“Hurrah! hurrah! Such a splendid morning for skating. Come ahead, boys; there’s no telling how long this weather will last.”
So said Roger to his two friends, whom he met on his way to the park. His eyes sparkled, his cheeks were almost as bright as the scarlet muffler he wore around his neck, and the dangling skates told for themselves the expedition upon which he was bound. The other boys readily agreed to join him, and after running home for their skates, the boys started off in such high spirits that the bus driver begged them to be a little more quiet.
“Not quite so noisy, please, young gentlemen,” he said, as they paid their fare.
While Bob made a face when his back was turned to them, it gave Frank the opportunity of noticing the large patch on his overcoat. He made some funny speech about it, at which the others laughed heartily.
After a while the bus stopped for another passenger; the conductor assisted the person in getting on, and Roger, thinking more time was taken than usual, called out:–
“Hurry up, hurry up—no time to lose!”
The new-comer was a boy about his own age, but sadly deformed; he had a hunchback, and a pale, delicate face, which spoke of sorrow and painful suffering.
“Now do give him a seat,” said the conductor, as the boys sat still, not offering to make room; but when he spoke, they all crowded together, giving much more room than was necessary,—the three together trying to occupy the space that one would comfortably fill. They continued talking and joking noisily, until the bus stopped at the entrance of the park.
Bob and Frank pushed out ahead of all the other passengers. Roger was pushing out after them when the bus driver laid his hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t crowd, don’t crowd; plenty of time, young man.”
His words came too late, for Roger, in his impatience to get out, unheeding of what he was doing, caught one of his skates in the scarf of the crippled boy, who had been sitting next to him. He gave his skate strap a rude pull, knocking the boy rather roughly, and stepping on a lady’s toes.
“Bother take it!” he exclaimed impatiently, and giving the scarf another jerk, ruder than before, he succeeded in disentangling it; then he rushed out, hurried over to the boys who awaited him on the pavement, where they stood stamping their feet and whistling. Roger made no reply to the crippled boy, who said to him gently:–
“It wasn’t my fault, was it?”
“That cripple caught his scarf in my skate,” Roger said. “I thought it never would come out. It’s kept me all this time!” he exclaimed.
“Hush, Roger,” interrupted Frank in a low tone of voice.
The boy was just behind them; he had evidently heard what had been said, for his pale face turned scarlet, and lingering behind to see which path the boys intended taking, he walked off in the opposite direction, and they soon lost sight of him.
Roger was hasty and impulsive, but his nature was kindly, after all; and when his skates were fairly on, the ice tried, and the first excitement of the pleasure over, he thought of his unfeeling speech, and the pale, sad face of the boy rose before him.
“Was it my fault?” the question rang in his ears. Was it the boy’s fault that his legs were crooked and his back misshapen and awkward? Was it his fault that he must go through life, receiving pity or contempt from his more fortunate fellow-creatures, whose limbs were better formed than his own?
The more Roger thought, the ruder his treatment of the poor lad now seemed, and putting himself in the boy’s place, he felt if such words were spoken to him, it would have hurt him badly.
“I say,” said Bob, who had been cutting his initials on a smooth, glassy spot of ice: “I say, Roger, what makes you so glum? Why I do declare, there’s the little crippled boy sitting over there on the bank, looking at the skaters.”
Roger looked in that direction, and saw him sitting alone, his only enjoyment consisting in watching without at all being able to take part in the pleasure of others.
“What can a poor fellow like that do with himself, I wonder?” added Bob. “I don’t think he can skate or do anything else that is fun and exciting.”
“That’s probably true,” said Roger thoughtfully, wondering how he could make up for his rudeness, or take back his own words. He concluded to let it all pass for this time. In the future he would be more careful, and less hasty in speaking; for Roger did not have sufficient manliness to go over to where the boy was sitting, and say frankly; “I ask your forgiveness for my rudeness.”
The boys decided to play a game of tag. Roger was a splendid skater; he engaged in the game with great zest; his spirits rose, and the crippled boy and the reproaches of his conscience passed entirely out of his mind as he skated on, knowing that he could keep his balance as well and skate, perhaps, better than any fellow on the pond.
The swiftest and strongest, however are not always the most successful, and as he swooped around, curving in very near the shore, a strap gave way, and before Roger could help himself, it tripped him, and he sprawled at full length on the ice.
The boys shouted; some laughter, but a fall is such a common occurrence that no one was very much concerned until Roger attempted to stand up again, to show them all that he didn’t mind it in the least,—he would be all right again in a minute. Then he tried to stand; but when an awful pain shot up from his ankle, he then realized that it was quite impossible to stand.
They ran to his assistance, but before they reached him, a soft hand was held out to him, and a gentle voice asked:
“Have you hurt yourself badly?”
Roger saw the deformed boy standing by his side, and then remembered that he had seen him sitting near by on the bank.
“I think I must have sprained my ankle,” he replied.
The deformed boy knelt on the ice, and while the others clustered around, asking questions and offering suggestions, he quietly unbuckled his skates for him.
“I’ll have to get home, I suppose,” said Roger faintly; “but, boys, don’t let this spoil your fun—don’t come with me.”
“May I go with you?” said the deformed boy. “I am not going to stay here any longer.”
Roger thanked him, and a policeman coming up at that moment to inquire about the accident, a carriage was procured, Roger was put in, the deformed boy followed, and Roger was driven home.
“My fun is spoiled for this winter,” he said, with a moan. “I know a fellow who sprained his ankle last year, and the doctor says perhaps he will never be able to skate again. What an unlucky thing for me!—it wasn’t my fault either.”
“No,” added the deformed boy gently. “It was not your fault; and it was not my fault that my nurse let me fall when I was a baby and injured my back. I sometimes think it would have been better if she had killed me outright, though strong and well-formed people think it wicked for me to wish that.”
The colour which had left Roger’s pale cheeks from his pain, rushed back for a moment, as he held out his hand and said:–
“I was a brute to you in the car this morning, but I didn’t think what I was doing. Will you forgive me?”
“I know you didn’t think before you acted. Please don’t say anything more about it. It is hard to pity the suffering of others unless we have felt pain ourselves.”
Roger’s sprain prevented him from skating again that season, and also taught him a lesson which, let us hope, he will remember all his lifetime.
“Therefore all things whatsoever ye would that men should do to you, do ye even so to them.” Matthew 7:12 “In your association with others, put yourself in their place. Enter into their feelings, their difficulties, their disappointments, their joys, and their sorrows. Identify yourself with them, and then do to them as, were you to exchange places with them, you would wish them to deal with you. This is the true rule of honesty.” –Thoughts from the Mount of Blessing, p. 134