days, and die with sweet words of forgiveness upon her lips that redoubled the anguish of his breaking heart.  No; she got over it.  He ran off and went to sea at last, and didn’t come back and find himself sad and alone in the world, his loved ones sleeping in the quiet churchyard, and the vine-embowered home of his boyhood tumbled down and gone to decay.  Ah, no; he came home as drunk as a piper, and got into the station-house the first thing.

And he grew up and married, and raised a large family, and brained them all with an ax one night, and got wealthy by all manner of cheating and rascality; and now he is the infernalest wickedest scoundrel in his native village, and is universally respected, and belongs to the legislature.

So you see there never was a bad James in the Sunday-school books that had such a streak of luck as this sinful Jim with the charmed life.

The story of the good little boy—­[Written about 1865]

Once there was a good little boy by the name of Jacob Blivens.  He always obeyed his parents, no matter how absurd and unreasonable their demands were; and he always learned his book, and never was late at Sabbath-school.  He would not play hookey, even when his sober judgment told him it was the most profitable thing he could do.  None of the other boys could ever make that boy out, he acted so strangely.  He wouldn’t lie, no matter how convenient it was.  He just said it was wrong to lie, and that was sufficient for him.  And he was so honest that he was simply ridiculous.  The curious ways that that Jacob had, surpassed everything.  He wouldn’t play marbles on Sunday, he wouldn’t rob birds’ nests, he wouldn’t give hot pennies to organ-grinders’ monkeys; he didn’t seem to take any interest in any kind of rational amusement.  So the other boys used to try to reason it out and come to an understanding of him, but they couldn’t arrive at any satisfactory conclusion.  As I said before, they could only figure out a sort of vague idea that he was “afflicted,” and so they took him under their protection, and never allowed any harm to come to him.

This good little boy read all the Sunday-school books; they were his greatest delight.  This was the whole secret of it.  He believed in the good little boys they put in the Sunday-school book; he had every confidence in them.  He longed to come across one of them alive once; but he never did.  They all died before his time, maybe.  Whenever he read about a particularly good one he turned over quickly to the end to see what became of him, because he wanted to travel thousands of miles and gaze on him; but it wasn’t any use; that good little boy always died in the last chapter, and there was a picture of the funeral, with all his relations and the Sunday-school children standing around the grave in pantaloons that were too short, and bonnets that were too large, and everybody crying into handkerchiefs that had as much as a yard and a half of stuff in them.  He was always headed off in this way.  He never could see one of those good little boys on account of his always dying in the last chapter.