Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 10

We need not dwell on the first weeks of Arthur's stay at Mr. Martin's.
They thought him a little homesick, but presumed he would soon get over
it; he performed the little tasks they exacted of him with great
alacrity, and was quite a favorite with Mrs. Martin, who said he was the
most quiet, and well-behaved child she ever saw. At first, Arthur
thought of nothing but home, and home-scenes; but he struggled bravely
to rise above sad and sorrowful thoughts, and to be contented. "They
shall never hear me complain," he said to himself, "and dear mother too
shall never know how bad I feel. I want to do my duty, and be a
_brave_ boy."

Every fortnight a letter came from home, and though Arthur read it with
streaming eyes, it was a precious treasure. He would read them over and
over, till he seemed to hear his mother's voice once more, and feel her
loving hand upon his head. He answered them; but wrote only a few words,
saying, he was well, and the other common place remarks children usually
write. He was not happy, but he was calmer now, and did not _every_
night cry himself to sleep. The visit at home, was a bright, cheering
spot, to which he often looked forward;  and as week after week passed
away, slowly indeed, he rejoiced in the certainty that that
long-looked-for period was getting nearer and nearer, and _would_
come at last.

Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 9

Rover refused at first to leave Arthur, but John lifted him into the
wagon, and drove off.

It was a lonely evening to Arthur. There was no frolic with Rover and
the children on the green; no kind mother's voice to call him in; no
affectionate good-night kiss for the little stranger. Mr. and Mrs.
Martin were very kind-hearted people, but they had little sympathy with
a child, and made no conversation with him. There was no hardship
imposed on Arthur; indeed they required less of him than he had been
accustomed to doing at home, and had he been a courageous, light-hearted
boy like his brother James, he would soon have been very happy in his
new home. But we have said he was shy and sensitive; like a delicate
plant he needed sunshine to develope his nature, and shrank from the
rough chilling blast.

None, who has not experienced it, can know any thing of the suffering
such a child endures when deprived of the sweet influences of home. Such
an one often appears dull and stupid to a careless observer, when there
is throbbing under that cold exterior, a heart of the keenest
sensibility. Let the bold, healthy, active boy be sent from home, if
necessary; a little hardship, and a little struggling with the rougher
elements of life, will perchance but strengthen and increase his
courage, and prepare him for the conflicts and struggles of after years;
but oh, fond mother, keep that delicate, timid child which nestles to
thy side with such confiding trust, which trembles at the voice of a
stranger, and shrinks like the mimosa, from a rude and unfamiliar touch,
under thine own sheltering roof-tree, for a time at least; there seek to
develope and strengthen his delicate nature into more manly strength and
vigor; there judiciously repress excessive sensibility, and increase
confidence in himself and others; if it can possibly be avoided, do not
expose him, while a child, to the tender mercies of those who do not
understand his peculiar temperament, and who, however kind their
feelings, cannot possess his confidence.

Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 8

"But Arthur, what do you think mother would say to see you coming back
with me? How it would distress her! Indeed you _must_ stay, and try
to be contented. I think it looks like a pleasant place here. This is a
very pretty yard, and yonder is a large garden; I dare say Mr. Martin
will let you have a bed in it next spring."

"But it is living here all alone, which I dread," said Arthur.

"You know mother says we are never all alone," said John. "God will be
with you, and if you try to be a good contented boy, he will approve of
your conduct, and love you. Only six weeks too, remember, till you come
home. Just think how soon they will be gone!"

Rover had been gazing wistfully into Arthur's face, as if he wondered
what was going on that made them all so sober, and now he gently laid
his paw upon his hand. Arthur caressed him fondly, saying--

"Oh, Rover, dear good fellow, how I wish I could have you for company."

"I wish you could," said John, "but I don't think it would be right to
leave him, for Mr. Martin might not wish to have him."

John now untied his horse, saying,

"Try to be contented for mother's sake, dear Arthur."

Many years after, when John was a middle-aged man, he told me that
nothing in his whole life had made him feel worse than leaving little
Arthur behind him, that day. "I can see the poor little fellow now,"
said he, "just as he looked standing at the gate, weeping bitterly."

Arthur Hamilton, and His Dog - 7

So the lads rode on till noon; and when the sun shone out warmly, the
forest-trees looked more magnificent in its golden light, than King
Solomon in all his glory. There was the crimson-leaved maple, and the
yellow beach, and the variegated oak, mingled with the fresh green
hemlocks and pines. There was something in the quiet, and deep stillness
of the woods, which made the boys silent, as they rode through; they
felt the influence of its exceeding beauty, though they could not have
expressed it in words; for God always speaks to us through his works,
and if we will listen to the voice, our hearts will be softened, and
pleasant and profitable thoughts will arise.

It was two in the afternoon, when John and Arthur reached Mr. Martin's.
He was not at home, but Mrs. Martin received them kindly, saying, "she
expected they would come that day." She was a grave-looking old lady,
who wore spectacles, and the inquisitive manner in which she looked over
the top of them into Arthur's face, quite frightened the little fellow,
and he could only reply in very low monosyllables to the questions she
asked him; so John gave her such information as she desired. Mrs. Martin
showed them the small chamber in which Arthur was to sleep, and John
carried up the wooden box, and put it down in one corner. After staying
half an hour, John thought he must go. A sense of the loneliness of his
situation among strangers, where no one familiar voice would be heard,
and not one familiar object seen, came over the heart of poor Arthur
with such force at this moment, that he burst into a flood of tears,
exclaiming--

"Oh, don't leave me here, John! don't leave me, I cannot stay." Brushing
the tears from his own eyes, John drew the sobbing child out into the
yard, saying, as he put his arms affectionately about his neck,--