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The next violation of what seemed to him a right course for a young man to pursue, was in suffering himself to be persuaded to visit frequently the theatre; although his father had expressly desired that he would avoid a place where lurked for the young and inexperienced so many dangers. He was next easily persuaded to visit a favorite eating-house, in which many hours were spent during the evenings of each week, with Boyd and others, in eating, drinking, and smoking.

Sometimes dominos and backgammon were introduced, and at length were played for a slight stake. To participate in this Thomas refused, on the plea that he did not know enough of the games to risk anything. He had not the moral courage to declare that he considered it wrong to gamble.

All these departures from what he had been taught by his father to consider a right course, were attended by much uneasiness and pain of mind.—But he had yielded to the tempter, and he could not find the power within him to resist his influence successfully.

It happened about six months after his introduction to such an entirely new course of life that he was invited one evening by his companion Boyd, to call on a friend with him. He had, on that day, received from his father forty dollars, with which to buy him a new suit of clothes and a few other necessary articles. He went, of course, and was introduced to a very affable, gentlemanly young man, in his room at one of the hotels. In a few minutes, wine and cigars were ordered, and the three spent an hour or so, in drinking, smoking, and chit-chat of no elevating or refined character.

"Come, let us have a game of cards," the friend at last remarked, during a pause in the conversation; at the same time going to his trunk and producing a pack of cards.

"No objection," responded Boyd.

"You'll take a hand, of course?" the new friend said, looking at Thomas Howland.

But Thomas said that he knew nothing of cards.

"O that's no matter! You can learn in two minutes," responded the friend of Boyd.

Young Howland felt reluctant, but he could not resist the influence that was around him, and so he consented to finger the cards with the rest. As they gathered around the table, a half-dollar was laid down by each of the young men, who looked towards Thomas as they did so.

"I cannot play for money," he said, coloring; for he felt really ashamed to acknowledge his scruples.

"And why not?" asked the friend of Boyd, looking him steadily in the face.

"Because I think it wrong," stammered out Howland, coloring still more deeply.

"Nonsense! Isn't your money your own? And pray what harm is there in your doing with your own as you please?" urged the tempter.

"But I do not know enough of the game to risk my money."

"You don't think we would take advantage of your ignorance?" Boyd said. "The stake is only to give interest to the game. I would not give a copper for a game of cards without a stake. Come, put down your half-dollar, and we'll promise to pay you back all you loose, if you wish it, until you acquire some skill."

But Thomas felt reluctant, and hesitated. Nevertheless, he was debating the matter in his mind seriously, and every moment that reluctance was growing weaker.

"Will you play?" Boyd asked in a decided tone, breaking in upon his debate.

"I had rather not," Thomas replied, attempting to smile, so as to conciliate his false friends.

"You're afraid of your money," said Boyd, in a half-sneering tone.

"It is not that, Boyd."

"Then what is it, pray?"

"I am afraid it is not right."

This was answered by a loud laugh from his two friends, which touched Thomas a good deal, and made him feel more ashamed of the scruples that held him back from entering into the temptation.

"Come down with your stake, Howland," Boyd said, after he had finished his laugh.

The hand of Thomas was in his pocket, and his fingers had grasped the silver coin, yet still he hesitated.

"Will you play, or not?" the friend of Boyd now said, with something of impatience in his tone. "Say yes, or no."

For a moment the mind of Thomas became confused—then the perception came upon him as clear as a sunbeam, that it was wrong to gamble. He remembered, too, vividly his father's parting injunction.

"No," he said, firmly and decidedly.

Both of his companions looked disappointed and angry.

"What did you bring him for?" he heard Boyd's companion say to him in an under tone, while a frown darkened upon his brow.

The reply did not reach his ear, but he felt that his company was no longer pleasant, and rising, he bade them a formal good-evening, and hurriedly retired. That little word no had saved him. The scheme was, to win from him his forty dollars, and then involve him in "debts of honor," as they are falsely called, which would compel him to draw upon his father for more money, or abstract it from his employer, a system which had been pursued by Boyd, and which was discovered only a week subsequent, when the young man was discharged in disgrace. It then came out, that he had been for months in secret association with a gambler, and that the two shared together the spoils and peculations.

This incident roused Thomas Howland to a distinct consciousness of the danger that lurked in his path, as a young man, in a large city. He felt, as he had not felt while simply listening to his father's precept, the value of the word no; and resolved that hereafter he would utter that little word, and that, too, decidedly, whenever urged to do what his judgment did not approve.

"I will be free!" he said, pacing his chamber backward and forward. "I will be free, hereafter! No one shall persuade me or drive me to do what I feel to be wrong."

That conclusion was his safeguard ever after. When tempted, and he was tempted frequently, his "No" decided the matter at once. There was a power in it that was all-sufficient in resisting evil.

WILLY AND THE BEGGAR GIRL

 
"An apple, dear mother!"
Cried Willy one day,
Coming in, with his cheeks
Glowing bright, from his play.
"I want a nice apple,
A large one, and red."
"For whom do you want it?"
His kind mother said.
 
 
"You know a big apple
I gave you at noon;
And now for another,
My boy, it's too soon."
"There's a poor little girl
At the door, mother dear,"
Said Will, while within
His mild eye shone a tear.
 
 
"She says, since last evening
She's eaten no bread;
Her feet are all naked
And bare is her head.
Like me, she's no mother
To love her, I'm sure,
Or she'd not look so hungry,
And ragged, and poor.
 
 
"Let me give her an apple;
She wants one, I know;
A nice, large, red apple—
O! do not say no."
First a kiss to the lips
Of her generous boy,
Mamma gave with a feeling
Of exquisite joy—
 
 
For goodness, whene'er
In a child it is seen,
Gives joy to the heart
Of a mother, I ween—
And then led her out, where,
Still stood by the door,
A poor little beggar-girl,
Ragged all o'er.
 
 
"Please ma'am, I am hungry,"
The little thing said,
"Will you give me to eat
A small piece of bread?"
"Yes, child, you shall have it;
But who sends you out
From dwelling to dwelling
To wander about?"
 
 
A pair of mild eyes
To the lady were raised;
"My mother's been sick
For a great many days
So sick she don't know me."
Sobs stifled the rest
And heaved with young sorrow
That innocent breast.
 
 
Just then from the store-room—
Where wee Willy run,
As his mother to question
The poor child begun—
Came forth the sweet boy,
With a large loaf of bread,
Held tight in his tiny hands
High o'er his head.
 
 
"Here's bread, and a plenty!
Eat, little girl, eat!"
He cried, as he laid
The great loaf at her feet.
The mother smiled gently,
Then, quick through the door
Drew the sad little stranger,
So hungry and poor.
 
 
With words kindly spoken
She gave her nice food,
And clothed her with garments
All clean, warm and good.
This done, she was leading
Her out, when she heard
Willy coming down stairs,
Like a fluttering bird.
 
 
A newly bought leghorn,
With green bow and band.
And an old, worn out beaver
He held in his hand.
"Here! give her my new hat,"
He cried; "I can wear
My black one all summer—
It's good—you won't care—
 
 
"Say! will you, dear mother?"
First out through the door,
She passed the girl kindly;
Then quick from the floor
Caught up the dear fellow,
Kissed and kissed him again,
While her glad tears fell freely
O'er his sweet face like rain.