﻿JOHNNY LEONARD AND HIS MOTHER. 305 



*' Bitter was the hour of our parting. He had always been a good 

 boy, and was all the world to me-- my daily companion, my only, 

 affectionate little son. Now in his clean clothes, his light glossy 

 hair parted and brushed one side though his round blue eyes filled 

 with tears, yet he never looked so well, or seemed so dear to me be- 

 fore. He clasped his little arms tight around my neck ; really, I 

 was more a child than he, for I sobbed and wept- -I could hear 

 his little heart beat quickly as he tried to comfort me. ' Mother, 

 don't cry so,' said he ; 'I will be good. I shall soon be old enough 

 to earn some money, and you shall have it all. I will buy you some 

 glasses, and then you can sew in the evening. And I will get you 

 a pound of tea. Eben Wood loved me ; he will hold the thread for 

 you to wind, and pick up chips for you now, sometimes, I guess.' 



" But the moment came for him to leave. I looked upon them as 

 the wagon rolled out of the yard and jolted slowly up the hill, and 

 watched them, till the top of his little blue cap disappeared, as they 

 descended the other side of the hill ; and then I entered the house 

 and wept anew. 



" I could not afford to ride ; so, when the year came round, I walked 

 to Mr. Baker's to see my boy, with the shoes and hat. My spirits 

 were never lighter, or my steps more nimble, than while on my way ; 

 they were less so coming home, perhaps, but I could have gone any 

 distance to meet him my heart was very tender for him. I found 

 him well, and a good boy still. 



" The second year I went, and he was much improved. His kind 

 feelings made him a little gentleman to everybody and everything. 

 He would not give a moment's pain to bird or chicken, bug or fly; 

 and everybody loved John. 



"The third year I went. He was ten years old, that day -it 

 was the nineteenth of June. It was dark when I came to the house. 

 No person or creature was in the yard no light gleamed from the 

 windows. I knocked, then opened the door all was dark and 

 empty; there was no sound, but the crickets chirping in the hearth, 

 and the wind rustling in an apple-tree behind the house. Turning 

 away, I came and stood by the stream ; the water still poured over 

 the dam, but the wheels of the mill were motionless. Sitting down 

 upon a log, I wept. 



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