“’Tis too bad, I declare!  If I had tried to do the very wickedest thing I possibly could, father and mother would not have scolded me worse.  That dear little cane!  I told Henry I would show it to him on my way to school, and now what shall I say about it?  It’s abominable—­it’s right down cruel to treat me so.  When I had not intended to do the least thing wrong, only just as I was looking at the bottom of my cane, by the merest accident the head of it touched that little useless piece of crockery.  I hate the sight of you,” he added, touching the many colored and gilded fragments with the toe of his boot, as they lay before him, “and I hate father and mother, and every body else—­and I’m tired of being scolded for nothing at all.  Big boy as I am, they scold me for every little thing, just as they did when I was a little shaver like Eddy.  What’s the use?  I won’t bear it.  I declare I won’t much longer.”  And then followed reveries like others often indulged before, of being his own master, and doing as he pleased without father and mother always at hand to dictate, and find fault, and scold him so bitterly if he happened to make a little mistake.  Other boys of his age had left home, and taken care of themselves, and he would too.  “I am as good a scholar as any one in school, except Charles Harvey, and I am as strong as any boy I play with, and pity if I can’t take care of myself.  Home!  Yes, to be sure it might be a dear good home, but father is so full of business, and anxious, and thinking all the time, he never speaks to one of us, unless it is to tell us to do something, or to find fault with what is done.  And mother—­fret, fret, fret, tired to death with the care of the children, and company, and servants, and societies, and every thing—­it really seems as if she had lost all affection for us—­me, at any rate, and I am sure I don’t care for any body that scolds at me so, and the sooner I am out of the way the better.  I am sure if father is trying to make money to leave me some of it, I’d a thousand times rather he’d give me pleasant words as we go along, than all the dollars I shall ever get—­yes, indeed I had.”

The above scene, I am sorry to say, is but a sample of what occurred weekly, and I fear I might say daily, or even hourly, to some member of the family of Mr. Colman, and yet Mr. and Mrs. Colman were very good sort of people—­made a very respectable appearance in the world, regular at church with their children—­ate symbolically of the body, and drank of the blood, of that loving Savior, who ever spake gently to the youthful and the erring—­and meant to be, and really thought they were, the very best of parents.  Their children were well cared for, mentally and physically.  They were well fed, well clothed, attended the best schools—­but as they advanced beyond the years of infancy, there was in each of them the sullen look, or the discouraged tone, the tart reply, or the vexing remark, which made them any thing but beloved