Dodgeville chronicle. [volume] (Dodgeville, Wis.) 1862-current, 1866-03-15
Misfellamu.
Two Cheap Opportunities.
silver and Copper.
BY JEAN INGELoW.

rsome weeks ago we gave the history 81
q Golden ornortu6ity for doing good which
was thrown away by needless cniiu' II
will no remembered that she still retained
shilling and a penny, and our young read
ers NAV he glad to learn now she acquitted
herself of these humble trusts.-Spring-
field Republican,
Nv birth day had been gone by week,
and still the shilling and the penny lay
folded in their silken shrines. had quite
recovered my spirits, and was beginning to
think how should spend them, particularly
the shilling, for / scarcely thought any
good could be done with such small sum
as penny. Now there was a poor Irish
boy in our neighborhood, who had come
with the reapers, and been left behind with
hurt in his leg. My mother had often
been to see him; while he was confined to
his bed, she went regularly to read with
him, and sometimes she sent me with our
nursemaid to take him dinner. He was
now much better, and could get about a
little. To my mothers surprise she found
that he could read perfectly well. One day,
when she met him he thanked her honor
for all favors," and said be should soon be
well enough to return to old Ireland.
As we walked home one day my mother
said to me- Orris, if you like, will tel!
you of good way to spend your shilling.
You may buy poor Tim Testament
was delighted, and gave my immediate
assent. well then,' said my mother, that
is settled. | should have given one myself
TO Tim, if you had wished to spend your
shilling in something else. And now, re-
member, you must not change your mind;
papa is going to the town tomorrow, you
may go with him and get one then
Tomorrow came, and with it a note to
me from my two cousins, saying that they
were coming over to spend the afternoon
with me, and see my Indian corn, and my
tobacco plants, which had planted myself.
i was very proud of my corn, and still more
proud that my cousins should think it worth
while to come and see it, for they were
three or four years older than myself, and
did not often take part in my amusements.
By dint of great industry | finished my les
SONS an hour earlier than usual, and ran
into the garden to see how my corn looked.
Old gardener himself admitted that it was
beautiful; the glossy green leaves fell back
like silken strcamers, and displayed the
grain with its many shades of green, gold
and brown.
| thought how delightful it would be if l
could build kind of bower over against it,
in which my cousins could sit and admire it
at their leisure. There were some hop
plants growing just in the right place;
had only to untwist them; and there was
clematis that could easily be pressed into
the service. l set to work, and with little
help from him, soon made two or three low
arches, over which | carefully trained the
Towering hops, and mingled them with
festoons of clematis. The bower seemed to
be worthy of queen at the least; and no
doubt it was really pretty.
| was just carrying some pots Of balsams
in flower to set at the entrance, when my
father came up. SWELL, Orris,' he said.
mamma tells me you want to 60 to the
town. BE quick, if you do, for l am just
ready to start
Just ready! o papa, surely it is not
one o'clock? If go, this bower will never
be finished by three
Certainly not, we shall scarcely be home
by three but why need it be finished
Don't you remember, papa, that Elsie
and Annie are coming!
sOh, | had forgotten that important fact
Well, then, if they are to sit in this bower,
think you must stay at home and finish it;
y
Now my father knew nothing about the
Testament, or he would doubtless have
given different advice. While 1 hesitated,
anxious to stay, and yet afraid not to 60,
my mother drew near, and 1 thought l
would leave it to her to decide.
The child wants to finish her bower, my
dear said my father; therefore, as it is
not particularly convenient to me to have
her to-day, she may stay at home if she
likes, for, | presume, her errand is of no
great consequence
My mother made no answer; in another
moment he was gone, and was left with
long hop tendril in my hand, and face
flushed with heat and agitation. | thought
my mother would speak, and advise me to
run after my father, but she did not; and
went on with my work, conscious that her
eyes were upon me.
Presently, to my great relief, gardener
came up, and asked her some questions
about the flower beds. She went away with
him, and breathe6 more freely, comforting
myself with the thought that could easily
buy the Testament another day. | worked
faster than ever, partly to drive away re-
proachful thoughts. The little bower was
lovely, it was scarcely high enough for me
10 stand upright, but it would be delightful
knew for us to sit under. Gardener had
been moving, and when l had brought
a quantity of sun-dried grass, and spread it
thickly over the floor, thought my bower
an eighth wonder of the world. My cousins
came shortly, and confirmed me in this
opinion; they spent a very happy after
noon, seated under it, and but for remem-
bering the Irish boy, | might have been
ho, oil No or fi1I of
ten, and then l am sorry to say that our
high spirits quite carried us away; we got
into mischief, any my share of it was throw
ing an apple into the greenhouse, and break
ing two panes of glass. This was on a Sa-
turday. On Sunday no one mentioned
either this or the Irish boy; but on Monday,
father pass the window, and ventured to
ask mamma if he was going to the town,
and whether might walk with him.
why do you wish to go, Orris p she in
quired.
TO buy the Testament, mamma, for poor
Tim
He is gone,' said my mother; 'he went
away early this morning
put on my garden bonnet and went out,
with curious sensation, as if, when | did
wrong, all circumstances conspired to pun
ish me. turned the corner of the green
house, and there stood my father, looking
at the broken panes.
'orris,' he said, did you do this mis-
chief?'
Yes, papa
This is the third time it has happened, |
have repeatedly forbidden you to play in
this part of the garden
Il am rery sorry, pappa.'
Your sorrow viii not mend the glass,