Vermont watchman and State journal. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1836-1883, 1874-02-18
Always Gliding.
A FACT FOR MANY FATHERS.

1Oluen 70 DIS WIG one morning, as ne sat
eating his breakfast, " and that won't do.
How goes the time7 Oh, have left my
watch UPSTAIRS fetch it for me, Eliza. will
you2" At this moment a bright eyed,
rosy checked, good tempered looking boy
of thirteen years Of age started up, saying ;
4" | will fetch it for you, Eliza" when
John Holden, with an austere and suspicious
look, turned sharply round, exclaiming:
" You, sir2 Stay where you are. |
asked Eliza to bring it to me. You might
possibly be saying it was not there"
The boy cast rosentful look at his
fatber-his color came aud went, his eyes
flashed, then hot tears stood in them, and
be left the room.
At this moment the watch was brought
by Eliza, the boys sister. Holden took it,
put it in his pocket, aud saying to his wife,
" Send that boy to the shop directly after
me-" took his departure also.
"0h, John, John" sighed the wife,
will you never learn to forget aud for
give? Where is my dear boy ?" she said,
turning to her daughter.
" He is gone upstairs, mother he is 60.
ing directly"
John Holden was an upright man, but a
stern and relentless one he was tanner
by trade, and had worked for many years
for Mr.. Darke, the Quaker, or, as be was
generally called, "Quaker Darke;" the
son had for the last eight months found EN-.
ployment there also On one occasion, six
months ago, young Henry Holden had, un-
der the influence Of great temptation, stolen
a shilling from his father, to 20 to see some
riders who were exhibiting in the town il
which they lived. The boy had not beer
found out, but had in a few days after
wards, in deep sorrow and true contrition
confessed his fault John Holden had
promised forgiveness but with such iror
natures as his to forgive is not to forget
and but too frequently the poor boy despit,
his sorrow and shame, was reminded
taunted and upbraided with the sin OIL
which he had been guilty, though no re-
pentance, and that we grieve to say The
father knew too well, could be more gen
uine. On the present occasion the mother
followed her son upstairs; he was in BIZ
bedroom, weeping bitterly.
Henry, my boy" said she, tenderly. ii
is time you went to work"
YES" answered the lad, drying hii
eyes "but mother, want to ask you on,
question"
"Wen, my son."
Did father really think this morning
that there was any danger of his losing =
of my stealing-his watch ?"
No, my son, that am sure he did not
he knows better than that"
"Then why" said the boy, his lips quiv
ering, and the torrent Of tears again burst
ing forth, is he always talking as if |
were not to be trusted--as if were n thief
may as well be one in reality. Oh
mother, mother !" continued he, =" let me g,
away, let me 60 to sea; any'chere, for
cannot cannot bear this"
." My dear Henry, be patient will tall
to your father"
You have talked to him, / know 20,
have, and yet he does it he will alway
do it. Oh, mother, mother"
The mother and sou were weeping to
gether.
:" | will talk to him once more, darling
for my sake cheer up. You know hoy
dearly your mother loves you; don't tall
of leaving her, of going to sea. You
father loves you dearly, too, | am sure h
does A; but you know his nature, how long
takes him to forget anything; but 20
must remember that he is your father an,
not to be too much cast down by it. Their,
now, goodbye, dear Henry; keep BRAY
heart"
The boy kissed his mother and departed
Mrs. Holden went about her househol
duties that day with heavy heart. Ho,
she mourned over this trait in her husband
character She had pleaded with hiI
again and again that he would say no NOR
about the sin which had caused herself an
the dear boy so much sorrow, and whic
had been so truly and bitterly repente
, of, but as yet without avail. Agai
and again it was brought up, and
a nature less hopeful, less akin to he
own, the seeds Of truth and candc
might have been forever destroyed in th,
young bosom, and distrust, deceit, and Ii
darker passions Of our poor human natul
reigned paramount instead but as it WI
the mothers tenderness had saved the DO,
Henry was half an hour late at his wor
"a circumstance which was noticed by b
, father, and which brought upon him a S
we're rebuke. Presently he was summone
to the presence of Quaker Darke, who wa
. sitting in his office.
81 wonder" said the Quaker, looking
, him, q" whether thee could do little erraI
for me this morning2 1t is matter
some importance. Could | trust thee. do
thou Think"
81 will do my best, SIR"
Thou hast been weeping, see. Thil
eyes are swollen with crying. Thou ha
not been doing anything wrong, | hop
, and so brought disgrace and punishme
upon thyself2
This was too much for Henry; he aga
wept violently.
"Calm thyself, Henry, and tell me VIII
it is"
Indeed, sir, will tell you the who
TRUTH" sobbed the poor child. rs
months ago, or more, | took a shilling b
longing to father; it was very wrong,
know, but | wanted to 90 to the circus al
see the riders. In day or two afterwar
e | confessed it, for | was very unhappy al
n very miserable. Father said he would fc
n give me, but he does not seem to have do
J, so, for he is always chiding me for il, Al
d bringing it up against me even now"
Q "Was it thy first offence ?" asked I
o Quaker.
c "Yes, said Henry, mournfully.
y "And hast thou sinned in that W
d snce2"
}. "No, SIR"
l. "What does he say to thee on those {
If casions when he brings it up against the
j. What did he say to thee this morning 2"
% "That | am not to be trusted, sir th
n | am not honest that may steal aga
d This morning he would not let me bring
is watch down stairs for him, for fear. as
is said, might say it was not there"
10 "And thou art sure in thy own mi
that thou art honest2 Thou hast confess