I want to tell you a true story about a little boy who ran away to a neighbor's to see the men thresh wheat.

He stayed so long that someone told him he would get a whipping, when he should go home, and that frightened him so that he was afraid to go. But he soon grew tired of seeing the men work, and, too, he began to be hungry; so near the middle of the afternoon he started homeward.

As he neared the house, he remembered that he had run away, and he could almost imagine that he felt his trousers smarting from the whipping, which he expected. Before he reached the gate, his courage failed him, no I do not mean that. If he had been brave, he would have gone straight to his mother, confessed his fault, and asked her to forgive him.  But he was too cowardly to meet her; so he turned aside; and it would take you a longtime to guess what he did.  Well, over in the next yard was a poplar tree. You have seen them, very tall and slim and straight, with the limbs all pointing upward. Up this tree he climbed about thirty feet, and hid himself among the branches.

Now I have been trying to think what object the boy could have had in climbing that tree; and I must say I am puzzled. He could not have expected to stay up there until his mother should forget that he had run away; and he ought to have known that the longer he stayed the more anxious she would be. Maybe that was it; and he intended to hide so long that in her joy at finding him, she would forget the whipping. I think, however, his motive was one, which, we older people know something about, that is, to put off an unpleasant duty, such as confessing a fault, just as long as we can.

But this is not the right way. Just as soon as we know we have done wrong, it is best to confess our fault, and ask forgiveness.

I am very certain that this little boy did not intend to do what he really did, and that is what you are all anxious to hear about.

He had not been long in the tree before he fell asleep, and then his grasp began to loosen until he lost his balance and came tumbling from limb to limb, heels overhead, down to the ground.

When they picked him up, he was unconscious; and for some time they were afraid he would die: but fortunately the limbs had so broken his fall that he was not hurt very badly, and in a few days he recovered.

His mother was very glad when she saw her little boy recovering, and thought his punishment had been great enough; so he escaped the whipping:

But he paid pretty dearly for his runaway; and I thought as I stood under the tree, and saw the branches broken off by his fall, that the wrong way is the hardest way, after all.  I am sure my little friends will learn a lesson from this boy's sad experience.



A good Quaker, eight-five years of age, whom no one ever heard speak a cross word, was asked by a young man how he had been able, through the trials and perplexities of a long life, to keep always so pleasant. He replied, "Dayton, if thee never allows thy voice to rise, thee won't ever be likely to get very angry."

Remember this, children, and try to keep your voices "soft and low."

IF you value your own happiness, and desire to make others happy, be generous, helpful, and willing to aid those who need help. The measure that you mete unto others will be measured to you again. Youth is the time to cultivate kindness, gentleness, and love. The tender heart of the little child may grow more lovely as the years roll on.


"THAT boy knows how to take care of his gold dust," said Tom's uncle often to himself, and sometimes aloud.

Tom went to college, and every account they heard of him he was going

ahead, laying a solid foundation for the future.

"Certainly," said his uncle, "Certainly; that boy, I tell you, knows how to take care of his gold dust. "Gold dust? " Where did Tom get gold dust? He was a poor boy. He had not been to California. He never was a miner. When did he get gold dust? Ah! He has seconds and minutes, and these are the gold dust of time, specks and particles of time which boys and girls and grown-up people are apt to waste and throwaway. Tom knew their value. His father, our minister, had taught him that every speck and particle of time was worth its weight in gold, and his son took care of them as if they were.  Take care of your gold dust! 

Little American.