That Awful Woodpile.

Otago Witness, Issue 1797, 30 April 1886, Page 27

That Awful Woodpile.

Coming home from school one day, 1 found a large pile of wood before our door.

" There is work for you, Willie," said Ned Blake, the boy who was with me.

" Your father had better do as my father does — hire a man to get it in. It is too much for a boy, mother says, and it will take the whole of Wednesday afternoon. You will have no time for play. Now, Will, I would not do that, I tell you."

This was the substance of Nad's talk as we stood before the woodpile, and the more he said the bigger it grew. By the time he left me I began to think myself a poorly used boy indeed.

"There is work for you, Willie," .said mother, as I sidled into the kitchen. " Did you sec that beautiful wood at the. gate as yon came in ?"

" I should think I did !" I muttered to myself, but said nothing aloud, only asking how father was. He was ill, and had been for many nyniths, and the family funds, 1 knew, were becoming low.

" It is a monstrous pile," I at length said, getting a glimpse of it from the window.

"So much the better for us, Willie,'' said the mother, cheerfully. " A long winter is before us, you know."'

Dinner was soon ready, the table spread in the little kitchen, and father was helped out from an adjoining room b}' his two little daughters, one on each side. Father and mother sat clown to our frugal meal with thankful hearts, 1 am sure. -The girls chatted as usual, while I sat brooding over that " awful woodpile." 1 am afraid that my chief disli was a dish of pouts. Father asked me several questions, but 1 took no part in the pleasant table talk.

" Well, my boy," said father, after dinner, " there's that wood to be put in. No school this afternoon, so you have time enough. Yon had better do it the flrst thing." "It will take whole afternoon," 1 said coldly. " The boys are going nutting."

I was not sure of this, but anything in the way of au objection to the wood. My father said nothing. Dear, dear father ! God forgive me for wounding his feelings I

" Mother," I said following her into the pantry, " Ned Blake's father hires a man to get his wood in. His mother thinks it is too much for a boy to do. Why does not father hire one ?''

"Ah I" said my mother sadly, "the Biakes are bettor off than we. Your poor father "- -

Tears came into her eyes, she stopped. Mary ran in where we were, and I, half ashamed of myself, escaped out of the door.

Still Ned Blake's words rankled in me and I thought it was 100 bad ; nor did the brisk west winds blow off the fumes of the foolish grumbling which made a coward of me. I I sat on the wood block my hands in my pockets and slmillcd my feet among the chips in sour discontent.

" It is such a monstrous pile !" I said* to myself a dozen times. Presently out came mother. 1 jumped up. " Willie," she said cheerfully, " T would go to work earnestly You will soon get it in."

"It is monstrous, mother!" F said in selfpitying tones. "It will take me for ever, and half kill me in the bargain."

" Forever is a long, long while," she said, " Come, let us look at the pile. It is big, but all you have to do is to take a stick at a time. That will not hurt you, Willie, lam sure — only one stick at a time ! Y r et one stick at a time will make that pile vanish quicker than you think for, Willie. Try it now."

There was a kindness, yet a decision in mother's tone which wefe irresistable. She could put even harder things, or what we thought hard, in a very achievable light.

" Only one stick at a time," I cried jumpiug up and following her. Really the pile seemed already to lessen under this new mode of attack. Onl} r one stick at a time.

That seemed easy enough. Only a stick at a time ! What was the need of a man to do that 1 One stick at a time 1 If Ned Blake could not do that he was a "poor tool." Ah ! and a poor tool he proved to bo. My mother had got my mcttel up, and I boldly went to work.

"Father," said 1, bolting into the house at a late hour in the afternoon, all in a glow, "please tell me what time it is. 5*5 *

" Eight minutes after three," answered he, looking at his watch.

"Whew!" I shouted, "and the pile is mastered.

Never did I feel such a strong and joyous sense of the power of doing. Finding mother, I put my arm round her neck and said, " Mother, I was a naughty boy, but one stick at a time has cured me."

I did not then know the full value of the lesson I had learned. Years of labour — successful labour— have since tested and proved its value. When the work looks insurmountable and you seem to have no heart to take hold of it, as work many a time will, remember it is only one stick at a time, and go at it.—- Exchange,