Watch Work Wait | Page 3

me as usual."
"I am here, father," said a sweet childish voice; and creeping from a
dark corner between the cupboard and the wall, a little boy came forth
and stood at his father's knee, and, without speaking, looked up into his
face with an expression of more than ordinary meaning. Slight and
delicately made, he was easily raised to his usual seat on his father's
knee, when, kissing him affectionately, he inquired, "What have you
been doing all day, Will? I believe you have had no school."
"Wait, father, and I will show you," replied the boy, as he slid down
from his father's knee; and running to the corner from whence he had
come at Raymond's call, he returned almost immediately with two or
three half-sheets of paper in his hand. "I have been drawing," said the
little boy, as his father took the sketches and examined them with a
grave look. "Please do not be angry, for I did not take your pencils."
"And how did you draw without pencils?" asked his father. "Let me see
what you have here;--a table, a chair, ah yes, and a house with trees!
Very good, William; but I would rather you did not draw any more."
The boy would have asked why, but taught that the parental wish was
to be regarded as a law, he tried to conquer the emotion which would
arise in spite of all efforts to restrain it. It seemed hard to be so
disappointed: he expected praise, and now, if he had not received
censure, certainly not the slightest approval was accorded. Accustomed,
however, not to question, but submit, the little fellow threw his arms
embracingly round his father's neck and bade him good night, and
having done the same with his mother, retired to bed rather to shed his

tears unseen than to sleep.
And he did weep! Poor little fellow, his grief was very great; and
although our readers may smile because he regarded the matter in such
a serious light, they must remember that this was almost, if not
altogether, his first sorrow; and we are far from believing the sorrow of
a child the trivial thing it is generally considered, and perhaps but the
beginning of other and severer trials.
But if the sorrow of childhood is severe, what a blessing it is that its
violence is soon over! anger seldom rests in the heart of a good child,
and as soon as the tears are dried, all is bright as before. William's tears
were very bitter, but accustomed always to ask the divine blessing
before retiring, he knelt down beside his little bed, and prayed that if he
had done wrong in drawing without asking his father's leave, he might
be forgiven. His childish petition, uttered in the full confidence that it
would be heard, brought comfort, as the act of sincere prayer always
does, and once more soothed and happy, in a few minutes the child
sunk into so deep a slumber, that he was altogether unconscious of his
mother's kiss, and the audibly uttered blessing invoked upon him by his
pious father.
There were two other hearts as sorrowful as his own, although tears did
not attest the depth of their emotion. Margaret was distressed in her
child's distress, and could not understand why her husband did not
praise what she considered the very creditable effort of her boy; but she
was too judicious to utter a word in his presence, much as she
sympathized with William. Raymond, however, was the most
distressed of all, and that, too, because he felt that a father's pride must
be sacrificed at the shrine of what he regarded as a father's duty; and he
experienced a severe pang, as, on surveying the child's sketches, he
dared not say one word in praise of them, although his very heart
bounded, lover of the fine arts as he was, at the promise of superior
talent they exhibited. After William had left the room he sat leaning his
head on his hand, quite unrepentant, however, for his seeming
harshness, but at the same time troubled that his views of duty made it
imperative for him to appear so. Margaret was the first to break silence.

"George," said she, "why did you hurt poor William by not praising his
drawings? the child was so sure you would be delighted; and although
he knew where your pencils are kept, he never once asked for them, but
took the charcoal from the hearth. I cannot understand why you did so."
"My dear Margaret," he replied, "I am far more grieved to be obliged to
look frowningly on that which, in other than our present circumstances,
would have given to me greater delight than to you or my good child