"It is a good work that prompts to good in others," said the old
man. "What if it be dull and tame--commonplace to the few--it is a
good gift to the world, and thousands will bless the giver. Look
again!"
An angry mother, impatient and fretted by the conduct of a froward
child, had driven her boy from her presence, when, if she had
controlled her own feelings, she might have drawn him to her side
and subdued him by the power of affection. She was unhappy, and her
boy had received an injury.
The mother was alone. Before her was a table covered with books, and
she took up one to read. I knew the volume; it was written by one
whose genius had a deep power of fascination. Soon the mother became
lost in its exciting pages, and remained buried in them for hours.
At length, after turning the last page, she closed the book; and
then came the thought of her wayward boy. But, her feelings toward
him had undergone no change; she was still angry, because of his
disobedience.
Another book lay upon the table; a book of no pretensions, and
written with the simple purpose of doing good. It was commonplace,
because it dealt with things in the common life around us.
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