If we scholars did not grow up to be exemplary men and women, it surely was not the fault of our teachers or our parents,—or of the schoolbook publishers.  
When I look back to those lessons that we learned, I that I ever wandered from the straight path in the smallest possible degree. Whether we were learning to read or write, studying grammar or composition, in whatever book we chanced to take, there was the moral plain on every page. Our many could have come only from the fact that we really did not know what these lessons meant; and doubtless our teachers also never thought they had any sort of relation to our lives.
 
How these books were with noble thoughts! In them every was and every . I wonder now how 57the book publishers could ever have printed such tales, or how they reconciled themselves to the they must have felt when they sold the books.
 
This moral instruction concerned certain general themes. First of all, temperance was the great lesson taught. I well remember that we children believed that the first taste of liquor was the fatal one; and we never even considered that one drop could be taken without leading us to ruin and despair. There were the alms-house, the jail, and the square, in front of every child who even considered taking the first drink; while all the rewards of this world and the next were freely promised to the noble lad who should resist.
 
As I look back to-day, it seems as if every moral lesson in the universe must have grown into my being from those books. How could I have ever wandered from the narrow path? I look back to those little , boys and girls, and I hear them read their lessons in their books so long ago. The stories were all the same, from the beginning to the end. We began in the primer, and our instruction in reading and good conduct did 58not end until the covers of the last book were closed.
 
It seems to me to-day that I can hear those little reading about the idle lazy boy who tried to get the bee and the cow and the horse to play with him,—though what he wanted of the bee I could never understand,—but they were all too busy with their work, and so he ran away from school and had a most day alone. How could we children ever stay away from school after we had read this lesson? And yet, I cannot now recall that it made us love our books, or think one less of the free breeze, the waving grass and trees, or the sun.
 
We were taught by our books that we must on all accounts speak the truth; that we must learn our lessons; that we must love our parents and our teachers; must enjoy work; must be generous and kind; must despise riches; must avoid ambition; and then, if we did all these things, some fairy godmother would come along at just the darkest hour and give us everything our hearts desired. Not one story in the book told how any good could ever come from , or selfishness, 59or greed, or that any possible evil ever grew from , or diligence, or , or kindness. And yet, in spite of all these , we were young , always grasping for the best, ever fighting and scheming to get the advantage of our playmates, our teachers, and our tasks.
 
A quarter of a century seems not to have much change; we still believe in the old moral precepts, and teach them to others, but we still strive to get the best of everything for ourselves.
 
I wonder if the old school-readers have been changed since I was a boy at school. Are the same lessons there to-day? We were such striking examples of what the books would not do that one would almost think the publishers would drop the lessons out.
 
I try to recall the feelings of one child who read those stories in the little white schoolhouse by the country road. What did they mean to me? Did I laugh at them, as I do to-day? Or did I really think that they were true, and try and try, and then fail in all I tried, as I do now? I presume the latter was the case; yet for my life I cannot recall the 60thoughts and feelings that these stories brought to me. But I can still recall the stories.
 
I remember, as if it were yesterday, the story about the poor widow of Pine Cottage, in the winter, with her five children around her little table. Widows usually had large families then, and most of their boys were . This poor widow had at last reached the point where starvation faced her little brood. She had tasted no food for twenty-four hours. Her one small herring was roasting on the dying coals. The was certainly very dark; but she had faith, and somehow felt that in the end she would come out all right. A knock is heard at the back door. A ragged stranger enters and asks for food; the poor widow looks at her five starving children, and then she gives the visitor the one last herring; he eats it, and lo and ! the stranger is her long-lost son,—probably one that was left over from the time when she was a widow before. The long-lost son came in this disguise to find out whether or not his mother really loved him. He was, in fact, rich; but he had borrowed the rags at the , and had just arrived from India with a shipload 61of gold, which he at once divided among his mother and brothers and sisters. How could any child fail to be generous after this? And yet I venture to say that if any of us took a herring to school for dinner the day that we read this story in our class, we clung to it as as a to his gold.
 
Then there was the widow with her one lame son, who asks the rich merchant for a little charity. He listens to her pathetic story, and believes she tells the truth. He asks her how much she needs. She tells him that five dollars will be enough. He writes a check, and tells her to go across the street to the bank. She takes it over without reading it. The banker counts out fifty dollars. She says, “There is a mistake; I only asked for five dollars.” The banker goes across the street to find out the truth, and the merchant says: “Yes, there was a mistake, I should have made it five hundred,”—which he straightway does. Thus honesty and virtue are rewarded once again. I have lived many years and travelled in many lands, and have seen more or less of human nature and of suffering and greed; I have seen many poor widows,—but 62have never yet come across the generous merchant.
 
There was no end to the good boys and girls of whom the readers told; they were on every page we turned, and every one of them received his or her reward and received it right away in cash. There never was the slightest excuse or need for us to be anything but diligent and kind,—and still our young hearts were so and hard that we let the lessons pass unheeded, and clutched at the smallest piece of pie or cake, or the slightest opportunity to deceive some good kind teacher, although we must have known that we missed a golden chance to become President of the United States and have money in the bank besides.
 
One story of a boy stands out so clearly in my mind that I could not refrain from hunting up the old schoolbook and reading it once more. It must have made a wonderful impression on my mind, for there it is, “The Contented Boy.” I cannot recall that I ever was contented in my life, and I am sure that I have never seen a boy like this one in the reader; but it is not possible that I 63knew my schoolbooks were clumsy, stupid lies. After all this time there is the story, clear and distinct; and this is the way it runs:
 
THE CONTENTED BOY.
Mr. Lenox was riding by himself. He got off from his horse to look at something on the roadside. The horse broke away from him and ran off. Mr. Lenox ran after him, but could not catch him.
 
A little boy at work in a field, near the road, heard the horse. As soon as he saw him running from his master, the boy ran very quickly to the middle of the road, and the horse by the , stopped him till Mr. Lenox came up.
 
Mr. Lenox. Thank you, my good boy. What shall I give you for your trouble?
 
Boy. I want nothing, sir.
 
Mr. L. You want nothing? Few men can say as much. But what were you doing in the field?
 
Boy. I was rooting up weeds, and tending the sheep that were feeding on .
 
Mr. L. Do you like to work?
 
Boy. Yes, sir, very well, this fine weather.
 
Mr. L. But would you not rather play?
 
Boy. This is not hard work. It is almost as good as play.
 
Mr. L. Who set you to work?
 
64Boy. My father, sir.
 
Mr. L. What is your name?
 
Boy. Peter , sir.
 
Mr. L. How old are you?
 
Boy. Eight years old next June.
 
Mr. L. How long have you been here?
 
Boy. Ever since six o’clock this morning.
 
Mr. L. Are you not hungry?
 
Boy. Yes, sir, but I shall go to dinner soon.
 
Mr. L. If you had a now, what would you do with it?
 
Boy. I don’t know, sir. I never had so much.
 
Mr. L. Have you no playthings?
 
Boy. Playthings? What are they?
 
Mr. L. Such things as ninepins, marbles, tops, and wooden horses.
 
Boy. No, sir. Tom and I play at football in winter, and I have a jumping-rope. I had a , but it is broken.
 
Mr. L. Do you want nothing else?
 
Boy. I have hardly time to play with what I have.
 
Mr. L. You could get apples and cakes if you had money, you know.
 
Boy. I can have apples at home. As for cake, I don’t want that. My mother makes me a pie now and then, which is as good.
 
Mr. L. Would you not like a knife to cut sticks?
 
65Boy. I have one. Here it is. Brother Tom gave it to me.
 
Mr. L. Your shoes are full of holes. Don’t you want a new pair?
 
Boy. I have a better pair for Sundays.
 
Mr. L. But these let in water.
 
Boy. I do not mind that, sir.
 
Mr. L. Your hat is all torn, too.
 
Boy. I have a better one at home.
 
Mr. L. What do you do if you are hungry before it is time to go home?
 
Boy. I sometimes eat a raw .
 
Mr. L. But if there are none?
 
Boy. Then I do as well as I can without. I work on and never think of it.
 
Mr. L. I am glad to see that you are so contented. Were you ever at school?
 
Boy. No, sir. But father means to send me next winter.
 
Mr. L. You will want books then.
 
Boy. Yes, sir; each boy has a spelling-book, a reader, and a .
 
Mr. L. Then I will give them to you. Tell your father so, and that it is because you are an obliging, contented little boy.
 
Boy. I will, sir. Thank you.
 
Mr. L. Good-bye, Peter.
 
Boy. Good-morning, sir.
 
One other story that has seemed particularly to impress itself upon my mind was about two boys, one named James and the other named John. I believe that these were their names, though possibly one was William and the other Henry. Anyhow, their uncle gave them each a parcel of books. James took out his pocket-knife and cut the fine whipcord that bound his package, but John slowly and patiently his string and then rolled it into a nice little ball (the way a nice little boy would do) and carefully put it in his pocket. Some years after, there was a great shooting tournament, and James and John were both there with their bows and arrows; it was late in the game, and so far it was a tie. James seized his last arrow and his bow; the string broke and the prize was lost. The book does not tell us that in this emergency John offered his extra piece of whipcord to his brother; instead, the model brother took up his last arrow, bent his bow, when, lo and behold! his string broke too; whereupon John reached into his pocket and pulled out the identical cord that he had untied so long ago, put it on the bow, and of course won the prize!
 
67That miserable story must have cost me several years of valuable time, for ever since I first read it I have always tried to every knot that I could find; and although I have ever carefully tucked away all sorts of odd into my pockets, I never attended a shooting-match or won a prize in all my life.
 
One great beauty of the lessons which our school readers taught was the directness and certainty and promptness of the payment that came as a reward of good conduct. Then, too, the recompense was in no way uncertain or ethereal, but was always paid in cash, or something just as material and good. Neither was any combination of circumstances too remote or troublesome or impossible to be brought about. Everything in the universe seemed always ready to to reward virtue and punish vice.
 
I well remember one story which thus clearly proved that good deeds must be rewarded, and that however great the trouble the payment would not be even for a day.
 
It seems that a good boy named Henry—I believe the book did not give his other name—started out one morning to walk about five 68miles away to do an errand for his sick father. I think it was his father, though it may possibly have been his mother or grandmother. Well, Henry had only got fairly started on his journey when he met a half-starved dog; and thereupon the boy shared with the dog the dinner that he was carrying in his little basket. Of course I know now that, however great his kindness, he could not have relieved the dog unless he had happened to be carrying his dinner in a little basket; but my childish mind was not subtle enough to comprehend it then. After relieving the dog, Henry went on his way with a heart and a lighter basket. Soon he came upon a sick horse lying upon the ground. Henry feared that if he stayed to doctor the horse he would not get home until after dark; but this made no sort of difference to him, so he pulled some grass and took it to the horse, and then went to the river and got some water in his hat (it must have been a Panama) and gave this to the horse to drink, and having done his duty went on his way. He had gone only a short distance farther when he saw a blind man in a pond of water. (How the blind man got into 69the pond of water the story does not tell,—the business of the story was not getting him in but getting him out.) Thereupon little Henry into the pond and led the blind man to the shore. Any other boy would simply have called out to the man, and let him come himself. Of course, if Henry had been a bad boy, and his name had been Tom, he would have been found leading the blind man into the pond instead of out, and then of course he (Tom) would have taken and died.
 
But Henry’s adventures did not end here. He had gone only a little way farther when he met a poor cripple, who had been fighting in some war and who was therefore a hero, and this cripple was very hungry. Henry gave him all the dinner he had saved from his interview with the dog; and having finished this further act of charity, he at last hurried on to do his errand. But he had worked so long in the Good Samaritan business that by the time he started home it began to get dark. Then, of course, he soon reached a great forest, which added to his troubles. After wandering about for a long time in 70the darkness and the woods, he sat down in hunger and despair. Thereupon his old friend the dog came into the wood and up to the tree where Henry sat, and he found that the dog carried some bread and meat nicely pinned up in a napkin in payment for the breakfast given him in the morning. How the dog had managed to pin the napkin, the story does not tell. After eating his supper, Henry got up and wandered farther into the woods. He was just despairing a second time, when by the light of the moon he saw the horse that he had fed in the morning. The horse took him on his back and carried him out of the wood; but the poor boy’s troubles were not yet done. He was passing along a lane, when two robbers seized him and began stripping off his clothes; then the dog came up and bit one robber, who thereupon left Henry and ran after the dog (presumably so that he might get bitten again), and just then some one shouted from the hedge and scared the other robber off. Henry looked toward the hedge in the darkness, and, behold! there was the crippled soldier riding on the back of the blind man,—and in this way they had all come together to save 71Henry and pay him for being such a good little boy.
 
When such efforts as these could be put for the instant reward of virtue, where was there a possible inducement left to the most wayward child to sin?
 
Not only good conduct, but religion, was taught to us children in the same direct and simple way. Nothing seemed to pay better than Sabbath observance, according to the strict rules that obtained when I was young.
 
I remember the story of a barber who was doing a “thriving business” in an English city. He was obliged to shave his customers on Sunday morning (possibly in order that they might look well at church). However, one Sunday the barber went to church himself; and, as it so happened, the minister that day preached a sermon about Sabbath observance. This made so deep an impression on the barber’s mind that he straightway refused to do any more shaving on Sunday. Thereupon he was obliged to close his shop in the aristocratic neighborhood where he had lived, and rent a basement amongst the working people who did not go to church and hence had no need of a Sunday shave.
One Saturday night a “pious lawyer” came to town and inquired in great haste where he could find a barber-shop, and was directed to this basement for a shave. The “pious lawyer” told the barber that he must have his work done that night, as he would not be shaved on the Sabbath day. This at once impressed the barber, who was then so poor that he was obliged to borrow a halfpenny from his customer for a candle before he could give him the shave. When the “pious lawyer” learned of the barber’s straits, and what had been the cause, he was so deeply moved that he gave him a half-crown, and asked his name. The barber promptly answered that it was William Reed. At this the lawyer opened his eyes,—doubtless through professional instinct,—and asked from what part of the country the barber had come. When he answered, from Kingston, near Taunton, the lawyer’s eyes were opened wider still. Then he asked the name of the barber’s father, and if he had other relatives. The barber told his father’s name, and said that he once had an “Uncle James,” who had gone to India many years before and had not been heard from since. Then 73the “pious lawyer” answered: “If this is true, I have glorious news for you. Your uncle is dead, and he has left a fortune which comes to you.” It is needless to add that the barber got the money,—and of course the death of the uncle and the good luck of the nephew were due to the fact that the barber would not shave a customer on the Sabbath day.
 
Well, those were marvellous tales on which our young minds fed. I wonder now which is the more real,—the world outside as it seemed to us in our young school-days, or that same land our childhood knew, as we look back upon the scene through the that the years have left before our eyes!