AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST, 
FAITHFULNESS IN LITTLE THINGS. 
EY ELIZA A. CLARK. 
“Is Mr. Harris in?’’ inquired a plainly but 
neatly-dressed boy, of twelve or thirteen, to a 
clerk, as he stood by the counter of a large 
book-store. 
The well-paid clerk regarded the boy with a 
supercilious look, and answered, “Mr. Harris 
is in, but he is engaged.” 
The boy looked at the clerk hesitatingly, and 
then said, “ If he is not particularly engaged I 
should like much to see him." 
“ If you have any business to transact, I can 
attend to it,” replied the clerk; “Mr. Harris 
cannot be troubled with children like you.” ’ 
“Wbat is this Morley?” said a pleasant-look- 
ing, elderly man, stepping up to the clerk; 
“ wbat does the boy want?” 
“ He insisted on seeing you, though I told 
him you were engaged,” returned the clerk, a 
little abashed by the manner of his employer. 
“ And what would you have with me, my 
lad?” inqnired Mr. Harris, kindly. 
The boy raised his eyes, and meeting the half¬ 
scornful glance of the clerk, said timidly : 
“I wish to look at the bill of some books 
which I bought here some three months since. 
There is a mistake in it, which I wished to cor¬ 
rect.” 
“Ah, my boy, I see,” replied Mr. Harris, 
“you have overpaid us, I suppose.” 
“No sir,” answered the boy. “ On the contrary, 
I purchased some books which are not charged 
on the bill, and I have called to pay you for 
them.” 
Mr. Harris folded his arms across his breast, 
regarded the boy earnestly for a moment, and 
then asked, “ When did you discover this mis¬ 
take?” 
“ Not until I had reached home,” replied the 
lad. “ When I paid for the books I was in a 
great hurry, fearing the boat would leave be¬ 
fore I could reach it, and did not examine the 
bill.” 
“ Why did you not return and rectify the 
mistake?” asked the gentleman in a tone 
slightly altered. 
“Because, sir, I live at some distance from 
the city, and have not been able to return until 
now.” 
“My dear boy,” said Mr. Harris, “you have 
given me great pleasure. In a long life of mer¬ 
cantile business, I have never met with an in¬ 
stant of this kind before. You have acted no¬ 
bly, and deserve a recompense.” 
“ I ask no recompense,” returned the boy 
proudly ; “ I have done nothing but my duty, a 
simple act of justice, and that deserves no re¬ 
ward, but itself.” 
“ May I ask who taught you such noble prin¬ 
ciples ?” inquired Mr. Harris. 
“ My mother,” answered the boy, bursting 
into tears. :5 , 
“ Blessed is the child who has such a mother,” 
said Mr. Harris, with much emotion, “and 
blessed is the mother of such a child. Be faith¬ 
ful to her teachings, my dear boy, and you will 
be the staff of her declining years.” 
“Alas, sir,” sobbed the boy, “she is dead.— 
it was her sickness and death which prevented 
me from coming here before.” 
“ What is your name ?” inquired Mr. Harris. 
“ Edward Delong.” 
“ Have you a father ?" 
“No, sir; my father died when I was an in¬ 
fant.” 
“ Where do you reside ?” 
“ In the town of Linwood, about fifty miles 
from the city.” 
“ Well, my boy, what were the books which 
were forgotten?” 
“ Tacitus, and a Latin dictionary.” 
“ Let me see the bill. Hah! signed by A, 0, 
Morley, I will ae6 to that. Here Mr. Morley,” 
called Mr. Harris, but that functionary* was 
busily engaged in waiting on a customer at the 
opposite side of the store, bowing and smiling 
in the most obsequious manner. 
“Edward,” continued the kind-hearted Mr. 
Harris, “ I am not going to reward you for what 
you have done, but I wish to manifest my appro¬ 
bation of your conduct in such a manner, as to 
make you remember the wise and excellent pre¬ 
cepts of your departed mother. Select from 
my store any ten books you choose, which, in 
addition to the ten you had before, shall be a 
present to you; and henceforth, as now, my 
boy, remember and not ‘despise the day ol 
little things.’ If ever you need a friend, call 
on me, and for thy mother’s sake I will assist 
you.” 
When the grateful boy left the store, through 
his own tears he saw the moistened eyes of his 
kind benefactor. 
Edward Delong wished for knowledge, and 
though the scanty means of his mother could 
hardly satisfy his desire, he had advanced far 
beyond most boys of his age. By working 
nights and mornings for a neighbor, he had 
amassed what seemed to him a large sum of 
money, and this was expended in books. 
Scarcely was he in possession of his treasures, 
when his mother sickened and died. His home 
was now with a man who regarded money as 
the chief end and aim of his life, and severe and 
constant labor as the only means of obtaining 
that end. 
For two years Edward struggled with his 
hopeless condition. Toil, early and late, was 
his doom and to his oft-expressed wish of obtain¬ 
ing an education, his employer answered: 
“ Learnin’ never made corn grow, or tilled a 
field, and what is the use on it. I can only 
read and write, and there ain’t a richer man in 
the place, not excepting Squire Morrison, with 
all his high larn’t notions.” 
“ Is Mr. Harris in?” inquired Edward, as he 
again entered the store of that gentleman. 
“ Will you wait a moment, and he will be at 
liberty.” 
“ Did you wish to see him ?” asked Mr. Har 
ris of the boy, whose thoughts were so intense 
that he had not noticed the approach of his 
friend. 
“Mr. Harris!” exclaimed Edward, and it was 
all that he could say. 
“ My noble Edward !” said the old man.— 
“ and you have needed a friend. Well you shall 
have one.” 
Five years from that time, Edward Delong 
was the confidential clerk of Mr. Harris, and in 
three more, a partner in the firm. The integ¬ 
rity of purpose which first won the regard of 
his benefactor, was his guide in after life.— 
Prosperity crowned his efforts, and happiness 
blessed his heart—the never-failing result of 
faithfulness in “little things.” 
Two in Heaven. —The following touching 
paragraph is from Fanny Fern’s Portfolio :— 
‘You have two children?” said I. “I have 
four,” was the reply; “ two on earth, two in 
heaven.” There spoke the mother! Still hers, 
only “gone before!” Still remembered, loved, 
and cherished, by the hearth and at the board ; 
their places not yet filled, even though their 
successors draw life from the same faithful 
breast where their dying heads were pillowed. 
‘Two in heaven!” Safely housed from storm 
and tempest. No sickness there, no drooping 
head, nor fading eye, nor weary feet. By the 
green pastures tended by the good Shepherd, 
linger the little lambs of the heavenly fold. 
; Two in heaven!” Earth less attractive. 
Eternity nearer. Invisible cords drawing the 
maternal soul upwards. “Still small voices” 
ever whispering, “Come,” to the world-weary 
spirit. “Two in heaven!” Mother of angels, 
walk softly! holy eyes watch thy footsteps! 
cherub forms bend to listen; keep thy spirit free 
from earth-taint; so shaft thou go to them, 
though they may not return to thee. 
It ‘— . . , “~7^ 
“Partner Wanted.”—So say the advertise¬ 
ments every day. Everybody wants a partner, 
though everybody doesn’t advertise for one. 
Sleeping, silent, or active—all sorts are in re¬ 
quest.” 
One man wants a partner with $10,000 ; 
another, a partner with a capital of bright eyes, 
fair form, and a clear thousand a year of undivi¬ 
ded affection; a third, with a good, honest, 
heart; isn’t particular about the way it’s “put 
up,” provided he can have the undisputed title 
thereto. And so it goes; everybody, the world 
over, is looking for a partner—waiting for a 
partner—sighing for a partner. Some are 
ashamed to confess it; others speak “ right out,” 
and all, as they look, disclose some little pet 
weakness of their own. One man has a pen¬ 
chant for a particular fashion of nose; he 
doesn’t care what the owner knows, if she only 
owns a Roman nose. Another is bewitched for 
black eyes, caring little what is behind or above 
them. A third wants a form like an hour-glass, 
and he finds it; so all three marry respectively, 
eyes, nose, and hour-glass.* The eyes grow 
rheumy and dim, and peer queerly over a pair 
of spectacles for “forty-five.” Just think of 
that! forty-five! The nose loses its fair propor¬ 
tions and becomes a receptacle for “ Macaboy;” 
and the hour glass grows old and crazy. Ano¬ 
ther man marries a voice, and has nothing left 
at last but the echo. And worse than all, he 
that marries “ a plum ” and a woman to boot, 
makes way with the wealth, and—the woman 
remains. 
Sometimes, but not often—we will give them 
credit for that—the women are seeking for part¬ 
ners; one a pair of whiskers; another, six feet 
in his stocking; a third, a house and lot. But 
the whiskers get frosty, the six feet leans like 
the tower of Pisa, the house is mortgaged, the 
mortgage is “ foreclosed,” and nothing remains 
but the man himself. 
And so it goes, and so they all go. “ Part¬ 
ner wanted.” Of course; if a man has a sur¬ 
plus of joy he wants to divide it; because, in 
dividing, he doubles it. If a man is burdened 
with grief he wants to share it; because, in 
sharing, he halves it.— Tribune. 
Truthfulness. —Of all happy households, that 
is the happiest where falsehood is never thought 
of. All peace is broken up when once it appears 
that there is a liar in a house. All comfort has 
gone when suspicion has once entered—when 
there must be reserve in talk and reservation in 
belief. Anxious parents who are aware of the 
pains of suspicion, will place generous confidence 
in their children, and receive what they say 
freely, unless there is strong reason to distrust 
the truth of any one. If such an occasion should 
unhappily arise, they should keep the suspicion 
from spreading as long as possible, and avoid 
disgracing their poor child while there is chance 
of its cure by their confidential assistance. He 
should have their pity and assiduous help, 
as if he were suffering under some disgusting 
bodily disorder. If he can be cured, he will be¬ 
come duly grateful for the treatment. If the 
endeavors fail, means must of course be taken 
to prevent his example from doing harm ; and 
then, as I said, the family peace is broken up, 
because the family confidence is gone. I fear 
that, from some cause or another, there are but 
few large families where every member is alto¬ 
gether truthful. But where all are so organized 
and so trained as to be wholly reliable in act and 
word, they are a light to ali eyes, and a joy to 
all hearts. They are a public benefit, for they 
are a point of general reliance; and they are pri¬ 
vately blessed within and without. Without, 
their life is made easy by universal trust; and 
within, their home and their hearts, they have 
the security of rectitude, and the gladness of in¬ 
nocence.— Harriet Martincau. 
There was never any party, faction or sect, 
whatever, in which the most ignorant were not 
the most violent; for a bee is not a busier ani¬ 
mal than a blockhead. 
