry did not
like boys. oe
With a heavy heart indeed did I begin my work. - ©
“T have a great mind to run off, and have nothing
more to do with such aman. He knew I wanted to
go nutting.” Such were my first thoughts. “TI will
give up the nutting rather than give up the job; for if
I go now, Mr. Merry will never let me come back
again.” These were my second thoughts. __
By-and-bye the gate opened, and in rushed Charley
Frazier, Sam Jones, ‘and some others into the yard.
“Where are you?” shouted Charley.’ “I have been
hunting everywhere after you! Your father said he
guessed you were here. Come! make ready! - We
are off directly !” :
fe Come, Robert! we ought not to lose the time!”
echoed Sam. cA jolly day we shall have of it. Come!
hurry ! hurry !”
“What a noise!” snarled Mr. Merry.



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES, 57

“T cannot go,” said I, at last, “for I have taken this
job, and I must do it.” ;

“Oh! Mr. Merry will let you off ne one day, will
you not, Mr. Merry?” said Charley. “Just to have
Robert go with us, nutting.”

“Go if -he likes! I can get somebody elie, easy
enough.”

Saw—saw---saw—and so he sawed up and down as
if he heard nothing. —

“Come! go, Robert! Why, you must!” cried Charley.

“Come out here!” said I, drawing them outside the

“gate, just to get away from the presence of Mr. Merry.
A noisy discussion followed.

“No, Charley ; Iam not going. I have taken the
job, and I mean to go straight through it.. Father says
‘We must not back out for small things.’” Such was
my settled yet painful conclusion.

“Tt is too bad!—Pile wood all day!” cried one.
“That great pile!”
| “Only stick by stick,” said I, courageously. “If we

make up our minds-to it, we can then do it.”



88 ROBERT DAWSON. ~

Well do TI remember how hard it was to act out those
principles.

A great deal was said, but my purpose was fixed.
£ hey went away, and I turned to re-enter the gate. ‘I
gave one peep at the departing boys before I shut the
gate. “Oh! what good times they will have!” I sighed,
in spite of myself; and in spite of myself I felt that
something would turn up—that I should go, after all.
I did not believe that it could be that I should not go
I, who had helped so much to plan all about it!
When I went back to my-work, I was sure that Mr.
Merry would say something about the affair. Not a
word did he speak. It was only saw—saw—saw. .

‘Time was passing, and if I were going, should I not
be pushing -my preparations? I expected some of the
boys back ; and perhaps, should they come again, Mr.
Merry might tell me to go. If Squire Hall would only
happen to be out in the yard, and the boys here, too !
then I was sure Squire Hall would bid me go, and let
me complete the job when I could.

My ears were open to every sound! I worked with



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 59

a quick, excited movement, as if I were on the eve of
a rescue.. My heart beat violently, The nutting-fields
never seemed so charming—the excursion never ap-
peared so interesting, now that I was just about to lose
it—now that my going depended upon what some
would call mere good luck.

Alas! Mr. Merry never condescended to utter a
syllable! Squire Hall. did not make his appearance at
the door; nor did the boys return | .

By-and-bye the sound of waggon-wheels, with merry |
shouts, broke upon the still morning air. One—two
—three—four waggons went by! I counted them all !
I heard the cracking of their whips, and the voices of
their drivers—five—six! I mounted the wood-pile and
beheld ,them. There they went! gallop! trot! speed
away! full of animation and joyful anticipation! and I
—I was actually left behind! |

‘Nothing happened to relieve me from my. duties. |
‘Tears of bitter disappointment rushed to my eyes and
blinded the sight of the distant waggons. I jumped.

down and made the best of my way into the great barn,



662% ROBERT DAWson:

which was near, to hide my uncontrollable emotion
from the eye of my master. Iremember how I ascended
a, ladder to the hay-mow, and gathering myself up in a
corner where I could fling myself on the sweet hay, I
actually cried. .

“Tt is too bad! too bad!” was my bitter exclamation.
“Mr. Merry might have said, ‘Go, Robert, and do your
work after you get home.” He ought to have said so.”
Then I wiped my eyes, and bitter thoughts began to
pervade my mind. “It’s of no use now!” I said, aloud
and mournfully. “It’s of no use at all! They ’re gone,
and I told them to go without me ! But I didnot expect
it,—that’s a fact. I thought surely something would
turn up. But Iremember father says we must not hang ~
our good fortune on ‘turn-ups,’ as he says a great many
people do, for they will certainly failus. Yes, I know
that. He says, ‘ Have an object in view, and keep to
it until you accomplish it~—work IT out.’ Ves; and
I have an object in view,—I want a new suit of clothes,
and I have taken a job on purpose to get them; now

let me Worx IT ouT! I wonder how far they have got?



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 61

Oh! ’tis such a pleasant day to go into the woods—--.

oh! oh!” |
"Reflections of this nature came and went like lights

and shadows across my spirit as I lay on the hay-mow.

“It’s of no use,” I exclaimed again, springing upon
my feet. “I must make up my mind, and do it.”

Again I wiped away every trace of feeling, and began
to descend the ladder, struggling (and it was indeed a
struggle) to feel calm and manly.

“Almost any boy’s father can get him a jacket, but
mine cannot. So there is some reason why I should
work and they play ;” and I came out into the sunshine,
and approached the wood-pile. ‘Come now, then, go

-at it,” said I; “it is only stick by stick, anda new suit -
to pay for it.” So did I put my reluctant hands to their
duty.

Herein do I exercise (or exert) myself, said the great

“Apostle Paul, to have always a conscience void of
offence towards God and man. To obtain this peace
of conscience we must not only do our duty with a

cheerful and steadfast heart, but we must repair to the



6250: ROBERT DAWSON.

Fountain which has been opened for the washing away"
of all sin and uncleanness. This is the atoning blood
of our Lord Jesus Christ. We may be crossed, and
disappointed, and mortified in a thousand -ways in our
passage through the world, but if our sins have been
forgiven and our souls’ renewed, our rejoicing will be
the testimony. of a good conscience, that in simplicity
and godly sincerity, not by fleshly wisdom, but by the
grace of God, we have our conversation in the world,
Cheerful calmness gradually stole over me, and I
soon began to work with an alacrity which surprised
even myself: nor yet was it surprising, as I have since
learned. I was in the way of duty. The bitterness of
the struggle was in the disappointment. That must soon
pass away before the light of an approving heart. Ah!
it is a violated conscience which carries the sharp. and
bitter sting. All things else are but shadows flitting
across the sunshine of our path. They go, and leave
Us serene as the summer evening.
A long, long time did I pursue my work, without any

interruption, until I found I gained rapidly on Mr,

’ im



THE NEW SUIT. OF CLOTHES, ~ 63

' Merry; and by ten o'clock I was quite out of business.
How many wheelbarrows full I carried to the inner
wood-house and piled up I knew not, but I had plenty
of work for three hours. I had just brought back the
batrow, and there. was not enough to fill it. Mr. Merry
_ stopped his saw and looked up.

“You may be off and. rest ye,” said he, in a plea-
santer tone than was usual for him.

. They were the first words he had spoken, and most
promptly were they obeyed. In a few moments I was
in my mother’s kitchen.

“Ts that you, Robert?” said my mother, in surprise. °

“Why, Robert!” exclaimed Jane and Mary at once.
a Have you not gone?”

“We saw your bread, and cheese, and pie in the
closet, and we did not know what it all meant; but we
missed your bag. Why, Robert, tell us how it is that
you did not go!” ;

I stated the case. Jane and Mary had many com-
ments to make. In turn they. blamed Mr. Merry, the

boys, and myself. Jane cried,



64 ROBERT DAWSON.

“Mr. Merry might have told you to go—the brute!"
“And the boys might have called again, I think, in
their waggons! and then Mr. Merry could not have
_ helped himself,” said Mary.
“At any rate I would have gone, work or no work!”
added Jane. :
‘Robert decided the matter himself, and acted ac-
cordingly. I do not see that any one is to be blamed,”
said my mother, taking off her spectacles and wiping
the glasses with the corner of her apron,
Meanwhile I was eating a piece of pie with great
‘relish and in silence. This being done, I went back
to work. Another man, with his saw, was in the yard,
and the business went forward rapidly.
- At dinner my sisters again discussed my day’s occu.”
pation.
_ “Do you think, father, Robert might have gone just
as well as not?” asked Jane.
“I think, my dear, that Robert acted like a boy who .
has business that he means to do. He had an object

in view, and he resolved to accomplish it.”



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 65

And I knew, by my father’s tone and manner, that
he was satisfied with my conduct. But he did not
know anything about my struggles on the hay-mow.
About the middle of a cold Saturday afternoon, a
few-days afterwards, the ten lots of Squire Hall’s wood
were sawn, split, and neatly piled up in the wood-
house, ready for winter use. An agreeable sight it was
to look upon. After laying the last stick, I got down
and stood surveying every part of it with deep interest.
There was a degree of satisfaction in thinking how it
had arisen by ee own industry. I thought how long
the work seemed to be when I laid the first stick; but,
even stick by stick, how fast the work went on! and
now it was completed. And that even with Mr. Merry’s -
approval, too; for he came in, with his saw, just then. -
“You have done your part we//, boy,” said he; and
they were remarkable words for Mr. Merry to use, for
he seldom chose to be pleased with anything a boy
‘did or could do. He filed his saw and busied himself
about something, while I lingered in sight, hoping to

hear something of my pay.
ie 5.



66 , ROBERT DAWSON.

“My pay! my pay! I wonder if he remembers it !”

At length, when his saw hung upon its accustomed
peg; he said,

“Well, I suppose you expect some wages, Robert.”

“Yes, sir.” :

Then he went about some other work. I knew it
would not do to hasten him, so I busied myself in
picking up some nails that had fallen from an over-
turned box. Half an hour passed. Mr. Merry finished
a second small job, and then sat down on a wood-
- plock. He then very deliberately took out his wallet,

and turned over carefully some bank-notes—my heart
beat quickly. “A bank-note! Surely he cannot mean

to give me a bank-note!” thought I. It was more
money than I was accustomed to see, much less to
handle, I sat down upon a log, looking intently at him.
“Bob, I like you.. You are not like other boys.
You know what you are about; and that is more than
some men do, I will give "you a shilling a Jot here! !

take ten shillings and be off!” .
- “Thank you, sir!” said I, eagerly. ‘Thank you!”



THE NEW $UIT OF CLOTHES, 67

And off I ran with my precious earnings.
“Ten shillings! ten shillings!”—so tumultuous were
ay feelings. “But I will,—I will know whether I have
got my new suit or not, before I go a step farther.”
And I skipped over the stone wall like a squirrel, and
sat down by the other side, to calculate the amount of
my means.
- Tremember it as if it were but yesterday,

“A new suit! a new suit! Mother said it would
cost nearly ten shillings, and that I have got. Yes 5
and I have earned it myself, too!”

And then, after turning something like 4 somersault
over the stone wall, I went home with a new notion of
myself. In the evening I meant to open the subject
of a new suit.

At an early hour on Saturday evening all work was
put aside. Our parents felt that holy time was at hand,
and the evening was usually passed with our catechism
or Bible, or in quiet and serious conversation.

Mother!” I whispered, when she had washed up

the tea-things and sat down near me, “ Mother, I must.

w a



68 ROBERT DAWSON.

have a new suit of clothes by the Sunday after next:
mine are so cold!”

“‘T know they are cold,” she answered, in rather a
short tone.

“ Will you buy me a suit, mother?” I asked,—laugh-
_ ing at the corners of my mouth.

**T would if I could, Robert,” said she.

“But you can, mother!” said I.

She gravely shook her head. “We want a great
many things for the winter, Robert.”

“Well, mother, will you buy me a suit if I give you
the money?” _ ‘

“ You give mother the money!” cried Jane, who
had drawn up towards us. “I wonder where you could
get so much? Robert grows very fast; does he not,
mother?” said she, with a significant smile.

“He will soon be able to earn it, I hope,” said my
mother, looking kindly upon me.

My hand had been in my pocket for some time,
grasping the money, carefully wrapped up in a piece of

paper; and now I drew it forth. Unfolding it slowly,





THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 69

I placed it on my mother’s knee, saying triumphantly,

“There, mother! there is the money to get my
clothes. I earned it with my own hands. Yes; there
is the bill, and there is the shining silver!” .

“Oh!” exclaimed Jane.

“Oh!” echoed Mary, peeping over Jane’s shoulder.

My father looked up from the book he was reading,

“Here is the money Robert has been earning for a
new suit!” said my mother, handing it to him with
evident delight.

Ah! that was a glad hour to me.

“T am glad to see you accomplishing something, my
son; working out wise and useful purposes, and then
executing them with your own hands. And when you
begin, resolve never to give up, if it is good and right
to succeed. Put your hand to the plough, and look not
back. If you make up your mind to do anything, do
zt, Oftentimes it is only through much suffering that
we can achieve a noble work; and the very conflict
and trial give us new strength and new courage for the

next duty.” -



70 . : ROBERT DAWSON.

In short, emphatic sayings like these did my father
imprint great truths upon us by the earnestness and
force with which he uttered them, Their value and
wisdom we gradually experienced as we obeyed them.
Was I not then tasting some’ of the satisfaction of
achievement? And did I not feel an increasing strength
for the new duties that might be before me?

In due time the cloth was bought and made up.
And with what hearty interest did I watch every stitch
which my mother took before me, and how many times
did I go and examine the quality of the cloth with
quite a business-like air!

That blue satinet jacket and trousers—how pleasant
is thelr memory to me! ‘The finest broadcloths of my
later days can never possess the charm which invested
them. It was the first successful prosecution, by my-
self, of my father’s principles, so carefully taught—#o
work out, unshrinkingly, my own good purposes. Then
I laid the foundation of a habit to which I owe all my
success—I PERSEVERED. Then I first began to feel

the value of steady, manly, self-relying toil.



THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 71
/

The jacket I kept in my trunk many years after I
had ceased to wear it. And when I was far away from
the spot where it figured in its original comeliness—
faded, threadbare, mended, and darned as it was—this
old jacket was a precious relic of my boyhood, and
often seemed to inspire my flagging energies, and excite
me to the successful prosecution of greater and better

enterprises.

‘*Our bodies are with earthly food,
Lorp,. by Thy bounty fed ;
Oh, give; and may our hearts receive
Thy ever-living Bread !”







CHAPTER Iv.

LEAVING HOME.

‘*A wise son heareth his father’s instruction.”—Pvov. xiii. 1.

FEW more years passed away, and I was ©



Fay reaching the most important pesiod of my
life—the choice of a calling. My father could do nothing
for me.. Of rich relations we could not boast. Upon
myself, then, with the blessing of God, must I alone
depend. After long deliberation, and several different
unsuccessful applications, a situation in a printing office,
in a town some fifty miles off, was obtained. Printing
was my choice, without, indeed, ever having seen the
inside of a printing office.

The time was drawing near, and it was my first

departure from home. What mingled emotioxs of hope



LEAVING HOME. 73

and fear and expectation filled my bosom! Often have
I kept awake during the night, wondering how it would
all seem in my future residence; planning how I should
get there, and who would meet me, and what kind of
a man my new master would be. The October frosts
became more frequent. The leaves already began to
‘cover the ground, and my preparations must be hurried
forward, for I had engaged to be there by the 5th of
November.

With what interest do I look back upon that last
month at home, where, every evening, our little family
assembled round the kitchen fire, happy in each other's
love, and busy for the one who was soon to leave it!
At one corner‘sat my father in his great arm-chair, his
pipe on the oven-shelf beside him, and Cuff sleeping at
his feet. Stoves had not then come into general use ;
but we beheld the dancing flame and the bright coals
in the capacious fireplace. And there, too, were the
crane and hooks, and the tea-kettle ever hanging on its
own long hook, and the old iron tongs, too, with which

my father diverted himself in laying and relaying the



74 ROBERT DAWSON.

brands, when anything occurred to discompose his
mind.

This autumn found my father increasingly feeble:
his cough grew harder, and the hectic flickered brightly
upon his cheek. His voice was low and hollow, and
yet there was so much of cheerfulness in all his inter-
course with us, that no one but the family realized how
fast he was travelling towards the grave,

The 5th of November, as I said, was the appointed
time of my departure. One day, as Jane was studying
the almanac, she all at once exclaimed,

“Oh, Robert! I have discovered something—a piece
of good news for you—oh!” And she gave several
mysterious nods, quite peculiar to her.

“What is it?” we all asked.

“Tt is only for Robert.” And she took me by the |
hand and led me into the bed-room, closing the door.

«Oh, Robert! it is only three weeks from Thanks-
giving that you go. Now you must not go until after -
Thanksgiving. Why, everybody stays till after Thanks

giving. Iam in earnest. You——?



LEA VING HOME. 75
_ “I must stay until after Thanksgiving, I am sure I
must,” I replied. “T know Mr. Simpson will not want
me before. It would not be Thanksgiving away from
home,—no, indeed it would not! But father,” I added,
after a pause, “ father—what will he say to it, Jane?”

“Why, in the evening, when we are all sitting to-
gether, you ask him, and we will all jon in.” _

Such was the plan of my siaters,—for Mary was soon
let into the searet revealed by the almanac.

“T know we can bring it about,” said the sanguine
Jane; and no less sure was I.

That day, on going towards the corner, who should
clap me on the shoulders and give me a boisterous
welcome, but Charley Frazier. Charley and I lived no
longer side by side. His father had removed into his
new house, situated in a different part of the village.
Iwas very glad to see Charley. Six months before that
he had left town, to become a clerk in a shop at C——.

“But, Charley, what are you at home for?” I in-

quired.
“Oh! I came home to spend Thanksgiving, but I



76 ROBERT DAWSON.

do not know that I shall -go back again,—the work is ~
so hard there!”

“T thought a clerk's work was easy.” -

“No: I do not call it easy to be on your feet from
morning till night. Besides, Mr. Jones says, if I take
so many vacations, he does not think I shall do for
him; just as if one could work all the time!”

“ But. people must stick to their business, Charley,”
said I, “That is what my father always says.”

“What! all ‘the time, and have no fun? Mother says
it is too bad to tie up boys so. I came off so long before
Thanksgiving, I suppose he will have to get somebody
to help him. For my part, I am glad to get rid of work;
and I do not care a snap whether I go back.again or
not.”

I looked at Charley, in his new suit of blue broad-
cloth, with a bright and animated smile upon his face,
and with a freedom and joyousness of manner that
could not fail to strike any one. I think a faint
emotion of envy, at least of regret, sprung up within

me, at the contrast of our situations. Charley was rich,



LEAVING HOME. 7

and could do as he pleased. I was Boot aiid must
stoutly work for my living.

“And you will not go until after Thanksgiving, will
you, Robert? Well, then, I am for having some capital
fun—some first-rate times,—will we not?”

And he threw his arm round my shoulder as he used
to do when we were younger.

: My time is fixed to go on the sth of November ;
but since Thanksgiving Day is so near, Jane and Mary
say I ought to stay, and I think so too.”

“What does your father say?”

«J have not said anything to him yet,” I replied,—
with many misgivings as to the result of such ay appli-
cation. . ;

“Oh! well, you shall not go.. Why, it will. be too
bad! Of course your father will let you stay. It cannot
make much difference—indeed, it cannot make any
difference that I see. Only two weeks! Ask your father
this very evening,—I would.”

We parted, and I resolved to do as Charley had

advised.

Sener RTO TT -



78 ROBERT DAWSON. .

Evening came, and we were sitting, as usual, around

the kitchen fireplace.
- Mother, only. think—it is but two weeks before

Thanksgiving, that I am to Zo.”

So I opened-the matter with some palpitation of heart,
feeling that something very agreeable was at stake,

*T thought of it when Mr. Simpson’s letter was read,”
answered my mother.

“Thought of it and said nothing '—that i is unfavour-
able,” I said to myself. So it seemed, and I had not
courage to 0 on.

“Yes, mother ; I am sure he nach not to go until
after Thanksgiving.’ There is no need of it. Robert
could not learn much in two weeks.” So Jane took up

: the matter,

“Boys are always at home on Thanksgiving,” added
Mary. “Poor Robert! how lonely he would be, think.
ing of us all day, away from home!”

“Charley Frazier has come home. I saw him to-day,”
said I.

My father continued to’ smoke his pipe, and my



LEAVING HOME. ae

mother to ply her. needle. Not a word was spoken by
either.

“Mother, don’t you think it would be pleasanter to
have Robert here?” asked Jane.

“A great deal pleasanter,” said my mother, feelingly.

“Then he ought to stay, I think. It is only a fort-
night ! It will pass away very soon,” said Mary.

“And perhaps we may nevar be all together again,”
. added Jane.

As I looked at my father, I felt that there was little
‘Teason to expect a long continuance of the family circle
unbroken. Oh that I might stay!

_ At that moment we heard footsteps at the door, and
Charley entered. A hearty shaking of hands followed,
for he was a great favourite at our house,

“T want you to let Robert stay until after Thanks-
- giving, sir,” he said, turning his fine, fair face towards
my father. “It is too bad if he should go before!
Besides, a fortnight cannot make much difference.”

“Difference in what, Charles?” asked my father,

pleasantly surveying him.



80 , ROBERT DAWSON.

“Why, sir, in what he can learn, or anything ‘he
can do for Mx. Simpson,” he answered.

“Tt would certainly make a great difference in his
promptness and punctuality to his engagement,” con-
tinued my father; “and as to his use—perhaps that
will be likely to depend upon what kind of a boy
Robert means to be. Mr. Simpson wrote expressly
to have him come by the fifth, and it is to be pre-
sumed he knows his business wants better than we
can know them.” He paused, and there was a general
silence, interrupted only by the snapping of the fire.

“Tt would certainly be agreeable for Robert to stay
with us,” resumed my father, “very agreeable; but it
is an important question, how far we should let our
feelings, of pleasure interfere in matters of duty. We
have had some difficulty in getting Robert a situation,
and by this delay he might lose it. Jane says it is just
as well for him to stay. I do not know how we can -
undertake to decide that point exactly. In my own
experience I never saw that it was ¢ just as well’ to

give up a duty for the sake of securing a pleasure;



LEAVING HOME. oe 81

and I believe it is never ‘ just as well.’ If we do it
once, we may do it twice; and who can tell how many
times afterwards? Robert is now commencing busi-
ness. He will find, in the business world, a great
many difficult and disagreeable circumstances. Now
the true way to get rid of them is not to turn about
~ and run away, but to face them; to fight through them;
to meet them with a true manly heart. What you have
got to do, do; and do it without shrinking or com-
plaining. That is the only true way, Charley—the
only true way, Robert. Remember it, boys. It is so
in the business world. It is just so in the Christian
life. The Christian life is called a fight, a warfare, a
race. Does the brave soldier shrink, and turn back,
and flee, when difficulties are to be encountered or
dangers are to be met? Does Ze fight the good fight
of faith who shuns trials, and seeks his own ease and
pleasure, rather than do and suffer the will of God
with meekness and patience? And in the common
business of life do we find that man. successful and

prosperous who cries out at the sight of obstacles and

rn



82 ROBERT DAWSON.

crosses, ‘It is too bad! It is really too bad!’ No, -
boys; such is the language of drones and slugeards.
We must wake up to the true. business of life,—to
serve God and our generation day by day, and humbly
hope for a blessed rest through Jesus Christ our Lord

beyond the grave. Robert must go at the appointed
time, and go with a-firm, self-relying heart.” -

Charley looked into the fire and listened. To him
this was, indeed, a new lesson. The question was
decided, and the pleasures of a “Thanksgiving at
home” must be given up.

The 5th of November came apace. The morning

“was grey and cold. I pulled the bed-clothes over my
head, and should have enjoyed one more nap. But,
no; I must up and do my work; and“ Up! up!” I
cried to myself.’ But the flesh is very weak. I arose,
dressed, and went to the wood-shed to get some kind-
ling-wood, There lay the old axe—so long and faith-
fully used. “The last time,” did I exclaim, with pain,
swinging it high in the air. Then the green sledge,

hanging upon its summer peg, caught my eye, I took:



LEAVING HOME. ‘ 83,

it down and exatiiitied the iron on the runners—“ all
right,”—and then I dashed away the unbidden tear,
crying inwardly, “I must behave like a man.” I flew
into the kitchen with my kindling-wood.. When the
flames grew bright, my mother came down, and we
had pleasant words together.

I sat down in the chimney corner, to make the
holes and put some leathern strings into my new cow-
hide shoes. Every now and then did I follow my
mother with a loving look, as she ground the coffee,
. or set the table, ‘or baked the cakes for breakfast.

Breakfast was a sad season, though my father spoke
cheerfully. The family altar was surrounded. My
father’s voice trembled and broke as he prayed for me.
Tears flowed freely and hearts were full of sympathy
and strong emotion. ,

I was to depart on foot—a bundle in my hand, con-
taining a change of clothes and a Bible, and half a
crown in-my pocket. A baggage waggon, bélonging
to a neighbouring town, was to take my trunk a week

later. Some dough-nuts and cheesé my kind mother

pf nT



84 ROBERT DAWSON.

put up and slipped into my pocket, “to eat by the
way, Bobby,” said she, smiling chrough her tears.

- “ Here, Robert,” said my father ; “here is a walking-
stick to help you on,—a stout one too.”

I had noticed how carefully he had smoothed and
fashioned it a few days before.

Jane looked out at the window sorrowfully. Cuff
was whining in the cellar, where he was fastened, to
prevent his accompanying me on my pilgrimage.

“How long after I was ready did I make believe I
was not ready! This little thing, and that, was still
to be seen to, until I could find no excuse to do more.
I stood up by the fire and buttoned up my coat. Ah!
the last good bye! I will not describe it. I ran from
the door down the road, without looking back, echoing
my father’s words, “A stout heart, Robert! a stout
heart!” Oh! the long, weary miles of that first day
from home !

At the close of the second day I reached B——.

“Where is Mr. John Simpson’s?” I asked of a boy

about my own age.



LEAVING HOME. 85

He pointed me far down the street, to a small
_yellow house, with a book-skop-and printing office at
the other side of it. The sight of my future home
_ hastened me forward, in spite of the cold, the dust,
and the weariness which penetrated every part of me.
Arriving at the gate, I knocked at a side door, and
was soon ushered into a large kitchen, where sat two
apprentices, I was glad it was dark, so that I could
escape their staring scrutiny. ‘But a tallow candle
blazed in our faces from the mantelpiece, fully reveal-

ing me to my companions. :
“Are you the new hand?” .at length asked the
eldest.
“T have come to work in Mr. Simpson’s office.”
A loud bell then rang.
. “Supper! supper!” shouted the two apprentices,
starting up.
_ My new master now entered.
“Robert, is this you? I am glad to see that you
are as good as your word. We are full of work, and

want all the little help a new hand can give us.”



86 ROBERT DAWSON.

And I followed him into a long, narrow. dining-

room. —
. “TI see it was best forme to come. He is hurried,”
I said to myself. This, indeed, gave me satisfaction.
But I felt little appetite, and stupidly did I answer the
few questions they put to me. My heart was almost
as heavy as my eyelids.

After supper, Mr. Simpson and his men hastened
back to the office. I escaped into the yard, in order
to avoid the conversation of the family. “Wearily did
I sit down upon, the side of a trough near the well,
with nothing like a definite impression upon my mind,
- until my left hand was carelessly thrust into my pocket,
and out came a small quarter of the last dough-nut.

“Oh, home! home! home!” I sighed piteously, as
the old kitchen fire, with its beloved circle, came up
vividly before me in the darkness of that evening,
“There is Charley Frazier at his home. I wish I was
Charley; I do, indeed! What an_easy lot is his—
and mine, how hard!” So I soliloquised over the

last crumb of my last dough-nut.



LEAVING HOME. en gs

“A stout heart, Robert!” I seemed to hear my father
- gay; and all his wise and encouraging words came up
to my remembrance with a reawakening power. “Let

me put my hand to the plough, and look not back. I

will make up my mind to do what is before me cheer-
fully.” . is

And I rose up from the side of the trough with a
compressed lip and a courageous heart.- I hope I offered
a sincere prayer to the Giver of all good, that He would

give me grace and strength to do His will.

“O happy house! whose little ones are given
Early to Thee, in faith and prayer,— ©
To Thee, their Friend, who from the heights of heavens

Guard’st them with more than mother’s care.

O happy house! where little voices
Their glad hosannas love to raise,

And childhood’s lisping tongue rejoices
To bring new songs of love and praise.

‘© happy house! and happy servitude!
Where all alike one Master own ;
Where daily duty, in Thy strength pursued,

Is never hard nor toilsome known;

Where each one serves Thee, meek-and lowly,
Whatever Thine appointment be,

Till common tasks seem great and holy,
When they are done as unto Thee.”








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CHAPTER V.
AN IMPORTANT ERA.

My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.”—Pvov. i. xo.



* scenes which opened upon me at Mr. Simpson’s house
and office. New influences, new companions, and new
ideas came fast around me. I tried to go straight on
my way, doing diligently and with all my might what-
soever my hands found to do. My father had always
taught me not to be afraid of work, nor to.grumble, nor
complain, nor compare myself with others more advan- °
tageously situated, but to look at my own duties, and
to do them cheerfully and faithfully. And I had, after-
wards, abundant reason to rejoice that I followed his

counsels.



AN IMPORTANT ERA. 89

The moral atmosphere of my new home was alto-
gether unlike the one I had left. My parents were
strictly religious. They always acted upon conscien-
tious Christian principles in all their walk and conver-
sation. Although it was not then a very common thing
to address children upon the subject of personal piety,
yet the light of their example was constantly before us,
and we children could not remain ignorant of our duty
or our responsibility to God our Saviour.

Mr. Simpson was an honest and an industrious man,
but the fear of God was not in his heart nor before his
eyes. In pleasant weather he attended public worship
with his family; but a rainy Sabbath was a choice day
to examine his accounts and study his ledger. Three

‘apprentices lived with him, and we were all permitted
to pass the Sabbath as we pleased, provided we inter-
fered with none of the proprieties of the house. How
different was all this from my own home, where the
_ Sabbath was a day remembered and kept holy, and yet
never irksome to me, for my parents always secured for

us a pleasing variety in its duties! _



90 - ROBERT DAWSON.

James, Thomas, and myself (the three apprentices)
occupied the same chamber 3 and how did we pass the
Sabbath? James usually dressed and went out, after
breakfast, seeking companions of his own age, with
whom he walked, talked, or rode. To him it was a day
of recreation and amusement. ‘Thomas preferred his
bed. A large part of the day was given to sleep; the
remainder was passed in some church or in the kitchen,

: where he made merry with the dog, kittens, and chil-
dren. And as for me, I found my way into the gallery
‘of a church, where principles were inculcated akin to
my father’s, and for several Sabbaths I was a constant
attendant there. The daily influences which were around
me began, at length, to operate unfavourably upon my
conduct. In pleasant weather I read my Bible hastily,
if at all, and preferred a walk on Sabbath afternoon, to
& being pent up in church,” as my associates described
the exercises of worship. My scruples about reading
religious books, or none, upon the: Lord’s day, became
weaker. .I at last read even’“The Forty Thieves”

during the interval of worship, without any serious



AN IMPORTANT ERA. 9g!

compunction of conscience. I could laugh at low jokes,
and even crack them myself. Although I was seldom
alone, yet was I often lonely. 7

“Home! home! home!” was the burden of my secret

sigh. “What is Jane, or Mary, or father, or mother

; doing? ” was my frequent inquiry, while busiest at my
work; and I longed for the tranquil pursuits of my
native village.

In the last letter I received from home, Jane asked,
“Can you print yet, Robert?” Now, I was desirous of
showing her some specimen of my new employment,

"although, as yet, I liad scarcely begun to learn its first
principles.

“T will print Jane a letter,” was the happy thought;
but “when and how shall I do it?” |

After breakfast, one Sabbath morning, I went into

~ the office to look.about and find some type that would

not be wanted for some days at least.
“JT will work until the bell rings, and then to.
church.” Such was the decision; but so interested

did I become in setting the type, that the bell made



one ROBERT DAWSON.

little impression upon my ear, and less on my mind. |
I did not heed it, and worked on in something like a
very bungling manner, I am quite sure. But the little
metallic letters artanged themselves, with my help,
into syllables, words, and lines ; and I pleased myself .
in thinking how pleased Jane would be.

‘There is no more harm in doing this than in
writing a letter. What is the difference? And I am
sure everybody here writes letters on Sunday.” In this
way I answered the question that would continually
_ force itself upon me,—“ Are you doing right, Robert ?”

“T have no time any other day, and it will please
them at home so much to see my own printing. And,
besides, I shall go to church when the bell rings.”

Unfortunately I began this, my first work, from type
that lay in disorder; and of course it sadly puzzled
me to find the letters, and greatly prolonged my labour.
On I worked, nor was I aroused until the house-bell
called me to dinner. I started!

“What day is it?” I asked, almost bewildered.

“Sunday! It is Sunday!” and a great fear stole over



ie AN IMPORTANT ERA. 93

_me, as I looked at my work, and again said, “It is
Sunday !”. ;
~ Tlooked out at the window. It was a clear, warm,
‘ sunny day in February, when the snow melted on the
tops of the houses, and came down from the eaves
like a shower of rain. '“ How pleasant to go to church!”
In no very peaceful state of mind did I leave the
office to go to dinner. I felt afraid—not certainly of
my master, for I but copied his example ; not of Tom
nor of James; but of myse/f: of the sense of wrong-
_doing which began to oppress my heart.
“T will go to’ church ; yes, I will!” firmly did I
resolve.
Mr. Simpson had been at church, and talked about
the sermon. James and Thomas had been there too.
“Where have you been?” asked Thomas, who sat
next me at table. .
“Been about here, all alone,” answered I, in a surly
tone, to forbid further inquiry.
Robert, you had better go to church,” said Mr.

Simpson,



94 ROBERT DAWSON.

I hung down my head and’said nothing.

Some time before the second bell rang in the after-
noon, I sallied forth towards the church. It was, as I
said, a beautiful winter’s day, but not beautiful to me, —
for my heart was ill at ease.

The sound of sleigh-bells was behind me, swiftly
coming up the street. 7

“ Hallo!” shouted a voice.

ie Come: Bob! come, now, get in!” It was Tom;
and the sleigh was beside my very footsteps.

“Where are you going >” said I.

“Oh! only a little way; come, jump in with us.”

His companion was a lad for whom little respect
was felt by the more sober part of his acquaintances.

“No, no: I cannot go!” I said ; “T must show
myself inside some church to-day;—it is so pleasant.”

“So pleasant for riding, Bob ! i Come, we have no
time for it in the week-days. Come, we shall not be
gone long.” !

They urged, and I willingly heard them. Suddenly,

even to myself, I jumped in beside them. Crack went



AN IMPORTANT ERA. 95

the whip, and away we sped like lightning. The bells,
the bracing air, the winter beauties of the scene, dazzled
and excited me; and, to drown reflection, I strove to
become the merriest of the three. Tom drove; and
he drove, scarcely knowing whither. On,—on,—on
we went, until the spires of a town, ten miles distant,
were in sight. .

“We must have supper here,” exclaimed Tom.

“Oh, no! do let us go back!” said I,“ We shall
be-so late,—ten miles to return!” and I wished myself .
anywhere but there. The sun was declining, and the
chills of evening came rapidly on.

“A supper!” with a profane oath, exclaimed our
companion. Tom drew up to a tavern doot.

“I say, let us go back. Mr. Simpson will expect: us
back to supper.” And alas! there was no moriey in
my pocket to buy one elsewhere.

My companions rushed into the house, and planted
themselves at the bar. “Gin?” cried Tom.

“No: brandy and water !—I take brandy!” voci-
ferated the other.



96 ROBERT DAWSON,

Several men were in the bar-room. I looked around,
and they were tavern loungers, with bloated cheeks,
red noses, and threadbare garments. The fumes of
strong’ drink filled the room, and the fireplace was
covered with tobacco. Oaths mingled with every
sentence that caught my ear. Tom and Curtis were
drinking and rejoicing over their cups.

“Ts this the evening of the Sabbath day?” I asked
myself, with deep emotion.

“Come, Bob; come, my dear fellow; take a drink!”
cried Curtis, beckoning me to come towards the bar:
“it will warm you up!”

What they both urged I can now scarcely remember.
Tonly know that I refused to drink. They sat down by
the fire, smoked cigars, and drank again. Their swag-
. gering, boisterous manner disgusted me, and for the
first time I was heartily ashamed of my companions.

“Where do you go to church?” sneeringly asked
an old man of Curtis Hare.

“Oh! I do my own preaching,” answered Curtis, —

“T am satisfied,—that is enough.”


The Baldwin Library

very
RmB Florida


ae ty ti, Ga a
A z a Wi Keer ©

Ab. , oe
Be i cs


ROBERT DAWSON:

a

THE BRAVE SPIRIT.



WITH COLOURED ILLUSTRATIONS,

LONDON :
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.,

BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN,
CAMDEN PRESS, LONDON, N.wW.
ID (
ae



CONTENTS.

- CHAPTER : ' PAGE
I—A Wise Father. . ‘ . Bice eh eg aN » &
Il—The Arithmetic Lesson. . . . . . 48
IIl.—The New Suit of Clothes , : . er » 82
IV.-Leaving Home . 7 rs SNe ee ? 72
V.—-An Important Era. . . . : eh te Oa BS

VI—The Publisher. . « . . a Area gee ES




bs

ROBERT DAWSON;

THE BRAVE SPIRIT.
—_~—.
CHAPTER I.

A WISE FATHER. .

“The slothful man saith, There is a lion in the way.”—Prov, xxvi. 13.

TIE most interesting event of our family his-



ye.) tory, during my tenth year, was the purchase
of a cow. My father had a patch of land two miles
off, large enough“to pasture a cow, and he justly
thought her milk might greatly add to the comforts of
our frugal table. What a world of good things eoine

in the wake of a good cow! Cream for our coffee,
6 ROBERT DAWSON.

_ milk for our berries, butter fot our bread, to say nothing
of occasional cheeses made by my mother in an anti-
quated cheese-press, an heirloom of her family. Next
to Cuff, the cow might have been called the pet, at
least in the esteem of ‘Jane,. Mary, and myself.

a4 And who is going to drive the cow to pashire
father?” I-asked, as he put her into ine yard on the
first evening after her arrival.

“You, my son ;” and: his answer imparted to me a,
new sense of responsibility : and for some tiie this
duty was discharged with great alacrity. The weather *
was fine, ‘our cow” was still a novelty, and above all,
my friend, Charley Frazier, had his cow to drive a
mile in the same direction. One difference in our
cow-driving duties soon became manifest, and it was
not long before it sorely afflicted me. Charley only
_ drove his cow in pleasant weather, while I had to drive
mine in all weathers, just as it happened, rain or shine.
Now Charley was a stout boy, and nearly two years
older than myself, and I did not see any reason why.

he should not drive his cow when I could mine. No:
A WISE FATHER. 7

_ that was not exactly the aspect in which I viewed it.
I began not to see any reason why I should drive
mine when Charley could not drive his.

“Mother says I shall not go in the rain. My father

“hires a boy for rainy weather. I am not going in rainy
weather. NotI. I do not like it.” ;

So said Charley, as he lounged idly over the railing.

- “Well, I have to go,” said I, pitying myself.

_ “TI would not. It is too bad to be obliged to gO, |
carrying a great heavy umbrella all the way. Mother
says it is enough te walk so far, without having to go
in the rain.”

So Charley talked; and so much did it begin to
appeat like a hard case, that I wondered why I had
not thought of it sooner, and grumbled more. The
more I thought’ of it, the more it troubled me, until,
by-and- bye, it looked like a very great hardship.

“I wonder if father thinks I am tougher than any-
body else? Charley Frazier i is older than I am ;” and
I had a-new fit of brooding over the matter, quite

natural to me.
8 -ROBERT DAWSON.

“A cold fain came pattering upon the windows one
morning in October.

“Tt rains, and I will not go to the pasture for any-
body, —not I!” and down I sank upon the bed,
thrusting my head under the warm clothes.

“ Robert!” presently called my father, at the foot of
the stairs. It was his usual summons before. going out
_ to milking. 2

“Tam not awake yet, sir,” said I to myself, getting
farther down, and resolving to sleep again. Who does
not know that sleep, vigorously wooed, is never won?
I was wide awake.

After a time I heard my father’s steps returning from
the barn.

“ Father-has done his part, ought I not to do mine?”

was 4 suggestion that tried to find its way fairly into
my heart, but I answered it with “No: ’tis too bad to
ge two miles in the rain such a morning as this!” |

“ Robert, my ‘son, get up; the cow is ready to go to
' pasture.” No answer. “Robert!” a little louder.

“ Robert !” louder yet. No response.
A WISE FATHER. 9

Presently his step was on the stair. It was a slow
and feeble step, for he was an invalid. I began to
breathe heavily; he entered the chamber, and took me
by the arm. “Come, my son, ta up; you have
over-slept yourself; this is unbusiness-like ; there is
work to do; jump up!” All this he said with a cheer-
ful, inspiring tone.

“Oh! it rains, father!” I began to say, but he was
gone. ‘There was no help; I was left to dress and
come downstairs; but my disposition to rebel brought
an ugly pout upon my lips.

“Come,” said my mother, when I at last appeared ;
$ come, Robert, put on your coat and thick shoes, and
take the old umbrella, and see how fast you can trot.”

‘ Nobody can trot fast in all this rain,” said I, pet-
tishly ; and muttering lower, “I guess Charley’s mother
would not let him go out’ such a morning; Ze could
stay at home, when he wanted to. This ugly old um-
brella, and these heavy old shoes!” And so nothing
suited me; I lagged and fretted, when, lo! my father

entered the kftchen door. I supposed he was gone,
Io ROBERT DAWSON.

“ Aré you ill this morning,. Robert?” he inquired of
me.

“No, father; I am not ill, but it rains, Charley
‘Fradier does not go to pasture except in. pleasant wea-
ther, and none of the other boys go my way.” My
tone was deprecating. Somehow or other I expected
he would pity me and begin to say, “ Well, wait a
while ;” or “You need. not go to-day, poor boy ;” or
‘* The rain is too bad; I will get somebody else to go.”
Similar remarks to these I had often heard. addressed
to Charley Frazier by his parents, when, having pity-
fully represented his case, he was relieved from some
disagreeable duty. ‘I wish I was as well off,” I said
to myself a hundred times, when I beheld Charley at
liberty, while I was tugging hard at work. But it took
long years to develop results. .

What I.expected—I might better have said, what I
wished—my father to say, he did mot say.. No unwise
- or indiscreet condolence came from his lips.
“My son, you must meet the shower just as you

must meet all obstacles. It will be only a few drops at
A WISE FATHER. 11

@ time, Can you not do that, Robert? Make up your
mind, now, and act like a man.”

His tone was both courageous and encouraging, and
his fine eyes were fixed earnestly upon me. “ Only a
few drops ata siied ” IT inwardly repeated it once,
and the great, huge, leviathan shower seemed actually
to dwindle down in an instant to only a few drops at
@ time.

_ “Yes, father,” I answered briskly, in spite of myself.
The shoes were no longer heavy, nor the umbrella
ugly. Off I walked bravely. “ Only a few arops at a
time,” I said aloud to the pelting:rain half a dozen
times, and my walk seemed comparatively a short one.
Passing by Charley’s house on my way home, he cried

out, “T have but just got up, and you have been away
| up to pasture, in the rain. Oh, I would not do that !”

iH Only a few drops at a time, Charley. Make up
your mind to it, and you will find it is nothing,” said I
—marching by with the agreeable consciousness of .
something gained, which I would not have exchanged

with any boy. I now know that it was the experience of
12 "| ROBERT DAWSON.

of the great art of. grappling with difficulties, rather
than avoiding them. It is not right to grumble about
them and magnify them—no; but to meet them with a
brave heart. Then every moment would be laden only
with its own burden. I have since learned from the
volume of Divine truth, that this is also a great princi-
ple of religion :—That we know not what shall be on
the morrow, but sufficient unto the day is the evil

thereof.

Little drops of water,
Little grains of sand,
Make the mighty ocean
And the beauteous land.

‘* And the little moments,
Humble though they be,
Make the mighty ages
Of eternity.”

LOIRE






‘CHAPTER II.

THE ARITHMETIC LESSON.

“* Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might.”—Z cles. ix. 10,

4;EHO does not know the natural reluctance of




A j| childhood to make steady effort? Indeed, is
it not the reluctance of the human heart at all ages?
Children in deed, and children in character, are often
ready enough to act from impulse or circumstances,
and make great achievements ; but it is the habit of
steady, self-relying, yet humble effort, which accom-
plishes all that is truly good and useful. We are to
do with our might whatsoever our hands find to do.
This habit cannot be begun too early, and it can only
be successfully cultivated in a child, by making him

feel that there is power enough in parental authority

ae feng
14 ROBERT DAWSON.

to compel obedience. He must understand that from
fs you must,” there is no appeal.

I was at the head of my arithmetic class. What
‘boy that has attained this honour, under the old sys-
tem of ‘teaching, forgets how great the honour, how
exquisite the satisfaction! What a length and breadth
- of proportion one feels! I well remember ‘how I
seemed to fill up the whole school-room with my little.
. self, By something that some boys would calla lucky
hit, Charley was next to me. Every month, ten os
twelve “test questions,” as they. were called, were
given to the class, comprising and combining the prin-
ciples and rules which we had just been studying.
The committee of examination, on such occasions.
usually visited the school, and each scholar felt desirous
of making a creditable appearance. On this occasion —
I raced home with my slate and pencil; and, with
great alacrity, finished splitting and bringing in my
wood before supper, that I might deyote the whole
eyening to the lesson, How carefully did I wash and
(ry the old slate, and cut and point my pencil! I
_THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 15

well remember how-we: all sat by the small deal table
ét those long-gone days : my mother, with her darn-
ing; my sisters braiding palm-leaf hats, wherewith to
add their mite to our family means; while I was work-
ing at my arithmetic with all the diligence I was mas-
ter of. With the first, second, and third sums there
was no difficulty ; nor was there with the fourth, fifth,
and sixth, They were done, and I could explain them.
At the seventh I made a full stop ; the eighth and
ninth looked quite as hard. The tenth I could see
howto do. “Oh, I cannot stop all this evening on
the seventh!” said I, impatiently. “Father must tell
me.” And I began to play with my sister’s palm:
leaves. ;
“But do you not remember,” said Jane, “that father
"never tells you to do test examples ? He always says
he is ready enough to explain all about the rules as you
go along, but you must learn how to wsethem. Do you
not remember he said so, Robert ?”
“Oh, it is so hard, I cannot find it ont, I know I
* cannot! Besides, Jane, you know I am the head of my

6
16 ROBERT DAWSON.

class. Father will help me out of this, I know,” said. .
i with a nod and a wink.

“Why, Robert, he never does help you in test sums.
He says you can and you must do them yourself.”

“And you know father never alters his mind,” added
Mary.

“But I am up at the head now, Mary; father would
rather help me than let me go down, I guess; right in
the face and eyes of the committee, too; would he not,
mother?” 7

“Would he not be likely to think, if you cannot
maintain your place by yourself, that you are not worthy
of it?” asked my mother, looking up from her work.
This reasoning was so exactly like father’s, that I turned
towards the slate, read the sum to myself and then read
it aloud, and put the figures on the slate; but all the
while I was inwardly declaring I could not do it. Of
what use is effort, unless one believes that effort can
accomplish something ? .

The sum remained as intricate as ever. In fact, I

would not make the exertion even of ¢rying fairly and

\
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 17

' bravely. It began to grow late, and father did not come
home. Jane and Mary kissed mother, and went away
to bed; I nestled close beside her.

“Mother, I wish, when you were a girl, you had
studied this arithmetic, so that you could tell me,” I
said, looking up into her face, and wondering that she,
who knew so much, should not know how to work-out
my sums. _

“‘T am very sorry my dear boy prefers being told to .
studying it out himself,” she answered, gravely.

“Mother, I cannot!” declared I, knocking my heavy
cow-hide shoes against the legs of her chair. ©

“Cannot is a lazy drone,” said she.

“And what is caz, mother?” I merrily: said.

“A smart, brisk, persevering creature, that stands on
his own legs, and does not need to use other people’s.”

Alas! how many bright prospects and fair hopes
has that same /azy drone overcast and blasted! How
many have met some flattering temptation, and when
* reason and ‘conscience have cried out, “Resist! Flee!”

they have drawled out a languid “JZ cannot!” and given

o
18: ' \ ROBERT DAWSON

themselves up to the influence of the wicked one! How
many have been urged and almost persuaded to choose
the strait and narrow path. that leads to life eternal,
who at the first sight of a cross to be borne,.or a darling
sin to be forsaken, cr a bad habit to be broken, have
shrunk back with that irresolute and cowardly “ J can-
not /”

“T like can best; I will try to be caz,” and my slate
and pencil began to be in motion again.

Hark | The front door opened, and my father’s step
was heard in the entry.

“What, my son, up still!” he exclaimed on entering:
“T hope the lesson is well learned. I suppose it must
be by this time.”

“T am waiting for you to help me, father;” and I
would have given much not to have’ been obliged: to
say it. He put on his slippers and sat down by the
fire.’

“Well, Robert,” said he, indy: “what are your

difficulties? Let us hear them.” .

Then he looked at the sum and heard all I had to
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 19

say—“that I wanted him to help me, because I was at
the head, and he would not wish to havé me go down;
and how hard the lesson was; and that I had tried and
tried, and could not do it”

Again he looked at the sum, then at my slate, and
then at me. With what anxiety did I watch his face:
e So hard!” I muttered, every now and then, in any-
thing but a manly tone. Then he gave the slate back
to me, and said slowly,” :

“ No, my son; I cannot help you. -This is a work
you can do, if you fairly try. “Besides, you must sup-
port your present position in the class by your own
exertions, or you are not worthy of it.”

«Oh, father !” I exclaimed bitterly.

“Tt is late now, my dear,” he said, patting my head.
“Go to bed now, and ‘ise early. Make up your mind
to do that sum, and then do ti, . L-want to see you sus-
tain yourself honourably.”

' As I trudged off with my little lamp I felt angry and
disappointed, yet I could not say ‘“ Father never helps

me!” for I could remember evening after evening which

. n
20 ROBERT DAWSON.

he had devoted to my studies, Sleep soon came, and
I forgot the seventh sum and every other vexation until
the cock crowed the next morning. Do you suppose
I awoke refreshed and grateful, and longing to begin
study? Oh,no! Although I enjoyed asleep so sweet,
and awoke in the bright, early dawn, as soon as I
thought of my arithmetic I began to kick the clothes
and toss about in bed, and to declare I did not feel
like looking at my slate at all. “The sum was so hard,
I was sure I could not do it;” and “It was just like
father not to help me.”

Ungrateful boy! I forgot my prayers and all good
thoughts while I lay there, dreading and shrinking from
duty. The consequence was that the sun was high up
in the east before the cow was in the pasture and I
was on my way home again,

“A pretty plight I am in!” I said to myself again
and again ; “but I know what Illdo. Imean to make
it just as late as I can, before I get home from pasture,
and then there will not be a minuté to study before

School begins, and then—and then ”—and I chuckled

4
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 21

at the thought—‘father will have to give me an excuse,
oad so I shall get off.”

To carry out my resolution, I began to climb fences,
and gather flowers, and knock apples off the trees with
stones. . I fully succeeded in wiling away the time, and
did not get home until within half an hour of school-
time.

But ah! I did not like showing myself to my parents,
nor did I feel as keen an appetite for breakfast as usual.
I feared they would penetrate my design, and Iwas a
coward. -My bowl of nice bread and milk, set aside for
me, was hastily swallowed. Then I followed my father
into the wood-house. |

“Father,” (I began with some exertion), “ father,
will you please to give rae an excuse? I have just got
home from. pasture, and have had no time to get my |
sums done.”

He stopped his work and looked at me. My eyes
fell, and were fixed on a chip at my foot.

“Do you honestly think you deserve one, Robert?”

he asked, seriously. -
oe ROBERT DAWSON.

“T-have not got my lesson, and cannot get it;” my
eyes being still fixed on the chip.

e ‘And that is your conclusion, after a fair, resolute
trial; is it, my son?”-

“Ves, father,” I would have said, but the effort died
in my throat. He still ‘rested from his work, his eyes
fixed on. mine, and mine fixed on the chip.

“No, father,” I faintly articulated ; for I call bnew

there was no such thing as deceiving him in such a
matter.
. “T am very glad to see you dealing honestly with
yourself, Robert. We can understand éach other in no
other way. People sometimes make miserable shifts to
get along easy, but it is in vain. I cannot honestly
give you an excuse, because I think your lesson can be
learned, and I do not think you have taken that time to
study this morning which you ought to have taken, and
which you might easily have done, had you really tried.
Make up your mind to do anything, and-you can do it.”

Knowing it was in vain to argue the case, I escaped

from the wood-house.
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 23

-“¥ hate the school, and my arithmetic, and every-
thing !” ciied I, aloud, when fairly beyond the hearing
“of my father. And what poor, lazy, inefficient youth ,
doés not indulge in the same foolish feelings? It is not
he who has conquered difficulties, but he who has been
conquered by them, that is unhappy, discontented, and
unreasonable. _

I went into the kitchen for my books, where my
pitiful and -complaining look. and tone wrought. upon
the sympathies of my sister Mary. |

“ Oh, mother ! por Robert will get down, he will,
I know; and the school committee will be there, too.
Oh, mother! do ask father to write an excuse; do,
mother.”

‘I was touched by this kindness; my little blue
spotted handkerchief was at my face.

“Mother, do!” added Jane.

“You are in trouble, Robert, I know,” said my
_mother, feelingly ; “but try and meet it like a man.”
‘Then I wiped my face, and sorrowfully left them.

On my way to school I met one and another of the
24 ROBERT DAWSON.

_ boys, and sympathy enough did I find. Joe Hill’s
mother had given him an excuse, and in consequence
he had been on the playground full an hour and a half.
Sam Jones had an excuse, Bill Farley declared flatly
he knew he could not do the lesson, and would not even
try. Charley Frazier, where is he? Soon we espied
Charley bounding over the green, approaching the
school-house upon the run.

“Your arithmetic lesson, Charley—how is it? You
look as if you had done it, but I do not believe you
have,” cried Farley.

“Yes: I’ve done it. Why, it’s ensy enough, I'm
sure,” declared Charley, with a most satisfied air.

« Easy enough-!” scornfully repeated’ Bill Farley; “I
don’t know where the easy, is, for my part.”

“TI knew the committee were coming in, and I did

“not mean to let the master mortify me before them, so
I got an excuse ; now I am ready for play !” cried Sam
Jones, flourishing his bat. | ’

“T'll join you. Come, who’s for'a game of bat and

ball?” shouted Charley.
z THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 25

‘Charley Frazier thinks the lesson easy enough, and
Z could not do it!” The idea fastened itself on me.
In truth, I had entertained no very high opinion of
Charley’s abilities, but now they rose much in my esti-
mation.

“Now, Charley, do tell me how you did the seventh,”
said I, taking him by the arm just as he was going to
join the game of ball. He pulled his arm away vio-
lently. .

“Oh! you know what I did for you yesterday,
Charley. Come, now,” I besought him; “come, and
I will lend you my new knife just when you want it—
my best knife.”

He unwillingly suffered himself to be dragged into
the ‘school-room, and even to our seats, where we sat
down together. He took up his slate, found out, and
began to-explain the sixth.

'.“ The seventh—the seventh, Charley. I know well

enough about the sixth,” I cried, impatiently. *

“Well, the seventh,” added Charley, good-naturedly ;

“there, Robert, you may copy it yourself; here it is.”
26 ROBERT DAWSON.

“But just tell me all the hows and whys,” I said,
' enviously reading over his figures.
“T do not believe I can explain it, Robert,” said
Charley, looking much puzzled.
“But it ’s-just nothing at all, unless. we can explain
its” -
“That is just what I cannot do,” whispered Charley,
“for father did all the hard ones for me, and I copied
them off; and then, when he tried to explain them to
me, I was so sleepy I did not know one word he said.
Was he not kind to do them? For mother said it was
too bad I should get down in my class, just because I
could not do them. Now, do not you tell, will you,
Robert?” .
“Why, we do not go down for anything else, except
‘for not doing them,” said I, bluntly. My fespect for
Charley’s abilities declined as rapidly as it had before
"risen, :
Whilé I was picking up my pencil, which had just
dropped at my feet, ‘Charley vanished. from my side,
and I heard his halloa on the green. .
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 27

“Pooh!” I inwardly exclaimed ; “people do make
miserable shifts to get along easy, as father says. I
will try, and then, if I do it, I shall know how to ex-
plain it. I will make up my mind to meet this hard
old seventh “ke a man, and I will master him.”

And now I began to work z-carnest. I read-over
the example, and meant to understand it. I began to.
cipher, and meant to work it out.

“Father says I can, and I must; now let me see,”
I said, with an honest desire to do all that I could. Oh,
what priceless value there is in an honest desire to do
‘what we can! It would save multitudes from present
uselessness and from eternal suffering. i

-“Bob! Bob! come out here; come! we have a
pla on foot!” cried Sam- Jones, opening the school-:
room door, and beckoning me thither.

I looked up and shook my head.

“Come!” shouted Charley, peeping over-his shoul-
der. “We cannot do without you. Come, Robert !
never mind about your seventh.”

“No. Business before pleasure,” I answered, keep-
28. ROBERT DAWSON. ‘

ing my pencil. moving and my eye fixed upon the |
column of figures,
“Business!” they shouted merrily; “business! I
guess he is Mr. Robert Dawson, with-his great big
ledger.” And they took off their hats to bow. with a
mock gravity. Then away they ran to the playground. |
. - By-and-bye the school-bell rang. The master ap-
peared, and the boys began to crowd in at the door.
Soon all became quiet. Books were laid aside. A
chapter was read in the Bible, and the master offered
up the morning prayer. I was attentive to this service,
and yet I was surprised to find how slight an interrup-’
tion all this proved to be; and now I see that it was
_ just because my mind was fixed, and easily returned to
its task, The resolute do not suffer from the slight in-
terruptions which disturb others. Thirty-five minutes
after school began beheld me labouring on the me-
morable seyenth, and zt was done! yes, done! and I
could explain every step of the process. How grate-
ful to my mind was the pleasure of achievement! As

I stood in the class that day, I knew I had earned my
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 7 29

position. I had bought it with the price of effort, and

eal valued it accordingly. Ah! my father understood
how fine a thing it is to make. us rely properly upon
ourselves. )

Poor Charley had hard work to maintain his ground:
He blushed, and stammered, and made some droll
blunders, until at length he was obliged to confess that
he knew nothing about his sum, and thus lost his stand:
ing in the class, z

“I thought young Hill and Jones belonged to this
class,” said Squire Hall, one of the committee; at the
same time looking around to sée where they were.

“Their parents wish them to be excused from the
recitation,” answered the master.

“They are not where they ought to be, then. We
want to see every boy at his post in his class,” said the
squire, who kept his eye upon the standing and cha-
racter of évery boy in the school.

The squire’s good opinion was worth having,:for it

‘was generally formed upon true grounds, and his esti-

mate of character was almost invariably correct. Jones
30 - ROBERT DAWSON.

and Hill hung down their heads when his eye searched
them out.

“Some of the boys have done themselves great
credit,” remarked the are when the class was dis-
missed. ‘They seem to understand what they are
about; it is not parrot-talk.”

He certainly looked very much gratified, and so-did
those of us who had earned the commendation.

“T will not study arithmetic—I declare I will not!”
exclaimed Charley, in a pet, as we went out of school
together. -

“Charley, if you would only do your examples your-
self, you would like it. There is nothing like helping
one’s self, depend -upon it,” said. I, feeling strong,
manly, and self-relying, from the morning’s victory

over myself, How different was our training !

‘Work is sweet, for Gop has blest
Honest work with quiet rest—

. Rest below, and rest above,
In the mansions of His love,
When the work of life is done,
When the battle ’s fought and.won.
THE ARITHMETIC LESSON. 31

‘¢ Work ye, then, while yet ’tis day,
Work, ye Christians, while ye may,
Work for all that’s great and good,
_ Working for your daily food,
Working whilst the golden hours,
Health, and strength, and youth are yours.”








- CHAPTER III.

THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES.

“He that gathereth in summer is a wise son.”—Prvov. x. 5.

i|LTHOUGH our family always contrived to




make a decent and even respectable appear-
ance, we were poor. In his best days my father had
been a sea-captain, in which business he gained enough
to buy a small farm in the country, the object of his
fondest desires. Not long after his removal to our
new abode his health began to fail, and he was unable
to engage, to any great extent, in out-door occupa-
tions. A small sum invested in.some city stocks was
lost, and his three eldest boys died in childhood. So
that the -earliest remembrance of my parents is asso- _

ciated in my mind with traces of sorrow. I was a
o

THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 33

child of their mourning days, and yet to me what
happy days they were! I soon felt the necessity of
doing what little I could to add to the family stock.
Schoolboy as I was, sometimes by cutting wood, or.
going to mill, or planting, or harvesting for our neigh-
bours, I picked up a little money now and then, or
perhaps I earned a bushel of corn or half a bushel of
wheat.

One morning, as I lay in bed, with my best jacket
and trousers hanging up on a peg upon the wall before
me, it struck me how very shabby and threadbare
they looked. I well knew the sleeves of my jacket had
long since refused to approach my wrists, and that the
bottoms of my trousers had dropped all acquaintance
with my ankles. And now that winter was drawing
near, I needed a new warm suit.

“Mother would get me one if she could, and so
would father ;-but I am sure they could not, for father
' wants a new outside coat as much as I do, and he
does not get it. It must be because he has no money

to buy one. -I wish I was rich; but then it is of no
, 3
34 ROBERT DAWSON,

‘use to wish. I wish the fairy days would come back
again, and a good fairy would come and touch with
her wand my old clothes, so that in an instant they
would be new—all new and handsome. Then I would
give her Jane’s bonnet to touch, and all mother’s old
shoes, and her old red shawl. Then it might be as
handsome as father says it was when he brought it
home from sea, Yes; and I would give her the old
bellows, too; then I would not have such-a fuss
making the fire, mornings. - I would give her a good
assortment of things, if she would come.”

“Who come?”

“A fairy.”

“Pooh! there are no such things’ as fairies ; and
father says, ‘What is the use of brooding over what
cannot be?’ Yes; what is the use?”

“Well, I cannot have a fairy, good or bad, I am
sure; but why cannot I have a new suit? That is not
impossible, Then, if I ask mother, shé will say, ‘ Yes,
‘Robert ; I know you want a new suit ;’ and then she

will look sorry because she cannot get them. Now, I
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 35

wonder if I could not earn a whole suit? JZ earn!
Yes; I could—I know I could. Now I will make up
my mind to it, as father says, and then I will do it,—I
will earn a new suit. Earn the money, and then take
it to mother, and‘ask her to buy the cloth. Won’t her
eyes twinkle?” .

Oh, well do I remember how delightfully the thought
struck me! In very joy I seized my small pillow,
threw it up in the air, and caught it. Then jumping
out of bed, I hopped round the room, playing curious

_antics all by myself while engaged in the more serious

occupation of dressing. How to earn the desired sum. —

began to engage my attention. “Yes, Aow? That is
the question.” I mused on “how.” “I cannot braid
palm-leaf—that is Mary’s and Jane’s work. Mr. Jones’s
harvesting is about over. I do not know of anybody
that wants wood cut. If ‘I could go into the woods
and dig up and sell sassafras roots, now, that would
be something ; but they do not buy them here. Jem
Crout says they sell them to druggists, and I ain sure

we have no such people here.”
36 ROBERT DAWSON.

I took down my clothes from the peg and held them
up before me.

“ They are shorter than ever. They grow shorter
‘every week, it seems to me.” A very natural result,
by the way. “I'll have a new pair; I'll earn them
too. ‘Where there is a will there is a way.’ That is
-often said, and I believe it.”

Such were the beginnings of the new purpose which
I resolved to accomplish.

‘"On the way to school that morning, Sam Jones
joined me.

“T say, Bob, did you know Charles French is very
ill of fever? He is, and he had the doctor in last _
night.” - |

“‘T am very sorry for it. Poor Charles had a head-,
ache the very iast time I saw him, when I bought some
tea there for mother. But who has Mr. French got to
attend the shop?” I added quickly.

Sam did not know; and what was Sam's surprise to
behold me posting off in an opposite direction from

school, without saying one word more! For nearly a
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 37

mile did I continue my trot, until quite out of breath.
There was but one shop in that part of the village
where we resided, and it was kept by Mr. French, at
the corner. ;

And. a various stock he had, truly ; for who could
enumerate the contents of his shelves ?— Brooms,
brushes, crockery, tea, coffee, pipes, candy, seythes,
rakes, indeed every article that the neighbourhood for
ten miles round could want. My speed declined as I
approached the shop, and I began to consider what
I was about to do. Two waggons were at the door,
and as I looked into the shop, my eye caught several
people at the counters.

“Who is waiting upon them, I wonder?”

I stole in and sat down upon a tub near the door.
No one but Mr. French himself was behind the coun-
ter, and he looked very sad. He had his hands full
of work, supplying one and then another.

“JT wonder if Mr. French has got anybody yet?”
I said to myself. “TI wonder if he will have me? Will

he think I know enough to help him?”
38 ROBERT DAWSON, -

As the customers became supplied they went out,
even to the last. My heart beat quickly.

“Well, my boy, what do you want?” said Mr. French.

I arose from the tub, and taking off my hat, ap-
proached where he stood. I trembled and feared to
speak,

“Why, this is Robert Dawson!” said he. “Ahi I

did not know you with your cap over your face so.
How is your father?”
«YT heard Charles was ili, sir,” at last I summoned
resolution to say, “and so I thought you might be
- wanting help in the shop. I came to see if you would
not take me in till he gets well again.” I dared not
lift my eyes from the weights on the counter, and a
suffocating sensation arose in my throat,

“Tf you had offered yourself Galt an hour before,
I do not know but I should have taken you, for
you seem to be a smart little fellow. But I have sent
for my nephew, Charles Emery, at Orange, to come
and stay with me till Charles gets better. You go to

school, do you not, Robert?” -
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 39

“Yes, sir; but I thought if I could hire myself out
a little while, it would not ‘so much matter ; I can write
and cypher in the evenings with father.” ;

And as I ventured to look up into Mr. French’s
thin, kind face, as he stood jeaning against the shelves;
with his thumb caught in the arm-hole of his waistcoat,
how sorry did I feel that I had not come half an hour
sooner, “I came.as soon as I heard of it,” thought
I; and indeed there was nothing to regret.

“Ts Charles very ill, sir?” I asked.

“Well, I am afraid so, I am afraid so,” answered
Mr. French, sorrowfully. “There comes the doctor's

_ gig, now;” and at that moment the horse stopped at
one of the posts before the door.

- “T should like to have employed you, Robert, though
I suppose it-would have been’ new business to you;
but——”

By this he met the doctor, and they went round
together to the door which opened into his house,
adjoinitig the shop: i

“Well,” I sighed, as.I walked away, “tending shop
40 ROBERT DAWSON.

is not the only business. Poor Charles! I am sorry
he is ill, I remember now that he said, when he
weighed out the tea, that he had such a headache he ©
could hardly see how to do it.”

I did not reach the school-house till a quarter of an
hour after school had begun. The master took no
notice of my lateness, however. Sam Jones asked me
if I was taken with a running fit, when I left him in
such a hurry. And this was the end of my first attempt
to get a new suit.

Two or three days afterwards, as I was digging pota-
toes in our garden, I heard a neighbour, Mr. Giles, say
to his wife,

“T cannot go to the mill to-day or to-mosrow, or
next day, that is certain.”

“Well, but we must have some meal, Mr. Giles,”
said Mrs. Giles.

_ “T suppose so, and I must try and get somebody to
go, I think ; but everybody is so busy just now.”
eT go,” thought I, throwing down my spade. “I

am just:the one to go!” And pushing through a little _
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES, At

opening at the bottom of the garden, I soon found
myself with Mr. Giles in his wood-yard.

“There is Robert Dawson—send him,” cried Mrs.
Giles, espying me as I issued forth from behind the
wood-pile. She could not have made a more grateful
suggestion to my ear.

“ Robert,” said Mr. Giles, turning round, “can you
go to the mill for me this morning ?”

“Yes, sir; as soon as I have finished my stint of
digging. potatoes,” answered I, with cheerful alactity,
“T should liké to go.”

“You can take the horse and waggon, and I’ll put
in the com——”

“A good grist of it, too, Mr. Giles: so it will last;
and then I shan’t be plagued again very soon,” added
Mrs. Giles, setting down her pail on the door-step.

“ How long before you will get done your iob?”
said my employer. |

“Tn about three-quarters of an hour.”

“T’ll have the horses harnessed, and be here ready

for you; and I will put in six bushels of corn—three
42 ROBERT DAWSON.

bags full. The miller will take his toll,and you may
have yours. You can have yours ground there, and
bring home the meal for your folk or not, just as you
have a mind.” So said Mr. Giles, as he threw the
meal-bags into the bottom of the waggon.

“Flow much corn will be due to me, do you think,
Mr. Giles?”

“A peck, I suppose. Will you have it ground with
the rest, and then take it home, or will you take it out
in corn before you start for the mill?” _~
“T think 1 will take it all,” I answered, for I had not.
' had time to think just how I should dispose of my
corn, in order to turn it into ready money.

“That is right: bring home the meal to your mo-
ther ;” and with that I vanished through the hole in the
garden fence, and returned to my digging.

And now fancy me on the way to the mill, I was
fairly in business, and not losing my studies either 3 for
I should have said that the master had been called
home by a sudden death in his father’s family, and we

were enjoying a few days’ vacation.
|THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 43

“Now, how shall I sell my corn?” was the next
question that occupied my mind. “Shall I ask Mr.
French to buy it, or shall I sell it to. the miller? The
miller once before has taken my corn. Perhaps he will
now.” And to offer it to him was the final conclusion.
Arriving at the mill, a snug establishment in a hollow,
where a deep and narrow stream ran over a sort of
natural fall, three waggons were before me, and the mill
was at work merrily. The old miller was no favourite
with the customers of the mill, and I heartily wished I
might not have to transact any business with him. “He
was a hard man for a bargain.” So said the people
round ; while the miller’s son was a general favourite. |
I stopped my horse, and, tying him, went in to find the
men. Greatly relieved was I to behold the son, Tom
by name, standing by the hopper. Now, although Tom
must have: numbered twenty-five years-of his life, he
was still known to all the country simply as Tom; and
a better fellow could not have been found.

“Tom,” said I, “will you grind my corn—six bushels?”

“Try to,” answered Tom. ‘Who is it for?”
44 : ROBERT DAWSON.

“It’s Mr. Giles’s corn, and, Tom, he is going to pay

me a peck for bringing it. Now, I want to sell it 3 do -

you not want to buy it?”

“Father thinks we have got a good deal on hand
now,” answered Tom, stirring round the corn in the
hopper with his hand. “ How much will you take for
it?”

“T do not know what corn is worth now.”

“How much are you going to sell?” asked a man
who was walking in and out,

“A peck,” answered I.

“No great sale,” remarked the man, :

“He only wants enough to get a pipe and tobacco.”
Tom meant to be droll.

“No, Tom; I am going to earna new suit of clothes,
and the money for my corn is going towards it. I hope
I shall get enough before the cold weather sets in.”

“How much have you now?” asked, Tom.

“Nothing yet. Iam in hopes I shall take my first
earnings to-day ; so I offered to do this job for Mr.
Giles,” said IL
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 45

“Why, you are quite a little business fellow,” ex:
claimed the man, appearing from behind a post. ‘If
-you do not take the corn, Tom, I will.”

“Oh! I'll take it,” said Tom; “I would take all
Robert’s corn, whether I took anybody’s else or not.”
And his good-natured mouth widened into a pleasant
smile. é

By-and-bye the corn was duly measured out: a part
to the miller for grinding, a part to me for carrying,
which was added to the miller’s heap, and the rest was
poured into the hopper. Then I went away to look
about the pleasant precincts of thé mill. There was the
water dashing over the craggy rocks, here the white
foam, there the whirling eddy; and further on, the dark
glassy surface. I threw dry leaves into the stream and
" watched their motion till:they were swallowed up in the
miniature vortex. I leaped from rock to rock, and
bathed my bare feet in the little pools warmed by the
clear sunshine. Then I wound my way up a narrow
path among the pines on the hill-side, and sat down on

the smooth underbrush to eat my bread and cheese.
46 ROBERT DAWSON.”

“What I meant to be when I was a man” was a
subject that frequently occupied my fancies. Now, 1
thought, how pleasant it would be to be a miller, and live
by the side of a little river ; but, after all, father says it
would not so much matter what one’s business is, if one
does what one has.to do,.and does it right. Even if I
should live to be a man, my ideas about such things may
change very much. Iam sure this world isnot to be my .
home. I am to live for ever in another and very different
world, and perhaps I am nearer to it than I suppose.
Godis my Creator. He has given me a mind and heart,
and has placed me here to love and obey Him. Tamto
learn His will from the Bible, He there tells me what
He would have me to do, and He there promises to
give me all the grace and strength I need to doit. He
tells me of a Saviour, who died that I might live, and
that for His sake He will freely give me all things,
These were my graver thoughts, and the quiet -loneli-
ness of the place naturally led to them. ‘The conclusion
of the whole matter was that I would try to do my duty

day by day; and thinking that my corn must, by this ~
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 47

time, be nearly or quite ground, I hastened back to the
mill. That evening I reached home, the happy pos-
sessor of tenpence.

“What are you going to do with it, Robert?” asked
my father. ; ; .

“Keep it for the present, sir.”

“ Well, when you spend it, spend it usefully,” said
he. “Remember that a little spent wisely is better
than a thousand raieuaed,?

I at once_put my little fortune into a small tin trunk
which was carefully kept in the upper drawer of my
mother’s bureau. The money already earned was but
asmall part of that which was necessary-for my purpose;
and I began to look about for something else to do.

Some of the boys (myself among the number) were
stretched out, at noon, during the interval of school, on
the sunny side of the school-house. This noted building

_was situated at one end of the long plain through which
ran the village street. It was truly he street, for the
village had but one. On this, at long intervals from

each other, stood the principal houses, among which
48 ROBERT DAWSON.

the school-house and the meeting-house were, of course,
regarded as.the most prominent.

“There goes Squire Hall’s winter wood,” remarked
Charley Frazier. -“ He has got a neat yoke of oxen
there:—not another like them in our village — is
there ?”

A atau of this question, about Squire Hall’s
oxen, followed. Some of the boys supported the claims
of a pair that Major Brooks owned, but ‘they made a
feeble stand against the acknowledged merits of Squire
Hall’s,

“T wish I could help to pile that wood,” thought I.
“Squire Hall has got one man less than he used to
have. I wonder if he would not employ me? One
can never know till one tries, father says; so I'll try.”
When school closed in the afternoon, I determined
to go over to the squire’s; and soI joined the boys |
whose homes were below his house. The great gate of .
his wood-yard was open, and several of us went in. :
Everything about the premises was in perfect order.

We looked about, and in a short time my companions
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 49

departed. The wood-pile attracted my attention—or
rather, the wood to be piled. “I must find work here,”
was the uppermost thought in my mind. Mr. Merry,
Squire Hall’s chief workman, just then came along from
the field.

«Mr, Merry,” said i, “do you not think Squire Hait
will let me help pile his wood ?”

“You! How much could you pile, I wonder?” he
asked, in a surly tone.

“Try me, and see.”

“J do not want any boys about me: they are more
plague than profit,” growled Mr. Merry, as he turned |
his back upon me.

But I was resolved not to be discouraged.

“T can just ask the squire himself,” “thought I.
“There cdn be no harm in asking; and father says we
must not let little obstacles frighten us.” So, putting
my hands in my coat pockets, I walked out of the
yard.

AsI passed the iront of the house, I looked up at

every window, wondering whether the squire was in,
. 4 :
50 ‘ROBERT DAWSON.

and whether, after all, it would be best to ask him.
Perhaps it will be of no use, if I should. * Z~y,” father
always says when he would urge my courage on. I sat”
down upon the stone wall on the other side of his house,
revolving the subject in my mind. The chills of an
October sunset began to creep over me. .

“Tf Ihave a new, warm suit, I must ¢y for it. Sup-
pose I go in and ask Squire Hall, and then the matter
is settled.” -And I slowly approached the front gate.
“Perhaps Mr. Merry will not let me help him ;” and
at that moment I espied the squire turning a jane and ~
“coming towards-his house. “Here is a good chance.
I will run and ask him Now!” What a magic there
is in that little word now / “ Nobody is near!”

So I hastened to meet him. As I drew near I
pulled off my cap and made a respectful bow. He
stopped.

“Will you please Jet me help pile your wood, sir?”
‘said I, blushing to the very eyebrows. s

“What is your name? -I see you often.” And he

looked searchingly at me.
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 51

* Robert Dawson, sir.”
“Hem! ah, yes; Robert—Robert Dawson. I know:
you, Well, you want to pile my wood, do you?”
“Ves, sir.”
“Can you pile wood as well as you can cipher,
Robert?” he asked. © “ I remember-you at the school.
~ Does Mr. Merry want you? He’s the man to ask.”
“No, sir,” answered I, with great ‘simplicity; “he
does not want me.” ,
“You are after employment, then, Robert; and you —

do not go to school now, I suppose?” He spoke

kindly.

“Yes, sir, I go to school. But I wanted to get
something to do out of school-hours,” said I, poking
the dirt about with my bare toes.

“You cannot do much in these short days,” he said.

“I can TRY!” ae

“Ves, TRY; that is right.. And if Mr. Merry wanted
you, I should like to employ you very well. But Mr.
Merry manages these things pretty much in his own

way.” And he began to move on.
Bz. -RUBERT DAWSON.

He must have seen my disappointment, for he added,

“We will see, Robert! we will see! But Mr. Merry

. has got to be consulted - all these things.” And he
left me with a hurried step.

I stood still a few moments, in busy thought. Then >
crossing the street, I raced home over the dry leaves
and short turf on the other side of the road. At night
I bethought myself what new applications I could
make. On the afternoon of the third day my mother
sent me on an errand to the corner.

“ Hallo, there !” some one shouted. “ Hallo, boy !”
It came from Squire Hall’s yard. “Come over here.”

I looked up, and there was Mr. Merry beckoning
to me.

“You're the boy that wants some work, are you?”
said he, as I scampered over to him.

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, if you will pile as fast as I can cut and split,
you may come. But you will have to work, I tell you.
All this wood must be housed within aweek. So you

can come as soon as you like.”
“THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES,” 53
Then I went upon my errand with great glee.
“Work to do! work to do!” was all I could say.
The early morning and the late evening found me
striving to keep up with Mr. Merry’s saw and axe.
The boys vainly tempted me to the playground, and I
was at home only to perform my accustomed duties,
A grand nutting party, long talked of among the
boys, was at length appointed to take place this week.
The boys in our district were all going to join another
district, and visit the great nutting region about ten
miles off. The plan was to go in waggons and spend |
the day, carrying our dinners to eat among the. trees.
We were to take a tea-kettle and other cooking uten-
sils, and live in true .camp style. Heavy frosts had
already cracked the bark of the nuts, and a warm day
- in the early part of November promised to give us the
finest weather for our excursion. How much had I
thought of it! ‘Boys in the country have so few ex-
citements of the kind, that a nutting party possesses
uncommon interest. I believe I dreamed about it for

nearly a week together: and it was now come! the
84 ROBERT DAWSON, —

day had been actually appointed! and I, what was I
to do? go or not go? Charley Frazier, and Sam
Jones, and all the boys whom I saw, talked of my
going as a thing of course. I was to go in Sam
Jones’s waggon. The evening before I made a few
preparations. My bread and cheese and pies were
laid aside, ready to be rolled up; and I borrowed a
large basket of neighbour Giles, for my nuts, :

“Then you will go, won’t you?” said Jane. “I would.”

“T shall not be sure till to-morrow morning,” said I, .
between fear and hope. eT can tell better when I
see Mr. Merry again.”

“Do go!” added Mary. ‘Do go, Robert!”

My parents offered no advice in the case.
’ Thad piled up all the cut wood that evening. My
work had been done clean. Meaning-to reach the
wood-pile the next morning before Mr. Merry, I could
ask him to let me go with great safety, because it
would appear that there was nothing then to do, and
I could promise to work the faster on the’ next day.

No man was harder to deal with than Mr. Merry. .
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 55

_At-early sunrise I was up and dressed, brimful of
delightful anticipations from the day’s excursion. It
was a wonderfully fine day in the Indien summer,—
days that are like a smile on the stern and grave face
"of November. I did not for a moment doubt that
within two.hours we should be.on our winding way to.
the nutting forest.

“T will be sure to go over to see Mr. Merry first ;”:
and away were my steps bent towards the squire’s.
“But he will not-be there: I shall have to wait.”

As I approached the gate, I heard the sound, saw—
saw—saw! “ Who is up so early?” I opened the
gate and went in, and who should be there but Mr.
Merry himself, and another man, with wood enough
sawn and split to employ me for two hours at least!

“What shall I do?” thought I “What shad? I
do?”

“Work enough ! work enough!” cried Mr. Merry.
“Tt is time for lazy boys to be at their work. Come!
take hold, or you will lose the bargain !”

r Z . . . *
There was a sly and wicked expression in his tone

»
56 ROBERT DAWSON.

and manner, which he usually wore when he had out- °
witted or overreached any of the boys with whom he
had anything to do. The truth is; Mr, Merry did not
like boys. oe
With a heavy heart indeed did I begin my work. - ©
“T have a great mind to run off, and have nothing
more to do with such aman. He knew I wanted to
go nutting.” Such were my first thoughts. “TI will
give up the nutting rather than give up the job; for if
I go now, Mr. Merry will never let me come back
again.” These were my second thoughts. __
By-and-bye the gate opened, and in rushed Charley
Frazier, Sam Jones, ‘and some others into the yard.
“Where are you?” shouted Charley.’ “I have been
hunting everywhere after you! Your father said he
guessed you were here. Come! make ready! - We
are off directly !” :
fe Come, Robert! we ought not to lose the time!”
echoed Sam. cA jolly day we shall have of it. Come!
hurry ! hurry !”
“What a noise!” snarled Mr. Merry.
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES, 57

“T cannot go,” said I, at last, “for I have taken this
job, and I must do it.” ;

“Oh! Mr. Merry will let you off ne one day, will
you not, Mr. Merry?” said Charley. “Just to have
Robert go with us, nutting.”

“Go if -he likes! I can get somebody elie, easy
enough.”

Saw—saw---saw—and so he sawed up and down as
if he heard nothing. —

“Come! go, Robert! Why, you must!” cried Charley.

“Come out here!” said I, drawing them outside the

“gate, just to get away from the presence of Mr. Merry.
A noisy discussion followed.

“No, Charley ; Iam not going. I have taken the
job, and I mean to go straight through it.. Father says
‘We must not back out for small things.’” Such was
my settled yet painful conclusion.

“Tt is too bad!—Pile wood all day!” cried one.
“That great pile!”
| “Only stick by stick,” said I, courageously. “If we

make up our minds-to it, we can then do it.”
88 ROBERT DAWSON. ~

Well do TI remember how hard it was to act out those
principles.

A great deal was said, but my purpose was fixed.
£ hey went away, and I turned to re-enter the gate. ‘I
gave one peep at the departing boys before I shut the
gate. “Oh! what good times they will have!” I sighed,
in spite of myself; and in spite of myself I felt that
something would turn up—that I should go, after all.
I did not believe that it could be that I should not go
I, who had helped so much to plan all about it!
When I went back to my-work, I was sure that Mr.
Merry would say something about the affair. Not a
word did he speak. It was only saw—saw—saw. .

‘Time was passing, and if I were going, should I not
be pushing -my preparations? I expected some of the
boys back ; and perhaps, should they come again, Mr.
Merry might tell me to go. If Squire Hall would only
happen to be out in the yard, and the boys here, too !
then I was sure Squire Hall would bid me go, and let
me complete the job when I could.

My ears were open to every sound! I worked with
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 59

a quick, excited movement, as if I were on the eve of
a rescue.. My heart beat violently, The nutting-fields
never seemed so charming—the excursion never ap-
peared so interesting, now that I was just about to lose
it—now that my going depended upon what some
would call mere good luck.

Alas! Mr. Merry never condescended to utter a
syllable! Squire Hall. did not make his appearance at
the door; nor did the boys return | .

By-and-bye the sound of waggon-wheels, with merry |
shouts, broke upon the still morning air. One—two
—three—four waggons went by! I counted them all !
I heard the cracking of their whips, and the voices of
their drivers—five—six! I mounted the wood-pile and
beheld ,them. There they went! gallop! trot! speed
away! full of animation and joyful anticipation! and I
—I was actually left behind! |

‘Nothing happened to relieve me from my. duties. |
‘Tears of bitter disappointment rushed to my eyes and
blinded the sight of the distant waggons. I jumped.

down and made the best of my way into the great barn,
662% ROBERT DAWson:

which was near, to hide my uncontrollable emotion
from the eye of my master. Iremember how I ascended
a, ladder to the hay-mow, and gathering myself up in a
corner where I could fling myself on the sweet hay, I
actually cried. .

“Tt is too bad! too bad!” was my bitter exclamation.
“Mr. Merry might have said, ‘Go, Robert, and do your
work after you get home.” He ought to have said so.”
Then I wiped my eyes, and bitter thoughts began to
pervade my mind. “It’s of no use now!” I said, aloud
and mournfully. “It’s of no use at all! They ’re gone,
and I told them to go without me ! But I didnot expect
it,—that’s a fact. I thought surely something would
turn up. But Iremember father says we must not hang ~
our good fortune on ‘turn-ups,’ as he says a great many
people do, for they will certainly failus. Yes, I know
that. He says, ‘ Have an object in view, and keep to
it until you accomplish it~—work IT out.’ Ves; and
I have an object in view,—I want a new suit of clothes,
and I have taken a job on purpose to get them; now

let me Worx IT ouT! I wonder how far they have got?
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 61

Oh! ’tis such a pleasant day to go into the woods—--.

oh! oh!” |
"Reflections of this nature came and went like lights

and shadows across my spirit as I lay on the hay-mow.

“It’s of no use,” I exclaimed again, springing upon
my feet. “I must make up my mind, and do it.”

Again I wiped away every trace of feeling, and began
to descend the ladder, struggling (and it was indeed a
struggle) to feel calm and manly.

“Almost any boy’s father can get him a jacket, but
mine cannot. So there is some reason why I should
work and they play ;” and I came out into the sunshine,
and approached the wood-pile. ‘Come now, then, go

-at it,” said I; “it is only stick by stick, anda new suit -
to pay for it.” So did I put my reluctant hands to their
duty.

Herein do I exercise (or exert) myself, said the great

“Apostle Paul, to have always a conscience void of
offence towards God and man. To obtain this peace
of conscience we must not only do our duty with a

cheerful and steadfast heart, but we must repair to the
6250: ROBERT DAWSON.

Fountain which has been opened for the washing away"
of all sin and uncleanness. This is the atoning blood
of our Lord Jesus Christ. We may be crossed, and
disappointed, and mortified in a thousand -ways in our
passage through the world, but if our sins have been
forgiven and our souls’ renewed, our rejoicing will be
the testimony. of a good conscience, that in simplicity
and godly sincerity, not by fleshly wisdom, but by the
grace of God, we have our conversation in the world,
Cheerful calmness gradually stole over me, and I
soon began to work with an alacrity which surprised
even myself: nor yet was it surprising, as I have since
learned. I was in the way of duty. The bitterness of
the struggle was in the disappointment. That must soon
pass away before the light of an approving heart. Ah!
it is a violated conscience which carries the sharp. and
bitter sting. All things else are but shadows flitting
across the sunshine of our path. They go, and leave
Us serene as the summer evening.
A long, long time did I pursue my work, without any

interruption, until I found I gained rapidly on Mr,

’ im
THE NEW SUIT. OF CLOTHES, ~ 63

' Merry; and by ten o'clock I was quite out of business.
How many wheelbarrows full I carried to the inner
wood-house and piled up I knew not, but I had plenty
of work for three hours. I had just brought back the
batrow, and there. was not enough to fill it. Mr. Merry
_ stopped his saw and looked up.

“You may be off and. rest ye,” said he, in a plea-
santer tone than was usual for him.

. They were the first words he had spoken, and most
promptly were they obeyed. In a few moments I was
in my mother’s kitchen.

“Ts that you, Robert?” said my mother, in surprise. °

“Why, Robert!” exclaimed Jane and Mary at once.
a Have you not gone?”

“We saw your bread, and cheese, and pie in the
closet, and we did not know what it all meant; but we
missed your bag. Why, Robert, tell us how it is that
you did not go!” ;

I stated the case. Jane and Mary had many com-
ments to make. In turn they. blamed Mr. Merry, the

boys, and myself. Jane cried,
64 ROBERT DAWSON.

“Mr. Merry might have told you to go—the brute!"
“And the boys might have called again, I think, in
their waggons! and then Mr. Merry could not have
_ helped himself,” said Mary.
“At any rate I would have gone, work or no work!”
added Jane. :
‘Robert decided the matter himself, and acted ac-
cordingly. I do not see that any one is to be blamed,”
said my mother, taking off her spectacles and wiping
the glasses with the corner of her apron,
Meanwhile I was eating a piece of pie with great
‘relish and in silence. This being done, I went back
to work. Another man, with his saw, was in the yard,
and the business went forward rapidly.
- At dinner my sisters again discussed my day’s occu.”
pation.
_ “Do you think, father, Robert might have gone just
as well as not?” asked Jane.
“I think, my dear, that Robert acted like a boy who .
has business that he means to do. He had an object

in view, and he resolved to accomplish it.”
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 65

And I knew, by my father’s tone and manner, that
he was satisfied with my conduct. But he did not
know anything about my struggles on the hay-mow.
About the middle of a cold Saturday afternoon, a
few-days afterwards, the ten lots of Squire Hall’s wood
were sawn, split, and neatly piled up in the wood-
house, ready for winter use. An agreeable sight it was
to look upon. After laying the last stick, I got down
and stood surveying every part of it with deep interest.
There was a degree of satisfaction in thinking how it
had arisen by ee own industry. I thought how long
the work seemed to be when I laid the first stick; but,
even stick by stick, how fast the work went on! and
now it was completed. And that even with Mr. Merry’s -
approval, too; for he came in, with his saw, just then. -
“You have done your part we//, boy,” said he; and
they were remarkable words for Mr. Merry to use, for
he seldom chose to be pleased with anything a boy
‘did or could do. He filed his saw and busied himself
about something, while I lingered in sight, hoping to

hear something of my pay.
ie 5.
66 , ROBERT DAWSON.

“My pay! my pay! I wonder if he remembers it !”

At length, when his saw hung upon its accustomed
peg; he said,

“Well, I suppose you expect some wages, Robert.”

“Yes, sir.” :

Then he went about some other work. I knew it
would not do to hasten him, so I busied myself in
picking up some nails that had fallen from an over-
turned box. Half an hour passed. Mr. Merry finished
a second small job, and then sat down on a wood-
- plock. He then very deliberately took out his wallet,

and turned over carefully some bank-notes—my heart
beat quickly. “A bank-note! Surely he cannot mean

to give me a bank-note!” thought I. It was more
money than I was accustomed to see, much less to
handle, I sat down upon a log, looking intently at him.
“Bob, I like you.. You are not like other boys.
You know what you are about; and that is more than
some men do, I will give "you a shilling a Jot here! !

take ten shillings and be off!” .
- “Thank you, sir!” said I, eagerly. ‘Thank you!”
THE NEW $UIT OF CLOTHES, 67

And off I ran with my precious earnings.
“Ten shillings! ten shillings!”—so tumultuous were
ay feelings. “But I will,—I will know whether I have
got my new suit or not, before I go a step farther.”
And I skipped over the stone wall like a squirrel, and
sat down by the other side, to calculate the amount of
my means.
- Tremember it as if it were but yesterday,

“A new suit! a new suit! Mother said it would
cost nearly ten shillings, and that I have got. Yes 5
and I have earned it myself, too!”

And then, after turning something like 4 somersault
over the stone wall, I went home with a new notion of
myself. In the evening I meant to open the subject
of a new suit.

At an early hour on Saturday evening all work was
put aside. Our parents felt that holy time was at hand,
and the evening was usually passed with our catechism
or Bible, or in quiet and serious conversation.

Mother!” I whispered, when she had washed up

the tea-things and sat down near me, “ Mother, I must.

w a
68 ROBERT DAWSON.

have a new suit of clothes by the Sunday after next:
mine are so cold!”

“‘T know they are cold,” she answered, in rather a
short tone.

“ Will you buy me a suit, mother?” I asked,—laugh-
_ ing at the corners of my mouth.

**T would if I could, Robert,” said she.

“But you can, mother!” said I.

She gravely shook her head. “We want a great
many things for the winter, Robert.”

“Well, mother, will you buy me a suit if I give you
the money?” _ ‘

“ You give mother the money!” cried Jane, who
had drawn up towards us. “I wonder where you could
get so much? Robert grows very fast; does he not,
mother?” said she, with a significant smile.

“He will soon be able to earn it, I hope,” said my
mother, looking kindly upon me.

My hand had been in my pocket for some time,
grasping the money, carefully wrapped up in a piece of

paper; and now I drew it forth. Unfolding it slowly,


THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 69

I placed it on my mother’s knee, saying triumphantly,

“There, mother! there is the money to get my
clothes. I earned it with my own hands. Yes; there
is the bill, and there is the shining silver!” .

“Oh!” exclaimed Jane.

“Oh!” echoed Mary, peeping over Jane’s shoulder.

My father looked up from the book he was reading,

“Here is the money Robert has been earning for a
new suit!” said my mother, handing it to him with
evident delight.

Ah! that was a glad hour to me.

“T am glad to see you accomplishing something, my
son; working out wise and useful purposes, and then
executing them with your own hands. And when you
begin, resolve never to give up, if it is good and right
to succeed. Put your hand to the plough, and look not
back. If you make up your mind to do anything, do
zt, Oftentimes it is only through much suffering that
we can achieve a noble work; and the very conflict
and trial give us new strength and new courage for the

next duty.” -
70 . : ROBERT DAWSON.

In short, emphatic sayings like these did my father
imprint great truths upon us by the earnestness and
force with which he uttered them, Their value and
wisdom we gradually experienced as we obeyed them.
Was I not then tasting some’ of the satisfaction of
achievement? And did I not feel an increasing strength
for the new duties that might be before me?

In due time the cloth was bought and made up.
And with what hearty interest did I watch every stitch
which my mother took before me, and how many times
did I go and examine the quality of the cloth with
quite a business-like air!

That blue satinet jacket and trousers—how pleasant
is thelr memory to me! ‘The finest broadcloths of my
later days can never possess the charm which invested
them. It was the first successful prosecution, by my-
self, of my father’s principles, so carefully taught—#o
work out, unshrinkingly, my own good purposes. Then
I laid the foundation of a habit to which I owe all my
success—I PERSEVERED. Then I first began to feel

the value of steady, manly, self-relying toil.
THE NEW SUIT OF CLOTHES. 71
/

The jacket I kept in my trunk many years after I
had ceased to wear it. And when I was far away from
the spot where it figured in its original comeliness—
faded, threadbare, mended, and darned as it was—this
old jacket was a precious relic of my boyhood, and
often seemed to inspire my flagging energies, and excite
me to the successful prosecution of greater and better

enterprises.

‘*Our bodies are with earthly food,
Lorp,. by Thy bounty fed ;
Oh, give; and may our hearts receive
Thy ever-living Bread !”




CHAPTER Iv.

LEAVING HOME.

‘*A wise son heareth his father’s instruction.”—Pvov. xiii. 1.

FEW more years passed away, and I was ©



Fay reaching the most important pesiod of my
life—the choice of a calling. My father could do nothing
for me.. Of rich relations we could not boast. Upon
myself, then, with the blessing of God, must I alone
depend. After long deliberation, and several different
unsuccessful applications, a situation in a printing office,
in a town some fifty miles off, was obtained. Printing
was my choice, without, indeed, ever having seen the
inside of a printing office.

The time was drawing near, and it was my first

departure from home. What mingled emotioxs of hope
LEAVING HOME. 73

and fear and expectation filled my bosom! Often have
I kept awake during the night, wondering how it would
all seem in my future residence; planning how I should
get there, and who would meet me, and what kind of
a man my new master would be. The October frosts
became more frequent. The leaves already began to
‘cover the ground, and my preparations must be hurried
forward, for I had engaged to be there by the 5th of
November.

With what interest do I look back upon that last
month at home, where, every evening, our little family
assembled round the kitchen fire, happy in each other's
love, and busy for the one who was soon to leave it!
At one corner‘sat my father in his great arm-chair, his
pipe on the oven-shelf beside him, and Cuff sleeping at
his feet. Stoves had not then come into general use ;
but we beheld the dancing flame and the bright coals
in the capacious fireplace. And there, too, were the
crane and hooks, and the tea-kettle ever hanging on its
own long hook, and the old iron tongs, too, with which

my father diverted himself in laying and relaying the
74 ROBERT DAWSON.

brands, when anything occurred to discompose his
mind.

This autumn found my father increasingly feeble:
his cough grew harder, and the hectic flickered brightly
upon his cheek. His voice was low and hollow, and
yet there was so much of cheerfulness in all his inter-
course with us, that no one but the family realized how
fast he was travelling towards the grave,

The 5th of November, as I said, was the appointed
time of my departure. One day, as Jane was studying
the almanac, she all at once exclaimed,

“Oh, Robert! I have discovered something—a piece
of good news for you—oh!” And she gave several
mysterious nods, quite peculiar to her.

“What is it?” we all asked.

“Tt is only for Robert.” And she took me by the |
hand and led me into the bed-room, closing the door.

«Oh, Robert! it is only three weeks from Thanks-
giving that you go. Now you must not go until after -
Thanksgiving. Why, everybody stays till after Thanks

giving. Iam in earnest. You——?
LEA VING HOME. 75
_ “I must stay until after Thanksgiving, I am sure I
must,” I replied. “T know Mr. Simpson will not want
me before. It would not be Thanksgiving away from
home,—no, indeed it would not! But father,” I added,
after a pause, “ father—what will he say to it, Jane?”

“Why, in the evening, when we are all sitting to-
gether, you ask him, and we will all jon in.” _

Such was the plan of my siaters,—for Mary was soon
let into the searet revealed by the almanac.

“T know we can bring it about,” said the sanguine
Jane; and no less sure was I.

That day, on going towards the corner, who should
clap me on the shoulders and give me a boisterous
welcome, but Charley Frazier. Charley and I lived no
longer side by side. His father had removed into his
new house, situated in a different part of the village.
Iwas very glad to see Charley. Six months before that
he had left town, to become a clerk in a shop at C——.

“But, Charley, what are you at home for?” I in-

quired.
“Oh! I came home to spend Thanksgiving, but I
76 ROBERT DAWSON.

do not know that I shall -go back again,—the work is ~
so hard there!”

“T thought a clerk's work was easy.” -

“No: I do not call it easy to be on your feet from
morning till night. Besides, Mr. Jones says, if I take
so many vacations, he does not think I shall do for
him; just as if one could work all the time!”

“ But. people must stick to their business, Charley,”
said I, “That is what my father always says.”

“What! all ‘the time, and have no fun? Mother says
it is too bad to tie up boys so. I came off so long before
Thanksgiving, I suppose he will have to get somebody
to help him. For my part, I am glad to get rid of work;
and I do not care a snap whether I go back.again or
not.”

I looked at Charley, in his new suit of blue broad-
cloth, with a bright and animated smile upon his face,
and with a freedom and joyousness of manner that
could not fail to strike any one. I think a faint
emotion of envy, at least of regret, sprung up within

me, at the contrast of our situations. Charley was rich,
LEAVING HOME. 7

and could do as he pleased. I was Boot aiid must
stoutly work for my living.

“And you will not go until after Thanksgiving, will
you, Robert? Well, then, I am for having some capital
fun—some first-rate times,—will we not?”

And he threw his arm round my shoulder as he used
to do when we were younger.

: My time is fixed to go on the sth of November ;
but since Thanksgiving Day is so near, Jane and Mary
say I ought to stay, and I think so too.”

“What does your father say?”

«J have not said anything to him yet,” I replied,—
with many misgivings as to the result of such ay appli-
cation. . ;

“Oh! well, you shall not go.. Why, it will. be too
bad! Of course your father will let you stay. It cannot
make much difference—indeed, it cannot make any
difference that I see. Only two weeks! Ask your father
this very evening,—I would.”

We parted, and I resolved to do as Charley had

advised.

Sener RTO TT -
78 ROBERT DAWSON. .

Evening came, and we were sitting, as usual, around

the kitchen fireplace.
- Mother, only. think—it is but two weeks before

Thanksgiving, that I am to Zo.”

So I opened-the matter with some palpitation of heart,
feeling that something very agreeable was at stake,

*T thought of it when Mr. Simpson’s letter was read,”
answered my mother.

“Thought of it and said nothing '—that i is unfavour-
able,” I said to myself. So it seemed, and I had not
courage to 0 on.

“Yes, mother ; I am sure he nach not to go until
after Thanksgiving.’ There is no need of it. Robert
could not learn much in two weeks.” So Jane took up

: the matter,

“Boys are always at home on Thanksgiving,” added
Mary. “Poor Robert! how lonely he would be, think.
ing of us all day, away from home!”

“Charley Frazier has come home. I saw him to-day,”
said I.

My father continued to’ smoke his pipe, and my
LEAVING HOME. ae

mother to ply her. needle. Not a word was spoken by
either.

“Mother, don’t you think it would be pleasanter to
have Robert here?” asked Jane.

“A great deal pleasanter,” said my mother, feelingly.

“Then he ought to stay, I think. It is only a fort-
night ! It will pass away very soon,” said Mary.

“And perhaps we may nevar be all together again,”
. added Jane.

As I looked at my father, I felt that there was little
‘Teason to expect a long continuance of the family circle
unbroken. Oh that I might stay!

_ At that moment we heard footsteps at the door, and
Charley entered. A hearty shaking of hands followed,
for he was a great favourite at our house,

“T want you to let Robert stay until after Thanks-
- giving, sir,” he said, turning his fine, fair face towards
my father. “It is too bad if he should go before!
Besides, a fortnight cannot make much difference.”

“Difference in what, Charles?” asked my father,

pleasantly surveying him.
80 , ROBERT DAWSON.

“Why, sir, in what he can learn, or anything ‘he
can do for Mx. Simpson,” he answered.

“Tt would certainly make a great difference in his
promptness and punctuality to his engagement,” con-
tinued my father; “and as to his use—perhaps that
will be likely to depend upon what kind of a boy
Robert means to be. Mr. Simpson wrote expressly
to have him come by the fifth, and it is to be pre-
sumed he knows his business wants better than we
can know them.” He paused, and there was a general
silence, interrupted only by the snapping of the fire.

“Tt would certainly be agreeable for Robert to stay
with us,” resumed my father, “very agreeable; but it
is an important question, how far we should let our
feelings, of pleasure interfere in matters of duty. We
have had some difficulty in getting Robert a situation,
and by this delay he might lose it. Jane says it is just
as well for him to stay. I do not know how we can -
undertake to decide that point exactly. In my own
experience I never saw that it was ¢ just as well’ to

give up a duty for the sake of securing a pleasure;
LEAVING HOME. oe 81

and I believe it is never ‘ just as well.’ If we do it
once, we may do it twice; and who can tell how many
times afterwards? Robert is now commencing busi-
ness. He will find, in the business world, a great
many difficult and disagreeable circumstances. Now
the true way to get rid of them is not to turn about
~ and run away, but to face them; to fight through them;
to meet them with a true manly heart. What you have
got to do, do; and do it without shrinking or com-
plaining. That is the only true way, Charley—the
only true way, Robert. Remember it, boys. It is so
in the business world. It is just so in the Christian
life. The Christian life is called a fight, a warfare, a
race. Does the brave soldier shrink, and turn back,
and flee, when difficulties are to be encountered or
dangers are to be met? Does Ze fight the good fight
of faith who shuns trials, and seeks his own ease and
pleasure, rather than do and suffer the will of God
with meekness and patience? And in the common
business of life do we find that man. successful and

prosperous who cries out at the sight of obstacles and

rn
82 ROBERT DAWSON.

crosses, ‘It is too bad! It is really too bad!’ No, -
boys; such is the language of drones and slugeards.
We must wake up to the true. business of life,—to
serve God and our generation day by day, and humbly
hope for a blessed rest through Jesus Christ our Lord

beyond the grave. Robert must go at the appointed
time, and go with a-firm, self-relying heart.” -

Charley looked into the fire and listened. To him
this was, indeed, a new lesson. The question was
decided, and the pleasures of a “Thanksgiving at
home” must be given up.

The 5th of November came apace. The morning

“was grey and cold. I pulled the bed-clothes over my
head, and should have enjoyed one more nap. But,
no; I must up and do my work; and“ Up! up!” I
cried to myself.’ But the flesh is very weak. I arose,
dressed, and went to the wood-shed to get some kind-
ling-wood, There lay the old axe—so long and faith-
fully used. “The last time,” did I exclaim, with pain,
swinging it high in the air. Then the green sledge,

hanging upon its summer peg, caught my eye, I took:
LEAVING HOME. ‘ 83,

it down and exatiiitied the iron on the runners—“ all
right,”—and then I dashed away the unbidden tear,
crying inwardly, “I must behave like a man.” I flew
into the kitchen with my kindling-wood.. When the
flames grew bright, my mother came down, and we
had pleasant words together.

I sat down in the chimney corner, to make the
holes and put some leathern strings into my new cow-
hide shoes. Every now and then did I follow my
mother with a loving look, as she ground the coffee,
. or set the table, ‘or baked the cakes for breakfast.

Breakfast was a sad season, though my father spoke
cheerfully. The family altar was surrounded. My
father’s voice trembled and broke as he prayed for me.
Tears flowed freely and hearts were full of sympathy
and strong emotion. ,

I was to depart on foot—a bundle in my hand, con-
taining a change of clothes and a Bible, and half a
crown in-my pocket. A baggage waggon, bélonging
to a neighbouring town, was to take my trunk a week

later. Some dough-nuts and cheesé my kind mother

pf nT
84 ROBERT DAWSON.

put up and slipped into my pocket, “to eat by the
way, Bobby,” said she, smiling chrough her tears.

- “ Here, Robert,” said my father ; “here is a walking-
stick to help you on,—a stout one too.”

I had noticed how carefully he had smoothed and
fashioned it a few days before.

Jane looked out at the window sorrowfully. Cuff
was whining in the cellar, where he was fastened, to
prevent his accompanying me on my pilgrimage.

“How long after I was ready did I make believe I
was not ready! This little thing, and that, was still
to be seen to, until I could find no excuse to do more.
I stood up by the fire and buttoned up my coat. Ah!
the last good bye! I will not describe it. I ran from
the door down the road, without looking back, echoing
my father’s words, “A stout heart, Robert! a stout
heart!” Oh! the long, weary miles of that first day
from home !

At the close of the second day I reached B——.

“Where is Mr. John Simpson’s?” I asked of a boy

about my own age.
LEAVING HOME. 85

He pointed me far down the street, to a small
_yellow house, with a book-skop-and printing office at
the other side of it. The sight of my future home
_ hastened me forward, in spite of the cold, the dust,
and the weariness which penetrated every part of me.
Arriving at the gate, I knocked at a side door, and
was soon ushered into a large kitchen, where sat two
apprentices, I was glad it was dark, so that I could
escape their staring scrutiny. ‘But a tallow candle
blazed in our faces from the mantelpiece, fully reveal-

ing me to my companions. :
“Are you the new hand?” .at length asked the
eldest.
“T have come to work in Mr. Simpson’s office.”
A loud bell then rang.
. “Supper! supper!” shouted the two apprentices,
starting up.
_ My new master now entered.
“Robert, is this you? I am glad to see that you
are as good as your word. We are full of work, and

want all the little help a new hand can give us.”
86 ROBERT DAWSON.

And I followed him into a long, narrow. dining-

room. —
. “TI see it was best forme to come. He is hurried,”
I said to myself. This, indeed, gave me satisfaction.
But I felt little appetite, and stupidly did I answer the
few questions they put to me. My heart was almost
as heavy as my eyelids.

After supper, Mr. Simpson and his men hastened
back to the office. I escaped into the yard, in order
to avoid the conversation of the family. “Wearily did
I sit down upon, the side of a trough near the well,
with nothing like a definite impression upon my mind,
- until my left hand was carelessly thrust into my pocket,
and out came a small quarter of the last dough-nut.

“Oh, home! home! home!” I sighed piteously, as
the old kitchen fire, with its beloved circle, came up
vividly before me in the darkness of that evening,
“There is Charley Frazier at his home. I wish I was
Charley; I do, indeed! What an_easy lot is his—
and mine, how hard!” So I soliloquised over the

last crumb of my last dough-nut.
LEAVING HOME. en gs

“A stout heart, Robert!” I seemed to hear my father
- gay; and all his wise and encouraging words came up
to my remembrance with a reawakening power. “Let

me put my hand to the plough, and look not back. I

will make up my mind to do what is before me cheer-
fully.” . is

And I rose up from the side of the trough with a
compressed lip and a courageous heart.- I hope I offered
a sincere prayer to the Giver of all good, that He would

give me grace and strength to do His will.

“O happy house! whose little ones are given
Early to Thee, in faith and prayer,— ©
To Thee, their Friend, who from the heights of heavens

Guard’st them with more than mother’s care.

O happy house! where little voices
Their glad hosannas love to raise,

And childhood’s lisping tongue rejoices
To bring new songs of love and praise.

‘© happy house! and happy servitude!
Where all alike one Master own ;
Where daily duty, in Thy strength pursued,

Is never hard nor toilsome known;

Where each one serves Thee, meek-and lowly,
Whatever Thine appointment be,

Till common tasks seem great and holy,
When they are done as unto Thee.”





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CHAPTER V.
AN IMPORTANT ERA.

My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.”—Pvov. i. xo.



* scenes which opened upon me at Mr. Simpson’s house
and office. New influences, new companions, and new
ideas came fast around me. I tried to go straight on
my way, doing diligently and with all my might what-
soever my hands found to do. My father had always
taught me not to be afraid of work, nor to.grumble, nor
complain, nor compare myself with others more advan- °
tageously situated, but to look at my own duties, and
to do them cheerfully and faithfully. And I had, after-
wards, abundant reason to rejoice that I followed his

counsels.
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 89

The moral atmosphere of my new home was alto-
gether unlike the one I had left. My parents were
strictly religious. They always acted upon conscien-
tious Christian principles in all their walk and conver-
sation. Although it was not then a very common thing
to address children upon the subject of personal piety,
yet the light of their example was constantly before us,
and we children could not remain ignorant of our duty
or our responsibility to God our Saviour.

Mr. Simpson was an honest and an industrious man,
but the fear of God was not in his heart nor before his
eyes. In pleasant weather he attended public worship
with his family; but a rainy Sabbath was a choice day
to examine his accounts and study his ledger. Three

‘apprentices lived with him, and we were all permitted
to pass the Sabbath as we pleased, provided we inter-
fered with none of the proprieties of the house. How
different was all this from my own home, where the
_ Sabbath was a day remembered and kept holy, and yet
never irksome to me, for my parents always secured for

us a pleasing variety in its duties! _
90 - ROBERT DAWSON.

James, Thomas, and myself (the three apprentices)
occupied the same chamber 3 and how did we pass the
Sabbath? James usually dressed and went out, after
breakfast, seeking companions of his own age, with
whom he walked, talked, or rode. To him it was a day
of recreation and amusement. ‘Thomas preferred his
bed. A large part of the day was given to sleep; the
remainder was passed in some church or in the kitchen,

: where he made merry with the dog, kittens, and chil-
dren. And as for me, I found my way into the gallery
‘of a church, where principles were inculcated akin to
my father’s, and for several Sabbaths I was a constant
attendant there. The daily influences which were around
me began, at length, to operate unfavourably upon my
conduct. In pleasant weather I read my Bible hastily,
if at all, and preferred a walk on Sabbath afternoon, to
& being pent up in church,” as my associates described
the exercises of worship. My scruples about reading
religious books, or none, upon the: Lord’s day, became
weaker. .I at last read even’“The Forty Thieves”

during the interval of worship, without any serious
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 9g!

compunction of conscience. I could laugh at low jokes,
and even crack them myself. Although I was seldom
alone, yet was I often lonely. 7

“Home! home! home!” was the burden of my secret

sigh. “What is Jane, or Mary, or father, or mother

; doing? ” was my frequent inquiry, while busiest at my
work; and I longed for the tranquil pursuits of my
native village.

In the last letter I received from home, Jane asked,
“Can you print yet, Robert?” Now, I was desirous of
showing her some specimen of my new employment,

"although, as yet, I liad scarcely begun to learn its first
principles.

“T will print Jane a letter,” was the happy thought;
but “when and how shall I do it?” |

After breakfast, one Sabbath morning, I went into

~ the office to look.about and find some type that would

not be wanted for some days at least.
“JT will work until the bell rings, and then to.
church.” Such was the decision; but so interested

did I become in setting the type, that the bell made
one ROBERT DAWSON.

little impression upon my ear, and less on my mind. |
I did not heed it, and worked on in something like a
very bungling manner, I am quite sure. But the little
metallic letters artanged themselves, with my help,
into syllables, words, and lines ; and I pleased myself .
in thinking how pleased Jane would be.

‘There is no more harm in doing this than in
writing a letter. What is the difference? And I am
sure everybody here writes letters on Sunday.” In this
way I answered the question that would continually
_ force itself upon me,—“ Are you doing right, Robert ?”

“T have no time any other day, and it will please
them at home so much to see my own printing. And,
besides, I shall go to church when the bell rings.”

Unfortunately I began this, my first work, from type
that lay in disorder; and of course it sadly puzzled
me to find the letters, and greatly prolonged my labour.
On I worked, nor was I aroused until the house-bell
called me to dinner. I started!

“What day is it?” I asked, almost bewildered.

“Sunday! It is Sunday!” and a great fear stole over
ie AN IMPORTANT ERA. 93

_me, as I looked at my work, and again said, “It is
Sunday !”. ;
~ Tlooked out at the window. It was a clear, warm,
‘ sunny day in February, when the snow melted on the
tops of the houses, and came down from the eaves
like a shower of rain. '“ How pleasant to go to church!”
In no very peaceful state of mind did I leave the
office to go to dinner. I felt afraid—not certainly of
my master, for I but copied his example ; not of Tom
nor of James; but of myse/f: of the sense of wrong-
_doing which began to oppress my heart.
“T will go to’ church ; yes, I will!” firmly did I
resolve.
Mr. Simpson had been at church, and talked about
the sermon. James and Thomas had been there too.
“Where have you been?” asked Thomas, who sat
next me at table. .
“Been about here, all alone,” answered I, in a surly
tone, to forbid further inquiry.
Robert, you had better go to church,” said Mr.

Simpson,
94 ROBERT DAWSON.

I hung down my head and’said nothing.

Some time before the second bell rang in the after-
noon, I sallied forth towards the church. It was, as I
said, a beautiful winter’s day, but not beautiful to me, —
for my heart was ill at ease.

The sound of sleigh-bells was behind me, swiftly
coming up the street. 7

“ Hallo!” shouted a voice.

ie Come: Bob! come, now, get in!” It was Tom;
and the sleigh was beside my very footsteps.

“Where are you going >” said I.

“Oh! only a little way; come, jump in with us.”

His companion was a lad for whom little respect
was felt by the more sober part of his acquaintances.

“No, no: I cannot go!” I said ; “T must show
myself inside some church to-day;—it is so pleasant.”

“So pleasant for riding, Bob ! i Come, we have no
time for it in the week-days. Come, we shall not be
gone long.” !

They urged, and I willingly heard them. Suddenly,

even to myself, I jumped in beside them. Crack went
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 95

the whip, and away we sped like lightning. The bells,
the bracing air, the winter beauties of the scene, dazzled
and excited me; and, to drown reflection, I strove to
become the merriest of the three. Tom drove; and
he drove, scarcely knowing whither. On,—on,—on
we went, until the spires of a town, ten miles distant,
were in sight. .

“We must have supper here,” exclaimed Tom.

“Oh, no! do let us go back!” said I,“ We shall
be-so late,—ten miles to return!” and I wished myself .
anywhere but there. The sun was declining, and the
chills of evening came rapidly on.

“A supper!” with a profane oath, exclaimed our
companion. Tom drew up to a tavern doot.

“I say, let us go back. Mr. Simpson will expect: us
back to supper.” And alas! there was no moriey in
my pocket to buy one elsewhere.

My companions rushed into the house, and planted
themselves at the bar. “Gin?” cried Tom.

“No: brandy and water !—I take brandy!” voci-
ferated the other.
96 ROBERT DAWSON,

Several men were in the bar-room. I looked around,
and they were tavern loungers, with bloated cheeks,
red noses, and threadbare garments. The fumes of
strong’ drink filled the room, and the fireplace was
covered with tobacco. Oaths mingled with every
sentence that caught my ear. Tom and Curtis were
drinking and rejoicing over their cups.

“Ts this the evening of the Sabbath day?” I asked
myself, with deep emotion.

“Come, Bob; come, my dear fellow; take a drink!”
cried Curtis, beckoning me to come towards the bar:
“it will warm you up!”

What they both urged I can now scarcely remember.
Tonly know that I refused to drink. They sat down by
the fire, smoked cigars, and drank again. Their swag-
. gering, boisterous manner disgusted me, and for the
first time I was heartily ashamed of my companions.

“Where do you go to church?” sneeringly asked
an old man of Curtis Hare.

“Oh! I do my own preaching,” answered Curtis, —

“T am satisfied,—that is enough.”
AN IMPORTANT ERA. o7

A general Jaugh followed. Then the fiery cup. be-
gan to show itself on Curtis’s brain. Astonished and
mortified to hear the profaneness of his language, I
arose and went out into the piazza. The sun was just
setting. The sky had a wan and mellow appearance;
a-deep and solemn stillness was in the air. I took
two or three turns in the piazza, without knowing what
to do.. If we stayed longer, they might not be able to
get home—certainly not soberly, even if we went now;
and how could I ride with such brutish companions on
a still Sabbath twilight! I felt as if we should be known
and marked, in spite of all I could do. Presently out
they came, declaring their intention to return home.

“T think it is high time,” said I, gravely.

“Time, eh? time! time! high, higher, highest !—
high time, eh? eh? Master Bob, eh?” Such were the
senseless gibberings of the maddened youths. Tom
was disgusting, —my soul loathed him. We hastened
into.the sleigh. Tom struck his foot and tumbled in,
muttering oaths. as he fell, In attempting to take the

reins, he pulled this way and that, until the fierce
7
98 ' ROBERT DAWSON.

and spirited horse grew restive under the unsteady
| guidance. ;
“ Give me the reins, Tom!” said I.
“No, my boy ;—but you will not have the reins— -
not you.”
Again another lurch of the sleigh. Our limbs if not
lives were at. stake. Seizing the reins with a strong
hand, I pushed Tom aside; and putting the horse’s
head in the direction we were to go, we went on ata
brisk rate. Curtis sank’down on the buffalo-skin, and
was soon insensible even to the repeated kicks given
by Tom, whenever he encroached upon his feet. My
companions were drunk! yes; absolutely drunk !
“Sabbath evening! Thank Heaven, my parents do
not know of this !” was almost the only definite thought
I had, apart from the care and sTRieey of getting safely
_ home.

Towards the middle of the evening, the lights of
home became visible, and how relieved was I to be-
hold them! The cold air and the long ride had

sobered Tom. He aroused Curtis, who, by the time
_ AN IMPORTANT ERA. "95

?

he reached his father’s stable, was able to sit up, and
even to connect his sentences with some degree of
sense. As we.at last drove into the stable-yard, his
father came angrily forth to learn where he had been
and what was the matter. I threw down the reins,
and, jumping from the sleigh, hastened from the
group. Angry words, with many oaths, between father _
and son, echoed on the still air, until I ran from their
sound,-down through an opposite street. Cold, hungry,
and disquieted, I hardly knew whither I was going.

_ “Oh that I was at home! Oh that I had never left
home!” Iwas ashamed to pass by the lights that
streamed from the windows, so self-condemned did I
feel. “Sunday! And this has been my Sunday!”
I shuddered to think how the day had been spent.
Making a turn in the street, I came to the church
where I had attended public worship. _ It was lighted,
and there was a service. It wasa relief even to go in,
and I hastened up the steps. I took a seat far back
in the gallery, :

“Young man, pause! thy steps are tending down,
y oe”

4
100 ROBERT DAWSON.

down, down in the broad way that ieaas to death !—
Arise and return!” These words of the preacher
broke with fearful distinctness upon my ear.

“What! is he speaking to me?” My heart beat
quickly. I leaned my head against the railing to con-
ceal my. face. It seemed as if I was marked, and that
all'eyes must be turned towards me. No: he neither
knew nor cared for me. “ Why should I think he
means me?” Then he spoke of broken Sabbaths ;
of bad companions ; the wine-cup ; the gaming-table ;
how gradually, yet surely, after Sabbath desecration,
steals on every bad habit. “Itis forme! It-is forme!
Can he know what I have been doing?” and I in-
voluntarily looked up to see who it was portraying my
case with such boldness. He was a stranger. It was
hard to hear it, but I heard the sermon through,—yes
every word of it.

On leaving church, I knew not where to go. . I did
not care to meet Mr. Simpson’s family, nor did I wish
to retire to my chamber if Tom was there. So I

-walked up and down the streets half an hour, until g
(
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 101

~ feeling of dizziness came over me. Sitting down upon
adoor-step, I felt myself an outcast. The chilly darnp-
ness which usually succeeds a thawing winter’s day
penetrated my body, while a keen sense of wrong-
doing filled my soul and seemed to bewilder my vision.

“ And what has led to all this? I have brought it
all on myself. I see it, and what is it coming to?”

Some one approached, and I arose and bent my
steps towards Mr. Simpson’s. No one was in the
kitchen when I reached the house, and Mrs. Simpson
passed me in the entry.

‘So you have got home, Robert ?” she remarked.

I took a lamp and went to our chamber. It was the
most unhappy evening I ever passed ; nor was it any
alleviation to feel that neither my master nor my parents
would ever know the history of that day. Oh, no! mine

“was the unhappiness of a guilty conscience; and on
such gloom day can shed no radiance, neither can the
darkness deepen it. The ignorance of friends cannot
alleviate it, neither can their kindness remove it. It is

a matter between God and the soul.
102 ROBERT DAWSON.

Tom was in bed and fast asleep. I, too, retired to’
bed, but not to test. “ Young man, pause!” rang’ in
my ear and roused me from even an unquiet slumber
The reflection which most amazed and alarmed me was
this: “When I worked at the printing in the morning,
how badly I felt! But then I was determined to go to
church. I was sincere in my determination; but how
quickly was I led away,—persuaded to go for a drive!
Ina inineltes almost, I was in the sleigh — before I
thought. Perhaps I should do just so again. How
could I have done it when I knew better, and not ten
minutes before resolved better? No: I do not know
what there is to stop me from doing just so again, and
then I shall be going down, down! as the preacher said.
Father is not here—nobody.is here to keep me back.
What shall I do?” and I tossed wearily on my pillow.

Oh that boys would believe that this is but the natural
course of things! If we deliberately do wrong once,
every following step in that deceitful path is easier than
the preceding, for sin blinds the soul to danger. Then

seeking to stop the voice of conscience by some good
AN IMPORTANT ERA, 103

outward act merely, sch as going to church, or reading
the Bible, or studying some religious book, in ‘reality
amounts to nothing. It may indeed make us fee/ easy,
but it imparts ‘to us no moral strength to resist the next
temptation. Something deeper is needed. We must look
at the number and guilt of our transgressions, and ex-
ercise a true repentance on account of them. We must
pray for pardoning mercy, and for that grace which is
needful to help in every time of need. Such grace our
divine Saviour (who knows us far better than we know
ourselves) can alone impart. ;

The clock struck two. I awoke from disturbing
dreams. I arose and sat beside the bed. A heavy
stillness reigned, interrupted only by the heavy breath-
ing of my companions.

“Why cannot I sleep as well as Tom?” I asked
Ah! my parents had trained me to a sense of duty, and
I could not forsake the path of right without a terrible
struggle. “Oh, my Saviour, help me!” I inwardly ex-
claimed ; and again flung myself on the bed.

The light of the next morning brought no relief to
104 ROBERT DAWSON.

my burdened heart. ‘How do I know what I may be
tempted this day to do?” was the fearful question that
forced itself again and again upon me while I was ©
dressing. Even in crossing the yard to the office, I
feared what I might be left todo. “Iam afraid I have
‘not strength to resist any temptation. ‘What shall I
do?” -

I began my work, but everything went wrong. I
built the office fire with difficulty, and when it was
kindled I gazed vaguely into it, and seemed to see
“Pause, young man!” written even upon the wreathing
flames. So passed the day. ‘This feeling assumed a
more and more distinct shape. “I am not safe. What
may T not be led to do? Would that I had my father’s
anchor.” For I had often heard him say, in times of
temptation, “Faith in God has been my only arichor.”

It was Tuesday evening, and I walked out alone,—
still vexed, restless, anxious, undecided,

“TI wish Iwas truly and really a Christian,” I said,
half aloud. “Make up your mind then, and pursue this
end till it is attained,” my father seemed to say to me,

ie
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 105

as he had said to mea thousand times on other subjects.

““T will do it, God helping me; I will strive to enter
into His kingdom; I will seek to glorify Him in my
body and spirit, which are His. Yes; and I will begin
now!’ My PURPOSE WAS FORMED,—lI trust, in humble
‘reliance upon Divine aid.

Retracing my steps, I entered the gate, and found
my way in the dark up the stairs of the printing office.
The key was hanging upon a nail in the wall. I felt
about some moments before I could find it. I then
unlocked the office door, went in, and locked it upon
the inside, behind me. “Here I am, alone,” said. I.
The new moon threw a feeble ray into the window,
giving-me sufficient light to prevent me from stumbling
over anything. :

I was now firmly resolved to lead a life of devotion
to my Saviour’s service, yet how ignorant was I of its
real nature! Falling upon my knees (it was the first
honest, earnest prayer I ever uttered), I cried, “ Lord
Jesus, help ‘me! I am lost! Saviour of sinners, I am

very guilty—pardon me!”
106 ROBERT DAWSON,
How long I stayed there I know not; and when I
went away I hardly knew what to-do. Thus passed
several days. I wanted instruction ; I wanted to hear the
words of a good man. In short, I felt what a Christian
parent was worth. What portion of Scripture was best
fitted for me I-knew not. “Come unto mé,-all ye that
labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. I
came not to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance.
They that are whole need not a physician, but they
that are sick. It is a faithful saying, and worthy of all
acceptation, that Jesus Christ came into the world to
‘save sinners ;”—these delightful and precious truths,
though in my memory, did not come now to my relief
I was in darkness and knew not at what I stumbled. I
knew not what to pray for as I ought.

At last came the thought, “This will not do. I will
go to my minister, and ask him what I shall do. I
cannot give up for difficulties. I do not know what to
do. I'must get somebody to tell me. Yes, I will. I
must make up my mind and do it, and do it courage.

ously, It must be done, and done now!” I was cleaning
AN IMPORTANT ERA. .- 107

type-cases, and I well remember how vehemenily I plied
the bellows, -while bracing myself up to the iesatiior

Evening came. The business of‘the day was over,
and I went out in’ the direction of Mr..Anson’s house.
Many times was I well-nigh persuaded to go back.
Coming to a place where the street parted into two;
took two steps in the way opposite from Mr. Anson’s.

“This will not do,” I said within myself. “ What
you have got to do, do i#, and with a resolute heart.”
And so faithfully had I been taught the importance of
this rule, that I stopped suddenly, almost as if a super-
natural obstacle had sprung up in my way. I turned
back atid ran—yes, I absolutely vaz—towards Mr.
Anson’s. ,
' “Which house does Mr. Anson live in?” I asked of
a child I met.

“That small one opposite,” said the little girl, point-
~ ing to the other side. i

With a palpitating heart I hastened across and found
my hand upon the knocker. ’ I was faint-hearted, and

could scarcely lift it.
108 ROBERT DAWSON.

“What you have got to do, do it,” sounded in my
ear again. ThenI knocked. A child’s step came patter-
fe along in the entry. I trembled, and could hardly
ask, “Is Mr. Anson within?”

“Yes; he is my father,” said the child, holding the
- light forward as if to see me more clearly. “Come into

and she led me into a little room on

the study, sir ;’
the left hand. As she opened the door, she put the
candle down on a small round table in the centre, and
with a pleasant smile, bade me sit a moment, while she
called her father.

I shrank into the farthest corner of the room, and
hung my head. The slow steps of the good man drew
nein I felt as if I should not dare to speak to him
about my feelings,

“Do ir! po ir!” cried a voice within me.

He entered the study. I had only seen him in the
pulpit, and a great awe came over me as I beheld him.
I almost wished the floor might open and swallow me.

“Tam glad to see you, my lad,” said the clergyman,

taking my hand.
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 109

Great tenderness was in his manner. It. touched
my poor, unhappy, struggling spirit, and I burst into
tears. Then he spoke many things, and, oh! how
wisely, for one who was a stranger! I felt that I had
found a friend. After many broken sentences, and
stammering attempts, and much encouragement from
him, I unbosomed my sorrow. How gentle and yet
how faithful he was! How he expressed for me what
I could not myself express! How searching and
appropriate were his admonitions !

It was my first interview with a clergyman, except
that, when a child, I had been called in with Jane and
Mary to see our village pastor on his parochial visit,
once a year; and that interview inspired me with a
love and veneration for the ministers of Christ, which
the pulpit. could never have done in.a like degree.
Oh, how blessed is the office! Standing in the place
of his divine Master, the weary and heavy laden, the
sinful and sorrowing, come to him for aid, instruction,
and sympathy; and how do they hang upon his words,

and hold fast his instructions! How they heed it by
110 ROBERT DAWSON.

the way, and remember it in their closet! O men of
God, what momentous responsibilities rest upon you !

Though time has dimmed, it can never efface the
memory of all that passed in that two hours’ visit. I
cannot narrate the words, but I am a living witness of -
their influence. He dstructed me. What the young
inquirer after a religious life needs,—yes, and the old
as well as the young,—is faithful instruction 3 not only
the general instruction of the pulpit, but more espe-
cially that which comes when the inquirer and his
teacher meet face to face; and when one may ask,
and the other answer, familiar questions. Let there
be openness and sincerity upon the one hand, and
fidelity and the fear of God on the other, and good
will be done. O my youthful friend, whoever you may
be that read these pages, if you are away from home,
in doubt, and perplexity, and uneasiness of soil,
banish not your fears. If you read your Bible and
kneel in prayer, and yet find: your soul dark, with no
peace, go to some.man of God and tell him your

griefs. Let nothing deter you. Let not false shame
AN IMPORTANT ERA. — II

or. a consciousness of your insignificance, prevent.
You have a soul to save—a soul of infinite value. It
is a great work—7e great work of life. Set about it.
Make up your mind to-lose all else, if you can but
save that.

After we arose from prayer (for Mr. Anson desired
me to kneel by his side while he commended my case
to God) I bade him good night, promising to visit.
him again. He lighted me out, and as I stood upon

- the door-step, he again grasped my hand, and said
‘ impressively,

“ Remember, my son, STRIVE to enter in.”

Ah, yes! -I knew something about s¢riving for the
physical life, and the same resolute business habits I
found just as mecessary in the spiritual life. |

What had not a little resolution, under the favour of
God, wrought out for me? My father’s training and
example were now developed in their true results. I
had found a friend, and éne that could instruct and

“guide mre.

When I reached home and entered my chamber,
112° ROBERT DAWSON.

Tom called out, “Where have you been, you night-
stroller? In no good company at this time, I know.
I have been in bed this hour.”

“Tt is only half-past nine!”

“No getting off. Where have you been, Bob?” he
vociferated boisterously.

‘““T have been at Mr. Anson’s,” I answered, courage-
ously, well knowing how he would recdive my reply.

His banterings continued until he fell asleep.

Many gibes and sneers did I, for a time, suffer from
my companions, for my Sabbath-keeping and church-
going’ habits; but at length they yielded. I went -
straight forward on my way, looking neither to the
right hand rior to the left.

I wrote to my parents some account of my new
prospects. And by the next mail came a return from
my mother, expressing their thankfulness and joy at
the good news which my letter contained. And then
how precious was all the advice it gave me! It seemed
as if I had never loved my dear home more than I did

then, or more ardently longed to behold the faces of
AN IMPORTANT ERA. 113

friends. With what grateful joy did I rest upon my
pillow that night!

In two days more another letter came. It was in
an unknown hand, sealed with black. I hastily opened
it. My father was dead ! “Tt was sad, but not unex-
pected news. “Your father died happy, happy ! com-
mitting his soul, in confidence, into the hands of his_
Redeemer, and happy in the hope that-his son had
_ found the same Refuge. His last words were as if
speaking to you: ‘You have got all now, Robert:
compass, chart, anchor, rudder, all !—you are heading
right—keep on your course, my dear boy! Thank
God! thank God !’”

What a satisfaction it has ever been to me since,
that my good father’s last hour was brightened with
such holy joy ! .

‘*Time is earnest, passing by;
Death is earnest, drawing nigh;

Sinner, wilt thou trifling be ?
- Time and death appeal to thee.

* Life is earnest; when ’tis o'er
‘Thou returnest never more.
eats a 8
1I4

ROBERT DAWSON.

Soon to meet Eternity,
Wilt thou never serious be ?

‘Gop is earnest: kneel and ‘pray,
Ere thy season pass away ;
Ere He he set His judgment throne,
Ere the day of grace be gone.

‘‘ CHRIST is earnest, bids thee come;
Paid thy spirit’s priceless sum:
Wilt thou.spurn thy Saviour’s love,
Pleading with thee from above ?

**Oh, be earnest, do not stay!
Thou mayst perish e’en to-day.
Rise, thou lost one, rise and flee;
Lo! thy Saviour waits for thee.”




CHAPTER VI.

THE PUBLISHER.

-¢ t
‘The soul of the sluggard desireth, and hath nothing; but the soul of the
diligent shall be made fat.”—Prov. xiii. 4.

was in the third year of my residénce with



Mr. Simpson, that he had engaged to doa
- large amount of work for a publishing house in the
city. Sufficient time had been given to accomplish it
without any extra effort. But one evening; towards
the close of the job, the publisher suddenly appeared.
in the office. He and Mr. Simpson were alone toge-
ther some time. When the office was.closed for the
evening, Mr. Simpson told us’ that the work must be
finished in three days at furthest, and that we must all
bestir ourselves early enough in the morning. It was

my duty to open the office and prepare it for work.

&—2

=
116°... " ROBERT DAWSON.”

“Tom,” said Mr. Simpson, “I want you to get up

and do Robert’s work to-morrow morning. He looks ©

very ill to-night, and must not come into the office
until after breakfast,”
-T had taken a severe cold.’

The stranger saw and marked us both, and heard
Mr. Simpson’s directions,

“Robert, do you lie abed to-morrow morning ; and,
Tom, by. all means be up by four. Here, take my
alarm-watch and hang it up by your bed-side. Be up,
sir, in good season.”

“Yes, sir,” answered Tom, though in no willing tone.

When we went to bed a tremendous snow-storm
was beginning to rage and howl without. The cold
was extreme, and the wind a furious north-easter. I
soon forgot the storm, and sank into a peaceful slum-
ber, with the agreeable expectation of lying as long as
I chose in the morning. In an incredibly short time
(as it seemed, so profound were our slumbers) Tom
and I were aroused by the alarm-watch,—one—two—

three—four !-- Could it indeed be morning?

\
‘THE PUBLISHER, 117

“It is time to get up, Tom,” shouted I, shaking’ his
arm. ;

“ Get up, then,” he growled, roughly.

“But I am ill, Tom, and you remember what Mr.
Simpson said.”

No. Tom was not to be roused. He was not
going to get up such a stormy morning, so early,—not
he! He was not going to do it for Mr. Simpson, nor
for me, nor for anybody else,—not he! A was not
going to get up, if he mever did any more work!

How many are like Tom, when a demand is made
upon them for a little extra effort! No: they are not
going to work. so,—not they !

Now, it was evident somebody must get up, and it
must be, certainly, one of us. I felt I hada right to
sleep the night out that time. Besides, I feared it
might be hazardous.to get up, for I was in a profuse
perspiration, and the storm was raging violently. But
my own personal considerations had no more effect
upon my sluggish bedfellow than had his master’s .

* commands,
me

118 ROBERT DAWSON,

“Well, it must be done. Make up your mind to do
it, and then do it courageously,” thought. I.

Out of bed I jumped, and dressed myself rapidly,
without suffering myself to regret the snug, warm quar-
ters I had left. In spite of headaches sore throat; and
cough, I went bravely on. I ploughed my way to the
office through the drifting snow, built the fire, and got
everything in readiness for the workmen long pefee
they began to appear. ‘Then tying the lantern before
me_.to see the way; I fought with the snow until I
shovelled a respectable path from the house to the
office. Some one besides myself was up in the house.
Several times he appeared at the window, looking out
and watching my progress. While I was alone in the
office, a heavy step ascended the stairs. Not Jones’s,
nor Tomn’s, nor Mr. Farley’s, nor Mr. Simpson’s: Io!
the publisher himself entered? He! such a rich man!
up and seeing about his business so early | I was
amazed. Our office had done much work for him, and
. we all respected him greatly.

- “T thought you were the boy who was not to get up
THE PUBLISHER, —«419

this morning, Robert. A stormy morning this, and
tough work you have had of it,” he said, eyeing me
keenly,

“« My father always told me, sir, when we had work
to do, ¢o go forward and do it, minding nothing about
the weather, or anything else.—Only a few drops at a
time,” I added to myself.

“Right! right!” exclaimed the publisher, with great
spirit. ‘You have had a training that is worth some-

thing—-yes, worth more to begin life with than hundreds
of pounds, I see you can put your hand to the plough,
and not look back. The great fault of young men, now-
a-days, is, they are afraid of work. They want to live
too easy while the fact is, we cannot get anything that
is worth having—reputation, property, or any. good—-
without working, ay, striving for it. I must keep my
eye on you, young man.” og
Upon what apparently little incidents hangs the well-
~ being of men! I say apparently little, chance-like ines
dents ; aad yet they are heither little or by chance—

they are a part of the great moral woof into which our
20 ROBERT DAWSON.

habits‘ weave our destinies. They are themselves the
result of long trains of influence, and the starting-points ~
of others. So that what so many call a lucky hit, or
an unlucky turn, is in fact the true result of what the
past had wrought out.

To some it might have seemed a lucky hit, that the
great publisher of —— and I, an obscure apprentice,
should have happened to meet just as we did, at half-
past four ona stormy winter's morning, in Mr. Simpson’s
printing office, because from that time he became my
fast friend.

' At twenty-one I was free, with a good trade thoroughly
learned. At twenty-two I was master of fifty-eight
pounds. At twenty-three a profitable paper and printing
establishment, in a lage nerghbouring town, was for
sale.

“How much money did you earn last year, Robert?”
asked the publisher, who contrived to meet me at this
time. 4
. “Fifty-eight pounds, sir, clear.”

“Just what I expected. I have bought the ——
THE PUBLISHER, 121

Journal, office and furniture, and am going, to set you
up in business. I see you can take care of your own,

therefore I can safely trust you with mine. You are
| not afraid of difficulties.”

No, it was not a lucky hit, nor any hit at all, if by
this is meant a chance event. The meeting was the
natural consequence of the business habits of the busi-
ness man and the business boy! And now, when poor
Charley Frazier, on beholding my comfortable home
and pleasant lands, the other day, called me “a lucky
dog,” and “one of Fortune’s favourites,” I would say to
all as I said to him, Success in life—success in any
department of life—can only come from, and is the
legitimate result of, a firm, unflinching resolution to
work,-—to work honestly and industriously ; and these
habits must be formed in boyhood, or they will never
be well formed. They must be zzzwrought at home.

“Nothing good ever turns up for me!” ‘exclaimed
poor Charley, as he came the other day to talk with
me for the hundredth time about some new prospect

for business, Alas! they seemed always to be prospects,
122 ROBERT DAWSON.

and very distant ones too! “If I ever want to borrow
a sovereign of my richest neighbour, he never happens
to have one just then,—and now I do not care.”
I looked at his shabby coat, and thought of his wife
and children,—poor !—poor !—very poor! and asked,
~ Why is it? Had not Charley ability? Why, yes; but
when Charley was a boy, his parents always did his
work for him. had to do mine for myself. Do not
his present inefficiency, and fear of work, and frequent
complaints, grow out of the too much aid, the useless
sympathy, the constant gratification of his wishes, ren-
dered to him by his parents in boyhood? Children
must engage in active service, in labours, dangers,
- fatigues, if they would have healthy constitutions, a
self-relying spirit, and the ability to take care of them-

selves. .

Then, boys, be not afraid of work! Do not be afraid
of obstacles in the pursuit of agoodend. A life lies be- .
"fore you: its length you know not. It offers materials for

you to carve out your own destiny, of course under the
THE PUBLISHER, 123

' providence and with the blessing of God our Creator.
Carefully select your craft or calling. Work at it-skil-
fully, industriously, faithfully. Then be sure it will
yield you all you need.

But do you know that in your outward life another
life is hidden ?—that in this life of bodily wants and
activity, you are working out a life for an endléss here-
after? The promptness, energy, resoluteness, patience,
and fidelity which are so indispensable in your worldly
business, are much more indispensable in the more
important business of the soul. We are commanded

to work out our salvation with fear and trembling, for
it is God that worketh in us to will and to do of His
good pleasure.

; By-and-bye you will lay down your body, and have
no more need of intercourse with the.world, or of an
terest in its pursuits. Then, whither shall the naked
soul betake itself? What shall it be? Where shall
it dwell? Will it appear corrupted and disfigured *by
unforgiven ine or will it have been made white in the

blood of the Lamb, and so be fitted (by Divine grace) _
124 ROBERT DAWSON.

to dwell in purity and love with angels and the spirits —
of the just made perfect ?
Remember that every day you are forming habits for
your undying soul! Every day you are fashioning its ©
character for eternity! Early learn a cheerful obedience.
Early. learn to deny yourself. Early learn to “press
forward” in the footsteps of your divine Master. Be
‘steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of
the Lord. Then shall ye receive the crown of glory
prepared for all the true followers of the Lord Jesus
Christ. To perform achievements like these, remember
a brave as well as a humble spirit is indispensable. A .
brave spirit ! a spirit that will yield to no obstacle in
the pursuit of a worthy end; a brave unconquerable

svirit, boys! It will, byGod’s help, accomplish wonders!

**O Jesus, I have promised
To serve Thee to the end;
Be Thou for ever near me,
My Master-and my Friend!
_I shall not fear the battle
If Thou art by my side,
Nor wander from the pathway
If Thou wilt be my guide.
THE PUBLISHER. 125

“‘Oh! let me feel Thee near me—

The world is ever near;

I see the sights that dazzle,
The tempting sounds I hear.

My foes are ever near me, ,
Around me and within;.

But, Jesus, draw Thou nearer,
And shield my soul from sin.

*‘Oh! let me. hear Thee speaking
In accents clear and still,
Above the storms of passion,
The-murmurs of self-will:
Oh! speak to reassure me,
To hasten or control:
Oh!-speak, and make me listen,
Thou Guardian of my soul!

**Oh! let me see Thy features,
The-look that once could make
So many a true disciple
"Leave all things for Thy sake:
The look that’ beam’d on Peter
When he Thy name denied ;
The look that draws Thy lovers
Close to Thy piercéd side.

“O Jesus, Thou hast promised °

To all who follow Thee, :
That where Thou art in glory,
There shall Thy servant be;
126 ROBERT DAWSON. .

And, Jesus, I have promised
To serve Thee-to the end ;

Oh, give me grace to follow,
My Master and my Friend !

**Oh! let me see Thy foot-marks,
And in Them plant mine own ;
My hope to follow duly
Is in Thy strength alone.
Oh! guide me, call me, draw me
Uphold me to the end ;
And then in heaven recéive me,
7 My Saviour and my Fyiend !”


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WARNE’S
One Shilling “Round the Globe” Library,

Large fcap. 8vo, cloth, gilt, with Coloured Frontispiece and
Woodcut Illustrations.

THE SEVEN KINGS OF ROME, anp THE STORY OF POMPEIL
THE EARTH WE LIVE ON.
THE ITALIAN BOY, ann INDUSTRIAL MEN OF NOTE.
HOME TEACHINGS IN SCIENC.
CHAT IN THE PLAYROOM, anp ELIPE AT A FARMHOUSE.
OUR PONDS AND OUR FIELDS, &e.
BRAVE BOBBY, PETER AND HIS PONY, &c.
THE PEASANTS OF THE ALPS, &c.
FRANCES MEADOWS, TRAITS OF CHARACTER, &e. :
ee JOHN'S ADVENTURES AND TRAVELS. =
CARL RRINKEN, } By the Author of “The Wide, Wide World.”
FRANK RUSSELL: or, Living for an Object.
TOM BUTLER’S TROUBLE. A Cottage Story.
-LIZZIE JOHNSON; or, Mutual Help. %
MR. RUTHERFORD’S CHILDREN. stseries, Ditto, and series
THE CHILDREN’S HARP; or Sclect Poetry,
Seaee CLEMENT ; or, The Boy Friend.
UEEN._A Story for Girls.

? UTH CLAYTON. A Book for Girls. °
NELLIE GRAY: or, Ups and Downs of Life.
CLARA WOODWARD), and her Day Dreams,
SUSAN GRAY. By Mrs, SHERWOOD.
THE LITTLE MINER; or, Truth and Honesty.
EASY RHYMES AND SIMPLE POEMS.
MY EARNINGS; or, Ann Ellison’s Life. e
BABES IN THE BASKET, By Aunt FRIENDLY.
BASKET OF FLOWERS. Revised Edition.
SAM; or, AGood Name. By M. Keary.
EDITH AND MARY; or, Holly Farm.
WILLIE’S BIRT HDAY.
THE SILVER TRUMPET.
WILLIE’S REST. A Sunday Story.
UNICA._ A Story for Sunday.
STORY BOOK OF COUNTRY SCENES:
TWILIGHT STORIES AT OVERBURY FARM. ~
GOLD SEEKERS AND BREAD WINNERS.
STUYVESANT; or Home Adventures.
CAROLINE; or, The Henrys. } By Jacos Aszorr,
AGNES; ons ‘Summer on the Hills.
MARY ELT
PRIDE AND. PRINCIPLE.
THEODORA’S CHILDHOOD.
MRS. GORDON’S: HOUSEHOLD.
LITTLE NETTIE; or, Home Sunshine.
ROBERT DAWSON; or, The.Brave Spirit.
THLE. DAIRYMAN’S DAUGHTER.

ANE HUDSON;; or, The Secret of Getting oa

ITTLE JOSEY’; or, ae and Succeed,
THE YOUNG COTTAGE
MASTER GREGORY’S ‘CUNNING.

Bedfurd Street, Covent Gardes.


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