Two Pictures
Two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, the oldest but six years
of age, came in from school one evening, later than usual by half an
hour. Both their eyes were red with weeping, and their cheeks wet
with tears. Their father, Mr. Warren, who had come home from his
business earlier than usual, had been waiting some time for their
return, and wondering why they stayed so late. They were his only
children, and he loved them most tenderly. They had, a few weeks
before, been entered at a school kept by a lady in the
neighborhood--not so much for what they would learn, as to give
occupation to their active minds.
"Why, Anna! Willy!" exclaimed Mr. Warren, as the children came in,
"what's the matter? Why have you stayed so late?"
Anna lifted her tearful eyes to her father's face, and her lip
curled and quivered. But she could not answer his question.
Mr. Warren took the grieving child in his arms, and as he drew her
to his bosom, said to Willy, who was the oldest--
"What has made you so late, dear?"
"Miss Roberts kept us in," sobbed Willy.
"Kept you in!" returned Mr. Warren, in surprise. "How came that?"
"Because we laughed," answered the child, still sobbing and weeping.
"What made you laugh?"
"One of the boys made funny faces."
"And did you laugh too, dear?" asked the father of Anna.
"Yes, papa. But I couldn't help it. And Miss Roberts scolded so, and
said she was going to whip us."
"And was that all you did?"
"Yes, indeed, papa," said Willy.
"I'll see Miss Roberts about it," fell angrily from the lips of Mr.
Warren. "It's the last time you appear in her school. A cruel-minded
woman!"
And then the father soothed his grieving little ones with
affectionate words and caresses.
"Dear little angels!" said Mr. Warren to his wife, shortly
afterwards, "that any one could have the heart to punish them for a
sudden outburst of joyous feelings! And Anna in particular, a mere
babe as she is, I can't get over it. To think of her being kept in
for a long half hour, under punishment, after all the other children
had gone home. It was cruel. Miss Roberts shall hear from me on the
subject."
"I don't know, dear, that I would say any thing about it," remarked
the mother, who was less excited about the matter, "I don't think
she meant to be severe. She, doubtless, forgot that they were so
very young."
"She'd no business to forget it. I've no idea of my children being
used after this fashion. The boy that made them laugh should have
been kept in, if any punishment had to be inflicted. But it's the
way with cruel-minded people. The weakest are always chosen as
objects of their dislike."
"I am sure you take this little matter too much to heart," urged the
mother. "Miss Roberts must have order in her school, and even the
youngest must conform to this order. I do not think the punishment
so severe. She had to do something to make them remember their
fault, and restrain their feelings in future; and she could hardly
have done less. It is not too young for them to learn obedience in
any position where they are introduced."
But the over fond and tender father could see no reason for the
punishment his little ones had received; and would not consent to
let them go again to the school of Miss Roberts. To him they were
earth's most precious things. They were tender flowers; and he was
troubled if ever the winds blew roughly upon them.
Seven years have passed. Let us visit the home of Mr. Warren and
look at him among his children. No; we will not enter this pleasant
house--he moved away long ago. Can this be the home of Mr. Warren!
Yes. Small, poor, and comfortless as it is! Ah! there have been sad
changes.
Let us enter. Can that be Warren? That wretched looking
creature--with swollen, disfigured face and soiled garments--who
sits, half stupid, near the window? A little flaxen-haired child is
playing on the floor. It is not Anna. No; seven years have changed
her from the fairylike little creature she was when her father
became outraged at her punishment in Miss Roberts' school! Poor
Anna! That was light as the thistle down to what she has since
received from the hands of her father. The child on the floor is
beautiful, even in her tattered clothes. She has been playing for
some time. Now her father calls to her in a rough, grumbling voice.
"Kate! You, Kate, I say!"
Little Kate, not five years old, leaves her play and goes up to
where her parent is sitting.
"Go and get me a drink of water," said he in a harsh tone of
authority.
Kate takes a tin cup from a table and goes to the hydrant in the
yard. So pleased is she in seeing the water run, that she forgets
her errand. Three or four times she fills the cup, and then pours
forth its contents, dipping her tiny feet in the stream that is
made. In the midst of her sport, she hears an angry call, and
remembering the errand upon which she has been sent, hurriedly fills
her cup again and bears it to her father. She is frightened as she
comes in and sees his face; this confuses her; her foot catches in
something as she approaches, and she falls over, spilling the cup of
water on his clothes. Angrily he catches her up, and, cruel in his
passion, strikes her three or four heavy blows.
"Now take that cup and get me some water!" he cries, in a loud
voice, "and if you are not here with it in a minute, I'll beat the
life half out of you! I'll teach you to mind when your spoken to, I
will! There! Off with you!"
Little Kate, smarting from pain, and trembling with fear, lifts the
cup and hurries away to perform her errand. She drops it twice from
her unsteady hands ere she is able to convey it, filled with water,
to her parent, who takes it with such a threatening look from his
eyes, that the child shrinks away from him, and goes from the room
in fear.
An hour passes, and the light of day begins to fade.
Evening comes slowly on, and at length the darkness closes in. But
twice since morning has Warren been from the house, and then it was
to get something to drink. The door at length opens quietly, and a,
little girl enters. Her face is thin and drooping, and wears a look
of patient suffering.
"You're late, Anna," says the mother, kindly.
"Yes, ma'am. We had to stay later for our money. Mr. Davis was away
from the store, and I was afraid I would have to come home without
it. Here it is."
Mrs. Warren took the money.
"Only a dollar!" There was disappointment in her tones as she said
this.
"Yes, ma'am, that is all," replied Anna, in a troubled voice. "I
spoiled some work, and Mr. Davis said I should pay for it, and so he
took half a dollar from my wages."
"Spoiled your work!" spoke up the father, who had been listening.
"That's more of your abominable carelessness!"
"Indeed, father; I couldn't help it," said Anna, "one of the
girls--"
"Hush up, will you! I want none of your lying excuses. I know you!
It was done on purpose, I have not the least doubt."
Anna caught her breath, like one suddenly deprived of air. Tears
rushed to her eyes and commenced falling over her cheeks, while her
bosom rose and fell convulsively.
"Come, now! None of that!" said the cruel father sternly. "Stop your
crying instantly, or I will give you something to cry for! A pretty
state of things, indeed, when every word must be answered by a fit
of crying!"
The poor child choked down her feelings as best she could, turning
as she did so from her father; that he might not see the still
remaining traces of her grief which it was impossible at once to
hide.
Not a single dollar had the idle, drunken father earned during the
week, that he had not expended in self-indulgence; and yet, in his
brutality, he could roughly chide this little girl, yet too young
for the taskmaster, because she had lost half a dollar of her week's
earnings through an accident, the very nature of which he would not
hear explained. So grieved was the poor child at this unkindness,
that when supper was on the table she shrunk away from the room.
"Come, Anna, to your supper," called the mother.
"I don't wish any thing to eat," replied the child, in a faint
voice.
"Oh, yes; come and get something."
"Let her alone!" growls the father. "I never humor sulky children.
She doesn't deserve any supper."
The mother sighs. While the husband eats greedily, consuming,
himself, more than half that is on the table, she takes but a few
mouthfuls, and swallows them with difficulty.
After supper, Willy, who is just thirteen, and who has already been
bound out as an apprentice to a trade, comes home. He has a tale of
suffering to tell. For some fault his master has beaten him until
the large purple welts lie in meshes across his back from his
shoulders to his hips.
"How comes all this?" asks Mr. Warren. There is not the smallest
sign of sympathy in his voice.
Willy relates the cause, and tells it truly. He was something to
blame, but his fault needed not the correction of stripes even
lightly applied.
"Served you right!" said the father, when the story was ended. "No
business to have acted so. Do as you are told, and mind your work,
and you'll escape flogging. Otherwise, I don't care how often you
get it. You've been spoiled at home, and it'll do you good to toe
the mark. Did your master know you were coming home to-night?"
"No, sir," replied the boy, with trembling lips, and a choking
voice.
"Then what did you come for? To get pitied? Do right and you'll need
no pity."
"Oh, James, don't speak so to the child!" said Mrs. Warren, unable
to keep silence.
This was answered by an angry look.
"You must go back to your master, boy," said the father, after a
pause. "When you wish to come home, ask his consent."
"He doesn't object to my coming home," said Willy, his voice still
quivering.
"Go back, I tell you! Take your hat, there, and go back. Don't come
here any more with your tales!"
The boy glanced towards his mother, and read pity and sympathy in
her countenance, but she did not countermand the order; for she knew
that if she did so, a scene of violence would follow.
"Ask to come home in the morning," said she to her boy, as she held
his hand tightly in hers at the door. He gave her a look of tender
thankfulness, and then went forth into the darkness, feeling so sad
and wretched that he could not repress his tears.
Seven years. And was only this time required to effect such a
change! Ah! rum is a demon! How quickly does it transform the tender
husband and parent into a cruel beast! Look upon these two pictures,
ye who tarry long at the wine! Look at them, but do not say they are
overdrawn! They have in them only the sober hues and subdued colors
of truth.
-THE END-
T S Arthur's short story: Two Pictures
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