Apples, Ripe and Rosy, Sir | Page 4

into a seat beside her upon the wide, old-fashioned sofa, which was just the place for one of those cosy twilight chats with mother, which boys especially love so much, and the memory of which gleams, star-like, through the mists of years, exerting even far greater influence than she dreams of upon their lives. Tom considered this quiet half hour the pleasantest of the day. Mrs. Norris, with a gentle wisdom worthy of wider imitation, encouraged him to talk to her about whatever interested him. She was seldom too tired or too preoccupied at this time to hear of the mechanism of the steam-engine, the mysteries of the printing-press, or the feats that may be performed with a bicycle,--of which "taking a header," or the method by which the rider learns to fly off the machine head foremost into a ditch with impunity, appeared to be the most desirable. Her patience in this respect was rewarded by that most precious possession to a mother, a son's confidence.
Tom liked to tell her of various things that happened during the day; to compare notes, and get her opinions of matters in general; at the same time giving his own, which were often quaint and entertaining.
"Really, mother, Missis Barry knows a lot!" he now exclaimed, abruptly, clasping his knee and staring at the fire in a meditative manner.
Mrs. Norris looked amused, but she did not venture to question the apple-vender's wisdom. One or two kindly inquiries about the old woman, however, prompted him to speak of her further,--of his meeting her as she struggled along with her burden, his drawing it on the sled, and last of her refusal of the drink he offered.
"You would not have minded, would you, mother?" he asked.
"No, not for the sake of the milk, certainly," responded Mrs. Norris, laughing; "but--" then she hesitated. How could she hamper the mind of this ingenuous little lad of hers with false and finical ideas of refinement and delicacy! Why should she suggest to him that it is at least not customary to go about giving the poor to drink out of our own especial milk cans? There came to her mind the noble lines which but frame as with jewels the simple Christian precept,--the words spoken to Sir Launfal when, weary, poverty-stricken, and disheartened, the knight returns from his fruitless search for the Holy Grail; when humbly he shares his cup and crust with the leper at the gate,--the leper who straightway stands before him glorified, a vision of Our Lord, and tells him that true love of our neighbor consists in,
"Not what we give, but what we share; For the gift without the giver is bare."
And then the mother's hands rested lovingly a moment upon Tom's head, as again she repeated more softly: "No, certainly."
* * * * *
As Widow Barry had surmised, the keynote of Tom's nature was that he was easily led, and therein rested the possibilities of great good or evil. The little confidential chats with his mother were a strong safeguard to him, and laid the foundation of the true principles by which he should be guided; but, as he mingled more with other boys, he was not always steadfast in acting up to his knowledge of what was right, and was apt to be more influenced by his companions than his best friends cared to see him. At present he was inclined to make a chum of Ed Brown, who, though only a year older, was so precociously shrewd, and what the world calls "smart," that, according to good Widow Barry's opinion, "he could buy and sell Masther Tom any day."
The old woman had, indeed, many opportunities for observation; for is not sometimes so simple a transaction as the buying of an apple a real test of character? If a boy or man is tricky or mean or unjust in his business dealings, is it likely that we shall find him upright and honorable in other things? Though Mrs. Norris was not as well posted as the apple-vender, one or two occurrences had caused her to positively forbid Tom to have any more to do with Ed,--a command which he grumbled a good deal about, and, alas! occasionally disobeyed.
But to continue our story. The following Saturday morning the skies were blue, the sun shone bright, the gladness of spring was in the air,--all promised a long, pleasant holiday. The apple stand at the corner had a prosperous aspect. The umbrella, though shabbier and more rakish-looking than ever, wore a cheery, hail-fellow-well-met appearance. Widow Barry had, as she told a neighbor, "spruced up her old bonnet a bit,"--an evidence of the approach of spring, which the boys recognized and appreciated. Now she was engaged in polishing up her apples, and arranging the peanuts as invitingly