Wreaths of Friendship: A Gift for the Young

JULIAN PARMELEE;
OR DISAPPOINTMENT SOMETIMES A BLESSING.

In a pleasant New England village, several years ago, there was a good deal of excitement produced among the little folks, by the appearance, on the sign-post, and in the tavern and store, of some large placards, with very curious and funny pictures upon them.  These placards made known the important fact, that, for the sum of ninepence, (a shilling, according to the currency of New York,) any boy and girl in the vicinity might have the pleasure of seeing some of the most astonishing feats of trained animals ever heard of.  On a certain day there was to be a sort of juggler, who would play on some kind of instruments.  The music made by this man would have the power of charming the animals—­so the advertisement read—­and the instant they heard it, they would commence playing their antics.  There was a great black bear who would stand on his head; a dog who knew almost as much as his master; a cock that could walk on a pair of high stilts.  Then there were learned monkeys, learned pigs, and I know not what besides.

[Illustration:  THE “SHOW.”]

The pictures of these different animals, performing their several exploits, caused a great deal of wonder and admiration among the village boys and girls.  In cities, where such exhibitions occur very frequently, such things would not be much thought of.  But it is very different in the country, where public exhibitions of every sort are “like angels’ visits, few and far between.”  For nearly a week before the day appointed for this juggling exhibition, there was nothing talked of in this quiet village so much as the “show.”  Ninepences that had been a twelvemonth in accumulating, were now in great demand; and more than one boy sighed as he reflected that he had spent his pennies in candies and other nice things, so that he had none left for the “show,” and secretly resolved that he would be wiser next time, and not allow his money to slip through his fingers so easily.

Among those who had the permission of their parents to visit the exhibition, and who were anxiously longing for the day to come, were Julian Parmelee and his sister.  Julian, especially—­a boy of about nine years of age—­was almost crazy with delight, when his mother told him he might go.  He jumped, danced, clapped his hands, shouted, and went through so many strange manoeuvres, that his elder brother George, who was rather more sober on the occasion, said he guessed he should not go to the court-house and pay ninepence to see the show, for he was in a fair way to get the exhibition at home, for nothing.

“Oh, mother!” said Julian, “do you really believe the bear will stand on his head?  What a funny sight it must be!  I wonder if they keep the bear chained.  I shall take care I do not get within reach of his paws, I guess.  Charley Staples said he didn’t believe it was half so big as the one he saw when he was up in Vermont.  How big is it, mother? as big as our Carlo?  Oh, I wish it was time to go now!  I should think monkeys were very funny creatures.  They say there is one in the show that rides a horse, just like a man.  Ha! ha! ha!” And he laughed so loudly that he waked up the baby in the cradle.

I do not wonder at all that little Julian was so much delighted with the idea of going to this exhibition.  It was something entirely new to him; and to children, especially, such singular feats as these animals were to perform, are always entertaining.  It may, however, admit of a question, whether it is right, just for our amusement, to inflict so much pain upon these poor creatures as is necessary to teach them their several parts.  It seems rather cruel.  You know what the frogs once said to the boys, according to the fable, in the matter of stoning:  “Young gentlemen, you do not consider, that while this is sport to you, it is death to us.”  These poor bears, and monkeys, and other animals, while they are going through their education, might use some such language to their teachers, perhaps, if they had the same faculty that the fable ascribes to the frogs.  But, however that may be, it was very natural that Julian should be half frantic at the thought of seeing the show, and quite as natural that Julian’s father and mother should consent to let him go.

Well, some two days before the exhibition was to take place, Julian was taken sick.  There is a class of diseases—­such as the measles and the whooping-cough—­which, you know, almost every boy and girl must have some time or another; and it is not always left with the children to decide precisely when they shall take their turn.  One of these diseases had made Julian a call, and insisted on staying with him a week or two.  It was the whooping-cough.  Julian wanted to be excused for a few days; but the old fellow told him, in his wheezing way, that he could not think of letting him off so long.  Julian was disappointed, and cried a good deal.  It did seem rather hard that he must be caged up in his chamber just at this time.  He was not so sick as to make it necessary to stay at home; but his mother thought it would be wrong to allow him to go where there were to be so many other children, because they would be in danger of taking the disease from him.  So it was decided that he could not see the “show;” and he fretted and stormed, and made himself very unhappy.  He was usually a good-natured boy, but it must be confessed, that he was now quite out of humor.

“I don’t see what I’m sick for, just when I wanted to go to the ‘show.’  I declare, it is too bad.  And the whooping-cough, too!  If it was any thing else, I could go.  What under the sun—­”

“There, Julian, that will do, I think,” said his mother, kindly.

Julian checked himself, but he could hardly help muttering something about its being “very provoking.”

Mrs Parmelee was silent for a while, until the peevishness of her child had a little time to subside, and then she said—­

“My dear child, I am sorry that you should feel so; for you not only make yourself unhappy, but you are finding fault with God, and you know that is very wrong.  God had something to do with your sickness.  He could very easily have prevented it, if he had chosen to do so.  But he did not choose to prevent it, and—­”

“Well, why didn’t he prevent it, mother?”

“Hear me through, my child.  If he allowed you to be sick, when he could have kept you well, then it is certain that, on the whole, he would rather you would be sick.  You see this, don’t you, Julian?”

“Yes, ma’am.  God made me sick, didn’t he?”

“There’s no doubt that all diseases are under his control.”

“Then, mama, I am sure that God—­”

“Not quite so fast.  I want you to see what you was doing, when you was so peevish a little while ago.  You was very much out of humor.  Indeed, I think you showed some anger.”

“Oh, no, mother, I was not angry.”

“Perhaps not, my child; but what would you call that spirit, if it was not anger?”

“I was—­I was—­provoked—­I mean vexed, mama.”

“Well, who vexed you?”

“Nobody; it was the whooping-cough.”

“I’m very sorry that my child should get into such a passion—­or vexation, whichever it may be—­with the whooping-cough; for you say that you suppose the disease was under the control of God, so that it must have been rather an innocent sort of thing, after all.  If you should fall into the mill-pond, and a man standing on the shore should let you struggle a while before he helped you out, you would get vexed, wouldn’t you?”

“I guess I should.”

“You would certainly have as much reason for vexation as you have had this morning.  But would you be likely to get vexed with the water?”

“Why, no, mama.  I should be provoked with the man, because he didn’t help me out.”

“I thought so.  Well, then, don’t you think you found fault with God, in this matter of the whooping-cough?”

“It may be so.”

“It must be so.”

Little Julian was a thoughtful child.  He saw that this spirit of peevishness was very wrong, and that he had murmured against God.  He told his mother that he hoped he should not do so any more.  He was silent for some minutes, and then said—­

“There is one thing I would like to know about, mother; but it may be I ought not to ask.”

“What is it, Julian?” asked his mother.

“If God is kind, and if he loves us, why does he let us get sick?  I am sure you would keep me well all the time, if you could, because you love me, and because you are good and kind.”

“I am glad you asked that question, Julian.  There are a great many things which we cannot understand about the government of God.  But I think I can explain this to you.  God, it is true, often disappoints us, and gives us pain, and makes us weep.  This would all seem very strange, and almost unkind, if we did not know that God has some other end in view besides making us happy in this life.  He is training us for another world; and if you live to be a man, you will see that such disappointments as this of yours, for a part of God’s plan of fitting his children for heaven.”

“But I think we should be just as good, if he did not make us feel bad and cry.”

“That is your mistake.  Do you think you would be just as good a child, if your parents always humored you, and gave you every plaything you asked for?  Are you quite sure that you would now mind your father and mother as well, if you had always been allowed to have your own way?”

“But you don’t make me sick, mother.”

“True.  We correct you in another way.  But we sometimes give you pain, and make you cry.  Did you ever think, when your father reproved you and punished you, that it was because he did not love you?”

“Oh, no, mother.”

“You can see how your father can be kind and affectionate, and still give you pain?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then cannot you see how God may disappoint his children, and even make them unhappy for a time, and love them tenderly, too?”

“Oh, mother, I see it all now!  I wonder I never thought of this before!  Well, the whooping-cough is not so bad, after all.  I’ve learned something by it, at any rate.”

“Yes, and it may be worth a great deal more to you than the ‘show’ would have been.”