Under the Lilacs (12 page)

“Well, child, what is it?” she asked, catching his eye as he stole a shy glance at her, one of many which she had not seen.

“I was only thinking you looked as if—”

“As if what? Don’t be afraid,” she said, for Ben paused and fumbled at the reins, feeling half ashamed to tell his fancy.

“— you were saying prayers,” he added, wishing she had not caught him.

“So I was. Don’t you, when you are happy?”

“No, ‘m. I’m glad, but I don’t say anything.”

“Words are not needed; but they help, sometimes, if they are sincere and sweet. Did you never learn any prayers, Ben?”

“Only ‘Now I lay me.’ Grandma taught me that when I was a little mite of a boy.”

“I will teach you another, the best that was ever made, because it says all we need ask.”

“Our folks wasn’t very pious; they didn’t have time, I s’pose.

“I wonder if you know just what it means to be pious?” “Goin’ to church, and readin’ the Bible, and sayin’ prayers and hymns,
ain’t it?”

“Those things are a part of it; but being kind and cheerful,
doing one’s duty, helping others, and loving God, is the best way to show that we are pious in the true sense of the word.”

“Then you are!” and Ben looked as if her acts had been a better definition than her words.

“I try to be, but I very often fail; so every Sunday I make new resolutions, and work hard to keep them through the week.
That is a great help, as you will find when you begin to try it.”

“Do you think if I said in meetin’, ‘I won’t ever swear anymore,’ that I wouldn’t do it again?” asked Ben, soberly; for that
was his besetting sin just now.

“I’m afraid we can’t get rid of our faults quite so easily; I wish we could. But I do believe that if you keep saying that,
and trying to stop, you will cure the habit sooner than you think.”

“I never did swear very bad, and I didn’t mind much till I came here; but Bab and Betty looked so scared when I said ‘damn,’
and Mrs. Moss scolded me so, I tried to leave off. It’s dreadful hard, though, when I get mad. ‘Hang it!’ don’t seem half
so good if I want to let off steam.”

“Thorny used to ‘confound!’ everything, so I proposed that he should whistle instead; and now he sometimes pipes up so suddenly
and shrilly that it makes me jump. How would that do, instead of swearing?” proposed Miss Celia, not the least surprised at
the habit of profanity, which the boy could hardly help learning among his former associates.

Ben laughed, and promised to try it, feeling a mischievous satisfaction at the prospect of outwhistling Master Thorny, as
he knew he should; for the objectionable words rose to his lips a dozen times a day.

The bell was ringing as they drove into town; and, by the time Lita was comfortably settled in her shed, people were
coming up from all quarters to cluster around the steps of the old meetinghouse like bees about a hive. Accustomed to a tent,
where people kept their hats on, Ben forgot all about his, and was going down the aisle covered, when a gentle hand took it
off, and Miss Celia whispered, as she gave it to him—

“This is a holy place; remember that, and uncover at the door.”

Much abashed, Ben followed to the pew, where the Squire and his wife soon joined them.

“Glad to see him here,” said the old gentleman with an approving nod, as he recognized the boy and remembered his loss.

“Hope he won’t nestle round in meeting time,” whispered Mrs. Allen, composing herself in the corner with much rustling of
black silk.

“I’ll take care that he doesn’t disturb you,” answered Miss Celia, pushing a stool under the short legs, and drawing a palm-leaf
fan within reach.

Ben gave an inward sigh at the prospect before him; for an hour’s captivity to an active lad is hard to bear, and he really
did want to behave well. So he folded his arms and sat like a statue, with nothing moving but his eyes. They rolled to and
fro, up and down, from the high red pulpit to the worn hymn books in the rack, recognizing two little faces under blue-ribboned
hats in a distant pew, and finding it impossible to restrain a momentary twinkle in return for the solemn wink Billy Barton
bestowed upon him across the aisle. Ten minutes of this decorous demeanor made it absolutely necessary for him to stir; so
he unfolded his arms and crossed his legs as cautiously as a mouse moves in the presence of a cat; for Mrs. Allen’s eye was
on him, and he knew by experience that it was a very sharp one.

The music which presently began was a great relief to him, for under cover of it he could wag his foot and no one heard the
creak thereof; and when they stood up to sing, he was so sure that all the boys were looking at him, he was glad to sit down
again. The good old minister read the sixteenth chapter of Samuel, and then proceeded to preach a long and somewhat dull sermon.
Ben listened with all his ears, for he was interested in the young shepherd, “ruddy and of a beautiful countenance,” who was
chosen to be Saul’s armor-bearer. He wanted to hear more about him, and how he got on, and whether the evil spirits troubled
Saul again after David had harped them out. But nothing more came; and the old gentleman droned on about other things till
poor Ben felt that he must either go to sleep like the Squire, or tip the stool over by accident, since “nestling” was forbidden,
and relief of some sort he
must
have.

Mrs. Allen gave him a peppermint, and he dutifully ate it, though it was so hot it made his eyes water. Then she fanned him,
to his great annoyance, for it blew his hair about; and the pride of his life was to have his head as smooth and shiny as
black satin. An irrepressible sigh of weariness attracted Miss Celia’s attention at last; for, though she seemed to be listening
devoutly, her thoughts had flown over the sea, with tender prayers for one whom she loved even more than David did his Jonathan.
She guessed the trouble in a minute, and had provided for it, knowing by experience that few small boys can keep quiet through
sermon time. Finding a certain place in the little book she had brought, she put it into his hands, with the whisper, “Read
if you are tired.”

Ben clutched the book and gladly obeyed, though the title, “Scripture Narratives,” did not look very inviting.
Then his eye fell on the picture of a slender youth cutting a large man’s head off, while many people stood looking on.

“Jack, the giant-killer,” thought Ben, and turned the page to see the words “David and Goliath,” which was enough to set him
to reading the story with great interest; for here was the shepherd boy turned into a hero. No more fidgets now; the sermon
was no longer heard, the fan flapped unfelt, and Billy Barton’s spirited sketches in the hymn book were vainly held up for
admiration. Ben was quite absorbed in the stirring history of King David, told in a way that fitted it for children’s reading,
and illustrated with fine pictures which charmed the boy’s eye.

Sermon and story ended at the same time; and, while he listened to the prayer, Ben felt as if he understood now what Miss
Celia meant by saying that words helped when they were well chosen and sincere. Several petitions seemed as if especially
intended for him; and he repeated them to himself that he might remember them, they sounded so sweet and comfortable, heard
for the first time just when he most needed comfort. Miss Celia saw a new expression in the boy’s face as she glanced down
at him, and heard a little humming at her side when all stood up to sing the cheerful hymn with which they were dismissed.

“How do you like church?” asked the young lady, as they drove away.

“First-rate!” answered Ben, heartily.

“Especially the sermon?”

Ben laughed, and said, with an affectionate glance at the little book in her lap—

“I couldn’t understand it; but that story was just elegant. There’s more; and I’d admire to read ’em, if I could.”

“I’m glad you like them; and we will keep the rest for another sermon time. Thorny used to do so, and always
called this his ‘pew book.’ I don’t expect you to understand much that you hear yet awhile; but it is good to be there, and
after reading these stories you will be more interested when you hear the names of the people mentioned here.”

“Yes, ‘m. Wasn’t David a fine feller? I liked all about the kid and the corn and the ten cheeses, and killin’ the lion and
bear, and slingin’ old Goliath dead first shot. I want to know about Joseph next time, for I saw a gang of robbers puttin’
him in a hole, and it looked real interesting.”

Miss Celia could not help smiling at Ben’s way of telling things; but she was pleased to see that he was attracted by the
music and the stories, and resolved to make church-going so pleasant that he would learn to love it for its own sake.

“Now, you have tried my way this morning, and we will try yours this afternoon. Come over about four and help me roll Thorny
down to the grove. I am going to put one of the hammocks there, because the smell of the pines is good for him, and you can
talk or read or amuse yourselves in any quiet way you like.”

“Can I take Sanch along? He doesn’t like to be left, and felt real bad because I shut him up, for fear he’d follow and come
walkin’ into meetin’ to find me.”

“Yes, indeed; let the clever bowwow have a good time and enjoy Sunday as much as I want my boys to.”

Quite content with this arrangement, Ben went home to dinner, which he made very lively by recounting Billy Barton’s ingenious
devices to beguile the tedium of sermon time. He said nothing of his conversation with Miss Celia, because he had not quite
made up his mind whether he liked it or not; it was so new and serious, he felt as if he had better lay it by, to think over
a good deal before he could understand all about it. But he had time to get dismal again,
and long for four o’clock; because he had nothing to do except whittle. Mrs. Moss went to take a nap; Bab and Betty sat demurely
on their bench reading Sunday books; no boys were allowed to come and play; even the hens retired under the currant bushes,
and the cock stood among them, clucking drowsily, as if reading them a sermon.

“Dreadful slow day!” thought Ben; and, retiring to the recesses of his own room, he read over the two letters which seemed
already old to him. Now that the first shock was over, he could not make it true that his father was dead, and he gave up
trying; for he was an honest boy, and felt that it was foolish to pretend to be more unhappy than he really was. So he put
away his letters, took the black pocket off Sanch’s neck, and allowed himself to whistle softly as he packed up his possessions,
ready to move next day, with few regrets and many bright anticipations for the future.

“Thorny, I want you to be good to Ben, and amuse him in some quiet way this afternoon. I must stay and see the Morrises, who
are coming over; but you can go to the grove and have a pleasant time,” said Miss Celia to her brother.

“Not much fun in talking to that horsey fellow. I’m sorry for him, but
I
can’t do anything to amuse him,” objected Thorny, pulling himself up from the sofa with a great yawn.

“You can be very agreeable when you like; and Ben has had enough of me for this time. Tomorrow he will have his work, and
do very well; but we must try to help him through today, because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Besides, it is just
the time to make a good impression on him, while grief for his father softens him, and gives us a chance. I like him, and
I’m sure he wants to do
well; so it is our duty to help him, as there seems to be no one else.”

“Here goes, then! Where is he?” and Thorny stood up, won by his sister’s sweet earnestness, but very doubtful of his own success
with the “horsey fellow.”

“Waiting with the chair. Randa has gone on with the hammock. Be a dear boy, and I’ll do as much for you some day.”

“Don’t see how
you
can be a dear boy. You’re the best sister that ever was; so I’ll love all the scallywags you ask me to.”

With a laugh and a kiss, Thorny shambled off to ascend his chariot, good-humoredly saluting his pusher, whom he found sitting
on the high rail behind, with his feet on Sanch.

“Drive on, Benjamin. I don’t know the way, so I can’t direct. Don’t spill me out — that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“All right, sir”— and away Ben trundled down the long walk that led through the orchard to a little grove of seven pines.

A pleasant spot; for a soft rustle filled the air, a brown carpet of pine needles, with fallen cones for a pattern, lay underfoot;
and over the tops of the tall brakes that fringed the knoll one had glimpses of hill and valley, farmhouses and winding river,
like a silver ribbon through the low, green meadows.

“A regular summerhouse!” said Thorny, surveying it with approval. “What’s the matter, Randa? Won’t it go?” he asked, as the
stout maid dropped her arms with a puff, after vainly trying to throw the hammock rope over a branch.

“That end went up beautiful, but this one won’t; the branches is so high, I can’t reach ’em; and I’m no hand at flinging ropes
round.”

“I’ll fix it”; and Ben went up the pine like a squirrel, tied a stout knot, and swung himself down again before Thorny could
get out of the chair.

“My patience, what a spry boy!” exclaimed Randa, admiringly.

“That’s nothing; you ought to see me shin up a smooth tent pole,” said Ben, rubbing the pitch off his hands, with a boastful
wag of the head.

“You can go, Randa. Just hand me my cushion and books, Ben; then you can sit in the chair while I talk to you,” commanded
Thorny, tumbling into the hammock.

“What’s he goin’ to say to me?” wondered Ben to himself, as he sat down with Sanch sprawling among the wheels.

“Now, Ben, I think you’d better learn a hymn; I always used to when I was a little chap, and it is a good thing to do Sundays,”
began the new teacher, with a patronizing air, which ruffled his pupil as much as the opprobrious term “little chap.”

“I’ll be — whew — if I do!” whistled Ben, stopping an oath just in time.

“It is not polite to whistle in company,” said Thorny, with great dignity.