"No," replied one, "we hope not. How did he fall out?"

"He didn't fall," groaned Tom, who never could be so mean as to tell a lie, "I pushed him out."

"_You_ pushed him, you wicked boy," cried a rough voice. "Do you know you ought to be sent to jail, and if he dies, maybe you'll be hung."

Tom grew as white as d.i.c.k, whom he had followed into the store, and he heard all that pa.s.sed as if in a dream.

"Is he badly hurt?" cried some one.

"Only his hands," was the answer. "The rope saved him, he caught hold of the rope and slipped down; but his hands are dreadfully torn--he has fainted from pain."

Just then Tom's father came in, and soon understood the case. The look he gave at his unhappy son, so full of sorrow, not unmingled with pity, was too much for Tom, and he stole out, followed by the faithful Tiger. He wandered to the woods, and threw himself upon the ground.

One hour ago he was a happy boy, and now what a terrible change! What has made the difference? Nothing but the indulgence of this wicked, violent temper. His mother had often warned him of the fearful consequences. She had told him that little boys who would not learn to govern themselves, grew up to be very wicked men, and often became murderers in some moment of pa.s.sion. And now, Tom shuddered to think he was almost a murderer! Nothing but G.o.d's great mercy in putting that rope in d.i.c.k's way, had saved him from carrying that load of sorrow and guilt all the rest of his life. But poor d.i.c.k, he might die yet--how pale he looked--how strange! Tom fell upon his knees, and prayed G.o.d to "spare d.i.c.k's life," and from that time forth, with G.o.d's help, he promised that he would strive to conquer this wicked pa.s.sion.

Then, as he could no longer bear his terrible suspense, he started for Widow Casey's cottage. As he appeared at the humble door, Mrs. Casey angrily ordered him away, saying: "You have made a poor woman trouble enough for one day." But d.i.c.k's feeble voice entreated, "O mother, let him come in; I was just as bad as he."

Tom gave a cry of joy at hearing these welcome tones, and sprang hastily in. There sat poor d.i.c.k with his hands bound up, looking very pale, but Tom thanked G.o.d that he was alive.

"I should like to know how I am to live now," sighed Mrs. Casey. "Who will weed the garden, and carry my vegetables to market? I am afraid we shall suffer for bread before the summer is over," and she put her ap.r.o.n to her eyes.

"Mrs. Casey," cried Tom, eagerly, "I will do everything that d.i.c.k did.

I will sell the potatoes and beans, and will drive Mr. Brown's cows to pasture."

Mrs. Casey shook her head incredulously, but Tom bravely kept his word. For the next few weeks Tom was at his post bright and early, and the garden was never kept in better order. And every morning Tiger and Tom stood faithfully in the market-place with their baskets, and never gave up, no matter how warm the day, till the last vegetable was sold, and the money placed faithfully in Mrs. Casey's hand.

Tom's father often pa.s.sed through the market, and gave his little son an encouraging smile, but he did not offer to help him out of his difficulty, for he knew if Tom struggled on alone, it would be a lesson he would never forget. Already he was becoming so gentle and patient, that every one noticed the change, and his mother rejoiced over the sweet fruits of his repentance and self-sacrifice.

After a few weeks the bandages were removed from d.i.c.k's hands, but they had been unskilfully treated, and were drawn up in very strange shapes. Mrs. Casey could not conceal her grief. "He will never be the help he was before," she said to Tom, "he will never be like other boys, and he wrote such a fine hand, now he can no more make a letter than that little chicken in the garden."

"If we only had a great city doctor," said a neighbor, "he might have been all right. Even now his fingers might be helped if you should take him to New York."

"Oh, I am too poor, _too poor_," said she, and burst into tears.

Tom could not bear it, and again rushed into the woods to think what could be done, for he had already given them all his quarter's allowance. All at once a thought flashed into his head, and he started as if he had been shot. Then he cried in great distress:--

"No, no, anything but that, I can't do _that_!"

Tiger gently licked his hands, and watched him with great concern. Now came a great struggle. Tom stroked him backward and forward, and although he was a proud boy, he sobbed aloud. Tiger whined, licked his face, rushed off into dark corners, and barked savagely at some imaginary enemy, and then came back, and putting his paws on Tom's knees, wagged his tail in anxious sympathy. At last Tom took his hands from his pale, tear-stained face, and looking into the dog's great honest eyes, he cried with a queer shake of his voice:--

"Tiger, old fellow! dear old dog, could you ever forgive me if I sold you?"

Then came another burst of sorrow, and Tom rose hastily, as if afraid to trust himself, and almost ran out of the woods. Over the fields he raced, with Tiger close at his heels, nor rested a moment till he stood at Major White's door, nearly two miles away.

"Do you still want Tiger, sir?"

"Why yes," said the old man in great surprise, "but do _you_ want to sell him?"

"Yes, please," gasped Tom, not daring to look at his old companion.

The exchange was quickly made, and the ten dollars in Tom's hand.

Tiger was beguiled into a barn, and the door hastily shut, and Tom was hurrying off, when he turned and cried in a choking voice--

"You will be kind to him, Major White, won't you? Don't whip him, I never did, and he's the best dog--"

"No, no, child," said Major White, kindly; "I'll treat him like a prince, and if you ever want to buy him back, you shall have him." Tom managed to falter, "Thank you," and almost flew out of hearing of Tiger's eager scratching on the barn door.

I am making my story too long, and can only tell you in a few words that Tom's sacrifice was accepted. A friend took little d.i.c.k to the city free of expense, and Tom's money paid for the necessary operation. The poor crooked fingers were very much improved, and were soon almost as good as ever. And the whole village loved Tom for his brave, self-sacrificing spirit, and the n.o.ble atonement he had made for his moment of pa.s.sion.

A few days after d.i.c.k's return came Tom's birthday, but he did not feel in his usual spirits. In spite of his great delight in d.i.c.k's recovery, he had so mourned over the matter, and had taken Tiger's loss so much to heart, that he had grown quite pale and thin. So, as he was permitted to spend the day as he pleased, he took his books and went to his favorite haunt in the woods.

"How different from my last birthday," thought Tom. "Then Tiger had just come, and I was so happy, though I didn't like him half so well as I do now." Tom sighed heavily; then added more cheerfully, "Well, I hope some things are better than they were last year. I hope I have begun to conquer myself, and with G.o.d's help I will never give up trying while I live. Now if I could only earn money enough to buy back dear old Tiger." While Tom was busied with these thoughts he heard a hasty, familiar trot, a quick bark of joy, and the brave old dog sprang into Tom's arms.

"Tiger, old fellow," cried Tom, trying to look fierce, though he could scarcely keep down the tears, "how came you to run away, sir?"

Tiger responded by picking up a letter he had dropped in his first joy, and laying it in Tom's hand:--

"My Dear Child: Tiger is pining, and I must give him a change of air.

I wish him to have a good master, and knowing that the best ones are those who have learned to govern _themselves_, I send him to you. Will you take care of him and greatly oblige

"Your old friend, Major White."

Tom then read through a mist of tears--

"P. S. I know the whole story. Dear young friend, 'Be not weary in well-doing.'"

WHAT COUNTS.

Did you tackle the trouble that came your way, With a resolute heart and cheerful, Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven face and fearful.

O, a trouble's a ton, or a trouble's an ounce.

A trouble is what you make it.

It isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only, HOW DID YOU TAKE IT?

You are beaten to the earth? Well, what of that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down _flat_; But to LIE THERE--that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, the higher you'll bounce, Be proud of your blackened eye.

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts, But, HOW did you fight, and WHY?

And though you be down to death, what then?

If you battled the best that you could, If you played your part in the world of men, The _Critic_ will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're DEAD that counts, But only HOW DID YOU DIE?

--_Cooke_.