"He drove them out."

"Did he stone them, or beat them?"

"Oh no. He was gentle as a child towards them."

"You are certainly jesting."

"Not I. Friend Barton has not forgotten that his pigs were in my cornfield yesterday, and that I turned them out without hurting a hair of one of them. Now, suppose I had got angry and beaten his pigs, what do you think the result would have been? Why, it is much more than probable that one or both of our fine cows would have been at this moment in the condition of Mr. Mellon's old Brindle."

"I wish you wouldn't say anything more about old Brindle," said Mrs.

Gray, trying to laugh, while her face grew red in spite of her efforts to keep down her feelings.

"Well, I won't, Sally, if it worries you. But it is such a good ill.u.s.tration that I can't help using it sometimes."

"I am glad he didn't hurt the cows," said Mrs. Gray, after a pause.

"And so am I, Sally. Glad on more than one account. It shows that he has made an effort to keep down his hasty, irritable temper--and if he can do that, it will be a favour conferred on the whole neighbourhood, for almost every one complains, at times, of this fault in his character."

"It is certainly the best policy, to keep fair weather with him," Mrs.

Gray remarked, "for a man of his temper could annoy us a good deal."

"That word policy, Sally, is not a good word," replied her husband. "It conveys a thoroughly selfish idea. Now, we ought to look for some higher motives of action than mere policy--motives grounded in correct and unselfish principles."

"But what other motive but policy could we possibly have for putting up with Mr. Barton's outrageous conduct?"

"Other, and far higher motives, it seems to me. We should reflect that Mr. Barton has naturally a hasty temper, and that when excited he does things for which he is sorry afterwards--and that, in nine cases out of ten, he is a greater sufferer from those outbreaks than any one else. In our actions towards him, then, it is a much higher and better motive for us to be governed by a desire to aid him in the correction of this evil, than to look merely to the protection of ourselves from its effects. Do you not think so?"

"Yes. It does seem so."

"When thus moved to action, we are, in a degree, regarding the whole neighbourhood, for the evil of which we speak affects all. And in thus suffering ourselves to be governed by such elevated and unselfish motives, we gain all that we possibly could have gained under the mere instigation of policy--and a great deal more. But to bring the matter into a still narrower compa.s.s. In all our actions towards him and every one else, we should be governed by the simple consideration--is it right? If a spirit of retaliation be not right, then it cannot be indulged without a mutual injury. Of course, then, it should never prompt us to action. If cows or hogs get into my field or garden, and destroy my property, who is to blame most? Of course, myself. I should have kept my fences in better repair, or my gate closed. The animals, certainly, are not to blame, for they follow only the promptings of nature; and their owners should not be censured, for they know nothing about it. It would then be very wrong for me to injure both the animals and their owners for my own neglect, would it not?"

"Yes,--I suppose it would."

"So, at least, it seems to me. Then, of course, I ought not to injure Neighbour Barton's cows or hogs, even if they do break into my cornfield or garden, simply because it would be wrong to do so. This is the principle upon which we should act, and not from any selfish policy."

After this there was no trouble about Farmer Gray's geese or cattle.

Sometimes the geese would get among Mr. Barton's hogs, and annoy them while eating, but it did not worry him as it did formerly. If they became too troublesome he would drive them away, but not by throwing sticks and stones at them as he once did.

Late in the fall the shoemaker brought in his bill for work. It was a pretty large bill, with sundry credits.

"Pay-day has come at last," said Farmer Gray, good-humouredly, as the shoemaker presented his account.

"Well, let us see!" and he took the bill to examine it item after item.

"What is this?" he asked, reading aloud.

"'Cr. By one bushel of corn, fifty cents.'"

"It's some corn I had from you."

"I reckon you must be mistaken. You never got any corn from me."

"Oh, yes I did. I remember it perfectly. It is all right."

"But when did you get it, Friend Barton? I am sure that I haven't the most distant recollection of it."

"My hogs got it," the shoemaker said, in rather a low and hesitating tone.

"Your hogs!"

"Yes. Don't you remember when my hogs broke into your field, and destroyed your corn?"

"Oh, dear! is that it? Oh, no, no, Friend Barton! Ii cannot allow that item in the bill."

"Yes, but you must. It is perfectly just, and I shall never rest until it is paid."

"I can't, indeed. You couldn't help the hogs getting into my field; and then you know, Friend Barton (lowering his tone), my geese were very troublesome!"

The shoemaker blushed and looked confused; but Farmer Gray slapped him familiarly on the shoulder, and said, in a lively, cheerful way,

"Don't think any more about it, Friend Barton! And hereafter let us endeavour to 'do as we would be done by,' and then everything will go on as smooth as clock-work."

"But you will allow that item in the bill?" the shoemaker urged perseveringly.

"Oh, no, I couldn't do that. I should think it wrong to make you pay for my own or some of my men's negligence in leaving the bars down."

"But then (hesitatingly), those geese--I killed three. Let it go for them."

"If you did kill them, we ate them. So that is even. No, no, let the past be forgotten, and if it makes better neighbours and friends of us, we never need regret what has happened."

Farmer Gray remained firm, and the bill was settled, omitting the item of "corn." From that time forth he never had a better neighbour than the shoemaker. The cows, hogs, and geese of both would occasionally trespa.s.s, but the trespa.s.sers were always kindly removed. The lesson was not lost on either of them--for even Farmer Gray used to feel, sometimes, a little annoyed when his neighbour's cattle broke into his field. But in teaching the shoemaker a lesson, he had taken a little of it himself.

THE ACCOUNT.

THE clock from the city hall struck one; The merchant's task was not yet done; He knew the old year was pa.s.sing away, And his accounts must all be settled that day; He must know for a truth how much he should win, So fast the money was rolling in.

He took the last cash-book, from the pile, And he summed it up with a happy smile; For a just and upright man was he, Dealing with all most righteously, And now he was sure how much he should win, How fast the money was rolling in.

He heard not the soft touch on the door-- He heard not the tread on the carpeted floor-- So still was her coming, he thought him alone, Till she spake in a sweet and silvery tone: "Thou knowest not yet how much thou shalt win-- How fast the money is rolling in."

Then from 'neath her white, fair arm, she took A golden-clasped, and, beautiful book-- "'Tis my account thou hast to pay, In the coming of the New Year's day-- Read--ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win, How fast the money is rolling in."

He open'd the clasps with a trembling hand-- Therein was Charity's firm demand: "To the widow, the orphan, the needy, the poor, Much owest thou of thy yearly store; Give, ere thou knowest how much thou shalt win-- While fast the money is rolling in."