The History of Gutta-Percha Willie | Page 5

a pity you shouldn't," she rejoined, "if you think they would turn
out so very clever."

She didn't mean anything but crossness when she said this-for which
probably a severe rheumatic twinge which just then passed through her
shoulder was also partly to blame. But Willie took her up quite
seriously, and asked in a tone that showed he wanted it accounted for-
"Why haven't I ever done anything, Mrs Wilson?"
"You ought to know that best yourself," she answered, still cross. "I
suppose because you don't like work. Your good father and mother
work very hard, I'm sure. It's a shame of you to be so idle."
This was rather hard on a boy of seven, for Willie was no more then. It
made him look very grave indeed, if not unhappy, for a little while, as
he sat turning over the thing in his mind.
"Is it wrong to play about, Mrs Wilson?" he asked, after a pause of
considerable duration.
"No, indeed, my dear," she answered; for during the pause she had
begun to be sorry for having spoken so roughly to her little darling.
"Does everybody work?"
"Everybody that's worth anything, and is old enough," she added.
"Does God work?" he asked, after another pause, in a low voice.
"No, child. What should He work for?"
"If everybody works that is good and old enough, then I think God
must work," answered Willie. "But I will ask my papa. Am I old
enough?"
"Well, you're not old enough to do much, but you might do something."
"What could I do? Could I spin, Mrs Wilson?"
"No, child; that's not an easy thing to do; but you could knit."

"Could I? What good would it do?"
"Why, you could knit your mother a pair of stockings."
"Could I though? Will you teach me, Mrs Wilson?"
Mrs Wilson very readily promised, foreseeing that so she might have a
good deal more of the little man's company, if indeed he was in earnest;
for she was very lonely, and was never so happy as when he was with
her. She said she would get him some knittingneedles-wires she called
them-that very evening; she had some wool, and if he came tomorrow,
she would soon see whether he was old enough and clever enough to
learn to knit. She advised him, however, to say nothing about it to his
mother till she had made up her mind whether or not he could learn; for
if he could, then he might surprise her by taking her something of his
own knitting-at least a pair of muffetees to keep her wrists warm in the
winter. Willie went home solemn with his secret.
The next day he began to learn, and although his fingers annoyed him a
good deal at first by refusing to do exactly as he wanted them, they
soon became more obedient; and before the new year arrived, he had
actually knitted a pair of warm white lamb'swool stockings for his
mother. I am bound to confess that when first they were finished they
were a good deal soiled by having been on the way so long, and
perhaps partly by the little hands not always being so clean as they
might have been when he turned from play to work; but Mrs Wilson
washed them herself, and they looked, if not as white as snow, at least
as white as the whitest lamb you ever saw. I will not attempt to
describe the delight of his mother, the triumph of Willie, or the
gratification of his father, who saw in this good promise of his boy's
capacity; for all that I have written hitherto is only introductory to my
story, and I long to begin and tell it you in a regular straightforward
fashion.
Before I begin, however, I must not forget to tell you that Willie did
ask his father the question with Mrs Wilson's answer to which he had
not been satisfied-I mean the question whether God worked; and his
father's answer, after he had sat pondering for a while in his chair, was

something to this effect:-
"Yes, Willie; it seems to me that God works more than anybody-for He
works all night and all day, and, if I remember rightly, Jesus tells us
somewhere that He works all Sunday too. If He were to stop working,
everything would stop being. The sun would stop shining, and the
moon and the stars; the corn would stop growing; there would be no
more apples or gooseberries; your eyes would stop seeing; your ears
would stop hearing; your fingers couldn't move an inch; and, worst of
all, your little heart would stop loving."
"No, papa," cried Willie; "I shouldn't stop loving, I'm sure."
"Indeed you would, Willie."
"Not you and mamma."