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Little Red Tom
by
Gently and daintily she came down the garden walk, past the raspberry patch, past the tall rows of corn, past the egg-plants and the peppers, with steps so light that the ground hardly felt them, with bright eyes glancing from side to side–yes, with all these, and also with a remorseless purpose in her heart and a basket half full of cut flowers on her arm.
No signal to droop or snuggle came to Tom. The third signal–ah, that he had not yet learned! So he basked his rosy sides in the sunlight as the lovely apparition drew near to him. She looked at him with delight. She put out her delicate hand to embrace him. Then, without a tremor, she tore him ruthlessly from his mother’s grasp, from the home that he loved, and dropped him into her basket.
“Oh, you little red beauty!” she cried. “You are just what I wanted to fill up my tomato salad.”
That night, as she sat at supper, with her father and mother and brother and sisters, she was smiling and serene, for the table was well furnished, and the feast was merry. There was white bread that had been ground from thousands of innocent blades of wheat, once waving in the sunlight, and a juicy fish that had been lured and unwillingly drawn from the crystal waters. There was a brace of grouse that had been snatched away from their feeding-grounds among the spicy berries in the woods. And there was poor Little Red Tom, in the centre of the salad, surrounded by crisp lettuce leaves and dressed to the queen’s taste.
Are there not some who would have shed tears at that sight, and lamented even while they ate? But do you suppose the young girl was one of that kind? Do you imagine that she thought she had played a part in a tragedy? Not a bit of it. She was simply grateful that her salad was so good, and glad that the others liked it.
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Moral
Reader, if you would not be like this young girl, you must read and believe—-[1]
[1] Note: I regret to state that my Uncle Peter’s manuscript broke off at this point.