Down the street with laugh and shout,
  Glad in the freedom of “school is out,”

  Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
  Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

  Past the woman so old and gray
  Hastened the children on their way,

  Nor offered a helping hand to her,
  So meek, so timid, afraid to stir

  Lest the carriage wheels or the horses’ feet
  Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

  At last came out of the merry troop
  The gayest laddie of all the group;

  He paused beside her, and whispered low,
  “I’ll help you across, if you wish to go.”

  Her aged hand on his strong young arm
  She placed, and so, without hurt or harm,

  He guided the trembling feet along,
  Proud that his own were firm and strong.

  Then back again to his friends he went,
  His young heart happy and well content.

  “She’s somebody’s mother, boys, you know,
  For all that she’s aged and poor and slow;

  “And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
  To help my mother, you understand,

  “If ever she’s poor and old and gray,
  When her own dear boy is far away.”

  And “somebody’s mother” bowed low her head
  In her home that night, and the prayer she said

  Was, “God be kind to the noble boy,
  Who is somebody’s son and pride and joy!”

[Illustration:  The Grist Mill]

WAITING FOR THE GRIST

It is impossible to measure the influence which may be exerted by a single act, a word, or even a look.  It was the simple act of an entire stranger that changed the course of my whole life.

When I was a boy, my father moved to the Far West—­Ohio.  It was before the days of steam, and no great mills thundered on her river banks, but occasionally there was a little gristmill by the side of some small stream.

To these little mills, the surrounding neighborhood flocked with their sacks of corn.  Sometimes we had to wait two or three days for our turn.  I was generally the one sent from our house, for, while I was too small to be of much account on the farm, I was as good as a man to carry a grist to mill.  So I was not at all surprised one morning when my father said, “Henry, you must take the horse and go to mill to-day.”

But I found so many of the neighboring farmers there ahead of me, that I knew there was no hope of getting home that day; but I was not at all sorry, for my basket was well filled with provisions, and Mr. Saunders always opened his big barn for us to sleep in.

That day there was an addition to the number who had been in the habit of gathering, from time to time, in the old Saunders barn,—­a young fellow about my own age.  His name was Charley Allen, and his father had bought a farm over on the Brush Creek road.  He was sociable and friendly, but somehow I felt that he had “more manners” than the rest of us.