Clinton’s Strength

When Clinton was eleven years old, he became very sick with pneumonia. During his period of recovery, he suffered an unexpected relapse, and his mother and the doctor worked hard to keep him alive.

“There is a one in ten chance for him to get well,” said Dr. Bemis, shaking his head. “If he does, he will never be: very strong.”

Mrs. Stevens smoothed Clinton’s pillow even more tenderly than before. Poor Clinton! He had always been such an energetic, rosy-cheeked young boy. Surely this must be difficult to bear.

The long winter days in March dragged slowly along, and it was mid-April before he could sit at an open window and watch the grass growing green 011 the front lawn. He looked frail and delicate. He had a cough, too, a troublesome “bark,” that he always kept back as long as he could.

The bright sunlight poured steadily in through the window, and Clinton held up his hand to shield his eyes. “Why, Mother” he said, after a moment, “just look at my hands! They are as thin and white as a girl’s, and they used to be regular paws. It does not look as if I would pull many weeds for Mr. Carter this summer does it?”

Mrs. Stevens took his thin hands into her own patient ones: “Never mind, dear,” she said, “they will grow plump and brown again, I hope.” A group of school children were passing by shouting and frolicking. Clinton leaned forward and watched them until the last one was gone. Some of them waved their caps. but he did not seem elated.

“Mother”, he said, presently, “I believe I will go to bed if you will help me. I guess I am not quite so strong now as I used to be.”

Clinton did not pull weeds for Mr. Carter that summer, but he rode around with the milkman, and he did a little outdoor work for his mother, which helped him to mend. One morning in the middle of summer he surprised the village by riding out on his bicycle; but he overdid the matter, and it was several weeks before he again appeared. His cough still continued, though not so severe as in the spring, and it was decided to let him go to school in the fall.

Dr. Bemis told Mrs. Stevens that the schoolroom would be a good place to test Clinton’s strength. And he was right. In no other place does a young person’s strength develop or debase itself so readily, for honour or dishonour. Of course the doctor had referred to physical strength; but moral strength is much more important.

Clinton was a bright lad for his years; and, although he had not looked at his schoolbooks during the summer, he was placed in the same grade he had left when he became sick. He did not find much difficulty in keeping up with any of his studies except for spelling. Whenever he received a perfect mark on a test, he felt a real victory had been won.

About Christmas-time the regular examinations were held. The teacher offered a prize to each grade, the student receiving the highest average in all studies to receive the prize. Much excitement, and a great deal of studying began. Clinton felt fairly confident over all his studies except spelling. So he carried his spelling book: home every night, and he and his mother spent the evenings in wresting with the long and difficult words.

Examination day came finally and in the afternoon the time for the seventh-grade spelling test had arrived. The words were to be written, and handed in. Across the aisle from Clinton sat Harry Meyers. Several times when the teacher pronounced a word, Harry looked slyly down into the palm of his hand. He had the words written there. Clinton watched him, his cheeks growing pink with shame. Then he looked around at the others. Man of them had some dishonest device for copying the words. Clinton swallowed something in his throat, and looked across at Billy Matthews, who just nodded, as if he understood. What chance did Clinton have of getting the highest score when many of the children were cheating?

The papers were handed in, and the school was dismissed. Clinton went home with a heavy heart. On Monday, after the morning exercises, Miss Brooks gave out the prizes to the three grades under her care. “I have now to award the prize for the highest average to the seventh grade,” she said. “But first 1 wish to say a few words on your conduct during the recent spelling examination. 1 will not single anyone out. No one spelled all the words correctly- Clinton Stevens got the lowest score, making his average quite low; yet the prize goes to him. 1 will tell you why.” The students gasped in surprise. “Spelling is Clinton’s hardest subject, but he could have easily spelled more words right if he did not have great strength to resist the dishonest methods used by some of you in order to claim this prize.” ”

As Clinton went up the aisle for his prize, he felt like crying, but he managed to smile instead. A few days before, Harry Meyers had ridiculed him because he was not strong enough to throw a snowball from the schoolhouse to the road: now the teacher had said he was strong!

Clinton’s Aunt Jennie came to visit the family in December, bringing her little daughter Grace with her. Now Grace had a bad habit of pulling other people’s hair, but there was no one who she loved using this bad habit on as much as on Clinton. She began on him cautiously, then aggressively. Clinton stood it for a while and then asked her, politely but firmly, to stop. She stopped for half a day.

One night Clinton came home from school pale and tired. Some of the boys had been taunting him about his thin body, and imitating his cough, which had grown worse as the winter progressed. Sitting down by the window, he looked out. at the falling snow. Grace slipped up behind him. and gave his hair a sharp pull. He struck out, hastily, and hit her. She was not hurt, – only very much surprised, – but she began to cry lustily, and Aunt Jennie came hurrying in, and took the child ill her arms.

That night after supper Clinton went into the living room, and called Grace to him. “I want to tell you something,” he said. “I am sorry that I hit you, and I ask your forgiveness. Will you forgive me?” Grace agreed quickly, and said, shyly, “Next time I want to pull any one’s hair, I will pull my own.”

Aunt Jennie was in the next room and overheard the conversation. “It strikes me, Sarah,” she said to Mrs. Stevens, later, “that Clinton is a remarkably strong boy for one who is not so strong. Most boys would not have taken the trouble to ask a small girl to forgive him. even if they were very much in the wrong. But Clinton has a strong character.”

The year Clinton was thirteen, the boys planned to have a corn roast, one summer night. “We will get the corn in old Mr. Carter’s farm during the night,” said Harry Meyers. “He has just acres of it and he won’t miss a bushel or two. Will you come with us Clinton?”

Clinton hesitated. “No,” he said, “I will not and 1 think if you want to roast some com, you could get it out of your own gardens. But if Mr. Carter’s com is better than anyone else’s, then can’t you simply go up to him and ask him for some?”
“0, come, now,” retorted Harry, “don’t let it worry you! Half the fun of roasting com is in – in taking it.”

“You mean stealing it,” added Clinton.
“Oh then don’t come. We don’t want you with us anyway. You are too nice, Mr. Cough.”
Clinton’s cheeks flushed red, but he turned away without a word. When Mr. Carter asked Billy Matthews, and found out all about it, Clinton was made very happy by the old man’s words: “It is not every chap that will take the stand you took. You ought to be thankful that you have the strength to say No.”

In the fall, when Clinton was fifteen, his health began to fail noticeably, and Dr. Bemis advised a little wine “to build him up.”

“Mother,” said the boy, after thinking it over, “I am not going to touch any wine. I can get well without it, I know Ican. Ido not want liquor,” he continued. “‘Wine is a mocker,’ you know. Did you not tell me once that George Hastings, over in East Bloomfield, became a drunkard by drinking wine when he was sick?”

“Yes, Clinton, I believe I told you so.”
“Well, then, I do not want any wine. I have seen George too many times.”
In December Aunt Jennie and Grace made their annual visit. With them came uncle Jonathan, who took a great liking to Clinton.
“My boy,” he said one day, placing a big hand on the boy’s shoulder, “Early in the new year Aunt Jennie and I will move to the Pacific Coast. Would you like to come with us? I believe it will greatly improve your health to get away from here to the warmer temperatures in California.”

“Well, I am sure I will gladly join you,” gasped the surprised boy, clasping his hands joyfully.
“Very well, then, you shall go,” returned Uncle Jonathan, “and your mother, also.”

Clinton began to feel better before they were outside of Pennsylvania. When they had crossed the Mississippi and reached the prairies, his eyes were sparkling with excitement. The mountains put new life into him. Uncle Jonathan watched him with pleasure. “Tell me,” he said one day, when they were winding in and out among the Rocky Mountains, “What has given you so much strength of character?”

“Why, it was this day,” said Clinton, bringing his eyes in from the beautiful scenery outside, “one day when I was beginning to recover from that attack of pneumonia, I saw a lot of the boys running along, and I felt pretty bad because I could not run and play with them; then I thought that if I could not be strong that way, I could have the strength to do right; so I began to try, and-”

“You succeeded admirably,” said Uncle Jonathan, approvingly. “And, really, my boy, I see no reason why you should not run and play to your heart’s content in a few months. Perhaps the Lord allowed this illness to come to you in order for you to find this inner strength. ”

And Uncle Jonathan’s words proved true; for Clinton, in the warm sunny climate of the California valley, grew well and strong in a few months. But through all his life he will have reason to be thankful that he learned the value of the strength that is gained by resisting temptation, controlling one’s spirit, and obeying the commandments of the Lord. A strength that is of much more value than physical strength.