Watch Work Wait | Page 3

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 himself. William's sketches, rude as they are, evince very extraordinary talent, but I should sin were I to encourage him to pursue such a work. I know too well how absorbing it is; how hard it is, when one's mind is filled with pictures of