The Giant Hands or, the Reward of Industry

Excerpt

THE GIANT HANDS.

Poor lit-tle Wil-lie re-turn-ed from the for-est la-den with as much wood as his fee-ble strength could bear. He was hun-gry and wea-ry, and had a great sor-row at his heart, for he had lost his fa-ther in the ear-ly spring, leav-ing his mo-ther to toil for a scant live-li-hood to sup-port her-self and him.

He threw the wood up-on the cin-ders on the hearth, and quick-ly rais-ed a cheer-ful blaze, at which he warm-ed his na-ked, swol-len feet, as he watch-ed the smoke ma-king its fan-tas-tic ed-dies up the wide chim-ney, and a-midst the raf-ters of the low roof. He heav-ed a deep sigh; for he saw no pot up-on the fire, which ought to have been bub-bling up with their fru-gal din-ner: but, a-las! they had none.

"This must not be any long-er," thought he, "for I am get-ting ve-ry big and strong, and have a pair of hands that ought not to be i-dle. As my poor mo-ther gets weak-er, I should work for her; and as I grow in-to a man, she should not work any more, but sit by the fire and get the din-ner rea-dy, which I shall then be a-ble to la-bour for."

Wil-lie was of an in-dus-tri-ous mind, and did not love to sit i-dle when e-ven his ti-ny strength might be used to some end.

So he sat and lis-ten-ed for the foot-step of his poor mo-ther, who, he knew, would come home, wea-ri-ed with la-bour, to share her scan-ty crust with her boy.

He had not to wait long be-fore the latch lift-ed, and his mo-ther en-ter-ed. She kiss-ed him, and threw her-self in-to a chair, with the tears of fa-tigue and ex-haus-tion in her eyes.

He em-bra-ced her, and whis-per-ed in-to her ear his firm resolve to start out in-to the world, and seek for la-bour, that he might no long-er be a bur-then to her. Her heart sank at the i-dea; but she saw no o-ther means to save them from star-va-tion, as her fail-ing strength gave warn-ing of the in-e-vi-ta-ble e-vil.

The morn-ing a-rose bright and cheer-ful. The old lock-er was o-pen-ed, and his on-ly shoes, trea-sur-ed for high-days and ho-li-days, were ta-ken out and brush-ed up, as was al-so his best suit, which was in-deed ve-ry lit-tle bet-ter than the care-ful-ly mend-ed suit of his e-ve-ry-day wear. He, how-e-ver, thought him-self ve-ry fine, and felt that his ap-pear-ance would act as a re-com-men-da-tion in his fa-vour.

They sat down to break-fast: it was a ve-ry tear-ful one, and, with a strange feel-ing, they a-void-ed each o-ther's looks, hop-ing to hide their tears one from the o-ther.

Oh! it want-ed a great re-so-lu-tion for poor Wil-lie to say, "Well! dear mo-ther, I must be start-ing;" but he did do it at last, al-though it was af-ter ma-ny strug-gles to keep down the beat-ings of his heart.

His mo-ther heard him with a be-wil-der-ed look, as if she heard the pro-po-sal for the first time; and her grief burst forth with un-con-trol-la-ble vi-o-lence as she threw her arms round his neck with an a-go-ny on-ly known to a fond mo-ther.

He tried to com-fort her, and to smile through his tears, as he put on his hat with a re-so-lute thump, seiz-ed up-on his stick and wal-let, and lift-ed the latch of the door that was to o-pen for his bold en-trance in-to the world, so full of pro-mise to him....