"But I didn't mean to do that, though."

"No; but then you were angry, and struck old Brindle with a right good will. And if Mr. Mellon had felt disposed, he might have prosecuted for damages."

"But she had no business there."

"Of course not. Neither had our geese any business in Neighbour Barton's yard. But, perhaps, I can help you to another instance, that will be more conclusive, in regard to your doing and saying unreasonable things, when you are angry. You remember the patent churn?"

"Yes; but never mind about that."

"So you have not forgotten how unreasonable you was about the churn. It wasn't good for anything--you knew it wasn't; and you'd never put a jar of cream into it as long as you lived--that you wouldn't. And yet, on trial, you found that churn the best you had ever used, and you wouldn't part with it on any consideration. So you see, Sally, thai even you can say and do unreasonable things, when you are angry, just as well as Mr.

Barton can. Let us then consider him a little, and give him time to get over his angry fit. It will be much better to do so."

Mrs. Gray saw that her husband was right, but still she felt indignant at the outrage committed on her geese. She did not, however, say anything about suing the shoemaker--for old Brindle's head, from which the horn had been knocked off, was not yet entirely well, and one prosecution very naturally suggested the idea of another. So she took her three fat geese, and after stripping off their feathers, had them prepared for the table.

On the next morning, as Farmer Gray was going along the road, he met the shoemaker, and as they had to pa.s.s very near to each other, the farmer smiled, and bowed, and spoke kindly. Mr. Barton looked and felt very uneasy, but Farmer Gray did not seem to remember the unpleasant incident of the day before.

It was about eleven o'clock of the same day that one of Farmer Gray's little boys came running to him, and crying,

"Oh, father! father! Mr. Barton's hogs are in our cornfield."

"Then I must go and drive them out," said Mr. Gray, in a quiet tone.

"Drive them out!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Mrs. Gray; "drive 'em out, indeed! I'd shoot them, that's what I'd do! I'd serve them as he served my geese yesterday."

"But that wouldn't bring the geese to life again, Sally."

"I don't care if it wouldn't. It would be paying him in his own coin, and that's all he deserves."

"You know what the Bible says, Sally, about grievous words, and they apply with stronger force to grievous actions. No, no, I will return Neighbour Barton good for evil. That is the best way. He has done wrong, and I am sure is sorry for it. And as I wish him still to remain sorry for so unkind and unneighbourly an action, I intend making use of the best means for keeping him sorry."

"Then you will be revenged on him, anyhow."

"No, Sally--not revenged. I hope I have no such feeling. For I am not angry with Neighbour Barton, who has done himself a much greater wrong than he has done me. But I wish him to see clearly how wrong he acted, that he may do so no more. And then we shall not have any cause to complain of him, nor he any to be grieved, as I am sure he is, at his own hasty conduct. But while I am talking here, his hogs are destroying my corn."

And so saying, Farmer Gray hurried off, towards his cornfield. When he arrived there, he found four large hogs tearing down the stalks, and pulling off and eating the ripe ears of corn. They had already destroyed a good deal. But he drove them out very calmly, and put up the bars through which they had entered, and then commenced gathering up the half-eaten ears of corn, and throwing them out into the lane for the hogs, that had been so suddenly disturbed in the process of obtaining a liberal meal. As he was thus engaged, Mr. Barton, who had from his own house seen the farmer turn the hogs out of his cornfield, came hurriedly up, and said,

"I am very sorry, Mr. Gray, indeed I am, that my hogs have done this! I will most cheerfully pay you for what they have destroyed."

"Oh, never mind, Friend Barton--never mind. Such things will happen, occasionally. My geese, you know, annoy you very much, sometimes."

"Don't speak of it, Mr. Gray. They didn't annoy me half as much as I imagined they did. But how much corn do you think my hogs have destroyed? One bushel, or two bushels? or how much? Let it be estimated, and I will pay for it most cheerfully."

"Oh, no. Not for the world, Friend Barton. Such things will happen sometimes. And, besides, some of my men must have left the bars down, or your hogs could never have got in. So don't think any more about it.

It would be dreadful if one neighbour could not bear a little with another."

All this cut poor Mr. Barton to the heart. His own ill-natured language and conduct, at a much smaller trespa.s.s on his rights, presented itself to his mind, and deeply mortified him. After a few moments' silence, he said,

"The fact is, Mr. Gray, I shall feel better if you will let me pay for this corn. My hogs should not be fattened at your expense, and I will not consent to its being done. So I shall insist on paying you for at least one bushel of corn, for I am sure they have destroyed that much, if not more."

But Mr. Gray shook his head and smiled pleasantly, as he replied,

"Don't think anything more about it, Neighbour Barton. It is a matter deserving no consideration. No doubt my cattle have often trespa.s.sed on you and will trespa.s.s on you again. Let us then bear and forbear."

All this cut the shoemaker still deeper, and he felt still less at ease in mind after he parted from the farmer than he did before. But on one thing he resolved, and that was, to pay Mr. Gray for the corn which his hogs had eaten.

"You told him your mind pretty plainly, I hope," said Mrs. Gray, as her husband came in.

"I certainly did," was the quiet reply.

"And I am glad you had spirit enough to do it! I reckon he will think twice before he kills any more of my geese!"

"I expect you are right, Sally. I don't think we shall be troubled again."

"And what did you say to him? And what did he say for himself?"

"Why he wanted very much to pay me for the corn his pigs had eaten, but I wouldn't hear to it. I told him that it made no difference in the world; that such accidents would happen sometimes."

"You did?"

"Certainly, I did."

"And that's the way you spoke your mind to him?"

"Precisely. And it had the desired effect. It made him feel ten times worse than if I had spoken angrily to him. He is exceedingly pained at what he has done, and says he will never rest until he has paid for that corn. But I am resolved never to take a cent for it. It will be the best possible guarantee I can have for his kind and neighbourly conduct hereafter."

"Well, perhaps you are right," said Mrs. Gray, after a few moments of thoughtful silence. "I like Mrs. Barton very much--and now I come to think of it, I should not wish to have any difference between our families."

"And so do I like Mr. Barton. He has read a good deal, and I find it very pleasant to sit with him, occasionally, during the long winter evenings. His only fault is his quick temper--but I am sure it is much better for us to bear with and soothe that, than to oppose rand excite it and thus keep both his family and our own in hot water."

"You are certainly right," replied Mrs. Gray; "and I only wish that I could always think and feel as you do. But I am little quick, as they say."

"And so is Mr. Barton. Now just the same consideration that you would desire others to have for you, should you exercise towards Mr. Barton, or any one else whose hasty temper leads him into words or actions that, in calmer and more thoughtful moments, are subjects of regret."

On the next day, while Mr. Gray stood in his own door, from which he could see over the two or three acres of ground that the shoemaker cultivated, he observed two of his cows in his neighbour's cornfield, browsing away in quite a contented manner. As he was going to call one of the farm hands to go over and drive them out, he perceived that Mr. Barton had become aware of the mischief that was going on, and had already started for the field of corn.

"Now we will see the effect of yesterday's lesson," said the farmer to himself; and then paused to observe the manner of the shoemaker towards his cattle in driving them out of the field. In a few minutes Mr.

Barton came up to the cows, but, instead of throwing stones at them, or striking them with a stick, he merely drove them out in a quiet way, and put up the bars through which they had entered.

"Admirable!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Farmer Gray.

"What is admirable?" asked his wife, who came within hearing distance at the moment.

"Why the lesson I gave our friend Barton yesterday. It works admirably."

"How so?"

"Two of our cows were in his cornfield a few minutes ago, destroying the corn at a rapid rate."

"Well! what did he do to them?" in a quick, anxious tone.